Maria Satterthwite Memorial Cemetery
Her feet carried her, thudding against the sodden ground. That was level of thought attributed to the action. They took her forward while her mind hung back, still floating in the bottom of her kelp beer. The rain fell in a fine sheet, eating away at the graying snow that fringed the streets. It clung to her hair and face. It caught between her eyelashes and landed in her eyes. Sybel made no effort to shield her face from this storm. It was a perfect backdrop to where her feet were heading. Her body carried her off to place that she’d never visit if not emboldened by the drink: The Maria Satterthwite Memorial Cemetery.
It dawned on her truly when she was standing in the midst of the place. With dead eyes she swept the horizon, searching for signs of movement. There didn’t seem to be anyone there, but she wasn’t currently in the clearest state of mind. Her lips tingled from semi-drunken anesthesia and her jaw held taut. Sybel's deliberate gait steered toward a grave, one marked as a victim of the djed storm. That was the true reason for her coming, the subconscious drive to pay respects. The terrible, self-loathing that’d grown in her over the passing years suddenly bore ugly fruit.
Her light eyes were penetrating and her hands balled into fists. ”I failed you.” Her voice was hollow. It would be difficult to fathom about whom she spoke, but a stranger could most likely infer. ”I left you to face the storm alone.” Her eyes came awash with tears, melding with the unforgiving rain. Sybel turned away from the grave, for it was not to them that she spoke. There was a person from her past who had no final resting place except amongst the web. The Denusk Pavilion had been immolated with the Spring storm and all her hopes had gone along with it.
”I’m sorry,” she rasped. The emotion knotted deep in her throat. Her hands trembled as she touched the hilt of her sword, contemplative. She’d thought of taking her life before, but it was a foolish to even try. She had no wish to destroy herself. It was just directionless fury and sadness, tearing at her. The nomad had no purpose to steady her shaking hands. She had no direction to call her own. Her feelings of regret had no outlet. All she knew was that she wanted to hurt something, someone. That she would do anything just to stifle the pain again.
The sound of footsteps caught her ear, as it had so many times before. But this time she did not turn. Sybel merely waited to see who’d show up and if they’d approach her. Her heart could not find the will to care.
57th of Winter, 512 AV
Her feet carried her, thudding against the sodden ground. That was level of thought attributed to the action. They took her forward while her mind hung back, still floating in the bottom of her kelp beer. The rain fell in a fine sheet, eating away at the graying snow that fringed the streets. It clung to her hair and face. It caught between her eyelashes and landed in her eyes. Sybel made no effort to shield her face from this storm. It was a perfect backdrop to where her feet were heading. Her body carried her off to place that she’d never visit if not emboldened by the drink: The Maria Satterthwite Memorial Cemetery.
It dawned on her truly when she was standing in the midst of the place. With dead eyes she swept the horizon, searching for signs of movement. There didn’t seem to be anyone there, but she wasn’t currently in the clearest state of mind. Her lips tingled from semi-drunken anesthesia and her jaw held taut. Sybel's deliberate gait steered toward a grave, one marked as a victim of the djed storm. That was the true reason for her coming, the subconscious drive to pay respects. The terrible, self-loathing that’d grown in her over the passing years suddenly bore ugly fruit.
Her light eyes were penetrating and her hands balled into fists. ”I failed you.” Her voice was hollow. It would be difficult to fathom about whom she spoke, but a stranger could most likely infer. ”I left you to face the storm alone.” Her eyes came awash with tears, melding with the unforgiving rain. Sybel turned away from the grave, for it was not to them that she spoke. There was a person from her past who had no final resting place except amongst the web. The Denusk Pavilion had been immolated with the Spring storm and all her hopes had gone along with it.
”I’m sorry,” she rasped. The emotion knotted deep in her throat. Her hands trembled as she touched the hilt of her sword, contemplative. She’d thought of taking her life before, but it was a foolish to even try. She had no wish to destroy herself. It was just directionless fury and sadness, tearing at her. The nomad had no purpose to steady her shaking hands. She had no direction to call her own. Her feelings of regret had no outlet. All she knew was that she wanted to hurt something, someone. That she would do anything just to stifle the pain again.
The sound of footsteps caught her ear, as it had so many times before. But this time she did not turn. Sybel merely waited to see who’d show up and if they’d approach her. Her heart could not find the will to care.
