Métimafoa had sprinted downstream as soon as he had returned the kettle to the stove and lit the fire under it. Due to his previous explorations over the course of the time it had taken him to build the hut, he had located a nearby city named Mistaostiron. It was there that Métimafoa ran, dodging rocks and branches, and slipping on mud patches as his desperation drove him onward to the apothecary's house and shop.

As he crossed the last bridge into the city, nearly running into three people as he ran around the centre fountain and into the marketplace. "Apothecary!" He shouted, his voice lost amid the crowds bustling about inside the building. Around him, people called out to him, obviously not by name, but rather by his race. That is a little bit offensive, honestly. He thought, after being addressed as "Elf" for the umpteenth time, but Métimafoa did not even consider stopping to correct it.

He had one goal in mind; one thing to find: the station he kept crying out for in his search. "Apothecary!" He called out again, but his voice was heard only by those nearby, and nary one of them sought to take a moment from their personal business and see to his desperation. "Excuse me," he asked as he tapped a tiefling male on the shoulder. "Do you know where the Apothecary is? I am new to the town, and I need help. My sister has—" He was cut off as the tiefling pushed him back and he stumbled into the booth of a jewellery maker, knocking over a table of necklaces in the process. "Sorry!" Métimafoa apologised, quickly picking up the table and jewellery before running back into the fray that was the main hallway; a simple five-unit construction of posts, tarps, beams, and blankets that was lined on each side by sales booths of all varieties.

Which of course was why he could not find the one shop he was looking for; where does one find the needle in a haystack when the haystack is also filled with nails?

It took him nearly an hour to see the small wooden sign with the word "potions" written on it, but the moment Métimafoa had found it, he charged in without delay. Once he was inside, he very quickly noticed the small fire over-which a smaller cauldron was boiling. It was the only source of light in the booth, giving it an eerie feel even at midday as it was. Standing over the Cauldron was a small old dwarven male, skinny as the willow staff that leaned across the counter nearby. "I take it you are here with a remedy in mind?"

"Not exactly,"  Métimafoa answered. "I have an ailment to identify and cure."

"Other than being out of breath, you seem to be in perfect health, little elf." The dwarf set down the leaf he was tearing up and faced Métimafoa. "Who is dying that you seek me with such urgency?"

"My sister," Métimafoa said in a panicked voice. "She was struck by a poisoned crossbow bolt and I need help identifying the poison and curing it."

"Is she well enough to travel?" The dwarf asked reaching over the counter for a small booklet titled Poisons and Their Cures.

"No. She has been sick for nearly a month."

"Alacrin's Nose!" The dwarf cursed. "Why did you not send for me sooner?"

"We did not realize that it was poison until earlier today."

"Do you at least have the bolt, foolish elf?"

Métimafoa's concern was so great that he could have cared less about the insult. "Uh... No. She ripped it out while we were running from the people who were trying to kill us."

The dwarf paused mid-thought. "Alright, that is perfectly fair, but it is going to cost us quite a bit of time." He opened up the small leather bound journey, and cast an illusion spell on it, causing the contents to float in the air as a list. He began swiping poisons off the list, and they disappeared shortening the list. "Alright, little elf, I need details. Everything you know has to be presented to me, and be quick about it."

"Well," Métimafoa thought out loud, "I know it is slow acting compared to many potions; as the effects have lasted well over a month." He rubbed his temple is though in hopes that it would cause him to think faster. "She was shot in the south-eastern portion of the landmass, by bandits that probably do not leave that area often."

"How about symptoms? This is a two hundred and thirty six page book; there are a lot of very deadly things in this world. We need to narrow it down to one poison. I have narrowed it down by the criteria given so far, but there are still over a hundred left."

"Tiredness, advanced aging, fever, severe pain, and-and-and... That's all I can think of."

"Work just a little bit harder, elfling. We are down to ten." He looked at the list before him and grimaced. "And none of them are good news," he muttered under his breath, quietly enough so that Métimafoa could not hear him say it.

Métimafoa placed a hand on his forehead, and pushed back his growing bangs. Suddenly he thought of the tea kettle. "Does it matter that her rate of  deterioration is not steady? She has good days and bad days."

"Of course it matters!" The dwarf exclaimed, swiping away seven more. "Three left." The dwarf paused, looked at the list before him, and disapaited the spell. "Are you absolutely sure of all of the information you gave me?"

"Well..."

"Yes or no!"

"Yes! Beyond a doubt yes!"

The dwarf turned and placed a hand over his eyes. He moved his hand after a moment and walked over to the shelf with a padlock on it. Opening it up, he removed a single leaf from a jar he hand pulled out. "I have a theory and I do not like it in the slightest." He handed Métimafoa the leaf and said "Have your sister place this under her tongue and see what happens." He turned away from Métimafoa and leaned against the counter behind him. "If I am right, the service is on the house and..."

