It was a grey day in Ustalav when you gathered to put old Professor Lorrimir in the ground. Grey in sky, black in the nation's heart. Surprisingly for such a popular public figure as the Professor, there were very few people in the old graveyard outside of Ravengro. The dozen people milled about, speaking quietly to one another in whispers and gestures. The crowd is subdued, and several kee'[p looking up, afraid the day will bring rain once more. The puddles coat the crowds best boots in dark, thick mud. As the sun begins to fall, a pretty young woman steps up to the front of the crowd.
Kendra Lorrimir wears a somber brown dress, her hair pulled into a severe bun. She claps for attention, then begins "Today we have come together to pay our respects to the life of Professor Petros Lorrimir. A great man, a great teacher, and a great..." her voice cracks and falls, "Father." She takes a moment to dab at her eyes with a small handkerchief and gather herself. "If any of you would like to say a few words, please step forward." She gestures toward the coffin waiting beside her, "I'm certain my father would greatly enjoy knowing that you remember him." Kendra steps away, another woman of the village comforting her.
According to Ustalavic tradition, now is the time to speak for the dead. You all know that any thoughts are to be spoken here, before the trip to the grave is completed.
Fasir will stand in stoic silence looking at his feet. In time he will glance up to view the assembly.
why am I here, today. I barely knew the man and yet I am summoned to his funeral. Fasir recalled his introduction to the professor:
It was dusk and a light fog was in the air as Fasir was half shoved, half dragged up towards the house. The man and woman beside him said nothing but strode at a pace along the lose stones toward the front door. Half a pace from the steps they let go of Fasir’s arms and clamed to the ornate wooden door the male human knocking loudly. Fasir shivered it was not something he was used to, true Striggori’s lair had been freezing but he had grown accustomed to the chill. Now he shivered with fear, who lived here? What would they do with him?
A noise bought Fasir back to the present as someone began to speak...
A hulking behemoth of a man, inappropriately fully armed with a large sword across his back, and wearing a loud and somewhat offensive suit of armor, steps forward without seemingly knowing hesitation nor humility, his heavy steps heralding his approach. He removes his spiked helmet, revealing a weathered face, spilling long hair that is a color somewhere between blonde and blood, and a matching beard. His jawline firm and his features handsome by some standards, terrifying by most, his grave expression not concealing the emotional weight that seeing the old man undone. He whispers a prayer and places a somewhat crude runic bone-carving a down on on the coffin and takes a deep breath.
"Thir blota at gudir vandre, thir æld ad minde bindi, ek riki dir am kvad geve, thir æra am hjarta verd ad oss am tidir kom." he recites with grave reverence, in a deep bass voice heavy with sorrow. Then looks to Kendra before translating for the benefit of kin "Thy blood to gods have gone, thy fire to memory bound, I craft thee a kingdom in verse, so you era might go on in our hearts till our time comes.
After delivering his token of respect, he steps to the side, his cheeks streaked with tears, and keeps his silence.
Urgma stands quietly, out of respect for the dead. She recalled the events that had led her to meeting the Professor for the first time.
Stepping forward towards the coffin, she begins to speak:
"I rescued 'im once, but it became my pleasure to know 'im. A fine man, he taught me how to see with more than my eyes. Let his teaching remain strong, and may he rest well."
Urgma steps away from the coffin, wrapping her long dark green coat around her, trudging through the puddles to stand back in the crowd.
Cool and comported, Anca's glacial blue eyes narrow with umbrage at Professor Lorrimor's offspring's application of irksome noise to coerce the amenity of those gathered to mourn her sire's passing. A well sculpted eyebrow of shocking blond defined by the tasteful application of ashen paint raises when the armored hulk steps forward and reveals himself to be a human, although one of considerable size. She listens to his speech and is vaguely irritated that she cannot follow in his native tongue, as he disposed himself so well by his speech that his barbarism piqued her interest. For a moment, she very nearly overlooks the crude tool he placed on the coffin, but it and his warlike helm prohibit confusion of his inclination.
Anca hardly recognizes that the dwarven woman speaks at all, her attention momentarily diverted to considering the barbarian and his awkward display of grief. Hearing no other sound, Anca lifts her skirts between her thumbs and slender forefingers, and deftly maneuvers her feet, decorated with heeled boots, through the mire of filth laden puddles and mud to distinguish herself from the group. As though there could be any confusion, she muses haughtily, her silk skirts whispering softly and settling when she has achieved her desired position.
"Petros Lorrimor was a fair employer. His requests were succinct, and his intent could not be mistaken," she says, her eyes sparing a directed sideways glance at the barbarian.
