Amarin Saella
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"So often we take for granted the haven we've made for ourselves on this island. Too easy we can forget the sacrifices made beyond the city, brave souls who devote their lives to defending our way of being. I know this myself, having sat idly by within our hallowed home as my eldest son was slain at the hands of the Jarlax. His body belongs to Malakath now, and his soul has departed into another plane."
Amarin Saella leaned on his cane as he stood upon the quickly built wooden podium, placed solitarily in the center of a massive grassy field in a pure, untouched plot of land belonging to his family. Looking down upon his crowd of attendees as they held their heads level in respect as the Saella patriarch spoke, he knew it was not in reverence to him that they held their silence, but to the land around them, calm and still with nary a breeze rustling the brush. Moments prior, holy men had surrounded them, casting the ashes of the fallen into the earth, calling the names of every lost warrior as they did so.
"But these souls..." Amarin gestured to the silent vastness around them. "...They have not. At rest though our fallen friends, family members, and comrades are, they remain confined to the physical bindings of ash and dust. Today we gather, at the Lamenting of The Lost, to remember the lives and names of those who have given all they have for us. And, to grant them life anew. For it is not only us who weep for them..."
Amarin trailed off, raising an arm to the sky and slowly closing his eyes.
Quite suddenly, the wind begins to quicken. Distant howls sound from behind the clouds, and a rhythmic beating sends vibrations through every man, woman, and child in attendance. It was as though the Gods themselves played a steady drumbeat, as a band of Angels descended to retrieve the fallen gathered in that lonely, empty field.
In a way, that is exactly what happened.
No fewer than a dozen dragons emerged from the clouds, varying widely in shape and color, but all unmistakably the product of the Saella: The Ransa Dragons. The beating of their wings as they descended onto the ash-laden plains at last caused the blades to rustle, wind sweeping across the field and making waves across the green as they landed on the far side in a line.
Amarin was cursed with an impairment that precluded him from battle; the damage to his leg, inflicted in his youth, made him a liability in any meaningful offensive. He'd never been offered the chance to sacrifice himself for Thanasis, for his people. Instead, he'd sent his own flesh in blood in his stead. This, however... This display of sorrow and grief was Amarin Saella's duty.
A pale shadow of his own, tears falling over the corpse of his son.
"Our companions, too. The winged divines we are so closely connected to, mourn for us. They look upon our pain and suffering, and lament the new fractures upon our eternal bond."
And the dragons wept, glimmering tears forming in their enchanting eyes, running down their smooth scales in crystalline rivulets, dripping down into the grass below, soaking the ashes and mixing them into the soil. The large droplets of woe followed the Ransa as they slowly walked across the field toward Amarin and the others, and in their wake, beauty sprouted forth. The magic of the Ransa tears took those ashes, and from them sprouted flowers in bloom, tree saplings eager for sunlight.
The fallen, alive again.
"Those who wish to share their loss with the Ransa, please step onto the platform as they near. Speak of your mourning, and allow yourself a gift of tears to aid your broken heart."
Once the Ransa had completed their lamenting, the field would be open to travel, and all gathered could explore the beautiful new life created from death. It was, Amarin thought, the most solace one could ever ask for.
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