There is a weight to the air that lasts beyond the departure of the spirit that was once King Pellinore. It hangs like a shroud over the world, reflects in the dark clouds gathering overhead. They threaten a summer storm, which ought to be a blessing, but might well cause floods with the soil this dry and loose. And in the meantime, it is like the world still holds its breath. 

Knights begin to fill the village commons, perhaps ten or so all told, recovering from the quake. But they keep a respectful distance, clustering towards the town gate where Pellinore's ghost had ridden from and faded. The knights speak in hushed whispers, and the townsfolk cover their windows further afield. The events of this day will be known. 

Mort hides behind Constance, though he spares a glance for Tristan scrambling down from the rooftops as well. He is at the least, bold enough to stay near the group, rather than flee at the death of his liege. He looks like he's considering trying to approach the spot where the body had fallen and trying to gather some token or perhaps just some bloodied grass to use for a burial, but he dares not approach.

Only the Lady Sandsfern seems unaffected. She steps forward, full of life and color, her cheeks ruddy, and puts a hand on Robena's shoulder. "Well done, indeed, Robena! Well struck! Ah, how I've missed your strength since we parted ways in near Byzantium! Knights will sing of this day!" It is like the gloom cannot touch her, and perhaps that is the truth, that the Lady Sandsfern is beyond such things as mortal ghosts. As to your forthcoming death in her service, it seems she offers neither acknowledgment nor care.

To all of you, how do you part from this moment, and what are your plans to pass the summer season?