Whitmore Mausoleum ➽ The Town Square | Interactions: N/A
Within the deathly quiescent labyrinthine stone halls of the underground crypt resounded the unnatural
click-clack of heels as a tall woman of Whitmore lineage traversed the underground part of her family's mausoleum. Despite the incongruous sound of her sharp steps – did she not consider the clattering of her shoes inappropriate? Disrespectful? – the lady in mourning was one who was deeply in tune with the dead.
Within a private room bearing hefty magical protections lay a beautifully polished oak casket. Candles and flowers around the body's resting place were the standard decoration, of course. However, there were many other oddities placed within the chamber: a writing desk with pens, papers, and other nick-nacks on it; various maps were spread on one wall, another was covered with photographs and posters, yet another sported hunting trophies and a rifle; there was even a small bookcase in one corner, and a cozy armchair next to it.
It almost looked lived in.
Almost.
Because despite the various furniture and items, which were clearly well taken care of, there was the sense that no one truly used this room.
For one, the casket was a
dead giveaway.
Amarantha cracked a small smile at the inside joke – it was the kind Art would make.
For another, there simply were no signs of a living presence, hers notwithstanding. Everything was simply too neat, too orderly; despite some clutter, the items all evoked the feeling that they had been put there, only to be left there, on display. The cleaners always placed each thing exactly where it'd been, too. Nothing was being used here; all the books were neatly arranged, there were no stray ink stains or fresh coffee rings, certainly no food or beverage anywhere, nor was there any particular scent (besides the burning candles) nor sound.
It was akin to a museum, really, only the collection here was dedicated solely to the life and history of a singular person. Perhaps it would not be amiss to term it an altar too, as the deceased was evidently cherished.
Ignoring the other seats available, Amarantha delicately perched upon the casket itself. Rather than having to lift up the lid, there was a small window built into it. After sliding a wooden panel to the side, the glass underneath was revealed – and so was the lifeless inhabitant laying quiescent within the casket itself.
"Hello, brother," Amarantha greeted quietly. She lay her palm on the cool glass surface, wishing she could touch his face. However, it was far more important not to disrupt the preservation and rejuvenation enchantments within. Closing her eyes, she felt out the otherworldly connection.
It was so familiar, she could contact him with barely a thought. Especially this time of the year, when the boundaries between the living and the dead were far feebler.
She felt him then, and turned to the spirit with a grin.
"Art!" she exclaimed happily. His visage was barely there; a wavering ghost who could only remain for a limited time.
"Hello…Amy." His voice was faint, and not-quite right, as if he were speaking from a great distance. Well, he certainly was, what with his soul residing wherever Decay had taken it.
"That…time…of the year…again?" he asked, and Amarantha smiled.
"Yes. Is there anything you would like?" Artemas' spirit shook his head in the negative. Despite his claims, she always brought him whatever seemed interesting from the festival, and she though he seemed to enjoy it – as much as he could in his form.
"Alright. I'll pick what I like, then."
He floated there, gazing towards her. Locking eyes with a spirit was a far call from looking at a living person; the dead weren't quite
there, no matter the strength of their bond nor the power of her magic. His being was elsewhere, after all, and this was almost like a hazy mirror image.
"Try…to have fun," he told her gently. Her soft smile was tinged with heavy sorrow. Even now, his first consideration was of others rather than himself.
"I will." She didn't say 'for the both of us'.
"I may be able to let you experience some of it through myself," she offered.
"We…can try," he affirmed hesitantly. His form and presence wavered.
"Artemas." Her expression became entirely solemn.
"I can feel that it will be soon. This year…It feels special. I–" she swallowed heavily, tears suddenly threatening to emerge.
"I promise, I will bring you back."
As a parting gesture, she stood up to envelop him in a hug. It was like jumping into the sea mid-winter; frigid, and shocking, and likely to sap all your life force if you did it for too long. She had no idea what it was like for Artemas, but he disappeared soon after.
Amarantha sighed. In part, she could understand why her mother didn't want to do this. It was
nothing like talking to a living person, and each moment spent with the spirit, each of his words, each gesture, all served to remind you of what you lost. However, the young lady was determined that she would make his death only temporary in nature. With so much magic in the world, so many beings who defied death one way or another, it was only a matter of time, effort, and circumstances. Add a pinch of luck, and they'd be set.
Done with her ritual, she closed the little window on the casket, and exited the crypt. Above it was the mausoleum, which on special occasions could be accessed by outsiders – under supervision. The cemetery was rather serene; however, it was time to rejoin the world of the living.
She meandered towards the town square. It was promisingly active. So many people came to see their festivals, came to peddle their foreign wares. Amarantha enjoyed browsing the stalls. Year in and year out, people showed up, yet each time, there was someone and something new to see. A curious trinket here, a strange book there, a beautiful painting, an unfathomable contraption, fascinating ingredients, intriguing travelers…It was lovely, truly. In the background, many eager performers and street artists were showcasing their skill, adding to the atmosphere.
They would all have their fun, become a part of Arkley if just for a little while. And when the time came, some of them would be sent to the otherworld, on their
next little adventure. It was the Festival of Spirits, after all. The living and the dead intermingled; some of the former would join the latter, and if all went well,
one of the latter would rejoin the former.
