Grave Crimes (Open RP)

[RonnyG]

If one of keen eyesight were to walk past the professors' offices, they might spot light glinting off of something on the ground, right next to one of the doors. Closer examination reveals the object to be thin and metallic, and some would know right away that it is a lockpick, which is used to open locked doors without a fitting key.

The plaque next to the door reads "Dean Djironnyma", and the door itself is unlocked and slightly ajar. Accessing the office does not immediately reveal any signs of burglary or vandalism, but those same keen-eyed persons who noticed the lockpick would also notice that there is a trail of average-sized shoeprints on the dusty floor. They indicate that whoever broke in was walking around the room, perhaps in search of something, until coming to a stop in front of a bookshelf. An investigative mind discovers that among the rows of books there are gaps where not even dust can be found.

Through this series of discoveries it becomes evident that whoever broke into the office did so to steal, at the very least, a small number of books... But what books were they? Who took them, and why from Djironnyma?

[Asphy]

For days, Asphyxine has been busy cataloging the books in the Runewick library to help visitors looking for specific books.
Today, after cataloging the lower floor, she started going through the shelves of the upper floor. After several shelves, she needed a break to get away from the dust she kicked up while checking the books.
On the terrace of the upper floor, she noticed one of the closed side doors of the professors' offices moving in the wind.
She went over, called out "Hello, is anyone here?" and then poked her head into the room. When she realized that there was no one in the room, she went in and looked around. She realized that the room had been unused for a long time, as could be seen from the thick layer of dust that covered everything. She noticed the marks in the dust on the floor, which were now joined by her own. Finally, the bookshelves caught her attention. She took a parchment from her bag and began to note down the titles of the books on the three large shelves. She lingered a little longer on one shelf and finally wrote down a few question marks.
Then she went straight back outside and leaned against the door, looked at the sign on the door and wrote down "Book collection, Dean Djironnyma's office". Then she went back into the library. She didn't seem to notice the lock picks lying on the floor.

[Aswe]

Aswe climbed the steps to the top of the library. it was early morning and she wanted to see the sea as the sun rose above it. She hadn't slept much recently, and staring at the water was a better alternative than staring at the ceiling. As her foot hit the top step she reached for the flask she had concealed in a sash around her waist, a sip of numbness and fire which was chased by a slow, sad sigh.

Slipping the container back under the sash, she let a slow thank you to Adron escape her lips, and an equal curse to Sirani. as she glared ahead a glint caught her eye - sitting by the door to the old Dean's office she saw a piece of crooked and hooked metal, the tools of Ronagan's chosen, she sucked in air through her teeth and looked to the side as a small gust of sea air blew on Djironnyma's door enough to push it, and just enough to make it creak, causing the elfess' heart to skip a beat in fright.

Coming to her feet she steeled herself and pushed the thick, fireproof door open and peered inside. Immediately she was met with the smell of age and abandonment, old parchment and older wood, in that moment it smelled just like a library, just like the smell she would bring home on her hair. Her nose wrinkled and she blinked back the memory. "No mustiness, no stale air." she thought "This door has been open for some time.". She remained on the threshold and threw her elven eyes over everything she could see in there. The room was dark, but brightening, the sun rising in the east hit the dusty windows and filled the room with diminished beams of light which caught the disturbed dust dancing through the air. The elfess had gotten a taste for detective work in the past, with those mysterious murders which were never solved, and she wanted to sate that here, even if only as a distraction, something to keep her mind off Irina.

The room itself could have been a picture of how the dean left it, she thought, if she had ever met him, and him by reputation, fanatical, bloodthirsty, and tyrannical.After Gobaith's fall, he and his cadre of loyal minions had seized Runewick by subtle threats of force to the Archmage. It had left a mark on Elvain, as even now he allowed none into this office at all, and he would never elaborate why. Irina always lamented that fact, as he had checked out books and they could never be brought back to the library, she even kept a list - 'Djironnyma's hoard' Aswe called it. She shook her head and refocused on the room - A thick layer of dust and debris covered everything and cobwebs ruled the ceiling with an iron fist, the floor... Two sets of footprints in the dust, two thieves? One.. a decently well made pair of boots and the other less.. heavy, about Irina's size, a female?. she let out a small sigh. If only there was a captain of the guard to report this to, the one she had hired had resigned at the first sign of trouble, legs still wet with his own piss.

