3rd day of Lamashan 4711AR
The death of Professor Lorrimor! That was the impetus for your journey to the Ustalavan settlement of Ravengro (population 300+ souls), known for its proximity to Lake Lias. Whether it was out of respect, loyalty, love, gratitude, admiration, or just simply politeness, you undertook a rather long journey to this small farming/fishing community to pay your respects to the late Professor upon receiving the news. You remember your arrival in this town only briefly, as you and other travelers, some familiar to you, were quickly ushered into stagecoaches that delivered you to the Restlands, the local cemetery and soon to be last resting place of the Professor, where you were quickly chosen to be a pallbearer without much say in it. A harsh wind blows in your face, as you struggle a little with the coffin on your shoulders. It is only early fall, but the weather has only worsened since your trip began, with temperatures dropping into the 30s, and a strong sense of chill and dread fills your bones. A creeping fog can be seen in the distance encircling the grounds and the skies are cloudy and dense, allowing no sunlight to shine through, despite the fact that it is only about 3:00 pm. You hear the constant crunching of the autumn leaves under your boots, as you follow Kendra Lorrimor, the Professor’s only child, at the head of the somber procession down the Dreamwake. A small handful of villagers and locals follow but for the most part remain quiet, only heightening the sound of the wind and the crunching of the leaves.
Mortimer had descended from the coach, making sure his large chest was still there and well-secured before walking to stand with the others. He approached Kendra, doffing his hat and giving a short bow before offering his hand. "My deepest sympathies." he said. Perhaps less warmly than he had wanted, but his feelings were too turbulent for complete control. Dressed in a dark suit, well-tailored and made of fine cloth, it nevertheless looks well-worn and if you look closely you can see the occasional bald patch here or loose thread there. He holds himself stiffly and behaves in a proper, gentlemanly way. His face is bearded and his dark hair is neat. There is a dusting of grey at his temples and in his beard. His grey eyes betray a hint of redness from fatigue or emotion. He wears a scimitar belted at his waist, the metal of the pommel polished until it gleams. A pin, bearing the coat of arms of his family, is affixed over his heart. His hat, a broad-brimmed duster, is perhaps his most worn article of clothing. He returns it to his head when he takes up the burden of carrying his teacher and friend to his final rest.
Gregorius steps out of the stagecoach right after the man with the hat.
Back in Lepidstadt, Gregorius had barely noticed when the driver announced a stop to pick up another passenger bound to Ravengro, but he did recognize the man that entered the vehicle. He had seen him before, wandering about the Univeristy halls. As Gregorius didn't feel particularly compelled to making new acquaintances under the current circumstances, the two didn't exchange much more than a couple of polite greetings. Overall, the split ride had been a quiet one; the demise of Lorrimor weighed heavily on Gregorius' mind, and the other man seemed lost in thoughts as well, thus, neither of them seemed to have minded the silence.
The half-elf picks up his travel bag from the coach and thanks the driver for the ride, leaving him a generous tip. He puts the heavy sac on the ground by his side; unties his long brown hair and pulls it back in a high ponytail, tying it back again neatly. Her runs his right hand over his mouth and chin, a habit developed after he started growing a beard, a few years back, while he was still in prison. A quite full beard for someone with elven blood, Professor Varis would say, but Gregorius was fond of it. The man behind the beard, with a shaved face and short hair, was someone he would rather never see again.
He stretches his back and neck and starts walking towards Kendra Lorrimor. He is surprised to see the man in hat talking the woman, offering his condolences; so distracted had he been by his own sadness that the thought that the man was also attending the professor's funeral never even crossed his mind. Now that he was in Ravengro, it was time to think of others, to get past his own pain and comfort those such as the late professor's daughter, whose sorrow he could but imagine. He kisses the holy symbol of Sarenrae and whispers a prayer. "Give strength to us all, Milady."
He bows to Kendra and gently kisses the back of her hand. "I'm so sorry for your loss, Miss Lorrimor." His voice is compassionate, and his tone, truthful. He leaves Kendra to attend to the other travelers and is asked by a stranger to be a pallbearer, to which he accepts without resistance after safely storing his belongings. Once again, he is surprised to see the man in hat by his side; this time, while the two men wait for the other pallbearers to arrive, he offers Mortimer Valdebridge the chance of a brief conversation. "I didn't realize we were sharing grief on top of the ride. Sorry for not introducing myself earlier: I'm Gregorius," he says, stretching out his right hand.
Four hours ago...
Stefan re-read the letter for what seemed the hundredth time. It was late afternoon, and the sound of the horses and the creaking of the private coach was lulling Stefan into an almost dreamlike state. It was hard to imagine the world without his dear friend Petros Lorrimor. I hated him when I first met him, he mused. He was so tough on all of his students, and woe betide anyone who hadn't done the assigned reading! That one lecture that he made poor Anya squirm by peppering her with question after question that he knew she couldn't answer... but none of us ever skipped an assignment after that. He smiled in his reverie, as he knew that his old professor used that prickly demanding persona to bring out the best in his students' scholarship... and if students earned the professor's respect, how he could become a mentor and a friend. He reminisced about those evenings at the public house discussing philosophy, arcana, and history with Andrei and Professor Lorrimor... and of how the professor had been so comforting and fatherly after Andrei's death.
