Mourning

Day of the Dead was always an interesting time for the arcanist Faronne Price. On prior years, she'd always found herself slumped over the makeshift grave of her long-dead husband, half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand, and smoldering cigarette in the other. She'd stay there as a crumpled, sobbing mess until the cemetery's guards would order her to leave.

This year was different. This year, Faronne Price was smiling for Day of the Dead.

"N-No, s-stop, let me go, you're hurting me!"

The smile quickly faded.

"Oh, hush," she spat, and took a swig from her flask. The whiskey burned her throat as she swallowed, and her tiny body shuddered.

"You'll never get away with this! You… you vile witch, you monster!"

The man strapped to the large slab of stone in the middle of the workshop frantically struggled against his bonds. He'd been strapped down tightly. This man wouldn't be leaving the workshop in one piece.

"You're right-- Daniel-- that was your name? Forgive me, the mind tends to fog with age," Faronne shrugged, and took another swig of whiskey, "You are most certainly right that I will never get away with this! I will be judged, Daniel, by a being, by a force that is much, much higher than the silly laws and taboos of humanity. Be it the Light--" she pauses to scoff at the notion, "--or something more sinister. All things come to an end."

Daniel stared at Faronne, and his eyes were as wide as saucers. He'd stopped struggling, and his horrified eyes took in the sights of the quaint little workshop in the wastes of Shadowmoon Valley. Cutlery on the walls, and racks of vials and reagents rattled with each impact of the infernal rains, and an eerie green glow filtered in through the one window. The lantern in the center of the ceiling swung wildly.

"Evil witch!" Daniel yelled, and spat. Faronne's bony hand collided with his cheek, and her rings sliced the young man's cheek. He yelped, and Faronne just sighed as she tucked stray locks of hair behind his ear.

"Shhhh, darling," she whispered in his ear, and then lapped at the tiniest bit of blood, "Do not despair. Today is Day of the Dead. To some, it is a celebration, Daniel. Rest assured that you will be mourned. Someone will miss you, and they will call upon your spirit but one day out of the year."

Daniel held his breath and forced his eyes shut. He could feel Faronne's breath tickling his ear, and the alcohol and cigarettes on her breath made him want to vomit.

"You will have to be a patient lad and wait until next year, though," the tiny woman said with a creepily jovial smile, and patted his chest. On the last pat, Daniel felt his breath catch in his throat and a supernatural chill permeate his body.

A soft glow of purple formed underneath Faronne's palm, and she slowly drew her skeletal hand back. Little wisps of purple, with what looked like tiny faces, began to swirl up from Daniel's chest and into Faronne's palm. They coalesced into a jagged purple gem, which grew in size with each merging essence.

Daniel's skin was pallid, and his eyes were frozen open with terror, and the onset of death. She could feel his consciousness, and the very essence of his soul waning. Her other hand brushed through his hair, and then retrieved the dagger from her side.

"Someone will mourn you," she whispered again, and then closed her fist around the soul shard. At that very moment, Daniel's body convulsed, and she plunged the dagger into his chest with all of her might. Daniel stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped everything. She left the dagger in his chest, and held the soul shard up to the swinging light above.

"Mmm. Getting better…" she smirked, and then sank down to sit on the floor. Her back leaned up against the stone slab, and she pocketed the shard. The flask was at her lips again, and she took a greedy drink.