── Many of those who lost their lives now rest in the battleground itself. What were once corpses are now mounds of disturbed earth, dirt shoveled over bloodless wounds as though it could protect the living from their shame. Roseal hadn't wanted to leave Rubble there with them. Logically, he knows it doesn't matter to him; he's dead, and funerals are to comfort the people still breathing— but he deserves more than a tired, repetitive burial, and he'd fought for this expanse of mud, so he might as well return to it.
He tries not to think that he would have walked back on his own legs if it weren't for Roseal. He's not successful, to say the least. His stiff body is Roseal's albatross fixed tightly around his throat, an omen and consequence all at once.
The ground here is softer, at least, which makes for easier digging even if it dirties Roseal far more. The sun's blissfully hidden by an overcast sky, but he almost wishes it were out in full-force to rightfully burn him. He eases Rubble's shape into the cavern marked for him, and he packs him in with moss and bits of marsh plants before painstakingly rolling small stones across him. Then comes the dirt again.
Always the dirt.
Rose determinedly twists another set of rocks into the space just above the mound. He'll have to return periodically to ensure they remain. He wonders, ridiculously, if Death has ever bothered presiding over graves as Roseal must now. Of course not— it has no need to, after all, not with its work finished. It leaves guiltlessly while Rose remains here the penitent middleman, not the ferry but the scythe.
"Sorry you couldn't see it rebuilt. Guess your name was some kinda prophecy, old man." He wishes he could say that it's all shaping up to be something better, but that wouldn't be true. He's spoken so many lies his tongue is a bed for deceit. "Thanks for trying, anyway."
──── surr'oseal'isme (roseal). he/him pronouns. roamer; goes where he pleases.
──── approximately thirty-eight months old; not entirely certain of his own age.
──── single & uninterested in any romantic attachments; possibly open for flings.
──── very tall, scarred albino with sharply-peaked ears and a bobbed, scruffy tail.
── Many of those who lost their lives now rest in the battleground itself. What were once corpses are now mounds of disturbed earth, dirt shoveled over bloodless wounds as though it could protect the living from their shame. Roseal hadn't wanted to leave Rubble there with them. Logically, he knows it doesn't matter to him; he's dead, and funerals are to comfort the people still breathing— but he deserves more than a tired, repetitive burial, and he'd fought for this expanse of mud, so he might as well return to it.