[FC]<Kiyohime Sakura> the level 1 job quest should really give you a coffin or something
[FC]<Mifee Brew> something to bury our future enemies in
[FC]<Kiyohime Sakura> I meant a coffin of equipment but that works too xd
[FC]<Meilin Kikkano> coffer, ya goose
[FC]<Cecile Lothaire> LOL
[FC]<Meilin Kikkano> coffins are full of dead people
[FC]<Meilin Kikkano> coffers are full of gear
[FC]<Kiyohime Sakura> o
[FC]<Cecile Lothaire> so, ya want a nice coffin. ROFL
This got absolutely stuck in my braincase, so I wrote this. Sorry Kiyohime.
The glow of the several taverns leaked out into the alleyways, both in light and noise. A small woman dashed to and fro from the lights, poking her head into the doorways before apologizing and dashing along to the next one. Her tail peeped from the bottom of her cloak, following her head back and forth as she traveled.
Finally, she spied what she was looking for, and dashed over the threshold of the door.
“I have solved all of our equipment problems!” Kyio slammed a sheet of paper down onto the tavern table in front of a party of three “A dungeon full of coffers! The client only wants one marked with a family symbol, and the rest are for us to do with as we please!” She crumpled the paper up to her chest and sighed before anyone had a chance to look, her hood sliding back as her pink ears flicked in excitement. “Finally, some armor that isn’t falling apart, though, they asked for this to be completed discreetly so I guess I have to go alone? Cecile, can I borrow some bolts?”
Cecile slid a package of bolts across the table barely looking away from her glass, one white fur trimmed ear turned to Meilin and Mifee, the other flicking away with a dismissive air. The group waved Kyio off for luck, but there was a growing uneasiness that something was wrong.
“Did… did anyone get a good look at that posting?” Meilin put a finger to her lips in a desperate act of concentration between the three large mugs of beer empty at her place.
Content warning: The full text of Forgiven Lilies is rated 18+and will include themes that can be considered uncomfortable for some.
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Dragging herself across the silt was the Warrior of Light. Emet-Selch wondered how she even managed to get so far in this state. She had blinded herself with haphazard strips of bandages that wrapped around her head, but they did nothing to stem the blistering white tears that arched down her cheeks. Light-charged vomit was on her lips and stained down her neck. Emet-Selch watched her crawl across to the marble floor leaving a messy trail of light in her wake. Her broken cane was still clinging to her tunic as it dragged alongside her, the few remaining armored nails of her gloves helped her grab at the muck of the seafloor, but now as the marble tiles took over, she found it hard to keep her pace.
“Here you are, as expected.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Hurry now before you continue to mess all over the floor.” In response, she moaned and choked up another series of blindingly white vomit before collapsing against the stone.
“Really now, you’ve come this far and you can’t even make it through the front door?” Emet-Selch sauntered over to the body curled on the floor, the puddle of fluorescent sick growing ever larger. “I invited a beast, a monster!” She groped blindly for the hem of his coat until he kneeled and hefted her into his arms. “Instead, I received this broken husk of a mortal” She cried out but he only turned her head into his chest and walked her into the false din of Amaurot as he huffed.
The father watched on, gently tutting on his pipe.
The midwife’s voice was the only sound in the room. She encouraged the mother along, and the child was born in near silence. She did not scream when she was born, perhaps she softly cooed. Only when she was placed in her arms and began to nurse did the child make a sound, and the mother gasped.
The new family of silence.
The father was once a knight. He had been injured. He wanted the silence.
The mother was nobody. She learned silence from his hand.
The child knew nothing but silence. Her mother did not sing to her, her father did not tell her stories. When she fussed, as all babies do, her mother rushed her from her father and scolded her. Soon, she too learned silence. When she was hungry, tired, wet, she wiggled in discomfort. Her mother, always nearby, softly turning pages in a book, or silently knitting, tended to her, and they returned to silence.
The child had no toys but her own fingers and toes. She was not swaddled in playful fabrics.
Her world was quiet.
When the child was old enough, she was allowed to go to school.
The priests quickly removed the stone from his palm, and hurried him into the great shrine.
He heard no voice during the great ceremonies. No voice answered his prayer. On the way back home, the priest told him they would try again next year, but he must commit himself fully to Balor in the coming months.
At night, he dreamed about that stone, that warm, brilliant stone, with the blue etchings he seemed to know.
That year was rough. The priests shaved his head, and began harsh mediation sessions. He fasted for weeks, he meditated through nights, and all the while, that stone slipped into his thoughts. One morning, during a fast, he heard a little voice in the dusk. Something small and crying. He broke his meditation and followed it. He ran through the tangled overgrowth of the shrine garden, down into the nearby town, chasing the little sound.
And there, in the dirt of the town square, he heard it loudly.
“I’m here!” it cried out.
He bowed his head to the passerbys as he wandered closer, something in the dust crying out to him louder than ever before.
There it was. The red stone.
He shoved it into his robe and ran back to the shrine. It talked endlessly as he sprinted. It thanked him over and over again as he rushed back into his room.
“Shh. Someone will hear you!” Wataza whisper barked to the gem in his hand.