True Death

Log Info

• Title: True Death
• Emitter: Cryosanthia
• Characters: Cryosanthia, Silmeria
• Place: A15: Vardaman Temple
• Time: Wednesday, April 15, 2020, 12:22 PM
• Summary: Cryosanthia stands out front of the Vardaman Temple, debating whether she should enter. It has been 80 years since she's prayed or worshipped. Silmeria notices the sith's hesitation and asks if she needs assistance. Cryo does, though she first offers a research question. The two move to the records archives where she can privately raise the nature of True Death weapons, whether mortals should even be able to make or wield them, and her concern that killing Salina is akin to destroying a god. Silmeria offers advice on these big questions, then digs to determine the source of the grief Cryo is carrying. The white-scale sith explains her troubled time since she returned. The discovery she adopted a human foundling in the temple, Menel, the attempt to kill him, her cihuaa's attempt and success, the domination by Kol to make her kill them both again, the lack of information from others, and finally the overwhelming feelings about these events. How having no memories nor nothing physical to mourn makes her struggle to deal with her hard emotions. Silmeria is horrified at everything she hears and provides a little solace by recording Menel in the tome of the deceases, so Cryosanthia has something to visit and so that he will not be forgotten. His epitath, "The light in my tower."

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=<* A15: Vardaman Temple *>=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

The Vardamite temple is a solemn affair. Composed of carved blocks of basalt, it looks as if the whole thing were set into a scooped-out chunk of the mountain. Braziers and torches, despite the presence of more modern conveniences, are the main source of light. The basalt columns and blocks are engraved with prayers for the dead from hundreds of cultures and dozens of races. Some are works of master carvers, still others are little more than the work of desperate or sorrowful petitioners, quick prayers lovingly scratched into an empty space.

An outdoor altar is littered with offerings, as are the steps and even ground surrounding the front of the temple. These offerings are frequently collected or cleaned away by serious-faced Mourners, or Mourner-acolytes, while Serriel's Lancers guard the front doors. As ever, the sound of monks in perpetual chant can be heard as a low background noise as they go about their somber business.

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-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-  Appearing, in Order  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Cryosanthia  6'9"     267 Lb     Sith-Makar        Female    A dashingly tall, elegant white-scaled lizard woman.
Silmeria     5'8"     126 Lb     Human             Female    A sweet-looking blond human in a long black dress and breastplate.
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A white-scaled sith-makar stands outside the Vardaman Temple. She's wearing wizard robes, layered to suit her species, which are also a gleaming white with pale blue accents. Mostly trim and a few pattern panels that have repeating snowflakes and dragoneyes. Two horns sweep back from her brow, and she has a centered poise and a quiet elegance about her.

Cryosanthia needed to take a break from her research, with books, and seek out some conversational answers. However, she's paused in front of the temple as if she's run up against a protective barrier. Uncertainty has stopped her approaching closer, instead she watches others as they go about their mourning and rememberances and tugs at the front of her robes. Her tail is still and close against her legs, and the air is a little cooler surrounding her.

Threading her way among those who come and go, a smallish, bespectacled blond human in the robes of a priest moves with what one would assume is cheerfulness uncharacteristic of Vardama's acolytes. Her step is light, and one may almost hear the song of the gravedigger on the rhythm of her walk. As she nears the uncertain Sith, however, she slows, eyes flicking from close-held tail to fidgeting hands to closed posture in the space of a heartbeat, and her head tilts to one side.

"Peace on your nest," she says gently, raising one foot and stomping on the smooth-swept granite walk that marks the entrance to the Temple proper, in obvious echo of a tail-thump. "Can the Death-Singing Dragon aid you in any way?"

"Peace on your nest," The palescale replies, then thumps tail. There's a delay as if she has to remember to perform the actions. It's not an automatic response for her it would seem. She smiles, looking down, clasps her hands together to stop them doing things and nods.