"And?"

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Métimafoa stood there, silent in the dimly lit shop. How do I even begin to respond to that? "Will this hurt her?" He asked after a moment, gesturing with the yellow and red leaf.

"No," the dwarf whispered back, his voice low and tense. "Though it would be preferable if it did cause her pain; at least we would know I was wrong and she may yet have hope." The dwarf turned back toward him and explained: "If I am correct in my hypothesis, it will make her giddy. It will not dampen the pain, but it will make her forget about it."

"Is there anything else we can do?" Métimafoa asked; the desperation in his voice clearer than the crystal caves of Gimalech.

"Yes," the apothecary answered mournfully. "Pray that she does not laugh. Now go quickly, and pray by all of your Gods and mine that she does not laugh."

. . .

The next thing Métimafoa could remember about that day when he chose to look back on it was running so hard into the door that the hinges broke free of their wooden casings.

His sister, on the other hand, was holding a tea cup, now empty because the door being open had spooked her enough that not only had she spilled her tea; she was still shaking. "I suppose you returned from your adventure," she said shakily, attempting to place the tea cup upon its saucer and failing. "With some important news, due to the fact that you just broke down the front door."

But Métimafoa was too focused. He was a man on a mission and as he placed the leaf on the table in front of her, he ordered: "Place this under your tongue until it dissilves."

Orónëminya was so taken aback by the sudden change in his nature that she shoved the leaf in her mouth without question. It was only after she felt the last of it dissolve that she asked: "Is it a cure?"

Métimafoa shook his head sadly as he replied "it's a tester leaf; it will identify for certain what type of poison it is."

"It is," she corrected him. "What will the effect be?"

"If the apothecary and I are correct; you will begin to laugh. Pray to the gods that remain that you do not laugh because the poison is a death sentence."

"How so?" She asked with a smile.

Métimafoa paused for a moment. "I never actually asked him how; I just took his word for it."

Her smile widened a wee bit, but she just said, "That seems reasonable; find out the effect, but not what it is representative of. What type of poison would it be if I were to laugh?"

"Well, I-uh, er..."

"You have no idea, do you?"

"I have not the foggiest idea."

She laughed at that but stopped halfway through, as they both realised what that meant. "Maybe that was just because I thought what you said was funny?" She said hopefully.

But hope had faded from the heart of the youngest of the Hope Stone. "You have not laughed all month, Orónëminya. I don't think we can choose ignorance this time."

At that moment, there was a knock at the door frame. They turned towards it, to see an half-elven maiden in a yellow dress. "Sorry for the interruption. My name is Rainëwen. I was sent by the apothecary to find out the results."

"Ah, you are the apothecary's assistant?" Orónëminya clarified.

"Not quite. I actually work at the tavern in town as a barkeep. I just happened to be stopping by his shop for some hops and elderberry for some new brews I have been working on, and—"

Métimafoa had raised his left hand and guestured for her to be quiet. "Tell our mutual friend that–that she laughed." He reached into his pocket and pulled out two gold coins, placing them into her hand. "For your trouble." He turned away, and he heard Rainëwen do the same, but then he heard her turn back.

"I'm sorry for the pain you two must be going through. If there is anything I can do; just let me know." He heard her set down the two coins, and begin to walk away.

Métimafoa was tempted to just let her walk away, but at the last second his mind rebelled against him and with only a glance for an explanation for his sister, he ran after her. "Wait, Rainëwen, wait!"

"Yes, friend?"

Métimafoa paused, deep in consideration, as he walked over to her. "There is power in a name, and some names are to be uttered with fear, some with joy, and some with love. I hope that my name will never be the former."

She looked at him with curiousity. "And what might that name be?"

He took a deep breath and spoke proudly, but the pride he had was a poor cover for the heartbreak he was consumed by. "My name is Métimafoa Estelondo, and the girl dying in that shack is Orónëminya, my sister. You swore to help us, and I do not yet know what that entails," he said, his voice strong for the first time in weeks. "But I know you are good, and that you can be trusted. I will call on you some day, and when you answer, we will defeat Gygax by the power of good, not the strength of our merit."

She looked at him with curiousity still, but there was a smile in her grey-blue eyes. "How is that possible? You are supposed to be a wee lad, yet you stand before me as a lad of 110 score years."

He looked at her in shock. "After all of that, your first question is about my age? Alright, I suppose you deserve an answer to that at least. We traveled into the teleportation realm with a LeShay girl, and stayed there for two thousand years. That is why my sister is older too."

