Souls of a feather flock together.

[dachangewingcwara]

PoV: Changeling

Day: 10

Time: Evening

Status: @graveyard-grace

Walking. What a lovely little luxury they had been afforded now. The Changeling had spent their day walking, running little errands, completing menial tasks, pockets heavier and conscience light as a feather, finding the town such a welcoming space to their designs. They followed the vapours of illness, the pockets of malaise in between the soot and ash, heading east over a bridge, stopping to look at the opaque water and its unstoppable current, drawn south south south into the steppe, thinning its course into cascading veins, filled with the Earth’s blood and returning to it in the bogs of the flatlands. As they walked into their personal favorite quarter, one they were enamored with as soon as the name Earth came to be heard, perhaps by fortune or chance, they caught wind of harried words. Passing rumours that crawled faster than they could walk, notice of a missing gravekeeper. And what place more wonderful to visit than the cradle of the dead?

They followed the curling plumes of gray to the south, comparing it to the pitch black of the plague soot and finding the smoke rising from the graveyard to be a few shades too light to be truly appealing, heading the wrong way, into the firmament instead of penetrating the welcoming earth. There were words to be had with the caretaker of the cemetery. Golden hour would soon be upon the town in the Changeling’s first day on the surface, and how glorious would it be to witness the shining light be consumed by the swathes of disease. 

It was with the last rays of dying light that the Changeling arrived at their destination, timely enough to stumble upon a most curious sight. Out of all the little marks on the ground, be it wheelbarrows or the soles of boots, a set of footprints seemed to distinctly call out to their eyes, accompanied by a crescent dent on the dirt with each step. Minute blades of white whip seemed to already bloom in the divots, as if the owner of these shoes was a walking garden, a living host to pestilence, a beacon someone like the Changeling could not ignore. They followed the path to the train tracks, playing a game of placing their own feet within the tracks they followed, seeing how the footsteps were dragged and had little space between them. It was shortly before the first bridge to the Knots that they caught sight of what they were looking for.

At first it looked like a makeshift grave marker, a coat undulating in the breeze atop the handle of a shovel plunged into the darkened earth, though proximity brought to focus the figure covered so thoroughly by the garment, doubled over the tool as if its loss would cause a most unfortunate fall. Their bone legs creaked as they drew closer to the girl, plunged in such a deep trance that it seemed as though the rest of the world had fallen away entirely. The gravekeeper’s pale hair swayed with each laborious step, strands plastered to her forehead, radiating warmth even from a safe distance, her whole body imbued with the familiar and comforting essence of the Sand Pest. Grace’s legs shook more than the Changeling’s, despite hers being of flesh and blood. “Where are you going, friend?” They watched the girl’s glazed eyes try to rise to meet their own. “And may I join you?” The Changeling smiled, offering a helping hand, heedless of the blood covering it.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

She had made it out, somehow. The entire walk didn't feel quite real to the girl as her steps guided her moreso than conscious thought. She hadn't planned where she'd go, nor what she'd do with the time she had left. In truth, Grace just didn't want to hurt anyone on the way.

Part of her wanted to be in the graveyard. It was fitting for her to stay there, maybe prepare a grave for herself while she waited for the inevitable, and yet she found herself on the train tracks instead. She was far enough from the station for any children to wander by her, and far enough from the town for her presence to cause any more harm.

It was scary.

No one ever truly left, but it was still a bit step to make. To lay down on the dry dirt once again, close one's eyes and join the earth. Grace's eyes nervously flickered through the steppe's herbs for comfort. Soon she'd sprout from the ground as one of them too. The thought was bittersweet.

Just as she was wondering what it would be like to be connected to the earth, her attention was wholly captured by a voice beside her.

Oh no... Grace's heart quickened at the thought of having been followed by the artist, and yet the one that stood before her was someone else entirely.

"Clara."

Speaking the name aloud in itself brought a smile to Grace's pale lips. She shouldn't want anyone near her as she was infected, and yet her presence was just too soothing to deny.

"I... I was looking at the flowers." Speaking further came with a strain to her throat, as if the dryness of her lips wasn't enough of a burden to bear. "I had... have, nowhere to go."

It wasn't intentional, bringing the mood down with her words, but being away from the cemetery and seeing the blooming flowers near her, she couldn't help but to fear about what would happen to the cemetery. There wouldn't be anyone to bring gifts to the dead, or tend to their needs. She never got anyone to follow up on her duties.

"Oh..."

Her thoughts, again, were interrupted with Clara's hand stretched out to her. The blood was confusing at first, but she couldn't imagine Clara doing anyone harm. She was such a pleasant, sweet girl.

"You shouldn't." Grace continued, now visibly moving away from Clara's touch. "I've... I've caught it."

In a similar motion, Grace brought up her own hand before Clara's eyes. The dry, flaking skin of her hands were reddened with the strain of her movements. In comparison, the blood on Clara's hand didn't look so menacing. Had she been helping the injured? Had she been hurt herself?

"Will you... Could you do me a favor?"

[dachangewingcwara]

PoV: Changeling

It took some effort to listen to the weak voice of the sick girl, muffled by the vast nothingness surrounding them on the tracks. “The flowers are quite lovely, aren’t they? I really like how graceful White Whip looks in the wind, and Ashen Swish… Striking.” Grace’s next words brought the Changeling’s eyes back to meet hers, surrounded by sallow skin and shivering lips. “Everyone has somewhere to go. The earth welcomes all, even in death. You'll be a pretty flower too.” They hoped at least Grace would understand how important that was, the value of their home, respecting what came after disease picked all of them apart like particularly fragile blooms.  

Grace’s hand was thin and delicate, the dirt under her nails beautiful and the cracked skin stretched thin in a wonderful display of unhealth. “I don’t mind that you’re sick. Quite the contrary, I’m most needed among the ill. It’s my duty and pleasure to be with you.” The Changeling’s expression was sincerely affectionate, though not for the carrier, but for the plague itself, living on as the host slowly perished. 

“My hands aren’t a normal sight either, are they? But we’re… birds of a feather, right? We have to stick together.” They thought to retrieve something from their pocket, another stolen memento that seemed relevant at the moment, a delicate thread. Taking Grace’s hand, the Changeling took the time to tie their left pinky with Grace’s right, uniting them for the entire walk to come. They wondered if those were tears shining in the gravekeeper’s eyes or just a reflection of the girl’s soul trying to leave her body. Pretty nonetheless. “Now we won’t lose each other in the dark.” The wonderful veil of night, where fear worked best as a vector for transmission, be it of itself or the pest. Both were infectious and deadly.

Gently brought out of their reverie by the unintrusive voice of Grace, the Changeling was struck with warmth at how much trust she showed them. This is how it should be, this is how they were meant to be seen and respected, just as alive as any human. “A favor? Of course!” They chirped, wondering if breaking the oppressive atmosphere bordering the dying town and thriving steppe was a sin. “Anything for you.” 

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

Grace couldn't help but to feel a surge of joy at Clara's words. Having company in her last moments would be a bliss. Slowly, she nodded along to each and every word she heard. There was something about her that was just comforting in it's own way. There was no panic, or tears or despair at her state, just acceptance.

As her words came to a halt, Grace's pale eyes finally followed Clara's hands. The sight of the thread caused her lips to curl further upwards. It reminded her of the one she had given the town's healer. Her thoughts were brief, but she sincerely hoped the man would fare well in the upcoming days.

The sight of the thread itself was fascinating. She enjoyed having a friend at last, one that would enjoy spending time with her and one that could finally understand her. In the dark the mixture of her pale hands and Clara's bloodied ones almost looked like the milk they used to pour on the graves. The thread could be a little sprout, a small root connecting both the world of the living and the earth.

But Grace turned her head away at the thought. She shouldn't think of Clara as such. She was here to help after all.

"If we are to walk together... I won't lose you."

Grace whispered in turn. She wasn't sure if she believed that Clara could truly help, or if it was just the fear of the unknown making her cling to her new company, but for the time being, she had no intentions of going away.

Just being in the steppe with Clara was more than she could have ever hoped for, though her thoughts were eventually brought back to her previous request. It seemed almost meaningless now, but duties had to be upheld, even in situations such as these.

"Oh... Could you find someone... For the cemetery? To look after the dead?"

It wouldn't be the same. The townsfolk didn't understand them like she did. They wouldn't have the same care or thought that went into caring for the departed, but she couldn't just let them be forgotten.

"Promise me that they'll be buried... Each with enough space to grow. The cemetery's small, but... maybe the artist can help. He was trying to... before all of this."

[dachangewingcwara]

PoV: Changeling

Buried with space to grow. What a lovely sentiment for someone so young. The Changeling smiled and nodded at Grace, feeling understood for the first time since leaving the ground. They had no proper legs because they had been denied the proper room, after all. Dirt that was tainted by the town and its designs. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting this artist…” Their words were calm, though there was a brittle quality to their smile, wondering how respectful a man like that would be to nurture the soil he built his effigies upon. “I’ll visit him in the morning. Tonight, my attention is all yours. The rest can wait.” 

It was not as if the settlement needed their assistance in its death throes. The sense that despair had infected the people as deeply as the Sand Dirt came as a benign realization, where even the most thriving part of town found itself overwhelmed. The cemetery’s seams came undone with its keeper’s nerves, yet she was so brave about it, perhaps the most wise of any affected by the Pest. Even then, there was work to be done, as was the toil of those who would outlive divine retribution. Someone had to take up the honor of undertaker.

Come sunrise they would bless the tortured artist with a chance at redemption, yes. Like an ascended angel. If his place among the living was in question, there was no doubt that working with the dead suited him fine. Maybe the first corpse he’d be tasked with caring for would be Grace, and wouldn’t that be a cathartic reunion. “Meetings require partings…” They murmured mindlessly before addressing the gravekeeper once more. “You won’t lose me, as you said. So where do you wish to go? What voices call you?” What would be her final resting place, the spot her last laborious breath would be drawn into rotted lungs? Exhaled into eternity.

They were set at the precipice of the world, or what could pass for it. Walking the fine line between the town and the steppe, and it felt as though one step in either direction would put them on the path to the heart of either. The Changeling walked atop the metal of the railroad track, one foot in front of the other, waiting for Grace to fall to either side, patiently and attentively watching their joined hands. Tonight, her, tomorrow, the town. The end was near. “It’s a lovely evening for a walk either way.”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

Grace nodded again. Her cheeks flushed with a faint hue of crimson as her spirits were uplifted further with each word that came from Clara's lips. With her help everything would be fine.

"Thank you." Her words were but a whisper, though she did hope it was enough for them to be heard. Her worries would soon vanish with the knowledge that her duties would be upheld by someone else, hopefully someone that'd partially understand. The present company sticking by her was an added blessing.

As they stood in silence, the thought of choosing where to go after caught her by surprise. She hadn't thought it through, especially after arriving to the tracks they stood in.

During her walk she had pondered to go to the theater, as she felt needed there, though she had to admit that she was in no condition to do much of anything by that point, not to mention how she didn't want to bring illness upon anyone else. The thought of going to the cemetery also crossed her mind, obviously, but if she had no space to bury the town's dead, why would it have space for her? It wouldn't. Lastly, there was the thought of Clara choosing where to go, as she was the one offering help, surely she'd know better of what they needed to do.

"I... don't know." Grace eventually admitted. Should she use the last of her strength to carve a grave of her own out in the steppe? The thought still scared her despite how close Clara stood by her. Her presence was comforting, but not enough to fully push away the thoughts of her demise.

As her pale eyes quietly watched Clara's movements, those seemed to be the two only options as well, either going to the town or into the wilderness. Surely away from others would be best, unless she knew how to help.

"Am I... Will I return to the earth soon?"

It was the kindest way she could put it. She couldn't just blurt out the words for dying. She didn't want to die. Her heart raced at the thought of what she didn't know, even if she did know far more than most.

Unbeknownst to her, her hand instinctively reached for Clara's, looking for some kind of touch, some kind of warmth and support to hold onto. She had to be strong, but deep inside, she so wished to be saved from such a fate.

"Or... is there still hope? Is there... anything? Could... anything be done?"

If she was to decide where to go, it would inevitably come down to that fact. Whether they were going to save her or look for a resting place.

[dachangewingcwara]

PoV: Changeling

“You’re still seeing things wrong, Grace. Open your eyes and see things for what they are.” The grand scheme, the full picture, wherein they were all ants on a hill, drops of blood in the veins of the world. “You are soon to become one with the earth, sure, but you are not the only one. At the heart of the town are people like you, scared and confused, you’re the only one who knows what comes after, who’s spoken to others among the dead.” It was vital to convince the gravekeeper girl that one’s usefulness could outlive them, all of them had a place in a plague-ridden land.

Whatever came to happen when they arrived at the theater, given Grace’s acquiescence, may well be a miracle of a higher order, a demonstration of the comforts death may bring, releasing those tortured people that stubbornly cling onto a rotted life. Perhaps then the people might see how the end is a kindness, to return to a mother’s embrace and not have to fight any longer. Grace. Sweet, caring, attentive Grace, could be the one to convince others of what the Changeling knew to be true: death was the true next step for the town’s rebirth.

They tried to look melancholic, though their smile remained steadfast. “Your work is far from over. You worry about the dead? Consider the dying, dear. If you’re soon to perish, perhaps you could guide others along with you, cross the threshold with held hands.” Akin to boatmen worms and their coin-filled voyagers, though the next destination would be the other side of the river. The Changeling raised their joined hands between them, squeezing Grace’s grip comfortingly, though perhaps a bit too tight. “Would that make you less scared? To not have to go alone where I can’t follow?” 

Shining faintly like tearful eyes, the windows of the houses lit up the oppressive nighttime darkness of the steppe, unnaturally and pitifully, like a candle in the wind. “Those at the theater are already infected anyway. You bring no harm, only a gentle voice and a comforting smile.” With those words, the Changeling gently tugged on Grace’s arm, turning towards the heart of the town with a mind to finally snuff its core. 

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

Grace couldn't argue against Clara. Perhaps it was her head becoming lightheaded with fever or perhaps she was just too tired to hope for any other alternative. In a way there was no hope for her, but perhaps she could bring some comfort to others.

Maybe Clara would know best, she supposed, just as the girl's bloodied hands squeezed hers together.

Had this been the reason why Clara came to her to begin with? To help the others in the Theater? She certainly felt drawn to it as well, perhaps it was all as it was meant to be.

It didn't take much longer for Grace to agree to such a deed and she nodded solemnly in return. If there were people suffering in the Theater that she could help, then so be it.

"I hope they'll understand..."

Despite her decision and her steps as she began to make her way back into the town, she still wasn't used to dealing with the living...

[dachangewingcwara]

PoV: Changeling

Day: 10

Time: Evening

Status: @graveyard-grace

Walking. What a lovely little luxury they had been afforded now. The Changeling had spent their day walking, running little errands, completing menial tasks, pockets heavier and conscience light as a feather, finding the town such a welcoming space to their designs. They followed the vapours of illness, the pockets of malaise in between the soot and ash, heading east over a bridge, stopping to look at the opaque water and its unstoppable current, drawn south south south into the steppe, thinning its course into cascading veins, filled with the Earth’s blood and returning to it in the bogs of the flatlands. As they walked into their personal favorite quarter, one they were enamored with as soon as the name Earth came to be heard, perhaps by fortune or chance, they caught wind of harried words. Passing rumours that crawled faster than they could walk, notice of a missing gravekeeper. And what place more wonderful to visit than the cradle of the dead?

They followed the curling plumes of gray to the south, comparing it to the pitch black of the plague soot and finding the smoke rising from the graveyard to be a few shades too light to be truly appealing, heading the wrong way, into the firmament instead of penetrating the welcoming earth. There were words to be had with the caretaker of the cemetery. Golden hour would soon be upon the town in the Changeling’s first day on the surface, and how glorious would it be to witness the shining light be consumed by the swathes of disease. 

It was with the last rays of dying light that the Changeling arrived at their destination, timely enough to stumble upon a most curious sight. Out of all the little marks on the ground, be it wheelbarrows or the soles of boots, a set of footprints seemed to distinctly call out to their eyes, accompanied by a crescent dent on the dirt with each step. Minute blades of white whip seemed to already bloom in the divots, as if the owner of these shoes was a walking garden, a living host to pestilence, a beacon someone like the Changeling could not ignore. They followed the path to the train tracks, playing a game of placing their own feet within the tracks they followed, seeing how the footsteps were dragged and had little space between them. It was shortly before the first bridge to the Knots that they caught sight of what they were looking for.

At first it looked like a makeshift grave marker, a coat undulating in the breeze atop the handle of a shovel plunged into the darkened earth, though proximity brought to focus the figure covered so thoroughly by the garment, doubled over the tool as if its loss would cause a most unfortunate fall. Their bone legs creaked as they drew closer to the girl, plunged in such a deep trance that it seemed as though the rest of the world had fallen away entirely. The gravekeeper’s pale hair swayed with each laborious step, strands plastered to her forehead, radiating warmth even from a safe distance, her whole body imbued with the familiar and comforting essence of the Sand Pest. Grace’s legs shook more than the Changeling’s, despite hers being of flesh and blood. “Where are you going, friend?” They watched the girl’s glazed eyes try to rise to meet their own. “And may I join you?” The Changeling smiled, offering a helping hand, heedless of the blood covering it.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

She had made it out, somehow. The entire walk didn't feel quite real to the girl as her steps guided her moreso than conscious thought. She hadn't planned where she'd go, nor what she'd do with the time she had left. In truth, Grace just didn't want to hurt anyone on the way.

Part of her wanted to be in the graveyard. It was fitting for her to stay there, maybe prepare a grave for herself while she waited for the inevitable, and yet she found herself on the train tracks instead. She was far enough from the station for any children to wander by her, and far enough from the town for her presence to cause any more harm.

It was scary.

No one ever truly left, but it was still a bit step to make. To lay down on the dry dirt once again, close one's eyes and join the earth. Grace's eyes nervously flickered through the steppe's herbs for comfort. Soon she'd sprout from the ground as one of them too. The thought was bittersweet.

