Scree’s Downtime: A Tribute to Temperance   The manor was quiet—too quiet. Even the fey-touched wind outside seemed to mourn as it whispered through the cracks in the shutters. For Scree, the silence was an unwelcome companion, heavy with the absence of her friend. Temperance’s room sat untouched, a silent sentinel holding the echoes of the laughter and life that once filled it.   On the first day, Scree stepped into the room, pausing in the doorway as if she expected Temperance to turn, mid-motion, her wry smile asking why Scree was standing there like a stranger. But no such moment came. Instead, the room was still, filled with sunlight that pooled on the floor, cutting through the gloom of grief.   Scree’s eyes fell on the shirt, its sleeve hanging from a barely closed drawer. It was so Temperance—a rush out the door, always ready for the next adventure, a story, a drink, a fight. The laughter she remembered felt too loud, too close, and yet too far. Scree’s fingers traced the stitching of a simple design on the fabric, as if hoping to unravel some secret meaning, some memory.   Pulling the shirt free, Scree held it to her nose. A familiar, faint scent lingered—her friend’s scent. A pang of grief punched through her chest, sharp and unexpected. Before she realized it, a tear had fallen, and she hastily wiped it away. Not now, she thought.   Breathing deeply, she steadied herself. One by one, Scree pulled Temperance’s belongings into the light of day—small trinkets, travel-worn clothes, the spare cloak Temperance always insisted would “come in handy,” and a cracked comb she’d never replaced. Each item seemed to hum with presence, whispering stories Scree couldn’t quite hear but felt in her bones.   She folded the shirt, smoothing it with thoughtful care before laying it on the perfectly made bed. From her bag, she drew out a cloth sack, and with quiet reverence, she began to pack. Nothing thrown, nothing hurried. Temperance had earned that much. Each item placed gently, as though she feared the memory might shatter if she moved too quickly.   Once packed, she stored the sack in a chest, leaving it locked and secure. Scree would wait. She didn’t yet know if Temperance had family—if someone out there waited unknowingly for a final piece of her. Fip will know, she resolved. But she would give him time—he needed it. They all did.   ---   At the Temple   On the second day, the weight of unfinished grief still pressing on her shoulders, Scree left the manor and sought out the temple. Frandyln’s vibrant streets seemed to mock her mood, but she kept her head down, focused on her purpose.   Temperance had mentioned this place once. It was small, unassuming—humble, much like their fallen friend. Its wooden doors creaked as she entered, the soft light of candles and incense washing over her like a balm. A few priests glanced her way, their gazes soft with understanding.   Scree approached the elder priest, explaining quietly what had happened to her friend. Words caught in her throat, but she forced them out, though it felt like spilling something sacred. The priest listened, head bowed, murmuring a soft prayer when she finished.   “We will honor her here,” the priest promised. “And you are welcome, child, to honor her as you need.”   Scree bowed her head in gratitude, feeling a small knot loosen in her chest.   For the next four days, she gave herself to the temple in Temperance’s honor. Each task was completed with dedication and care—scrubbing the stone floors until her fingers ached, tending to the herb garden, mending torn robes, and carrying food to those who came in search of shelter. When asked why she worked so hard, Scree simply replied, “For Temperance. She would’ve done the same.”   Her days became a rhythm: silent prayer in the mornings, work until sundown, and small conversations with the temple’s caretakers. She learned their names, their quirks, their stories, and in the quiet moments, she found fragments of peace.   One evening, as she lit candles in the temple’s main hall, Scree paused. “For you,” she whispered, watching the flame flicker. She imagined Temperance’s spirit laughing at her formality, telling her she didn’t need to fuss. But I do, Scree thought. I have to.   By the end of the fourth day, Scree had spent 25 gold pieces on donations for the temple—candles, herbs, and food for those in need—gifts given quietly, without fanfare. It was what Temperance would have done: a kindness offered without seeking reward.   When she returned to the manor, her grief hadn’t disappeared, but the ache had softened, just a little. Scree glanced toward the locked chest holding Temperance’s belongings and murmured softly, “I’ll see it done right. I promise.”   The wind whispered through the open window, carrying no reply, but Scree chose to believe her friend heard her anyway.