Anca bends her head in a salute meant to convey respect, and her eyelids slide closed. It is the most she could afford the soulless husk tucked inside the casket. Having a modicum of tact, Anca gathers her skirts once more and steps back into the gathering, mindful of the value of her clothing.
Tyrgrim gives a slight nod to the dwarven woman, feeling a kinship in those words, apart from Petros being the one saving Tyrgrim from his own ignorance. Taking note of her distinct appearance, he makes a mental note to speak with her after the ceremony, and maybe share a toast in the professor's honor.
Looking at the dolled up city girl give such a shallow and impersonal praise of his friends attributes, seemingly disregarding the man altogether, Tyrgrim could not help but want to slap her silly. Something replaced with a desire to push her into the mud when she so openly were more worried of her dress than the fallen sage. "Gorum's blood! And I thought the hollowness of city-dwellers that my elders spoke of were exaggerated!"
He mutters under his breath as Anca steps away "She is sculpted ice; fair to behold, but cold and lifeless..."
Many stand silent, seemingly respecting the performance by Tyrgrim, but one man seems to sneer at the Ulfen poetry. "Barbaric Hymns... not what the Professor deserves. And a dwarf." He continues in whispers, unimpressed. "What a mangy lot of outsiders." Much of the crowd seems lightly shocked at Anca's seeming dismissal, with several narrowed eyes.
Fasir looks on as the large man recites his Poem. such reverence this man must have truly respected the Professor. Fasir once again drifted into memory:
”What am I to call you?”the man said to Fasir. ”I was called Fasir by Striggori” he answered. The man looked puzzled then angry ”let me tell you this now Fasir. I know of where you come from and I know of your former master. I know of him probably better than yourself. And if you hold any respect or admiration for the monster that was Striggori Von Burk please leave my house immediately.” The man stopped as if expecting a response. Fasir stood blankly shivering slightly. ”You may call me Petros. I suppose you are hungry?” Petros began to walk deeper into the house Fasir fell into step alongside the man. ”I will attempt to mend the damage done to your tutoring, in time you will know that you have been lied to. I will help you understand and respect the school necromancy.
Tyrgrim locks his glare on the sneering man "My homage was too crude for my friend? Either stop mewling like a gelding and out-do my homage with one that IS worthy... or keep your peace." the last word laden with the finality of a stern father berating a disobedient child.
Intimidate:
"It seemed my father's prejudices were not ALL wrong. So-called 'civilized' men seem to slander and nag like old women with no mettle..." Tyrgrim exhales in irritation as he bows his head in apology for the outburst to the professor's kin.
Anca's cool blue eyes flare with irritation as they regard the barbarian using his impressive mass and voice to assert dominance over a civilized man. In another light, perhaps... she muses, and then dismisses the thought. Clearly the savage had little regard for protocol, to be creating such a scene beside the departed whom he claimed to have so passionately loved.
Fasir was again shaken back into the present by the Dwarfs eulogy Was the man who taught me really so revered by these people.
Fasir was tired, exhausted in fact. He was not used to the warmth of the house or the bed he was given and he couldn’t sleep. When he had been given food though he had eaten little Fasir had promptly bought it back up much to his hoasts irritation. In Fasir’s mind he began to compare Striggori to Petros. Both were dominating personalities, both sought to make Fasir something he had little desire to be and certainly both had a cruel temper. However Petros asked questions about his well being and seemed to genuinely like teaching him. The longer he thought on the subject the mor he found sharp contrasts in his previous assumptions. Yes Petros was dominating but not threatening, Yes he had a temper but it was never maliciously cruel, so maybe studying to be a wizard under Petros was a wise idea.
Hearing the Prim woman speak Fasir felt a pang of some lesser used emotion, was it irritation or empathy.
Petros looked at Fasir’s spellbook the look of distain clear on his face. ”Interesting motif.” Fair examined his book the only possession he had truly owned. The cover was made of very fine bone polished to an almost glass like shine. ”And the scrip is Necril? Alright let’s start again.” a new leather bound book was bought out in front of Fasir, Petros scrawled a few lines on the inside cover. ”Can you read this?” Fasir looked at the script it was a hideous scrawl of lines and short guttural words but Fasir understood scrawl for Gnoll, it read: 'To Fasir, In my life I have met very few civilised people who speak this language and fewer still who can write it. Use its mystery to conceal your power from those eyes that would seek to steal it. Petros lorrimor.' Fasir nodded.
Fasir bought the book out now and looked again at the message and smiled in recognition.
Whilst the other mourners began to argue Fasir stepped up to the coffin kneeling beside it and whispered:
With that he turned and rejoined the other mourners.
