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It’s late in the day when you finally reach the Restlands, the graveyard only a short distance outside of Ravengro. It’s a large graveyard and well-tended from what you can see as you approach the gate where a small group of mourners have gathered. Overhead heavy gray clouds sit brooding, promising heavy rains later in the evening. For now though only icy drizzle falls in wavering sheets both cold and unpleasant.
One of the mourners, Kendra Lorrimor from the descriptions you've heard, stands near a casket. She pretty now despite her slightly red and puffy eyes but you think a less somber mood would make her beautiful. Like everyone else she's wearing mourning colors and she gives a quick fleeting smile as she spots you arriving but it quickly fades as she gives a nod.
"As tradition requires I will ask of you, my father’s friends and confidants, who shall bear him to his final rest?" Kendra asks in a soft gentle voice.
You're not sure if you should volunteer but your fellow mourners look a little unsteady and there are only a few of you. Your legs are tired from travel and you boots muddy but as you approach kendra offers you a black cloak to drape around your armour as you act as pallbearer.
Rendel walked in slightly dazed and confused. He had a million questions and spent almost the entirety of his journey mulling over in his head everything he planned on doing and the methods with which he would employ. He bit his tongue trying not to let a thousand and one questions spill forth from his mouth.
Instead he silently took the cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders. It felt awkward and heavy over what he already wore, it's darker black being a sharp contrast to the worn gray of his fathers old cloak. It felt warm. Walking in the rain that had poured on him almost the entire trip here from Lastwall made his already light complexion ghostly pale and with his white hair he seemed like a ghost.
Taking his position he felt more then a little angry at the old professor. Did he think so little of him that he wouldn't have bothered to detail more about what him and his father spoke of? Where he went? What he was doing? Why he couldn't tell his own son? Now these were secrets he took the grave, forever out of reach except to the grace of Iomedae.
A lone figure in a rust colored cloak walks down an empty rural road.
Boots seem to be holding up. Sad journey to break them in on though. Good road, guess everything that can wash away did it a long time ago.
Water drips off the cloak and off the polished blade of the long spiked axe he carries.
Heavy clouds today, I hope the real weather holds off until after the ceremony. Still it would hardly be a proper Ustalav funeral without the rain.
Ahead in the mist a small group of figures stand before an ornate gate. A woman stands beside a trestle table supporting a long low box.
This must be the right place. I’m glad the directions I got in the village were correct. From some of the odd looks they might have been sending me on a goose chase. Well I can understand them being nervous. Can’t be everyday you get armed strangers asking for the graveyard, not even here.
The figure halts at the edge of the group and pushes back his hood, ignoring, or not caring about the rain. He answers the woman’s smile with one of his own. It quickly fades as his gaze falls on the casket.
“Madame Lorrimor, my name is Creel Candleman. I regret that we meet under such somber circumstances. Your father meant a great deal to me, if there is some way in which I can serve you, or his memory, you have but to name it.”
Creel speaks softly yet it is plain that he means what he says.
"As tradition requires I will ask of you, my father’s friends and confidants, who shall bear him to his final rest?"
Madame Lorrimor has a strong, clear voice. It is clearly costing her something to remain so composed.
Creel walks to the casket as he wraps the ceremonial cloak about him, his head still uncovered. Grasping the brass handle in his left hand and holding the halberd steady in his right.
“Professor Lorrimor has walked with me, I can walk this far with him.”
The weak sun finds a break in the clouds. For a moment clear rain-washed light falls on the figures, on the casket, and on the gate.
Having changed into the best possible clothing he could muster at the inn - and even this outfit is slightly wrinkled from the road - Tharnik walks to the edge of the graveyard and scans the scene before him. A host of bodies, all cloaked in black, stand in the rain before him. Some are huddled, silently mourning the loss of their fallen friend. Others, he notes, are whispering amongst themselves. He can hear their whispers as surely as he can hear the spirits that haunt him. He wonders, almost whimsically, if he'll add the good professor's voice to those that mock him when the sun sets.
No, the mood is already somber enough, Tharnik thinks. It's better to join them, pay my respects, and leave. There is nothing here for me, not now that the good professor has gone from this world.
