The Oldest of Habits.

[Varian]

Myrken Wood is no stranger to death. Its people, its soldiers, its past all have come to know the sting and sorrow of passing friends and family. Whether through means that might be considered "natural", or those events that can not be explained, or dismissed as accidental.

This morning would be no different. As the light broke on the horizon, the thin clouds were stained red and their slight appearance seemed to reflect the cold that travelled along the whispers of the day's first breaths.

In the streets of the city proper, a small crowd gathered. Hushed mumbles of witch-craft and monsters stirred quiet demands for explanation and action.

A young girl lay serenely upon the ground, her flesh ashen pale and frigid to the touch. Carefully positioned, as if she were simply sleeping, just beneath the gauzy shroud that covered and tucked beneath her.

Her arms were crossed atop her chest, her blood already drained from her once fragile body. The coroner's work had been all but finished for him.

Within her fingers there were petals of a flower not seen since the first fall of snow and the scent of lilac that lingered was quickly diminishing.