Stefan broke out of his reverie when he heard the sound of three arrows striking the side of the coach, and a man shouting, "Hold, or the next three go in your chest!" The coach lurched to a stop. Stefan peered out of the coach windows, and saw four dark-haired men approach the coach, each holding a cocked and loaded crossbow. He briefly considered attempting to ensorcel them, but realized that he was unarmed and outnumbered, and that he'd heard stories of bandits kidnapping wizards to take advantage of their power. He decided to wait, but he first hid his wizard's ring, a gift from his grandfather.
The bandits were only interested in treasure. They went through Stefan's baggage, leaving mainly clothing and a few odd items-- they took just about everything of value, including his doctor's bag and his coin purse. He'd managed to hide a dagger, his cane, and a handful of coins beneath the seat, and the bandits didn't find those. After a few minutes, they retreated into the forest. Stefan re-packed his scattered belongings, and tended the coachman, who was also rather shaken.
"I am so sorry this happened! Regrettably, they took the money I was going to pay you with." He retrieved a sheet of paper and a pen and wrote a letter to his lawyer, sealing it with his signet. "After we arrive in Ravengro, you can drop me off and return straight away to Lepidstadt. Give this letter to my solicitor, and he will pay you for the trip, plus a little extra for the trouble."
Fortunately, the rest of the journey was as unremarkable as the first part.
* * *
Wearing a black frock coat over a starched white shirt and scarlet cravat, black leather trousers, polished leather boots, and a black top hat, Stefan arrives at the funeral with a look of true sorrow on his face. Doffing his hat, he bows before Professor Lorrimor's daughter, taking her hand. "I am so sorry for your loss. Your father was a great man, and a dear friend."
Surprised to have be asked to be a pallbearer, Stefan accepts the task as an honor-- his last duty to an old friend. He had not expected to see his acquaintences Mortimer or Drake at the funeral. Greeting them both warmly, "I didn't realize that you and Petros had been so close. Have either of you you heard how he died? I didn't think he was ill!".
The man with the limp seems vaguely familiar... a patient perhaps? In a flash the doctor realizes where he'd seen him before-- this was that fugitive Drake had brought in a few years ago with deep lacerations to his right leg! That had been one of the most complicated surgeries he'd ever performed-- weaving back together a butchered quadricep femoris, setting a shattered femur, and reattaching a severed calceneal tendon. A lesser surgeon would have simply amputated, he thought proudly, but this man can walk! Extending his hand to the man, "Dr. Stefan von Herzog. It's good to see you again, and that you're still on your feet! How's the leg doing?"
Not recognizing the other man, Stefan extends his hand and introduces himself. "I'm Dr. Stefan von Herzog. Petros was one of my teachers back in the day, and we'd become friends at the University of Lepidstadt. I regret that we're meeting under these circumstances."
The priest approaches the gathered pallbearers and simply tells them that it is time. The men pick up the casket and heave it to their shoulders. Why am I always surprised at how heavy a body is? They processed in silence down the road. The cold, rainy, autumnal gloom matched Stefan's own mood.
Gregorius turns around as the man in the top hat approaches him. Dr. Stefan Von Herzog; he remembers the words better than the face - Dr. Stefan Von Herzog, spoken exactly the same way as when they first met. The mention of the name brings back bad memories, of agony and bitterness, and Gregorius feels his mind slipping to a dark place. He shakes off the feeling and tries to smile back politely to Dr. Herzog. "Why, doctor, I... I didn't recognize you. I'm surprised you did. We haven't been properly introduced... I'm Gregorius." He looks at his leg, remembering the constant pain that he has learned to ignore. He takes a couple of steps, trying to hide his limp, and says "As you can see, it still works." The last step sends a shiver up his body, and he can't help cringing his teeth before smiling awkwardly.
Gregorius then notices Drake standing around, and lowers his head muttering "Oh. Detective Drake."
Had anyone observed him it would appear the man was lurking in the shadows, though he only sat still enjoying the peace and tranquility after a depressing journey. Black cloaked figures sitting quietly in a graveyard seldom encouraged conversation, a near freezing day with a somber tone in the town proved no exception.
Drake watched as the men arrived, surprised to see he knew each of them from Lepidstadt. Ah, professor, your influence stretched deep into the university town, as you made my acquaintance it should be no surprise that others would have formed a bond with you as well. Drake's task of pallbearer had been assigned upon arrival, as the other men formed around the coffin he detached himself from the solitude of the bench and joined them.
"Greetings, gentlemen, I am sorry that we must come together under such circumstances. I would much prefer sharing a cup of tea after another fine lecture, but it seems fate has a different path for us." Drake flashes a sidelong look at Gregorius with the words, the man's checkered past triggered in his memory by the limp. It could be no coincidence that the doctor who mended the savaged limb stood beside him now. "Let us honor the Professor this day, for surely he graced all of our lives with his presence." and what in your death, professor, for this gathering can be no accident, what lesson have you for us even past the grave?
