Death of a Lightbringer

[[DM] Grinning Death]

The temple of Lathander has been quiet for the last day, its doors locked to outside visitors and supplicants.

Today its doors open, and a tired looking Myrios LaCroix dressed in the garb of the noble house steps from its hallowed halls with a priestess standing behind him. He closes his piercing blue eyes for a brief moment, then begins to speak to the small crowd of onlookers.

"Today, the sun rose over the mountains of our valley. Its rays shone through our windows, glittered on the water of Lake Az'Gema, and caressed the fields outside Sundren City. It rose for the baker, the carpenter, the smith. It rose for all of the inhabitants of Sundren, except for one."

The normally iron-willed Myrios' lips flatten, his face deceptively calm. He takes a breath.

"One woman did not see the sunrise, for she has gone to join it. Anasath Zesiro, one of the founders of the Lathander Temple, has gone to meet the Morninglord in Elysium."

"I will not claim to know her intimately. But her passion, her joy for life was readily apparent when planning and designing this temple, and her dedication easy to see. She lived her life as she wished others to, with growth and an unbridled lust for life."

"Her trials were things that no human being should ever have to face. And yet, she did and emerged on the other side, a champion for the people. For us."

"She brought us the sunrise."

"Her willingness to sacrifice everything she held dear for her god and her people went above and beyond the 'standard', if one can call it that. I do not speak of the battles she was at the forefront of, though there were many. I do not mean the healing she gave, although there is certainly ample enough examples of that as well. I tell you that it was in the way she lived, that her true sacrifice stood out."

"It is easy to do things in the name of a god, or a country. To take life, or to give it. But it is a far harder thing to live a life as an example for others to take, in the hope that some may take it. That, I think, is a far more uncertain venture with no guaranteed gain. Anasath did that and more. She helped build a place for those who needed an example to follow, and what's more she did it without asking for anything in return."

"The sun rose today, ladies and gentlemen. It rose on a world a shade darker for a life lost, but it rose all the same. Take from that what you will. But I know that I will celebrate the life that Anasath lived for the rest of mine."

The Myrios turns, and steps away from the temple towards the LaCroix Estate.

[glaes]

Darius is present amongst the gathered mourners, and he wears his signature black hood and cloak as he stands on the steps of the House of Lathander.

He explains to his sister as the pair attend the rites and passage of Anasath. "Oft I wondered as a youth why knights and swords would wear dark colors, as opposed to the knights of dawn and their bright standards. I think its to signify those that are left to the wayside when the conflicts are done. To remember that no matter how far we come, there are those that given their all to the conflict. She was our friend, dear Sister, and I know we miss her terribly. Pray she find the peace in death, that life would not afford her."

[Standur]

The day following Myrios LaCroix's announcement, after word spread to Sundren of Anasath's fate, a lone figure clad in armor and a gray cloak could be seen outside the House of Lathander in prayer and as the sun rose to it's zenith a small object was laid reverently to rest in the vibrant flower bed.

[Satoshi]

"As the morning rises each day, so too must we. To meet every obstacle and overcome, to persevere through hardship and come out victorious. Lathander reminds us that each new day is a blessing, and a chance to grasp life for all it is worth: to remember and cherish all that is good and pure. Sister Anasath was... a beacon of that light, a shining ray that would pierce the darkness with her smile and overcome it with the warmth of her spirit."

Rafael took a moment, licking his lips and swallowing against the dryness that tightened his throat as he spoke the morning sermon.

"She lived a life worth living - full of love, and passion, and goodness that spread infectiously to anyone who met and knew her. We will mourn her passing - it is in our nature to grieve and hurt - but she watches over us from the Morninglord's side. Her radiance is now part of the many hues of the sunrise, the reds and yellows and pinks. I believe she would want us to remember her message of love and compassion, and enjoy every day with renewed vigor."

"Into His arms we commit your spirit. Rest easy, and know that we carry on the torch so that it may never gutter. Dawn's blessing."

[Nyssis]

It isn't until Selūne has long since drawn stygian bedsheets over the vale, and most goodly peoples have lain their heads down beneath to rest, that soles reinforced with earnest cushion long strides through the courtyard. They stop, hush just inches from the thick barrier that keeps most hallowed ground secure inside. That once kept Anasath secure inside, as Darius told her.

But instead of weaving through doors ajar --- instead of circling the courtyard and doubling back from whence they came, as much as they yearn to --- their bearer holds fast her intent. A wordless hymn accompanies the sound of toes tracing gyres 'round and 'round in methodical dance, the she-elf donning black and white and gold barely a silhouette darker than her shadow.

"Once there were trees full of birds," begins the dirgesinger's mourning coronach in Elven once the stanza finds her, audible 'midst the night air but afraid of projecting the very words it echoes too far. "Meadowlands vibrant with flowers. Carefree the songs our children once sang, gilding our minutes and hours;"

"Clouds came and covered the sun, the breath of the baleful unease. Turning to ashes flowers in their fields, silenced the birds in their trees;" Her cavort leads in swings to and fro before drawing her around the center statue's dais, hands gesturing likewise to marry the somatic flow, and it persists this way for many a loop.

