Smartly dressed, he quills the text,
Explains his choice in silent voice.
Checks the hemp collar at his neck
Is tight enough for one last trek.

He lays his journal down to rest
And preens his wings. His vials and rings
Placed by his feet, upon the chest -
Therein trophies of myriad quests.

The key sigil upon his door
Keeps strangers out and friends, whose doubt
Might sway him from this final chore,
Een his resolve is fierce and sure.

Tells off. Messages left unread.
Channels unheeded. Unimpeded
He nods again, no words are said.
No last regrets. No tears are shed.

No more is Sapience warm to him
So, to be sure, he wipes the Boar
And Starburst from his upper limbs
Then blows the candle-lit room dim.

No final thought to those hes left,
Whose sobs will sound cutting him down.
Surrendering his final breath
He steps into a craven's death.

FIN


Penned by my hand on the 9th of Glacian, in the year 470 AF.