With that thought, Tharnik shoulders is deep red cloak, fastening the old, pitted broach, and slowly walks up to the crowd. He hangs back slightly, watching carefully to see who is in charge. Noticing the Lady Lorrimor, he moves forward. He slows before her, nodding and offering her the appropriate frown.
"I am to understand the good professor has passed. You have my condolences," he says.
With her reply, he nods again, accepting the black cloak and placing it over his own.
It's almost fitting, black at night - and black at a funeral, Tharnik thinks. We are born from the night and, aptly, go back into the night.
Tharnik's thoughts are dark and heavy, but he shoulders them, as well. He steps forward, behind the pale human, and grabs the handle to the casket. He doesn't speak, and bows his head in respect.
It had been a long, arduous journey through the mountain passes, down into the plains, and around a dangerous forest, but Torthen, disciple of the most primal element, could only smile at how eventful his trip had been.
It was with a heavy heart and much sadness that he took his cart and mule, calmed the beast, and hopped off the cart. He was not in the human's traditional black, but moreso with his attire of browns and blacks, though his face would make all refuse to challenge his respect for the professor.
He had been silent the entire session, his arms crossed and his face stern, focused on the thoughts that he had rejoined the spirits below, that he would return in a new form, and the cycle of life would continue with its course. This, he was taught, was the order of things, and nothing should seek to disturb that.
He overheard the daughter's plea, and with a great sound, echoed his voice into the air.
"I, too, shall bear him to his rest - may he rest within the sacred ground beneath us."
Torthen stepped forward, and prepared to assist - he clasps the handle opposite the larger man with a red cloak, and gives a firm nod, ready.
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With the four pallbearers now gathered the procession began its slow measured march through the graveyard, the illumination of the sun breaking through the clouds lost as the storm clouds overhead closed ranks. The graves and plots of land surrounding them were obviously well tended, no doubt cared for by a dedicated Pharasmin cleric. The only sound accompanying the slow march the sound of creaking armour and your own heartbeat.
By your reckoning you're about halfway to your destination when a group of farmers steps out of the gloom and rain ahead of you blocking the pathway deeper into the cemetery. There are a dozen men all told and, judging by their dress and well being, they look to be a mixture of local farmers and fishermen. One, no doubt the leader steps forward and address the mourners, though obviously aiming his words at Kendra.
"That's far enough" the lout says in a roughly accented voice "We've been talkin' we 'ave and you isn't gonna bury Lorrimor 'ere. Yous can take 'im up river ifs you want, but he ain't goin' 'in the ground 'ere"
Rendel was already in a foul mood. The weather, his fatigue, the nature of his journey and the circumstances with which it started were beginning to pile up. And now these men, these simple, paranoid, ignorant men stood between him and a quick end to this, a warm fire, and time to think. They could take the professor further, outside of the cemetary, to a place of solitude, he knew the rites, and by the looks of his fellow pallbearers perhaps they did too the walk was probably not far and he was strong of arm enough to haul the coffin there himself if need be. But his patience was undone. He practically snarled his response barely giving Kendra time to react.
"And by what right do you men halt a holy procession? What crime did the man commit against you that you will deny him a simple proper burial?" He practically shook with righteous fury as he spat the words. A part of him told him this was unwise. That this was unnecessary. That part went unheeded.
Creel raises his head and looks at the leader. Tears are clearly visible on his face despite the rain. He speaks.
“Gentlemen, ladies (if there are any women in the crowd), friends, you are intruding on a daughters grief for her father, is this meet? If there is a reason why Professor Lorrimor should not lie in the Restlands then we will happily go with you to place the matter before the proper authorities. If it is a criminal matter let us go together to see the sheriff (if that is the title for the local law) if your concerns are religious then the priest who so carefully tends these sacred grounds should be aware of them. There is a proper and just way for us to work together, a public confrontation can solve nothing and these situations can so easily get out of hand.”
At this point Creel leans forward slightly, as if tying to reach the group physically as well as with his words. Almost inadvertently his grip slackens on the halberd in his right hand. As he says “…so easily get out of hand.” the blade rotates until it presents a shining rainwashed profile to the crowd. Water drips slowly from the axe head and the curving central blade.
