Ode to Death
15th of Fall, A.V.
15th of Fall, A.V.
A woman stood upon a rocky crag that jutted out over the Western Bay of Black Rock. An errant breeze drove the sprinkling rain into her face, spattering on already soaked black cloak. A bit down from the crag lay a Fargholian cow, content to wait patiently chewing her cud, gazing out into nothingness as she chomped the regurgitated food.
Lelia Harth was an experienced Cicerone and good at what she did. Though she loved Black Rock, its Ghosts, and its People, so too did she enjoy these peaceful moments, when she could simply listen to the rhythm of the island. Her eyes closed, a tuft of blonde hair appearing from under her hood to whip about in her face.
The moment was broken when the sound of steps navigating slippery rocks fell upon her ears. Hazel eyes opened and a small smile came to her face as she turned with a flourish to meet the newcomer, whom she knew was a prospective to the ranks of the Cicerone. The fine white inside of her cloak revealed that she possessed a title above Cicerone among the group of Spiritists roaming the Isle, and a posed confidence in her posture suggested that this title, whatever it may be, had been well earned.
"Sydney Turnstone was it?" She smiled more broadly, not needing the answer to the question, and took a few lightsteps to draw closer to the him. With the mild rain falling upon them this morning, Lelia couldn't immediately identify the scales Sydney possessed, but she did notice his broad musculature and stocky stature. She tilted her body as if she was dedicating every muscle to help her size up this new candidate.
"I see a strong young man before me, that could use some purpose in his life. Why do you wish to become a Cicerone, Sydney?"
c