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”Close the windows. A draft might interfere with our lesson.” The young woman does as she’s bid, taking a moment to let the cool breeze of night brush the tresses from her face, before securing the window’s latch. The room slowly intensifies with the smell of the champa burning.
Approaching the table, she watches her Baba begin mixing the gold foil cards, face down. ”Imagine yourself as the village matchmaker. Never forceful, you bring all hands to touch the others,” the elderly woman drifts one card over another. ” Gentle caresses, meant to test connections. The Deck will feel your intentions, and It will respond. Your job is to listen.”
Another tress falls, but the young woman is too interested in the lesson at hand to tuck it back. For the briefest of moments, she swears she sees the cards… sigh. The candles in the room flicker, though the room is windless. ”There. Did you feel that? When it is you touching the cards, it will be more pronounced. As if your hand touched the breast of a lover. A heartbeat, a breath, a shudder, or even goosebumps. The Deck will let you know when to reveal its message.” The young lady blushes, but says nothing. She has yet to confess her secret love, but Baba always seems to know before she ever speaks a word.
The greyhair takes a deep breath, then extracts three cards, before gently bringing the rest of the cards to a stack, set to the side. ”Past, Present, and Future. The simplest of readings, but oftentimes the most powerful. From left to right, what was, what is, and what shall come to pass.”
The first card is revealed. ”The Fiend. Its appetite is insatiable. It consumes until there is nothing left. This represents death from a disaster of some kind, with the loss of many lives.” The old woman frowns. ”I… I’m not…” She stops speaking, reaching for the second card more quickly, as if seeking understanding.
”The Dance. Interesting. This represents intricacy, coordination, and the agility required to complete a series of steps in a complicated pattern, or perhaps a treacherous one. One misstep, and the entire performance collapses, like falling from a high wire.” The young woman leans in more closely, looking at the last card yet to be read. Both women look at each other for a pregnant pause.
Baba hesitates, slowly reaching for the Future, slowly turning the last card face up. A candle blows out, and both women gasp, the young woman grasping for her Baba’s hands. ”I know what that card means, Baba, but it can be interpreted more than one way, can it not? Please. I don’t think I’m ready for this, this knowledge.”
Baba takes her granddaughter’s hand in both of hers. ”Do not look away. Do not close your eyes. There are those of us who are granted great power by the Great Wheel, and we must not shy from the duty it imparts.” The old hands hold up the young hand. ”You only have two, my dear cinamome. But you are not alone. Never forget that. Even in the darkest times, you will not suffer alone.”
::::::::::::
The rain falls soft and steady on the eaves of the Lorrimor Place. For the unrelentingly nature of the downpour, your travels to the little town of Ravengro were well and truly doused. It did mean that your individual arrivals were more or less private, as very few citizens were about the roads. The small town must be host to no more than three hundred souls, if that. Farm lands, a very dense Town Square, and a few bridges to traverse the local river might sum up the entirety of your observations entering Ravengro under the grey cloak of rain.
Now, you find yourselves damp and deposited in the living room, replete with roaring fireplace and firewood. Kendra Lorrimor greeted each of you with red-stained eyes, and bade you come in from the rain, at least until the time for the funeral arrives.
The noise of clinking cups reaches you from the kitchen, a promise of something warm to fill your bellies before the collective march to the Restlands, where the late Professor Petros Lorrimor is to be interred.
The time is eight in the morning. The day is Moonday, the 6th of Erastus, the year 4720.
Welcome to Ravengro.
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A stately woman stands beside a high backed chair, dressed in a black gown in the Andoran fashion. Sad but not unduly so, she meets your gaze with a polite nod.
A willowy adolescent sits there, his expression blank. He looks like his mother, but his attire more closely resembles local funerary customs. White pantaloons, shirt, and coat with Varisian ornamentation. Embroidery suggests some ancestry other than... "Elsbeth Bicknell. Tis a pleasure. This is my son, Marinus."