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About a week ago...
Anselm had scarcely finished morning prayer when the messenger found him. The messenger said his parcel was of great import, carried personally from Ustalav. The country's name put Anselm's greying, short hair on end. Ustalav... what a cursed land. The faithful of Iomedae know it well for the part it played in the Shining Crusade. Anselm tried to put such horrors out of his mind as he graciously thanked the courier and opened the letter. He was immediately grateful to have a chair.
But... why... Initially suspecting the letter to be a fake, Anselm remembered the wax seal on the letter: the official seal of the Church of Pharasma. The letter was indeed genuine, and the man he had defended from the undead, from assassination, from other evils besides had left this world. He set the letter down and returned to the altar, this time to pray for safe passage of the soul of one of the most important men--nay, friends (at least in his mind) he had ever known.
Through the rest of the day Anselm maintained a taciturn manner. He followed his order's requirements, but kept to himself and said little more than was required. The journey would be long, but at least it would give him time to reflect on where he had been and who he had become since working with the Professor.
This morning...
His travel indeed afforded him the opportunity to think and reflect. He spent much of the journey in quiet reflection and prayer, both to Iomedae and to the Lady of Graves. His reflective mood was retrospective, as well, bringing him back to his childhood. His thoughts centered on Rutilus, the priest who inducted him into the The Inheritor's church. He was merely a youth with some talent at the sword, then, or so he thought. Rutilus brought out talents and abilities Anselm never knew he had. Growing up in Cheliax is an odd act of doublethink for most citizens. They publicly praise Asmodeus, even if in the secrecy of their home they worship other deities. Anselm felt at home in the Iomedaean church, at once able to express his distaste for Asmodean ways.
The Professor, as well, nurtured skills and talents in Anselm he never knew he possessed. These were more practical in nature, and often his lessons had no plan. The Lastwall Incident, as he referred to it, stood out in his mind. It was his travel in Lastwall that turned Anselm's focus most specifically towards eradicating the undead, and his studies to that end which brooked such unrest as he approached Ustalav.
But this was not the only incident his thoughts spent much of the journey mulling. The masked Red Mantis assassin entered his thoughts and even his nightmares once or twice along the journey. Despite being successful in the land of the waking, Desna's realm proved more harrowing for the Paladin, as he failed again and again to save the man who had taught him so much.
Anselm shook his head. No use focusing on the past. What's done is done. Petros would want me to stay strong, now more than ever. And his daughter... He tried to maintain an aura of serenity and calm as he exited the carriage. He strode up to Kendra, knelt before her and took her hand in his, gently pressing his lips to it. My lady... I can only offer my condolences and an ear if ever there is anything I can do to ease your heart.
Scant moments after he finished speaking those few words, he heard his name. He looked up, and realized he was summoned to be a pallbearer. He held Kendra's eye for a long moment before nodding, silently offering a prayer, and heading off to fulfill perhaps his last duty for his teacher and friend.
You continue along the gravel and leaf covered pathway until you round a corner onto a new path called Eversleep. As you look up, the heavy coffin fatiguing your shoulders, you see the way ahead is blocked by a group of a dozen surly looking local farmers, unarmored and armed with hoes, sickles, and pitchforks. Their clothes are torn and tattered and their hands covered with grime and dirt. The toughest looking of them, a man of about 40 years, speaks, "That's far enough! We've been talking and we don't want Lorrimor buried here in the Restlands. You can take him upriver and bury him there if you want but he ain't goin' in the ground here!"
Before you can react or speak, you hear Kendra speak up in an angry tone: "What are you talking about, Gibs?! I arranged it with Father Grimburrow! He's waiting for us! The grave's already been..."
Gibs interrupts her, "You don't get it woman! I don't care what arrangements you've made. We won't have a necromancer buried with our kin! I suggest you move along before someone gets hurt! Ain't that right, folks?" The other farmers shake their heads in agreement and menacingly brandish their farming tools.
Kendra screams back, "Necromancy?! My father would never...How stupid and ignorant are you?!"
It doesn't take a genius to see that the scene before you is about to turn violent.
With a worried glance at the assembled ruffians, Stefan locks eyes with the other pallbearers, indicating that they should put down the coffin... at least for a moment.
Taking off his kid gloves, Stefan steps beside the young Miss Lorrimor, gesturing for calm.
"Gentlemen! We have no quarrel with you, nor did our departed friend. I do understand your trepidation about the horrors of unlife-- I have lost loved ones to the undead as well. Professor Lorrimor was a dedicated foe of the undead, seeking out their nests of corruption and destroying them! There are many who study the secrets of the undead in order to learn how to destroy them more effectively. I count myself among those, and I learned much of what I know from Professor Lorrimor.
"Please, gentlemen, let us pass so that we may bury our friend, a foe to the undead, in these hallowed grounds."
Stefan also brings to mind the words of a cause fear spell, intending to cast it at the leader of these rubes, in case he and his companions cannot talk their way past them.
Gregorius puts down the coffin, but remains by its side. After Stefan finishes he speech, he tries to aid the good doctor in his attempts at diplomacy.
