What fell across the temple's gray nave was neither dirge, nor hymn, nor the uncontrolled lamentations common for the parishes of death gods, but the simple silence of an tranquil evening among the dusklit, craggy foothills. Scarlet sunrays sifted in through the crystalline western windows, and the strong scent of yellowwort incense hung heavy in the still air.

And from the westmost alcove issued the voice of an elder priestess, dictating to a priest well along in years yet young among the order.

"...you may have a mind to look on Provost Berrinole's tomb more closely tonight; it seems that the bears have been nudging his capstone loose more than once lately. Ah...and remember to pour an extra pint of oil in each vigil lantern tonight. We're expecting a strong gale with rain from the mountains, and the endless flames will need the added fuel. There should be plenty of lamp oil in the cellar; come and find me if our stock of oil is nearly spent."

Many elves are too vain to take orders from short-lived humans, but Matron Valanice was wizened and well-experienced among her kind, taking in many bereft folk over the years in her servitude to the eternal lady of love beyond life and death, Evening Glory. The soft crimson robe shifted around the matron's lean frame as she moved across the alcove to the outer doorway where Sylvea stood.

"I believe that Acolyte Corris saw your sister at the well behind the temple, perhaps drawing water or perhaps hunting for vermin as ghouls are likely to do...he did not say," Valanice offered offhand, regarding the young, silvery-draped elf before her with a weary and weathered gaze through eyes no less gray than the long braid which swayed and brushed across the lumbar curve of her narrow back. "But you may wish to gather her before you make your way to the burial mounds, just in case any nasty devils are roaming down from the mountains near dark. I have Acolyte Corris cleaning the choir loft this evening, but Acolyte Flordenia should be idle once she returns from weeding the Hope Garden...."

Much was involved in a temple's maintenance, and the Pax ex Quietus temple had precious few priests at hand. If only the Twilight Candle could spare more....

The spitting torch was slipped quietly from its wrought iron sconce nearby and offered to Sylvea in a wiry hand.

"So, then...once these tasks are through, we may gather the priests for our vesper prayers. Will there be anything you need before you set about your task, Sister Aringerille?"


Sylvea >

Sylvea arched a proud eyebrow, but the matron would be used to such a gesture as only a habit picked up from her time before her devotion to Evening Glory. Mostly a mention of her sister was accompanied with such an action. Sylvea sighed and shook her head, "With your permission I will gather my sister and head to the cellers. She can help me carry the extra oil for my rounds tonight." Her voice was light and musical - a strange, haunting lilt. Her voice was rarely warm, though it was far from cold, especially for the Matron herself - whom she respected greatly.

Turning to go, she looked askance at the wizened old woman and wondered just how much longer she could count on the woman's company in her aging years. Inclining her head respectfully, she made to leave, pausing only to see if the Matron was finished with her.

Once dismissed, she would travel to the well behind the temple to discover if her sister was truly there.

Acknowledging Sylvea's glance, Matron Valanice offered but a silent nod of her head in parting, then fell to silence as she returned to the altar, taking up a bottle of the blessed flaxroot oil in preparation for the evening consecrations. As with most temples devoted to Evening Glory or other death gods, silence was observed in the nave at twilight, and shouts or other raised voices within the temple viewed scornfully as acts of irreverence.

Equally silent, Sylvea exited the northwest alcove and greeted the cold mountain breeze sweeping down from the Crown Diamonds and over the temple grounds.





What pavestones composed the path around the western yard lay buried beneath the first snows of winter from three days past. The weather had since risen to a lesser chill, and the sheen of water atop the melting snow glistened with an orange sunset radiance. But temperatures would descend with nightfall, and Sylvea found herself wondering if the matron's mentioned rainfall would come less as a strong shower and more as biting, plunging rivulets of ice. The temple doors would certainly need to sealed against the precipitation after all had gathered for vespers.

The tapping of hammers and planes pealed from the stone table centered in the yard; Brother Herrick and the vampire-spawned Anurrius toiled with the finishing touches on another coffin, for another traveller had been found dead from exposure among the lower mountains, and none had come forward to claim him. Maple shavings fell wildly from their work and sprinkled the trampled gray slush at their feet as the zombie Aneska stood idly by, ready to help Brother Herrick and Anurrius bear the coffin into the temple when the crafting was done. Every one of the undead who resided with the temple was there because someone had loved that person strongly enough for Evening Glory to notice and lend her aid. But some of the living--and some of the dead thus raised into undeath--wondered how the goddess could indeed be an entity of love, if her blessings so often left the beloved neither living nor dead, but somewhere wretchedly in between.

