And so, it begins.
Your presence is requested at the funeral of Professor Lorrimor
One foot falls in front of the other as you travel the barren road north. It is a grey, windswept day, though that was not uncommon in the land of Ustalav. Yet neither the wind, nor the gloom had an impact on your mood. No, that came from the news you had received, news that the reason you traveled this road in the first place. A man of intrigue, lore, and legend, Professor Lorrimor had certainly been getting on in his years, yet you would be hard pressed to think that age would claim a man such as him. A friend, scholar, and confidante, he had touched you deeply, in a way few others had. Still, you could not refute the simple words included in the letter, and thus you had abandoned your previous task to venture to the small town of Ravengro to offer your condolences to his kin and sit for the reading of his last will and testament.
It had been most peculiar, the rider arriving to deliver the letter. You had been abroad, nowhere near the last locale the late Professor would have known you to reside, yet the letter reached you only days after his passing. Thinking on the matter, few details of the rider himself are clear in your memory. Or, was it a woman? You can't recall. Strange.
Your wandering thoughts are abruptly interrupted as the woods give way to small, well maintained farms, and you realize the presence of these homes must indicate the town of Ravengro is not far ahead. Reaching a fork, you can see more residences to the right, while the left leads to a covered bridge over a small river and to a town center visible beyond. The letter had indicated that the Lorrimor residence was just on the far side of the center, and thus you turn to the left.
Stepping off the bridge, you notice the locals' eyes are all fixated on you. It is likely travelers are not common in this rural, farming village and any new faces would be a source of excitement and gossip. Yet though they stare, the townsfolk do not approach, far from it. Mothers grab their children and dart inside buildings, men pose menacingly at a distance, shopkeeps shutter their doors, and more than a few whispers of "necromancer", "demon worshipper", and "murderer" are heard as you pass.
And there it stands, the dark oaken frame and red shutters of Lorrimor Place. You take a moment to straighten yourself from the effects of the road. Knocking, you are answered quickly with the door opening, and the welcoming warmth of a raging fire pulsing from within. Stepping into the doorway is a tall, lithe woman in perhaps her mid twenties dressed in a black dress, a faint smile sitting beneath her tear-stained cheeks. Kendra, Lorrimor's sole child and heir, you acknowledge to yourself. She reaches out and embraces you, "Thank you for coming, my father would want you to be here." Letting go, you see the smile has genuinely grown on Kendra's face. "Won't you please come inside and meet the others. Everyone is almost here."
Daviana is appreciative of the standard Ustalavian weather. As it is nice being able to go outside most days without having to worry about the harsh sun impeding her vision. But today, as a day for a funeral of a one of the few she could consider a friend, it was only fitting, that the weather fit her mood.
Passing thru town Daviana does her best to ignore the townfolk. They are merely simple people, not truly understanding the nuances of realities. But the words still rankle. And Nicodemus easily senses Daviana’s mood darken slightly, his hackles rising further with each step thru town. ”Calm my friend.” Daviana speaks softly to him, though she does not need to worry about being overheard, as the words are only for him. ”We do not need the trouble. Come ‘Nico’, Ms Lorrimor awaits and it would be rude to be late.” Daviana pulls her hat down a bit further and directs her mount leftwards.
Arriving at the Lorrimor Manor, Daviana dismounts off her favorite horse, Merlot, a deep reddish-brown mare whose coloring reminds her of the gift she has for Kendra. She carefully removes the two bottles from her saddle bags. Leaving the horse at the hitch, Daviana makes her way to the front door.
Daviana quickly hides her surprise at being so embraced, swiftly enough to add a consoling pat on Kendra’s back. ”My deepest sympathies, Ms Lorrimor. Your father was a good man, a good friend.” Daviana passes two exceptionally fine bottles of Corentyn Wine to Kendra. “From my finest stock. One is for us all to toast your father, may The Grey Lady grant him swift passage. The other is for you. “ Daviana gestures to Nicodemus, ”May my companion also join us? I assure you he is well mannered and won’t be a disturbance to the household. But I do fear he will be quite restless if separated from me for too long.”
Kendra looks down at the sizeable wolf then back to Daviana, "You must be Lady Soldavaso, my father spoke of you both fondly and often, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. The years must truly have been kind to you, for you do not bear the marks of age that I would assume for someone who has factored for so long into my father's tales. I hope I might age as kindly as you have. And of course your... companion is welcome. Father did mention you had an affinity to the native wilds of Ustalav."
Letting you and Nicodemus into the foyer and leading you to the common room, Kendra diverts for a moment, placing the bottles of wine in the larder. "Please, get comfortable by the fire. I have put out some things to snack and drink - they were father's favorites, I thought he would appreciate it." Arranged on a table nearby there are several cheeses, cured meats, a hearty bread, and two decanters of a deep brown-red liquor awaiting consumption.
The cold weather bites Nasrin through her thick woolen garb. The hardened battle vestments of the Dawnflower Cult are stowed away in her backpack, their bright orange colour unappropriate for the solemn occasion, although the twin sacred blades of Qadira camp, embroidered on her overcoat.
Ustalavian bumpkins, textbook examples of close-minded xenophobes. Just how a gentle soul like the Professor came out of this hole, I can hardly understand. She walks with her eyes to the ground, her earthen face twisting in a grimace. And he wound up meeting his end here, poor Professor, after seeing the world he ended up in this dismal place, surrounded by ignorant, superstitious townfolk. Flower of Dawn, please watch over a good man's soul in his final, scariest journey.
All of Nasrin's bitterness melts at the sight of the recently orphaned young woman. "You must be Kendra. I am so sorry that we have to meet under such unpleasant circumstances, but making your acquaintance is a ray of sunlight in such a dreary day. I am Nasrin, I studied under your father at the Absalom Arcanamirium. If there is anything in my power I can do, anything at all, you just have to ask, the debt I owed to Professor Lorrimor is beyond what I could ever repay. My mind, my arm and my soul are at your service."
”You are too kind, Ms Lorrimor.” Daviana says as she follows the young lady into the sitting room.