"Hidden so deep in veils of deceit, imprisoned in twisting spells... Are we the plaything of fiends, or merely the dreams that we're telling ourselves; telling ourselves?" The Trickster bids her move in the opposite direction now to mischievously disturb the rhythm given unto her by Labelas, counter-clockwise past darkness and stone that bend not to her will no matter how hard she try.

"Strive 'til the phantoms are broken, fight 'til the battle is done. The squadrons of night can't conquer the day, nor shadows extinguish the sun;" His hand is firmly upon His hourglass, however, and the Lifegiver is sure to set the chroniker upright to prevent too much time from traveling in reverse. He sets the Tyros back on the path He intended.

"Stories of danger, fearless attack. Specters of plague and pain. All of these ghosts of our own delusions come back and we'll be haunted again; haunted again;"

"For though the storms are over and past--- Though the thunder's rage is quieted at last--- This nightmare's laid me down in the rags here to mourn; here to mourn;" But one set of fingers catches the dark web of a cloak that traces and whips about her every whirl, its hem embroidered gold fighting only the wind that now whistles by at Aerdrie's behest.

"The night has left us crippled with grief as we strive to keep alive our belief. But 'tis a loss so great it clouds all our hopes for the dawn;"

"Hidden so deep in veils of deceit, imprisoned in twisting spells... Are we the plaything of fiends, or merely the dreams that we're telling ourselves; telling ourselves?" Heels chafing against the debris of day passing left behind, all manner of traveler's wake made known to her ears, the maiden gradually ribbons her slowing dance back towards the shade obscuring the temple foyer.

"Stories of danger, fearless attack, specters of plague and pain. All of these ghosts of our own delusions come back. Have we been fighting in vain; fighting in vain?" Her voice and body are brought asunder in reverence a breath after she can consummate the dirge with its final syllable. Here, in kneeling prayer, are both a palm and a heart set to the pavement in farewell.

[Yevelian]

*Meanwhile, a hooded figure is buying rounds for everyone all day long at Jimmy's*

[[DM] Grinning Death]

Epilogue

They say the desert has no memory.

The roiling, shifting sands contain no shapes of buildings, no rocks or trees or any discernible life. The heat rolls over the sands like so many waves on the endless ocean of cresting dunes and steep canals. Everything is forgotten in the constant wind whistling past the mountains of sand, shifting each a grain at a time.

One after another, the grains drop over the apex of the dune, contributing to the base, over and over again for thousands of years. Never tiring, never slowing. This expanse of wasteland will never know anything other than what it is.

And yet, even in this merciless place, there is life. Plants shift under the sands, grasping and clawing at the miniscule water wells that happen to be buried. And this, in turn, provides sustenance for the creatures that hunt, live, and die under the purifying eye of Lathander's gaze.

In some places, this small pulse of life blossoms into an oasis. A garden of life that nomads can take rest and shelter from the harsh life of a desert dweller. Even now, a group of merchants cluster around the wellspring that runs through the earth in an attempt to stave off some of their thirst.

A man dressed in studded leathers reaches into the spring, bringing forth some of the cooling and precious water to slowly drink. His skin is burned mahogany, and his armor displays the symbol of the god of light, Horus Re. A scar runs down his left cheek, healed over many years of battle and war. A well worn scimitar hangs from his side with the same symbol upon it with no signs of rust or misuse. His golden eyes search off into the distance for a brief moment, shadowed under the setting sun.

A sharp, painful cry resounds through the cooling air, and his eyes widen in surprise. Turning, he darts back towards a merchant tent with speed that belies the weight of his gear. He skids to a stop at the front of the tent, where an older Mulhandori woman raises a wrinkled hand.

"Stop. Go slow. She is tired."

The knight's lip curls in frustration, but he slumps visibly. "I understand. I'll not disturb her more than necessary." The old woman nods in acceptance, and her face shows the beginnings of a smile. "Then go, blessed of Horus Re. And meet your child."

The knight opens the tent flap, and looks inside. For a moment, he cannot make out the shapes. But then he spots his wife, her olive skin and her tired smile still setting his blood aflame. And in her arms, a small, shrieking bundle. The knight slowly steps forward, his arms shaking more than after a battle or duel.

"He's your son." The woman says, her blue eyes a stark contrast to her short raven hair.

"My son." The knight says, looking down into the gold flecked azure eyes of the child in her arms. So small, and yet the potential for such power no doubt lay in his miniature hands. And such a precious, precious thing. The knight looks up at her.

"He looks like your father." She smiles, her eyes growing distant. "No, he looks like you. And a good thing, too. He won't have a problem sweeping a noble girl off her feet and riding into the sunset."

The knight's eyes crinkle in amusement. "Never did I meet another woman who wanted to run away with a penniless knight of Horus Re."

She reaches up, and touches his grizzled cheek with a delicate hand. "This one did." He clasps her hand in his own, and they look at their child.

"What should we name him?" He asks her. She stares at the child, nestled against her breast. "After the god that my sister went chasing, all those years ago, I think. But not in their tongue." She whispers the name to him. His eyes widen and he nods slowly. The baby sleepily blinks up at his parents as the knight rests a hand on his head. "Son of Osrion and Zesiro, I name you."

"Helcaliant. My son."