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The village felt more mysterious with each passing moment. Its stillness, its strange abandonment, and the oddity of its surroundings were beginning to gnaw at Lisa's mind. As she searched through one of the houses, a small, weathered notebook caught her attention. It was tucked away on a shelf, partially hidden beneath some old cloth. With a furrowed brow, Lisa opened it, flipping through the pages until her eyes fell on a signature at the bottom of one of the pages: "J.T." The ink was dark, but the handwriting was nearly illegible, faded and distorted by age and time.
Though she could read elvish, the letters were twisted and unreadable in their current condition. Still, the signature stood out, something about it felt personal, familiar even, yet it told her little about the person behind it. Her fingers traced the ink as she tried to make sense of the words, but the heavy fog creeping into the village made it hard to focus. Nightfall was quickly approaching, and with it, a thick mist began to spread across the land.
Peering out the window, Lisa caught sight of something unusual. Stone obelisks rose above the trees, taller than anything else in sight. They were arranged in a way that seemed deliberate—forming a square around the village, as if they marked a boundary. But that wasn't all. The surrounding area looked completely different from the village itself. There were no trees or shrubs like the ones they had seen in the forest. The ground around the obelisks was barren, as though no vegetation had ever grown there.
As she continued to ponder the mysteries around her, her thoughts were interrupted by a powerful, calming fragrance. Her gaze was drawn to a small white pot on a shelf near the window. Inside was a lavender flower, delicate and vibrant, untouched by the decay and neglect around it. It seemed completely out of place in the harsh environment of the forest, where the soil was too wet and the climate too damp for such a flower to grow.
Lisa approached the plant, her heart racing. She leaned in, taking a deep breath of its soothing scent. The smell was familiar, comforting even, but it was also strangely nostalgic. The lavender reminded her of home—the home she had left behind so many years ago. Her mind raced, memories flooding back.
She grew up in a secluded elvish village near a vast lavender field, where the flower was used for medicinal purposes, cooking, and decoration. The sweet fragrance had been a constant presence in her life. But it wasn't just the flower that brought back memories; it was everything associated with it. Her father—an incredible magician—had given her the book The Source of Magic when she was young. He had taught her the ways of magic, and she excelled beyond her peers. But when she was still a child, her father had been killed while defending their village from a group of bandits who had allied with slave traders. These criminals targeted children and women, seeking to sell them as slaves to the highest bidder.
Though this was outlawed by every race, it was a dark reality that still persisted, and her father had given his life to protect their home and family from these merciless invaders. He and the other fallen warriors were buried near the lavender fields. And so, for Lisa, lavender had always been more than just a flower. It was a symbol of her father's sacrifice, of the love and protection her family had given her, and of the deep connection she felt to her past.
Tears welled up in Lisa's eyes as the memories overwhelmed her. She wiped them away quickly, but the heavy atmosphere lingered in the room. Both Yuna and Rite noticed her silence, her eyes misted with grief. The stillness between them stretched, each of them sensing the weight of what she was feeling.
Finally, Lisa spoke, her voice trembling. "I miss him," she whispered, barely audible.
The room fell silent. Yuna, sensing the depth of Lisa's emotions, moved closer, her large eyes filled with empathy. Rite stood still, his brow furrowed as he took in the significance of the lavender flower.
"How did a lavender plant like this find its way here, of all places?" Rite asked, his voice laced with curiosity and confusion.
Lisa took a slow breath, her voice steadying as she replied, "I… I don't know. But it feels like a connection to something deeper, something much greater. It's as if this village, this place, is tied to my past in some way. Like it's trying to tell me something."
The three of them stood in quiet contemplation, the mystery of the village and its strange connection to Lisa's past thickening the air around them. Whatever had happened here, whatever had caused the villagers to disappear, was only part of the story. The lavender flower was a symbol, a clue—perhaps the key to unraveling the village's dark secrets. But the question remained: what force could have brought Lisa here, to this place, at this time?
And more importantly, why was she the one who was meant to find it?