The air in Kada's seemed to go out at the sight: two ale mugs, still full, sitting in front of the Dwarf named Remyl Steeley. His gaze was one of distance, as if looking through the mugs, the table, through Hydlaa itself. Next to the mugs lay two metal enki fingers and an old, worn brown belt. The buckle on the belt was Dwarven in origin, a battle token that Remyl had won in his youth. He'd given it to his closest friend, who had worn it in plain sight all these years. Most had taken it as a spoil of war, and the menki decided to let them think it was so to ward off potential thieves. But Remyl knew what it was. Remyl knew what it stood for. Remyl was reminded again of the menki that had saved his life, and battled by his side. He knew that he had been an overbearing Dwarf, always chasing the next skirt that passed his eyes, or laughing his loud, hoarse laugh at a tale or joke. His friend just smiled, pleased to be in such positive company. No matter how many times he saw that grin, Remyl knew that his friend suffered on the inside, tortured by his past, tormented by his present, yet still hopeful of his future. That future, however, had gotten strung up on the ruqua in the secret garden, and now his friend was gone. Remyl knew where to. Remyl knew that he could not follow. Not yet, at least. Tomorrow, maybe, Remyl would remind himself to live on as he always had. Tonight, he simply stood up from his two mugs, still full, and walked out of the tavern, deluding himself that maybe tomorrow the mugs would still be there, and he and his friend would share a drink and laugh about old times...
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The Well was cold and dark, the stench of corpses old and new filling his nose. He had stalked the nights once, hunting prey with the glint of golden circles in pouches at their side. This darkness was nothing to him. He had made a promise, after all, and he intended to keep it. The menki searched and scraped, looking for the face he'd seen in the Garden. His eyes gazed over the others, wondering if he'd been responsible for their fates, half expecting to see some of his old friends amongst the fallen. He thought about the criminals he robbed and killed alongside. He thought about the innocents that never judged what they did not know, and wondered if they could forgive him if they knew about the things he'd done. He may have had moments of valor in his life, but in his heart, if he could not forgive himself for what he'd done, how could any of the gods do the same? The fenki on the tree had told him that she wanted to start again, without the sins of her past. He wondered if she ever truly knew how alike they really were in that regard.
After a few hours, the body presented itself. An opportunist was in the depths plundering the wealth of the dead, when he came across the face with the black beads. The menki drew an old pair of sabres from a red cloth. The last thing the opportunist saw before his death was the bloody paw on his killer's face, and the cold eyes almost glowing in the darkness, like they were staring into his soul and judging him before his execution. The menki kicked the opportunist's body aside, and knelt beside the fenki. He had fought so hard for so long. All he ever wanted was to find peace with his wife at his side. He knew that this would be the only way. The sabres pieced through his bowels, blood pouring forth from the wound. He removed them and placed them at the side for the next thief, knowing that should Dakkru take him, he would not fight back for his life again. He curled up with the body, gave it a final kiss, and whispered into her ear.
"Rroh shrdah, Morla."
Jonoth Shyemlye closed his eyes, unafraid as the darkness took him.
