act41side

If anything, the true miracle was the wakemen returning to the city.

If Eblana hadn't awakened the Exiled King, if Brigid hadn't delivered that message centuries overdue, if Moran hadn't persuaded them...

With just the two of us, that miracle could never have occurred.

So, what is there to fear at this point?

Eblana has cut off any path leading away from the throne. All I can do is devote the rest of my days to Tara.

And patiently await my judgment in some unknowable future.

Nemos was dragging an empty coffin?! Loughshinny was planning to 'resurrect the dragon' the moment she first killed you?

You're lying! You—

I know! It was Wellington! He found a conscience and lifted the blockade on his own!

You just won't give up, will you?

The Iron Duke? With a conscience? Hilarious.

You promised him that only good could come of your scheming!

All I promised him on the Gastrell was that I could change the direction of Tara, so long as Loughshinny was willing to return.

The Red Dragon who breathes flames of death, the spectre force with its dead soldiers, Dublinn with its blood-stained hands... everything was fated to sink into darkness while the Tarans united under the banner of the one and only Red Dragon.

Of course, His Grace was unaware that everyone in Na Saoirsí was meant to die for the plan, but I knew.

A city of doomed souls in exchange for Tara's lasting stability. Only good could come of it, no?

A shame that the duke isn't fond of Loughshinny. Things could have gone even more smoothly otherwise.

Sophistry! You lied to Wellington! Your plan was anything but harmless! And the people of Na Saoirsí <i>did</i> live!

To everyone's surprise.

In exchange for their lives, Loughshinny reached for the scepter of power that she detested so much. She chose to write a saga, a novel, a miracle that should have been beneath her noble dignity.

It was something only she could do... something that wouldn't have been possible even a few years ago. Would <i>you</i> have placed a miracle on the scales from the start?

What if Loughshinny had failed?!

Then you wouldn't be sitting here enjoying your drink.

I'm sure you've heard stories about what the Iron Duke does to whatever he considers an obstacle.

Every story begins with an inspiration. Memories rush into the writer's mind like seawater at high tide.

He struggles to break free, only to find himself powerless against the oncoming tide.

Argh—ugh! *cough* *cough*...

Red Dragon...

You knew! You knew from the beginning!

Y-You almost destroyed Na Saoirsí! You've made a mockery of all Tara!

Now, now, I must object to that. I simply fulfilled a promise. Is being true to one's word no longer a virtue?

Even you yourself admitted that this was a 'happy ending'.

No—never! This isn't how the story ends—

This isn't how my story's supposed to go!

The writer sees a sliver of white. He falls to his knees and crawls along the ground, trying to collect the scattered sheets of paper that had flown loose.

One, two, three... He clutches them in his hand along with his pen.

No, no, no—

What would you like to write? Let me help you.

No—

NOOOO!

The writer's shoulders tremble hysterically. Panicked, he begins to back off, until his back hits the rickety wall of the tavern.

Grabbing his pen like a spear, he begins to stab at the paper.

Muttering under his breath, he only manages to cover them with scattered ink blots. Soon, even his muttering loses coherence.

Gah... brr... argh... ugh! Ugh!

The commotion causes the drunken barkeep to come out from behind the counter and grab him by the collar.

Wha'cha babblin' about?

Argh! Eh... ugh!

Realizing that he can no longer form words, the writer looks desperately towards the woman watching him with disinterest.

He points at the woman's hands, then at his own mouth. The meaning was clear.

You've lost your words.

Perhaps you hit your head from excitement, or had a minor stroke.

Or perhaps it's because you just saw something you believed in so firmly, for so long, shatter to pieces.

The very thing that inspired you to join Dublinn, caused you to stay at the victory party, made you turn back to Na Saoirsí halfway...

But it's time to wake up.

With a trembling hand, the writer tries to write on his palm, but leaves only crooked, disjointed lines.

You wrote a story for Tara. A complete story, not a collection of fragments. It's a good one. I like it.

And I like it even more now that it belongs only to me, not to you.

Slán go fóill, 'Singer'. No, 'Writer'.

Slán go fóill, the last Dublinner.

I look forward to the stories you'll tell me when death reunites us.

With one last glance at The Writer, the woman tosses a few coins onto the table, and walks out of the tavern.

A memory comes back to The Writer.

It was the same look Eblana gave him that night, a year and a half ago, when he decided to delay his report after The Leader's shadow had already departed, in hopes of staying in both sides' good graces.

What should I call you, then?

Whatever you're thinking, I am only Necrass here.

Unless you, too, find a signed sheet of paper to hold no power whatsoever.

Operator Necrass.

If you find the title necessary, Erudite.

For my part, I'm more curious about your lack of reaction upon hearing the whole story.

I read the report on Na Saoirsí.;I've already heard the story.

Ah. A lapse on my part, I see.

First a private letter from Na Saoirsí, then fragments through official channels... Loughshinny is getting better at this.

Then I presume she's told you all about me, which is why you were willing to sit down with me by yourself, and hear out this patchwork tale of allusions and insinuations.

No, she has yet to 'find your body.';She's unaware you're in a position to tell stories.

That makes your courage all the more admirable.

And I mustn't neglect to give credit to Loughshinny where it's due. She's more than just a qualified dance partner now—she's ready to take the lead. I do hope she enjoys herself.

Sounds like you like your new powers.;Sounds like you like your new toy.

Of course I do. The powers of the dead aren't necessarily greater than those of the living, but they are more lasting, and harder to check.

But you'll soon grow bored of them.

Like everything else you've ever had.

Followers, martyrs, dominion, status...

Life is short, but death is long, Erudite.

There are still so many interesting people in the mortal realm. That alone is reason enough for me to await them in death.

So you gave Reed your old toys?

A cutting question, Erudite. But I'll allow it.

And not only because your accusation is astute, if prejudiced. But also because you are one of the interesting people I mentioned.

What are you intending?;What makes me interesting?

Must everything be done for a purpose?

I am inseparable from death. Is it not the natural order of things that those like me should be drawn to Rhodes Island?

I was drawn, so I came. This place is always covered in the scent of death, after all—especially around you, my dear Erudite.

I don't understand.

You will, someday.

When the tides erupt and the night of death descends, you will be grateful for my presence, so long as I do not mock your predicament.

As for right now?

I am simply the shadow of Tara's leader.

Just Necrass, nothing more.