Daviana gives polite nods to any guest present, before removing her finely tailored overcoat. Selecting a seat with as best a vantage point of the room and other guests as she can manage, she hangs it from the back of the chair. Careful not to let the armored plates clunk on the wood and give away the items secret. She the removes her hat, ensuring her hair is not too out of place from the road. Next smoothing her shirt and skirt, new purchases specifically for the funeral, a mostly tasteful black and maroon number, but still rich in the current fashion style.
Daviana indicates to Nicodemus he should stay at her chairs side before approaching the offered buffet. She takes a small plate of the offered items, more from politeness than any semblance of hunger, and a small glass of the offered wine. Daviana sits, the small plate at the side table, and lets her left hand drift down to Nicodemus’ head. The subtle motion of stroking his head calming any nervousness in Daviana at being out of her usual element. A country funeral is a far cry from masque balls or anonymous tavern jaunts.
Petros... If there was anyone deserving of eternal life, it was you. To think of what you could have accomplished with so much time. You were wonderful in life, but you would have been magnificent in undeath.
Her reverie is broken by a knock at the front door, and she nods her head to Kendra as the woman excuses herself to answer it. Ishara remains seated by the fire, her tall wicked-looking scythe resting in the shadowed corner behind her. She nurses the glass of liquor that she had poured herself shortly after arriving. Under ordinary circumstances, this would not be the priestess' first glass, but such excess and indulgences were reserved for celebrating life, not for mourning the loss of one. As her thoughts turn once more to Professor Lorrimor and the void his death has created, a presence at once alien and familiar makes brushes along the edge of her awareness, just outside of her necromantic influence.
Setting down her glass, Ishara gracefully rises from her seat and smoothes her hands down her black silken gown as the two women enter the room. Her amber eyes alight on the pale newcomer, and, in spite of the somber mood, a small, sharp smile breaks Ishara's grim demeanor on overhearing Kendra's remark on the woman's age; a smile she promptly hides from the grieving daughter. "Yes, we should all aspire to live a life as free from the ravages of time as the Lady clearly has."
The witch steps forward to introduce herself, and the shadows seem to move with her. The light of the hearth dims around her, and the heat from the fire struggles to penetrate the sudden chill of her presence. "I am Ishara," she says, extending her hand toward the woman. When Kendra quits the room momentarily to answer the door again, Ishara uses the opportunity to speak privately to Lady Soldavaso. "I must say, it is a bittersweet surprise to find that the Professor counted one such as yourself among his friends."
Watching the way the shadows dance around Ishara as she moves, Daviana is sure the statement is less about her social standing and more about her hereditary gifts. Eyes flicking towards the door to ensure Kendra has not yet returned. Daviana gives Ishara a toothy grin, "Given the Professor's favored topics of interest, I dare say it should not be that much of a surprise. Daviana Soldavaso. She shakes the woman's hand, then gestures towards the wolf. "My companion, Nicodemus. The professor had the rare gift of a true scholar: an open mind. I am sure in his years he became friends with all manners of interesting people." Daviana takes a small sip from her glass, careful not to wince at the slightly bitter taste of less than perfect grapes.
She inclines her head to the doorway, as they hear more footsteps approaching, "I do believe before the days end, we shall become acquainted with a whole host of diverse individuals."
Alana trudged through town, the last leg of her miserable journey. Traveling through the countryside, out of Ardeal and through the numerous quaint agrarian villages of Canterwall had hardly been enough to distract her from her grim purpose. While there were a few ruins she spotted that sparked her imagination and had her itching to explore, her timetable left her no room for delay. Instead, she had walked and hitched rides with the occasional wagon to complete her journey just barely on time.
Though hardly appearing as an outsider to the country of Ustilav, the villagers still seemed to find her appearance suspect. She heard the muttered whispers of the townsfolk and could only pull her cloak closer to herself and fix her gaze straight ahead as she walked past.
When the Lorrimor estate finally appeared before her, her thoughts were at their blackest. She cursed the old professor for cursing her, cursed him for saving her, and cursed him for dying on her. She rapped on the door -- maybe a little harder than was truly necessary -- and blinked in surprise when she saw the attractive daughter of the professor in the doorway as it opened.
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"You're life is far from over," Professor Lorrimor told the sulking girl through the keyhole to her new bedroom. "It might be different than what you've expected -- for a while, at least. But at least it's a life, which is a vast improvement over the alternative."
Alana didn't listen. Didn't want to listen. But she heard him nonetheless as he continued reaching out to her. She had locked herself in her room and refused to speak to anyone. Especially him.
"Well. I've done what I can here. I'm afraid I must leave," came the muffled voice of the Professor. "I hope you'll consider my offer, to come visit me in Ravengro. My daughter Kendra is only a few years older than you. I think she could be a good friend." Alana lifted her head up from the fetal position, stirred to a semblance of life by the old man's words that he would be leaving. As much as she hated him for the moment, she didn't really want him to go.
"Please think on what I've said. Your life was won, not lost. Alana?" His last words to her were met with nothing but silence.
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Alana's breath catches as she stands in the doorway. Her resentment for the professor dissipates as she sees the remnants of the tears on Kendra's face. "Uh, hi. I'm... I'm Alana. Alana DeVere."
As the professor's daughter ushers her inside into the parlor, the newcomer glances around at the faces. She smiles briefly to the ladies arrayed in the sitting room as Kendra takes her cloak into another room.
Dropping her pack just outside the door, the girl moves closer to the fireplace to warm herself up. Her finely-tailored clothes are in the central Ustilavic style and still new despite the travel stains. The young woman herself is in the full flower of youth, just out of her girlhood. Although clearly tired from her long journey, her gray eyes are bright and attentive as she inspects the ladies who arrived ahead of her.
Arthorius arrived late, a little after Alana. Dressed impecably as a scholar, the gray-haired pale and tall man was fairly scary. However, he took the intelligent precaution of moving across town with a hood - in Ustalav, he imagines, his inheritance could invariably drive the common folk to the wrong conclusions about him.
Nevertheless, the contrast was now obvious; after the fresh and young beauty of Alana, Arthorius was a grim visage. He pushed his steps to move quickly in the room, after invited in, but couldn't help with the discomfort his figure could cause.
Ms. Lorrimor? My sincere condolences. Professor Petros was an impressive man, and I can only fathom the weight of your loss.
