Two hours later, with his task in the crypt completed, Valetni gently places the body of brother Malfeas back into his resting place, sealing it once more. He begins his slow walk back through the crypts, pausing to have a short conversation with brother Quolly, dead for three hundred years next Wednesday, if the runes on his grave were to be believed (Quolly himself insisted that he was only two hundred three next Wednesday, but he also addressed Valetni as 'Dumount')<br/><br/>Emerging once again into his library, Valetni quietly takes his place at his desk, shuffling through faded yellowed notebook after faded yellow notebook, dozens of them. Twenty-eight years of research, fifty six volumes, and he was going to have to acquire volume fifty seven soon enough. He quietly wrote down his observations while they were still fresh in his head, forcing himself to. Who knows, maybe when all this dreadful business was done he could have them published. He gave a sad smile as a bittersweet memory was tugged from his mind, he had used to write poetry for Valerie, her joke has always been that he could be a quite accomplished poet, if only he would submit them for publishing. A single tear fell upon the open page.<br/><br/>Angrily he snapped the journal closed, roughly shoving it into the desk, slamming the draw and locking it with the key that hung around his neck. Breathing heavily, he stood, making for the trap door.<br/><br/>He could still remember the night he burned the poems.<br/><br/>The same way she had burned.