"Callon nîn, melethron nîn."

"Lay it down into the water and let the stream carry it Westwards."

With a face like stone, the red-clad lady accepts the paper lantern. The craftsman looks at her expectantly. His answer is an ice-cold glare: "Turn around. Go uh... go gather more wax or something. Scram!" He is dumbfounded, the poor sod. Not knowing how to react, he does as he is told and scurries down the pier. 

She turns around and kneels by the river. The mask slips.

"Ai, melethron nîn, Callon nîn... goheno nin..."*

Her hand lets go of the delicate lantern. Her cold eyes melt as she watches the light drift away, until it disappears completely.

* "Oh, my love, my hero... forgive me."