“Come friends; this is a time of sadness, let us find the shepherd who tends this ground and place the matter before the proper authority. We need no longer intrude on a faithful daughter’s grief.”
Under his real concern for Kendra and the safety of the townsfolk Creel is automatically assessing what could go wrong.
Creel mentally prepares himself to fight if need be his rear foot unconsciously shifts from a walking to a fighting position.
oops egg and tears on face.
~will
Torthen begins to grumble, for the funeral seems uneventful - but necessary. The arrival of the interlopers does nothing but bother him further - for they involve themselves in business that is not their own.
The dwarf manages to keep his footing easily under the weight of the coffin, and has it propped in a comfortable manner, but he does a look back to the red-cloaked brute across from him. He gives that one a nod, and motions towards the newcomers, in hopes of a silent agreement to do battle with and end them if things go wrong.
He clears his throat and bellows from the back.
"Now, listen 'ere, lads. If ye've been talkin' bout this, ye should go on back an' continue, for ah'm not in a mood ta stop - and by th' looks of th' men 'round me, ah'd say ye've got no business ta be had 'ere. Now, if ye've said yer piece, ah'd like to keep movin' so we may lay th' kind Professor ta rest in 'is proper place."
Madeline stalks along the road towards her destination, the rain dripping from her tri-corn hat and the long leather coat buttoned up so that the collar has been turned up concealing the lower half of her face. Her braided hair tucked neatly, if frazzled by the damp weather, beneath hat and down jacket. A slightly taller 'masculine' figure, attired in the same style of hat and coat, strides along slightly to the side and behind her, the large weapon he carries across his back looking like some over-wrought hammer.
Coming across the group she initially sighs with relief, glad the myriad little things that fate scattered in her journey's path had not made her too late to give her proper respects to the man who's gift of fortune itself had helped her from such dire straits.
Though, when the sound of raised voices reaches her ears through the soft rustle of the falling rain, she cannot help but to add her raised voice to the sound,
"I say? Hello? Is there a problem here?" She, and her companion, bustle up to the group. Though Madeline makes sure she, and her male companion/shadow halt along side the coffin and the pallbearers. She turns, unbuttoning her collar to lower its rim and show her face with a sombre smile,
"Terribly sorry I'm late, fate sometimes throws the silliest little things into one's path." She looks both slightly ashamed at being late as well as obviously relieved at meeting every one finally. Then her gaze looks to those others standing in the road,
"Oh, how thoughtful...others come to show and pay their respects..." She says honestly and with a smile of companionship towards them all, though her voice is pitched loud to carry well to every one.
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"What are you louts talking about?" Kendra demands in a strident voice, anger quickly overcoming her sorrow "I've arranged this with Father Grimburrow already, he is waiting for us at this very moment!"
"You jus' don't get it does ya, we ain't gonna have our kin's rest disturbed by a Nercomancer lyin' with 'em" the leader retorts his voice rising.
A few of the men though have begun to look uneasy seeing the heavily armed and armored travelers who've joined the procession as pallbearers and friends from afar. They seem like they're about to begin some kind of altercation but one of the men comes up to the spokesman and whispers in his ear and the fire goes out of him. The group does a quick about face and head back towards the local town, Ravengro.
Tharnik looks across to the dwarf, nods back, and then looks at the farmers and snorts. He then levels his gaze at the leader, his 'gusto' gone with a few words, and then to the man who whispered to the leader. He makes a point to note his features and any details, in case he'll need them again in the future.
After studying the crowd, he looks back to the dwarf and says,"Aye, it would seem these simple bastards are as superstitious as a heard of sheep. And they spook as easily, too."
With that, Tharnik adjusts the coffin and looks forward again, watching the crowd depart.
As they go, he mutters, "Good riddance. I didn't feel like digging additional graves today, anyway."
Madeline watches the other group of locals leave, then looks to those carrying the coffin of her...freind.
"Well, I must say the learning's of the common man have not much changed in my long absence." She huffs, then glances back to those lifting their burden,
"Would there, perchance, be room for others to help carry...?" She asks quietly. Though not eager to see the final fate of the Professor, the acts of propriety should needs always be carried out.
Tharnik looks over to the newcomer and her companion.