Urgma watched the developing bickering amongst the so-called well-wishers, shaking her head she thought to herself; We have come today to pay our respects to the Professor, not to bring external grievances and racism into this ceremony .
Raising her voice, she says "Please: we are here to honour the dead. Show some respect. If after the ceremony has finished, you still bear some grudges, I'm sure my friend here and I, gesturing to the large Ulfen, would be more than happy to discuss them in a succinct manner." flickering on a gaze so stern, it would melt stone.
Whilst saying this, she moves to stand beside the Ulfen.
Intimidate:
With the wall of muscle ahead of him, the man pales and is silent, though his eyes burn with anger.
A handsome young man moves forward from the back of the crowd. Long black hair pulled into a tight pony tail at the back of his head, a crimson cape hangs from his shoulders pinned with the sword and starburst symbol of Iomedae, a longsword hangs at his left hip. As he approaches the coffin he retrieves a piece of paper from his breast pocket.
Greetings, I'm Zaxarii Beloi of Vigil. I wasn't real close with the professor but he often hired my father, brothers and me to act as guards when doing research in the Hungry Mountains. He always pretty nice to me and I enjoyed the stories he told us around the campfire. My father couldn't be here today but asked that I come over to show our respect and give condolences to the family.
He clears his throat and opens the letter fully.
Firstly, to the Lorrimir family please forgive my absence on this day, my heart is with you. My relationship with the Professor started as a simple business relationship, we had been hired to escort him into dangerous territory to conduct research. He quickly earned my respect and provided a great deal of valuable information which has saved many lives. My family and I raise our swords in salute. May the light of the sun guide his soul. Stepan Beloi of Vigil
Zaxarii folds the letter and looks out over the crowd, silent for a moment.
Well, it's ahh. Um... Thank you. May the light of the sword guide him. He quickly walks away moving back toward the back of the crowd.
Anca's eyes widen briefly when the young man delivers his message. A strange class of courtier, to be sure, she muses. With his build, one wonders if his family could afford to feed one of him, much less several brothers with a similar build. Still, one must applaud his conviction, to deliver his father's condolences in his stead. A man who respects order, even if his god is opposed to mine in every facet... Anca's eyes narrow again and they flick to the massive savage and his inability to control his behavior.
Order, protocol. Each of these are represent a sacrifice of the self to preserve civilization, and ensure peace. Soon enough, I too will like, ready to be made into so much dust, and my soul will descend to my Sweet Lord of the Shade, and writhe for His amusement for eternity.
Good, my Lord, I can will in your shade, and maintain my silence, so that I might know bliss at Your hands.
Anca inhales, her nostrils flaring as though she has caught the scent of an intoxicating perfume, and places a slender hand, adorned with an overlarge signet ring wrapped in gold ribbon on her abdomen and exhales slowly. This movement makes Anca acutely aware of the crop of fresh, pink and puckered scars that mortify her sinful flesh. She had watched with rapt attention as her betrothed had carved his intent into her belly and thighs and continued to marvel at the subsequent agony of the healing process as the slightest exertion tugged at the edges of the wounds and caused them to open. Grigori had been draining the healing blood from the cuts when Anca received the missive concerning Petros Lorrimor's passing.
Now, you are free the Lady Narcizia had whispered, create a place for yourself beside your husband.
"Well said" Tyrgrim says softly in dwarven and places a large mailed hand on Urgma's shoulder and give a thankful nod of approval for speaking her mind and standing her ground. He looks to the racist, and gives a hint of a smile, as if he is glad for the showing of anger and defiance, inviting him to find and strike back however he can, and not be a passive coward.
Seeing the half-orc step up and speak his homage in a strange tongue, Tyrgrim cannot help but smile. "Seems I was right about the professor. He has friends from all walks of life. Truly a great man, being able to inspire so many. Had he been a warrior, he would be a fine warlord."
The young warrior piqued Tyrgrim's interest more than most though. Adorned as a warrior of the civilized lands, there was something more to this one. His face belied the build and bearing of a man who knows danger, and carries his weight. Likely as strong and hardy as Tyrgrim himself, he would be an interesting opponent. Knowing little of the tenets of Iomedae, he knew that she was a goddess that did not shy from a fight when called for, and that in itself is admirable. "Unlike most of the 'civilized' gods that cowards revere."
After speaking stern words to the racist man, Urgma gazed at Kendra, thinking how hard this day must be for her. Whilst Urgma had never met Kendra, the professor always spoke so highly of his daughter. It was clear how proud he was and how much he loved her. Urgma wondered how he showed this to her.