He pulled the hood off, revealing his face. It was obvious he also received the news with heavy sadness.
My name is Arthorius Ravenholdt. - he finally introduced himself to her, but moved his arms greeting the others in a friendly yet subtle manner.
Drago stalks across the bridge and through the town, worn knee high boots and breeches, once black but now we'll and truly faded, caked with mud from helping a man unbog a plough at one of the outlying farms.
He grimly nods at anyone that looks his way as he crosses the town square, ignoring any whispers or comments.
Its been a long time since any Novikov's passed this way... Perhaps since Katarina and I were last here. He thinks to himself, adjusting the silver crest (An N imposed over a heavy crossbow) pinned to his dusty, faded great coat. It had been a long trip, especially after his horse had gone lame...
Ah here it is. He pauses in front of the dark oak frames and red shutters before striding up and knocking on the door.
" Kendra, I'm very sorry, for you loss. I know the sting of losing a parent. " He says, embracing her in that awkward way a dirty person does a clean. Trying to prevent the dust of travel from being transferred to the grieving woman.
He accepts the offer to enter and meet the others, doing his best to knock the dried mud from his boots before striding in.
Dragomir is tall, broad shouldered, and a little imposing. His face is pale, lined and his expression is set in a grim half frown. His jet black hair is cropped short, mostly hidden under a dark, wide brimmed hat that he has pulled low over his face. He wears a long dirty black coat over leather armour.
He sets his heavy pack and shield down but keeps his Longsword sheathed across his back. Looking around the room, his frown deepens. Still after a moment he sweeps his hat off and gives the slightest of bows.
" Dragomir Novikov, Monster Hunter, at your service. " he addresses the room in general.
Daviana gives each newcomer a small smile and acknowledging nod. After doing the same upon the arrival of Dragomir, she says to Ishara, "Very interesting indeed." Finishing some conversation that must have occurred before anyone else's arrival.
Nasrin looks over the other guests, scanning for information. Looks like there are several local folks. Pale skin is to be expected, living under this overcast sky. But still...
Still, that whiteness is unmistakable. Those two must be vampireborn, souls tainted by undeath, just like the Professor taught me. Now I can understand how he knew so much about the subject, if he had friends like these. Healing Light, please steer their souls away from an evil heritage they did not ask for.
As her eyes fall on Ishara, however, her eyebrows rise in pleased surprise at seeing the woman's dark complexion, similar to her own. "Oh, hello there. Are you perhaps a fellow Kelishite?"
From the twin blades on her coat, it is easy to identify Nasrin as a Qadiran, and from the scimitar at her side and the angelic ankh hanging from her neck it is unmistakable how she is a worshipper of Sarenrae.
Caught offguard by the firey Keleshite's empassioned pledge, Kendra pauses fora a second. "why thank you Nasrin, you generous offer is most welcome. That said, I doubt I have have much need for your arm, or your soul, in this quiet hamlet. Still, it is a blessing to know I have one as talented as you at my side. Please, come in." Leading Nasrin into the common room, Kendra sees Ishara and Daviana conversing. "Oh, most excellent to see you are already familiar with each other. This is Nasrin, of the southern realm of Qadira. Nasrin, I would like to introduce you to Ishara of Geb, and Lady Daviana Soldavaso, a noblewoman native to Ustalav. Oh, and there's the door again. Ladies, please, enjoy the refreshments."
As Kendra hurries back to the door, the excitement seems to be softening her mood some.
Kendra smiles at the awkward young lass. She reaches forward and embraces Alana closely in a friendly hug, then she smiles at Alana. "Ah, yes, Alana. Father had assisted your family with some troubles, if I recall? He had hoped you would come stay with us, but obviously everything worked out and you are well. Thank you so much for coming. Please, won't you join the others?" Escorting Alana into the common room, Kendra chuckles slightly. "It would seem the ladies have all exhibited punctuality in their arrival. Now, to the gentlemen." Hearing yet another knock, "Lady Soldavaso, would you do the honor of introducing young Alana to the rest of the guests?"
Returning to the door, Kendra greets Arthorius as Dragomir arrives on his heels. "Gentlemen, thank you both for coming, and for your thoughts and prayers. Master Ravenholdt, you were a scholar and apothecary in Varisia, if I recall? And Drago Novikov, we have seen neither you nor none of your kin in these parts for some time... though, I suppose that is a good thing, for there has been little need of your services. Gentlemen, please, this way."
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The frequent arrivals having slowed, Kendra remains in the common room with all of you for a bit. Pouring herself a goblet of wine, she picks up a small piece of Chelaxian prosciutto and approaches Nicodemus. Looking to Daviana, she enquires, "May I give your companion a treat? What is his name?" As she asks, Kendra pets the sizeable wolf, both seeming at comfort with one another.
By the time Kendra has slowly emptied her goblet, Kendra stands and looks around the room. Taking a moment to compose herself and straighten the black dress adorning her, she sighs then begins. She is clearly trying to maintain her composure, but the emotions have clearly resettled in her heart and her voice is weak and uncertain. "Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed colleagues, friends, and confidantes of my father, the late Professor Petros Lorrimor, I want to thank you all for joining me here today to see his final wishes met. I regret that several others could not be here to join us, but the range of Golarion is far and wide, and I doubt the messengers dispatched were able to reach everyone in time. Still, thank you six for being here. Before we head to the Restlands for the funeral, I must ask a favor. I am without bearers to carry my father forth from the gates to his grave. I could commission a cart, but in the traditions of this land and our church, it would be seen as most appropriate that those closest to him bear him aloft for his final journey. Would you do me this honor?"
Daviana studies Alana for a moment, finally recognizing the bone structure. "The DeVere's of Ardeal, yes? I believe my family had business dealings with your grandfather once or twice. You must be the eldest grandchild."
"Miss DeVere," Daviana gestures to the worshiper of the sun, "this is Nasrin of Qadira and Ishara of Geb." she motions towards the second woman.
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Daviana nods to Kendra, "I'm sure Nicodemus would love one." Daviana looks to her small plate on the side table and finds it empty, giving the wolf one raised eyebrow.