"If you and your companion were dear friends of the good professor, as I suspect all of us were, then by all means. Should we make room for five..." Tharnik glances over at her tall companion and then continues, "or six?"
'Ah good. I knew they would come around. Good people...at heart."
He sounds like he is trying to convince someone, perhaps himself?
"Greetings Madam, Sir. These are not the best circumstances to meet but please join us if you would. The weight is not too much to bear."
His voice trails off during the final sentence as he is reminded of the somber nature of the task.
"Madame Lorrimor, if you are ready to continue?"
Rendel's ears perked at the words "necromancer". He was about to say some choice words and brandish a choice implement. If the men felt they were so right then they would do what was necessary to protect themselves. Doubt, or fear, would undoubtedly make them go away. He listened intently his instincts telling him there was more to this than a few men's superstitions. Even if the professor wasn't at fault these men at least had the reason and organization to gather in one spot.
As the men dispersed he glared at their direction a long time. Nodding politely at the odd woman and her...companion. He made room and allowed them to take up the burden.
As they marched on he wondered at the men's words. Necromancer? The man had an interest in undeath, sure, but purely from a scholarly perspective. The man had so many varied interests it would be difficult to imagine him becoming obsessive about the dead so much as to earn the title. Perhaps it would be prudent for him to come back later before the men finished the work of burying him. A moment's work with the blade, a hard thrust of the stake, and a prayer would be all it would take to ensure the old man's rest.
No he thought Not now. He was many things. Evil was not one of them.
As they marched on he began a prayer. More for himself then for others. It helped him concentrate, calm him down. His instructors would have chided him on losing his temper. They would have told him to file it away, put it somewhere deep to unleash on the real enemy later. So, he pushed it back. Pushed it back and prayed. He did not pray loudly, or perhaps even very clearly.
"Come ye faithful we lay our honored dead to rest.
Though we give his body to darkness it is to Iomedae's embrace he walks.
Though his blade lies broken and his armor lies shattered he carries with him the armor of faith and the sword of light.
Though we stand before the threshold of death he has ascended eternally into Heaven.
Let us shed our sorrows and embrace joy.
Let us forget our anger and embrace justice.
Let us cast out evil and treachery from our hearts and embrace courage and honor.
Hail onwards glorious soldier of light....we salute thee..."
"They'll be back, ah'm bettin'. Jus' not for this'n here."
He concedes his commentary, but he knows he can place a bit of faith in these around him now. Seemingly normal, the dwarf had long sleeves, and a robe over his body, concealing most of it - though he had a strange grey mark over the side of his face , that appeared to be made of stone. It was a sight indeed, if one paid too much attention to it.
He didn't notice if anyone did, or maybe he didn't care. It was here he continued the job, and bore the weight. He got a good listen in on the prayer, and did his best to listen - though on mention of a god, he bore no more attention to it.
They put their faith in th' gods above? Ah'd rather th' gods around us - at least they see what we endure!
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The processional continues unmolested and a few short minutes later arrive at the plot where the cleric and two grave tenders are waiting. Once the business of placing the casket into the grave has been taken care of with the help of the tenders the priest takes his place in front of the marker stone.
The priest, apparently father Grimburrow, is an elderly gentleman with too large features having large bushy eyebrows, a large wide nose and large forward set ears, says a traditional prayer of Pharasma with the intonation of ritual and practice before inviting Kendra to say a few words. Kendra though, is still upset about the confrontation and can’t compose herself enough to speak for her father. Father Grimburrow is quick enough to notice this and asks if anyone else would like to say a few words while Kendra composes herself.
Tharnik looks at the priest and says, "Father Grimburrow, I believe we have another holy man with us that, if you'll allow, would probably provide a rather touching eulogy."
Then, Tharnik looks in Rendel's direction.
Rendel endeavored to make himself as unnoticeable as possible trying to hide the mild embarassment on his face.
"I would not encroach on Father Grimburrow's ground." he said "And Iam not a man of words..."
I also am not a man of words. However what facility I have I owe to Professor Lorrimor so I will speak now.
Why the professor chose me, a young and foolish acolyte of no name or distinction to be his assistant I will never know. But he did. His research in the archive was no doubt of great importance but he still found the time and energy to teach and focus and guide is poor assistant until my own interest in the world of words and books began to grow.
