Magpie is once again in the bar beside Old Man Turner, who is once again clutching a bag of turnips. The bartender is once again the middle-aged Murph. Ferner’s Glen is, indeed, full of “once agains.” Magpie’s statement that this is an old backwater town with nothing going on was a mostly truthful statement. In fact, if you consider murder to be nothing, it is a completely truthful statement. Perhaps, as the Holy Imanjar serving the Deity of Death and Mourning, Magpie does consider murder to be nothing out of the ordinary. Alternatively, Magpie might just not think. In any case, he does talk (a lot… and mostly nonsense).

“I believe I may visit the Temple of Lonely Souls today”

“Gosh darn it! Did you have to bring up the Holy Imanjar around Turner!”

“Heh, imma only call them puppets from now on. You had a good phrase there, but I think the divine bit is too good for the lot of them.”

“They are to be pitied, not reviled, my dear sir. What is left but an empty shell where once beautiful and majestic dreams once resided?”

“…I forgot you’re as bad as Turner when this topic comes up.” Murph is exasperated. Magpie’s nagging, droning speeches had taken a toll on him. Ever since meeting the man, he often wonders whether one had to actively pursue being such a bore. 

Magpie is actually trying, although whether that is something praise worthy is up to an individual’s discretion. “For a kindhearted country gentleman such yourself to have such intense feelings, this Holy Imanjar must be a rare sort indeed.”

“Rare sort! The young ‘un got whacked in the head too many times I tell ya. But that’s a family matter and the rest ‘o the folks involved are six feet under. I ain’t waking the dead with my muttering. You don’t live this long doing stupid stuff like that.”

Magpie’s eyes seem to sparkle more brightly, lit with the fire of a burning curiosity. “Did they murder the rest? The Holy Imanjar I mean. I have heard of more ill-begotten wishes in my time.”

Murph slams a mug of ale onto the countertop. “We don’t know what they wished for but they aren’t a murderer. We know that much. The Holy Imanjar in that tomb of a temple is still one of us. I won’t be hearing another word against them.” His eyebrows are furrowed so tightly his whole forehead seems knotted into a lump. A quiet fury is in his voice. “Listen here. The only folk that die around here are the ones that did wrong with their own two hands. They die with dirt under their fingernails from digging their own graves. They get themselves killed.”

Magpie leans over the counter, speaking in a low, more threatening voice. “What about that woman found in the back alleyway just this past week? Did she deserve to die? What if you lot are all just on karma’s grand old hitlist? Will you be saying the same thing then?”

“Hush now, the both of you” Turner says in a tired voice. “Now, mister, you’re a stranger in these parts so we don’t expect you to understand. The pile of bones next to her body had a gold watch in it and two copper coins. Her son had been buried a week and a day ago after a huntin’ accident up in the woods. There was something wrong with that death, no doubt about it, but I don’t think a human had a hand in it.”

The scraping of wood against wood sounds out as Magpie pushes back his stool and stands up. “I will see what the Holy Imanjar has to say about this. Perhaps I might get to the truth of the matter. Good day.”

As Magpie hurries across the bridge spanning the creek that separates the temple from the rest of the town, he contemplates what persona to use when addressing the illusive Holy Imanjar. The friendly, mischievous, and unrefined voice of Vaza’s childhood friend? Perhaps the pompous voice of the philosopher and professor he used on Murph and Turner. Or, maybe a new voice altogether?

The flickering of blue torch flames illuminate the way to the majestic structure of petrified wood and loneliness. A doe paws at the ground and shakes its head, turning to follow the strong buck away from this forsaken place. Humans never do leave well enough alone. An ounce of power, one strong backer and they seem to lose any survival instincts with which they were born. Wings of wax and paper are more than enough to convince them to leap from a cliff in an attempt to fly.