Moreau

There it is again: that feather-light sense of unease, the tingle of uncertainty. The hairs on your neck stir slightly and you know before you turn around the Moreau is collecting his breakfast. Conversations falter for an instant as he passes, in his wake the the cool finger of melancholy that tentatively touches heart-strings, the pang of remembrance that might make an eye water briefly with a sudden tear. His miasma is a soft, sad, silken shroud that floats invisibly about him, stretching about as far as a whisper carries clearly in a quiet room. Faces change ever so slightly in that circle: frowns deepen, smiles flicker or fade or grow false, the voice of conscience becomes a shade shriller. Moreau pours himself a mug of black coffee and blows on it calmly, meditatively, his flat silver eyes closed. He takes a single delicate sip, tasting the cheap, bitter brew as though it were fine wine. The tattooed cook thrusts at him a bowl of unbuttered, unsalted, unappetizing oatmeal with a wooden spoon jammed in the mess like a fence post, silently urging him to go. Moreau thanks him politely, his voice barely a murmur, and he leaves the tent with bowl and cup clasped carefully. Through the opening of the tent you see him walking with small, precise steps into the bramble and snipedragon over-grown field where nothing else will grow. As he does every morning, Moreau settles onto a large boulder, almost like a lady riding side-saddle, his ankles primly crossed, eating his morning meal fifty yards from every other being. As soon as he leaves, the atmosphere brightens immediately, but the upswing in mood is boisterous, sudden bravado to dispel the shiver of doubt. Grins and fistbumps are exchanged by Pearl’s crew, snatches of song are sung, and the laughter is loud and forced for a moment. By the time you look back at the distant rock in the weedy field, the eladrin is gone.

Moreau

Heroes of Darkwater Throneworld