It wasnât supposed to happen this way. This wasnât how it was supposed to go. Noutir was the highblood, and all throughout their relationship Emante hadnât once thought that the other troll would be the first to go. But things donât always unfold the way you expect them to. It only takes an instant.
The night is a regular one. The rustblood has been out, fulfilling his usual thieving habits for the night, and when dawn begins to approach he seeks out the hive of his indigo friend, in which heâs been staying more and more regularly now. As usual, he prefers to pick a lock and enter secretly, no matter how many times Noutir may have told him to do otherwise. Silent, quick, and efficient, he sneaks in through a window and shuts it behind him, then heads off to find his friend.
Each room of the hive is systematically checked, with a growing sense of confusion upon finding them empty. Normally the living area would have been the correct room on the first check, but itâs empty. So is the kitchen, so is the cellar, so is the bedroom. He begins to wonder if Noutir is out; perhaps at his club?
On a whim, he checks one final room before giving upâ the bathroom. He expects nothing, of course; Noutir ought to have heard him calling by now. But as he opens the door cautiously, he quickly decides that nothing would have been a lot better than this.
A body lies on the floor. A familiar body, in that familiar fishnet shirt and those really really stupid shades. Itâs Noutirâs body, and when the rustblood stumbles over to kneel beside it, itâs coldâ holder than even a highbloodâs body ought to be. Itâs the icy remains of a body whose lifeforce has been squeezed away by deathâs freezing hands.
How? Itâs the first question that comes to his reeling, suddenly blank mind, and itâs just as quickly answered when his eyes are drawn to the white powder along the edges of Noutirâs nose and mouth. Emante stares, stares long and hard, until finally a choked sob causes him to convulse forward and practically slam his forehead against the lifeless carcass in front of him.
This was his only friend. Noutir had been the only person heâd ever gotten close to, the only one who had liked him wholeheartedly, and now heâs gone. Heâs gone because of those stupid drugs. The tears begin to leak from his eyes and onto the fabric of the highbloodâs shirt, and his stomach twists itself into knots he didnât even know possible. It hurts. It physically hurts, and he canât stop shaking.
For two hours, he kneels there. He kneels and he cries and he shakes with agony thatâs both physical and emotional.
Your name is EMANTE VOLORE, and youâve lost the only person who cared about you.
