2019-1-07: No Rest For the Weary

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  • Cutscene: No Rest for the Weary
  • Cast: Gwen Whitlock, Silas Madigan (NPC)
  • Where: Little Twister
  • Date: January 7th(ish), 2019
  • Summary: Two former orphans honor the memory of someone dear to them both.

        "I still wished you told me sooner."

        Small flowers, flat pebbles adorned with paint, and other trinkets adorned a new grave at the back of the Ethos orphanage. The area was relatively quiet, facing away from the chaotic bulk of Little Twister, looking out into the dusty expanse of the Badlands beyond the metal gate. There were other, older graves, mostly unadorned and simple, but kept clean, their markers chiseled with simple names and dates. Most of the graves were far, far smaller.

        This town was never meant for children. Silas knew that much. If the predatory orphanages that occasionally sprung up like prickly weeds weren't bad enough, being exposed to the town's excesses was even worse option. It was by the grace of Granas that their building was able to hold the few souls it did, sickly or differently formed as they may be.

        "I never meant to hurt you by withholding this info," he murmured in his usual quiet tone. "You told me what you were off doing, and she knew as well. Mother Ursa was praying for your safety in the same breath as she prayed for all of ours. We hadn't received the news of the victory by the time she passed on, but I feel she knew."

        The pale red-haired courier looked over at Silas, freckled cheeks gone puffy with another helping of tears. "You did a good job decorating."

        "Well, err, I didn't-" Silas cleared his throat, an idle hand scratching at the edges of his beard. "That was the children's work, pretty much. They've been even thinking about decorating the older graves too. We may need to have you deliver some more paints." Moving past his friend, he straightened the necklace of seed husks that hung to the side of the marker, each husk meticulously painted a different color. "You wouldn't believe who came over to pay their respects. Many people credited surviving their childhood to her."

        He watched, out of the corner of his eye, the way Gwen subconsciously traced the hectic, uneven outline of scar tissue underneath her clothing as she moved to the grave, lowering to one knee before it. Looking up, she noticed his gaze, a small smile forming at the shared glance as she touched the letters on the stone. "'You put both names on here. Urma, Ursa. Heh." Her fingers linger on the stone a few moments more before she rose back to her feet, her head hung low. She never seemed to deal well with death. Maybe, Silas supposed, that was why the ARM hadn't influenced her, just yet.

        Stepping to stand beside her, Silas quietly reached over to place a large palm on his dear friend's left shoulder, but where his hand instinctively expected the soft yield of skin and muscle through fabric, he felt something else. Something dully warm, like a rock lit by the late morning hours of a Badlands sun, but yielding just enough under his touch to not be strictly metal. When he looked up, he realized why: in the time it took for him to reach out his hand, Gwen had turned away to face the orphanage.

        It took everything in him to keep from pulling back his hand like it had touched the scaled surface of a viper, a soft grunt escaping his lips with the effort. ".... Will you," he started, taking in a breath, "be able to stay? A few days more, until the Granas church sends in someone."

        If Gwen had noticed his struggle, whatever edge of her face he could see betrayed nothing. "Yeah." Something warm and callused clasped over his hand, the fingers of Gwen's left hand squeezing his like it was everything she needed to stay afloat. Or was it the other way around?

        He chanced a glance upwards and saw his friend's smiling face, her blue grey eyes shining like stars in the dusk sky. "You're gonna need help, right? There's still kids who're sick here. I'll be help, n' I'll be security. Like old times, almost."

        He relaxed. "Thank you, Gwen."

        Inside, as if on cue, a child began to cry. "I guess the medicine's beginning to wear off." Silas rolled up the sleeves of his robe. "Let's go. More have gotten sick since Ursa's passing, but between the two of us, we should be fine."

        As the two departed, a crystal newly deposited on the site caught the light of the half-moon hanging overhead, its surface still warm from being clasped in the courier's hand.