The barred recess between the western alcoves shimmered with scarlet rays as the dwindling rays of sunlight struck the Tear of Endless Devotion, a ruby set in the pedestal before the feet of Saint Zerestia of the Spring...or the feet of her statue, rather. Saint Zerestia and her betrothed Saint Arlanos lay interred in the sarcophagi behind the statue, the bodies they had worn in life sculpted as bas reliefs in the black marble of the sarcophagus lids. Together had they discovered the spring among the foothills--the spring which still burbled beneath the waters of the well--and founded the temple on that spot three-hundred years past. And legend had long claimed that Evening Glory eventually came for Saint Arlanos in his old age, and he left for the Underworld with her. And that the heartbroken Saint Zerestia, strong of love and stronger of will, simply willed herself to stop living and so followed her husband into the Underworld three hours later.

As was the custom, a three-day wake was observed for Saint Zerestia and Saint Arlanos to see if they would return from death. But, alas, both saints opted to remain dead. And so they were interred behind the temple they had built, with the statue and the Tear set in place to commit her deeds and her dedication to everlasting memory.

Though the Tear of Endless Devotion was clearly a gemstone of great value, it had laid exposed to the mountains' gaze for three-hundred years with never an enterprising thief prying it from its pedestal, for legend also claimed that a mortal curse would follow any who stole the Tear, so that the thief would never receive love for anything, nor feel love for anything, and would eventually waste away into interminable pain and nothingness, all the while painfully desolate, lonely, bored unto madness, hated by all and forsaken of need--even by himself and unto himself--until Evening Glory herself deigned to relieve the thief of his insufferable torment and cast him into merciful oblivion. And not a moment before then.

The well which the saints had dug, cleared, set with flagstones and consecrated to Evening Glory had incessantly murmured with springwater over the centuries, yet the old tales also claimed that the voice of Saint Zerestia could sometimes be heard pealing from the well's throat, singing the hymns and ballads from her childhood village among the mountains. And there before the lifegiving well stooped Ariean, drawing water for the temple. In her living days, eight or ten buckets of water would have wearied her arms unto sprains and torn muscles, yet her return from death had strengthened her body even as it ravaged her psyche. Her rigor-hardened muscles could bear such weight with ease, yet it was small compensation for her wasted and sunken appearance, her compulsory eating of raw flesh and the derangements which ensued if that appetite went unsated. Yet remnants of Ariean's old self remained entombed in her ghoulish frame, remnants of the Ariean which Sylvea had dearly loved...had loved strongly enough to defeat death itself, opening the door for Ariean's return.

A pity, it was, that Ariean did not return whole.

Against the hammering and the woodcutting, Sylvea's soft footfalls into the yard went unheeded. Ariean's gaunt and pallid arms, elongated to freakish proportions by undeath's embrace, plunged into the well's maw and took up the rope, vigorously pulling another filled bucket from the well's sloshing and rippling depths.


Sylvea >

Sylvea slipped across the snow laden courtyard, her silver draped hem brushing across the white flakes, occassionally stirring loose behind her. As she walked, she could see Ariean as she toiled by the well and was once again struck by just how different her sister had become.

As she studied Ariean's profile, she was forced to remember what her sister had been before death. The pride of the family with a joy for life that had been unprecendented.

Though her passage was relatively silent, Ariean would hear her coming and hopefully turn to towards her. She would see her sister's eyes well up both with love and a lesser degree of pity as she looked on Ariean's face. Though the muscle tissue was degraded and the figure mutated somewhat, Sylvea still saw her sister in those black staring eyes.

"Ariean my dear, what are you doing? You had a free day today - my duties allowed you to rest." Though a ghoul faced her, Sylvea could not help bypassing all of Ariean's new... capabilities.

"You must come with me now, we have tasks to finish." She reached out her hand for her sister's and waited.

Turning at her sister's words, Ariean set the bucket of water to the snowy earth at her feet. Though her feet in ghouldom had grown too warped and elongated for footwear--and fingernails and toenails alike had grown into small, raking yellow spades capable of tearing flesh away in chunks--Ariean no longer felt the bite of the cold, only an ever-present numbness over her every inch of lifeless skin.

"But...will the water freeze before I bring it inside?"

Her trust in her sister swiftly returned, and her brief protest died with a shrug of resignation. Even unwholesome hearts--twisted with undeath or not--can feel love and trust, though such are extended to what very few can earn them. The buckets remained where they sat as Ariean stood erect and attended Sylvea wholly.

"Of what tasks do you speak, sister?"


Sylvea >

Sylvea shook her head slightly, "You can draw more water sister, and if the need arises, water can be melted and made fresher."