Scanning the movement of the footprints led her to believe one thing: Both of the thieves were interested in the bookshelf, none of the precious and glittering baubles on the desks had been touched, indeed, some expensive looking crystal the size of a fist had been left there on the table, and the table itself had no rings of dust to indicate anything had been moved, at least that she could see from her spot in the doorway. This was not larceny of material wealth, not common theft, This was targeted, they sought something specific, what this was, however, she had no idea. The discarded lockpick and the open door gave her a few possible conclusions: The thieves were inexperienced, the thieves had to leave in a hurry, the thieves did not care, or they wanted the theft to be known.

Raising her hand to her mouth, which had somehow gotten hold of the flask again, she took a sip and looked up at the cobweb empire on the ceiling once again. Rubbing the bridge of her nose she grumbled about crime and slowly closed the door, Heading straight to the Archmage and reporting the break in.

[RonnyG]

A shroud of darkness and mist lay over Runewick and its surroundings, the twin moons' dim light struggling to pierce the clouds' canopy. Mas, the Month of Blood, had come.

Bestial roars, deep and terrifying, echoed from the woods around Yewdale, from which a group of three orcs emerged, armed and armoured for combat. Yet, much to the cowering villagers' relief, they had not come to murder and pillage, but merely passed through across Lunord bridge to Runewick. Marching through muddy, fallow fields, they single-mindedly made their way southwards, through the shrubbery and into the forest.

To camp during Mas outside of Runewick's safety was a foolish idea, as Baldo Proudtoe, the halfling gardener, found out when he encountered the orcs; a firm blow to the halfling's skull put him to involuntary rest, at least for some time. Time enough for the orcs to do their dirty work.

Wielded by callous, green hands, the shovel which had knocked the halfling out now unrelentingly struck the soil, another orc giving his accomplice light with a torch. The torch's flickering flame made the name which was carved into the stone which marked the digging site barely legible: Irina Monteira.

A dull thud announced that the orcs had found their prize, and together they heaved the wooden coffin out of its hole, praising their "blood father" in excitement. The torchbearer seized his battle axe, and shattered the coffin's lid with a vigorous strike, revealing its macabre content to the green-skinned graverobbers. And to Baldo, who awoke whimpering and groaning from pain.

"Oomie corpse still fresh," the digger judged after giving their prize an appraising look: A young woman, whose deathly pale skin and shroud were contrasted by her dark hair. She must have been a beauty, at least in life.
The torchbearer bared his teeth and licked his tusks in delight: "Duh we eat a piece, just one arm for journey food?"
"Nub, Grok'tunk, we eat in cave hurr" the digger reminded his hungry accomplice and dropped his shovel to pull out some old canvas and a coil of rope, with which they firmly wrapped and tied up the corpse. While the two orcs thus prepared their prize for transport, the third one had turned his attention to Baldo, who had moments earlier regained consciousness, to give him a reminder in typical orc manner that he had seen and heard nothing.

The orcs grabbed their prize by her head and feet, hauling her southwards to the Twin Eyes Islands, where the footprints of their heavy boots end. They must have taken a boat, if they didn't disappear into thin air.

[Aswe]

Aswe crouched and stared at the man in the cave with her, the floor spattered with blood and debris. Behind her lay two minions, both long dead, both long undead, now returned to the peace of death. She surveyed him.

Broken clavicle
Two shattered patellae
Rearrangement of the viscerocranium
Catastrophic corneal damage

All of that and he still knew nothing.

She had determined that over the last hour or so, she had suspected in the first five minutes, but had to confirm.
He was the third she had gotten her hands on so far, necromancers appeared en masse in Mas, every one of them wishing to use the days of blood to further their own ambitions to conquer death and life, to be a monarch of rot.
This one was no different, a human in his sixties she surmised, with likely decades of this life behind him. He had lost consciousness, blood leaking from his face, his breath gurgling.

He was useless to her now.

Aswe stood up, looking around the cave, dimly lit by flickering torch flame. she sucked in air through her teeth. This random, haphazard accosting of necromages would not work, Illarion was too big to track them all down. Not without help, and even then, if they had left the land.... She shook her head. She WOULD find them. She WOULD make them pay. She WOULD make them bleed and make them suffer. Aswe snarled and bared her teeth. A scream of rage broke the quiet as a kick flew into the broken body's ribs.