Although surprised at Daviana's statement, Ishara manages to hide her confusion behind a placid smile. Was the Professor not dedicated to the destruction of the undead? Had so much time past since I last met with him that he was beginning to come around to my point of view at last? She notes that the woman's skin is cold to the touch, much as she expected, but she is somewhat disappointed to find that it is merely the chill of Ustalav that clings to her flesh, not the chill of undeath. Hmm, so she must be half-mortal, then. Still, it is better than most could ever hope to attain. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Daviana," says Ishara with a deferential nod. Her amber eyes flick down to lock briefly with the intelligent eyes of the Lady's companion, Nicodemus. Most animals, with the exception of vermin, tended to react poorly when they felt the cold brush of Ishara's aura. But, given his mistress's condition, the witch supposes that the wolf's tolerance of her presence shouldn't be all that surprising. "Such a handsome creature. And so well-trained, too."
Kendra's introduction brings a slow smile to Ishara's lips. She had meant to keep her origins hidden until she was able to get a proper feel of those in attendance--the best laid plans--but, if everyone discovered her dark gift sooner rather than later, that suited her just fine as well. "Garundi," she gently corrects after Nasrin's question. "But it is a welcome sight to see another from a land as faraway as my own. The Professor truly did inspire people of all backgrounds." Although Ishara wears no symbol of her faith herself, she knows it is but a matter of time before the follower of the Dawnflower realizes her affiliation with the Church of Urgathoa. Not that the prospect worries her much; the adherents of Sarenrae, to her knowledge, were far more likely resort to sermons rather than swords when they came across Urgathoa's "faithful". Not like these fanatical Pharasmins.
Ishara nods her greetings to the others, and when Kendra asks her favor of them, she responds with a sympathetic smile. "The honor would be mine, Kendra."
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Alana had wondered if the women in the sitting room were friends of the professor or just friends of Kendra there to support her. But given the somber introductions, she quickly realized it was the former. The professor sure liked the ladies, she observes.
Then two men arrive after her, the first of which far more looking like what Alana had expected of the Professor's acquaintances. Grizzled, older, and somewhat scary. The second seemed like he stepped from a book of adventure tales. Naming himself a 'monster hunter' further cemented that impression in Alana's mind.
She catches sight of the wolf lounging against the noblewoman's chair and smiles at the odd sight. Maybe the Lady Soldavaso will have more to her than just the current fashions to prattle on about, she thinks, having initially assumed the stylishly-dressed woman would be a bore.
Then the Lady speaks to Alana, having recognizing her lineage, family name and -- worse, much, much worse -- knowing of her hated grandfather. Forcing her rising bile down, she puts a pleasant if forced smile on her face. "That is correct, on both counts. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Soldavaso." Then she turns to the foreign women and bows politely. "A pleasure."
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When Kendra asks about pall bearers, she shrugs and can't help but think, those closest to him? Me?
She first glances to the others in the parlor, expecting them to jump at the honor just as Ishara had. "If you need one more, I suppose I could," she ventures.
"Ah, sun-kissed Garund. I visited Osirion two years ago, it's an impressive country. I've never been to Geb, although I've heard many fascinating stories. Nice to meet you." About the country being ruled by the undead, for example. Is that a scythe?
"And it is a pleasure to meet you too, Alana, Arthorius, Daviana, Dragomir. It warms my heart through this cold day to see people who were touched by Professor Lorrimor's kindness."
She picks up a slice of cured cheese, nibbling on it and enjoying the strong flavour. Would go well with cloves and cinnamon.
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At Kendra's request, Nasrin readily agrees. "It would honor me more than words can express."
Daviana is slightly taken aback by the request to be a pallbearer. Surely there must be someone else... By tradition, they are meant to be... Then she thinks back to the townsfolk's words when she was arriving. Looking around the room, she realized this strange motley group probably was the Professor's closest friends, and Kendra surely couldn't do it. She was the bereaved.
She thinks back on the few more lavish funerals she had attended over the years. The elites last attempt to outdo their colleagues; more bearers meant more friends and influence. That was all for show, meant little in terms of actual respect for the dead. But if any deserved a dignified passing and the respect of an entourage of bearers, it was the Professor.
Daviana gives Kendra a nod and a sad smile, "It would be my pleasure." There is a small *moof* from besides the chair. "It seems Nicodemus would also like the honor of being your escort Ms Lorrimor, if you'll have him."
"Ah, sun-kissed Garund. I visited Osirion two years ago, it's an impressive country. I've never been to Geb, although I've heard many fascinating stories. Nice to meet you." About the country being ruled by the undead, for example. Is that a scythe?
"And it is a pleasure to meet you too, Alana, Arthorius, Daviana, Dragomir. It warms my heart through this cold day to see people who were touched by Professor Lorrimor's kindness."
She picks up a slice of cured cheese, nibbling on it and enjoying the strong flavour. Would go well with cloves and cinnamon.
These people, from far off lands... The Professor certainly touched many lives...
Drago nods quietly Nasrin, takes a glass of wine, sniffs at it and then sips cautiously.
" Yes, it is good to meet more friends of the Professor's. Perhaps after we've put him to rest we can share our stories of him... "
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" Of course Kendra, I agree with the others that you honour us with the task to carry your father to his final rest. "
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Kendra's lip quivers a little as she sheds just a few tears. "Thank you all, so much. I know my father would be truly honored to be escorted on his final Journey by such fine people. I know you've all only just arrived and are likely tired from the road, but the day is getting on and Father Grimbarrow awaits our presence at the Restlands. If you've had your fill of refreshments, might we be on our way?"
Alana's appetite had fled from her during the introductions, so suddenly the prospect of heading back out to the gravesight had her grabbing a chunk of bread and cheese to take with her.
"Sure," she agrees, grabbing her cloak and throwing it back over her shoulders. "We can leave our packs here, right?" gesturing to her backpack still leaning against the wall in the foyer. She leaves her longbow and quiver of arrows to rest alongside her pack, but her coiled whip and her rapier remain on her hip beneath the cloak.
Very well, lady Kendra. - Arthorius said politely, extending his hand to give passage to the others - Shall we?
