[ Two folded pieces of paper are slipped under the door. One is a note; one sentence written in Ephemera's neat, compact handwriting: ]
look after my armor
[ The second is a sketch, done in black ink, of an alien temple jutting up toward the sky on some hole in the wall planet far back nowhere called Chorus. A graveyard, in some respects, but the sketch doesn't show that. Only a marker. We were here. It happened.
no subject
look after my armor
[ The second is a sketch, done in black ink, of an alien temple jutting up toward the sky on some hole in the wall planet far back nowhere called Chorus. A graveyard, in some respects, but the sketch doesn't show that. Only a marker. We were here. It happened.
Someone ought to remember. ]