She took her sister's hand and gently warmed it between her own. She knew Ariean didn't feel the cold any longer, but her skin was always so clammy - she could not help it when she touched her.

"We have a few tasks tonight. The vigil lamps need extra oil - there is word of a storm brewing. And Matron has asked us to look into Provost Berrinole's tomb. And we have a trip to the Burial Mounds to look forward to as well."

Shifting her feet to rid them of the snow so her soft boots would not soak with them, she continued looking lovingly at her sister. Her voice was gentle, "What would you like to do first?"

An unexpected smile came to Ariene's visage, warmed with her sister's charitable concern as her cold hand returned to her side. "Perhaps...we could meet halfway with this decision. I will set the water in the alcove, and then we will go to the cellar and gather the lamp oil. Will you hold the doors open for me? These buckets can be...cumbersome...."


Sylvea >

Sylvea nodded, as always ever eager to please her sister. Some others may have noted that her devotion seemed to equal Ariean's undead devotion - but never had it been questioned to her face.

"Of course." Sylvea never had a problem with the slightly slurred speach that came from her sister's decayed mouth and made her way to the doors, holding them open for her sister to go through.

Staring at her as she went past, Sylvea once again was struck by the inherent difference in her sister - as well as the sameness she felt when around her. It was truly odd - but somewhat comforting at the same time.

Once the water was stored away for the moment, she would lead her sister along towards the cellar, to fetch the first of her tasks for tonight.

The stout oaken door, shrunken in its jamb under the ceaseless duress of cold mountain gusts and descending frost, parted easily. The darkness of the cellar beyond was shaken by radiance spilling from the flickering brass oil sconces flanking either of the two cellar doors. And the air within hung heavy with the scents of fruits, dried meats and many incenses and oils.

Against the far wall stood a line of eighteen clay pots, but only five with their cork stoppers in place...filled, not emptied of their lamp oil as the others had been.

The door whispered shut behind Sylvea and Ariene as they descended the stairs into the cellar, only to drift open again as another howling gale bore against it. Snowflakes swept past the two and scattered into the cellar, and Sylvea's skin reflexively constricted and recoiled against the chill of the North.


Sylvea >

Sylvea surveyed their surroundings and could not help the shudder that ran through her. No matter how much older she would get, she knew that she would never like the feeling of being enclosed under so much stone and structure. The trees were invisible to her here, and she could not feel the breeze against her back.

Sylvea didn't voice any of her feelings though, knowing that her sister may have reservations of her own. At least, she hoped she did. Sometimes, Ariean could surprise her with what the ghoul did and did not think of.

Then she turned and smiled, "Fetch us some oil, enough to last tonight. We will have to inform the Matron of our dwindling supplies."

Forcing a shudder down again, she sighed and waited for Ariean to finish, barely suppressing the urge to tap her foot. She really did not like this. At least crypts had some sort of feel to them. Some earth that she could connect with, lifeforces she could feel. This was just a building, housing what needed to be housed. It was nothing.

If Ariean shared her sister's sentiments about the confines of the cellar, she did nothing to suggest such. Wood elves are accustomed to grooming hollows in the roots and trunks of great oaks and interring their dead therein, to reunite the dead with the living world and to feed the greatest trees with the flesh and bone of past generations. Perhaps some dark part of Ariean's psyche remembered her body's months inside her own funerary hollow, leaving the cellar to seem as spacious as a palace through that uncommon perspective....

"I believe that half of this should normally be enough for all the lamps at the burial mound," Ariene appraised as she lifted a cumbersome clay jar with ease. "But did you say that we were to add extra oil to the lamps tonight, Sister?"


Sylvea >

Syvlea nodded, slightly distracted with thoughts of the enclosed space around them, but she gave her sister a warm smile all the same.

"Perhaps the entire jar will suffice." She was forced to remember just how strong Ariean had become once again and her smile faltered, but she covered it with a small cough.

Turning she mounted the stairs that led upwards, "Come, the matron would not be pleased if we tarry here."

Taking the earthen jar with them, Ariean strode behind Sylvea with a loping yet willowy gait. The echo of toe claws clacking on the flagstones ceased as the pair emerged to the snowy earth again.





The rolling mountain winds whipped this way and that across the foothills, peppering Sylvea's dark vestment with a thin scattering of snow as she struck her torch to the first grave lantern, scowling slightly as the broad wick stubbornly refused to ignite. Beside her, Ariean set the jar down and replaced the stopper, careful to keep any snowfall out of the oil. Water in the jar could only cause further problems with lighting the lamps, and she tried to block the wind with her body as Sylvea touched the torch to the oil-soaked wick again.