The scholar was looking at each of the present with curiosity. He worked with the Professor for quite the number of years, studying together, so he wasn't really surprised with the alarmingly distinct friends he had collected; yet, he couldn't help but wonder what each one of these people was bringing to the table.
Daviana will grab her coat and cane. "Will my mount be good just hitched out front, or is there a better place to put him?"
Sighing at the thought of the grim duty, Nasrin heads towards the exit, whispering a quiet prayer. So many different people from so many walks of life, there will be stories to be told, later. And almost all of them are well-armed, too.
Turning to Drago, she half-smiles. "So we should. Do you hold wakes in Ustalav? Back in my homeland they went on all night long, sharing stories and holding sadness at bay with laughter, but it may not be a shared custom."
" Such practises are not uncommon here... when we have the time. "
Dragomir sets down his glass of wine and stands, loosening his baldric he removes his sheathed Longsword makes to set it down, pauses, but then sets it down in a corner with his pack and shield. He pauses and traces a spiral through the air with two fingers.
" I'm ready. "
Making your way across town north toward the Restlands, the air has grown cold and damp. The decline in the weather has reduced the wandering eyes of the townsfolk as you pass back through the square, and your assembled numbers has kept any possible comments restrained. Still, those outside certainly stare.
A fine mist has begun by the time you reach the cemetery. Several townsfolk and a young lad waits at the gate, standing vigil beside Professor Lorrimor's coffin. Seeing your company approach, the boy nods to Kendra, then runs off into the Restlands, likely to notify the priest that the procession will be coming shortly. Kendra quietly greets those waiting, and thanks them for their presence. She then bends down, placing her hand on her father's coffin. As your company takes up positions around the coffin, Kendra finally responds to Daviana's earlier question, "Lady Soldavaso, if Nicodimus would walk beside me, I would be most appreciative. If you'd all do me the honor of lifting my father, let's be on with it."
Hoisting the coffin onto your shoulders, you follow Kendra down one of the avenues that cuts across the Restlands. The few other townsfolk who had been waiting follow slowly behind. Rounding the corner past a familial mausoleum, the procession comes face to face with an angry crowd of townsfolk, perhaps numbering a dozen in total. Stepping to the front is an older, graying man, who's gaunt frame still portrays a menacing strength.
”That’s far enough,” says the man, an angry scowl across weathered visage as he twists the threshing flail in his hands. ”We’ve been talking, and we've agreed, you're not burying Lorrimor in the Restlands. You can take him down river, or back to Lepistadt, but you aren’t burying him here.”
”I don’t understand,” says Kendra, on the verge of breakdown, tears streaming from her eyes. ”I’ve already arranged this with Father Grimburrow--the grave has already been dug--”
“Happy is the grave in which no warlock hath lain, and happy is the town whose wizards are all ashes,” hisses a woman standing behind the man, carrying a sickle.
”We don’t want a necromancer buried here! It’s an abomination!” Shouts another farmer, brandishing a pitchfork in his arms.
Dragomir's usual grim frown deepens into an angry scowl but he keeps his voice level, with only the barest hint of danger in it.
" A Necromancer?! How dare you disrespect Professor Lorrimor in front of his bereaved daughter! He was no Necromancer, if fact, he instructed me on the destruction of the undead. Allow us to pass now! "
Unbelievable, Alana thinks as she stares at the arrayed townsfolk in front of the procession. She hefts her corner of the coffin, fully aware that she's not really contributing much to bearing the weight of it. A fleeting notion to join the townsfolk crosses her mind, but she quickly corrects her thinking. She shakes her head at the old bitty's folk saying, then locks eyes with the first man who spoke.
She follows up on Dragomir's speech. "Believe him. I didn't know the Professor long, but he came to Ardeal just a few months ago. He may not have been the nicest man I've ever met, but he saved my life. That's what he did. He saved lives."
She steps away from the coffin briefly. "He was smart. He was wise. What you're doing is the opposite of that. Don't let stupid old sayings dishonor a man deserving of proper rest."
Having said her piece, she returns back to her place at the coffin, sullen.
At the peasants' words, Nasrin's temper flares hotter than the Kelish sun. As she's about to give the townfolk a piece of her mind, however, Dragomir and Alana start speaking, and the woman's words strike her in the soul. She's right. A funeral is not a place for yelling, nor a place for bloodshed. Sarenrae give me strength of mind and soul.
She manages to restrain herself enough to just look at the mob with fiery eyes, hoping for their sake that they disperse.
As the angry shouting man approaches, Nicodemus moves to block Kendra protectively, his hackles raising. A low growl coming from his throat.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Daviana swears under her breath upon hearing Nicodemus' growl. I'd love to let him eat them, insulting the Professor that way.
She takes a step away from the coffin, slowly letting the weight settle to the others. Quietly to the others, "I need to calm him. Can you hold the weight a moment?"
"Shhh. Nicodemus, it's OK." Daviana says softly, but loud enough for the crowd to here, while approaching Kendra and the wolf. "They won't hurt Kendra."
"Right, everyone." Daviana now addresses the crowd. "This is just all a big misunderstanding. Professor Lorrimor was not a necromancer. If he was, the church would have never allowed him to be buried here. If the Grey Lady's servants have deemed him innocent, so should you.
Daviana calmly squats down next to Nicodemus, giving him animal soothing sounds, for the crowds benefit. She whispers quietly to him as she goes to stand, in words only he will understand. "Guard Kendra. Only if they attack first. No Killing.""It's OK boy." Daviana pats the wolf.
She rises and heads back to take back her share of the coffins load.
Ishara's bronzed fingers turn pale at the knuckles as her grip on Lorrimor's coffin tightens in agitation. While the delay is vexing, to say the least, her ire stems less from the townsfolk and their misunderstanding of Petros' study of undeath and more from the opinion her fellow pallbearers seem to have of the necromantic arts. Professor Lorrimor may have disagreed with her on a great many things, but at least he seemed to respect her view that necromancy, as with all magic, could be used for good or ill. Although she was no fool to believe she would find much acceptance in Ustalav, Ishara had hoped that at least his closest associates might have been similarly enlightened. Perhaps a demonstration might be in order, the dark witch considers, but another time, and away from the eyes of these suspicious fools. The people of Ravengro have already shown themselves to be well past any hope of enlightenment; while they might be convinced that Lorrimor was no necromancer, 'consorting' with one was likely as offensive to them, and she had no desire to see her old friend's remains disturbed or his daughter run out of town on her account.