The boy looks up from his revery and stands. "Oh, hello. Will you be joining the dance and games ere the Professor takes his rest?"
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A pale-skinned youth dressed in a black outfit with silver trim turns to the pair with a smile. "Of course and the singing as well! His passing may be sad but there is so much about his life that is worth celebrating. I'm Sebastien it's so nice to meet both of you."
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A dark-haired man in his late twenties, most likely, stands here as well, slightly ill at ease by the fireplace. His clothes are clean and well-made, though not extravagant-- or they were clean, when he left his mother's house an hour gone. There's a splotch of mud now on one trouser leg that he tried discreetly to wipe off for the better part of ten minutes, with only limited success. (He tries to stand so that leg is nearer the wall.)
His white jacket does not entirely conceal stocky shoulders, but he does not act like a man wishing to make much account of his strength-- rather, he seems to be trying to take up as little room as possible in the room.
But introductions are happening, so he clears his throat.
"Ah... Milovic Draznoi, only-- only, properly, it's Dr. Draznoi, actually," he says, and runs a hand through his hair. "How do you do, madame; and Marinus and Mr.-- Sebastien. Er. Have you all come from, from, far away? How did you know... our dear Professor?"
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Millicent stands at the window, her eyes focused on the rainy gray outside. Why did Petros pick a tiny nowhere town like this to settle? Perhaps he enjoyed the quiet, a respite from the globe-trotting lifestyle of an expert in arcano-forensics, necrology, and teratology. That does not sound like the Petros Lorrimor she knew. He always churned out his schoolwork so he could focus on his private projects, the nature of which would be unknown to all his colleagues until it showed up completed and crisp in his latest lecture series or article. No, he would have been working on something. He lived for his work. Died for it, too.
Millicent adjusts her bun of brown hair and glances at the other attendees, as she is apparently expected to be polite. They are an eclectic bunch, though she expected as much. Petros had always enjoyed picking up strays. “They always notice the world in unique ways,” he would always say. She hadn’t expected to see the Lupescu boy here, though perhaps she should have. She had liked the idea of being away from everything and everyone she knew, no shared histories or complex webs of truth and lies.
She sighs and turns away from the window. As much as she enjoys the privacy of a window, the rain, and her thoughts, she should at least make a show of minimum politeness. She takes off her glasses so they hang from the retainer strap like a necklace, then wipes them with a cloth from her bag. She’s a tall, broad shouldered Varisian woman that smells vaguely of mint. She wears a professorial jacket and vest with a long skirt down past the curve of her calves. She looks to be in her early-to-mid forties despite being in her early fifties, all thanks to the wondrous effects of mulibrous tincture on the skin.
She raises her chin as she regards each of the other attendees, finally taking a seat in a high backed upholstered chair. She looks to Milovic over her glasses, the very image of a chastising librarian. ”I recommend allowing your thoughts to settle before speaking them, Dr. Draznoi. You will avoid stumbling over yourself and be much easier to listen to.” She has a rich, resonant voice with a practiced perfect Caliphas accent. ”Millicent Jones. Archivist. I am not particularly interesting or noteworthy, so I will save you the trouble of figuring that out.” She leans back in the chair with her hands folded on her lap and her legs crossed.
"-I- I beg your pardon," Milo says, stiffening up at Millicent's chastisement, a flush rising in his olive-skinned cheeks. He opens his mouth as if to say something more, then shuts it with a click, and does his best to move closer to the chimney. It seems even he is not sure if he meant his statement angrily, or sheepishly.
Millicent closes her eyes and presses her back against the chair, feeling out its comfort. ”No need to beg for it. All is pardoned.” She smiles ever so slightly. Perhaps she shouldn’t be so mean. But it is rather enjoyable to toy with the young.
Sebastien rolls his eyes in response to Millicent's introduction. "Don't worry Dr. Draznoi. Millie scolds me all the time. She doesn't mean anything by it. We both live in Kavapesta, Sebastien pauses to consider Millicent for a moment before continuing, "although I didn't know she knew the Professor too. Makes sense though. Millie's real smart just like he was."