"Yes... This one is not sure she would care to. It has been some time." She rubs at her horn, then shakes her head, "No, that's incorrect. It's been some time for me. I've only been absent from Temples for a few weeks. Well I live at a temple now and I've been taken to Eluna's for healing but I haven't Gone to Temple. I'm sorry, I'm not making a lot of sense. I fell out of the habit of worship, if that's clearer. I... need some help with things... yes."

The hesitancy, and the reasons behind it, earn a slow, quiet nod from the priestess, and an encouraging smile. "Well... while I can *understand* your pause, you needn't worry. All things find Her embrace in time, and if there's any way we can help, we're always happy to. Would you like somewhere quiet to sit, so we can talk about what you need? Perhaps some tea?"

"Yes! I would like that very much. I'm Cryosanthia, it's nice to meet you." The sith answers quickly. Tea, lately, has solved all things for her. She smiles, closed mouthed, "I've had a lot of practice sitting of late. Quiet will be appreciated. I am ready to follow."

"I'm Silmeria, Speaker for the Dead," the human answers, "and it's lovely to meet you too, Cryosanthia. Come..." extending a hand toward the Temple, she leads the Sith inside.

As the sound of funereal chanting enfolds the pair like a comforting blanket, Silmeria glances to one side, then the other, and snags the elbow of a passing, harried-looking acolyte. "We'd like a space in Records, please... Tea service for two, and tell Brother Patel that Silmeria's said you can have two cookies for yourself." She pauses, and glances back at Cryosanthia for a moment. "...Mint tea, please."

Releasing the young one, she chuckles to herself, and gestures for the Sith to follow. "This way, please. I can't promise the majesty of a wizard's library, but our archives are... expansive. More than enough for privacy."

Cryosanthia follows along, her head turning to more easily listen to the comforting chants. She observes the acolyte, and nods at the suggestion of mint tea. Another small smile crosses her snout, "This one doesn't have a library. I've been living in and devouring the books of others', just like a proper bookwyrm."

She raises an eye-ridge, her eyes glittering. It sounds like it might have been a joke. The sith-makar aren't known for their jokes, this may be why. "Very nice to meet you, although we did somewhat once before, when Kol attacked the Soldier's Defense."

The size of the archives almost stops her in her tracks, "Oh! These are extensive."

The joke does earn a merry chuckle before the prompt. "It sounds like you've set your teeth on a challenging task indeed, and oh! Yes, I remember! It's good to see you again, then! I'd worried about you all, it's good to see you well."

The archives are indeed expansive, stacks upon stacks of great gray tomes set in alcoves hewn out of the mountain stone, their spines lettered with unornamented, precise markings. Dates and letters, stretching high overhead and deep into the rock. Yellow-orange magelamps attempt to bring some warmth to the color of the library, but, there's only so much one can do for a place like this.

"Every person in the city who has ever passed into Vardama's halls is remembered here," Silmeria says, resting a reverent hand on the nearest book. "She calls them all by name, and we make sure they can be remembered." And further into the archives she leads the Sith, ending at an alcove surrounded on two sides by stone walls, and a thick gray curtain to be drawn around the rest. In the center is a small table, with solid stools surrounding it. A silver tea service has been placed in the center of the table, and two wide, shallow porcelain bowls have been stacked instead of teacups. Also a plate of cookies, shaped and iced to resemble skulls and bones. "Ah... here we are," says one Speaker to another. "Please, sit... And tell me how She can help."

Cryosanthia walks through, turning her head and gazing at the spines as she passes them. The weight of what each represents sinks on her, she bears it well. She strides carefully, moving with grace and adopting an appropriate tone. The alcove is welcome, and she slides into it, adjusting her robes and twisting a little to accomodate her tail.

"Those cookies look great." She doesn't reach for them.

The sith goes still, and her pupils have widened, perhaps with the dim light. One hand rests on the table, her fingers curling up tight. She starts to speak but her voice is heavy with emotion, easily recognized by the followers of the Grey Lady. Grief. "I'm having..."

