Of Loss and Liches

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This is a creative work set in the world of Elanthia, attributed to its original author(s). It does not necessarily represent the official lore of GemStone IV.

Title: Of Loss And Liches

Author: player of Alvyara

Alvyara gazed down into the basin of water, bringing a hand to her cheek once more. Her skin seemed softer, now that it was creased like an old kidskin glove - almost impossibly pliant. It was too bad that what was inside had hardened so.

She shook her head and splashed her new face with water, her arms still disconcertingly weak, then bound her unruly silver hair with a deep red headscarf. "Also like a grandmother," she thought wryly. Maybe it was time to go back to blonde.

Drifting over to lean against the room's one window, she regarded the people passing below on Talon Street. From the way they bustled about their business, you'd think nothing of import had happened. But too much had happened. She already liked this Barnom about as much as she had liked Vlashandra. Absurd, repugnant egotists! What would he say? she mused. If she told this lich that he owed her? That years off her life had been given to bring him back? Considering how he treated Vlashandra, most likely he'd have a good laugh.

Still, what did she have to lose? Perhaps the town could get something useful from it, in the end.

She wandered to the small table, gathering her skirts to sit beside it and drawing out a parchment and quill.


You were right. I give too much of myself. I know you'll take some satisfaction from that admittance. Consider it an early birthday present. I've learned my lesson; giving is for family and friends, not for strangers or causes, however noble. But I'm still holding out hope, like you said, that I can be restored. Perhaps I'll be back to my old (young) self before you know it.

Don't get too used to the East. Give our mutual friend a hug for me. Also, please write mum.


She underlined the final sentence twice, then paused, blowing a puff of breath up at a lock of hair that was tickling her forehead. Then she began to sketch in the margin, roughing out the contours of a pair of eyes, their limpid depths hinted at by arcs of lush shading. She regarded her work for a moment, but before finishing it her hand strayed to the bottom of the page, where she forcefully inked a crude stick figure, practically carving it into the parchment. She drew a circle around its neck, then a line leading upward, then the inevitable platform beneath its feet. Then she hurled her quill at the desk and let out a sharp, inarticulate shout of frustration.

Then she folded the letter, sliding it into its envelope with calm hands.