Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-3991308-20150610014148/@comment-3991308-20150629114921

(Ah yes, that would indeed be a grave mistake.)

"Addressing you by characteristic and not name causes one to see you as a thing and not a person," Airmid said to Akito. "Theoritically, at least. And the purpose of Dead Epics is not to see our fellow future dead students as write-offs and merely inheriting of a morbid tale, it's to recognise each other as people. Although, technically, honourary member or not, I've heard you're literally out of this world, so I'm a tad unsure whether for you, people would be a correct term. Sapient being, maybe?"

The interruption from Bathilda caught Airmid off-guard. Oh, right. She had been rambling again. The physician quickly cursed herself. One, for constantly talking about topics that she knew others had no interest in but she did, and two, for doing in front of someone who she had just met, and was probably in a state of nervousness. Three, for probably failing at her job of looking after kids.

"Oh, uh," Airmid paused to regain her breath, flailing her hands a little, clenching them as if she were trying to grab her thoughts. "No, Akito's been doing alright," she directed that at Bathilda, before quickly turning to the moonchild. "Though I feel calling me a babysister when I'm a physician as opposed to a paediatrician is totally undermining my future success in the medical industry..." she added, in a voice that trailed off.

Anyway, she had a name to sort out. "Valerian. Airmid," the physician said. "Not in that order. Airmid, then Valerian." Brief pause. "Airmid Valerian, the next physician of Death. Whether you call me Airmid or Valerian, I don't really mind."

-

Estella soon found that she was one of the few left in the world, and dodging between the tin soldier and the American, she slipped into the portal. The artist girl eyed the graveyard with a critical stance, and sauntered through it.

With a pale hand, she stroked her chin, with her free hand, she reached into her totebag and pulled out a sketchbook. As morbid as this place was, it was inspirational. A true capture of the inevitability of death. Clutching a pencil, her hand darted over an empty page, doing a quick capture of the scene: disappearing lines, perspectives and all.

There were thousands, if not tens of thousands of legacies buried here. Some in the mass graves, forgotten and never thought of. Others in modest urns or graves, covered with weeds and wiltering flowers. And those of greatest magnitude had their tombs adorned with gothic ornaments and baroque floral textures and classical statues.

"Why do they get all the elaborate displays when we're all eventually equal in death?" she mused aloud, to no one in particular.