It's as far as she gets before she makes a strange sound in her throat, and stops speaking. She stares forward, inhales, exhales, straightens her posture a little. When she speaks again, her words sound calm, although she hasn't relaxed her hand. "This one will have to come back to that. Research, I'll address my research. You're familiar with Kol, and She the Mistress of the Shard Tower, I would presume?"

As Cryosanthia works to collect herself, Silmeria pours deep-green tea into one of the shallow bowls, offering it to the Sith to take. While the tea may be steaming, the scent itself is startlingly cool; evoking images of snow-capped trees in deep winter, a breath of cold air from an opened door.

The priestess nods slowly, as the grief is set aside, but something in her eye speaks that it *will* be addressed before the visit is done. "Familiar enough," she admits. "I confess my work has kept me in the Redridge Mountains for rather a while, so the mad vampire and his mistress were something of a nasty shock. But do go on?"

Cryosanthia takes the tea, and at first she only scents it, closing her eyes and inhaling the steam that wafts up. It's clear she finds this comforting, and then she tilts the bowl to take a sip. Setting it carefully down, her movements seem relaxed once more.

"I'm assisting Mikilos with his research, and following up on old records. He was interested in making contact with the other Fae rulers. We accomplished this. We were hoping for support, knowledge, something. I'm not sure our approach is ideal. He's attempting to get the knowledge of how to forge True Death weapons and while killing my Mistress is a good goal, it strikes me as akin to... killing a god? The Fae rulers are fundamental to reality, aren't they? Can they be killed without consequence. Can even a True Death weapon be made without consequence? I suspect the methods of forging one were lost for a reason."

The priestess lets out a long, slow puff of breath. "Those are very, very heavy questions," she says, pouring tea into her own bowl. "I'm not... *certain* I have all the answers, either. So... the vampire's mistress is Fae in origin, then? I... that's interesting. You're right, killing them *would* be rather like killing a god, but... as I recall, the Fae are bound by many and myriad rules, and strange logic. The Yggdrasil Union might be better suited to answer those questions than any of the Temples, the Fae are closer to their sphere of expertise."

"As to True Death," she says, setting her bowl down after a brief sip, "I've not heard of its like, outside of the Grey Lady's servitors. Mortal thinking is... too limited, to properly wield the means of killing any and every thing at a stroke. Were this not the case... Well, Heth would be the first thing we'd no longer have to be concerned about."

The white-scale sith nods, looking down at her bowl. She quietly takes off her left glove, a white-scale leather glove that matches her own very closely. While the glove has a stylized dragoneye formed from letters on the back of it, in the matching location on her hand she has a snowflake rendered in pale blue scales. She has patterns, highlights of these scales in many places but her hand is the only visible location with a symbol.

"I've thought about it, killing her. I even know the weapon I would use. I've tried to imagine owning a True Death version, and it is overwhelming." She snorts, a small chuckle, "I'd be afraid to sharpen it in case of a scratch. I've met a Claw of the Death Singing Dragon, and it seemed... asking one for assistance a better idea than being able to make them. There are other options, if she's broken the rules of the Fae."

Cryosanthia looks up, "We assume She is, but aren't sure. She has heavily involved herself with Zahier's tower, and he created masterful constructs. It's unlikely She is one, but there are two of Her, and the oozes that cause the plague are his creation, manipulated by Her for some reason, and are Universal Magic in origin. I'll... investigate the Yggdrasil Union, on Fae Rules and Logic."

"You'll want a Shaman to make introductions on your behalf," Silmeria notes. "The Union keeps its secrets close, and often for good reason, but it does result in a few... inconvenient barriers, when knowledge is needed. Durrankar, who fought with us when the demons attacked... I *believe* he'd be a good one to seek out, or he'll know who would be better."

She takes up a skull-shaped cookie, and turns it over in her hands. "You've given the killing of this Mistress a lot of thought," she says gently, in tones that resound with Yes We're Going There Now.