"Gibs, is it? Please heed the doctor's words. I am sure Professor Lorrimor has never done any harm to you or your friends; it is not right to deny him the peaceful rest he deserves. I don't know why are so angry, but you have to respect the late professor and the suffering of his family. Whatever troubles you can be sorted out later, and I will help you in any way I can. Just let us through."
Mortimer looks Gregorius over in a heartbeat before nodding at the man. "Mortimer Valdebridge, of Ardis." he says, taking the offered hand in a firm grip and shaking it. His eyes narrow very slightly. "You were a friend of the Professor's?" he asks, searching his memory for the man's face or name. "Well, it is my fault I did not introduce myself. I have let my manners slip since I have been at the University."
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To Stefan, he gives a nod, his posture stiff, only the ghost of a smile passing over his face. "Stefan. I hope you are well." he says. "The Professor was the inspiration for my studies, and the service I did for you and the City was a direct result of his influence. He was my mentor, as I suspect he was for many." He looks out over the entrance to the cemetery, his gray eyes going distant. "I haven't heard how he died, but I will find out at the first opportunity to see if one of his many enemies are involved. If someone did him in, there is nothing that will stop me from hunting them down." he says, an actual smile breaking his lips open for the first time, though it is one of grim anticipation of revenge.
Drake's appearance does not seem to be a surprise to Mortimer, he had spied him, sitting by himself, already, but did not have an opportunity to speak to the man yet. "Drake, how do you do?" he says. He nods to the detective as well, "He did indeed grace my life." he says. "I'd be interested to hear how each of you were as well."
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Bearing the Pall;
Mortimer bears the earthly remains of his mentor and friend with continued stoicism. The weight of the coffin is comforting, in a way. He was just a man, in the end. A pile of flesh and bones, regardless what the Clerics say.
The words of the commoners cuts through his reverie. He grunts as he sets the coffin down with his fellow bearers. Straightening his jacket and clenching his fists, he eyes the men with a cold stare, turning his nose up at them and putting on a commanding presence. "Stand aside for your betters!" he says, enunciating every syllable. "Professor Petros Lorrimor was a great man, and I will challenge any person who declares otherwise to a duel, if you be men." he declares, his hand resting on the pommel of his Scimitar.
"I'm well, Mortimer, it's good to see you again." Drake exchanges a warm handshake with the knowledgable man. "Shame that last lecture ending as it did, I was learning quite a bit from your experiences."
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As the coffin settles into the path and the confrontation starts to boil, Drake steps forward hoping words will sooth the savagely bestial commoners. But before he can speak both the Doctor and Gregorius expresses better sentiments with eloquence. Remaining silent to see what may result, Drake instead turns his critical eye to the crowd of rabble before them.
A few members of the gathered group of farmers eyes the party and their weapons and armor (Drake picks up on this immediately). Upon hearing the good doctor's words backed by Gregorius' eloquence and Mortimer's show of force, a few of them move to grab Gibs and pull him back. Drake hears whispers of "It's not worth it...maybe he wasn't a necromancer, but he sure has well-armed friends. Let them be, we do not want bloodshed, especially our own, spilled this day." Gibs sneers at you and and he and the farmers shoot you venomous glances as you pass by and continue on with the procession.
Kendra shoots Gregorius and Herzog and Mortimer grateful glances and a nod of the head, as she fights back tears. One of the locals in the procession, a portly gentleman wrapped in a coat, well-dressed and groomed and obviously of some wealth, introduces himself. "I say chaps, what you did just there was quite a feat, resolving that issue non-violently. Those local farmhands, I've seen them before, all of low character I tell ya. Oh where are my manners, Councilman Hearthmount, at your service." Pic of Councilman
"Oh, well, we should really continue with the procession. But we'll talk later, if so desired." After any introductions, the procession continues.
Drake joins his companions as they hoist the coffin back to their shoulders and complete the procession to the burial site.
It's a somber affair, and Drake is grateful for Anselm's presence and the comfort he offers to Kendra, for her sorrow impacts them all.
"Gentlemen, I have some doubts about the intentions of those that opposed us on the funeral procession. Such men may scurry away when strength stands before them, but like rats they'll creep back when the threat departs. I, for one, would watch the professor's grave this night, will any of you join me?"
"Councilman Hearthmount, I'm pleased to meet you, Detective Drake at your service. When our business here is finished I hope to ask you some questions about what has occurred here, especially in regards to that unruly lot and their claims of necromancy."
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More appalled than anything else at the shameful display of the superstitious townspeople, Anselm holds his tongue instead of risking making things worse. Years of practicing his faith taught him that people have to want to change for change to happen, and these backwater farmers seemed to have their feet as firmly planted in the ground as their crops. He tried to bring his thoughts to something more pleasant, or at least more accepting. He gives a nod to the Councilman. I suspect you and I will be getting to know one another quite well, if our first interaction with the people here is any indication.
