Rance felt a shiver race down his spine at the description of the ghosts Jigano had known on his home world. Ghouls, but without a physical body that you could destroy to free the soul? Not something he would ever have wanted to face. “Glad there were other ways to be rid of them. Damn.”
He nodded at the mention of ‘fresher deaths’ being harder. Jigano had mentioned that those he made lanterns for were relatively recent deaths. Within the past year. “The first candle watch after Morgana’s dead was hardest. I can only imagine what it would have been like to see her again.” He looked up at Jigano, expression devoid of humor. “I hope you find comfort this year, whether that means being chosen by Ludo or not.”
Jigano’s query brought the quiet smile back to Rance’s face. He returned to his painting, switching colors to a sunny yellow as he answered. “I don’t mind. Like I said, it was a long time ago.” The yellow feathers were tiny, messy things, the brush too large for delicacy despite steady hands. “Morgana. She was… seven? All energy, no common sense. Which, I can’t deny, might be somethin’ of a family trait.” His smile turned briefly impish before he continued, “Her favorite thing was collectin’ the feathers of other birds, the more patterned or colorful the better. Mother made her a necklace of the smaller ones for her birthday that year. We left them with her body, so she could carry the memory of them to the Queen’s realm.” He said the last without hesitation or a change in tone, simply a continuation of the sentence before.
He nodded at the mention of ‘fresher deaths’ being harder. Jigano had mentioned that those he made lanterns for were relatively recent deaths. Within the past year. “The first candle watch after Morgana’s dead was hardest. I can only imagine what it would have been like to see her again.” He looked up at Jigano, expression devoid of humor. “I hope you find comfort this year, whether that means being chosen by Ludo or not.”
Jigano’s query brought the quiet smile back to Rance’s face. He returned to his painting, switching colors to a sunny yellow as he answered. “I don’t mind. Like I said, it was a long time ago.” The yellow feathers were tiny, messy things, the brush too large for delicacy despite steady hands. “Morgana. She was… seven? All energy, no common sense. Which, I can’t deny, might be somethin’ of a family trait.” His smile turned briefly impish before he continued, “Her favorite thing was collectin’ the feathers of other birds, the more patterned or colorful the better. Mother made her a necklace of the smaller ones for her birthday that year. We left them with her body, so she could carry the memory of them to the Queen’s realm.” He said the last without hesitation or a change in tone, simply a continuation of the sentence before.