"I know Durrankar!" Cryo says, sitting taller and with a youthful sounding energy to her voice, which then switches to more even and mature tones that suit her appearance, "Mictlan... is hard for me to stay in for long periods. It is very overwhelming. There are younglings..."

She turns her head, staring at the cloth covering the alcove entrance for a moment. She sighs, "This one is not sure her death is the best option, but some are irredemable, yes? Demons, for sure, I've been instructed. Others, how many bad things can one do before they become a bad person. She's caused a lot of suffering, pain and death." Cryosanthia scratches at the table, moving her fingers in circles, "My blood does not rage like others do, thinking of her, her actions. My feelings are all very sad and cold. So I have thought about it, that it must be done because a good talking to is unlikely to sort her out."

The white-scale sith folds a gloved hand on top of the naked one and looks directly at Silmeria, "When I am too hot in battle I kill and enjoy it. This one apologizes if that is offensive, but I will not lie. Keeping my head about me is something I must do. Outside of struggle, I can consider other things. I worry that the ones I'm working with have become fixated on a solution that is unachievable."

"It's not for me to judge one's feelings on the dealing of death," Silmeria says, the gentle smile never leaving her face. "That we devote ourselves to one god or other, doesn't mean all the other gods have no place in our hearts. I'm quite certain others have found me upsetting for dealing death gently and kindly, when needs must, but it's who I am. I serve my Goddess in joy and gratitude, and wish for all who meet their end to accept it and find peace."

Nibbling on the cookie, she shifts on the stool, leaning back slightly and considering. "What's this unachievable solution, if I may ask?"

"Well, to somehow get the knowledge of forging a True Death weapon from the Fae, forging one, sieging her tower and killing her. There are aspects. Defeat Kol first, or remove all the magic oozes first? The Ice Demon, is still out there. She's stronger with her servitors, obviously, losing them might put her on her guard. That she can move in time complicates it further." Cryosanthia shrugs, leaning back, this lets her look directly across at Silmeria. "We had hope one of the Fae rulers would lend us an army, this seems unlikely, yet still we're appealing to the others. Would Lady Greyscales lend out one of her Claws? Can a mortal wield one of these weapons, make one, without destroying themselves. A yes or no to many things would change the plotting. I'm sorry if it's not organized well, my thoughts."

"No, I do understand," Silmeria says, pursing her lips and tipping her head back in thought. "I can make inquiries, and see if one of Her servitors will consent to aid directly. I confess, my duties put me closer to this side of the divide, so I'll not be able to entreat them myself. But if it can be done, I will certainly tell you. To be honest, *my* preference would be to push back this damnable plague first, if only because it's very obviously meant to tie up our attention and resources, and the sooner that isn't a concern the better."

"But right now, Speaker Cryosanthia, I'm more concerned about you. You're carrying a very, very heavy burden, and I'd see it lightened, some."

"I'm... a little each day..." Cryosanthia's pupils spread a little wider. Her hands squeeze up. She's pulled her neck back enough there's a small 'toc' as the tips of her horns contact the wall behind her. She makes a small quick smile, sounding irreverant, but it's easier to avoid things that way. "More it's carrying me, and I try not to be squished as it rolls around."

Her saucer of tea suddenly becomes very interesting to her, and she takes it up, and draws a long sip that empties it. She adjusts how her feet are crossed underneath, and twists around a different way so her tail can fit down along the opposite leg. "I... this one doesn't know where to start."

Say the words of others without thinking about them, you're a Speaker, that's what we do. Cryo hears the advice of an old teacher, from so long ago. Then, she will, repeat the words of her cihuaa, Zeke. She stares at a spot on the table. The words are very even and flat, carefully said, "It is not unusual for a sith to adopt a foundling. Even outside our species, a female can bond with a softskin child if they are isolated and stressed enough. This is not unheard of in Charn. It will be as if it was her own. This may be what happened to you in the Tower."

