The 82nd Trial of Ymiden, Arc 719
Eliza had always considered herself to be; in a sense; a solitary child. It seemed like an odd stance to take, considering the nature of her birth and upbringing. Over the course of two full centuries and then some, she'd called dozens of individuals mother, father, grandmother, uncle. She'd even had those that she'd referred to as sister and brother. In spirit, some of them had temporarily filled the role. Especially Poppy, the most beloved of them all. But so far as she knew, there hadn't been a single blood connection between herself and any of them.
But it was more than that. Due to her own unique origins, the daughter of Ymiden had watched hundreds of loved ones pass from cradle to grave, while she'd been left behind. She'd been an observer of sorts as other's lives played through around her, and she'd felt it keenly. Each time one was lost, another would spring up to take their place. She'd spent a lot of time avoiding the act of wondering; was it the reason why she tended to avoid close, long lasting connections even now. The smallest amount of soul searching would probably confirm that it was.
Eberhardt was different. Besides the fact that Eberhardt was a monkey that had apparently sprung out of the fabric of Emea itself; and one who could converse with the best of them; the real reason was that Eberhardt seemed to shrug off the very notion of aging. She didn't age, at least not according to her. It was a blessing, so far as Eliza was concerned.
That morning, she was sitting outside her little cottage on the edge of Caervalle Town: Barefooted and cross legged on a wooden bench, surrounded by the little moat and the flock of colorful wood ducks that had flown in when she'd purchased the place. They'd never flown off again except for the occasional outing, and they were pretty excellent company so long as she kept them well fed. In her lap that trial was a small notebook, most of it's pages still blank. And by her side, a case of charcoal and pastel pencils. Eberhardt was beside her on the bench, snoozing in the warmth of the early morning sun.
Another consequence of having grown up feeling like an only child in a roomful of siblings, was that Eliza had developed a very good imagination. She'd become a daydreamer of the highest order. She'd surrounded herself with all sorts of imaginary worlds which she could live it to her heart's content; and filled them with imaginary contemporaries, acquaintances and friends. For a child, there had been something wonderful about companions that only she could see and hear.
Unlike living and breathing mortals, these characters never grew old. They were forever young, forever beautiful, plain, serious, whimsical or quirky. They were always where, and when, she'd expected them to be. And they'd never betrayed her or made promises that they'd never be able to keep. Unlike the many individuals that she'd crossed paths with over the past two and a half centuries; those with expiration dates stamped on their souls; in the eyes of a lonely and imaginative child, even with the flaws that she herself gave them, they'd been perfect.