Thinking back to her father, Urgma remembered the day he came back from the Five Kings Mountains, where he had sought new goods to trade, and how happy she was to see him. She remembered how serious the expression on his face was when he found her and her younger brother.
Her father had said:
“Whilst I was away, I bin doing some thinkin’. Urgma, yer be me oldest, so yer would normally take over the family business. On me travels, though I met a priest of Magrim. We ‘ad a long ole talk. It would be tae yer best interests for yer to assist ‘im and learn the ways of t’ faith. This is best for yer me daughter. Rogran will take over and learn the trade from me. Yer are truly your mother’s daughter. I got this fer yer.
He hands over a holy symbol of Magrim.
”Rogran; we be setting out as soon as the horses be watered. I got the local tavern to set out t’best ales and a fine feast for me family. If all goes well, we be wealthy beyond all measure by t’end o’this. The Gromthi’s will be well-renowned and respected even more.”
That was the last Urgma saw of her brother and father.
Back in the cemetery, Urgma holds the well worn symbol her father gave to her and hopes that her family are safe, but if they had met their end, she knows that there can be no better place for them than at Magrim’s side.
Jolted back from her thoughts by the Ulfen grasping her shoulder and speaking to her in dwarven, she replies softly in dwarven:
” We shall meet later to raise a tankard to his memory, drink to absent friends and share tales of what we remember best about ‘im. ‘E was a fine man indeed. “
Zax looks around at the group that has gathered to pay tribute to the late professor. He seemed like a nice guy, why are so few gathered? Perhaps he spent more time traveling for research than getting to know his own neighbors?
Seeing a few others glance skyward he raises his gaze. Gosh, I wonder if the rain is going to hold off... BELMONT! Simon Belmont! That was his name! He excitedly remembers the name of the main character from a series of stories he had read. I'm pretty sure he was from Ravengro but it's been too long, I'll have to dig them up again. Devil's Castle? Was that it? I wonder if anyone could really whip a bat out of the air...
Kendra once more steps forward to stand by her father. "The period of silence will start now, to respect my father and his path along the dreamwake. Who would like to carry the honored dead?" The villagers instantly hush, and two strong looking village men stepping forward silently to volunteer. In this period the hush is eerie, and it somehow seems perfectly believable that the old Professor's soul may be watching. Looking into the memories of those whose lives he touched. The bottom of the sun touches the horizon behind the assembly, signalling the onset of night. Those who carry the coffins are traditionally silent until the sun finishes its setting. The rest of the funeral is to make as little noise as possible, though more through tradition than ritual.
Seeing only a few people step forward from the group, Zax decides it would be terribly embarrassing to Kendra if none more volunteer for the task.
Aw geez, really? Does no one have any consideration?
If his father was here, he would have been the first in line, it's the right thing to do. Zax quickly steps forward to join the other two men.
Anca dips her head and after a moments hesitance, steps forward to share the handsome youth's burden. She has been a party to this ritual several times in her life. The Ravarath's have resided in Odranto and checked the advance of the barbarian hordes from Numeria. A scion of war, Anca had attended the burial of several dozens of cousins, uncles, and men sworn to the service of her family. Anca knew full well the cost of her education in her kin's blood.
The education he utilized... she muses, and assumes a place opposite the young warrior.
You are free. Create a place beside your husband...
Not a shred of doubt or hesitation seemed to trouble the large warrior priest as he steps forth, assuming a position beside the coffin without a word. "You carried me from ignorance and the simplistic ways of my kin, into a world larger and more grand than my feeble imagination could hope to conjure. Even if the rituals of your people seem cold and lacking heart to me, I shall carry you to your rest, dear friend. It is the least I can do."
Looking at the servant of Iomedae Fasir was felt a jolt of recognition he had seen this man before, no he had seen a man very similar, older but with all the same features. Fasir searched his memories for the time he had first met the man.
“You are a free man now so you will need to prepare your own spells each day now rather than on the instantaneous behest of another.” Petros cleared his throat arkwardly. ”As I was saying every morning you must study you spellbook and recite part of each spell you want to use during the day. You should feel the power of the spell within your mind hold it there. Continue this until you cannot hold any more power, then when you want to recall a spell call it to the front of your mind and finish casting it. Now prepare this spell.” Petros pointed to the page containing the ‘Magic Missile’ spell. Fasir began to cast the spell feeling it build in his mind, as he neared the completion of the spell he stopped and to his surprise the magic remained. “Good. Now start again.” Petros said. Fasir complied again the power build in his mind but the power felt different to the first. When he had prepared the second spell Fasir could feel them both in the back of his mind together and yet separate. Petros spoke again now ”Finish the first Spell.” Fasir bought one of the magic missiles to the forefront of his mind and completed the incantation focusing on an area of wall ahead of him. At once a cone of force impacted on the point of the wall Fasir had studied. Petros smiled ”Excellent, it still needs work but potent none the less.” there was a knock at the door to Fasir’s room. And a tall man with black hair stood on the threshold. “Are you ready Professor? The boys and I are ready when you are.”
