C A L L A
"Mort," Calla curses as she gazes on the scene, voice muffled by the swathe of cloth that covers her mouth and nose. Tears swim in her red-rimmed eyes, brought on by sorrow and the sting of smoke that rises from the still-smoldering ashes where the fire burned only hours before. The Barrow is a shadow of its usual glory, verdant green replaced by gray and black and pockets of fire that stubbornly refuse to fully go out. Still, as brushfires go it was far less devastating than it could have been - to human life, at least.
The dead tell a different tale.
It breaks her heart to hear the whispers of the spirits as they drift among the wreckage, here and there starting eddies of wind within the ash. It will be a long time before they settle, and a great deal of work to soothe them down. "Don't worry," she promises, kneeling down to brush ash and cinder off the edge of a headstone, trying to keep her voice and emotions steady as the ghost that haunts it whines its frustration. "Fires mean new life will follow. There will be flowers growing here soon."