Useless.

her anger simmered to a boil. "Necromancers.. walls, many walls.. where? where? WHERE IS SHE?!" she grabbed her hair with a bloodstained hand. She stared into the cave wall. She needed something, what? She had no idea, her mind had stopped working for her.

She was exhausted and she knew it. It had been almost six days awake, fuelled by whatever stimulants she had. How could she sleep now? Irina had been taken, some freak out there had her and she did not know what they were doing to her.

She needed to find them.. she needed to find.. find.. she pulled her hair. "Magic." she said to herself. "Magic?" she nodded. A mage could It was settled then. she took a deep breath and looked down at the necromancer on the ground, he had rolled over to his side, he knew nothing, he was useless to her now. She spied a smooth stone in the corner of the cave, then nodded to herself.

She strode out of the cave with a purpose as the light of Elos shone on her, she grimaced as her dull eyes adjusted.

[RonnyG]

In a forgotten realm beneath the world’s surface, where light dared not tread, the air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and ancient secrets. It was a domain untouched by time, steeped in shadows and echoing whispers of those who once wandered its darkened corridors. Here, in a long-forgotten chamber, a group of sorcerers stood encircled about a weathered apothecary table, their grim silhouettes flickering in the fluctuating light of torches that hung along the walls like watchful sentinels.

These sorcerers, each a master of the arcane, each a dweller of despair. Gnarled hands clasped around wands hewn from ancient wood, etched with swirling symbols that spoke of a past both knowledgeable and sinful. They were preparing for a dark ritual—one steeped in arts as long lost to the world above as the very sunlight that never graced this place.

Laid upon the apothecary table was the still form of a woman, Irina, her recently lifeless body shrouded in white silk, a stark contrast to the encroaching darkness. The elegance of her attire suggested grandeur, yet her unmistakable pallor bore testament to a life extinguished too soon. Her hair spilled across the surface like spilled ink, coiling and twisting as if attempting to reclaim the world that she had fallen from.

The sorcerers were silent for a moment, their anticipatory breaths hanging in the chilling air, each pulse a reminder of the raw power they sought to wield. At the back of the room loomed Lord Gray, a spectral figure shrouded in tattered robes that danced like smoke about a funeral pyre. His visage was skeletal; hollow eye sockets glowed with an unsettling crimson light, a beacon of authority and malevolence combined. It was he who welcomed them, he who offered the chance to touch the forbidden.

“By da powahs ob da five elements!” stated the middle sorcerer, an orc, a fervor igniting in his voice as energy surged through the chamber. “PEN, RA, SOLH, CUN, JUS!” Each incantation rolled from his tongue with an intensity that vibrated against the stone walls, charging the atmosphere with an electric tension.

The others joined their voices, melding into a cacophony of shadows as the ritual grew fiercer, more frenzied. Each sorcerer poured forth their essence, letting it flow into the air, weaving a tapestry of magic that shimmered and flowed like liquid night. Again and again, the sorcerers chanted in an ancient tongue, their wands submitting to their every request.

“Chsk... Spill your blood upon the corpse, mortals!” Lord Gray commanded, his voice a chilling rasp filled with both wonder and dread. “Such bears the price of sacrifice…”

As the corpse lay before them, the sorcerers understood the gravity of their task. They beckoned forth the ritual dagger, its blade glinting ominously under the torchlight—a sinister piece that gleamed with promises both wicked and wondrous. One by one, they pressed their palms against it, their blood trickling, mingling with the sacred essence of the fallen, feeding the dark magic swirling in the air around them.

The arcane power ignited, crackling like wildfire, and ancient glyphs pulsed to life along the floor, crawling towards the cadaver with a sentience of their own. The sorcerers felt the exhilarating rush of the dark currents thrumming through their veins, a hunger was igniting that surpassed mere mortal desires.

“[anc] PEN IRA FHEN! Bring dis bodeh's spirit back tah us!” they chanted this and more, their voices crescendoing to a fevered pitch. Filled with a chorus of their aspirations, each word weaving deeper into the woman’s soul. Shadows swirled, merging into a vibrant tapestry of dark fate and wild ambition as the ritual culminated.

The air shimmered; the space warped around them, gripped by the weight of the moment. Then, the body twitched—a mere spark, yet a harbinger of rebirth.

