Your friend’s face might prove the mask the daub found in subtle shift to alter the once familiar visage. Or the child who formed unseen in private darkness as you whiled oblivious to reveal cruel shock as a stone through a temple’s pane. To these there is no armour on the soul. And upon the mask is writ the bold word, echoed in the child’s eyes, a sudden stranger to all you have known. Such is betrayal. DEATH VIGIL OF SORULAN MINIR OTHAL