"Well, me." Cryosanthia adds.

And the Vardaman settles in to listen; if she has learned anything in her time serving the Temple, it's how to be an attentive listener, even as she pours fresh tea into the empty bowl. The qualification at the end of the beginning of Cryosanthia's story, met with an understanding smile and a nod of the head.

Silmeria's eyes are focused, and take in the little details as if she herself were something of a dragon, hoarding analyses and observations at the back of her mind, settling on them to see the shape they fall into.

Much like the acrobat she is, Cryosanthia is walking a tight line and leaping from safe statement to safe statement. Her pupils keep spreading wider, the bowl shakes when she lifts it for another sip. Her free hand, the casting hand with the snowflake, holds on tightly to the edge of the table. She's on unstable footing and her emotions are ready to avalanche at any time.

"He's..." The sith gets that far, and is interrupted as mournful keening starts and her breathing gets difficult. The bowl is quickly set down, both hands hold. She forces the words out, "He's gone. He's grown. He's dead. Zeke killed him. I tried. My..."

The glittering saphire edges of her eyes are swallowed as her pupils grow wider. The avalanche hits and sweeps her along, singing a song of grief as she tumbles with it, shaking as she holds onto the table.

"There," Silmeria says, in the singsong manner of an elder sister comforting a hurt little sibling, as she slides off her stool, circles the table, and rests one hand on Cryosanthia's, the other encircling the Sith's shoulders. "There, there... Grieve for what was lost. Let it fall, let it settle, and we'll pull you up when the snows are quiet again."

Squeezing the Sith, she simply begins to hum a tune, some lullaby or other, but the words aren't important. The song itself, also unimportant save for the motherly comfort it brings to be held, thus, and sung to.

Cryosanthia takes Silmeria's hand, holding on, squeezing. The despair cry slowly fades in volume, and then she is making another noise that seems more comforting although it is low and vibrating. She speaks, her words rumbling along with whatever is going on in her throat, "It's... it's more. She took the memories. I have only seconds of him in the tower, and then... trying to kill him. She did something to my mind. When I saw him I had to kill him. It wasn't automatic. It was me, so cold, planning and cunning. I remember his blood! His skin tearing..."

She shudders again, her sounds switching over, then she hugs her arms tight against her front as if she's embracing someone.

"Sssshhhhh..... You've suffered terribly, but, the suffering is done, and all that remains are memories. Memories can hurt, but even still, they're yours, not you theirs." Leaning her head against the Sith's shoulder. "What was taken? Being in the Tower, or the rest? Who was he? Can you tell me the beginning of his story?"

Cryosanthia takes a few moments to settle herself. She seems somewhat skilled at managing herself, her breathing, her posture. She's switched back to making the small vibrating noise again and focusing on her hands. Some parts of her story seem easier to tell than others; of course for some parts of it, a lot of the memories are missing.

"I was in Her tower a long time. Decades. I've only remembered a few things directly, the rest are feelings. I like enclosed stone spaces now. At some point while I was there, I met him as a child, Muh... Menel. I met Menel as a child. I raised him. He has been out of the tower, he remembers things. I don't remember any of those years. I don't know how he arrived, or how he escaped, but it was months before I went to serve the Mistress and clearly he is an adult now so she dipped into the past to pick him up. What happened in the tower and what happened here do not parallel. He smelled like my own, I recognized him as needing protecting when I caught his scent, yet I had to be stopped."

The sith exhales carefully, sounding a little humorous, "My entire brain is lizard brain, the lizard brain part of it is extra lizardy. It's very ... stressful, painful, straining, when instincts and thoughts don't line up. I know he knows her, would not submit, escaped, but little else. We did not share..."

"...It sounds to me," Silmeria says, quietly, "that this Mistress wanted to punish him for escaping, and you for caring for him. That in this you were not you, but a weapon wearing your skin. I've seen similar magics, and feel that you are as blameless in this as he was; both of you, victims to a power that stripped your agency away. And I'm so, so sorry to you both. Menel, that was his name?"

