Enju looked along the pyre from a fair distance away, believing he did far too little to help those who needed aid. He didn't want to be seen near the body, though he recognized Verad as he lit the body ablaze. His eyes were filled with anger, though his brow showed the pity he felt for the now fallen man. He can't really show how bad he was if he wasn't bad in the first place. So here he stayed, along the edge of a line to show respect or spit along his grave.
He thought back to the conversation made between Anstarra and Evangeline. The tale of Leofric. He's heard of it many times, the sad tale between a knight and a supposed heretic. He accepted death when she had died, walking to the horde with nary a shred of arms or armor, letting whatever grisly fate come to him. To hear of the Mourner was the dragon this whole time. Was the tale true after all? His mind raced to many possibilities, the tainted memory burning into his mind as he recalled that terrible battle, thinking he may have been just like Leofric or the Mourner herself if not for his master's aid. She helped save him from himself, and that was a debt that will keep for life.
He had a few words muttered, letting the wind catch them. But none were for the Hyur or Elezen. Nor was it for the Lalafell or Miqo'te or Roegadyn. It was for the heart that now remained seperated, and for the body of the No-Eyed Man. He spoke in the traitorous, heathen tongue. He knew of the language, but it was something every Dragoon knew, for each one could hear it speak in their mind.
"Rhesh lo van hel. Min hil Leofric sai kril. Lech orr sel kril. Shess ftarh ah kril."
("I pity you, creature of man. Your heart might have been for Leofric's plight, but now it can rest. I hope yours was not of similar plight, but now it may rest with theirs. Please look forward to your eternal sleep.")
He thought back to the conversation made between Anstarra and Evangeline. The tale of Leofric. He's heard of it many times, the sad tale between a knight and a supposed heretic. He accepted death when she had died, walking to the horde with nary a shred of arms or armor, letting whatever grisly fate come to him. To hear of the Mourner was the dragon this whole time. Was the tale true after all? His mind raced to many possibilities, the tainted memory burning into his mind as he recalled that terrible battle, thinking he may have been just like Leofric or the Mourner herself if not for his master's aid. She helped save him from himself, and that was a debt that will keep for life.
He had a few words muttered, letting the wind catch them. But none were for the Hyur or Elezen. Nor was it for the Lalafell or Miqo'te or Roegadyn. It was for the heart that now remained seperated, and for the body of the No-Eyed Man. He spoke in the traitorous, heathen tongue. He knew of the language, but it was something every Dragoon knew, for each one could hear it speak in their mind.
"Rhesh lo van hel. Min hil Leofric sai kril. Lech orr sel kril. Shess ftarh ah kril."
("I pity you, creature of man. Your heart might have been for Leofric's plight, but now it can rest. I hope yours was not of similar plight, but now it may rest with theirs. Please look forward to your eternal sleep.")
