No Tears for a Broken
He was gone.
When Rhianon arrived, her arms laden with Winter’s Vale gifts, she found the old sage’s hut empty, his hearth cold. And there was a note, a tired old scroll of parchment that lay resting on his cot, waiting for her.
She dumped the gifts in the doorway, the beautifully wrapped packages somersaulting across the dusty floor into the darkened corners of the hut, and retrieved the scroll, unfurling it carefully. The crusty paper was mostly blank, save for a small paragraph scrawled in a lazy hand.
Rhianon, the words read, I am embarking on my final journey and I will not return. By the time you read this note, I will already be breaking bread in the halls of my ancestors. Please do not dirty your sweet face crying for an old Broken like me. Just know that the time we have shared together has been a bright light in an otherwise gloomy existence.
Your teacher and friend always,
Rhianon delicately folded up the scroll and set it down. She then turned back to the doorway, stooping down to retrieve one of the gifts still nestled against the doorframe. The young draenei cradled the package in her arms for a moment before placing it on the cot next to the scroll.
“I will not cry for an old Broken,” she said finally, her voice low. “But I will mourn the passing of one of my greatest friends.”