Shades and Memories
Twenty-Ninth Day of the Seventh Month 293 AC
As you leave the realms reclaimed by the living, mostly near the water's edge, you come to realize that the silence of the dead city had not vanished entirely into the din of new life, but instead it had drawn back into the shadows, trickled down through the gaps in the stone to pool and gather where the bones of the dead still lie thick. Vargor's folk have not yet buried all those who met their end in that long ago plague, for the burial rituals of the Tall Men are quite complex and, as Maelor puts it: "Folk are less inclined to cheat the dead their due when they know for a fact that they're watching."
They are certainly watching now; whispers in the corners, shapes seen out of the corner of your eye, flashes of heat and cold like eddies in some vast unseen sea. Would that all the images were like those long-dead maegi who confronted you on your first journey to the city following the trail of Tiamat's servants. Alas that there are darker things to see in the deeper places of Sallosh.
The worst are the children, giggles and nursery rhymes turning to soft pitiful sobs or screams of despair, then back as though whatever tattered remnant of a spirit was passing through had forgotten itself and would then be doomed to pass through the horror of their own last days again and again, not aware enough to think and understand, but present enough to
feel. Even Ser Richard is disturbed by the horror you are witnessing though his expression barely wavers, his eyes moving through the broken corridors and dilapidated halls with the same thoughtfulness he has ever shown.
"They aren't even angry at us, and that just makes it
worse, you know?" Maelor instinctively draws his cloak closer as he speaks.
"I do," you nod. "Malice can be met with courage and strength of arms, but there is nothing here save sorrow. Given enough time I fear it can prove as infectious as the plagues that earned this city the name by which the Dothraki called it."
"But it's getting better at least. The Saathi have come back here to build a city of their people for the first time in a dozen generations..." It is not often that Maelor feels the need to lighten the air, but it is clear this cold sepulchral world made all the darker by the shafts of sunlight piercing from above is enough to dampen even his spirits.
"For those who remember enough of themselves to depart in peace, yes," you reply. "I fear many do not."
At last you reach the broken temple where you had last fought Anu, and there amid the fading marks of your battle you see again the tall skeletal figure wrapped in robes like a rotting shroud.
"As I have pledged six months past so it was done," you begin speaking High Valyrian with ponderous formality, the better to jar a broken memory if necessary. A bitter farce it would be if you were forced to fight at this late a time.
"So you have," the words are fragile and soft as rotting leaves. "Our thanks upon you, our blessings also for whatever worth the blessings of the dead and damned may have."
Thus do you ask them of their purpose, having presumed that they would depart upon seeing their descendants reclaiming the city, though you do not share the conjuncture. The answer you receive in exchange does not make pleasant hearing: "We protect our kin from those who have forgotten all bonds of kinship, those who would turn on all that lives in a jealous rage. Without us nightmares would poison their sleep and misfortune would haunt their every waking moment."
"There are other threats also, beyond the walls," you remind them obliquely. "I would send soldiers sworn to me to guard this city and mend its walls against all who would attack it."
For a long moment the long dead maegi is silent, pondering your words, or perhaps communing with his fellows. Finally he speaks: "It would be more difficult to guard many who are not of our blood, but we see the need and sense the peril."
"What peril do you sense? What's out there?" Maelor interjects, wholly unconcerned under the wraith's chill gaze, now that he had a face to confront.
"Warlords, little Shadow-born," comes the answer, tinged with the faintest shadow of disdain. "We are scholars and do not desire the weight of crowns nor the dubious comfort of thrones, but those who gather in Sarnath under the Empty Throne remember ruling and so they desire to return to what they once were. Even now bare bones rake barren fields and withered trees are shaken for fruit long rotten on the vine. They wish to knot together the threads of past and future as though our deaths had never been."
"Empty Throne?" you prompt, abandoning formality once it becomes clear that those you speak to care little for it.
"The seat of House Alexi yet lies empty, and so the High Lords seek to raise him who last held it. They seek his bones upon the field of crows yet find them not. Perhaps if he who was born of that line would come before them they would relent..."
Vargor is many things including brave and a reasonably skilled administrator, but no more of House Alexi than are you. The thought is bitter for the knowledge that the dead scholars could counsel him thus and he would all unknowing walk to his death.
How do you reply?
[] Explain that Vargor is not of the heritage he claims, the scholars of Sallosh seem to care little for such things save where they hope it might bring peace
[] Remain silent on the matter, best not to risk an unpredictable reaction
[] Write in
OOC: You can of course ask more questions too, the undead here are about as amenable as undead get.