Showing a level of restraint the witch was not often one to exercise, Ishara quietly bears the heavier weight of the coffin and allows the others to attempt to persuade the mob to leave peacefully.
Arthorius doesn't say a single thing. Instead, he steps back and makes sure his hood is covering his head. He didn't expect any of the folksmen to understand what exactly he was, and didn't want to make things worse by being noticed. Not that the other Dhampir, Daviana, seemed particularly worried about it... Maybe, at the end of the day, the "middle-aged" scholar worried too much.
Drago's firm, direct words, despite their clarity, seem to make little impact on the angry mob. Likewise, Lady Soldavaso's intellectual rationalization draws little response from the townsfolk, though perhaps that is moreso because of her noble background in a region that has cast off the shackles of Ustalav's feudalism.
No, it is the harsh scolding, delivered by a small lass, barely reaching toward womanhood, that ultimately shames the foolish townsfolk into dropping their paranoid theories and dispersing. Several offer angered, spiteful glances as your procession and they fall back across the Restlands, with a few muttered comments, but no further interference will be met.
Kendra turns to Alana, tears in her eyes, and grabs the girl in a big hug. "Thank you, thank you so much." Looking at the others, bearing her father aloft on their shoulders, Kendra continues to sob. "Thank you all so much. I will never understand how these people could think my father would ever do them any ill. He was a kind, gentle man, whose studies were focused on helping people and righting the wrongs of this world. Thank you."
Continuing on, the procession continues down the avenue for only a couple minutes more before arriving at the Lorrimor burial plot. They are greeted by a trio of individuals, an aging, bald and heavily wrinkled man in the black ceremonial robes of a priest of Pharasma, a weathered man in his middling years with an unkempt beard and a shovel, and the lad who ran off when they first arrived at the Restlands. Stepping forward, the pallbearers lower the coffin into the already dug grave.
The aged priest steps forward, and in a surprisingly strong voice, offers a simple sermon. "As the sunset follows the sunrise, so too does death inevitably follow birth. When that time comes that Pharasma beckons us back into her waiting arms, we are called to answer. Thus the noted scholar Petros Lorrimor has heard the Lady of Graves summons, and passed on from this life into the next. Petros was a dedicated mentor to some, a loyal friend to others, and a doting father to one, but above all a champion for the weak and innocent of Golarion. He did much in his time, much more than this little town of Ravengro will ever know. I see assembled here a good many-" the priest scans your assembled company, a bit of surprise in his eyes as he takes in your broad and varied backgrounds "-friends of the late Professor, and now offer each of you the chance to share a kind word or memory regarding our dearly departed."
"Well done, Alana" Nasrin compliments the young woman as they walk. "How dare these uncivilized bumpkins, letting fear rule them, insult the memory of a good man. Anywhere but here, I would have given them an earful."
---------------------
After the priest (probably Father Grimburrow, according to what Kendra said) has spoken, Nasrin leaves Kendra's side, stepping towards the grave and clutching her holy symbol. "I met Professor Lorrimor for a few months only, but those months were enough for him to change my life. He showed me the way out of my struggles, strengthened my resolve and gave me the strength to overcome my challenges. His love for knowledge, his passion, his fire were contagious, his kindness unmatched. He brought light, he left a mark for good upon the world, never judgmental, never overbearing, just giving the good example, challenging me to be the best I could. He will be sorely missed."
She kneels, bowing her head and closing her eyes before a short, final prayer.
"Pharasma, Mother of Souls, Sarenrae, Everlight, and you all deities who watch over mortals, please guide this friend and mentor in his last journey. May his sleep be gentle."
Having helped escort the Professor's body to its final resting place, Ishara draws her hood down and takes her place among the bereaved. The priest's offer to speak on Petros' behalf strikes a chord with priestess, who promptly turns her head to the side to stare off into the rolling hills and grave markers of the Restlands. Death is not so somber an occasion where she hails from; in Geb, when a person dies, their family either brings them back in undeath or turns over the decedent's remains to the government so that they may be raised to serve the nation's interests. Not for the first time, Ishara wishes for that detached objectivity she's grown accustomed to feeling when dealing with death.
But Lorrimor... Petros was the only living person I had allowed myself to get close to since childhood. Now he's gone, the fool! And what am I left with? She has no fond memories to share of her times with Lorrimor, discussing necromantic rites or what the cults which worked closely with the Church might be scheming. Nor did she have any comforting platitudes to offer the grieving Kendra, nor any warm prayers to send up to the dispassionate Gods on Petros' behalf. All Ishara has is the oppressive pain that's threatened to leave her breathless since she received word of Lorrimor's passing.
May you know no peace until I do.
Daviana is brief, a little uncomfortable under the Pharasmin's watchful eye.
"Professor Lorrimor was a good man, a better friend, and a true Ustalavian treasure. I don' think there is anyone he didn't help who wasn't deeply touched by him. He will be missed."
Upon Daviana finishing her words, Nicodemus lets out one slow mournful howl.
Alana remains silent during Kendra's fierce hug, but is able to muster a smile at Nasrin's compliment. She watches the group of townsfolk disperse, then turns back to the task of bearing the remains of the professor to his final rest.
She decides to stand close to Kendra during the ceremony. She sheds no tears during Father Grimburrow's sermon, nor does she step forward when the aged priest asks for words on the departed. She listens silently during Nasrin's lengthy eulogy and Lady Soldavaso's brief one, but shudders when the wolf howls.
When the silence grows long between speeches, Kendra glances back at her with a pleading look. Alana gives her a helpless expression back. What would I say? she thinks to herself as she feels the urge to speak purely for Kendra's sake. No way am I going to stammer through some half-hearted eulogy. I talked away the mob. That's all you're getting from me, old man.
Dragomir stares down at the professors coffin and then glances at Nasrin as she finishes with her prayer. The briefest hint of a smile teasing the corner of his lips.
" You were a good man Petros, your house was always a place of rest and council for my kin and for me especially. Thank you friend, may Pharasma guide you to your rest. " he says simply, taking off his hat and holding it in his hands.
