The sun hangs languorously over the town of Ravengro as you enter the tiny village. It is early in the afternoon, but between the dense sheet of clouds gathered in the sky and the aches of travel tingling in your limbs, it feels far later. You have reached your destination at last, but your business is far from concluded, for you have been beckoned by the death of an old associate, the late Professor Petros Lorrimor, who is supposed to be interred in under an hour.
As you pick your way towards Lorrimor's former residence, you endure suspicious gazes from the locals. They eye you with a practiced skepticism typical of these small, insular communities, and their scrutinizing glares do little to make you feel welcome here. Fortunately, Ravengro is not a large settlement, and a scant few minutes sees you standing before a modest two-story home with black curtains drawn in all of the windows. The front door stands open for mourners of the dead, or for those who wish to offer their condolences to the living.
Stepping inside, you are greeted by the musty smell of paper and the sight of a veritable library lining the walls, even in the receiving room. There is a large table set out, and upon it rests a closed black casket. Only a small number of come to pay their respects, but in the small room, it seems like a crowd. There is a paunchy, middle-aged man with a severe look about him. His garb leads you to assume that he is of the town's nobility, or at least its upper echelons. Nearby is tall gentleman in understated finery, with a pronounced widow's peak and a hawkish appearance. A man in a worn tweed coat holds a hat somberly to his chest, his drooping mustache mourning along with him. There is a pasty-faced woman standing in the corner, her austere demeanor giving her a look at least twenty years beyond her age. Finally, a young woman sits next to the coffin itself. Her eyes red and puffy, and she is dressed conservatively in a dark funeral dress. She is clearly not at her best, though even in her grief she presents a poised demeanor, standing to greet you as you enter.
"Good afternoon, and thank you for attending. I am Kendra, daughter of... of Petros Lorrimor. I cannot express deeply enough my gratitude for your presence. It is good to know that my father has..." She turns away briefly and wipes her eyes with a soggy handkerchief before continuing. "That he still had friends in the world." She takes a moment to look you each over in turn, observing your traveling clothes. "I know you must be weary, and I promise you that later there will be time to rest, but I'm afraid we haven't the time right now - Father Grimburrow is waiting for us in the Restlands, and..." She gestures to the casket on the table. "I can hardly carry this there myself." She attempts chuckle at her forced joke, but it comes out a quickly stifled sob. "I hope that you will act as pallbearers? There really isn't time to change, but I can provide you with a few dark cloaks that would be... acceptable attire. I swear, I will provide you a proper welcome to Ravengro when all this business is behind us."
A short and slender looking young man walks into the receiving room. A dark green scarf is wrapped around his throat and tucked into a long dark coat. As he looks up at the young woman his eyes sparkle behind the lens of golden wired-rimmed glasses. The wind has blown strands of his long blonde hair loose of the black ribbon he has used to tie it back. He smiles sadly as he reaches up to push the strands behind his gracefully pointed ears. At Kendra's introduction he bows deeply, "It is an honor and a pleasure to meet you Ms. Lorrimor, I am Dr. Bennedict Darcy." He smiles gently, recognizing her quiet sob. "I'm sure you underestimate your own strength, which is more than sufficient to get you through this difficult time. Trust me, eventually you will be able to smile again without sadness. I gladly count the doctor as a friend though, and I would be honored to be among his pallbearers." He moves aside to make room for the other guests entering the home.
A second figure enters the room, shorter and squatter, but somehow quite graceful in his movements. He wears rough hide and a tattered cloak, and smells vaguely of dirt and rot. His black eyes dart around the room, taking in its inhabitants quickly and quietly. In response to Kendra he clears his throat and speaks. It sounds as though it's been a while since his voice was used.
"HRRM, ahh, no... no it's no trouble... I'm sorry for yer loss."
His brow furrows, and he quickly moves away from the upset woman, standing next to the blond man but making no attempt at further conversation.
I miss the wilderness, emotions are easier there, either terror or craving. I know how to deal with those, not this.
He realizes he failed to give her his name, but the window of introduction has closed, and he inwardly curses his lack of social graces.
The young man who enters next looks slightly out of place on peacefull funeral with his longsword at his side and a shield strapped to his back.
"Good afternoon, I'm Ildeon Horlindan. Please accept my sincere condolences and those of all of Lastwall. The forces of Good seem to have truly lost not only one but two of their best members. As I allready explained to you in my letter my Uncle Orlanz lately went missing in Virlych and we have to assume the worst. I'm here in his stead to try my best to fullfile your fathers last wish and honore those two great men.
As such I would be proud to serve as one of his pallbearers."
At the mention of Virlych, Charles's eyes widen, and he turns to the newcomer.
"Virlych? What was 'e doing there? It's no place to wander unprepared, the plants alone..."
His words trail off as he realizes that he's the only one talking in a room full of mourners, and his full attention goes to his boots.
Ildeon musters the dwarf and once the raised attention of the mourners for the dwarfs suden outbreak ebbs he quietly tells him:
"He was hardly unprepared, we still patrol Virlychs fringe areas and even go in deep when the need arises, though only in force. Still I would quite like to hear what you know about that cursed place, but this is neither the place not the time for such an discussion."
A young, lanky half-elf in subdued scribe’s clothing steps into the room, nervously fiddling with his shirt sleeves. He doesn’t keep eye contact with the majority of those in the hall, simply a brief nod of greeting before returning to the floor or nearby bookshelves. Upon reaching Kendra, he seems to take a moment to steel himself before meeting her gaze.
“Ms. Lorrimar, I am Calavas Orlosky, and on behalf of the Grand Lodge in Absalom, I would like to offer the condolences of the Society on Professor Lorimar’s passing.” He states with a slightly practiced air. Immediately afterwards, he continues, his voice breaking slightly. “On…my own behalf, I’m truly sorry for your loss. The professor was…I’d hoped to be like him someday. Anything I can do to help you, at all…just say the word.” A bit embarrassed at his stammering, he bow slightly and steps back, glancing back towards the bookshelves.
Cassandra blinks as she enters the residence, removing her smoked glasses revealing a pair of mismatched eyes which scan the room. "Surely a man as generous and kind as the Professor should have more of a turn out than this?"
As she is approached by the young woman Cassandra grasps her hand in hers and nods at the greeting. "My condolences, Mistress. I came as soon as I got your letter. I am Cassandra, Cassandra Blackmoore. You father was a great man, who took the time to tutor a confused, frightened young girl and help her understand what had happened to her was a gift and not a curse, for that I shall ever be grateful. If there is ever anything I can do for you and yours do not hesitate to ask."
An older man stands from his seat, his build very lean but fit. His outfit is a strange mash of standard wool pants and shirt, but also a necklace of bones, a small headdress of colorful feathers, and markings upon his arms. Although he seems fit, his age clearly shows. Streaks of gray shine in his long hair and his face show signs of wrinkles.
Once all the others have taken their chance to speak with her, he begins to move. With a wooden staff in hand, he slowly makes his way over to Kendra, hobbling almost as much as a man in his dying days. Once he is with her, he places his hand on her should.
"The professor told me that things outside of my tribe are different, I never realized how so. I'm sorry, but I don't understand this ritual, though I respect it. From my understanding, things do not fare well for you. I offer my sympathy and would like to offer the help I can. However, what is it when I am 'pallbearer?'"
Your father was a great man, who took the time to tutor a confused, frightened young girl and help her understand what had happened to her was a gift and not a curse, for that I shall ever be grateful.
Calavas looks over and smiles fondly at the young woman's statement, before turning back to the casket on the table and nodding. 'No words more true, Professor, for either of us. Thank you.'