NymuePerspective
#1
Quote:
[Image: EthricTemplate.png]
"The Headmaster of Starfall Academy?"

"Not looking a day past a thousand Professor!"


"Probably just eighty. A shitty geezer."


"So, he just walks in and out of the Mire? And nobody cares?"


"He's a monster! Are you blind, or just stupid!?"


"What war did you say you served in, sir?"


"Didn't he challenge Captain Dimitri? And win, with some trinket direct from Osrona's primordial?"


"Some people have expressed that you might be the descendant of angels... A fallen one."

"He's just some old man. Stop making a fuss."



"Mm."
"What an interesting set of theories."
"I enjoy them."


Quote:The night is long, and cold.

Hands weave quietly, shaping stone indirectly- The pall of flowing seawater grinds softly against the chunk hauled out and already smoothed from it's presence off the beach. The massive mitts of a warrior's work through the night on something unsuitable, as he sits amidst the sands. The waves lap silently as the moon shines high over the shore, amidst the old man's work. He has, succinctly, dropped a bit of his duties. Letters, ignored, pile up at his office door through the slot, as he sits out there amongst the shallows. Sand and dust congeal on his clothes, but he is undaunted. The smooth shape is pushed as water pressure circulates in a rapid jet, steadily cutting through stone to create the segmented arch of the headstone...

Soon, the blank stone is left, elegant. Slightly imperfect- Done by hand and eye, the symmetry is not quite perfect.


He pauses. He was obliged to see their stories put to stone. Could he do so succinctly? Nothing seemed quite... Adequate, to fit upon a headstone. There were so many nuances he preferred to include.

... He was always better at editing, than writing, in the end.


"... I would never betray your trust in me, knowingly."

"Perhaps if I worked with each of you just a bit more, it would have been enough."


A finger goes to the stone, as acridic acid makes itself more stolid than the smoothing of the sea's might. He was more one for freshwater, anyways, as he tries to paint a final image to the world, of a few bright candles snuffed out after their wager. He etches the names.

By morn-

There would be a place to grieve.
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