Days of the Dead 3 - Misty and Dodd

“This is really good gin, pet,” said the shepherd, patting the unruly hair of the cleric. “Don’t call me that!” replied Misty, wiping a last tear. They had been there for a while now. Dodd had come from Andris on purpose to see her, and picked a yellow rose for her on the way, but, instead of his ever happy and lovely former brigand, now turned almost respectable healer, he found his friend in tears.

A death in the temple, she told him. The death of Father Evaristos, cruelly poisoned by an unknown hand. She had heard it from Aldus, and had to leave the building to cry her eyes out. It was thanks to Evaristos that she had left her life of crime. It was him who, years before, met her on the road to the volcano and convinced her to join the order and quit smoking so much. She managed to do the former, and had been working on the latter since, with the occasional relapse, facilitated by her old contacts here and there, from the rogues of the Mirithian sewers to the mercenaries and pirates from all over the place.

Dodd didn’t know what to say. He, himself, was not too happy either. His boss, Mr. Waltham, had a new business project, “A secret one, boy, but you’ll have to move those lazy feet of yours and get ready for a few deliveries.” And so he did. Before meeting Misty, he met a dodgy man at the beach, and gave him a dodgy package, without even trying to peek its contents. Sometimes it was better not to ask questions, especially with Mr. Waltham. But something felt wrong about all that. Maybe he should find another job. Perhaps, he could apply for a position as a helper in the temple. That way, he could be close to her and read all the adventure books in the library of the ground floor. He liked adventure books, they reminded him of the life he wished he had, if only he didn’t work for Mr. Waltham.

So, the two remained there, sitting on the ground, leaning against a large and old tree, smoking and contemplating the now empty beach, finding comfort in each other’s silence, enjoying the last rays of sun, and dreaming of how life could be and how they were going to make it be like it could, or should, or ought to be. At least they were together, that should count for something. That should give them some sort of strength.

They were found the next day by a fisherman. According to him, they were holding hands and seemed peaceful. Peacefully cold.
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