Dragoncrest Cliffs Epitaph

Cherub’s Wing of Honor arrived at Sapphique’s wake with a tender limp. Marred by the bear’s daggers and weakened by a crumb of poison on its claws, she moved like an aged wolf, one who had seen too many years and had placed thousands more miles underfoot. Long scabs glistened upon her hip; red-black beacons upon her pale coat. Her face was sunken, and her glassy eyes shone with ache and dysphoria. She was a sad sight compared to her naturally chipper expression.

And still her body demanded it go on. Through the pain. Through despondency. Through it all.

She sat gingerly among the others, wincing as she did so.

Her eyes closed as she listened to Chacal’s voice, its musical quality lulling her into a benumbed trance. She wasn’t sure she heard everything. Another girl – one untouched by the mighty sting of defeat and loss – might have worried over the newfound refusal to have unrelated males rise in Sapphique’s ranks, but Wing found the matter trivial in the grand scheme of things. This did not matter.

Nothing mattered. Not right now.

Her eyes opened and adjusted upon the sister leaders when she heard Mireille speak her name to those congregated. A promotion. Beryl. An oyster with a pearl on the horizon.

Did this matter?

Wing looked on, the flashbacks of battle in her thousand-yard stare.