The lantern finally sputtered to life as the fire took hold. Quickly Sylvea replaced the lantern's hood, smiling slightly with contentment as the firelight rippled through brass framework and blue crystal glass to cast itself flickering against the burial mounds. Bringing the torch closer to her torso and shielding it from the wind again, Sylvea bid Ariean to follow as the plodded to the next row of sepulchers.




Something not far south of them trod too heavily on the snow and cracked the stones beneath. Sylvea turned to face the noise, letting her mind race to consider the course of the intrusion. Ariean's response was swifter and purely primal; setting the clay vessel on the ground, she immediately darted past her sister and took to a low stance behind a granite tomb not far from the path into the burial mounds, glancing expectantly back to Sylvea as two shadowy figures strode forth from the craggy ascent to the site, casting the weak light of a target lantern low between them.


Sylvea >

Sylvea glanced at the clay jar Ariean had left behind and shook her head. The girl should have taken it with her - nevermind.

Gliding to her sister's side, she settled herself to a vantage point where she would see the identities of the those that came before revealing her own presence. Though how they could miss the clay jar and the freshly lit lamp was beyond her, she prayed for a bit of luck.

Whispering low to her sister, she bent and hid herself behind the granite tomb, "We shall see who they are and what they do. If they try anything, we shall capture them." Knowing that Ariean would abide by her commands, she crouched down, peering into the darkness trying to see what would come.

Ariean nodded crisply with a gesture of affirmation as she remained frozen in her crouch, ready to pounce if trouble reared its head.

The first of the shadowy figures set down a rucksack; between the soft snow and the dulled sounds within, the sack's contents were indiscernible to the ear. He leaned against one of the guardian statues at the southern entrance to the burial site and gestured for his companion to approach.

"Lanterns, love. The boneyard's attended, it is...a mite recently, judging from the smell of oil about. Methinks the temple be not as abandoned as it was said, aye?"

Slinking into view, the second traveller raised her hand, gesturing from afar to the lantern which the death priestess had just lit. "Shan't we light our own path with such a lantern, then? Surely we're out've bandit territory now...."

"Be not daft, woman. If there be priests, they might take a spot've umbrage at seein' us at their door with a thieved grave lamp, eh? Besides, we shouldn't be far now. Surely they've help for our dilemna, eh?"

"But...that mayhaps pertain more if our son already lies among the dead...."

An awkward silence followed, punctuated by a muffled sobbing. Thus far, they had not sensed that they were not alone.


Sylvea >

Sylvea motioned for Ariean to remain where she was and stood to reveal herself to the two strangers. She fixed a benign smile on her face and stepped away from the tomb. She did not come closer and instead remained so that Ariean could intercept the strangers before they got to her, should they attack.

"Ho, strangers. I am Priestess Sylvea and you are on Temple grounds. May I enquire as to your need to be here?"

The two peasants turned with a start, gazing on Sylvea with uncertainly in their eyes. Though the man's tongue was frozen with trepidation, the woman's tongue was not. Cupping her hands to her breast, she approached timidly.

"We meant no intrusion, madam. We came to speak with the high priests of Evenin' Glory. Our son...we love him dearly. Truly, yes. But he was in Palemare when the Laughin' Death an' the quarantine came...we hoped to be reunited with our son, to find him...or to learn of his fate, if he be among those taken by the Laughin' Death...."

Her voice began to falter beneath weary, trembling eyes. The Laughing Death had overtaken the city so quickly. What few had not yet succumbed to the pestilence--if any remained--would surely be victimized and slain by those who had, for the pestilence inflicted a murderous derangement on those who took it, driving them into cackling berserk furies even as it slowly extinguished their lives. The baroness did well to move so swiftly with the quarantine, even if her healers were thus denied opportunity to better observe and understand the fearsome disease.

"So we came these miles out've hope, to see to the memory or fate of our loved one. Is that not the will of Evenin' Glory, then?"


Sylvea >

Sylvea nodded and held her lamp up further so she could see them more clearly. They seemed simple enough folk so she moved cautiously towards them. But not before murmuring to her still hidden sister, "Keep close - but do not let them see you. They will see the true glory of our Goddess before too long."

Once again she did not wait for an acknowledgement to her order. She knew it would be carried out unless something dire should happen. Then she knew her life would be in her sisters hands - as she had always known since her ressurrection.

"Come with me, I will take you to the Temple." She waited for them to turn on the path towards the temple that lay not too far distant but would seem far enough in the darkness. "Do not worry, I will guide you." Her voice was soft, yet spoke of calm command - and oddly for them, empathetic comfort.