“She… libs?” Grok'tunk exclaimed, awe mingling with disbelief. Irina’s pale lips parted, and a low, cracked voice emerged, tinged with an echo that resonated through the chamber. And then... A spectral, transient figure emerged. The soul had rejected the body, which now lied remaining in this dark place.

And Yet...

“Well, well, well—where have I ended up now?” Irina asked.

[The Ghost]

"Well, well, well - where have I ended up now?"

She felt eerie, light, but the heavy dark spells, the forbidden magic, swirled around her and the disgusting blood erupted from inside her with a repugnant noise.
She floated back to the table on which lay a body that vaguely looked familiar. Her fingers slid through it while various sounds could be heard around her.
Shocked, she realised that she was no longer in Cherga's realm. She had been brutally snatched out of it.
Her fingers tried to grasp something, but they simply slid through all material things.
This happened unnoticed by the people standing around her, and somehow she chose harsh words – as she had done in her former life.
This lich even dared to address her with *dear*. Utterly outrageous!

The words had vanished, escaped, nearly without delay, forgotten - it disturbed her and she tried to listen to herself.
She aimed at the ladder and let the people debate what they had achieved, what not and what should be done with her.
Floating, she ascended, going through walls and she wished it was a place she knew.
Whatever should have emerged from the dark ritual was not exactly what these persons had wished for, she felt it.
These fools actually believed that you could remove a ghost's tongue or hands – the contempt she felt for her surroundings most of the time broke through – and disappeared again.

Her mind was there, but not reliable, and suddenly she remembered her favourite place.
Fractions of a second later she was in Runewick's library.
If a ghost could smile, she was doing so right now.
But she sensed she was being followed.
Well – she had advantages.

A whisper manifested itself in her mind – Cherga? Her new mistress? The grey eminence herself?
As she heard curses and shouts outside, she glided through walls into the open air and took herself to the place the whisper had indicated.
For a short time, it would grant her safety.

But she had to go back to Cherga's realm or she would be trapped forever as a whisper between the worlds.

[Aswe]

Aswe awoke with a start and looked at her surroundings. She wasn't at home. That much was certain. Slowly closing her eyes again she exhaled calmly, it was safe enough here. The only sounds outside were the chirping of birds and the movement of the wind. she huffed to herself, she had been in here for a few days now, searching for some piece of knowledge, some book, some spark of insight or inspiration, but so far nothing had come to her. Runewick's library was sprawling, but the rigourous work of the librarians meant that sometimes the less reputable works from less reputable sources and schools were stigmatised.

The black arts were what she needed. Necromancy was what she sought.

She looked with tired eyes to what she had gathered before deciding to rest, she had built a precarious tower of fifteen books beside her, each of varying age and thickness. All embossed with bold and brazenly misleading titles; "Grimoire of the damned", "Jeremiah's Tome of Forbidden Knowledge", "Illimac's Infernal Opus", All written by conmen for fools who didn't know better. This became increasingly clear to her as the time melted away, She could count the grains of sand in the Kantabi before she would find anything useful in these worthless books.

She didn't know how long she had spent looking at the half truths and full lies, she couldn't even make a worldly guess at how much time she had spent here, sitting under the window, and her she shook her head and looked up at the ceiling. "I wish you were here." she whispered in exasperation. Her mind faded back to what she saw during Mas, Was it real? or some conjured hope and dream from her exhaustion and rage? but she clung to the memory of it all the same, the shape, the coolness, the grief. Her hands trembled as she brought them to her forehead, she squeezed her eyes shut, her cheeks were wet. The sobbing began again.

[Cartaphilus]

A note was pinned to Runewick's announcement board:

he Illuminates of Ethereal Arcane
plan to conduct a ritual of arcane examination at the pillaged tomb of Irina Monteira, our academy's former librarian, to investigate if magic, be it necromancy or any other, was cast at the burial site during Mas. We hope that through this examination ritual we will glean some information about the still unknown graverobber and the missing body's fate.

Fellow mages and other voluntary supporters are invited to join us at the 23rd of Tanos, 12:00 ((26. October, 20:00)) at Monteira's grave, in the grove south of Runewick's fields.

Signed,

[Aswe]

She'd had an inkling. A chance conversation and Djironnyma's name appeared , she pursed her lips and looked at the locked door in front of her. Was the break in linked? Djironnyma apparently used the dark arts to prolong himself, to extend his life beyond what he should have lived, neither Caswir nor the archmage felt fit to hold an investigation into the break in to his office, so everything should have been as it was. all that was left of his work may be behind this locked and banded wooden door. If she could pass by it, she would have access to all of his remaining secrets.