Just as she was wondering what it would be like to be connected to the earth, her attention was wholly captured by a voice beside her.

Oh no... Grace's heart quickened at the thought of having been followed by the artist, and yet the one that stood before her was someone else entirely.

"Clara."

Speaking the name aloud in itself brought a smile to Grace's pale lips. She shouldn't want anyone near her as she was infected, and yet her presence was just too soothing to deny.

"I... I was looking at the flowers." Speaking further came with a strain to her throat, as if the dryness of her lips wasn't enough of a burden to bear. "I had... have, nowhere to go."

It wasn't intentional, bringing the mood down with her words, but being away from the cemetery and seeing the blooming flowers near her, she couldn't help but to fear about what would happen to the cemetery. There wouldn't be anyone to bring gifts to the dead, or tend to their needs. She never got anyone to follow up on her duties.

"Oh..."

Her thoughts, again, were interrupted with Clara's hand stretched out to her. The blood was confusing at first, but she couldn't imagine Clara doing anyone harm. She was such a pleasant, sweet girl.

"You shouldn't." Grace continued, now visibly moving away from Clara's touch. "I've... I've caught it."

In a similar motion, Grace brought up her own hand before Clara's eyes. The dry, flaking skin of her hands were reddened with the strain of her movements. In comparison, the blood on Clara's hand didn't look so menacing. Had she been helping the injured? Had she been hurt herself?

"Will you... Could you do me a favor?"

[dachangewingcwara]

PoV: Changeling

It took some effort to listen to the weak voice of the sick girl, muffled by the vast nothingness surrounding them on the tracks. “The flowers are quite lovely, aren’t they? I really like how graceful White Whip looks in the wind, and Ashen Swish… Striking.” Grace’s next words brought the Changeling’s eyes back to meet hers, surrounded by sallow skin and shivering lips. “Everyone has somewhere to go. The earth welcomes all, even in death. You'll be a pretty flower too.” They hoped at least Grace would understand how important that was, the value of their home, respecting what came after disease picked all of them apart like particularly fragile blooms.  

Grace’s hand was thin and delicate, the dirt under her nails beautiful and the cracked skin stretched thin in a wonderful display of unhealth. “I don’t mind that you’re sick. Quite the contrary, I’m most needed among the ill. It’s my duty and pleasure to be with you.” The Changeling’s expression was sincerely affectionate, though not for the carrier, but for the plague itself, living on as the host slowly perished. 

“My hands aren’t a normal sight either, are they? But we’re… birds of a feather, right? We have to stick together.” They thought to retrieve something from their pocket, another stolen memento that seemed relevant at the moment, a delicate thread. Taking Grace’s hand, the Changeling took the time to tie their left pinky with Grace’s right, uniting them for the entire walk to come. They wondered if those were tears shining in the gravekeeper’s eyes or just a reflection of the girl’s soul trying to leave her body. Pretty nonetheless. “Now we won’t lose each other in the dark.” The wonderful veil of night, where fear worked best as a vector for transmission, be it of itself or the pest. Both were infectious and deadly.

Gently brought out of their reverie by the unintrusive voice of Grace, the Changeling was struck with warmth at how much trust she showed them. This is how it should be, this is how they were meant to be seen and respected, just as alive as any human. “A favor? Of course!” They chirped, wondering if breaking the oppressive atmosphere bordering the dying town and thriving steppe was a sin. “Anything for you.” 

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

Grace couldn't help but to feel a surge of joy at Clara's words. Having company in her last moments would be a bliss. Slowly, she nodded along to each and every word she heard. There was something about her that was just comforting in it's own way. There was no panic, or tears or despair at her state, just acceptance.

As her words came to a halt, Grace's pale eyes finally followed Clara's hands. The sight of the thread caused her lips to curl further upwards. It reminded her of the one she had given the town's healer. Her thoughts were brief, but she sincerely hoped the man would fare well in the upcoming days.

The sight of the thread itself was fascinating. She enjoyed having a friend at last, one that would enjoy spending time with her and one that could finally understand her. In the dark the mixture of her pale hands and Clara's bloodied ones almost looked like the milk they used to pour on the graves. The thread could be a little sprout, a small root connecting both the world of the living and the earth.

But Grace turned her head away at the thought. She shouldn't think of Clara as such. She was here to help after all.

"If we are to walk together... I won't lose you."

Grace whispered in turn. She wasn't sure if she believed that Clara could truly help, or if it was just the fear of the unknown making her cling to her new company, but for the time being, she had no intentions of going away.

Just being in the steppe with Clara was more than she could have ever hoped for, though her thoughts were eventually brought back to her previous request. It seemed almost meaningless now, but duties had to be upheld, even in situations such as these.

"Oh... Could you find someone... For the cemetery? To look after the dead?"

It wouldn't be the same. The townsfolk didn't understand them like she did. They wouldn't have the same care or thought that went into caring for the departed, but she couldn't just let them be forgotten.

"Promise me that they'll be buried... Each with enough space to grow. The cemetery's small, but... maybe the artist can help. He was trying to... before all of this."

[dachangewingcwara]

PoV: Changeling

Buried with space to grow. What a lovely sentiment for someone so young. The Changeling smiled and nodded at Grace, feeling understood for the first time since leaving the ground. They had no proper legs because they had been denied the proper room, after all. Dirt that was tainted by the town and its designs. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting this artist…” Their words were calm, though there was a brittle quality to their smile, wondering how respectful a man like that would be to nurture the soil he built his effigies upon. “I’ll visit him in the morning. Tonight, my attention is all yours. The rest can wait.” 

It was not as if the settlement needed their assistance in its death throes. The sense that despair had infected the people as deeply as the Sand Dirt came as a benign realization, where even the most thriving part of town found itself overwhelmed. The cemetery’s seams came undone with its keeper’s nerves, yet she was so brave about it, perhaps the most wise of any affected by the Pest. Even then, there was work to be done, as was the toil of those who would outlive divine retribution. Someone had to take up the honor of undertaker.

Come sunrise they would bless the tortured artist with a chance at redemption, yes. Like an ascended angel. If his place among the living was in question, there was no doubt that working with the dead suited him fine. Maybe the first corpse he’d be tasked with caring for would be Grace, and wouldn’t that be a cathartic reunion. “Meetings require partings…” They murmured mindlessly before addressing the gravekeeper once more. “You won’t lose me, as you said. So where do you wish to go? What voices call you?” What would be her final resting place, the spot her last laborious breath would be drawn into rotted lungs? Exhaled into eternity.

They were set at the precipice of the world, or what could pass for it. Walking the fine line between the town and the steppe, and it felt as though one step in either direction would put them on the path to the heart of either. The Changeling walked atop the metal of the railroad track, one foot in front of the other, waiting for Grace to fall to either side, patiently and attentively watching their joined hands. Tonight, her, tomorrow, the town. The end was near. “It’s a lovely evening for a walk either way.”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

Grace nodded again. Her cheeks flushed with a faint hue of crimson as her spirits were uplifted further with each word that came from Clara's lips. With her help everything would be fine.

"Thank you." Her words were but a whisper, though she did hope it was enough for them to be heard. Her worries would soon vanish with the knowledge that her duties would be upheld by someone else, hopefully someone that'd partially understand. The present company sticking by her was an added blessing.

As they stood in silence, the thought of choosing where to go after caught her by surprise. She hadn't thought it through, especially after arriving to the tracks they stood in.

During her walk she had pondered to go to the theater, as she felt needed there, though she had to admit that she was in no condition to do much of anything by that point, not to mention how she didn't want to bring illness upon anyone else. The thought of going to the cemetery also crossed her mind, obviously, but if she had no space to bury the town's dead, why would it have space for her? It wouldn't. Lastly, there was the thought of Clara choosing where to go, as she was the one offering help, surely she'd know better of what they needed to do.

"I... don't know." Grace eventually admitted. Should she use the last of her strength to carve a grave of her own out in the steppe? The thought still scared her despite how close Clara stood by her. Her presence was comforting, but not enough to fully push away the thoughts of her demise.

As her pale eyes quietly watched Clara's movements, those seemed to be the two only options as well, either going to the town or into the wilderness. Surely away from others would be best, unless she knew how to help.

"Am I... Will I return to the earth soon?"

It was the kindest way she could put it. She couldn't just blurt out the words for dying. She didn't want to die. Her heart raced at the thought of what she didn't know, even if she did know far more than most.

Unbeknownst to her, her hand instinctively reached for Clara's, looking for some kind of touch, some kind of warmth and support to hold onto. She had to be strong, but deep inside, she so wished to be saved from such a fate.

"Or... is there still hope? Is there... anything? Could... anything be done?"

If she was to decide where to go, it would inevitably come down to that fact. Whether they were going to save her or look for a resting place.

[dachangewingcwara]

PoV: Changeling

Day: 10

Time: Evening

Status: @graveyard-grace

Walking. What a lovely little luxury they had been afforded now. The Changeling had spent their day walking, running little errands, completing menial tasks, pockets heavier and conscience light as a feather, finding the town such a welcoming space to their designs. They followed the vapours of illness, the pockets of malaise in between the soot and ash, heading east over a bridge, stopping to look at the opaque water and its unstoppable current, drawn south south south into the steppe, thinning its course into cascading veins, filled with the Earth’s blood and returning to it in the bogs of the flatlands. As they walked into their personal favorite quarter, one they were enamored with as soon as the name Earth came to be heard, perhaps by fortune or chance, they caught wind of harried words. Passing rumours that crawled faster than they could walk, notice of a missing gravekeeper. And what place more wonderful to visit than the cradle of the dead?

They followed the curling plumes of gray to the south, comparing it to the pitch black of the plague soot and finding the smoke rising from the graveyard to be a few shades too light to be truly appealing, heading the wrong way, into the firmament instead of penetrating the welcoming earth. There were words to be had with the caretaker of the cemetery. Golden hour would soon be upon the town in the Changeling’s first day on the surface, and how glorious would it be to witness the shining light be consumed by the swathes of disease. 

It was with the last rays of dying light that the Changeling arrived at their destination, timely enough to stumble upon a most curious sight. Out of all the little marks on the ground, be it wheelbarrows or the soles of boots, a set of footprints seemed to distinctly call out to their eyes, accompanied by a crescent dent on the dirt with each step. Minute blades of white whip seemed to already bloom in the divots, as if the owner of these shoes was a walking garden, a living host to pestilence, a beacon someone like the Changeling could not ignore. They followed the path to the train tracks, playing a game of placing their own feet within the tracks they followed, seeing how the footsteps were dragged and had little space between them. It was shortly before the first bridge to the Knots that they caught sight of what they were looking for.

At first it looked like a makeshift grave marker, a coat undulating in the breeze atop the handle of a shovel plunged into the darkened earth, though proximity brought to focus the figure covered so thoroughly by the garment, doubled over the tool as if its loss would cause a most unfortunate fall. Their bone legs creaked as they drew closer to the girl, plunged in such a deep trance that it seemed as though the rest of the world had fallen away entirely. The gravekeeper’s pale hair swayed with each laborious step, strands plastered to her forehead, radiating warmth even from a safe distance, her whole body imbued with the familiar and comforting essence of the Sand Pest. Grace’s legs shook more than the Changeling’s, despite hers being of flesh and blood. “Where are you going, friend?” They watched the girl’s glazed eyes try to rise to meet their own. “And may I join you?” The Changeling smiled, offering a helping hand, heedless of the blood covering it.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

She had made it out, somehow. The entire walk didn't feel quite real to the girl as her steps guided her moreso than conscious thought. She hadn't planned where she'd go, nor what she'd do with the time she had left. In truth, Grace just didn't want to hurt anyone on the way.

Part of her wanted to be in the graveyard. It was fitting for her to stay there, maybe prepare a grave for herself while she waited for the inevitable, and yet she found herself on the train tracks instead. She was far enough from the station for any children to wander by her, and far enough from the town for her presence to cause any more harm.

It was scary.

No one ever truly left, but it was still a bit step to make. To lay down on the dry dirt once again, close one's eyes and join the earth. Grace's eyes nervously flickered through the steppe's herbs for comfort. Soon she'd sprout from the ground as one of them too. The thought was bittersweet.

Just as she was wondering what it would be like to be connected to the earth, her attention was wholly captured by a voice beside her.

Oh no... Grace's heart quickened at the thought of having been followed by the artist, and yet the one that stood before her was someone else entirely.

"Clara."

Speaking the name aloud in itself brought a smile to Grace's pale lips. She shouldn't want anyone near her as she was infected, and yet her presence was just too soothing to deny.

"I... I was looking at the flowers." Speaking further came with a strain to her throat, as if the dryness of her lips wasn't enough of a burden to bear. "I had... have, nowhere to go."

It wasn't intentional, bringing the mood down with her words, but being away from the cemetery and seeing the blooming flowers near her, she couldn't help but to fear about what would happen to the cemetery. There wouldn't be anyone to bring gifts to the dead, or tend to their needs. She never got anyone to follow up on her duties.

"Oh..."

Her thoughts, again, were interrupted with Clara's hand stretched out to her. The blood was confusing at first, but she couldn't imagine Clara doing anyone harm. She was such a pleasant, sweet girl.

"You shouldn't." Grace continued, now visibly moving away from Clara's touch. "I've... I've caught it."

In a similar motion, Grace brought up her own hand before Clara's eyes. The dry, flaking skin of her hands were reddened with the strain of her movements. In comparison, the blood on Clara's hand didn't look so menacing. Had she been helping the injured? Had she been hurt herself?

"Will you... Could you do me a favor?"

[dachangewingcwara]

PoV: Changeling

It took some effort to listen to the weak voice of the sick girl, muffled by the vast nothingness surrounding them on the tracks. “The flowers are quite lovely, aren’t they? I really like how graceful White Whip looks in the wind, and Ashen Swish… Striking.” Grace’s next words brought the Changeling’s eyes back to meet hers, surrounded by sallow skin and shivering lips. “Everyone has somewhere to go. The earth welcomes all, even in death. You'll be a pretty flower too.” They hoped at least Grace would understand how important that was, the value of their home, respecting what came after disease picked all of them apart like particularly fragile blooms.  

Grace’s hand was thin and delicate, the dirt under her nails beautiful and the cracked skin stretched thin in a wonderful display of unhealth. “I don’t mind that you’re sick. Quite the contrary, I’m most needed among the ill. It’s my duty and pleasure to be with you.” The Changeling’s expression was sincerely affectionate, though not for the carrier, but for the plague itself, living on as the host slowly perished. 

“My hands aren’t a normal sight either, are they? But we’re… birds of a feather, right? We have to stick together.” They thought to retrieve something from their pocket, another stolen memento that seemed relevant at the moment, a delicate thread. Taking Grace’s hand, the Changeling took the time to tie their left pinky with Grace’s right, uniting them for the entire walk to come. They wondered if those were tears shining in the gravekeeper’s eyes or just a reflection of the girl’s soul trying to leave her body. Pretty nonetheless. “Now we won’t lose each other in the dark.” The wonderful veil of night, where fear worked best as a vector for transmission, be it of itself or the pest. Both were infectious and deadly.

Gently brought out of their reverie by the unintrusive voice of Grace, the Changeling was struck with warmth at how much trust she showed them. This is how it should be, this is how they were meant to be seen and respected, just as alive as any human. “A favor? Of course!” They chirped, wondering if breaking the oppressive atmosphere bordering the dying town and thriving steppe was a sin. “Anything for you.” 

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

Grace couldn't help but to feel a surge of joy at Clara's words. Having company in her last moments would be a bliss. Slowly, she nodded along to each and every word she heard. There was something about her that was just comforting in it's own way. There was no panic, or tears or despair at her state, just acceptance.

As her words came to a halt, Grace's pale eyes finally followed Clara's hands. The sight of the thread caused her lips to curl further upwards. It reminded her of the one she had given the town's healer. Her thoughts were brief, but she sincerely hoped the man would fare well in the upcoming days.

The sight of the thread itself was fascinating. She enjoyed having a friend at last, one that would enjoy spending time with her and one that could finally understand her. In the dark the mixture of her pale hands and Clara's bloodied ones almost looked like the milk they used to pour on the graves. The thread could be a little sprout, a small root connecting both the world of the living and the earth.

But Grace turned her head away at the thought. She shouldn't think of Clara as such. She was here to help after all.

"If we are to walk together... I won't lose you."

Grace whispered in turn. She wasn't sure if she believed that Clara could truly help, or if it was just the fear of the unknown making her cling to her new company, but for the time being, she had no intentions of going away.

Just being in the steppe with Clara was more than she could have ever hoped for, though her thoughts were eventually brought back to her previous request. It seemed almost meaningless now, but duties had to be upheld, even in situations such as these.

"Oh... Could you find someone... For the cemetery? To look after the dead?"

It wouldn't be the same. The townsfolk didn't understand them like she did. They wouldn't have the same care or thought that went into caring for the departed, but she couldn't just let them be forgotten.

"Promise me that they'll be buried... Each with enough space to grow. The cemetery's small, but... maybe the artist can help. He was trying to... before all of this."

[dachangewingcwara]

PoV: Changeling

Day: 10

Time: Evening

Status: @graveyard-grace

Walking. What a lovely little luxury they had been afforded now. The Changeling had spent their day walking, running little errands, completing menial tasks, pockets heavier and conscience light as a feather, finding the town such a welcoming space to their designs. They followed the vapours of illness, the pockets of malaise in between the soot and ash, heading east over a bridge, stopping to look at the opaque water and its unstoppable current, drawn south south south into the steppe, thinning its course into cascading veins, filled with the Earth’s blood and returning to it in the bogs of the flatlands. As they walked into their personal favorite quarter, one they were enamored with as soon as the name Earth came to be heard, perhaps by fortune or chance, they caught wind of harried words. Passing rumours that crawled faster than they could walk, notice of a missing gravekeeper. And what place more wonderful to visit than the cradle of the dead?