He turns to the Detective as much as he can while holding the coffin, and wonders how much he knows of the Professor's studies regarding the undead. He seethed silently at the accusations of the townspeople, knowing (and assisting) firsthand in Lorrimor's quest to eradicate those foul beings. I thought the professor's work was well-known. Evidently not to the folks in the backwater.
Finally, he nods. I agree, Detective. Those who lack courage tend to act when they're not observed, and I don't see it as unlikely that they would defile Petros' final resting place while cloaked with the night. I volunteer to stand watch this evening given the present and very real threat. We should see what measures the local Church of Pharasma has in place for this sort of thing as well--I am certain they care as much about grave disruption as we do, at least in this instance.
He tries to give a reassuring look of strength to Kendra.
Everything will be fine. You have my word--and my sword if things go truly out of hand, may Iomedae forbid it.
"Councilman Hearthmount, thank you. I am glad to see that the people of your town are not all characterized by such rudeness." he says, offering a slight bow and then his hand to shake. "My name is Mortimer Valdebridge of Ardis." he says. "I don't know how long I will be in town, but I will be glad to meet with you."
"Superstitious peasants." Mortimer mutters angrily under his breath as he returns to the coffin and resumes his duty, pulling his handle up a bit more quickly than the others.
"I'll be glad to stand vigil over the Professor's grave with you." he says as they begin walking again. "Yes, indeed. We should also investigate what the Church is up to in this town. No sense leaving the matter to them when we can no doubt deal with matters better than they." he adds with a touch of coldness.
After intorducing himself to the councilman and exchanging pleasantries, Stefan picks up his end of the casket and re-joins the procession in somber silence.
Hard to fault the simple folk from fearing the walking dead...but branding the Professor as someone who would defile corpses in such a manner is willful ignorance!
The procession continues down the Eversleep path to the burial plot reserved for the Professor. At the spot you see an old man and two grave diggers. Kendra calls out, "Father Grimburrow!" and rushes to hug the elderly priest. Pic of Priest
He hugs her and then looks at the sky and fog and says, "Hrrumph...not a good day for a funeral. We'd better get started if we're planning to stay dry." That draws some chuckles from the crowd, although you do see darkening clouds. He commands you to put the coffin down and then tells the gravediggers to lower it into the ground, which they promptly do.
Afterwards, Father Grimburrow starts his sermon, praising Pharasma and the soul of Petros Lorrimor, a good and blessed friend. Afterwards, Kendra speaks, holding back tears, quite emotionally, reliving childhood adventures with her father, such as sneaking into his library and taking his favorite pipe. There is hardly a dry eye when she finishes recounting those moments. She then thanks the party for coming to the funeral and how her father's will and notes specifically said to hold off his burial until the five of you arrived. It appears he held you in high regard for some reason. When she finishes, she invites anyone else to speak about her father and share remembrances or tales.
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With the slow gait of a man deep in thought, Anselm steps up to address the assembled. He leaves his hands at his sides, more for lack of what to do with them than anything else. He takes a breath to speak a few times, but doesn't appear able to conjure words. With his eyes closed he takes a few breaths, and then addresses everyone.
Everyone here today certainly would call Petros more than a friend. I am grateful not only for his friendship, but what I learned from him both formally and not. I can say with absolute conviction that he was certainly not a necromancer or anything near as foul as the townspeople claim. From Petros I learned, both in the classroom and on the battlefield, more than I ever thought possible about the undead. First among these lessons was his hatred of them. He pauses here, closed eyes aimed at the ground as he shakes his head. The incident at Lastwall taught me more than anything else that Petros is no friend of the undead.
Anselm pauses and takes a breath, eager to focus on more pleasant things to brighten the somber mood. Without truly realizing it, he brings his hands together in front of himself, clasped together with palms facing upward.
Yet my relationship with Petros was not solely focused on such dark matters. He was my teacher for many years, and under his strict tutelage I learned the true meaning behind my calling. I thought, after my time with the Church was finished, that I knew everything there was to being a servant of Iomedae. I'll only excuse such hubris by saying I was young and foolish. His mouth twitches upward in a bit of a grin, and he continues. Sure, I might have known the specifics of how the Church spreads its message and the doctrine, but applying that knowledge was something Petros taught me. Under his wing I learned true respect and love for the other good faiths of Golarion. I was... a zealous young man. Yet untempered zealotry only meets equal opposition. Humbling though it was, my time with the Professor left me a better man than I would otherwise be. I know everyone else here has a similar story to tell. Let us share and carry forth these happy memories.
He smiles at those who make eye contact, nodding before he cedes the audience to whoever comes forth next.
Gregorius listens to Kendra's and Anselm's stories with his head down, and finds himself nodding and occasionally smiling, recognizing Lorrimor in their tales. He suddenly looks up and recognizes Anselm; it is the first time he notices his presence, and he can't help but raise an eyebrow in awe. The man has no way of recognizing him, and so Gregorius holds eye contact for as long as he can, listening to the rest of his words staring directly at him. After Anselm ends his eulogy, Gregorius raises his chin and looks around, glancing over the people gathered for the funeral. He looks serene, and tries to impart over the crowd some tranquility and peace.
