Across hundreds of oceans of sinister depth, plains of shimmering stalks of silver grain, through dungeons deep and walls risen high, and through a canopy of vermilion soaring above it all – a sense of presence becomes known to the Keeper’s last of kin. Nearly as though the aged, paled ginger walked through the long streets of the Dominion again, his chattering tones mingling with the business of the city’s once bustling square, which now laid in ruin.
Nearly as though he was sitting once more before their Hearth, humming lullabies to the younger Mali’, who had all now grown old and carried blades like the Knights Loriens had told them they would become.
Nearly as though he stood beside his brothers again, arms crossed and brows furrowed as they always were when bad news came, which did so all too often.
Yet to any who turned their gaze to the Hearth would know the Keeper’s demise true. The Flame of Malin roared on - and thus, The duty of Loriens Silma was fulfilled.