*The End*

Spoken of only to those he trusted, the spreading numbness had finally made its way to his chest. The recent illness didn't help anything, severely weakening him to the point that he welcomed its cold touch.

He knew it would ultimately be what removed him from the world he had come to love and admire, even if he was rarely in agreement with those around him.

Sitting there, in his kitchen, he strained at each passing breath. His eyes wide with fear. True fear. Fear that the Shadows had finally forsaken him. Fear that comes when the realization comes that they had forsaken him long ago. He had met such wondrous people in his life, killed others, intimidated more. In the end, the words of Sehdae Ly rang true, he did indeed die alone. The Royal Janitors, often known for cleaning up the land of cannon fodder, would take his body and discard it with the other refuse; unceremoniously bringing a close to his life.

Clenched in his hands was a note, the recipient unknown, "New outfit, I hope you like it. I hope to see you soon. Please bring the Tisane, I feel chilly lately."

---

So ends the adventures of Nih Betodaru. I'd like to take a moment and thank each and every one of you for your role play over the last couple of years. I would also like to note that the decision by Admin to ban me, while I disagree with it, will not be fought. The admin team has done a great job with the game since Miranda took it over; and, while I've been one of the most vocal people to call them out on their shortcomings, it was never with the intent to insult or harm - only to help with the growth.

It is my hope that those that have long since stopped speaking to me will remember the good moments we had, and smile just a bit.

I will leave you with one of my most favorite poems:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-Dylan Thomas