"I have only to look at this gathering to remember how great a man the Professor was. It's curious how the good in a man's life is never more noticeable than at the moment he leaves us to meet the Lady of the Graves... and listening to your stories, I can see so much kindness and wisdom there." he pauses for a second, trying to find the words. Gregorius sighs, taking a deep breath and looking up at the blackened sky.
"It's funny. I don't think I've ever had an academic discussion with Petros. He was not really a teacher to me in that sense... and he never tried to be. What he tried to teach me from the start was a matter of the soul, and not of the intellect." He chuckles and shakes his head, as if remembering some episode. "... and mister, was I a difficult student! To this day, I'm still not sure why he took the time to help me - and he did, he moved heaven and earth." He looks at Drake and Herzog, and scans for Profesor Varis in the crowd. "That's how we'll remember him. A man who did good for its own sake, to make this world a little better with every deed." He crouches and touches the ground with the palm of his right hand, staring at the open grave and resting the left arm over his knees. "Thank, you Professor, for saving me from myself," he says between pressed lips.
After a moment, Drake steps forward, allowing for a respectful pause after Gregorius finishes.
"The professor always challenged me to expand my horizons, to seek that which was outside my areas of knowledge or expertise. Indeed, it was during a lecture that we met, the exact expression of the very spirit he employed. In honor of that desire, I've brought a poem, but I warn you all, I'm no poet or performer, I hope my attempt doesn't further hurt your already cold ears." Drake flashes a slight smile at the memory of the professor stating the very same words one evening back in Lepidstadt.
All Things will Die
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;
Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
For all things must die.
All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call’d–we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.
O, misery!
Hark! death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
The eyeballs fixing.
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
The old earth
Had a birth,
As all men know,
Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Thro’ eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.
Mortimer remains only barely polite during the sermon, and he warms up significantly to Kendra's words.
The others, he pays special attention to, after Kendra mentions that the Professor requested they all be gathered together. There is something more to all of this.
When it is his time to speak, he first turns to the other friends of the Professor. "I am glad the Professor had such friends." he says. "And I hope we can do justice to his memory."
"My name is Mortimer Brandon Valdebridge." he says, letting the name sink in for any that may recognize its noble provenance. "Professor Petros Lorrimor saved my life, and brought salvation to my ancestral lands. For that, the Valdebridge family owes him a great debt. Professor Lorrimor... That is Petros, faced a legion of the walking dead with calm, intelligence, and most importantly, knowledge!" he says, shaking his fist for emphasis. "This was his greatest strength, and the lesson he taught me that day has carried me to where I am now. I saw that day, that it was not the mewling of preachers or the ignorant superstition of the peasants... Or the indifference of the aristocracy." Mortimer blushes at that. It only takes him a heartbeat to regain his composure. "It is the application of knowledge that will protect us from the scourge of the Unquiet Dead and those debased mortals who dare to unleash them on the innocent! Petros was the greatest of scholars and was also strong enough to battle evil when others prefer to pretend it doesn't fester under their very noses." he glances at Father Grimburrow, his disdain for the clergy apparent in his eyes for a moment before it is gone in the sadness of the moment as he continues. "Petros, you were a greater man than most, and I hope that I can use all that you taught me to continue the fight! Be Smart, Rein in Your Fear, Know Your Enemy, Strike with the Right Weapon. Thank you Petros."
Mortimer steps back then turns to Kendra. He takes her hand once again and kisses it softly before moving aside, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
During Drake's recitation, Stefan tries to steel himself emotionally to keep from shedding a tear, and is only partially successful. After a long moment's pause, he steps forward, placing his hand briefly on Drake's shoulder as the detective returns to the assembly. "That was beautiful. Thank-you."
Turning to address the mourners, he opens hs mouth as if to speak, pauses, looks back at the grave, and sighs deeply.
He turns again toward the congregation. "I've been thinking about Petros Lorrimor and the time we spent together very much since I'd learned of his passing. I have a couple of stories I'd like to share. I first met Professor Lorrimor at the ripe old age of 20, as a second-year undergraduate student at the University of Lepidstadt when I walked into his class on Applied Thaumaturgy. I must admit that my initial impression was that I didn't like him very much. He had a reputation as an excellent instructor, but I wasn't prepared for his style of teaching. The good professor did not tolerate anything but the best from his students-- the assignments were always taxing, the readings voluminous, and the practical exams next to impossible to perform perfectly. He seemed merciless in the way he demanded perfection from his students, yet he had a way of pushing us to demand perfection from ourselves. Students who couldn't hack his demanding teaching style dropped the course, yet those who stayed managed to earn his respect. Once you had that, he became a very different teacher: someone who encouraged, challenged, and tried his best to make you the best you could be. I found myself honored to be among the few he chose to mentor through the rest of my days at the Universtiy.