Arthorius steps close to the grave silently solene. He looks for several instants, while the other friends of the Professor say their words. He finally whispers, briefly, with his voice failing him more than he'd like to admit.
Well, old man... There... - he pauses, shaking his head - ... Pharasma... The Lady of Graves and her army guide your soul to eternal peace.
He doesn't say much more and steps back. It was a strange image to see someone so pompous and focused being suddenly affected by emotions. Yet, he doesn't let any tears run.
Kendra softly smiles at each of you as you share your kind words. Taking a deep breath, Kendra steps forward while fingering a single pale rose she picked up from a nearby bouquet; trembling for a moment, she straightens her back before speaking.
"My father was many things: a scholar, an adventurer, a diplomat, an explorer. It was he who first translated the Arodenite Fragment when it was discovered in Absalom. He helped unearth the Tomb of Akhmet in Osirion. His treatise on the origin of healing magic in Geb revolutionized the field. His accomplishments are many, but to me, he was one thing above all others: he was a good man. In every place he visited, he left a mark on people's lives, and I hope the presence of so many people from so many places here today proves that."
Looking at the assembled crowded, numbering only 10 souls beyond herself, the priest, the gravedigger and his assistant, Kendra continues, "The world is a darker place with him gone. But I hope the light that he brought to each of us will still shine on, in the actions of those people who's lives he touched."
With her speech concluded, Kendra returns to the crowd. The priest makes one final prayer to Pharasma, calling on her to guide the professor safely through the afterlife, and then the coffin is buried, deep beneath the ground.
As the funeral party disperses, an older man who had followed in the funeral procession speaks briefly with Kendra. He first places a consoling hand on Kendra's shoulder, then points to the pallbearers briefly before departing.
Turning to the still assembled pallbearers, Kendra addresses you once more. "I want to thank you all again - for coming, for taking part in the funeral, for standing up to those backwards fools. I have been aware of ramblings here in Ravengro for some time, about both my father and myself, but I always took it as isolated, and never thought anyone would act on those crazy tales. I don't know what I would have done had I been alone when confronted by that mob..." she says. As she speaks, she bites at her lip, and you can tell she is still fighting to hold back her tears. "Anyway, I have spoken with the Elderman and he informed me that each of you is listed in my father's estate. He is to meet us at Lorrimor Place within the hour, and I would greatly appreciate if you would return with me to my home for the reading of his will."
Despite the town's cold demeanor earlier and the attempted blockade of the burial, the trip back to Kendra's home is uneventful. The town seems to have accepted that the outsiders are not here to cause trouble or raise the dead or whatever foul motives they had suspected, and the windows of homes are mostly unshuttered and the shop doors open again--though the streets are still fairly empty, even if that is only because of the cold chill blowing down with the wind.
On the way back, Nasrin puts her arm across Kendra's shoulders, trying to comfort her.
"Do not be embarrassed or afraid to show your grief, Kendra. Healing is always painful, and you were dealt a harsh wound. If you want to cry, cry without shame. If you want to be alone, if you want to be around us, we will understand. Everyone will understand.
Time heals all that can be healed. Today, every thought you have will be tainted by loss, grief and pain. Tomorrow it may be the same. Then, day after day, the pain will fade, and sweet memories will take its place.
Do not rush this. Do not believe that repressing your feeling is being strong, it is not. Learn to live with them, for they will never truly leave, even in the years to come, every now and then something will remind you of him, and the pain will come again. But it will be bittersweet, every time more bearable. It reminds you that you are alive, that you loved, do not fear it."
" Of course Kendra. " Dragomir follows along quietly, listening to Nasrin give Kendra some good advice on grief. Time does heal... he thinks back to the boy he used to be before he met the Professor, torn up by the death of his mother and baby brother. I wonder what the Professor could possibly have left me... a weapon, instructions, some kind of quest?
Alana's heart leaps when she hears that she's actually named in the Professor's will. Maybe, just maybe, she begins to think, but she reminds herself not to get too excited. It could just as easily be some sort of apology or another lecture to her, leaving her without hope.
Nasrin's words about grief and the passage of time intrude on her thoughts. She listens, hearing an entirely different meaning in them. A heavy feeling of dread settles on her, and she trudges back to the Lorrimor estate reluctantly.
Daviana is silent the walk back to the house, trying to figure out what the will could possibly be leaving her.
Did he finally find evidence of who my mother's sire was?
In contrast to the whispered words and steely gazes of your previous journey, or the confrontation that occurred in the Restlands, your return journey across the town in quiet… almost eerily so. Not a soul is on the street, and a feeling of dread seems to hang on the mist that permeates the air. Still, the lack of critical confrontation is a welcome change.
Arriving back at Lorrimor Place, Kendra once again thanks you all as she pours you each a goblet of wine. Shortly thereafter a man arrives at the house. You recognize him as the older gentleman Kendra had spoken with briefly following the funeral. After greeting Kendra, and glances over at the party, his eyes going a bit wide before producing from his hip a scroll case.
”Greetings, everyone. I am councilman Vashian, and I have been entrusted to read the late Professor’s will to you today. I did not know the professor particularly well, but I am sorry for your loss,” he says, before taking the scroll from its case. He shows the party the wax seal--it is unbroken--before cracking it open--as he does, you all watch as a single iron key falls out of the scroll, which Vashian ignores before proceeding to read the will.
“I, Petros Lorrimor, being of sound mind, do hereby commit to this parchment my last will and testament. Let it be known that, with the exception of the specific details below, I leave my home and personal belongings entire to my daughter Kendra. Use them or sell them as you see fit, my child.
To Nasrin—have faith. The flame burns bright within your soul and I am confident you will hear the call soon, I promise you. I leave to you a silver holy symbol of Sarenrae that I found during my travels in Osirion. It is an ancient piece, tied to the early days of your faith. I know that your goddess watches over you, and will guide you in the trying times ahead.
To Daviana—my old friend and confidante. I could leave to you volumes of thoughts and words to continue our many conversations, though I doubt it would be as engaging being a one-sided debate. I regret that I could not find more regarding the mysteries of your family line, but perhaps this silver ring, depicting a twin-headed raven may provide some clue to you.