“Yes I’m just coming, wait there if you please I will not be long. Fasir I will be going away again for a few days keep practicing try a few different spells and keep up the reading.” Petros walked to the door ”Oh I see your eating now. Good news, please ask for any food you wish you need to regain some of that deteriorated muscle.”
Fasir made no move but bows his head and remains silent out of respect. Fasir now thought about Kendra she had changed so much since he had seen her last. In his entire time living at the house he had only had two proper conversations with the girl she wasn’t around often and when she was she never paid Fasir much attention. maybe she was scared of me or perhaps Petros told her to stay away. then he recalled she was there when it had happened.
“Have you prepared for your lesson today yet? If possible I would like to start and finish a little earlier today.” Fasir stiffened reflexively as he was reading. ”I have master” Petros frowned ”I have told you before not to call me master. It is neither truthful or flattering. Fasir didn’t move. Petros sighed “Ok show me what you have prepared.” Fasir stood and griped the short staff focusing on its inner power as always the staff resisted his will but Fasir concentrated hard and bought the magical wood under his control. Now he began to cast as he had done every day for the last few months. Petros nodded as each spell was cast. Fasir finished his list and stood before his teacher. Petros opened his mouth to comment but was interrupted by the door being flung open and Kendra rushing in, throwing her arms around Petros’s neck and screaming “Oh Father I love it! Thank you so much! How did you find it? A chronicle on Mediogalti Island, it’s so rare.” she stopped ”I’m sorry Father I forgot you were teaching. Good morning Fasir I did not mean to interrupt. Look what father got for me she said holding out a large book with a strange symbol on the front of her. ”If you would like you may borrow it after I have finished reading it? Fasir forced a smile ”Good morning to you Kendra. Yes I would like, that I have just finished reading the book on Cayden Cailean that you leant me. I found it most interesting. It is in the draw of the dresser if you would like it back.” Kendra was about to answer when her father cut her short. ”I’m glad that you like the book. Happy Birthday love. I have other presents for you; my friend Urgma has given you a very fine hat. I shall be along shortly to watch you open them."
”Ok father see you in a bit. Goodbye Fasir. Kendra then opened the dresser and removed the large volume from the draw. There was a clang of metal as Striggori’s Gauntlet fell out of the draw where it had been lying alongside the book. Kendra stared puzzled at it. “Run along now dear Fasir and I need to discuss today’s lesson." Kendra exited the room still smiling. Petros Walked over to the gauntlet and picked it up he paused for a long time before handing the piece of armor to Fasir. With his voice frighteningly calm Petros said ”What is the meaning of this? You dare to bring a piece of the litches armor in here and hide it from me. Why? He was a monster, the acts of terror and evil he caused over the hundreds of years of his being were...”
Fasir spoke evenly interrupting his teacher "And what do you know of him of his terror, of his evil. You have only read about him. Well I shall show you. Fasir had no recollection of putting the gauntlet on neither did he realize he was standing barely a foot away from Petros but as he laid the metal covered hand gently on his teachers head he felt the power of a spell brewing powerless to resist the urge of the armor he showed Petros what Fasir's life had been like under in service of Striggori. Years of torment flashed across their minds, all the death, all the hate. In an instant it was over. Fasir stood in the same position not realizing what had happened. Petros face was white and he recoiled from the half-orc. Sweat poured down the man’s face and he shook uncontrollably, without saying a word Petros fled the room terror etched across his face.
Urgma walks towards the coffin to help bear the load of her dead friend. However, being of dwarven stature, she cannot reach the coffin, let alone get a comfortable grip on it, due to the Ulfen's great stature. Instead, she walks behind the coffin, reciting a traditional dwarven prayer for the Professor.
The five pallbearers move silently with the coffin, with Urgma trailing behind. The hush is palpable as you step along the Dreamwake. The journey is a fairly short one, travelling toward the heart of the graveyard. As you near the end, the road turns, and just after the turn stands a large group of men, about a dozen, and the one in front holds up his hand.