They followed the curling plumes of gray to the south, comparing it to the pitch black of the plague soot and finding the smoke rising from the graveyard to be a few shades too light to be truly appealing, heading the wrong way, into the firmament instead of penetrating the welcoming earth. There were words to be had with the caretaker of the cemetery. Golden hour would soon be upon the town in the Changeling’s first day on the surface, and how glorious would it be to witness the shining light be consumed by the swathes of disease. 

It was with the last rays of dying light that the Changeling arrived at their destination, timely enough to stumble upon a most curious sight. Out of all the little marks on the ground, be it wheelbarrows or the soles of boots, a set of footprints seemed to distinctly call out to their eyes, accompanied by a crescent dent on the dirt with each step. Minute blades of white whip seemed to already bloom in the divots, as if the owner of these shoes was a walking garden, a living host to pestilence, a beacon someone like the Changeling could not ignore. They followed the path to the train tracks, playing a game of placing their own feet within the tracks they followed, seeing how the footsteps were dragged and had little space between them. It was shortly before the first bridge to the Knots that they caught sight of what they were looking for.

At first it looked like a makeshift grave marker, a coat undulating in the breeze atop the handle of a shovel plunged into the darkened earth, though proximity brought to focus the figure covered so thoroughly by the garment, doubled over the tool as if its loss would cause a most unfortunate fall. Their bone legs creaked as they drew closer to the girl, plunged in such a deep trance that it seemed as though the rest of the world had fallen away entirely. The gravekeeper’s pale hair swayed with each laborious step, strands plastered to her forehead, radiating warmth even from a safe distance, her whole body imbued with the familiar and comforting essence of the Sand Pest. Grace’s legs shook more than the Changeling’s, despite hers being of flesh and blood. “Where are you going, friend?” They watched the girl’s glazed eyes try to rise to meet their own. “And may I join you?” The Changeling smiled, offering a helping hand, heedless of the blood covering it.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

She had made it out, somehow. The entire walk didn't feel quite real to the girl as her steps guided her moreso than conscious thought. She hadn't planned where she'd go, nor what she'd do with the time she had left. In truth, Grace just didn't want to hurt anyone on the way.

Part of her wanted to be in the graveyard. It was fitting for her to stay there, maybe prepare a grave for herself while she waited for the inevitable, and yet she found herself on the train tracks instead. She was far enough from the station for any children to wander by her, and far enough from the town for her presence to cause any more harm.

It was scary.

No one ever truly left, but it was still a bit step to make. To lay down on the dry dirt once again, close one's eyes and join the earth. Grace's eyes nervously flickered through the steppe's herbs for comfort. Soon she'd sprout from the ground as one of them too. The thought was bittersweet.

Just as she was wondering what it would be like to be connected to the earth, her attention was wholly captured by a voice beside her.

Oh no... Grace's heart quickened at the thought of having been followed by the artist, and yet the one that stood before her was someone else entirely.

"Clara."

Speaking the name aloud in itself brought a smile to Grace's pale lips. She shouldn't want anyone near her as she was infected, and yet her presence was just too soothing to deny.

"I... I was looking at the flowers." Speaking further came with a strain to her throat, as if the dryness of her lips wasn't enough of a burden to bear. "I had... have, nowhere to go."

It wasn't intentional, bringing the mood down with her words, but being away from the cemetery and seeing the blooming flowers near her, she couldn't help but to fear about what would happen to the cemetery. There wouldn't be anyone to bring gifts to the dead, or tend to their needs. She never got anyone to follow up on her duties.

"Oh..."

Her thoughts, again, were interrupted with Clara's hand stretched out to her. The blood was confusing at first, but she couldn't imagine Clara doing anyone harm. She was such a pleasant, sweet girl.

"You shouldn't." Grace continued, now visibly moving away from Clara's touch. "I've... I've caught it."

In a similar motion, Grace brought up her own hand before Clara's eyes. The dry, flaking skin of her hands were reddened with the strain of her movements. In comparison, the blood on Clara's hand didn't look so menacing. Had she been helping the injured? Had she been hurt herself?

"Will you... Could you do me a favor?"

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 10 Status: Open

Another day had begun, hadn’t it?

Grace couldn’t quite tell. Her head felt as if it would explode if she were to move, though it wasn’t just that. Where she was and when, also seemed to elude her.

The day before… What had happened then?

Aside from how her body burned from within and how her thoughts scrambled to try and find a coherent narrative, it felt as though time itself had slipped past her grasp.

It was hard to put into words and truthfully, it didn’t really make much sense. Days didn’t change much in that little town. She had her work and it was long overdue that she return to it.

Her work, she focused her entire strength on the concept of it. She was needed and she had to snap out of the haze she found herself in. She needed to get back to the cemetery again and that meant getting up.

Her tired gaze couldn’t grasp what she even slept on. Was she that exhausted? Was the day before that harsh? She needed strength to tend to the dead and yet it still didn’t come through for her. Maybe one more minute wouldn’t harm. Just a little longer and she’d then start her morning.

Grace’s head slumped down with a pained exhale. Her heavy lids closed slowly and opened back to continue on, to get through her body’s state and stand and yet as her pale lips began to focus on what lay beneath her, she finally realized what kept her in such agony.

“Oh…”

Breath escaped past her lips as she watched her skin crack before her eyes. Pale and red and dry and aching. It was both fascinating and frightening. She didn’t think she’d return to the cemetery as one of them just yet, and yet…

Yet it was long overdue.

It hurt. It hurt beyond words, but her lips hopelessly curled into an apprehensive smile as she stepped away from her sleeping spot. She had to get back to work, or rather, get back to the cemetery where she belonged.

She’d hear them again and she’d infect no other.

She’d be fine.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

He would’ve slept tonight if not for the scorching anxiety in his heart. Peter couldn’t recall how many bottles he’d drank this night. Four, maybe five. You don’t anticipate the hunger for a stimulant drug so soon after your first hit until you’re truly dragged to the pits of your mind. He tried to retain himself from drinking too much especially now that Grace was around. Yet his brother was gone. Perhaps not in the literal sense of the word, but their bond was. He no longer felt connected to him.

Peter held the green bottle away from himself. Twirling and twisting it around where he held it by its neck until he felt his pulse again, hammering against the veins in his neck, and then he took another sip, making his heart pound with adrenaline that shouldn’t exist, that shouldn’t be fueling his body after so many hours of no sleep. Yet it was there and there was no stopping to the impeding destruction of his nerves that awaited. 

When he heard Grace’s steps he snapped out of it, hiding the bottle behind a vase on the shelf. The flower inside the dusty glass was long rotten, leaving the head of the funeral rose hanging with about three petals that were clinging for dear life. The thing must’ve been a decade old, brought as a memoir from Farkhad’s funeral. Peter feared it’d fall apart upon a single touch, yet he only feared that concept now. It surprised him for how long he’d ignored the flower’s presence. Was this part of a bad omen? How long had he been under the dead man’s gaze? He could be watching in this very second, pointing, laughing at the artist’s demise as Peter saw the girl he considered his daughter, the one he had promised a future, crumble under his care. 

Peter darted towards the girl, granting her support by holding her up by her shoulders. A part of him knew what had happened, another refused to believe it. It took him a brief second to even look her in the eyes to see the same despondent gaze he’d seen on so many others. Outside, on the side of the streets, cowering and barely clinging to life.  Peter knew he couldn’t talk, instead pulling the girl into his arms as if she were his own child.  He failed to protect her, failed to keep his word. But he could make it better, right? There was still a box of Shmowder sitting somewhere in his loft. Was it upstairs? Downstairs, where he’d quarantined himself from her? Not considering his lack of distance a problem even for a single minute, he gave her one final squeeze before letting go to scavenge through his chaos. It had to be somewhere, he was sure, somewhere, he recalled. He couldn’t have lost it, no one could’ve taken it.

“Everything will be fine.”, he kept repeating to himself almost frantically. If he were to lose Grace, he would lose himself. If he’d already lost Andrey, he’d… “Everything will be okay. Grace, dear, can you recall the whereabouts of that other box?”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

How had she faltered? How had she even gotten so close to the artist? She couldn’t have done so willingly. She wouldn’t.

The world around her became a blur the more her head swayed with the movements, slowing only as her body leaned against the artist’s embrace. He was so warm, and as silly as it may be, it was the only place where she truly felt safe. If only he could hold her a bit tighter, maybe then she could pretend what awaited her wouldn’t come to pass…

Grace barely had the time to relish in the artist’s protection before he let her go. It was dizzying. But necessary, she supposed. She couldn’t be near him. She couldn’t be near anyone in that state, as painful as it was to think about.

Her chest ached with more than the plague’s hurt. The longer she saw the artist scramble about in his apartment, the more her breath faltered. Tears were beginning to rush to her eyes and she couldn’t allow herself to let it show.

The first words the man uttered were lost to her. He spoke too fast. Too hurried, too worried. The latter sentence she managed to catch however. With his desperation he could only mean a shmowder, but she hadn’t seen any in his house. She had scoured the entire town in search for one herself just a few days ago for the artist, the chances there was any in that place was… impossible. Still, Grace swallowed hard, fighting against the pain that the motion brought to her dry throat and lips.

“Upstairs…” She whispered meekly. “Upstairs.” Again, she repeated, with a louder and steadier voice.

There wasn’t going to be a box. She had resigned to her fate as soon as she realized what she had caught, but she couldn’t allow the artist to get it again. She had to protect him. He was her friend. If keeping him safe meant that her last words to him would be a lie, then so it would be.

“On… the room… the left one.” She continued, mustering her strength to have her voice heard. “In the… back. On the drawer… by the corner.”

Was there even a drawer there? Did it matter?

Grace could only hope her words would be enough to send him away. She could only hope that he’d head upstairs and give her enough time to leave that place.

She’d have to run for it as soon as he left the room they were in… Through the pain and through the heartache.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

Peter wasn’t going to question anything the girl had said. “Upstairs”, he repeated to himself, listing the details by counting the fingers on his hand. “left room, on the drawer, by the corner” ‘On’ the drawer? The artist had no time to bother with little details. Quickly, he left Grace to hurry upstairs and look for the wanted box. Yet no Shmowder could be found there. Even worse, he had not a single memory of where he’d put it.

A distant memory of the little boxes wallowed in his head and he knew, he must’ve had at least two of them. But wait - hadn’t Grace given him one while he was sick? If so, she must’ve known where they were. Or maybe the one she gave to him wasn’t his to begin with. But where did she acquire such a precious drug? All that thinking made him fall into a state of vertigo and for once, it wasn’t the alcohol that was at fault. His own thoughts were pulling at his threads, forcing him to remember several places of his house where he’d usually hide things away from whatever hands, real or not, might want to steal from him. Oftentimes he’d change the hiding spot of precious things he feared to lose. And even more often, they’d still end up somewhere he wouldn’t find them. An illogical place, as if the spirits long gone tried to play a prank on him. The artist had long accepted the fact that he was haunted. If not by some supernatural being, then by a force that made him act and forget. The second part might even be his own fault. Twyrine sure made you forget some things. Enough to make a man wonder the next time he woke up on the rug, the bathtub, or any corner of his house with a sharp, broken bottle in his hand. Taking a deep breath he started walking circles in that room, at least halfway expecting it to be somewhere around. 

Ten minutes went by, twenty. Twenty-five. And just as he was about to give up, he spotted the little box, on a shelf far from a child’s reach. The artist furrowed his brows, staring at his precious find as he stretched an arm out to reach for it. At first he flinched at the amount of dust that had collected itself on top of it, hastily redrawing his hand to look at the thick layer of dust on top of his fingers. Grey, filthy dust that couldn’t have collected itself on it in what, the span of three, four days maybe? How come he was so unsure about the number of days anyway? Three, it must’ve been three. But it felt like four. Peter shook his head at his own misconception, shoving the uneasiness away. If only he knew the real reason behind what’s been clinging on his back for several days now.

Reaching back up, he started moving the box towards the edge with the tip of his fingers. Eventually Peter had moved the box enough that he could grasp and take it down, a smile sprawling on his face triumphantly. Blowing the dust off the surface, his body eventually paused, as he heard the silent noise of a door downstairs. Had Grace decided to follow him into the loft? The artist shook his head, feeling bad for even assuming such a thing. She wouldn’t just leave the room if told not to. Grace was a good kid, unlike him and his brother back in the day. 

Finally, after taking one of the few remaining bottles of water, he made his way back down to present the girl with the medicine he had found. Unknowing of what was about to happen next, he called out for her, looking through the dimly lit halls of his house on a morning he wouldn’t soon forget.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 10 Status: Open

Grace felt a pang of regret deep within her, but she couldn't back away now. As much as she wanted to stay, she couldn't ever forgive herself if she were to be the cause of the artist's death, or anyone else's, and so she had to leave.

The thin girl quietly closed her eyes and inhaled slowly after the artist began climbing up the stairs. She counted to four, just to be sure the artist would be in the room before she finally stepped forth to head downstairs instead.

Each step downwards was worse than the last. It was as if her bones were about to break under her weight as she pressed them against the floorboards, and yet she had to keep going, for the artist's sake.

Upon finally reaching the door, she pushed it open and stepped outside. There would be no going back now.

She needed to make her way to the cemetery.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 10 Status: Open

Another day had begun, hadn’t it?

Grace couldn’t quite tell. Her head felt as if it would explode if she were to move, though it wasn’t just that. Where she was and when, also seemed to elude her.

The day before… What had happened then?

Aside from how her body burned from within and how her thoughts scrambled to try and find a coherent narrative, it felt as though time itself had slipped past her grasp.

It was hard to put into words and truthfully, it didn’t really make much sense. Days didn’t change much in that little town. She had her work and it was long overdue that she return to it.

Her work, she focused her entire strength on the concept of it. She was needed and she had to snap out of the haze she found herself in. She needed to get back to the cemetery again and that meant getting up.

Her tired gaze couldn’t grasp what she even slept on. Was she that exhausted? Was the day before that harsh? She needed strength to tend to the dead and yet it still didn’t come through for her. Maybe one more minute wouldn’t harm. Just a little longer and she’d then start her morning.

Grace’s head slumped down with a pained exhale. Her heavy lids closed slowly and opened back to continue on, to get through her body’s state and stand and yet as her pale lips began to focus on what lay beneath her, she finally realized what kept her in such agony.

“Oh…”

Breath escaped past her lips as she watched her skin crack before her eyes. Pale and red and dry and aching. It was both fascinating and frightening. She didn’t think she’d return to the cemetery as one of them just yet, and yet…

Yet it was long overdue.

It hurt. It hurt beyond words, but her lips hopelessly curled into an apprehensive smile as she stepped away from her sleeping spot. She had to get back to work, or rather, get back to the cemetery where she belonged.

She’d hear them again and she’d infect no other.

She’d be fine.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

He would’ve slept tonight if not for the scorching anxiety in his heart. Peter couldn’t recall how many bottles he’d drank this night. Four, maybe five. You don’t anticipate the hunger for a stimulant drug so soon after your first hit until you’re truly dragged to the pits of your mind. He tried to retain himself from drinking too much especially now that Grace was around. Yet his brother was gone. Perhaps not in the literal sense of the word, but their bond was. He no longer felt connected to him.

Peter held the green bottle away from himself. Twirling and twisting it around where he held it by its neck until he felt his pulse again, hammering against the veins in his neck, and then he took another sip, making his heart pound with adrenaline that shouldn’t exist, that shouldn’t be fueling his body after so many hours of no sleep. Yet it was there and there was no stopping to the impeding destruction of his nerves that awaited. 

When he heard Grace’s steps he snapped out of it, hiding the bottle behind a vase on the shelf. The flower inside the dusty glass was long rotten, leaving the head of the funeral rose hanging with about three petals that were clinging for dear life. The thing must’ve been a decade old, brought as a memoir from Farkhad’s funeral. Peter feared it’d fall apart upon a single touch, yet he only feared that concept now. It surprised him for how long he’d ignored the flower’s presence. Was this part of a bad omen? How long had he been under the dead man’s gaze? He could be watching in this very second, pointing, laughing at the artist’s demise as Peter saw the girl he considered his daughter, the one he had promised a future, crumble under his care. 

Peter darted towards the girl, granting her support by holding her up by her shoulders. A part of him knew what had happened, another refused to believe it. It took him a brief second to even look her in the eyes to see the same despondent gaze he’d seen on so many others. Outside, on the side of the streets, cowering and barely clinging to life.  Peter knew he couldn’t talk, instead pulling the girl into his arms as if she were his own child.  He failed to protect her, failed to keep his word. But he could make it better, right? There was still a box of Shmowder sitting somewhere in his loft. Was it upstairs? Downstairs, where he’d quarantined himself from her? Not considering his lack of distance a problem even for a single minute, he gave her one final squeeze before letting go to scavenge through his chaos. It had to be somewhere, he was sure, somewhere, he recalled. He couldn’t have lost it, no one could’ve taken it.

“Everything will be fine.”, he kept repeating to himself almost frantically. If he were to lose Grace, he would lose himself. If he’d already lost Andrey, he’d… “Everything will be okay. Grace, dear, can you recall the whereabouts of that other box?”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

How had she faltered? How had she even gotten so close to the artist? She couldn't have done so willingly. She wouldn't.

The world around her became a blur the more her head swayed with the movements, slowing only as her body leaned against the artist's embrace. He was so warm, and as silly as it may be, it was the only place where she truly felt safe. If only he could hold her a bit tighter, maybe then she could pretend what awaited her wouldn't come to pass...

Grace barely had the time to relish in the artist's protection before he let her go. It was dizzying. But necessary, she supposed. She couldn't be near him. She couldn't be near anyone in that state, as painful as it was to think about.

Her chest ached with more than the plague's hurt. The longer she saw the artist scramble about in his apartment, the more her breath faltered. Tears were beginning to rush to her eyes and she couldn't allow herself to let it show.