Over the years he professor fostered that interest through letters and visits. He let me know that my voice was important. That the great work of understanding the world is not a task restricted to those in robes with ink stains on their noses and the sent of strange chemicals wafting after them, but rather the task of all of us. No matter or status or profession we are part of the world, it flows through us as we move through it. It is our duty. No, it is our privilege to work to understand.
It is this work that Professor Lorrimor dedicated his life to. It is for this work that the professor touched so many lives. It is for this work that he will be remembered. And most importantly this work will continue. Through us, through his students, through the institutions this dear man shaped, the work will continue. Long after you and I are forgotten, long after this sacred ground is forgotten, long after even the professor is forgotten his work will continue. As the professor himself said “We do what we must, because we can.” Let us all go forward in that spirit, to continue his work, to carry his light into the darkness.
Professor Lorrimor added to the understanding of the world, he was a good man. I know of no higher honor.
Thank you Professor, may clouds of angels sing thee to thy rest.
~Creel, apprentice witchsmeller.
~Creel
Madeline and her companion, after helping walk the coffin and its contents to their destination. Then stand silently in the misting rain, content to remain in her thoughts as droplets of water trickle from her hat and coat.
Her companion, after the load is removed from his shoulder, moves quietly to stand behind Madeline's right shoulder.
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After all is said and done, Tharnik watches the good professor go to ground. He looks on, in part relieved that the man has found a place to lie, and in part, knowing that someone of a better caliber saw him off.
Still, he thinks his people might have done him a little more honor.
"Hmmm... so it is done."
LOL
Halberd 1d20+7 damage 1d10+6
Why is the paladin attacking me? WHY?!?!?!? Stop attacking me Paladin! Stop smelling my aura!!Halberd 1d20+7 damage 1d10+6
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"Aye" Answers Father Grimburrow turning to talk to the grave tenders who begin to shift soil into the grave. Kendra sniffles for a moment and then clears her throat before addressing the group.
"I would like to thank you all for coming, your support in this time would be appreciated by my father and you have my thanks, your support is helping me beyond what I can express" Kendra pauses for a moment "Those who have traveled from afar, would you accompany me to my father's... Uh, my home, this evening. My father named you in his last will and testament and I'd like you to come for its reading".
Madeline nods in acceptance of Kendra's question/request.
"Of course," Tharnik replies.
Rendel said nothing and simply walked behind. An hour or so of listening to someone drone on for hours about a mans sound mind and body would at least get him out of the rain and give him time to think.
He was nearly ready for the journey when the second letter came. It had announced that the professor had died and that he was to be present at the funeral. He had almost given up and on grounds of his journey likely being fruitless. Yet here he stood in front of the temple, his home and school for many years, preparing to go to a foreign land filled with foreign peoples for the sake of a man who rarely visited him to question a man who was already dead. It was fitting that it rained to match his mood. It occurred to him that it was useful as well since it would obscure the vision of anyone looking outside. They would see a tall figure, perhaps one of the faithful or curious but little else.
He did a quick inventory of his things. Whatever he did not have now he'd have to get from a shop in another town. Delaying anywhere here might alert his mother to what he was doing and it would not be long before she'd berate some paladin or another into chasing him down. He needed to get as much distance as possible.
Throwing the hood of his cloak over his head he gave one last look at the temple before taking the first faithful step. Then, he turned and walked away.
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Following Kendra you’re led down into Ravengro proper as the evening begins to turn dark, the drizzle begins to rain and the roll of thunder can be heard in the distance. Ravengro itself is a small town of less than a hundred homes that are clustered close together creating a series of narrow streets and alleys. The home Kendra leads you to is small, though pleasant enough for the gloomy architecture of Ustalav, with dark granite wall and a slate roof.
The inside of the home is absolutely crowded though with old, and obviously, well-loved furniture, crowded shelving lined with all manner of books, journals and scrolls and it takes a few moments for Kendra to get the lanterns around the home lit and a fire going to warm the sitting room. As you take a seat Kendra asks if anyone would like a drink before going to get a pot of water on the boil for a cup of tea. She then returns and asks if people could introduce themselves, she thinks she knows who is who but doesn’t think that you know one another.
