A hundred ravens and one lift Rasthrum off the ground. They soar high with him dangling between them like a ragdoll.
Higher and higher they ascend the sky, black as a shroud yet blue as cobalt. The three moons of Lakoswanion are dim and numb.
Numb, as I am. Numb, as Marra and Aar and Es are. Numb.
Numb with sadness? I don’t know. Sadness doesn’t quite cover it. Grief? No. No, I don’t a word which encapsulates our feel at this moment has yet been invented.
Rasthrum did this willingly, I remind myself. I will be lying if I say it helps.
Higher and higher they ascend the sky. The ravens and Rasthrum.
Higher and higher they do ascend.
Higher and higher. Till they are not within sight.
YOU ARE READING
Sort of Deadly
Humor*Sequel to 'Sort Of Dead'* *Kindly read the previous installment beforehand* ~ "You know the feeling when you see a glass jar filled with perfectly round, colorful marbles, and you just want to put one - or two, or three - in your mouth, even though...