The first words the man uttered were lost to her. He spoke too fast. Too hurried, too worried. The latter sentence she managed to catch however. With his desperation he could only mean a shmowder, but she hadn't seen any in his house. She had scoured the entire town in search for one herself just a few days ago for the artist, the chances there was any in that place was... impossible. Still, Grace swallowed hard, fighting against the pain that the motion brought to her dry throat and lips.

"Upstairs..." She whispered meekly. "Upstairs." Again, she repeated, with a louder and steadier voice.

There wasn't going to be a box. She had resigned to her fate as soon as she realized what she had caught, but she couldn't allow the artist to get it again. She had to protect him. He was her friend. If keeping him safe meant that her last words to him would be a lie, then so it would be.

"On... the room... the left one." She continued, mustering her strength to have her voice heard. "In the... back. On the drawer... by the corner."

Was there even a drawer there? Did it matter?

Grace could only hope her words would be enough to send him away. She could only hope that he'd head upstairs and give her enough time to leave that place.

She'd have to run for it as soon as he left the room they were in... Through the pain and through the heartache.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 10 Status: Open

Another day had begun, hadn’t it?

Grace couldn’t quite tell. Her head felt as if it would explode if she were to move, though it wasn’t just that. Where she was and when, also seemed to elude her.

The day before... What had happened then?

Aside from how her body burned from within and how her thoughts scrambled to try and find a coherent narrative, it felt as though time itself had slipped past her grasp.

It was hard to put into words and truthfully, it didn’t really make much sense. Days didn’t change much in that little town. She had her work and it was long overdue that she return to it.

Her work, she focused her entire strength on the concept of it. She was needed and she had to snap out of the haze she found herself in. She needed to get back to the cemetery again and that meant getting up.

Her tired gaze couldn’t grasp what she even slept on. Was she that exhausted? Was the day before that harsh? She needed strength to tend to the dead and yet it still didn’t come through for her. Maybe one more minute wouldn’t harm. Just a little longer and she’d then start her morning.

Grace’s head slumped down with a pained exhale. Her heavy lids closed slowly and opened back to continue on, to get through her body’s state and stand and yet as her pale lips began to focus on what lay beneath her, she finally realized what kept her in such agony.

“Oh...”

Breath escaped past her lips as she watched her skin crack before her eyes. Pale and red and dry and aching. It was both fascinating and frightening. She didn’t think she’d return to the cemetery as one of them just yet, and yet...

Yet it was long overdue.

It hurt. It hurt beyond words, but her lips hopelessly curled into an apprehensive smile as she stepped away from her sleeping spot. She had to get back to work, or rather, get back to the cemetery where she belonged.

She’d hear them again and she’d infect no other.

She’d be fine.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 9 Status: Open

Grace woke up under her warm blankets once again. So warm. So cozy. That place was truly heavenly, though today it scared her. She had already learned that there wasn’t too much noise in those apartments, but today there was a constant ringing, a constant background noise that kept repeating itself in her thoughts. The walls were thick and not many sounds slipped through, but she felt as though she was suffocating in a turmoil of screams.

She must have just had a nightmare, but normally those didn’t leave her as terrified as she was. Instincts urged her to find any comfort she could. Normally she didn’t have any but now she had the artist, though even he was sick just the day before. Maybe it would be alright, maybe just seeing him would ease her troubled state.

Once she got out of bed her eyes scoured to try and find just where the artist would be. There were so many rooms that seemed to be locked, and maybe he was in one of them, but she hadn’t the means to push through those. Eventually she reached the bottom floor and with it, the door leading to the exit. She could go outside. She could take in the air, as plagued as it could be, and maybe that’d ease her thoughts and yet the steps required to reach the door seemed unbearable.

Grace wasn’t sure why, she couldn’t put it into words, but that morning she couldn’t will herself to leave the artist’s loft. The thought of what could be outside scared her. It must still be the lingering feelings from her nightmare, and if that was the case that would be alright. She’d much rather stay inside the artist’s warm apartment after all. Maybe she could just wait in here a while until her uneasiness subsided.

Her steps hurried without much of a thought back upstairs once she settled on staying inside rather than going out. The apartment’s heavy blankets would be more than enough to comfort her for now.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

Peter was still getting ready by the time Grace woke up. He had an hour and a half left before his shift at the cemetery, more than enough for him to ponder. However, he did not expect the girl to be up so early, moreover so upset about something. He couldn’t quite tell what it was yet, but something seemed off about her. There was a hint of unease on her soft features which made the artist worry. 

Quietly, he picked up a blanket, walking up to her to put it around her shoulders. At first, she seemed to be surprised about his presence, but her sudden forced smile let him know that he wasn’t unwelcome. Peter himself was a little off-tracks this morning. His mind still swaying back and forth between the events of the Theatre and the deal he made the night before. He knew half of it must’ve been a dream. One he shared with a man he’d never seen before. The artist still refused to believe it was actual death. He had a firm idea about the afterlife. About how spirits in this town rather chose to linger, making it possible for Grace to care for them, to comfort them in their eternal sleep. His soul couldn’t be an exception. And if it was, he must’ve been more of a sinner than he expected. 

The two shared a moment in silence before Peter stepped back, eyeing the teen in a concerned manner.  “Is something wrong?”, he finally asked, eyes full of worry. “You seem beside yourself. Has something happened while I was gone?”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

It was unusual for Grace to feel such a heavy burden on her shoulders, at least so literally, but it wasn’t unwelcome. The blankets weren’t something she could see herself carrying for long like the artist often seemed to do, but in that moment they were comfortable.

The silence was just as comforting too. They didn’t need to say words like the other townsfolk often did. The artist seemed bothered by something that morning as well, maybe it was just the odd times they were living in. They understood one another and there was no judgement or words that needed to be aired between them. It was nice.

Upon hearing the artist’s words she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She hadn’t found the words for it yet herself, though even if she did it hardly seemed to matter now. Things were good now. They were safe if they both stayed together like that.

“No.” Grace responded with a small shake of her head. “No, nothing happened.” Nothing that she could be sure of. It must have been a nightmare, nothing else.

Still, her mind kept prodding at his words. He was gone apparently. Was that today or… What had even happened yesterday?

Grace’s lips thinned the more she tried to prod at the events of the day before. She remembered being in the artist’s loft and sharing some tea. He was sick at one point too and then there was the thought that kept her on edge. There was a smell she couldn’t describe and an unimaginable amount of suffering.

“Well… There was something.” She then murmured back after a pause. “It was like… like being in that painting next to the bathtub. The one with the faces.”

The painting she mentioned didn’t bother her at all compared to what she felt when she thought of what may have happened, or didn’t, or whatever she had dreamed about. It wasn’t like that in here, nor next to the painting itself, but outside it was just like that.

“It…”

She parted her lips to speak again but reason seemed to elude her. There was no tangible reason as to why she felt this way, how she didn’t want to leave the artist’s apartment and how she was terrified of what could be going on outside today, but she couldn’t deny it. Going outside would be going to that despair-filled void of screaming faces and cries for help.

“I don’t want to leave this place… We mustn’t… We can’t.”

Would he understand? Would he stay? She didn’t truly want to be alone in that loft either. She doubted she even could if he was to leave… If she was to stay, so should he. But would he?

“Please don’t go…”

Unbeknownst even to her, her hands fiddled with the blanket the artist had just wrapped around her. Surely they could just stay there today. Just today.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

Peter’s eyes narrowed at the soft-spoken words of his companion, or rather - her request. Deep inside he knew that wouldn’t be a possibility. How his duties would force him out of these halls eventually, yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. He had a task to follow up on, or rather, a deal he made in the middle of the night. One his mind was dead-set to fulfill. If not for him, then for the sake of his Grace. But why was it that today all of the sudden, the girl had decided to turn her back on her duties? When all this time she had been the one to be the most conscientious. The whole idea stirred up something bad in Peter, something he wasn’t quite able to put his finger on. He figured he could make her talk. But how much was that really worth in this situation? He wouldn’t be able to get out of his deal that easily, and besides that, he didn’t want to.

Peter had seen the situation at the cemetery. Observing the overflooding pits with his own eyes. At first, his idea of a tunnel seemed like the most reasonable solution for getting rid of all these corpses. However the man was willing to listen, now being more than aware that his original plans were no possibility. That those who depended on Grace needed more than just some space under the earth. They were human, after all. Or whatever it was that they pretended to be. 

The younger Stamatin squinted his eyes, causing all the memories of that place to flash before them. He was still unsure of what it all meant. And how his brother was present, however unapproachable at that event. It all felt like a dream and at this point, he doubted the authenticity of his own memories. Memories of a place he never even stepped into. How nice would it be if their lives actually meant something. He didn’t want to think of Grace as another puppet in a show. Although he wasn’t quite sure where he got the puppet symbolism from in the first place.  At this point his thoughts were just eating away at him, making him wish he had the time to illustrate all that was on his mind for his words were to sparse to describe his emotional turmoil.

Twirling unresting fingers around his hair, he pulled his focus back to Grace who was still standing idle, waiting for his response.

The artist observed her tense hands, fiddling with the fabric of the old blanket he had put around her shoulders. Peter felt prone to think that she appeared almost radiant, even though he knew those words didn’t really suit her. Her face was gentle, eyes cast to the side but with a small, faint frown nevertheless. Just like that, she looked like the paintings he would illustrate as a young man in the university. What simpler times he had, when his mind was merely focused on replicating whatever was more human. He resented those motives nowadays, mostly trying to capture thoughts rather than faces. 

“I’m sorry, Grace… But I made a deal with the Governor.”

His voice was gentle, barely even a whisper, matching the tone the young girl was sighing in. Both of them carried the same energy which made it easier for Peter to converse. He didn’t have to worry about the lithe girl raising her voice at him, ever. 

“But I promise it won’t take me long. I’ll be back here before you even know it. But dare I ask… What is it that you’re so concerned about? It’s not like the plague will be any more dangerous today than it was before.”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace 

Why did it seem like he wouldn’t be back?

Grace tried to focus on the present rather than what her emotions tried to scream at her. Everything was fine. It was just a nightmare, it wasn’t real. She was safe in here, and maybe she could just listen to this man. She wasn’t a mistress, she didn’t predict the future, she must have been imagining things.

“What deal with the Governor?”

The pale girl lifted her gaze only to meet the artist’s verdant eyes for his answer. She could only hope he’d be truthful. He didn’t seem like a man that would lie to her, but there was still something she couldn’t quite grasp lingering between them.

“Can’t you go tomorrow?”

Couldn’t anyone else go? Didn’t the artist just draw? He was only meant to show his ideas, wasn’t he?

The thought of offering to go in his stead quickly formed in her thoughts, though that would require leaving the house, and leaving… It still felt wrong.

“Please don’t go.”

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

He found it hard to comprehend why Grace wanted him to stay so bad. Something about her expression screamed fear. But that fear seemed unreasonable. There was nothing to be afraid of about such a simple task. Had she knowns something he didn’t? Perhaps it were the muggers or the plague that made her worry.  But Peter’s always come out of these situations alive. Not unharmed, but alive.  So he couldn’t help but wonder. 

The more she spoke, the further his confusion rose up. 

“Why are you so insisting on tomorrow? What’s wrong with me going out today?  Grace, I can’t ignore Saburov’s order.”

The artist sighed, leaning his back against a nearby table. Both him and her didn’t seem like they knew what they wanted. Of course he’d rather stay at home while the plague was still ravaging outside. But the task at hand was so much more important. 

Spiraling back to her question he tried to calm down a little, running a tired hand through his hair. He hadn’t slept a minute that night, trying to piece loose puzzle pieces together. Thinking about nothing more than the dream he seemed to have shared with the Town’s Ripper. What a strange phenomenon. 

“If I help out at the cemetery, Saburov will fund my newest project. The expansion I drew for the cemetery, do you follow?”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace 

The dead were easier to speak to.

She wasn’t asking for the impossible. Just to wait for tomorrow rather than throw themselves into what felt like unspeakable horrors. Even the man’s words now seemed evasive. Why didn’t he just tell her what he even needed to do that was so important? The entirety of the town was dying and she was the dead’s caretaker. Surely her words should have a little more weight than what they seemed to have within those walls.

“I’m… I’m going too then!”

It couldn’t be helped, could it? If they both couldn’t stay inside, she doubted she could sit still the entire day in that apartment too. Hours passed slowly with nothing to do and curiosity would surely nag at her, if not her nightmares themselves.

Before the artist could utter another word, Grace tossed her blanket aside, furrowed her brows and stomped towards the door. One of them would be right if they were to both go. Either it would be the hell she feared outside, or she should just return to her duties as normal. They’d find out one way or the other.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

The walls of the loft hummed all around them as the door creaked open. Peter had never heard the girl raise her voice like this before, so wild and uncertain, full of suspicion and unrest. Her whole demeanor seemed skittish, upset, even, and if nothing happened to calm it, this sudden tension could easily turn into a break of trust, something he worked so hard on achieving towards the girl. Gently, he placed an open palm onto her shoulder, as an attempt to calm her. And though he could see Grace carefully retreat, he could feel some of her fears dissipate under his hand. When he stepped back, there was still some abundance of unrest left, and he could tell that none of the suspicion had waned. This one time, he couldn’t talk his way out of this. 

“Nothing is going to happen to me.”, he calmly spoke, trying his best to not break eye contact. “I have been tasked with a simple job. I am not going to bring you with me, as I will be given just one mask. If you come with me, all will be for naught. Your body is still weak and you need rest. Infection is waiting just around the corner.”

Peter could sympathize with the girl’s troubles. He had always been a shut-in, especially since that one fateful night. And even before that, he had never been one to fully open himself up towards other people. But Grace, Grace was family. As weird as it was, the girl had become a daughter to him. Someone he was willing to protect under the cost of his own life. 

Before the girl could talk back, a sudden knock emitted from the door downstairs. Then another. Whoever was waiting, clearly had no patience. Giving her a warning look, he pushed his way past her frail body to see who it was. A messenger, of course, bringing him the uniform he was bound to wear on this day. And just as suspected, it was just one mask. One talon mask and a fitting cloak. Although it seemed too long, even for him. Peter was a man of regular height, around the same range as most men in town. Who the hell were these made for?

Making his way upstairs he gave Grace an apologetic look, carrying his new uniform inside. There was nothing he could say to her at this point. He had to pertain his responsibility, even at the repugnance of his own ‘daughter’.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace 

To think that things had turned into this. It made no sense whatsoever for this man to talk about infections when he was the one that could barely move just a few hours ago. It had been hours... hadn’t it?

Grace’s brows furrowed as she tried to gather her scattered thoughts, and such a small thing was enough to lose the artist from sight. When she raised her gaze again the man was walking around with a dark cloak and a beak mask.

Silently, Grace nodded in return. There was nothing to be discussed between them anymore. They both wouldn’t listen, but she still cared for that man more than she could put into words. If he was to go outside, so would she.

Most of the children of the town were urchins at heart. Grace wasn’t like most of them, but she could adapt, surely. It wouldn’t be that hard, would it?

She waited quietly in that room as she tried to keep track of where the man could be, and where he was trying to go. The layout of the building was still confusing to her, but when she guessed that the artist could be stepping closer to the loft’s exit, she quietly tried to follow along.

She’d keep her distance. She’d try to get out through the windows if she had to, but she would see what was so important that it couldn’t wait another day.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 9 Status: Open

Grace woke up under her warm blankets once again. So warm. So cozy. That place was truly heavenly, though today it scared her. She had already learned that there wasn’t too much noise in those apartments, but today there was a constant ringing, a constant background noise that kept repeating itself in her thoughts. The walls were thick and not many sounds slipped through, but she felt as though she was suffocating in a turmoil of screams.

She must have just had a nightmare, but normally those didn’t leave her as terrified as she was. Instincts urged her to find any comfort she could. Normally she didn’t have any but now she had the artist, though even he was sick just the day before. Maybe it would be alright, maybe just seeing him would ease her troubled state.

Once she got out of bed her eyes scoured to try and find just where the artist would be. There were so many rooms that seemed to be locked, and maybe he was in one of them, but she hadn’t the means to push through those. Eventually she reached the bottom floor and with it, the door leading to the exit. She could go outside. She could take in the air, as plagued as it could be, and maybe that’d ease her thoughts and yet the steps required to reach the door seemed unbearable.

Grace wasn’t sure why, she couldn’t put it into words, but that morning she couldn’t will herself to leave the artist’s loft. The thought of what could be outside scared her. It must still be the lingering feelings from her nightmare, and if that was the case that would be alright. She’d much rather stay inside the artist’s warm apartment after all. Maybe she could just wait in here a while until her uneasiness subsided.

Her steps hurried without much of a thought back upstairs once she settled on staying inside rather than going out. The apartment’s heavy blankets would be more than enough to comfort her for now.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

Peter was still getting ready by the time Grace woke up. He had an hour and a half left before his shift at the cemetery, more than enough for him to ponder. However, he did not expect the girl to be up so early, moreover so upset about something. He couldn’t quite tell what it was yet, but something seemed off about her. There was a hint of unease on her soft features which made the artist worry. 

Quietly, he picked up a blanket, walking up to her to put it around her shoulders. At first, she seemed to be surprised about his presence, but her sudden forced smile let him know that he wasn’t unwelcome. Peter himself was a little off-tracks this morning. His mind still swaying back and forth between the events of the Theatre and the deal he made the night before. He knew half of it must’ve been a dream. One he shared with a man he’d never seen before. The artist still refused to believe it was actual death. He had a firm idea about the afterlife. About how spirits in this town rather chose to linger, making it possible for Grace to care for them, to comfort them in their eternal sleep. His soul couldn’t be an exception. And if it was, he must’ve been more of a sinner than he expected. 

The two shared a moment in silence before Peter stepped back, eyeing the teen in a concerned manner.  “Is something wrong?”, he finally asked, eyes full of worry. “You seem beside yourself. Has something happened while I was gone?”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

It was unusual for Grace to feel such a heavy burden on her shoulders, at least so literally, but it wasn’t unwelcome. The blankets weren’t something she could see herself carrying for long like the artist often seemed to do, but in that moment they were comfortable.

