A woman rides into Tyrluk early in the morning, clad in heavy silvery-blue armour bearing the gauntlet of Torm inscribed on the chestplate, along with a heavy black traveling cloak, and hood. She dismounts her barded warhorse and moves off of the road and stops in front of a gravestone.
It is early afternoon by the time the woman leaves again, back on her heavily armoured mount who waited patiently all the while. As she leaves, one can see that a note, and a simple red rose was left atop the earth.
A man clad in a thick, green winter cloak observed the display of the warrior's ceremony as she crossed through the ville. He continued a soft conversation with a local man for a time, soft blue eyes set upon the woman for the length of the display up until her departure. He offers the man a kind hearted smile and a few small vials before departing.
Moving over to the grave, he kneels down alongside the marker. He leaves the note undisturbed, though he instead pays interest to the flower. A spell is offered below his breath, the flower taking root at the head of the grave, roots spreading out along the length of it above ground to outline it. As the roots settle with their woven design now marking the grave, the man rises and continues on his way with nary another word to offer any.
A familiar warrior-like figure stops by... this time not clad in the silvery-blue ceremonial mail of her faith, but the bright rich purple of Cormyr's soldiers, spending many hours standing above the grave, gazing down in silence.
She stops by, again, likely a regular sight in Tyrluk by now.
Dreshae rides up the road of Tyrluk upon her heavily armoured mount and gives pause beside the small graveyard, she removes her winged helmet and offers a salute, then keeps on her way with a resolute nod.
Once again, Dreshae visits... Sitting beside a grave, on the outer edge of the yard. She stays there for a while, speaking to no-one in particular in low tones, her hands idly turning over a newly minted badge, apparently being shown to the grave... Her expression turning from bittersweet amusement and reminiscent smiles, to torn looks and concern.
A single rose is left, again, as the Purple Dragon rides away.