"And, while he could be so intimidating to students who hadn't yet proven themselves to his level of satisfaction, his kindness and generosity were also legendary." Stefan paused to wipe his eye. "I lost a dear friend while at University, in a lab practical that went very, very, wrong." He paused again, clearing his throat. "Petros was there for me-- he was the one who came to our rescue. We couldn't save Andrei, but he did save me." Stefan looked into the assembled mourners again, locking his gaze first with Drake, then with Valdebridge. "He gathered experts to make sure that the evil of that day was put to rest. And he invited me along, a third-year student of medicine, someone who would likely get in the way. Yet he realized that I needed to be there too...." His voice cracks. "...to end the evil that had taken Andrei from me." He sobs once, then wipes his eyes with a white handkerchief. "And afterward, he was there for me when I needed a fatherly friend."
Seemingly composed again, he smiles. "That's the kind of man Petros was. When you get right down to it, he was a great man: a scholar not afraid of the darkness of the world, a man not afraid to get his hands dirty in rooting out evil, and a good friend. The world has suffered a loss in his passing. May the words and deeds of his friends and loved ones live up to his memory. Thank-you."
The mourners gathered are all stunned by the eloquence with which the party speaks and they enjoy greatly Drake's recital. Kendra's look of gratitude speaks volumes, despite her constant tears, and even the grouchy Father Grimburrow is moved by the party's passion. After the last speech, Father Grimburrow motions the gravediggers to complete the burial of Professor Lorrimor. Just then, a cold unnatural wind sweeps past the crowd, chilling your bones.
Anselm:
Drake:
Gregorius:
Mortimer:
Stefan: [/ooc]
Mortimer curses. It is a bad habit he picked up from the mercenaries he's had to hire during his hunting expeditions. The shocking nature of his words underscores the seriousness of the situation however. "To arms!" he calls out, drawing his Scimitar and turning to face out from the gathering. "Everyone to the middle. Stefan, I hope your magics are prepared. Drake, have you a knife about your person?" he asks. He looks to Anselm and Gregorius. "Get these people out of here. The Dead rise."
Drake had been focused on the speeches, the power of the moments overwhelming him as he grips Herzog's shoulder in an expression of sympathy, then Mortimer and the Doctor break his reverie. Slow to react, he curses his own ineptitude, trying to rise to the occasion.
"Better than a dagger, a blade is it at hand, to arms, Gents, to arms!"
[b]"Everyone! Watch out and look down! Walking dead!"
The incantations to magicks come to mind, and the doctor looks to see if he can position himself to catch a few of the rising corpses in a burst of flame without singeing any bystanders. Barring that, he will direct a ray of positive energy.
Surprise Round:
Three corpses of the unliving drag themselves out of the ground, covered in dirt and filth, their flesh hanging off their bones. At Stefan's outcries, the crowd looks around and screams are heard, from the innkeeper and his son to the gravediggers, including many prayers to various deities, but the villagers seem too frightened to run!
After shouting the warning, Stefan steps forward, speaking strange arcane words and making odd yet serious-looking gestures with his hand. His hand glows with bluish-white mystical energy, and he points at one of the walking corpses clawing its way from the ground. The glow brightens, and a beam of the same energy flashes at the zombie.
Muttering under his breath about how he could possibly miss such a clumsy target, Stefan speaks the same strange words and makes the same gestures again. Another beam of magical energy shoots at the zombie. Afterward, he drops his walking stick on the graveyard ground and draws a dagger.
Round 1: Zombies attack!
The screams of the crowd of mourners rise as the zombies start shambling toward them! The innkeeper holds onto his son and follows Mortimer's advice, as they move toward the middle, hoping the warriors present can deal with the threat. "Pharasma save us!"
A sinister gravelly voice from the grave speaks and your attentions are turned to the entrance of this enclosure, where you see a bald zombie garbed in scale mail, a long sword at its side and a heavy metal shield at its feet, its flesh falling off his bones. "Followers of Lorrimor, you will die this day and your gods will not save you!" The zombie warrior raises his crossbow and aims it at the priest, piercing his chest, as Father Grimburrow covers the wound in pain. "Heroes, help us!"
Kendra screams, "Father Grimburrow! How dare you! On the day of my father's funeral!" She is teething with anger!
The warrior cackles as he ushers the other zombies to attack!
The zombie in U148 shambles forward, its moan quite audible, attacking Mortimer! Its blow lands with force, breaking some of the ranger's ribs and severely injuring him! Councilman Hearthmount yells in fear as he sees the blow strike!
The zombie in AA144 looks at Dr. Herzog and it quickly moves toward the mage, surprising him, and bringing his fist down on him, which narrowly misses him!
The zombie in Z48 shambles toward Anselm, but its blow is clumsy and bounces off the paladin's armor!
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Lost in his thoughts, Anselm wasn't paying as much attention to his surrounds as perhaps he should have been. Got to kick that habit... it'll get you killed. For a few seconds all he can do is stare as Father Grimburrow takes a grievous wound. The thunk of the bolt into his chest snaps him out of his thoughts, quickly enough to avoid the attack of the zombie in front of him.
To arms indeed! And as if we had any reason to doubt Lorrimor fought the undead, instead of supporting them...
Anselm draws his sword, says a prayer to Iomedae, and swings at the filth in front of him, gritting his teeth.
Round 1, init 12
Seeing the blade of Dr. Herzog flash, Drake slides around the far side of the zombie for tactical advantage and slashes at the unholy beast.
