Apologies for the disjointed narrative. It's more or less how Lyranne's thought process is working currently, and as such, it's probably not the best read ('probably' she says >.>)
"He's dead" is all Lyranne could focus on. Those words pierced her heart and soul in a way more cutting than any sword she'd ever seen. Her closest friend, Quintilius, was dead. She took a deep breath and braved the chilling night air, desperately trying to collect her thoughts into a coherent whole.
As soon as she'd start to assemble the last minutes, tears would flood her cheeks, and her train of thought would crash as she was faced with the present. A world without another friend - an Azeroth that immediately felt less alive, simply because he was gone.
Her first impression of him was not a good one; overhearing his sexist vitriol and finding herself perplexed how nonchalantly Gellion had taken it all. Lyranne being the young opinionated elf that she is, challenged his world view in the only way she knew, and there was immediate friction. Of course their relationship grew, and after a time, they became good friends (or at least she thought so). At her worst he'd been there, and offered her counsel, advice, and understanding.
She'd been told that she was allowed to arrange a ceremony in his name, in his honour. She'd have done so regardless, and now; now it felt she had to.
She took another deep breath and folded her arms, shivering in the bleak midnight air. Walking about helped her concentrate, and the biting wind forced her to think.
"I'll arrange a ceremony that'll show all what a man he was. He deserves something to be remembered for; to be more than a footnote in peoples diaries. It'll start at Brill, on the last Sunday of the sixth month after midday. I'll get an artisan to make something to represent him, and hopefully, it'll be enough."
With this thought, she nodded solemnly, with a newfound determination.
"Quintilius Delauney: You'll be remembered."
Subject: Lyranne's lament. 