"That's far enough. Me and my boys have been talking." The tall, wiry old man gestured to the others with him, all holding farming tools like weapons. "We don't want Lorrimir buried here in the restful boneyard. You can take him upriver and bury him there if you like. But you ain't gonna bury him with our folks." The man spits, his eyes glaring hard at the procession. The men behind him all look nervous, but resolved. None of them seem particularly high class, each of them in homespun and with rough farming tools.
Ah, the ignorant leading the blind, Anca muses, how refreshing. Her cool blue eyes flick to the savage, whose booming voice had only succeeded in inciting anger in the man he'd rebuked earlier. Mindful of the charge she has accepted, the Professor's coffin, Anca implores the nervous group assembled with sweet words.
"Sirs. This place belongs no more to you or yours than it does to your kin. The cemeteries are Pharasma's domain. Beneath Her throne, all are equal," Anca begins. "We seek only to see our departed interred with honor, so that he might find his rest."
Ah yes, I'm not in Vigil anymore. Damned yokels. "We don't likes it cuz it's diffrnt." Zax mocks them in his head. Now I get why there were so few at the funeral.
Before more appropriate words can find his lips the woman begins to speak. Huh, that's actually a really good way to put it, I guess...
Tyrgrim practically seethes, and is about ready to carve a swath of blood, and send these mocking self-proclaimed enemies of his departed friend with him to keep him company as the ice-woman steps forth. "Bah, such mewling. Cold and composed, even as the most worthy man in this entire useless country is being mocked. Gorum, I would pray that these words fall short, so I might carve this day into the mind and flesh of these filthy cowards!" he steadies himself and looks to the ice-woman. "But slaying those who cannot fight is not your way. And for Petros' sake, I shall stay my blade."
Tyrgrim speaks up in a reverent but firm tone as she finishes "She speaks sense. The professor's only crime was that he cared more than others. I commend your courage to stand up for your convictions, but disrupting the ritual of a goddess in her own domain is folly, and only serve to invoke her wrath."
Diplomacy Aid Another:
Search your hearts, friends, you'll find their words ring true. It is time for us to say a proper farewell to the recently deceased. By the light of The Inheritor's sword, please allow us do so in peace.
Diplomacy Aid Another:
Iomedae, may your guiding light allow them to see the fault in their actions.
Urgma scrutinises the men blocking the wakes path, seeking signs of deception.
Sense motive:
The men seem genuine but Urgma is loath to leave the coffin of her friend with strangers. ”Whatever is decided I will accompany the Professor’s body to its rest”
Fasir from his place behind the coffin is puzzled by the strange men’s’ appearance. Stepping forward he asks ”Why?”
Sense motive:
While he asks Fasir slips his hand into Striggori’s Gauntlet.
Disguise:
Its clear to all Fasir just put the gauntlet on his hand.
The men stand a bit chastised, and several lower their makeshift weaponry awkwardly. The leader seems loathe to lose ground though. "We won't have no damned necromancer buried with our kin. Who knows what terrible things he could do if he comes back? Or what his dark powers infusing our soils might do?" He tries to rally them, but about half the men have clearly lost their stomach for the violence. Finally, seeing his backup is leaving, the man turns back to the procession. "Fine... we'll let him go down in our soil, but mark my words this'll turn out bad." The old man angrily turns and motions the other men to follow him back toward town.
Curious, Anca wonders, following the leader's exit with her cool blue eyes. How do them completely ignorant of the gods represented in their own temple identify a wizard as a necromancer?
Anca's eyes slide closed and she exhales completely. At the very least, there was no violence involved. I should very much like to learn who that man was, that he could gather such a mob. If he persists...
When Anca opens her eyes again, she looks across the coffin to her companions, and signals with a gesture of her head that she is eager to proceed. Her only comfort is that she was not the first to speak and violate the sanctity of tradition in burial, and she desires that they should think on it no more, and execute their duty as was intended.
Loud enough for the procession to hear, Zax says Well said, friends. Glad to see those fellows move on with no bloodshed or bruises ... I hope they don't go and do something stupid.
He glances over to see how Kendra is reacting.
Kendra shakes her head, a little sadly. "Fools... my father would never truck with necromancy." She shoots a disgusted look at the leaving men, then sighs and motions for the pallbearers to step forward again, moving along their way toward the grave. A very, very old man stands near the open hole that the group lowers the coffin into. He steps forward, and in a raspy, failing voice, finishes the last of the standard Pharasmin burial ceremony. Kendra stands at the side of the grave in silence. It's easy to see the tears on her face as she looks down at her father's final resting place. The priest finishes the ceremony just as the sun falls below the horizon.
