A father-daughter spat sends young necromancer Emilia Mortalis to seek out her real parents, beginning with a summoning in a cemetery, where she encounters a faceless Angel statue. When her foster father is killed while fighting in the Badlands, sh...
They gazed upon the child – the mourner, the seeker, the frightened, the necroscope; powerful, powerless, blessed, cursed, full of impossibilities and possibilities. And They saw a kindred spirit. She didn't know from whence she came, and neither did They. They watched as she stirred and looked around.
"Thank you," she said to Them, "I didn't expect so many of them, so many all at once. I...I didn't think that through very well. I guess you scared them away."
They wanted to reassure her, to comfort her, to ease her unease. They didn't scare anyone away – the others fled of their own will. They didn't understand why, as They never did, and could never do, anything to hurt the spirits. They sent Their caring to the child through Their hands. The girl raised her own hand and placed it gently atop Their own, where They felt the infinitesimal tingle of the girl's own warmth on their fingers.
It was the most wondrous and miraculous thing They had ever experienced. The small, tiny point of heat spread through every part of Their existence, and They were warm everywhere, even if only for a micro-minute. "I like it here," said the child, "It's nice. But I don't think my mother is here. I think she might be alive after all. I'll come back again, and we can talk. You must get lonely. And the dead only talk about the past, over and over again. I'll bring you some new stories!"
Dawn peeped from the other side and began to push the night away as They watched The Girl, full of warm life, run through Beor's dead, raising ashes in clouds that, to Their eyes, briefly glowed with The Girl's fire mixed with the Dawn's light, before drifting downwards and getting swallowed up in the dull, grey-black sameness that was Their only home.
They were full of emotions they had no experience of, and no names for. It was several minutes when They tried to express how They felt, and if anyone living had been nearby, they would have heard a hushed, melodious baritone voice say, "Thank you!"
Granny Ginny's Diary
Woke up in the middle of the night with a sense of foreboding, which is never a good sign. Used the pathways to travel in-between but found nothing amiss. The stars in the Beginning Place were a little more frisky than usual. Ooze said he thought he saw a comet in a place where no comet should be, but then acknowledged that it was likely a spore in his eyestalk.
No deep rumblings in Beor, no new commotions in the Badlands. Sheri Nightberry has most of the clans under her watchful eye. No unexpected resonances from the Nether Plane.
So why do I still feel uneasy?
I reach out, with senses long unused and out of practice. And I hear something new - a gossamer, light-hearted melody - newly born, uncertain and tentative. Wait! It's gone. Perhaps it's a new species of bird? Not likely! I'm a part of Beor's oldest song. This is more than a new bird for Beor. I memorized the melody, just to be cautious should I hear it again.
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