Luelabrorne, King of the Elves is dying. Brought low by sickness in his prime.
He’s barely four hundred years old. To the mourning elves this really is a crime.
Multiple voices cry out in a haunting lament as the king shudders and breathes his last.
The sense of grief is palpable. The age of Luelabrone has passed.
Now striding in is an unwelcome figure who once called the king a clown.
He was cast out two hundred years ago for accusing the high council of dumbing down.
Two guards step up to bar his way but he just pushes his way through.
A council member stands up to speak, but then he thinks better of it too.
In his hands the newcomer holds a posy of the white flowers that dot the forest everywhere.
He rests them on the corpse’s chest while he kneels to offer up a prayer.
Standing once more he grabs the blooms and holds them over the monarch’s lips.
Then he squeezes, squeezes until a single drop of fluid from the flowers slips.
There is silence in the forest. Not a single groan. Not a single cry.
Then the king coughs and judders and they let out a collective sigh.
The newcomer berates the crowd. “Can it be you’ve already forgotten the power
of the bountiful Corporis Resurrectrix once known to everybody as the elf raising flower?”.