After the ceremony is complete Kendra mills about with the few guests, thanking each for coming and saying goodbye for now. The men all seemed shocked at the attempted assault, many of them apologizing for the men's low character. After all of the other guests have dispersed she turns toward the rest of you. "I apologize profusely. The people of this town are sometimes quite beyond reason when they get into their cups. I assure you such a thing is unlikely to happen again. It is a pleasure to see you all again even under such trying circumstances." She pauses to shake hands and ensure introductions all around, her eyes sparkling with interest. "My father spoke at length about all of you, though he knew some of you only briefly. Perhaps you would like to come back to his..." She pauses and then smiles tightly. "My... home for a drink and to hear the reading of the will. I am told that is the reason you all are here, and I would be happy to give you food and lodgings for the night."
Those words were not slurred, nor their courage or their movements the result of the bottle.
Anca shakes her suspicions from her head, and offers her former employer's daughter a smile. "Your offer is most kind, Mistress, opening your home to a number of strangers on your father's recommendation. I have not as of yet secured alternate arrangements, and would not wish to burden you with the effort of hospitality in your grief," Anca demurs politely.
"Besides," she almost seems to sing, taking on a gentle tone of voice. "The locals seemed just as harshly inclined to our presence, and I would not have their ill attentions focused on you for my sake."
"Old and wise is rarely a true maxim. The old mostly get stubborn, and more set in their ways as their influence in the world fades. The fool fears what he cannot understand, and once he did not have the benefit of numbers, he shied away like the dog he is, barking in protest." Tyrgrim sighs, and almost spits on the ground before he remembers where he is.
He spares a studious look for Anca, surprised to hear life in her voice. "Maybe she just needed to wake from her torpor? Living in this godforsaken country would frustrate and dull the spirit of most. She is young still, maybe she just needs a real man to give her a proper plowing?" he muses, before dismissing such inappropriate thoughts.
Tyrgrim steps up to Kendra with a solemn smile "You honor your father's memory with your kindness and hospitality, qualities which I have not seen much in these civilized lands. It would be rude and dishonorable to decline, and I wish to speak with you of a debt I owe my departed friend, which now falls to you, his kin."
Kendra smiles uncertainly at Anca. "You're Miss Ravarath aren't you? My father spoke of you on occasion. Or is it Mrs. Ravarath? Did you ever get married to that man?" She shrugs your worries away. "I fear that anyone could be the target of such wrath. Besides, you'd be better protected at the house than in The Laughing Demon."
Kendra shakes Tyrgrim's arm in the Ulfen style. "Thank you Tyrgrim. You would be impossible to miss, even though my father only told of you being a huge, Ulfen, Gorumite. Either way I see no one else fitting the description." She smiles at her little joke.
Your kindness is greatly appreciated, Ms Lorrimir. Zax says with a bow. If there is anything you need during my brief stay, I am at your service.
The locals are a suspicious bunch, since I arrived here I've felt their eyes on me as if they're questioning my presence. Looking around at the group. I wonder if they've received the same welcome. For the sake of the town, I hope the locals don't initiate violence against us or Kendra. Or defile the professor's resting place. What a weird day...
Anca inclines her head in a nod, but she casts wary glances in either direction, intensely uncomfortable speaking of her marriage, least of all before Kendra and outsiders. "The contract has been witnessed," she replies simply. "My husband will appreciate your concern for my well being."
As he stands by the grave a light wind blows Fasir’s light robes against his body, he regards Kendra with a look of sadness. It appears even Kendra does not understand the nature of true necromancy. Sighing Fasir moves to forward past the Prim lady and the huge Ulfen.
It was a touching ceremony and on reflexion I’m glad I came but if they are going to read the will now I had best be on my way. ”I’m sorry for your loss, your father was a very wise and brave man. Without his guidance I would not be who I am today. I will not take anymore of you time, I will return to my home now and let you attend to your father’s estate. It was nice to see you again Kendra.”
Tyrgrim allows himself a chuckle at her jest "Aye, my blood is definitely Ulfen, and some say part giant, and Gorum is my guide in life. And your father spoke warmly of his daughter's spirit, with no small amount of pride." he smiles.
Tyrgrim looks to Anca "You speak of your wedding like it was as civilized as our last encounter with locals; armed malevolent cowards imposing their will on others whilst making a mockery of a ceremony." he frowns "And where is your husband in all this? Too good to show his respects?" he taunts, obviously disgusted with the way things work in this country so far, and not the least bit reluctant to stand up for his beliefs.
Anca's cool blue eyes narrow dangerously. "We took pen to paper, and signed our names to our oaths and bound our lives and fortunes, savage," Anca retorts in a snarl. "We did not toss bones and drag each other to some filthy den to rut like boars in heat!