Luckily she had her all purpose lockpick.

Several minutes and several shoulder bruises later and the door opened with an audible crack as Aswe went through it, almost falling to the ground with the momentum. Coughing as the dust was kicked into the air she looked around the room, the desk was her best bet, she surmised. Every drawer was either sealed shut by the passage of time or a lock she lacked the capacity to pick, the desk itself was well made, but it has seen quite a lot of use, the wood had been worn down in places, weakening in others, it would not take a shoulder, but..

Two minutes of banging her hand against the topmost locked drawer finally made the small lock fail and pop open as Aswe grabbed the handle and pulled it like a child from a burning building.

Paydirt. Parchments, a small book, perhaps a journal? Diagrams and.. as luck would have it - An inventory of the shelf behind her. Comparing to the list she had gotten from Asphyxine. The missing books?

Elven Ritual Chants
Zaras is Defeated
Necromancy by Me
Blood Magic by Me
Demonic Magic by Me

She pursed her lips, he really did have the run of the place, able to study this while here in Runewick. he must have intimidated the archmage fiercely, or simply slipped under his notice.

Aswe looked up, and saw a bird, perhaps a jackdaw? It was squawking and swooping. She spotted that on it's leg was a nondescript leather satchel. Within that satchel she found three things - A piece of cloth, a note, and a human finger.

[Aswe]

Aswe pulled the string on the pouch she'd brought with her, inside was a fine mixture, just as the scroll directed, 1/3 chalk, 1/3 salt, 1/6 silver dust, and 1/6 ground bone, all combined and mixed vigourously. Pouring it in a triangular shape on the ground she nodded in a satisfied manner, next were the stones, three black, two white, also arranged in a triangle, pointing in the other direction with a hole in the middle, in this hole she lit a small fire, the kindling had to be soaked in various oils for several days, the flame burned a carmine red and gave a sweet scent which permeated the air around her. Finally, she had to put a pot of water on the boil, and make a simple yet fragrant soup; it's ingredients were not important.

A parchment from Djironnyma's offfice had given her a series of steps to follow in order to draw in a spirit and to bring it to conversation, she had no idea if it had worked, but she was desperate for anything now. The ritual by the grave had turned up nothing, excepting an idle blessing by a friend given as a pleasantry had worked, Irina's spirit had been protected from magical means, if not her body from mundane. She looked at the finger she had been sent, she was still not fully convinced it was hers now, given the twists the trail had taken. But she could not bring herself to get rid of it, it may be the last piece of her she'd ever have.

She'd followed the parchment to the letter as well as she could, some ingredients were near impossible to get, some were not well defined, and the weather was always a concern, doubly so now as she sat in the cold in the shadow of the mountain with thin cold gusts cutting through her bones every few minutes, she cherised that fire, however small it was.

The mixture provided a spiritual neutral ground, a place where the voices of the living and dead could enter dialogue-if any spectre heard her calling. The rocks, fire and soup were designed to draw closer any wandering or lingering spirits. Not unlike a traveller on the road Aswe surmised. She hoped she would find her beloved here, and not draw any dead miners or adventurers from the surrounding area. Illarion was no stranger to death, after all.

She could feel some level of charge in the air, a buzzing in the brain even, her senses seemed heightened, she certainly felt the cold even more. In some far off place, a dog barked, an owl hooted and wind went through the foliage alongside an uncountable number of small creatures. her eyes felt sharper too, but in this dark all it did was let her see more of nothing. But above everything else, what was at it's peak were her senses of anticipation and anxiety, bound together like fibers on a rope and just as tightly.

Bathing in the flames she thought over what she had been promised by the words, and summarised them in her mind:

She would not see Irina, as it was not Chos.
She would not feel the presence of her spirit, as the phases of the moons were not right
She would only hear her - a voice in the wind.

running a hand through her hair, she looked up at the twin moons and spoke aloud:
"I seek those from whom nothing more can be taken. I seek to give them back to Cherga."

Still looking up at the stars she began to hum, if the ritual was correct, her voice would be heard, it would carry to a place beyond, in that thin sliver of creation which sat between here and there, and then she would be able to converse with Irina's wandering spirit.