While Kendra readies the refreshments, Tharnik paces around the sitting room, glancing at books and occasionally out the window. The pitter-patter of rain would normally sooth him, but the angry villages still weigh on his mind. While he doubts anyone would be dumb enough - or brave enough - to dare this weather on a fool's errand, he knows the virtue of being prepared and aware.
After he feels a little more secure in the damp, cold room, he pulls up a seat by the fire and warms his feet, trying to dry out his boots as best he's able. He scans the room, making eye contact with each of the other attendees before clearing his throat and speaking.
"I'm sure all of us have interesting tales to tell, and I am no different. But perhaps a proper introduction is in order. While it's easier to say my name and title in Orcish, it is loosely translated to Tharnik, Outcast from Clan Black Sun." Tharnik lets the implications of his words hang in the air for a mere moment, letting them sink in, before speaking again.
"Put simply, I'm an outcast from Belkzen, a former highway man, and a character of less than reputable standing ...or was."
Tharnik looks away, gazing out the window for a few seconds before continuing.
"I met the good professor at one of his research sites not far from here. I was living in the wilds of eastern Ulstalav when he was attacked. Normally,I would have turned away and let the bandits and him fight it out, but there was something 'different' about the professor than demanded I act. I took up arms and defended the professor, eventually slaying his enemies and saving him. Or at least helping."
Tharnik looks away, again. After a short pause, he speaks.
"Unlike a few of you, I am not a holy man. In fact, I'm not even a very good man. But I'm no monster and I wish the good professor here could have stayed with us a little longer to see what I might become. He always..."
Tharnik stops again, pausing and clearing his throat slightly. He offers the crowd a weak smile and says, "It would have been nice to have him here still, that's all."
As is the custom in cold and rain blessed climate Madeline and her follower doff their heavy, water resistant great coats and leave them in the small vestibule space just inside the front door for such.
Even as she loosens the braid of her hair, it does not fall fast enough to hide the extended, delicate curves of her ears. Though her man-servant, whom people may remember being addressed as simply' Smith' looks human.
Stepping into the parlour with the others, Madeline seems to presumptuously take a seat with Smith again coming to stand, now more perhaps hover, over her right shoulder. While the man-servant has left his great, articulated hammer in the vestibule. The sword that still rides at Madeline's hip is both elegant and functional. She watches Tharnik pace, while she sits motionless -hands clasped before her in her lap -and remains quiet still as the 'Half-Man' tells his tale.
She waits until he is finished, then her eyes scan over the others in the room.
"Well...my tale of alliance with the good Professor spans a slightly similar course." She sighs and a range of emotions sweep across her features briefly in the fire light. Smith stirs,
"Distress...Mistress...?" He asks, his voice sounding strange -with accents akin more to some sort of instrument than voice. Though he does no more than bend to focus his gaze directly upon her. Madeline straightens, her features becoming smooth and remote once more and Smith returns to his original pose.
"My family hails from Ustalav...Until my Mother eloped with what these locals call a foreign stranger and much politics caused a severing of such bonds that are called 'kin'. It was far to the warmer South that they settled, my father being a drifter of sorts, even from his kin. His fascination with things -intricate, delicate things..." And she pats the sword at her hip, "Saw him studying the works of the far land called 'Alkenstar' and eventually my Mother too joined him with such fascination...and experimentation..." She sighs again, though no emotions show upon her features.
"My parents knew the Professor far better than I -Sharing knowledge between them as they did -but it was to my rumbustious youth he and they allowed myself to learn the ways of the greater world." Now a darkness comes over Madeline's features, something of which a shadow appears upon those of Smith, "Sadly, there are some things every culture wishes to keep for themselves and does not believe in sharing. When my Father crossed some unknown line in his dealings with the good professor, it cost my parents very dearly, to which the Professor took me in and help both shelter me and move me away from the same fate..." Madeline's eyes gleam in the fire light as her face smoulders with some dark, suppressed emotion.
"It is in this time that the passing of the late professor has found me and brought me back here to part of my family's roots...to a land where such feelings as I am experiencing seem to find fertile soil..." She turns face more towards the fire, even as her thoughts drift into a deeper reflection of the flickering light and she says no more for now.
Tharnik studies Madeline and her companion while she tells her story.