The silence was just as comforting too. They didn’t need to say words like the other townsfolk often did. The artist seemed bothered by something that morning as well, maybe it was just the odd times they were living in. They understood one another and there was no judgement or words that needed to be aired between them. It was nice.

Upon hearing the artist’s words she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She hadn’t found the words for it yet herself, though even if she did it hardly seemed to matter now. Things were good now. They were safe if they both stayed together like that.

“No.” Grace responded with a small shake of her head. “No, nothing happened.” Nothing that she could be sure of. It must have been a nightmare, nothing else.

Still, her mind kept prodding at his words. He was gone apparently. Was that today or… What had even happened yesterday?

Grace’s lips thinned the more she tried to prod at the events of the day before. She remembered being in the artist’s loft and sharing some tea. He was sick at one point too and then there was the thought that kept her on edge. There was a smell she couldn’t describe and an unimaginable amount of suffering.

“Well… There was something.” She then murmured back after a pause. “It was like… like being in that painting next to the bathtub. The one with the faces.”

The painting she mentioned didn’t bother her at all compared to what she felt when she thought of what may have happened, or didn’t, or whatever she had dreamed about. It wasn’t like that in here, nor next to the painting itself, but outside it was just like that.

“It…”

She parted her lips to speak again but reason seemed to elude her. There was no tangible reason as to why she felt this way, how she didn’t want to leave the artist’s apartment and how she was terrified of what could be going on outside today, but she couldn’t deny it. Going outside would be going to that despair-filled void of screaming faces and cries for help.

“I don’t want to leave this place… We mustn’t… We can’t.”

Would he understand? Would he stay? She didn’t truly want to be alone in that loft either. She doubted she even could if he was to leave… If she was to stay, so should he. But would he?

“Please don’t go…”

Unbeknownst even to her, her hands fiddled with the blanket the artist had just wrapped around her. Surely they could just stay there today. Just today.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

Peter’s eyes narrowed at the soft-spoken words of his companion, or rather - her request. Deep inside he knew that wouldn’t be a possibility. How his duties would force him out of these halls eventually, yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. He had a task to follow up on, or rather, a deal he made in the middle of the night. One his mind was dead-set to fulfill. If not for him, then for the sake of his Grace. But why was it that today all of the sudden, the girl had decided to turn her back on her duties? When all this time she had been the one to be the most conscientious. The whole idea stirred up something bad in Peter, something he wasn’t quite able to put his finger on. He figured he could make her talk. But how much was that really worth in this situation? He wouldn’t be able to get out of his deal that easily, and besides that, he didn’t want to.

Peter had seen the situation at the cemetery. Observing the overflooding pits with his own eyes. At first, his idea of a tunnel seemed like the most reasonable solution for getting rid of all these corpses. However the man was willing to listen, now being more than aware that his original plans were no possibility. That those who depended on Grace needed more than just some space under the earth. They were human, after all. Or whatever it was that they pretended to be. 

The younger Stamatin squinted his eyes, causing all the memories of that place to flash before them. He was still unsure of what it all meant. And how his brother was present, however unapproachable at that event. It all felt like a dream and at this point, he doubted the authenticity of his own memories. Memories of a place he never even stepped into. How nice would it be if their lives actually meant something. He didn’t want to think of Grace as another puppet in a show. Although he wasn’t quite sure where he got the puppet symbolism from in the first place.  At this point his thoughts were just eating away at him, making him wish he had the time to illustrate all that was on his mind for his words were to sparse to describe his emotional turmoil.

Twirling unresting fingers around his hair, he pulled his focus back to Grace who was still standing idle, waiting for his response.

The artist observed her tense hands, fiddling with the fabric of the old blanket he had put around her shoulders. Peter felt prone to think that she appeared almost radiant, even though he knew those words didn’t really suit her. Her face was gentle, eyes cast to the side but with a small, faint frown nevertheless. Just like that, she looked like the paintings he would illustrate as a young man in the university. What simpler times he had, when his mind was merely focused on replicating whatever was more human. He resented those motives nowadays, mostly trying to capture thoughts rather than faces. 

“I’m sorry, Grace… But I made a deal with the Governor.”

His voice was gentle, barely even a whisper, matching the tone the young girl was sighing in. Both of them carried the same energy which made it easier for Peter to converse. He didn’t have to worry about the lithe girl raising her voice at him, ever. 

“But I promise it won’t take me long. I’ll be back here before you even know it. But dare I ask… What is it that you’re so concerned about? It’s not like the plague will be any more dangerous today than it was before.”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace 

Why did it seem like he wouldn’t be back?

Grace tried to focus on the present rather than what her emotions tried to scream at her. Everything was fine. It was just a nightmare, it wasn’t real. She was safe in here, and maybe she could just listen to this man. She wasn’t a mistress, she didn’t predict the future, she must have been imagining things.

“What deal with the Governor?”

The pale girl lifted her gaze only to meet the artist’s verdant eyes for his answer. She could only hope he’d be truthful. He didn’t seem like a man that would lie to her, but there was still something she couldn’t quite grasp lingering between them.

“Can’t you go tomorrow?”

Couldn’t anyone else go? Didn’t the artist just draw? He was only meant to show his ideas, wasn’t he?

The thought of offering to go in his stead quickly formed in her thoughts, though that would require leaving the house, and leaving… It still felt wrong.

“Please don’t go.”

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

He found it hard to comprehend why Grace wanted him to stay so bad. Something about her expression screamed fear. But that fear seemed unreasonable. There was nothing to be afraid of about such a simple task. Had she knowns something he didn’t? Perhaps it were the muggers or the plague that made her worry.  But Peter’s always come out of these situations alive. Not unharmed, but alive.  So he couldn’t help but wonder. 

The more she spoke, the further his confusion rose up. 

“Why are you so insisting on tomorrow? What’s wrong with me going out today?  Grace, I can’t ignore Saburov’s order.”

The artist sighed, leaning his back against a nearby table. Both him and her didn’t seem like they knew what they wanted. Of course he’d rather stay at home while the plague was still ravaging outside. But the task at hand was so much more important. 

Spiraling back to her question he tried to calm down a little, running a tired hand through his hair. He hadn’t slept a minute that night, trying to piece loose puzzle pieces together. Thinking about nothing more than the dream he seemed to have shared with the Town’s Ripper. What a strange phenomenon. 

“If I help out at the cemetery, Saburov will fund my newest project. The expansion I drew for the cemetery, do you follow?”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace 

The dead were easier to speak to.

She wasn’t asking for the impossible. Just to wait for tomorrow rather than throw themselves into what felt like unspeakable horrors. Even the man’s words now seemed evasive. Why didn’t he just tell her what he even needed to do that was so important? The entirety of the town was dying and she was the dead’s caretaker. Surely her words should have a little more weight than what they seemed to have within those walls.

“I’m... I’m going too then!”

It couldn’t be helped, could it? If they both couldn’t stay inside, she doubted she could sit still the entire day in that apartment too. Hours passed slowly with nothing to do and curiosity would surely nag at her, if not her nightmares themselves.

Before the artist could utter another word, Grace tossed her blanket aside, furrowed her brows and stomped towards the door. One of them would be right if they were to both go. Either it would be the hell she feared outside, or she should just return to her duties as normal. They’d find out one way or the other.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 9 Status: Open

Grace woke up under her warm blankets once again. So warm. So cozy. That place was truly heavenly, though today it scared her. She had already learned that there wasn’t too much noise in those apartments, but today there was a constant ringing, a constant background noise that kept repeating itself in her thoughts. The walls were thick and not many sounds slipped through, but she felt as though she was suffocating in a turmoil of screams.

She must have just had a nightmare, but normally those didn’t leave her as terrified as she was. Instincts urged her to find any comfort she could. Normally she didn’t have any but now she had the artist, though even he was sick just the day before. Maybe it would be alright, maybe just seeing him would ease her troubled state.

Once she got out of bed her eyes scoured to try and find just where the artist would be. There were so many rooms that seemed to be locked, and maybe he was in one of them, but she hadn’t the means to push through those. Eventually she reached the bottom floor and with it, the door leading to the exit. She could go outside. She could take in the air, as plagued as it could be, and maybe that’d ease her thoughts and yet the steps required to reach the door seemed unbearable.

Grace wasn’t sure why, she couldn’t put it into words, but that morning she couldn’t will herself to leave the artist’s loft. The thought of what could be outside scared her. It must still be the lingering feelings from her nightmare, and if that was the case that would be alright. She’d much rather stay inside the artist’s warm apartment after all. Maybe she could just wait in here a while until her uneasiness subsided.

Her steps hurried without much of a thought back upstairs once she settled on staying inside rather than going out. The apartment’s heavy blankets would be more than enough to comfort her for now.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

Peter was still getting ready by the time Grace woke up. He had an hour and a half left before his shift at the cemetery, more than enough for him to ponder. However, he did not expect the girl to be up so early, moreover so upset about something. He couldn’t quite tell what it was yet, but something seemed off about her. There was a hint of unease on her soft features which made the artist worry. 

Quietly, he picked up a blanket, walking up to her to put it around her shoulders. At first, she seemed to be surprised about his presence, but her sudden forced smile let him know that he wasn’t unwelcome. Peter himself was a little off-tracks this morning. His mind still swaying back and forth between the events of the Theatre and the deal he made the night before. He knew half of it must’ve been a dream. One he shared with a man he’d never seen before. The artist still refused to believe it was actual death. He had a firm idea about the afterlife. About how spirits in this town rather chose to linger, making it possible for Grace to care for them, to comfort them in their eternal sleep. His soul couldn’t be an exception. And if it was, he must’ve been more of a sinner than he expected. 

The two shared a moment in silence before Peter stepped back, eyeing the teen in a concerned manner.  “Is something wrong?”, he finally asked, eyes full of worry. “You seem beside yourself. Has something happened while I was gone?”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

It was unusual for Grace to feel such a heavy burden on her shoulders, at least so literally, but it wasn’t unwelcome. The blankets weren’t something she could see herself carrying for long like the artist often seemed to do, but in that moment they were comfortable.

The silence was just as comforting too. They didn’t need to say words like the other townsfolk often did. The artist seemed bothered by something that morning as well, maybe it was just the odd times they were living in. They understood one another and there was no judgement or words that needed to be aired between them. It was nice.

Upon hearing the artist’s words she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She hadn’t found the words for it yet herself, though even if she did it hardly seemed to matter now. Things were good now. They were safe if they both stayed together like that.

“No.” Grace responded with a small shake of her head. “No, nothing happened.” Nothing that she could be sure of. It must have been a nightmare, nothing else.

Still, her mind kept prodding at his words. He was gone apparently. Was that today or… What had even happened yesterday?

Grace’s lips thinned the more she tried to prod at the events of the day before. She remembered being in the artist’s loft and sharing some tea. He was sick at one point too and then there was the thought that kept her on edge. There was a smell she couldn’t describe and an unimaginable amount of suffering.

“Well… There was something.” She then murmured back after a pause. “It was like… like being in that painting next to the bathtub. The one with the faces.”

The painting she mentioned didn’t bother her at all compared to what she felt when she thought of what may have happened, or didn’t, or whatever she had dreamed about. It wasn’t like that in here, nor next to the painting itself, but outside it was just like that.

“It…”

She parted her lips to speak again but reason seemed to elude her. There was no tangible reason as to why she felt this way, how she didn’t want to leave the artist’s apartment and how she was terrified of what could be going on outside today, but she couldn’t deny it. Going outside would be going to that despair-filled void of screaming faces and cries for help.

“I don’t want to leave this place… We mustn’t… We can’t.”

Would he understand? Would he stay? She didn’t truly want to be alone in that loft either. She doubted she even could if he was to leave… If she was to stay, so should he. But would he?

“Please don’t go…”

Unbeknownst even to her, her hands fiddled with the blanket the artist had just wrapped around her. Surely they could just stay there today. Just today.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

Peter’s eyes narrowed at the soft-spoken words of his companion, or rather - her request. Deep inside he knew that wouldn’t be a possibility. How his duties would force him out of these halls eventually, yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. He had a task to follow up on, or rather, a deal he made in the middle of the night. One his mind was dead-set to fulfill. If not for him, then for the sake of his Grace. But why was it that today all of the sudden, the girl had decided to turn her back on her duties? When all this time she had been the one to be the most conscientious. The whole idea stirred up something bad in Peter, something he wasn’t quite able to put his finger on. He figured he could make her talk. But how much was that really worth in this situation? He wouldn’t be able to get out of his deal that easily, and besides that, he didn’t want to.

Peter had seen the situation at the cemetery. Observing the overflooding pits with his own eyes. At first, his idea of a tunnel seemed like the most reasonable solution for getting rid of all these corpses. However the man was willing to listen, now being more than aware that his original plans were no possibility. That those who depended on Grace needed more than just some space under the earth. They were human, after all. Or whatever it was that they pretended to be. 

The younger Stamatin squinted his eyes, causing all the memories of that place to flash before them. He was still unsure of what it all meant. And how his brother was present, however unapproachable at that event. It all felt like a dream and at this point, he doubted the authenticity of his own memories. Memories of a place he never even stepped into. How nice would it be if their lives actually meant something. He didn’t want to think of Grace as another puppet in a show. Although he wasn’t quite sure where he got the puppet symbolism from in the first place.  At this point his thoughts were just eating away at him, making him wish he had the time to illustrate all that was on his mind for his words were to sparse to describe his emotional turmoil.

Twirling unresting fingers around his hair, he pulled his focus back to Grace who was still standing idle, waiting for his response.

The artist observed her tense hands, fiddling with the fabric of the old blanket he had put around her shoulders. Peter felt prone to think that she appeared almost radiant, even though he knew those words didn’t really suit her. Her face was gentle, eyes cast to the side but with a small, faint frown nevertheless. Just like that, she looked like the paintings he would illustrate as a young man in the university. What simpler times he had, when his mind was merely focused on replicating whatever was more human. He resented those motives nowadays, mostly trying to capture thoughts rather than faces. 

“I’m sorry, Grace… But I made a deal with the Governor.”

His voice was gentle, barely even a whisper, matching the tone the young girl was sighing in. Both of them carried the same energy which made it easier for Peter to converse. He didn’t have to worry about the lithe girl raising her voice at him, ever. 

“But I promise it won’t take me long. I’ll be back here before you even know it. But dare I ask… What is it that you’re so concerned about? It’s not like the plague will be any more dangerous today than it was before.”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace 

Why did it seem like he wouldn’t be back?

Grace tried to focus on the present rather than what her emotions tried to scream at her. Everything was fine. It was just a nightmare, it wasn’t real. She was safe in here, and maybe she could just listen to this man. She wasn’t a mistress, she didn’t predict the future, she must have been imagining things.

“What deal with the Governor?”

The pale girl lifted her gaze only to meet the artist’s verdant eyes for his answer. She could only hope he’d be truthful. He didn’t seem like a man that would lie to her, but there was still something she couldn’t quite grasp lingering between them.

“Can’t you go tomorrow?”

Couldn’t anyone else go? Didn’t the artist just draw? He was only meant to show his ideas, wasn’t he?

The thought of offering to go in his stead quickly formed in her thoughts, though that would require leaving the house, and leaving... It still felt wrong.

“Please don’t go.”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 9 Status: Open

Grace woke up under her warm blankets once again. So warm. So cozy. That place was truly heavenly, though today it scared her. She had already learned that there wasn’t too much noise in those apartments, but today there was a constant ringing, a constant background noise that kept repeating itself in her thoughts. The walls were thick and not many sounds slipped through, but she felt as though she was suffocating in a turmoil of screams.

She must have just had a nightmare, but normally those didn't leave her as terrified as she was. Instincts urged her to find any comfort she could. Normally she didn't have any but now she had the artist, though even he was sick just the day before. Maybe it would be alright, maybe just seeing him would ease her troubled state.

Once she got out of bed her eyes scoured to try and find just where the artist would be. There were so many rooms that seemed to be locked, and maybe he was in one of them, but she hadn't the means to push through those. Eventually she reached the bottom floor and with it, the door leading to the exit. She could go outside. She could take in the air, as plagued as it could be, and maybe that'd ease her thoughts and yet the steps required to reach the door seemed unbearable.

Grace wasn't sure why, she couldn't put it into words, but that morning she couldn't will herself to leave the artist's loft. The thought of what could be outside scared her. It must still be the lingering feelings from her nightmare, and if that was the case that would be alright. She'd much rather stay inside the artist's warm apartment after all. Maybe she could just wait in here a while until her uneasiness subsided.

Her steps hurried without much of a thought back upstairs once she settled on staying inside rather than going out. The apartment's heavy blankets would be more than enough to comfort her for now.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

Peter was still getting ready by the time Grace woke up. He had an hour and a half left before his shift at the cemetery, more than enough for him to ponder. However, he did not expect the girl to be up so early, moreover so upset about something. He couldn’t quite tell what it was yet, but something seemed off about her. There was a hint of unease on her soft features which made the artist worry. 

Quietly, he picked up a blanket, walking up to her to put it around her shoulders. At first, she seemed to be surprised about his presence, but her sudden forced smile let him know that he wasn’t unwelcome. Peter himself was a little off-tracks this morning. His mind still swaying back and forth between the events of the Theatre and the deal he made the night before. He knew half of it must’ve been a dream. One he shared with a man he’d never seen before. The artist still refused to believe it was actual death. He had a firm idea about the afterlife. About how spirits in this town rather chose to linger, making it possible for Grace to care for them, to comfort them in their eternal sleep. His soul couldn’t be an exception. And if it was, he must’ve been more of a sinner than he expected. 

The two shared a moment in silence before Peter stepped back, eyeing the teen in a concerned manner.  “Is something wrong?”, he finally asked, eyes full of worry. “You seem beside yourself. Has something happened while I was gone?”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

It was unusual for Grace to feel such a heavy burden on her shoulders, at least so literally, but it wasn’t unwelcome. The blankets weren’t something she could see herself carrying for long like the artist often seemed to do, but in that moment they were comfortable.