[The Ghost]

The ghost heard the humming, the challenge to answer.
Confused, she began to listen.
“I seek those from whom nothing more can be taken. I seek to give them back to Cherga.”
Oh yes, she wanted nothing more than to return to the gray mistress, to this realm of peace and quiet.
She had been wandering for too long and she felt more and more trapped in this in-between world. At what point would her return become impossible?

Her whisper penetrated space and time. "Take me back to Cherga, that's all I want"

[Aswe]

Aswe's eyes opened with a start, it was her, her voice and her whisper. She was more surprised than anything, standing back up, she spoke.

"Irina, it is Aswe, I love you, and i am sorry." she replied with an equal whisper "I am here to get you where should should be."

She crouched down, placing a second twig into the fire, the flame changed colour from carmine to a colder, almost spectral hue, the air seemed to cool around the sputtering fire, though she knew it couldn't have. she checked the notes she made on the parchment and nodded, confirming her next steps

"Listen to me" she began, her voice trembled ever so slightly. "i am working to get you back to Cherga's realm. I am sorry, your body is lost to me. I.. gave everything i could to find it.. I- could not recover it. "

Aswe's hand shook as she rubbed the bridge of her nose, she was fighting back tears again.

"I.. i love you, Irina. I miss you... I.. You will see a servant of Cherga come to you soon. I do not.. i do not know the form it will take. I will draw one here, one to take you back to Cherga's fields."

She run her hand shakily through her hair, attempting to calm herself, to pull from her diminished willpower, she had been burning through it since Irina died, she had almost nothing left to keep going.

"Come to the sound.. sound of my voice, and the smell of the fire, if you can.. "

Aswe fell to one knee and ran her finger over the ground with closed eyes, they had become too wet to see out of. she bit back down on the need to weep, and took the soup from the fire. dropping several dried and soaked herbs into the cold feeling fire.


"I call to a warden, a shephard, a psychopomp, to Chega's servants and attendants.. Guide the soul of my lost love, who has been wronged beyond all decency, who has been ravaged by the actions of the tainted, who has been torn from her rightful end. I beg, restore her, give her back her deserved peace."

Aswe fell silent again, all she could hear for now, was the sound of her heart pounding in her ears

[The Ghost]

She shrank more and more, but she heard Aswe's words.
Curiosity drove the wandering free spirit, almost just a breath, a wisp.
Did she understand the words - hardly. But she sensed that it was someone who meant her no harm.
A light whisper in the wind caught Aswe's hair, playfully tugged at it and then, like materialised smoke, floated along the circle of the fire.
If the wisp had been able to speak, it would have answered, but it was no longer able to do so.
A strange feeling, however, a longing tugged at the ghostly figure. For something that once was...

[The Ghost]

At dawn, a kind of haze formed, quickly condensing into an impenetrable fog. Inaudible whispers could be heard, and the Wisp followed the call.
Cherga granted the mercy Aswe had requested, even though Irina's body was left as an empty shell in gloomy chambers.

Once this had been done, the dense fog thickened more and more, becoming smaller and smaller.
Then, with a soft sound, a beautiful stone, silvery, transparent, opal-like, fell to the ground. It was shaped like a tear.

The last farewell and the remnant of a great love.

[Aswe]

Aswe sat there in the the morning light, she stared unerringly at the flickering and dying flames of the fire. With the rising sun the world in it's cruel way came alive again. Life went on.

She looked up from the flames, she could feel something was different. All around her the morning dew was forming, and that gentle mist that came with it filled the air, but instead of vanishing as the sunlight hit it, it condensed, it compressed. As first covered her and the fire, but before her eyes it shrank to the size of Aswe, then to half of her size, through the process, Aswe was certain she say the outline of her love, the woman she lost - if only for the briefest of moments. She almost reached out, one final touch, but held herself back, it would serve no purpose. The haze had finally congealed into one thin, hard stone, it fell to the ground right there, blinking harshly as the sun hit it.

The air was as dry as a bone, and warmer than it had any right to be. Climbing to her feet she heard the whispers, something from beyond the veil, something she could not make out, something that perhaps she wasn't supposed to be privy to.

She was comforted by it all, she found. In her mind she had failed Irina so many times, she could not save her life, she could not keep her body safe, nor could she recover it. she'd let her down, but in this, she felt she'd had some level of redemption, some level of forgiveness.

As picked up the stone and kissed it ever so gently, it was time to go home.