To Ishara—the journey of your life has only just begun, so I warn you, do not rush too quickly to that next step. Drink deep the many varied flavors of life that were denied to you for so many years, and allow time for your scholarly pursuits to develop. Start your studies with this journal, penned by a Taldan loremaster, during his research into the relationship between life and undeath.
To Mathias-- I was deeply affected by the loss-“
Kendra clears her throat, ”I am sorry, but our attempts to reach him were unsuccessful.”
The councilman continues. ”Very well then. Let me continue…
To Arthorius—your passion for research is unparalleled, driving you on a quest for continuous discovery. Do not waste it in the halls and laboratories of the university, for you will discover more in the world beyond. To you I leave my field kit, which I have cobbled together over many years. It will serve you well as you study the many things you encounter.
To Dragomir—I know all too well the pain of loss, and share with you my sympathies. Keep your loved ones ever in your heart, and use their memories as strength in times of darkness. Many years ago, your great uncle lent me a sword that he once used in monster slaying--it is hardly a relic, but it always sat in my hand well and had a strong blade. I hope it will remind you of your family’s strength, and comfort you against the dark.
To Alana—I know your feelings regarding me are mixed, to say the least. Know that your parents love you, and only wanted to protect you from the truly horrid fate that had been written for you. Let go of the past, don’t let it consume you, as you are now free to live the life you’ve been given. To you I leave a simple medallion, that will bolster your resolve in moments of great conflict in your heart.
Yet beyond the bequeathing of my personal effects, this document must serve other needs. I have arranged for the reading of this document to be delayed until a majority of principals can be in attendance, for I have more than mere inheritance to apportion. I have two final favors to ask.
To my friends, both old and new, I hate to impose upon you all, but there are few others who are capable of appreciating the true significance of what it is I have to ask. As some of you know, I have devoted many of my studies to all manner of evil, that I might know the enemy and inform those better positioned to stand against it. For knowledge of one’s enemy is the surest path to victory over its plans.
And so, over the course of my lifetime, I have seen fit to acquire a significant collection of valuable but dangerous tomes, any one of which in the wrong circumstances could have led to an awkward legal situation. While the majority of these tomes remain safe under lock and key at the Lepidstadt University, I fear that a few I have borrowed remain in a trunk in my Ravengro home. While invaluable for my work in life, in death, I would prefer not to burden my daughter with the darker side of my profession, or worse still, the danger of possessing these tomes herself. As such, I am entrusting my chest of tomes to you, posthumously. I ask that you please deliver the collection to my colleagues at the University of Lepidstadt, who will put them to good use for the betterment of the cause.
Yet before you leave for Lepidstadt, there is the matter of another favor—please delay your journey one month and spend that period of time here in Ravengro to ensure that my daughter is safe and sound. She has no one to count on now that I am gone, and if you would aid her in setting things in order for whatever she desires over the course of this month, you would have my eternal gratitude. From my savings, I have also willed to each of you a sum of one hundred platinum coins. For safekeeping, I have left these funds with Embreth Daramid, one of my most trusted friends in Lepidstadt—she has been instructed to issue this payment upon the safe delivery of the borrowed tomes no sooner than one month after the date of the reading of this will.
I, Petros Lorrimor, hereby sign this will in Ravengro on this first day of Calistril, in the year 4712.”
”Thank you councilman,” says Kendra to the councilman, who nods his head before departing, giving the party one final glance before heading out the door. Her face is stone, though you can tell that hearing her father’s will has shaken her--to her, it must have been like hearing him speak one last time.
”I believe I know the chest my father was referring to,” says Kendra, heading to one of the many piles of books in the room. Quickly pushing them aside, she produces a heavy oak chest which she pulls to the center of the room before unlocking it.
Inside, there are the items mentioned in the scroll, as well as more books--at least five, from the looks of it, and on the top book you can see someone has crudely scratched READ ME NOW into the leather.
Dragomir takes out the professors sword, reverently inspecting it, half drawing it to inspect the blade.
" What a gift... " he says in a whisper.
Glancing around at the others and then back down into the chest he sees the scratchings in the top book.
" Hey, look at this. " he says, placing the sword down carefully and pulling out the book, he points out the scratched READ ME NOW to the others.
He moves over to a nearby table and places the book down where everyone can gather around then opens it to the first page.
Alana takes a seat in one of the upholstered chairs, drawing her legs underneath her after kicking off her travel boots. She holds her goblet in both hands, sipping lightly, while the will is read.
She watches each recipient named in the will as their section is read, studying their reactions all the while as her own nervousness builds. Fittingly, her name is read last and the words of Professor Lorrimor are nothing but disappointment. She tries to convince herself that she had expected nothing more, but her heart had dared to hope so it was crushed.
She looks at the medallion in her hands after giving Dragomir's sword a jealous look. She turns it back and forth, then stuffs it into her pocket, deciding to study it with her arcane sight at a later time since the councilman continues to read.
When the favor -- and the surprise inheritance of one hundred platinum pieces -- is read, her eyes widen and she looks at Kendra to gauge her reaction.
Finally, when Dragomir pulls out the book with the urgent message scratched in its cover, she hovers over his shoulder to get a look at what may be inside.
With reverence, Nasrin grabs the silver ankh, kissing it in devotion. My call? Does he mean my vision? And some of the things that he wrote to the others... It might be worthwhile to inquire this night. But every thing in its time.
Sitting on the ground next to the chest, she looks at the other books in it, addressing Dragomir. "I'm listening, please go on. Wykrycie magii." The last phrase is spoken in the crisp language of magic.
Daviana barely hears the other personal bequeaths, her mind swirling with possibilities. A clue, after all this time. Finally a clue.
It is not until the droning voice mentions favors does she tune back in. Then smirks at the old foxes cleverness in the arrangement of payment, ensuring the favors are completed.
One month wouldn't be any burden. She had been debating if it was time to move on from Kavapesta. She could use the time to contemplate new locations to scout on the trip home. Especially if this ring could give her an idea of where to start.
Watching the councilman leave and his glance back at the group, she does wonder if he will be a problem, given the lovely reception they have received in town so far.