Of Ashes and Wind

The Fallen

It didn't take much convincing.

Dwarves never forget.

And the military force certainly did not forget Phoenix Stroud's valiant contribution to reclaim their city – despite how it all ended. How she never wavered in the face of the Frosted Shore. How she charged head on to an impenetrable fortress. How courageous she had been to dive into depths unknown.

How she had given herself completely to a war that wasn't her own.

They remembered her an honorable officer – too good for the likes of Brilux. More daring than the human Prince. More noble than other.

Endrim Onyxarm had even honored her as a formidable warrior on the battlefield. Stories and tales of her military might and warrior spirit had made way to him throughout the war. More of these stories were presented by the very dwarven generals that fought side-by-side with Phoenix until the bitter end.

When Kal Darom rallied in the final hours behind Endrim and instead pushed back the Aldernad Coalition.

Belot Greyarm oversaw the rites, her body cleaned and her armor polished.

The swords her father forged tucked into her hands.

The bloodied feather of the gryphon she'd tell tales about was around her neck.

Phoenix looked ethereal in her eternal slumber. 

Belot kissed his friend's forehead.

"For your country, my friend." He whispered and then pushed the casket out to the calm water. The Frosted Shore was calm, but the storm grey clouds of Kal Darom blocked out the sun. Belot's cheek felt cold and wet despite that there was no rain that day. 

Once the Ethereal Ocean had taken her far enough, a single arrow whistled through the air.

And Phoenix Stroud was up in flames.

The highest burial honor given to a foreigner.

The highest burial honor given to Belot's friend and most fearsome adversary.

The wind howled and the shore sang softly. 

The pyre disappearing beneath the ocean.