[center][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/190811/ebaf9cbdde92c7897e853938cfe68fe5.png[/img]

[color=6E8E67]Location:[/color] Outside of a small, sad town[/center][hr][hr]

In the days that followed, Fatima had been somewhat of a mess.  She tucked away the ashes into an urn before leaving the Eyrie.  She spent her time quiet and dour, sticking close to Jandar as he was the nearest thing she had to an 'old friend' at this point in time.  Her bronzed skin was pale.  She barely ate or drank anything.  It took much rousing to get her to speak or move more than necessary.  She was just a husk of a person.

It was in silence she allowed herself to be helped down from the carriage.  She hadn't wanted to move initially but was soon pushed out into daylight.  She blinked against the sun, raising her hand to help block against it.  The whirr of grasshoppers built a grand crescendo before dying away only to repeat their resounding song around them in the grasses.  The others were speaking about a town.  She found she was having trouble caring.  Hearing.  She couldn't feel the thrum of life here that she normally would upon entering a town.  Upon closer inspection, it became clear that the homes had been abandoned.  Fatima walked barefoot into the witch blood and followed an invisible path into the town.

Perhaps it was due to the conversations they were all having but it seemed that by some miracle she was able to drift away into the old town.  It felt as empty as she did.  She paused for a moment to kneel down and touch the blooms of the Witch Blood.  Her fingers brushed over delicate petals and she took in their scent.  It was calming and strummed a chord in her heart.  With tears pricking the corners of her eyes she stood and again moved toward the first of the houses.  Her fingertips brushed over the walls in desperate need of white-washing.  Rotted timber left a sweet scent in the air which mixed sickeningly with the Witch Blood.  Lifting her skirts she rounded the side of the building.

The door had since fallen free of its place, laying on the ground.  Blades of grass poked through holes and cracks.  A fine, dirty moss had started to creep along the edges.  She looked inside the home and found dust coated every surface of the room within.  She held her breath, afraid that if she were to breathe out it would disturb the settled peace of abandonment.  Her eyes searched the room finding tools, kitchenware, a pot at the fireplace, and some bits of tattered darning.

Curiosity gripped her, the first fleeting, fluttering emotion she'd had beyond her heavy and tired depression in days.  She followed it, ascending the single step up into the house.  Her skirts created a wake of disturbed dust particles behind her.  Freed from their brethren, they swirled and danced on light breezes created by her movements.  They caught and reflected in beams of sunlight, giving the first signs of movement in the houses in what had to be years.  Unable to stop herself she touched and picked up some of the items.  These were memories left to rot.  They had served a purpose and done their due diligence before being left to wither into the nothingness bequeathed them by the endless march of time.

She lifted a necklace from a table, but the thread had since decayed so much that it was no longer able to support the weight of the beads.  With a clatter they scattered about the room, the sound deafening in what had been a sweet and somber silence.  Fatima winced and as she turned toward the doorway she noticed, for the first time, a box beside it.  She approached the thing, wonderment at what forgotten memories it could hold quickening her breath.  She reached out her hands and pushed open the lid.