"That's his name. Menel." Cryosanthia says quietly, her head hanging. She closes her eyes, the scales of her eyelids are a pale blue. A long breath escapes, "What you say is true, and I understand, but the feelings are very strong. A sith female, seeing her hatchling dead or damaged, it can break her mind. Actually killing..."

She goes silent, although it's clear she has more to say. Her voice is devoid of expression, her hands are tight gripping the edge of the table again, fingers digging in. "My cihuaa, Zeke, is a healer. He said he could soothe the feelings. I agreed. It was not a healing spell, it transfered it to his mind. He vanished. He tried to kill... Menel. Also. We stopped him the first time. He was... smarter and successful the next. He did it, so I would not be a mother that kills her own child..."

Cryosanthia raises her head, stares at Silmeria, expressions wiped from her, "It was a loving act, and also hard to forgive, and yet he is also blameless because it came from me, and mine came from Her. So, She, has to be stopped. They wouldn't let me see the body... I have nothing to mourn, no body, no memories to attach it to, but the feelings are there, and strong, and so confused."

"Oh..." The sheer magnitude of horror steals Silmeria's breath away for a moment, and her blue eyes sparkle with unshed tears. "I'm so... *so* sorry, Cryosanthia... I understand why you hurt so, now... And think that if you still name him your cihuaa, you are *astoundingly* strong of heart. I hope you two remain so, for a very long time."

With one more gentle squeeze, she leans back, considering. "Would it help to have something... *anything*... to mourn? I doubt after this time his body's fit for viewing, but... How long ago did this happen? Because I can offer one thing, at least..."

"A week ago?" Cryosanthia concentrates, "Yes, a week. It seems both closer and further away. I've been... struggling, staying distracted."

She falls silent again, shaking her head slightly, then laughs, "I was at the Temple of Daeus when Kol attacked. He enthralled me to kill what was most dearest to me. Menel or Zeke, I could not choose so I decided both. My mind is a mess and a plaything of others. Fortunately I was sat on until this was cured."

The sith looks over with a hopeful and weary smile, "Something to mourn would be nice, yes."

"Then we're very much in the right place," Silmeria says quietly, patting the Sith's hand. "I won't be a moment. Have some tea, and cookies if you like."

And with that, she disappears behind the curtain, her bootsteps echoing into the near distance. And indeed, it's not long at all before the curtains part again, and the priestess is carrying a tome that appears more suitable for lashing to a pole and beating people with, than reading. The tea service is carefully pushed aside, and the book laid down to take up most of the table. "As I said... everyone who finds the Grey Lady in this city is remembered, here. But sometimes, it's not easily possible to tell more than a name and the day they died. But we always leave space for an epitaph, just in case..." She looks up at Cryo over her spectacles, and smiles sadly. "And if you wish, I can write down a eulogy if you'd care to think of one, and have it cross-referenced for the archives. That way... well, the memory of him can remain for more than you alone, and you have something to visit when the need comes."

A cookie was definitely taken while Silmeria was gone, and Cryosanthia watches with interest as the book is brought in, although she moves away from it when she realizes what it contains. It should have been been obvious but she didn't make the connection, until the explanation.

"This one is... unsure of the day. The one after Kol's attack. I think. The letter telling me... was two days after. That is the time. I know only his first name, Menel. Humans have more, usually. An epitath..."

The palescale stares off at the wall, folding her hands on each other again. There are twitches as she thinks over the fight in his cell, the scent of his blood coming back, the pained look on his face as he begged the paladin not to hurt her even as she was cutting into him. It's only deep in the carnage that her one true, good memory lies. One that somehow surfaced because of all of it.

"I met him... when he was eight... I was... so empty. He was my light in the tower. A joy. A reason to keep going, to keep safe, to protect. My only friend for... for..." It's all she manages before her grief sweeps her away again, and her body is trembling and her song coming out sad. Panting, she pushes it all down. Swallowing and managing to croak out, "He was my light in the tower, my foundling child, and he will be missed, so, so much."