The silence was just as comforting too. They didn’t need to say words like the other townsfolk often did. The artist seemed bothered by something that morning as well, maybe it was just the odd times they were living in. They understood one another and there was no judgement or words that needed to be aired between them. It was nice.

Upon hearing the artist’s words she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She hadn’t found the words for it yet herself, though even if she did it hardly seemed to matter now. Things were good now. They were safe if they both stayed together like that.

“No.” Grace responded with a small shake of her head. “No, nothing happened.” Nothing that she could be sure of. It must have been a nightmare, nothing else.

Still, her mind kept prodding at his words. He was gone apparently. Was that today or... What had even happened yesterday?

Grace’s lips thinned the more she tried to prod at the events of the day before. She remembered being in the artist’s loft and sharing some tea. He was sick at one point too and then there was the thought that kept her on edge. There was a smell she couldn’t describe and an unimaginable amount of suffering.

“Well... There was something.” She then murmured back after a pause. “It was like... like being in that painting next to the bathtub. The one with the faces.”

The painting she mentioned didn’t bother her at all compared to what she felt when she thought of what may have happened, or didn’t, or whatever she had dreamed about. It wasn’t like that in here, nor next to the painting itself, but outside it was just like that.

“It...”

She parted her lips to speak again but reason seemed to elude her. There was no tangible reason as to why she felt this way, how she didn’t want to leave the artist’s apartment and how she was terrified of what could be going on outside today, but she couldn’t deny it. Going outside would be going to that despair-filled void of screaming faces and cries for help.

“I don’t want to leave this place... We mustn’t... We can’t.”

Would he understand? Would he stay? She didn’t truly want to be alone in that loft either. She doubted she even could if he was to leave... If she was to stay, so should he. But would he?

“Please don’t go...”

Unbeknownst even to her, her hands fiddled with the blanket the artist had just wrapped around her. Surely they could just stay there today. Just today.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 9 Status: Open

Grace woke up under her warm blankets once again. So warm. So cozy. That place was truly heavenly, though today it scared her. She had already learned that there wasn’t too much noise in those apartments, but today there was a constant ringing, a constant background noise that kept repeating itself in her thoughts. The walls were thick and not many sounds slipped through, but she felt as though she was suffocating in a turmoil of screams.

She must have just had a nightmare, but normally those didn't leave her as terrified as she was. Instincts urged her to find any comfort she could. Normally she didn't have any but now she had the artist, though even he was sick just the day before. Maybe it would be alright, maybe just seeing him would ease her troubled state.

Once she got out of bed her eyes scoured to try and find just where the artist would be. There were so many rooms that seemed to be locked, and maybe he was in one of them, but she hadn't the means to push through those. Eventually she reached the bottom floor and with it, the door leading to the exit. She could go outside. She could take in the air, as plagued as it could be, and maybe that'd ease her thoughts and yet the steps required to reach the door seemed unbearable.

Grace wasn't sure why, she couldn't put it into words, but that morning she couldn't will herself to leave the artist's loft. The thought of what could be outside scared her. It must still be the lingering feelings from her nightmare, and if that was the case that would be alright. She'd much rather stay inside the artist's warm apartment after all. Maybe she could just wait in here a while until her uneasiness subsided.

Her steps hurried without much of a thought back upstairs once she settled on staying inside rather than going out. The apartment's heavy blankets would be more than enough to comfort her for now.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 9 Status: Open

Grace woke up under her warm blankets once again. So warm. So cozy. That place was truly heavenly, though today it seemed a bit too quiet. She had already learned that there wasn’t too much noise in those apartments. The walls were thick and not many sounds slipped through, but she felt alone. It could be that the artist was still asleep and if that was the case she didn’t want to bother him either. He was sick just the day before, he ought to rest. Grace could handle the rest of the housekeeping on her own, surely.

Once she got out of bed her eyes scoured to try and find just what housekeeping entailed. She straightened her bedsheets but beyond that she wasn’t quite sure what to do. Maybe breakfast would be a good idea, but if the artist was still asleep she probably shouldn’t take too much food from his storage. Grace could do without breakfast too. She could eat once they were both awake, it might even be better to wait for what he even has for breakfast too.

After pondering for what seemed like too long, she finally settled on going outside to at least get some water. Water was always a good thing to have, she could do that while the artist slept. She gathered some empty bottles that were laying around and made her way to the nearest keg. Luckily the water didn’t seem too gray, yet in that moment it wasn’t the water itself that alarmed her. Just as she was filling the second bottle she heard passerbies comment on how they were finally… Finally burning the corpses.

Grace’s heart sunk and everything else she had planned to do faded away in an instant. They couldn’t be burning the corpses. They couldn’t burn them! They mustn’t burn! Ever! Who could ever order, or even do such a thing?!

Her feet raced down the tangled streets until she finally found her home. Her real home. Her home that was now in flames! They had truly done it. They were burning them! She could smell the burnt flesh and it made her gag through panicked screams.

“Stop! You can’t! Stop! Stop!”

Grace screamed from the top of her lungs at the beakheads that were surrounding the bonfires. There wasn’t even any wood fueling the fires, just bodies on top of bodies on top of more bodies.

“Stop! Stop burning them! Stop!”

She continued to cry out despite getting no response from the towering figures. Her voice didn’t even seem to reach them. But they had to stop. Her eyes desperately sought to find something, anything, to make the beakheads leave yet around here was only dry grass. Grace hadn’t any time to spare. With only dry herbs surrounding her, she dashed to her small hut and grabbed her shovel.

“Get away from them!”

At least those monsters were slow in their outfits. Try as they did, they couldn’t get close to Grace as she swung her shovel at them.

Damned, cursed people!

Grace was panting by the time the beakheads finally decided that going against the graveyard keeper was too much of a hassle to deal with that morning. She just had to stop the fires after. She had to…

But how did one stop a fire? She had to act, they were in pain and she could feel their silent screams tear at her heart.

She swung her shovel at the fires, though as expected, it did little to stop the flame’s all-consuming rage. Her thoughts then strayed to water. Normally water would fight fire and yet in her panic, she had left her bottles by the keg on the other side of town. There was no water near her. There was no way for her to stop the fires. There was nothing she could do but watch. Watch as they cried for help, cried in agony and pain for anyone to stop that torment.

“I’m sorry…” Grace’s voice whispered back to darkened dead. Her trembling hands still tried to reach to the corpses as the flames eventually died out, yet it was too hot for her cold fingers to handle. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I won’t leave. I won’t leave again, I won’t…” let this happen again; she thought to herself as her voice gave out amidst her tearful sobs.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Notkin

Having at least some of his pain relieved, Notkin was back on his way to the Warehouses when he saw a sudden burst of smoke in the distance. The boy squinted his eyes, unable to tell where exactly it came from. It seemed to be coming out of the steppe. But why, or rather who, would set a patch of grass and herbs on fire? No, it had to be something else.  They were probably burning something. The more he approached, the stronger that smell became, making the boy wonder why he was going there in the first place. At first, he blamed his own curiosity. Yet he couldn’t fight the fact that he was concerned too. From the distance, he could already tell it was coming from the cemetery. And he had met the Graveyard girl not too long ago. He wouldn’t consider her a friend, yet the though of such a genuine person dying… No. It didn’t seem right to him.  He never knew why she dragged him back to the others, but he yet to thank her for it. He would’ve spent a day crawling back to the Warehouses if not for her. Or maybe never knew they wanted him back in the first place. She did a great job finding him and somehow he doubted his scouts even approaching the area he was at at that point.

When he finally reached the gates, he first realized the impact of the cause. Everything here was on fire. It smelled horrendous, making him almost throw up on the spot. Was this how burnt flesh was supposed to smell? Or was it the plague that made it even more foul. Nonetheless, he couldn’t afford wasting any time. Grace was probably somewhere in here, injured in the worst case, while breathing in all this soot.  Thankfully, she wasn’t so hard to find. Aggressively beating her shovel on sullen flames over and over until they eventually died out. But this was no method of tackling the problem… she would never cease the fire at this rate. Especially not alone. 

Damn it, he should’ve brought some people. It wouldn’t have been too hard to extinguish it as a group. Yet then again, he didn’t want to risk their health amidst all of this. He was here now, so he had to do his best to help. Looking around, he couldn’t find much to begin with, so he took out his jacket, at least getting rid of the smaller flames with it. 

He waited before he spoke until Grace was done on her spot. Everything here was still on fire, yet he persisted to speak, standing in her way until she stopped. 

“Stop, stop! You won’t get far like this, we need help!” 

Notkin knew he’d have to force her to stop. But he didn’t know how. She looked enraged, enough for the boy to step back. Was he really intimidated by a girl? 

“Look, we can get help. Call for my Souls. This fire is impossible to take out by just the two of us.”

He looked around, knowing he couldn’t leave her alone. The more time they wasted, the further the flames rose. He couldn’t let the poor girl deal with this on her own. She would die here with them. Or maybe that was what she wanted.  Didn’t mean he’d let her.

“What even happened here? Why are they burning them?” 

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Status: @twyrineconcoction

It was obvious her shovel didn’t help much with fighting the flames, yet she noticed a coat being swung at it instead. The coat definitely fared better than her shovel, and she had one too. The words the boy spouted hadn’t reached her ears yet she followed his motions, removing her own coat and using it to fight back the fires.

 “There was no space…” Though her attention still lay on the flames in front of her, the boy’s words still made their way to her by then. “They couldn’t be buried so they’re…”

Monsters.

That’s what they were. How could they ever even think of burning people? Didn’t they know what that did to them? Did they know and just didn’t care?

“I’m not leaving. I can’t. I won’t.”

Grace then added. That’s what this boy wanted, wasn’t it? He wanted something to be here, but she wouldn’t leave again. She needed to protect the dead now more than anything.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Notkin

No space? 

Notkin turned in circles where he stood. All around, there seemed to be enough space for the entire town to rest. Maybe not in the enclosure of the rocky fence, but definitely beyond. They could’ve just buried them further out in the steppe. No one ever ventured that far and even if they would, it wouldn’t hurt to expand the cemetery. Bodies were good for the soil, that much he knew. But what about infected corpses…

The boy looked down, knowing how what they’d done made sense. He didn’t know much about why Grace saw it as unfitting to burn them. Or how the dead could possibly suffer from that. For all he knew, one became a soul when they parted with their bodies. They no longer suffered from earthly pains such burning to soot. Still, he didn’t consider himself worthy enough to object. All he had were a bunch of assumptions. In reality, he knew nothing about them. He made connection to souls, not their bodies. They didn’t have any to begin with. So all of this was not exactly his area of expertise. 

Getting down to his knees, he once again took out a note for Jester. Writing a short message and fixing it to his cat by a thread, he sent him away, hoping he would soon come back with support. And that he did. After a brief time, enough children wandered into the cemetery, buckets of water in their hands, some holding blankets. And among them, was another familiar face he had just met a few hours ago.

“Clara?”

[thechangelingclara-deactivated2]

POV: Clara

It didn’t took to long for her to notice the big smoke rising in the distance, but after she saw a group of children running towards it with buckets and blankets, she was confused. Why was a group of children running towards the smoke? There was probably a fire… but why were they trying to stop it? Is there something for them?

Out of curiosity, she followed them for a bit, but after she realised that the fire came from the cemetery, she immediately ran after the group of children. How did she not noticed sooner that, the cemetery is on fire? Didn’t Saburov talked about it the night before?

After finally getting there, the girl seemed somewhat exhausted. Just like the other children, Clara was able to get a bucket and filled it with water, before coming here.

Clara looked around the cemetery, but she was shocked. She couldn’t believe that Saburov actually dared to burn the bodies instead of properly burying them. She didn’t know how she was supposed to feel about this… was there anything she could’ve done to prevent this…? There was no time to blame herself… she had to do something before it got worse.

Wait…

If the cemetery was on fire, that only meant that Grace was close by, trying to stop the flames from spreading or burning more of the bodies.

While she was looking around the cemetery for Grace, she didn’t notice Notkin at first, but after she heard him saying her name, she immediately looked over to him.

“What are you doing here? Why are all these children here”

The girl moved over to him while asking but kept looking around, seemingly hoping to see Grace in all that smoke. Her friend had to be here. She would never let this happen, without trying to do something about it. She was sure of that, but it still worried her, that she wasn’t able to see her yet. What if something happened to her and she was already to late…?

“Did you see another girl here… she is probably trying to put out the fire.”

Before Notkin could’ve even answered her, the healer already ran off, after seeing Grace desperately trying to put out the fire.

After she got to her, she quickly used the water in the bucket to extinguish the burning pile of dead bodies.

“Are you alright? You wont be able to put out the flames by yourself.”

While she was helping Grace, some of the children already started to put out some of the flames, with the buckets filled with water or their blankets they brought along.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

Her fight against the flames seemed all but hopeless until her sight was covered with a darkening smoke and sizzling sound. Grace coughed amidst the smoke. It was wonderful to finally see the fire put out, yet that alone didn’t ease their pain.

As the smoke slowly cleared, Clara’s words rang in her ears. Again pointless questions. Why did they all only care about her? The dead were being burned right in front of them and they only ever asked about her. Deep down she knew they meant well, but it irked her. She was tired, distraught, angry and had just lost the little hope she had just a few hours ago to expand the cemetery. Couldn’t they see with their own eyes how none of this was good? How nothing was alright?

Her pale eyes eventually tried to focus on the girl beside her. It was hard, both with her now dry eyes after crying and now the smoke and smell that emanated from the bodies.

“No…” Grace replied despondently. “They…”

They. They were burnt. They had ordered it so. They had forsaken every one of their rules and done so. They were in pain and they didn’t care.

“Thank you.” She then added, both to Clara and Notkin. Without them the fires would have surely harmed more of them. “For the help… But now I have work to do.”

So much work to do now…

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Notkin

At last, the flames seemed to settle down, leaving nothing but traces of ash and burnt meat all around. Notkin couldn’t recall ever seeing anything so cruel in his life. To know that these remains were people, wandering on the same plane as them not too long ago… He almost choked up on his dread. He couldn’t buckle now, not with such a huge problem at hand. He turned to face the girls, watching as Grace got consumed more and more by her guilt. Was she blaming all this on herself? Again, she was taking so much responsibility upon herself. It seemed cruel to him to just leave her like this, to just…

“We’re helping.” 

His voice almost came out by itself. The other souls just looked at him, agreeing in silent nature. No one questioned his decision, knowing how it was obvious they couldn’t leave her alone. Not like this, not in this state…

He slowly walked up to her, his Soul following him on a short distance. Notkin didn’t know if Grace could see them, all the Halves around them who were willing to help. Those with dogs could help dig out some holes. Everyone else could grab a shovel. It was more about being confronted with those bodies that made his stomach turn. He wasn’t used to corpses and their disturbing nature. How they didn’t blink, move or breathe. He barely knew how to handle Patches or the other one’s who got stabbed at night around their Warehouses, leaving nothing but Ashen Swish once their bodies were removed. Notkin’s gang buried all of them, although far from the graveyard. They had their own little spaces to bury their friends. But never had they come to the thought of burning them. Was this how a human body looked after being scorched in flames? Did they even look human anymore? 

“We can bury them even outside of this place, right? The girls can help make headstones out of wood. It will take a while, but I’m not letting you do this on your own.” There was a sense of duty in his voice. He wouldn’t let Grace turn down his help, not on this. Her loneliness hurt him in a way. How even the day before, she sacrificed so much of her time to help someone… someone who was perhaps within these piles. Why weren’t they helping her? The Shmowder had to have cured them by now. “And you can direct us on how to it. Let’s not let them sit out here for any longer. They don’t deserve to be seen like this.”

[thechangelingclara-deactivated2]

POV: Clara

After the flames were put out, she looked around at the dead bodies or at least what was left of them. These people didn’t deserved to be burned… they needed to be burried…

Wasn’t the artist supposed to help burn these bodies? Did he decided not to do it after all… but why wasn’t he here to help Gace? He told her about this weird offer, Saburov made him… right…?

Clara looked back to Grace and wanted to ask her, but after seeing that the girl was already overwhelmed with enough probelms and work, the healer rather kept her questions to herself. She didn’t want to make her worry more… she didn’t need more issues…

Right now she should help Grace… she couldn’t just leave her. Even if this would take them weeks, she wouldn’t let her do this all by her own.

Before she could’ve said anything, Notkin already spoke up. Helping Grace properly burying the bodies was the least she could do. She looked at the boy and his gang after they came closer to them both, but she didn’t wait for long and joined the group.

“I want to help too… just tell me what I need to do.”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

It was the only way to bury them. They had to be buried outside of the cemetery and only afterwards could it be properly expanded. It wouldn’t be easy, nor pleasant. The stench of burnt flesh was likely far too much for the children to bear for long. Honestly it was a miracle that they hadn’t just given up by then already, too sick from all senses to actually act. Grace was used to it, though she was always a bit different from the rest of them.

“They need to be deep.” Grace murmured as her thoughts slowly subsided to what now needed to be done. “The graves. One person per grave.” Though some bodies seemed to be glued together now by their blackened flesh.

It was hard enough to explain to an adult what the dead needed, how could she put it in a way that children, some even younger than her, could understand? There weren’t even enough shovels for all of them. For as long as she could remember, it was always just her family tending to the dead, they didn’t need an abundant amount of tools to work with.

“Make it a bed-sized hole. Where they can stretch their arms and legs if they wanted to.”

They needed room to be comfortable in and the artist’s bed was the first thing that came to mind as she tried to find some comparison for the rest of them. She’d have to apologize to that man later as well, for leaving without any warning or notice. As much as she loved to be in his loft, her work was more important.

“I can handle the rest.”

She then turned her attention back to Notkin and Clara. Despite their wishes to help, surely those two would understand.