"Townsfolk, take cover, hide from these blights!"
Sorely wounded, Mortimer staggers under the Zombie's assault, "Fall back... get away. The Zombies can't move quickly." he says, coughing as he feels the splintered ribs tearing at the flesh inside him. He brings to mind his training, despite the pain and damage he has suffered, and tries to coolly assess his foe.
Zombie. Still fleshy, apply cut to disable motor function...
He applies his blade with precision to the Zombie's torso, aiming for the spine, but his wounds reduces the effectiveness of his slash.
Gregorius draws a pair of sawtooth sabres from under his cloak as he dodges past the zombie close to him and Dr. Herzog, repeating a move mastered after years of training. However, his lame leg once more reminds him of his current limitations; as he leans to the right side, a sharp pain prevents him from executing the maneuver he designed in his mind. His clumsy evasion leaves him open to the zombie's attack; he sees its claw closing in on him. Gregorius raises one of the swords and strikes downwards hoping to chop the zombie's arm off, in a combat move that resembles a mantis' attack.
With a look that's a combination of fear, disgust, and determination, Stefan makes arcane gestures with his hands tracing glowing sigils in the air, and shouts strange words that audibly crackle with power. He then shouts, "Beings of the grave BEGONE!"
Anselm's blow, while not particularly skilled, is enough to penetrate the slow moving zombie's poor defenses and he nearly cuts it in two, but the undead husk still stands!
Drake dexterously moves around the zombie but his rapier does not penetrate the zombie's decayed flesh.
Mortimer's blow is true but the corpse still stands.
Gregorius lets his guard down and the zombie moans, as it brings his fist down on the paladin's shoulder before he can raise his swords, nearly shattering his collarbone! The paladin sucks up the pain and moves and manages to wound the zombie, but minimally.
Father Grimburrow grips his wound, whispers a prayer, and a wave of positive energy engulfs all present, soothing them and knitting their wounds completely! Mortimer feels his ribs heal and Gregorius senses his shoulder repairing itself magically!
Kendra grips her crossbow in anger and shoots the undead leader of the zombies, but the bolt bounces off his scale mail!
Round 2:
The crowd of mourners seems to have calmed after Father's release of positive energy and they inch away from the zombies, although the gravediggers drop their shovels and take off in fear to the west!
Stefan steps up and turns undead, causing the 2 of the 3 zombies to flee, except for the one closest to him!
Zombies attack:
The zombie leader cries out to the last remaining zombie, "Take out that priest in front of you!"
The zombie moans and raises his fist, but it is confused by its assailants, and Dr. Herzog easily avoids the blow.
The leader grunts in frustration, drops his crossbow and picks up his shield, and clangs on it with his longsword, beckoning the party to attack!
Dagger still raised and pointed at the zombie, Stefan glances back toward Father Grimburrow, "Grimburrow! Are you all right?" Seeing that the old priest managed to heal himself, he turns his attention to the zombie in front of him, and attempts to fire another bolt of magical energy at the zombie.
Gregorius feels his bones crush under the zombie's slam, but the rush of positive energy instantly relieves the pain. He listens the undead leader commanding the zombie in front of him to attack father Grimburrow, and screams "No!"
Gregorius spins and thrusts both blades into the zombie, and then pulls the sabres outwards to slash the creature open, hopefully before it can move against the priest.
Round 2, init 12
Drake jabs at the undead creature, then shifts back to prevent the leader of the zombies from having a clear path to charge Grimburrow and Kendra.
Gregorius' first sabre attack slices the zombie's chest and the second decapitates it, its body falling harmlessly to the ground.
Mortimer, seeing the Zombie turn away from him, takes the opportunity offered to him to strike at it, aiming another slash at the corpse's already damaged body. The wave of healing from Father Grimburrow elicits a look of distaste on his face.
He then turns to see one Zombie still attacking Stefan and he calls out, "Stand firm!" and spins, directing another whipping slash at the undead.
As the zombie tries to flee from Von Herzog, Mortimer's scimitar decapitates it!
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Watching the battle unfold before him, Anselm sees an opportunity to strike at the fleeing filth and takes it.
Slicing into the walking dead before him does not make him any less eager to destroy the heretical abominations, but it does give him a brief moment to reflect on what's going on around him. He's grateful to be surrounded by such competence. Clanging metal and screams break him from his reverie. Taking a quick look around he sees the sword-and-shield leader still directing things and quickly moves up in front of it. He mouths a prayer to Iomedae and Pharasma, taking on a look of stern determination.
All three zombies fall in testament to the great swordplay of Gregorius, Mortimer, and Anselm. The crowd, previously terrified, now cheers on its saviors! But one threat remains in the form of the scale mail clad leader, as Anselm double moves to engage him.
With the zombies put out of commission by the expert skill at arms of his fellow pallbearers, the good doctor positions himself between the undead leader and Father Grimburrow. He again speaks arcane words of power while gesturing with his hand, which again glows with brilliant energy. He points at the undead swordsman and the white energy discharges in a bright beam that flashes toward it...
...but the creature dodges the beam.