It takes rather a few pages to find, but, find the name she does. And from a niche in the alcove, the priestess extracts a set of scribe's tools -- apparently Cryosanthia's situation is far, far from unique -- and listens carefully. The scratching of the quill doesn't quite pierce the sound of the Sith's keening, but the letters are written swiftly, precisely, where Methel's name before stood alone. (Methel -- Beloved Son "A Light In The Tower")

"Should you ever need to visit," Silmeria says, taking a fresh sheet of paper and transcribing the whole of the eulogy, "then ask to come to the archives, and request this volume; Bernfleur 1022, A-G." Unspoken, the sad, inescapable truth; so many people live and die in Alexandria, the temple needs four volumes for every month, just in case. "Tell the Mourner you speak to, that Speaker Silmeria allows it. *Whenever* you need, Cryosanthia. We're here to comfort the living as well as the dead." She scatters fine sand over both paper and book page, makes a note regarding the eulogy itself, and steps aside, that the Sith may view it herself. "And I'm just sorry there's not more I can think to do."

Cryosanthia moves so she can read the eulogy, and she does. Her breath catches in her throat, it's so final, but it is something. A resolution, an ending, that chips away some of her anguished feelings. He won't be forgotten, and she can remember him.

"It helps. Thank you. I... will come. I know I'm not the only mother that has lost a child, not the only one with an emptiness. I have the disappearance lists. There is so much sadness because of Her. I'm sorry Menel, that I failed to protect you. I'm sorry."

She falls silent, staring at the page.

While Cryosanthia takes her time with the page, Silmeria busies herself refilling the bowls with tea, making mental notes to ensure that mint tea is always on offer when this particular Sith visits. Comfort, after all, is best done by knowing the person in need, and providing all the little things that wear away the sharp edges of grief. In silence she works, giving the mother the time she needs, and it's not until Cryosanthia finally looks away from the book that she offers a gentle smile. "He loved you, Cryosanthia. Whatever horrors you both endured, you were his light in the tower also, and he remembered that very well. It's my duty, to speak for the dead, and if you believe nothing else, believe that. The Death-Singing Dragon will care for him."

"I will believe she will. He was precious to me. She must know." Cryosanthia says, composed again for the moment. Her eyes returned to normal. She smiles, a careful one. "Thank you. For Asking. For seeing. I have been leaning very hard on a friend."

Her eyes linger again on the book, but his name is safe in it. She can look away. "You have been most kind. This one is usually not such a mess. I'd say I've seen better days..." she makes a small laugh, "... but I remember so little that's more a bet than a truth."

"We rarely see anyone at their best," Silmeria notes with a small amount of humor, out of all proportion with the pride in her eyes that Cryosanthia has sanded down the millstone of her grief, even if only a bit. "But you're very, very welcome. Many years ago, once, an old priest saw, and asked, and the whole reason I devoted myself was in gratitude for that kindness."

"I'm sorry that you have lost also, though..." Cryosanthia looks at the book, and the sze. The weight of it settles on her. She lowers her head, "... I am glad you found a place here. This one will not forget the kindness. If you have a need, ask. I can let you know, what else we find and I have a strong desire to set things right and end the plague. It's become an obsession... so I don't think."

"I will come by. Find the habit of worshipping again. Thank you so very much." She bows.

"We all find our way to Her embrace in time," Silmeria says gently. "But I'm glad too. I'll be happy to talk to you again, be it how I can help with this madness or anything else. It's always nice to make another friend among the living."

The bow is answered with a deep curtsy. "Peace to your nest, Speaker. Until we meet again." "Yes! Peace on your Nest!" Cryosanthia remembers to say, wobbling her head with a smile, "I shall remember how to be a proper sith soon too. Until we meet again."

And she slips away.