The younger children shouldn’t be made to be next to such horrors. It was different for Grace. Though the smell bothered her most, she was mostly accustomed to such work. She wouldn’t be kept up at night with visions of what happened here, and neither would she grow sick from it either. The rest of the children however... They shouldn’t be here.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 9 Status: Open

Grace woke up under her warm blankets once again. So warm. So cozy. That place was truly heavenly, though today it seemed a bit too quiet. She had already learned that there wasn’t too much noise in those apartments. The walls were thick and not many sounds slipped through, but she felt alone. It could be that the artist was still asleep and if that was the case she didn’t want to bother him either. He was sick just the day before, he ought to rest. Grace could handle the rest of the housekeeping on her own, surely.

Once she got out of bed her eyes scoured to try and find just what housekeeping entailed. She straightened her bedsheets but beyond that she wasn’t quite sure what to do. Maybe breakfast would be a good idea, but if the artist was still asleep she probably shouldn’t take too much food from his storage. Grace could do without breakfast too. She could eat once they were both awake, it might even be better to wait for what he even has for breakfast too.

After pondering for what seemed like too long, she finally settled on going outside to at least get some water. Water was always a good thing to have, she could do that while the artist slept. She gathered some empty bottles that were laying around and made her way to the nearest keg. Luckily the water didn’t seem too gray, yet in that moment it wasn’t the water itself that alarmed her. Just as she was filling the second bottle she heard passerbies comment on how they were finally… Finally burning the corpses.

Grace’s heart sunk and everything else she had planned to do faded away in an instant. They couldn’t be burning the corpses. They couldn’t burn them! They mustn’t burn! Ever! Who could ever order, or even do such a thing?!

Her feet raced down the tangled streets until she finally found her home. Her real home. Her home that was now in flames! They had truly done it. They were burning them! She could smell the burnt flesh and it made her gag through panicked screams.

“Stop! You can’t! Stop! Stop!”

Grace screamed from the top of her lungs at the beakheads that were surrounding the bonfires. There wasn’t even any wood fueling the fires, just bodies on top of bodies on top of more bodies.

“Stop! Stop burning them! Stop!”

She continued to cry out despite getting no response from the towering figures. Her voice didn’t even seem to reach them. But they had to stop. Her eyes desperately sought to find something, anything, to make the beakheads leave yet around here was only dry grass. Grace hadn’t any time to spare. With only dry herbs surrounding her, she dashed to her small hut and grabbed her shovel.

“Get away from them!”

At least those monsters were slow in their outfits. Try as they did, they couldn’t get close to Grace as she swung her shovel at them.

Damned, cursed people!

Grace was panting by the time the beakheads finally decided that going against the graveyard keeper was too much of a hassle to deal with that morning. She just had to stop the fires after. She had to…

But how did one stop a fire? She had to act, they were in pain and she could feel their silent screams tear at her heart.

She swung her shovel at the fires, though as expected, it did little to stop the flame’s all-consuming rage. Her thoughts then strayed to water. Normally water would fight fire and yet in her panic, she had left her bottles by the keg on the other side of town. There was no water near her. There was no way for her to stop the fires. There was nothing she could do but watch. Watch as they cried for help, cried in agony and pain for anyone to stop that torment.

“I’m sorry…” Grace’s voice whispered back to darkened dead. Her trembling hands still tried to reach to the corpses as the flames eventually died out, yet it was too hot for her cold fingers to handle. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I won’t leave. I won’t leave again, I won’t…” let this happen again; she thought to herself as her voice gave out amidst her tearful sobs.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Notkin

Having at least some of his pain relieved, Notkin was back on his way to the Warehouses when he saw a sudden burst of smoke in the distance. The boy squinted his eyes, unable to tell where exactly it came from. It seemed to be coming out of the steppe. But why, or rather who, would set a patch of grass and herbs on fire? No, it had to be something else.  They were probably burning something. The more he approached, the stronger that smell became, making the boy wonder why he was going there in the first place. At first, he blamed his own curiosity. Yet he couldn’t fight the fact that he was concerned too. From the distance, he could already tell it was coming from the cemetery. And he had met the Graveyard girl not too long ago. He wouldn’t consider her a friend, yet the though of such a genuine person dying… No. It didn’t seem right to him.  He never knew why she dragged him back to the others, but he yet to thank her for it. He would’ve spent a day crawling back to the Warehouses if not for her. Or maybe never knew they wanted him back in the first place. She did a great job finding him and somehow he doubted his scouts even approaching the area he was at at that point.

When he finally reached the gates, he first realized the impact of the cause. Everything here was on fire. It smelled horrendous, making him almost throw up on the spot. Was this how burnt flesh was supposed to smell? Or was it the plague that made it even more foul. Nonetheless, he couldn’t afford wasting any time. Grace was probably somewhere in here, injured in the worst case, while breathing in all this soot.  Thankfully, she wasn’t so hard to find. Aggressively beating her shovel on sullen flames over and over until they eventually died out. But this was no method of tackling the problem… she would never cease the fire at this rate. Especially not alone. 

Damn it, he should’ve brought some people. It wouldn’t have been too hard to extinguish it as a group. Yet then again, he didn’t want to risk their health amidst all of this. He was here now, so he had to do his best to help. Looking around, he couldn’t find much to begin with, so he took out his jacket, at least getting rid of the smaller flames with it. 

He waited before he spoke until Grace was done on her spot. Everything here was still on fire, yet he persisted to speak, standing in her way until she stopped. 

“Stop, stop! You won’t get far like this, we need help!” 

Notkin knew he’d have to force her to stop. But he didn’t know how. She looked enraged, enough for the boy to step back. Was he really intimidated by a girl? 

“Look, we can get help. Call for my Souls. This fire is impossible to take out by just the two of us.”

He looked around, knowing he couldn’t leave her alone. The more time they wasted, the further the flames rose. He couldn’t let the poor girl deal with this on her own. She would die here with them. Or maybe that was what she wanted.  Didn’t mean he’d let her.

“What even happened here? Why are they burning them?” 

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Status: @twyrineconcoction

It was obvious her shovel didn’t help much with fighting the flames, yet she noticed a coat being swung at it instead. The coat definitely fared better than her shovel, and she had one too. The words the boy spouted hadn’t reached her ears yet she followed his motions, removing her own coat and using it to fight back the fires.

 “There was no space…” Though her attention still lay on the flames in front of her, the boy’s words still made their way to her by then. “They couldn’t be buried so they’re…”

Monsters.

That’s what they were. How could they ever even think of burning people? Didn’t they know what that did to them? Did they know and just didn’t care?

“I’m not leaving. I can’t. I won’t.”

Grace then added. That’s what this boy wanted, wasn’t it? He wanted something to be here, but she wouldn’t leave again. She needed to protect the dead now more than anything.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Notkin

No space? 

Notkin turned in circles where he stood. All around, there seemed to be enough space for the entire town to rest. Maybe not in the enclosure of the rocky fence, but definitely beyond. They could’ve just buried them further out in the steppe. No one ever ventured that far and even if they would, it wouldn’t hurt to expand the cemetery. Bodies were good for the soil, that much he knew. But what about infected corpses…

The boy looked down, knowing how what they’d done made sense. He didn’t know much about why Grace saw it as unfitting to burn them. Or how the dead could possibly suffer from that. For all he knew, one became a soul when they parted with their bodies. They no longer suffered from earthly pains such burning to soot. Still, he didn’t consider himself worthy enough to object. All he had were a bunch of assumptions. In reality, he knew nothing about them. He made connection to souls, not their bodies. They didn’t have any to begin with. So all of this was not exactly his area of expertise. 

Getting down to his knees, he once again took out a note for Jester. Writing a short message and fixing it to his cat by a thread, he sent him away, hoping he would soon come back with support. And that he did. After a brief time, enough children wandered into the cemetery, buckets of water in their hands, some holding blankets. And among them, was another familiar face he had just met a few hours ago.

“Clara?”

[thechangelingclara-deactivated2]

POV: Clara

It didn’t took to long for her to notice the big smoke rising in the distance, but after she saw a group of children running towards it with buckets and blankets, she was confused. Why was a group of children running towards the smoke? There was probably a fire… but why were they trying to stop it? Is there something for them?

Out of curiosity, she followed them for a bit, but after she realised that the fire came from the cemetery, she immediately ran after the group of children. How did she not noticed sooner that, the cemetery is on fire? Didn’t Saburov talked about it the night before?

After finally getting there, the girl seemed somewhat exhausted. Just like the other children, Clara was able to get a bucket and filled it with water, before coming here.

Clara looked around the cemetery, but she was shocked. She couldn’t believe that Saburov actually dared to burn the bodies instead of properly burying them. She didn’t know how she was supposed to feel about this… was there anything she could’ve done to prevent this…? There was no time to blame herself… she had to do something before it got worse.

Wait…

If the cemetery was on fire, that only meant that Grace was close by, trying to stop the flames from spreading or burning more of the bodies.

While she was looking around the cemetery for Grace, she didn’t notice Notkin at first, but after she heard him saying her name, she immediately looked over to him.

“What are you doing here? Why are all these children here”

The girl moved over to him while asking but kept looking around, seemingly hoping to see Grace in all that smoke. Her friend had to be here. She would never let this happen, without trying to do something about it. She was sure of that, but it still worried her, that she wasn’t able to see her yet. What if something happened to her and she was already to late…?

“Did you see another girl here… she is probably trying to put out the fire.”

Before Notkin could’ve even answered her, the healer already ran off, after seeing Grace desperately trying to put out the fire.

After she got to her, she quickly used the water in the bucket to extinguish the burning pile of dead bodies.

“Are you alright? You wont be able to put out the flames by yourself.”

While she was helping Grace, some of the children already started to put out some of the flames, with the buckets filled with water or their blankets they brought along.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

Her fight against the flames seemed all but hopeless until her sight was covered with a darkening smoke and sizzling sound. Grace coughed amidst the smoke. It was wonderful to finally see the fire put out, yet that alone didn't ease their pain.

As the smoke slowly cleared, Clara's words rang in her ears. Again pointless questions. Why did they all only care about her? The dead were being burned right in front of them and they only ever asked about her. Deep down she knew they meant well, but it irked her. She was tired, distraught, angry and had just lost the little hope she had just a few hours ago to expand the cemetery. Couldn't they see with their own eyes how none of this was good? How nothing was alright?

Her pale eyes eventually tried to focus on the girl beside her. It was hard, both with her now dry eyes after crying and now the smoke and smell that emanated from the bodies.

"No..." Grace replied despondently. "They..."

They. They were burnt. They had ordered it so. They had forsaken every one of their rules and done so. They were in pain and they didn't care.

"Thank you." She then added, both to Clara and Notkin. Without them the fires would have surely harmed more of them. "For the help... But now I have work to do."

So much work to do now...

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 9 Status: Open

Grace woke up under her warm blankets once again. So warm. So cozy. That place was truly heavenly, though today it seemed a bit too quiet. She had already learned that there wasn’t too much noise in those apartments. The walls were thick and not many sounds slipped through, but she felt alone. It could be that the artist was still asleep and if that was the case she didn’t want to bother him either. He was sick just the day before, he ought to rest. Grace could handle the rest of the housekeeping on her own, surely.

Once she got out of bed her eyes scoured to try and find just what housekeeping entailed. She straightened her bedsheets but beyond that she wasn’t quite sure what to do. Maybe breakfast would be a good idea, but if the artist was still asleep she probably shouldn’t take too much food from his storage. Grace could do without breakfast too. She could eat once they were both awake, it might even be better to wait for what he even has for breakfast too.

After pondering for what seemed like too long, she finally settled on going outside to at least get some water. Water was always a good thing to have, she could do that while the artist slept. She gathered some empty bottles that were laying around and made her way to the nearest keg. Luckily the water didn’t seem too gray, yet in that moment it wasn’t the water itself that alarmed her. Just as she was filling the second bottle she heard passerbies comment on how they were finally… Finally burning the corpses.

Grace’s heart sunk and everything else she had planned to do faded away in an instant. They couldn’t be burning the corpses. They couldn’t burn them! They mustn’t burn! Ever! Who could ever order, or even do such a thing?!

Her feet raced down the tangled streets until she finally found her home. Her real home. Her home that was now in flames! They had truly done it. They were burning them! She could smell the burnt flesh and it made her gag through panicked screams.

“Stop! You can’t! Stop! Stop!”

Grace screamed from the top of her lungs at the beakheads that were surrounding the bonfires. There wasn’t even any wood fueling the fires, just bodies on top of bodies on top of more bodies.

“Stop! Stop burning them! Stop!”

She continued to cry out despite getting no response from the towering figures. Her voice didn’t even seem to reach them. But they had to stop. Her eyes desperately sought to find something, anything, to make the beakheads leave yet around here was only dry grass. Grace hadn’t any time to spare. With only dry herbs surrounding her, she dashed to her small hut and grabbed her shovel.

“Get away from them!”

At least those monsters were slow in their outfits. Try as they did, they couldn’t get close to Grace as she swung her shovel at them.

Damned, cursed people!

Grace was panting by the time the beakheads finally decided that going against the graveyard keeper was too much of a hassle to deal with that morning. She just had to stop the fires after. She had to…

But how did one stop a fire? She had to act, they were in pain and she could feel their silent screams tear at her heart.

She swung her shovel at the fires, though as expected, it did little to stop the flame’s all-consuming rage. Her thoughts then strayed to water. Normally water would fight fire and yet in her panic, she had left her bottles by the keg on the other side of town. There was no water near her. There was no way for her to stop the fires. There was nothing she could do but watch. Watch as they cried for help, cried in agony and pain for anyone to stop that torment.

“I’m sorry…” Grace’s voice whispered back to darkened dead. Her trembling hands still tried to reach to the corpses as the flames eventually died out, yet it was too hot for her cold fingers to handle. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry… I won’t leave. I won’t leave again, I won’t…” let this happen again; she thought to herself as her voice gave out amidst her tearful sobs.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Notkin

Having at least some of his pain relieved, Notkin was back on his way to the Warehouses when he saw a sudden burst of smoke in the distance. The boy squinted his eyes, unable to tell where exactly it came from. It seemed to be coming out of the steppe. But why, or rather who, would set a patch of grass and herbs on fire? No, it had to be something else.  They were probably burning something. The more he approached, the stronger that smell became, making the boy wonder why he was going there in the first place. At first, he blamed his own curiosity. Yet he couldn’t fight the fact that he was concerned too. From the distance, he could already tell it was coming from the cemetery. And he had met the Graveyard girl not too long ago. He wouldn’t consider her a friend, yet the though of such a genuine person dying… No. It didn’t seem right to him.  He never knew why she dragged him back to the others, but he yet to thank her for it. He would’ve spent a day crawling back to the Warehouses if not for her. Or maybe never knew they wanted him back in the first place. She did a great job finding him and somehow he doubted his scouts even approaching the area he was at at that point.

When he finally reached the gates, he first realized the impact of the cause. Everything here was on fire. It smelled horrendous, making him almost throw up on the spot. Was this how burnt flesh was supposed to smell? Or was it the plague that made it even more foul. Nonetheless, he couldn’t afford wasting any time. Grace was probably somewhere in here, injured in the worst case, while breathing in all this soot.  Thankfully, she wasn’t so hard to find. Aggressively beating her shovel on sullen flames over and over until they eventually died out. But this was no method of tackling the problem… she would never cease the fire at this rate. Especially not alone. 

Damn it, he should’ve brought some people. It wouldn’t have been too hard to extinguish it as a group. Yet then again, he didn’t want to risk their health amidst all of this. He was here now, so he had to do his best to help. Looking around, he couldn’t find much to begin with, so he took out his jacket, at least getting rid of the smaller flames with it. 

He waited before he spoke until Grace was done on her spot. Everything here was still on fire, yet he persisted to speak, standing in her way until she stopped. 

“Stop, stop! You won’t get far like this, we need help!” 

Notkin knew he’d have to force her to stop. But he didn’t know how. She looked enraged, enough for the boy to step back. Was he really intimidated by a girl? 

“Look, we can get help. Call for my Souls. This fire is impossible to take out by just the two of us.”

He looked around, knowing he couldn’t leave her alone. The more time they wasted, the further the flames rose. He couldn’t let the poor girl deal with this on her own. She would die here with them. Or maybe that was what she wanted.  Didn’t mean he’d let her.

“What even happened here? Why are they burning them?” 

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Status: @twyrineconcoction

It was obvious her shovel didn’t help much with fighting the flames, yet she noticed a coat being swung at it instead. The coat definitely fared better than her shovel, and she had one too. The words the boy spouted hadn’t reached her ears yet she followed his motions, removing her own coat and using it to fight back the fires.

 “There was no space...” Though her attention still lay on the flames in front of her, the boy’s words still made their way to her by then. “They couldn’t be buried so they’re...”

Monsters.

That’s what they were. How could they ever even think of burning people? Didn’t they know what that did to them? Did they know and just didn’t care?

“I’m not leaving. I can’t. I won’t.”

Grace then added. That’s what this boy wanted, wasn’t it? He wanted something to be here, but she wouldn’t leave again. She needed to protect the dead now more than anything.

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace Time: Morning Day: 9 Status: Open

Grace woke up under her warm blankets once again. So warm. So cozy. That place was truly heavenly, though today it seemed a bit too quiet. She had already learned that there wasn’t too much noise in those apartments. The walls were thick and not many sounds slipped through, but she felt alone. It could be that the artist was still asleep and if that was the case she didn’t want to bother him either. He was sick just the day before, he ought to rest. Grace could handle the rest of the housekeeping on her own, surely.

Once she got out of bed her eyes scoured to try and find just what housekeeping entailed. She straightened her bedsheets but beyond that she wasn’t quite sure what to do. Maybe breakfast would be a good idea, but if the artist was still asleep she probably shouldn’t take too much food from his storage. Grace could do without breakfast too. She could eat once they were both awake, it might even be better to wait for what he even has for breakfast too.

After pondering for what seemed like too long, she finally settled on going outside to at least get some water. Water was always a good thing to have, she could do that while the artist slept. She gathered some empty bottles that were laying around and made her way to the nearest keg. Luckily the water didn’t seem too gray, yet in that moment it wasn’t the water itself that alarmed her. Just as she was filling the second bottle she heard passerbies comment on how they were finally... Finally burning the corpses.

