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In Elysium

  • 31 AGR, Fourth Day of the First Month



    Careful hands set down a crudely-woven wreath of flowers upon the cairn.  The blossoms’ golden-yellow was caught in the crimson light of the setting sun, transforming them into an illusory ring of fire upon the gravestones.  Galiae couldn’t help but take a step back when she rose to admire the vision in awe.  Somehow, it was suitable.

    They had buried Little Fury in a modest grave at the edge of the cemetery.  They’d not known his family or to where his remains should be sent, but they couldn’t possibly deny him a proper burial.  Galiae had gone so far as to move a sprig of Eranbloom to grow behind the cairn as a humble, personal memorial.  Mister Fury always seemed fond of the berries, after all.

    The day wasn’t anything special—not really.  It was not the anniversary of Little Fury’s death, nor anything of the sort.  Still, when she’d woken that morning and shed the dreamtime phantoms, her first steps had been toward the fields north of Karinos where flowers still bloomed in beautiful defiance of the colder months.  She wanted to construct an offering; to pay her visits and to speak with the dead.  It was a habit, more than anything.

    Galiae looked up; caught the dying light across her face.  Bathed in dusky red she couldn’t help but remember how the situation had changed since their time in the caverns of Duskwood.  That, were things to have gone a different way, neither Little Fury nor the man he’d been protecting their party from would have died.  She had tearfully confessed as much to the Gnome’s grave on a prior visit.  Every time she came back since, she wondered if he could forgive her.

    This time, though, was a time for flowers and not for tears, and Galiae looked down at the decorated stones once again.

    “Little by little, we’re making things right,” she told the grave.  “The ones who know.  You can see that too, can’t you?”

    The cairn, of course, offered nothing by way of reply.  Galiae smiled.  She couldn’t hide the concern in her eyes.

    “…Are you still at peace, Mister Fury?  Is the rage still gone now?”

    As the sun dipped lower behind the mountains and the last rays of its light were all but gone completely, so too did the ring of fire flare one last time and fade to embers; no more than a wreathe of yellow flowers atop the stones.

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