A Spiritual Visitation...

((Dorant’s player decided to grace the guild with some good 'ole fashioned kissed bricks thrown in the proverbial window in the form of a surprise ghost visitation. So, of course, I wanted to share what I got sent as well as my response!))

It was the late evening at the Emberheart Enclave. Many members of Emberheart were busy with their various day-to-day activities. Some were sitting inside their homes, or outside nearby. Some were reading, pondering, or even training. 

The sun was nearly fully set on another day, another day after a mission that was both successful and not. Another day where Emberheart's leader lay dormant, his soul trapped in the endless halls of the Mogu witch, a place of desolation and fear, but sometimes, not all power is absolute, and though the group of friends, this family held together by close bonds did not regain the soul of their leader, they had inflicted damage with their constant pursuit and harrying of their quarry, like wolves refusing to let their prey get away one bite at a time.

On this night, something miraculous happened, felt collectively yet experienced uniquely by each individual.

For Merada, it found her outside her home, as she sat once again under her pagoda, before a sort of shrine she had made when she wished to seek out the peace of the elements. It was situated at the cliffside of her home; the wind that howled through the mesa around her brought the perfume of the Bloom and the salt-tang breeze from the sea and the hot springs, while the sun shone at setting angles to heat the large flat stone below her. Earth, Fire, Water, and Air. Though they did not answer her even after all this time, her meeting with the scapulimancer gave her renewed hope. Even if the elements could not see her, she would not stop seeking them out in return.

For one brief, impossible moment, the world dissolved into pure sensation. A hard-earned peace for the besieged Lorekeeper. 

A peace shattered under a rush of feeling; the solid warmth of arms she knew better than her own, the phantom weight of a chin resting against her hair, of words spoken without a voice and heard only by the heart. Warm, comforting, but also longing. The sudden embrace was a physical blow that struck Merada with the force of a collapsing maelstrom. A violent jolt that snapped her spine straight as her lungs seized in a desperate, ragged gasp. The longing that had been a constant, hollow ache in her chest was filled. A fragile, barely-mended heart healed whole.

The vacuum, once overflowing, was violently emptied, leaving a void more painful than before. A pit that threatened to swallow her whole once more. She swayed with the sudden absence, and her hands barely caught her, slamming into the stone floor with a sharp sting. Her head snapped up, eyes wild and frantic and drowning in tears, scanning every shadow, every corner of the familiar space. But he was not there. Of course, he was not. He never was. Not anymore.

The crushing disappointment was a physical weight, but it was also a spark, a flashpoint consumed by a white-hot terror. If she could feel him so strongly, so truly, then something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Her body moved before her mind had formed the thought, scrambling up from the ground in a clumsy, desperate rush. She didn’t walk; she sprinted, her bare feet flying over the rough ground, her robes whipping behind her. Panic, cold and sharp as ice, clawed at her throat with every ragged breath. She had to know. She had to see him, had to feel the faint, stubborn beat of his heart beneath her hand. 

She had to know he still lived.

----------------------------------------------------------------

All across the Enclave, in just one evening, every member of Emberheart experienced the warm and comforting presence of their leader at some point or another, and to varying degrees, no one was spared. 

For some, it was smaller things—a cook felt compelled to add more meat or fruit to their dish, even if it hadn't been asked of them. Forges seemed brighter than on previous days; the hammer strokes on anvils louder and more precise. Some even swore they saw Dorant walking along the paths or beaches in the distance, only for him to vanish as they approached. Whatever was happening, Dorant's presence was felt by all. Some felt compelled to check on him; others wondered if the fatigue from the day's labors was to blame. For many, it was a reminder of how deeply his full presence was missed. Whatever occurred after this evening of strange events only underscored the urgency of their task—no matter where he was, Dorant was still watching over them, urging them to keep fighting.