"We thank you, My Lady," the peasant woman softly replied, the gratitude in her voice singing against the next cold wind to descend from the crags. Taking her husband's hand, she walked with him and kept pace behind the priestess, never once heeding the malformed shadow which lightly slunk and trotted behind them....





Standing regally before the altar, Matron Valanice considered what the visitors had to say.

"Palemare City is a city of the dead," the matriarch intoned, thrusting an emphatic finger westward across the nave. "Reuniting the bereft with their loved ones serves the edicts of our temple and our goddess, but venturing into Palemare is not something which we would do lightly."

Almost as one, the humble parents sunk in countenance and in posture, fearful of seeing their request refuted. Sylvea briefly glanced up from the scene and to the lower windows, witnessing a familiar silhouette cast in the moonlight against the rose quartz glass. True to her sister's command, Ariean had not ventured too far.

Valanice continued. "And so I must ask: How much do you love young Galleid? How much would you give for his return, and how selfless is your love for him?"

"We haven't much, My Lady," the husband tremored as he turned to face the gathering of rose-clad priests and acolytes surrounding them, "but we would give it all to see him returned to us, alive or...dead, aye. I have seen enough winters in this world, an' I'd forfeit me own hand to see his body buried in his homeland. But to see him home alive, safe in his mother's arms an' among family...I daresay I may lay down this life to spare his from the grave, I would...."

A dismayed gasp issued from the wife's lips at the words of her long-betrothed. Many of the six priests--and as many acolytes--turned their eyes to their matron, as if to see her take the older man at his offer.

"We shall see the mettle of your words soon enough, good sir," Valanice nodded. "You and your wife shall stay here, in our temple and in our care, while our priests prepare for this undertaking. Know that whosoever among us would take upon themselves the trek to that forbidden city may choose to bring one or both of you along on the errand, the better to identify your son; if your company is so requested, we expect no refusal. And know that we, the priests of Evening Glory, do hold court with the undead, many of whom were our own families or lovers while they lived; we expect that you will not object to the presence of our own loved ones returned from death's hand, should they accompany us. These are but the terms under which we shall extend our aid; what price you pay for the return of Galleid, or his remains...that can be discussed when the deed is done. Do you agree to these terms of concord, beloved travellers?"

The hesitation behind their joined agreement was heavy, but ultimately fleeting.

"Aye, milady."

"We do."

With arms rising over the congregation, Matron Valanice strode two steps nearer to their visitors. "Then who among us will see to the return of their son, to his return from Palemare, city of pestilence and city of death? Who among us will serve their love for young Galleid and deliver forth his life, his body or his memory? Answer the call now, O Sons and Daughters of Evening Glory."




Sister Fayla Rainbloom (Half-Elf Cleric, Domains: Charm, Protection); In contrast to most of the priesthood here, Fayla's demeanor is wholesome and pleasant. She is accompanied by her lover Ereck, a human vampire fledgeling who, while a potent ally, will become a liability--along with his coffin--in the hours of daylight.

Brother Haurigg Teufelhammer (Dwarf Cleric, Domains: Magic, Protection); Haurigg is brief in words and sour in demeanor, but his drive and determination are unquenchable. His sister, Heiddal, was long since bones when she was finally returned to him, and so she is a nearly mindless yet unusually strong skeleton.

Brother Ranadiel Swifter (Human Cleric-Bard, Domains: Charm, Magic); Dark-haired Ranadiel is a sullen, soft-spoken and poetic, prone to terrible bouts of depression yet dry in wit and humor. His daughter, Belraine, drowned in her early teen years but returned from death as a ghoul, and now follows her father with firm devotion.




Sylvea >

The trip back was quick and uneventful and the matron more than willing to hold court for these weary of both heart and body travellers. Sylvea herself attended the meeting, having some form of responsibility for those she had brought here.

As the matron spoke, Sylvea did not hesitate to come forwards. "I ask to take this journey, Matron." She glanced once again at the window and nodded, more to herself than to any other, "And I ask that the father come with me. To better guide this task."

She knew there were others that could take on this quest, but she also knew that she herself had to do this. Not for any tangible reason - she just had a feeling. She nodded respectfully to the other three that she knew could have taken this on as well, paying her respects but asking them to leave it to her in a mere gesture.

Since coming there, her life had been the temple and her sister. There was more to be had, she was still young and curious and she knew she had to get this out of her blood completely before hopefully rising the ranks and devoting herself wholly to Evening Glory to the exclusion of everything else.

"And if you have no need of Ariean, Matron, I would ask for her company as well."