Death can easily be administered to anyone regardless of how successful they were in life.
A god agrees with the nihilist in this story.
There are many tragedies in this story. Many fortunes arising, too.
But the god and the antichrist don't car...
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Needs Must When the Devil Rides
Varbridge Palace, Ember's Rock, Saprea
Shining as if bedazzled under the fluorescent light of the hall leading to the salon, Claude strode in a quartet of girls who looked as much in sync as a flock of birds flying in a perfect Ʌ shape behind Desyrae.
Desyrae and Cassius walked with each other in silence the entire time, giving Claude nothing to listen to as they walked.
Shrill laughter rang from the open salon doors before them, knocking Claude from her trance. "Ah, the salons," Cassius said. He wrung his hands together as he suggested the two enter. Desyrae agreed—accepting the invitation to distract her mind with anything other than ghosts.
The smells of dense colognes and perfumes clogged Claude's sinuses as she entered. She spotted a few nobles and hurried herself over to them, not caring if she left the quartet.
There she was, floating about the salon, peering in at the cards the players held, and eavesdropping on the insignificant court gossip. Someone was selling silk to her at some point. She ducked her head, hair brushing against her cheeks as she tried to discreetly move around the courtiers. Her red hair cascaded onto her shoulders, lit up by the warm sunlight streaming through the ceiling windows.
From afar, Sandro could tell that Claude recognized him sitting with a group of card players. As expected, Claude said nothing. She made no attempt to nod, only glancing at him as if he were just a regular person, but as she walked away Sandro approached her, appraising her appearance. "Hello, Claudie. It's nice to see you back in Saprean court." Sandro greeted.
She nudged herself away from him at the nickname. Claude flushed a rosy pink, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
"To what do I owe your pleasantries?" A soft and smooth accent, the words pronounced and clipped.
He turned to her, suddenly, and brought the knuckles of her hand to his lips. Many women would swoon over this gesture, but not her.
"Care for a walk?" he asked. Claude looked at Sandro, confused. "I haven't seen you in three years, don't you think it would pain me if one of my friends didn't want to see me?" he urged on, trying his best to convince her. "You look pretty lonely, Claudinelva," Sandro spoke up, smirking, coming up with another pet name. "It'd be pretty disrespectful if you denied my invitation to walk with me, the invitation I made with the kindness of my heart."
"A fine idea, then," she relented, and graciously accepted his offer.
"Why didn't you write to me that you'd be returning?" he asked.
Claude paused, tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear, unsure of what to say. "I didn't plan on returning so soon. I didn't think you'd even care."
He gave a charming smile, his eyes dangerously narrow. "Yes, I hear that you are now a lady-in-waiting to Desyrae. How did that come to be? I thought you wanted to be a healer for the palace. Weren't you studying herbalism and alchemy too? I half-expected that you'd return as a mad scientist raising people from the dead. What happened?"