"My husband awaits the dissolution of all my current contracts in Caliphas, so that I will come to his side with no other obligations than to serve his pleasure."
Tyrgrim grins, pleased to get some steam out and see some actual vim in the girl "My father is a savage, I am versed in magic, healing arts and several languages. But from YOU, it seems both fitting and high praise. Another correction: You do not describe a wife. In both instances you describe a thrall. Only you are twice enslaved; first to paper, then to serve a man, as you put it." he mocks openly "And you are even proud of it? No wonder you seem more akin to a lifeless animated construct, both in mind and manners, than you do an actual woman."
"Thank you Zax. It is a shame your father and brothers could not be here to see my father off." Kendra's own voice cools somewhat at Anca's dark tone. "Of course. I was only asking as to if the happy event had yet come to pass." As Fasir turns away she reached out for his hand. "Oh don't be foolish Fasir. You must see what is in the will for you. It was my father's wish that each of you be there." Fianlly, she looks shocked at the exchange between Tyrgrim and Anca, attempting to interject, but finding no place to do so. "Well then..." She says, deflecting. "Shall we walk along to my father's home?" She quickly moves out, attempting to make sure the conversation does not turn heated again, near dragging Fasir behind her.
As you travel down the main street of the town of Ravengro you can see how small and shabby it truly is. The largest homes are along the western edge of town, where you pass (M). "These are the homes of Council members. They run the town, and are the closest thing we have here to a real government." Kendra explains. You also pass a large elaborate building made of stained glass and marble, it's facade detailing Pharasma judging Count Andachi, a former ruler of Tamrivena (E). Kendra draws a small spiral on her heart as she passes. "The temple of Pharasma, watched over by Father Grimbarrow, you saw him at the funeral." She points to the small pole with many sheafs of paper hanging off of it. "That's one of the Posting Poles. The Elkarid boy watches them, and for a copper or two he can put them up all around town. He's a good boy, and it's the only real way to learn the news in these parts." As you cross the covered bridge at the south of town, Kendra stops her running dialogue, just as a large and looming grey building comes into sight on the hill to the south of town. "And that... would be Harrowstone. The town's most infamous landmark." Her eyes begin to tear once more. "And the place... where my father died."
As they pass the shabby side of town and approach the upper class, Tyrgrim scoffs "Let me guess, the fattest and laziest run things, with money neither earned nor deserved? Looking at the size of their homes, while their people live in squalor like goblins, I can't say I am impressed. Better to bury wealth with the ones who earn it, or spread it out, so one does not foster a sense of entitlement. Filth."
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At the temple of Pharasma, Tyrgrim stops and studies it for a moment. "Impressive. Does not seem overly useful, but it honors the goddess that watches over you well."
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"Harrowstone..." Tyrgrim echoes and clenches his fist, wanting to storm the place immediately and look for whatever killed his friend, but looks to Kendra with fire in his eyes "Do you know how he died? I intend to strike down whatever claimed his life." he vows.
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As the girl gives him the evil eye, Tyrgrim feels a chill down his back, like standing in the presence of a predator. He looks to his trembling hand and inhales sharply "So there is fire in you after all... Excellent!" he grins, his newfound delight making the moment of fear something that seems to almost intoxicate him as he gives a deep, guttural growl, like a choked laugh of approval before he follows the entourage. "Her thralldom is a chain. I shall enjoy watching her strain against it and see if it holds the beast she showed me."
Anca fairly glares at the savage; she recognizes that Kendra speaks, but her words do not register. Anca's breathing is calm, and even, her center as still as if she were targeting her quarry with her bow. When Kendra begins to move, Anca lets her eyes away from the hulk and follows, the only sound being the silk of her dress whispering in her wake.
Those shacks belong to the rulership? Anca muses when Kendra leads them on the tour. The temple to Pharasma she fairly ignores, she has no intention of remaining. Anca guffaws at the idea of a post where information is disseminated to the people, wondering how many of the peasants here were literate, or could be motivated to care about something other than their crops. When Kendra introduces the prison, Anca searches her mind for any knowledge she might have of the site. What possible reason had the Professor to be there?
Fasir Stiffens when Kendra grabs him by the hand feeling even more uncomfortable. This feeling is short lived however as he is nearly knocked over when Kendra mentions he is a named beneficiary. Stunned he allows himself to be dragged along on the tour of the village, falling in step beside the huge Ulfen. Fasir had never felt short compared to other men but walking beside the man made Fasir could'nt help but feel dwarfed by the man’s stature and fierce body language. Out of sheer nervousness he introduces himself. ”Hello i was moved by your eulogy, I’m Fasir. How did you know Petros?