Grace’s heart sunk and everything else she had planned to do faded away in an instant. They couldn’t be burning the corpses. They couldn’t burn them! They mustn’t burn! Ever! Who could ever order, or even do such a thing?!

Her feet raced down the tangled streets until she finally found her home. Her real home. Her home that was now in flames! They had truly done it. They were burning them! She could smell the burnt flesh and it made her gag through panicked screams.

“Stop! You can’t! Stop! Stop!”

Grace screamed from the top of her lungs at the beakheads that were surrounding the bonfires. There wasn’t even any wood fueling the fires, just bodies on top of bodies on top of more bodies.

“Stop! Stop burning them! Stop!”

She continued to cry out despite getting no response from the towering figures. Her voice didn’t even seem to reach them. But they had to stop. Her eyes desperately sought to find something, anything, to make the beakheads leave yet around here was only dry grass. Grace hadn’t any time to spare. With only dry herbs surrounding her, she dashed to her small hut and grabbed her shovel.

“Get away from them!”

At least those monsters were slow in their outfits. Try as they did, they couldn’t get close to Grace as she swung her shovel at them.

Damned, cursed people!

Grace was panting by the time the beakheads finally decided that going against the graveyard keeper was too much of a hassle to deal with that morning. She just had to stop the fires after. She had to...

But how did one stop a fire? She had to act, they were in pain and she could feel their silent screams tear at her heart.

She swung her shovel at the fires, though as expected, it did little to stop the flame’s all-consuming rage. Her thoughts then strayed to water. Normally water would fight fire and yet in her panic, she had left her bottles by the keg on the other side of town. There was no water near her. There was no way for her to stop the fires. There was nothing she could do but watch. Watch as they cried for help, cried in agony and pain for anyone to stop that torment.

“I’m sorry...” Grace’s voice whispered back to darkened dead. Her trembling hands still tried to reach to the corpses as the flames eventually died out, yet it was too hot for her cold fingers to handle. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry... I won’t leave. I won’t leave again, I won’t...” let this happen again; she thought to herself as her voice gave out amidst her tearful sobs.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin Time: Night Day: 8 Status: Open

He couldn’t explain how his body fought the illness, yet here he was. It took him a couple of hours to be back on his legs again. Still not fine, yet visibly better. It still hurt him to breathe, still hurt him to walk, but none of that was comparable to the pain he went through before. He didn’t have to clench his heart anymore or claw at his throat to breathe. His coughing had gone back and just like that, he could walk slow steps without immediately collapsing onto himself.  His health was improving almost rapidly.

Peter tried to remember what could’ve been the cause of this. He definitely had the plague, although he refused to take any medicine. Was it the food he ate? The artist thought… and remembered. The horrible tea he drank, there was something off about its flavor that even his taste-dead mouth could tell. Even the consistency was wrong.  Grace poisoned him with the curse to live.  That was an ironic feat on its own. The girl responsible of taking care of the Dead… Peter refused to say anything. He wouldn’t confront the girl about what she did. For once, she couldn’t have known that dying was his actual intention. She never knew how much he wished to cease from this world, only wanting him to get better. Such pure intentions couldn’t be scolded, yet the bitter taste of life remained. He was still doomed to wander this plane.  So while he was here, why not make it worthwhile?

Rinsing himself from the dirt of the plague, he took a thorough bath before putting on his nicest clothes. He would later have to get rid of what he wore before, not wanting the germs to float around his house any longer. For now, he had some convincing to do. 

Grabbing onto his rolled up blueprints, he stuffed them all into a bag before making his way out of his house. Earlier that evening, right after his talk with Grace, a messenger had arrived, summoning the man to talk to one of the town’s governors. Peter knew the man all too well, unfortunately. He assumed this would be about old affairs, so why not use the opportunity to present his newest creation on his own? Usually, Andrey was there to fulfill the task of talking. However, his brother had vanished over night, being nowhere to be found. 

While Peter walked the short path, he wondered what the man would confront him about this time. What kind of farfetched proof he claimed to have of the murder he committed ten years ago. How important was Farkhad to Saburov anyway? It almost seemed like an obsession to get him behind bars. Or cut his head off. Maybe that was what happened to Andrey as well. Maybe his disappearance was Saburov’s fault alone. 

Yet those superstitions proved to be wrong when he finally arrived and had an actual talk with the man. His request to see the younger Stamatin had nothing to do with what he assumed. For once, Alexander wasn’t pointing a finger at him, instead burdening him with a task. Peter’s face grimaced when he heard what he actually wanted. It was an odd thing to ask an artist for sure, but what was the purpose behind it? Why should he…

“Why do you task me of all people with the cremation of the Townsfolk?”

His question was justified. It made no sense in his eyes to bother him with such a heavy burden. There were dozens of people who would volunteer for the sheer payment of it. But Peter didn’t need the money. The Kains offered him enough.  Saburov however didn’t seem to be pleased with the Stamatin’s response. Instead ordering his men to block the door. Really now? He wasn’t here for such childish affairs.

Eventually, the man caught up on his actual drill. Noticing the sketches in his bag, he offered to execute his plans after the plague if he decided to abide.  Peter thought for a moment, before he agreed to the plan. If some burning was all he had to do to have his project get funded it would be more than worth it. Though it was still suspicious of Saburov to offer such a deal. Even more so the job he had to fulfill.  But a deal was a deal.  He would get the funds needed to finish his project and Grace would no longer have to constantly work at the cemetery. She could live here in town and lead a normal life. Halfway normal would be enough for him. He just wanted her to grow up at a safe place.

An hour passed after they came to a conclusion and by that time Peter was finally on his way back. For a moment he almost felt proud of himself to stand up for his own until he remembered how much he would rather not do that. He preferred Andrey to voice his thoughts. Andrey… right. Now that he was outside, he might as well just look for his brother.  He still had some time before the cremation and until then, he could put his efforts into scanning the town for him.

[thechangelingclara-deactivated2]

POV: Clara

Time: Afternoon/Night

Day: 8

The young healer smiles a bit again… but now she seemed more suspicious of him. Was he trying to hide something…? Should she ask him? He already had to deal with a lot so she rather did not bother him with these questions.

She nodded, before moving over to him

“I can help you.”

She stayed with Artemy and helped him but after noticing that it’s starting to get night, she left the hospital. She still wanted to talk to Suburov.

She got there surprisingly fast and immediately started to talk to Suburov after seeing him, hoping she could convince him to stop the hunt after the Haruspex. Sadly without success… the man did not want to listen. He didn’t even told her the reason why he did this in the first place.

Their fight got interrupted after Suburov saw Stamatin walking in. He immediately sended Clara away, telling her to leave. She does leave the room but decided to wait around the corner and listen to them.

After listening to them for a while, she seemed confused about that weird request herself, but didn’t questioned it that much. She was more interested, after she heard them talking about the artists project. She started to get curious. She wanted to hear more about it and actually see it herself.

After Peter finally left the building, she started to follow him. She is more focused on the bag that is stuffed with blueprints… but she didn’t know how to ask him. It’s already bad enough that she was following him around like some kind of stalker. She seems a bit uncomfortable and unsure how to ask him… she didn’t even know if he noticed her yet.

At one point, she slightly looked up to him, before she moved closer.

“Can you tell me more about these?”

While asking that, she pointed at the bag.

She immediately stopped and just stared forward.

Why did I ask him like that… that was the worst way to ask…

She felt embarrassed about herself to ask the artist. She lowered her arm after a moment and just looked a bit down, before trying to apologise about this question… she was clearly regretting this.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

She clearly caught him in surprise not only by her question, but also her overall presence. How long had she been there? Was she eavesdropping on them? And most importantly, why was Saburov harboring a child?  For as much as he knew, he recalled rumors about Katerina being unable to conceive a child. So she must’ve been adopted. Although by her overall appearance, he dared to doubt. For her to be part of one of the leading families in this town her clothes appeared rather shabby. She looked like she belonged to one of those warehouse groups, Peter remembered seeing a lot of kids there during his short visit in Grief’s lair. 

As her voice rang through the halls, he slowly started to regret his prejudices. She’s just a child, he reminded himself. Not much different from the one he took care of at home. He didn’t know about her backgrounds. She probably visited the man for help, or hell, was summoned here for stealing an apple. Saburov was a terrible man, one that would surely pull a kid off the streets for committing a crime needed to surive. He wouldn’t let a kid like her stay here if it wasn’t for his profit. Still, it seemed cruel to him that he’d let her walk around in this condition. Her scarf was covered in the black dust one had to avoid.

Seeing her slowly drop her hand made his empathy rise higher. God, why was he putting on such a mean face. He didn’t mean to frighten her. He just…

“Of course you can.”, the artist replied, not wanting her to resign. It was always nice to see some genuine interest in his art. Although he doubted that the girl knew who he was or what he’d come for. Well… no. If she listened, she knew why he was here. But he couldn’t imagine her to know any more. To even know it was him who created the Polyhedron. 

“It’s… it’s an idea for a place to put the Dead. To no longer pile them on the streets. A little girl inspired me to make these, she’s about your age.”

The man mustered her, trying to figure out her expression. Clara seemed to be in thoughts, probably thinking about who he could mean. Did she know Grace? Was there any way the two were connected? For as much as he knew, the kids in this town were quite connected. But Grace was more of a loner than a popular kid. Still, he felt as if it was worth a shot. If they knew each other, it would be nice to reconnect her with a friend. She wouldn’t have to be so alone anymore.

“Her name is Grace.” 

[thechangelingclara-deactivated2]

POV: Clara

After noticing that he was looking at her, with a somewhat judging look, she started to feel more uncomfortable than she already did before. The girl didn’t know what to say… should she just go away?

Clara didn’t speak a word anymore, but after the artist actually allowed her to see some of his work, she was surprised. For a moment ago she thought he would ignore her and move on… but he actually allowed her to see them.

She did like them and was very interested in his work, even though she sometimes had trouble to understand it. For how long was he already doing this?

While Peter was showing his work, Clara tried to stay a bit away to avoid infecting him. Sure… she was able to heal him if it happened but she rather tried to avoid getting him sick in the first place.

After he explained to her that he is trying to build a place for the dead, she seemed more confused. The cemetery was a good place for them already, wasn’t it? Who inspired him to create this… was he talking about Grace? No that can’t be… they probably don’t know each other.

She eventually looks down to the ground, trying to figure out who he was talking about.

After he told her the name, she looked back up to him, though she was very surprised. They did know each other!

“Grace? She is a friend of mine… but how do know her? Do you visit her at the cemetery?”

She went silent and looked back at the drawing, but she seems unsure. She didn’t want to disrespect his work, but how would Grace feel about this? She would appreciate the effort… maybe she should ask her, next time she saw her again.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

His face lit up in a smile when he heard the girl talk about her. As he assumed, the two knew each other and were even friends if he dared to believe what the girl said. It was nice to know that Grace wasn’t as much of a loner as he was. That she actually made some friends around town. She wouldn’t be lonely if he ever left. It wasn’t like he wanted to leave Grace behind, but up until now everyone’s life hung on golden thread, so it was fair to assume it could happen. 

The artist simply nodded to her questions, watching Clara get out of her shell. She didn’t seem as reserved as she was when she first approached him. Still doubtful, but he was fine with that. 

“Yes, I used to visit her at the cemetery. Now I take care of her… well, today it was more like she took care of me. She’s staying at my loft, but I assume she wants to go back soon. If you want, you can visit her.”

Perhaps bringing a friend could win him more of her trust. She had done so much for him today, so she deserved something nice in return. In his eyes, she was still a child. Children liked to spend time around friends, right? Then again, Grace was different from the rest. She was a loner, similar to him when he grew up. All Peter needed in her age was his brother. Maybe Clara was close to being that, to being as close to Grace as he was to Andrey.  It wouldn’t hurt to bring her around.

Putting away his sketches he looked at Clara, waiting for her response. 

[thechangelingclara-deactivated2]

POV: Clara

She was very surprised to hear that Grace was with him. It’s rare that she left the cemetery or stayed with someone else.

The healer started to smile herself after noticing, how happy it made him to hear that they were friends. She wanted to visit Grace anyway… so she might as well came along with him.

“Sure… I would like to see her, before she leaves. I didn’t see her for a while, now that I think about it.”

Since Clara didn’t know where his loft was, she let him lead the way. While walking there she sometimes looked around, but she still seemed worried about the amount of dead bodies. At some point she slightly looked up to Peter, trying to start some kind of conversation to distract herself.

“How did you convince Grace to stay with you? Why did you decide to let her stay with you in the first place?”

After getting to the architects loft, the girl closed the door behind herself, before she looked at the sketches that were hanging in the staircase. She stopped at one of them and took a closer look at it. Since it was quite dark in there, she was barely able to see it, but she did recognized some stairs on that paper. After a few minutes she followed him upstairs, but she seemed excited to see Grace again, if she was still there.

[twyrineconcoction]

POV: Peter Stamatin

It was nice to have Clara ask him question while they were on their way. Usually, a walk with the artist was rather shallow and quiet. Well, most of the times. People often needed to ask him things to keep the conversation alive. Otherwise, the man had no real desire to talk. Being one of those rare cases who enjoyed some mutual silence.  He turned his head to Clara, thinking, as if he didn’t already know the answer. It felt so hard to put into words, but he eventually got to it. 

“I asked her to stay because she reminded me of myself. Well, not like my job in this town holds such importance, but I felt this mutual sense of understanding.” 

The two simply cared for each other. Peter filled the spot of a parental figure Grace had long lost and for Peter, the girl was simply someone who grounded him. Who would drag him out of his impossible thoughts and back onto the earth where he belonged. All while not destroying his impossible fantasies.  No one else understood his idea of a pit like Grace did. Yet on the other hand, she gently told him all that was wrong with it, all the reasons it couldn’t exist. And it didn’t hurt him in the slightest. He wasn’t disappointed about having wasted his time on it, instead jumping to the next project that was supposed to get some weight off of her shoulders. She was like an anchor that kept him ashore. In the truest sense… Peter still had no idea how she cured him. He was still convinced that it must’ve been the tea. No herbal mixture could carry such a stale taste, yet it saved his life. Grace saved his life.

Having reached his loft, he led Clara upstairs to where Grace was staying. It was late at night, but not nearly late enough for the girl to be asleep. Besides, they were both nightly creatures anyway. Upstairs he stuck his head through the door until spotting the pale girl sitting on the couch. 

“There she is. You can go talk to her.”

[thechangelingclara-deactivated2]

POV: Clara

Even though he didn’t say much, she was able to tell that he was caring about Grace a lot. It was rare that the people actually care about the children here in this town… so she was glad that they both met each other.

Upstairs, in his loft, the girl waited and let Peter look through the door first, but after he told her that Grace was there, she immediately moved infront of him and looked through the room. After noticing Grace sitting there on the couch, Clara hesitated for short moment, before she moved over to the couch and sat down next to her. The young healer seemed happy to see her again, but she didn’t know what to say since they didn’t see each other for a few days. She looked down to the floor, trying to figure out what she should say.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t visit you for a while… but it’s… good to see you again. I am surprised that you kinda live here now. I mean… it looks cosy here.”

She went silent and looked a bit around the room, before looking back to Grace.

It didn’t seemed like she was sick or anything, which was a relief for Clara… hopefully she didn’t infect them both by accident…

“Anyway… are you alright…?”

[graveyard-grace]

POV: Grace

Grace wasn’t expecting any other disturbances that day. She had done well, all things considered, and was now just relaxing in one of the artist’s sofa since sleep hadn’t yet caught up to her.

The thought of expanding the cemetery still lingered in her mind. The artist was right. The cemetery could be a bit prettier for the living too, and his creations were always exquisite. The monument they had created for the other architect was a foreboding, but he admitted that the two didn’t quite get along either. Maybe if he liked the dead a bit more, his creations would be nicer. The polyhedron was amazing after all. He could do more like that. Even his stairs had their own charm, and a lovely view too!

Grace was busy enough combining her own thoughts into one single creation that she startled upon hearing the artist’s voice. Still, his voice was soft, as usual. It was such a welcoming, loving place to be in, which only became more so as she caught a glimpse of Clara behind him. Grace’s pale lips curled into an excited smile as she saw the girl. No longer was she over-burdened with caring for the dead, no longer did she have to ask her company to leave for her to continue her duties. Now she had all the time she needed and more.

“He offered to help.” She raised her voice to explain her presence. The two of them had so many plans now. They’d create the best place for the dead, and the living alike. “We’re going to talk to the Governor soon! Thing’s will be alright soon!”

She couldn’t contain the excitement she felt. She was fed, warm, had plans for the future and most importantly, she had people around her. Actual, living, loving people. Words didn’t do justice to the love and joy she felt in that place.

Grace was about to respond once again to the girl when she remembered what she had just been working on. That couldn’t wait, especially since the artist was right there too. Instead of addressing the girl, Grace quickly got up, moved aside her blankets and made her way to the artist with her small piece of paper.

“Look! Maybe they could be connected, but still have a little window to the sky...”

It was hard to explain, and admittedly, her drawings were even worse, but maybe he’d understand. They could combine their works. The artist could keep his pit, but add stairs with some space for the dead all around. The broken stairs scattered around the town were similar enough, and maybe the dead could find their way to the skies well enough too if there was an opening.

Maybe her drawings were just too bad for him to understand...

With a small pout, and before the artist could even open his mouth to speak, she hurried back to the couch to grab her pen. Upon her return, she scribbled down quick notes on her drawings. ‘Stairs, gift basket, way to the sun, earth bed’ and other notes were added all around. That’d surely help!

She let out a pleased exhale as she finished her notes. Maybe her writing was hard to understand too, she couldn’t tell. She rarely had to write anything down. But he’d understand. She knew he’d understand.

“Things are great!” Grace finally turned her attention back to Clara once her ideas were given to the man who could see them through. “Have you come to stay here too?”