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Her steps echoed loudly across the ancient city, but Cleo does not fear the scult, and It does not try to intimidate her in return.
To other players, the sculk whispers of sorrow and solitude; To her, It spoke of the sea's vastness and her watery grave. It beckons forth and almost grabs at them, hands of shadow and smoke on their forearms or shoulders. It invites them to join It in Its slumber, while all It can do to comfort her is caress her rotten skin. She was partially dead, yet not a part of Death.
When she'd lived, she'd been fully alive, but once nearly entranced in the sweet peace of eternal rest, she'd turned away.
And now, the sculk and her were different means of spending the same inevitable Ever After; Two perfectly parallel lines.
The newest patch of sculk was lighter in colour, and much less of a goo than its kins. When she stepped closer, Darkness wrapped around her. Instead of reciprocating her late friend's cold hug, she sat down nearby.
When she placed down the sunflowers and lit the candles, the tension in her shoulders eased. The Darkness wrapped tighter around her, and she couldn't help but reassure her friend with a smile.
Cleo had never received a funeral, because she wasn't really dead. And she was glad the same was true for TFC