Epilogue
Life is nothing but death's brief dream,
Love is its light, darkness its Hate ,
Though cruel to you this truth may seem,
Dream well, little one, despite thy fate.
- lines four to eight of the High Elven lullaby, Falling Leaves in Summer.
Days had passed. Theramore sat uneasy and injured just as Crys did. The brief rain yesterday hadn't completely washed away the blood that stained its streets, just as the brushes of the cleaning maids hadn't managed to eradicate every tiny trace that Sarah had died here, that the elf and dwarf had both bled and nearly died as well. Several of the Cannoneer's Yard's buildings were little more than burnt-out shells, blackened wooden skeletons frosted with white ash. The elf was weak still, and could only move about his chambers briefly before having to rest. His physical injuries weren't the worst though. He had experienced his own death and killed someone who seemed to be a dark copy of himself, the psychological wounds running deep and raw yet. He couldn't remember his sister's face or name even still, no journal or tome in his library could give it to him, the few old correspondences he had kept from his school days were simply signed "R", like something as intimate as the knowledge of his own sibling's name could ever be erased from his mind.
The magical addiction was there too, its' frigid, knife-edged pangs lancing into his gut, casting his mind back to the thought of his life bleeding out and the cold darkness of death covering over him like a shroud. Jaina got her report from him, though he was too ill to hand it to her directly, Edward doing the honors. He was commended and paid, and from there so was Daghmor, whose wounds still kept him in the barracks infirmary. Some of that money was used to "make a large donation" to a priest to focus some magical restoration on the dwarf's twice-injured leg, keeping it from making his limp more pronounced and his pace even more tiring to maintain. Against regulations, but the gold would help the city's poor (whatever was left over after the priest had pocketed the rest) and the rogue would be able to hobble around again well enough.
Crys stood in his chambers, leaning on a cane made of driftwood while running his eyes slowly over the entirety of his main room, over the myriad books and scrolls and maps, over the furniture, the lecture board that still bore the crude sketches regarding the murders, the tapestry of Silvermoon, and finally the side board upon which a full decanter of dark rum and a half dozen crystal tumblers sat upside down upon a silver tray. The elven warmage shuffled his way over to the narrow table, setting his cane against the wall and upturning a tumbler while his left hand popped the rounded stopper off the top of the decanter, letting to fall carelessly to the tray with a rattle, and poured until the rich amber liquid threatened to spill over the rim. He then set the container down, the elf noting quite easily the illusionary feeling of partial numbness as his hand gripped the cool receptacle but his smallest finger not being able to wrap around as it used to. He raised the glass to him lips, pausing for only a moment, staring at his reflection in its lightly jostling contents, before downing the heady, burning fluid in three swallows. Crys grimaced as the rest of it trickled down his throat, the Dark Spear blend every bit as potent and unrefined as he had imagined it to be. He wasn't in a mood to be a connoisseur right now.
A second glass was poured and lifted to his mouth. Crys drank deeply from this one as well, knowing that Sarah wouldn't be there to wake him in the morning.
Night was upon the sea surrounding Theramore as well, its chilly waters nevertheless alive with activity as various fish and crustaceans went about the necessary actions of feeding and trying to avoid becoming food in the dark waters. Shifting back and forth lightly with the waves passing overhead, partially weighed down by a thick metal gauntlet on its arm and a sword piercing its upper left torso, and partially entangled in sea weed, a corpse floated. The black leather outer skin had been picked at and sliced away by sharp little teeth in a hundred places, brilliant white hair acting like a beacon to the numerous little scavengers who prowled in amongst the weeds for the dead or dying. A Warhammer Brow shark swam slowly with powerful, elegant twists of its body, using the acute nasal openings on the middle of its distinctively shaped head to home in on the drifting carrion. Its horseshoe shaped mouth, lined with dozens of triangular teeth opened and tore a large chunk out of the meaty thigh, gulping it down whole and thrashing lightly as it positioned itself for another strike. The shark instead twisted sharply around and with a rapid whipping of its notched tail, darted away, not stopping until it was little more than a faint speck against the washed-out grey the sea had become after night fall.
Darkness seeped from all the little nicks and cuts along the corpses' length, much like blood had days previous. The liquid darkness began to congeal, separate from the surrounding water like it were oil. Its mass continued to grow as a vague shape started to emerge; two legs, two arms, a head, a large circular mass with three curving blades radiating from the central disk on the right arm. The shape refined itself further, the figure taking on vaguely feminine qualities, the blades on its right arm looking every bit as sharp as they would were they forged of steel. Lastly, two almond-shaped "eyes" of burning blue energy appeared on the shadowy head, followed closely by a fist-sized, round patch of the same energy on the back of the tri-bladed shadow weapon. The shadow began to move, rotating itself around and sending itself down to the sea floor, unmoved by the currents around it. Once it had settled itself there it paused for a long moment, as if getting its bearings, or considering something. One shadowy foot moved forward, followed by the other in an unhurried yet ceaseless cadence. Its burning blue eyes were fixed on a single point, though nothing nearby or readily apparent, like it spied something very far off and now worked towards that goal.
I am Golonda Silvernight…and I will not be stopped. I will have my revenge.
The shadow figure soon blended in with the rest of the darkness around it, descending deeper and deeper, heading north.