"What happened to the LeShay girl?"

Métimafoa's thoughts were stopped in their tracks. Hoe long has it been since I thought about Nolgaion and her sacrifice for our sake. "She and her father were killed by the same group of bandits that shot Orónëminya."

She winced. "Sorry for bringing up such a painful memory. You and yours have gone through too much already, yet I know there is more suffering to come." She held his hand for a moment, before releasing it and pointing him back to the hut. "We can talk later, but she needs you more than I do. Go to your sister, Métimafoa, I will be at the tavern if you need me."

He held out his hand in a fist, and when she placed her hand underneath it, he dropped the two gold coins into it. "Those were yours to take, Rainëwen. I will not accept their return. Farewell for now."

She shook her head, and nodded her farewell. They went their separate ways and Métimafoa returned to the house he had built, only to find that Orónëminya was no longer at the table. "Orónëminya!" He called out, and he heard her call back from her bedroom.

When he had gone back, she was laying in her bed, the illusion no longer covering how much harm had been done to her.

She lay there, her hair all whitened, her face covered with wrinkles, and her body weak. She could have passed for a 90 year old human female, had it not been for her pointed ears. "I may be dying," she whispered, "but I am completely at peace with my fate. Do you know why?"

"Why? " Métimafoa whispered, hurt and afraid.

"I am now certain that you will be alright when I have passed on."

"How can you know that?" Métimafoa asked

"You just did the right thing without my guidance. You now know the difference between right and wrong; you just showed it by doing the right thing when it came to handling the half-elven girl." She coughed gently. "I can go in peace to Mando's, and I know that you will do the right thing. I must admit though, Métimafoa," She laid back her head upon the curled up cloak she was using as a pillow, "I wish I could have seen the others again." Then, she took a last deep breath, closed her storm blue eyes, and went to sleep.

Metimafoa sat in the dimly lit bedroom of the house and held the hand of the one he had built it for. Her hand was cold, so cold.

It had been hours since Orónëminya had died, and all of the candles had long ago burnt out, as the enchantment she had placed on them to slow their burning had faded with her. The rain outside poured down, dripping through the holes in the roof and occasionally a drop would fall on to her face, giving an illusion that she was crying, but it was not tears of mourning that flowed down Métimafoa's face. They were tears of rage.

Métimafoa stood suddenly and ran outside and shouted at the sky; at the gods themselves. "You swore you would protect our Line! Martamo and Yaanaevahanda, I curse your names, you lying snakes from the cess pools of the Gods! Damn you and all of your Ilk! You swore that you would protect our Line, yet how many have fallen! How many remain! You took my parents, my aunts and uncles, my grandparents, and now you start on my siblings! Damn you all! Who knows if Percival and Faramaureä are even alive and if they are, how would they recognize me! I have aged far beyond the normal span of time; this face is a stranger to them." He ran back and forth across the muddy slopes of the river, his words bitter and full of loathing, not just for the gods and the world, but for himself as well. "Congratulations, you swine! Gary Gygax won! He has broken the Line of Estelondo! We are undone!"

With that as a warning, Métimafoa flung himself into the river headfirst, striking his head on a rock and as at last a hard darkness passed in front of his eyes, he saw no more.

. . .

Dear Reader's,
And thus ends Orónëminya's part, in this book. It is only reasonable that an end should come to at least one Main Character in a group of four, but I must admit, the moment I wrote the last words of her death, I was very tempted to retcon it. Despite her not being my favourite of the four, she was a character I had grown fond of after nearly 20,000 words with her. And despite creating her, there is so much more that I wish I knew about her.
     As a world builder, I spend a lot of time simply roaming this world as a paracosm of emotional escape. I spend a lot of time in conversation with Julia The Teacher, The Four Children, The Councilors of Meneltarma, The Gods of the Worlds, etc. Yet, once I kill off a character, I often lose the ability to converse with them. Then again, I'm far from normal, and seeing as this is me directly admitting to hearing voices...
    Anyway, the Gods of the Worlds are not omnipotent, not even the one who created them all, and neither am I, in this world. There are rules and timelines to follow and one of those rules is that I never do major retconing on a part that has been published. I'll add a joke, edit grammar, change the flow, and do many other things, but the plot point stands.
        So despite it being NatNoWriMo, and these parts being heavily unedited, I'm going to publish them. Why? Because I don't trust myself not to try and edit her death out of it. So feel free to ignore them for now, but my knowing what she means to the narrative means that this point has to stand. It's like Amy and Rory's deaths; it's a fixed point in time. It needs to happen. At least that's what I am telling myself.
Sincerely,
Isaiah Oakley Le Istya