Epilogue: The Process.

Irving Sepia stood on top of a cliff overlooking Terrut City. Nothing and nobody seemed out of place, life was humming around the city as always. He reached into his pants and pulled out his cigarettes. He opened the case to find it empty.

Damn.”

You should really give up smoking, man.” A man approached, holding a cigarette. Sepia took it and, placing it in his mouth, lit it. The man smirked as he reached out with his other hand. “I trust you have the goods?”

Amulet of Agrython. You wouldn't believe what I've been through to get this.” Sepia removed the trinket from his pocket and placed it in the man's hands.

Excellent. The money's in here.” The man lifted a briefcase, opened the top to display rows and rows of currency, and then promptly closed it again.

Keep it.” Sepia took a drag on the cigarette.

Can I ask why?”

No.”

Exhale.

Alright then. Keep it anyway.”

The man walked off, down the mountain, out of sight. Out of mind. A briefcase still sitting on the ground.

Sepia sat down, legs dangling dangerously over the edge. Still smoking, he let the grey shapes float before him slowly, softly, catching the wind and the chill of the air as they moved. He played with them, for a while, flicking them with one finger as he breathed out. Tapping the wisps, one way and another, he failed spectacularly to amuse himself.

You did well.”

Sepia turned his head to see a woman in a business suit approach him. Her plain black hair moved gently in the breeze. Her plain white face was fairly non-threatening. She was the perfect picture of normalcy.

So, you're the famous Irving Sepia, huh? Or should I say, 'Indigo'?”

What do you want?”

The woman stepped carefully around him, each step measured and specific. She sighed an overly dramatic sigh and placed her hands under her chin in the shape of a table, resting her head on them as her expression took to being one of sadness and longing, the specific kind found in terrible and overly dramatic films from the 1940s.

I'm afraid I've simply lost something so important to me, and I'm looking for a big strapping man to find it.” She turned to face him, her expression gather intensity despite his back being to her. “I can offer all sorts of rewards for a... successful job.”

Sepia flicked his cigarette over the edge.

I don't deal with Old Ones.”

“Am I that obvious?” The woman smiled and sat down next to him. “Hm. You seem a little down.”

No response.

Fine.” The woman stood and smiled. “Next time we meet, you're going to want to talk.” As she walked away, a pale purple flame enveloped her, leaving Irving Sepia to stare, not out of shock or surprise, but out of a suspicion he had not felt in a long time. Turning to the briefcase, he opened it and began removing the money, carefully examining the carefully bound piles of notes. He weighed one in his hand for a moment before removing them all, slowly and carefully, setting them beside the case, before picking them up again, one by one. He removed the paper bindings and threw the notes back in. The constant breeze of the mountain poured over the case, slowly catching the notes and letting them drift into the wind. Off the side, over the edge, into the unknown. He stood, letting the earth beneath him shift ever so slightly with each step, whistling as he did a long note, ushering Amser to his side. He stood for a moment more, simply staring into the distance, watching the floating notes bounce through the air, before jumping onto Amser's back.

 

Millions upon Millions of Miles Away...

 

Sepia flicked his cigarette over the edge.

I don't deal with Old Ones.”

“Am I that obvious?” The woman smiled and sat down next to him. “Hm. You seem a little down.”

No response.

Fine.” The woman stood and smiled. “Next time we meet, you're going to want to talk.” As she walked away, a pale purple flame enveloped her, leaving Irving Sepia to stare, not out of shock or surprise, but out of a suspicion he had not felt in a long time. Turning to the briefcase, he opened it and began removing the money, carefully examining the carefully bound piles of notes. He weighed one in his hand for a moment before removing them all, slowly and carefully, setting them beside the case, before picking them up again, one by one. He removed the paper bindings and threw the notes back in. The constant breeze of the mountain poured over the case, slowly catching the notes and letting them drift into the wind. Off the side, over the edge, into the unknown. He stood, letting the earth beneath him shift ever so slightly with each step. He approached the cliff-face and chalked out a complex symbol, one which would take any but the skilled days to produce. For Irving Sepia, the process took minutes. He dug his fingernails into his skin deeply and tore at it, producing a small patch of blood. He made contact with the symbol and prepared for the all-consuming white light that always came.

 

In that instant, he disappeared, and for all the noise and bustle of Terrut City below him, Irving Sepia was not missed.

The End

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