111 Vhalar 716
They had spent the day working their way towards the foot of the Burning Mountains, and come late afternoon, had made camp. Malcolm had chosen a small scouting party to accompany him the next day on their trip up the mountain. He didn't see the sense in putting the whole one hundred through the hardship of enduring ice, rain, and snow if there was nothing to be found once they reached the top. The captain's were more than happy to stay put with their units, seeing this as a good opportunity for training their men. Every day they went without bloodshed was a good day in their books, and though they trained and prepared for the worst, taking it easy was favourable. Today of all days had been the most depressing. It had rained, the road had been long, and he had turned four hundred and twenty years old. Birthdays weren't really worth celebrating anymore, nor remembering, and yet he felt a pang of sadness at the thought of being so far from home, from his family.
Malcolm had saddled his horse and packed his papers and ink pens to find a quiet place where he could think and study his notes in peace. He also had a couple of letters to write, including one to Elyna on a strange, enchanted scroll she had given him.
The horse wandered up into the Valley of the Brave, an old graveyard site many of the Warrick nobles were buried in, without too much encouragement from her rider. Malcolm dismounted near the trees, which were some of the last on the steep mountain slopes, and left Mithril to graze. He weaved his way between the tombs and sat down against an old stone, looking out over the many graves that dotted the hillside.
Malcolm sat with his notebook and a small well of ink. He dipped the pen into the well and studied the horizon for a spell before putting pen to paper. He had come up here with the best intentions, but instead sat sketching, spending the passing seconds, minutes, and hours on nothing for a change. He would glance up at the view every few seconds to make sure he had the lines right, and shaded in the darker shadows. As the sun started to go down, Malcolm got up to stretch his legs, abandoning his drawings and letters in favour of a walk amongst the tombstones.
For a time he walked without any real direction, placing one foot in front of the other until he found himself in a newer part of the graveyard with the most recent burial sites from the village of Warrick. Malcolm stared at the name on the tombstone for a long time before it registered in his mind just who the grave belonged to. When finally he blinked, two thin tracks of blood rolled away from his tear ducts and down over his cheeks. He hadn't realised he had been searching for her until he noticed the blood, wiped away from his face with the back of his hand.
Malcolm went to his horse and took a small shovel from the saddle. If his mind’s eye could not see her through the use of his abilities, then he had to look upon her with his own eyes. He had to know for certain that this was not another trick. The mortalborn dug down into the soft earth while the sun set at his back, casting the valley into darkness. He lit and placed a lantern on the tombstone to shed light on the grave while he uncovered the ebony wood coffin. Uncovering the corners with his bare hands, Malcolm then dug out a shallow ledge to stand on in order to force the lid from the coffin open.
The knight took pause before opening the lid and stared down at the body rested within the coffin. Her skin was dark and sunken, but there could be no doubt in his mind, she was gone, and it seemed as if she had been for some time. Malcolm used the shovel to keep the lid open and stepped down into the coffin to search for any obvious wounds, however, there were none to be found. He stepped out of the grave after slipping a golden torc from the woman’s arm. Malcolm shoveled the dirt back into the grave and sat with his back to the tombstone until his fingers felt icy and he had lost all sense of time.