Not one for awkward silence, Sebastien happily continues chatting, "Anyway, I knew the Professor pretty much my whole life. He wasn't always around, but he and my Auntie Ulametria raised me. How'd you know the Professor Dr. Draznoi?"
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A younger man stands aside his seat at the table, carefully removing his cold weather clothing and setting it near the fireplace to dry. He starts by changing his boots and pants from underneath his cloak, as such to maintain modesty. "Apologies" he offers with a smile, "forgive my indecency for the utility of getting out of the wet!". Once succeeded, he sets his cloak down and strips off his shirt.
Thick black hair tops the gaunt youth. The fireplace shimmers off green eyes and gives an orangish tint to his olive skin. He turns and bends from the waist to reach into his pack... and the cords of muscles clinging to bone can be seen flexing across his ribs and back. He bends back up and kicks the pack against the bench, throws his shirt into the air whistle and then reaches into the sky, cloth falling into place around his torso. He makes the effort to pull his hair out from underneath the shirt, which hangs off of him loosely.
He then smiles at anyone at the table and partakes happily of the provided breakfast.
"Wait, you mean to tell me you are all three librarians?" He looks to Dr. Draznoi, Millicent and Sebastian. "I didn't really understand the usefulness of literature until I was older. Are all of Petros' other associates geniuses except me?" He asks in such a tone as to be rhetorical and acknowledge the gifted at the table.
"The professor rescued me from my home, after disaster destroyed it," he responds to Sebastien "I owed him twice, and the opportunity for this journey makes thrice. Tell me, my enlightened fellows, how does one return three debts to a dead man?"
"--you know I'm sure there's another room you might take advantage of to, to change," Milo says while staring fixedly at the ceiling, even if the newest arrival isn't actually baring anything indecent. "Mr.... what was your name? No, I'm no librarian. Doctor. Doctor. A medical doctor. I have-- a practice in Caliphas. Well.... part of a practice..."
The question, though, makes him cross his arms. "I don't know. I only owe the good professor one debt, but you're right, how DOES one repay it to a dead man... In my case, he sponsored my education. So... I owe him a great deal. Perhaps that means I owe his daughter, now..."
He gives a belated nod to Mr. Lupescu, with a slightly wry smile for the other man's reassurances regarding... 'Millie.'
Then he fidgets, and adjusts a tiny statue that sits on the fire's mantel to be perfectly in alignment with the edge. "--Ah-- have you all found lodging, then, without difficulty, here? I am actually-- from Ravengro, so if you have any problems, I... well.... my mother would know someone, I imagine."
"None quite so warm, I'd wager. A doctor? Still, a smart profession."
He looks about the table and grabs a pitcher to fill his mug with some water. "Ajir Jiro. Please don't call me Mister."
"I had intended to stay here... but if that's not to be, then please direct me to your mother."
Millicent's eye twitches ever-so-slightly at being called "Millie." She has always hated that nickname but Sebastien has insisted upon it. It makes her feel like a schoolgirl, which merely reminds her that she never got to enjoy being a schoolgirl. She decides to not make anything of it, not wanting to give away a weakness. She keeps her eyes closed, rolling them under the lids at the concept of a man walking into a room and changing his clothes. "Traditionally, debts would fall to the next of kin. I imagine he will address the subject in his will."
Millicent opens her eyes and nods her head in slight regard to the young doctor. "Your offer is generous and I thank you for it. I had also been planning to stay here, but I shall keep my alternatives in-mind." His "mother would know someone," eh? Intriguing.
"Please, until any decisions are made for your accommodations in Ravengro, our home is yours. You should feel safe leaving your belongings here, though I imagine Father Grimburrow will expect only your best attire during this morning's service." Kendra only sniffles once, as she sets out a tray with a hot kettle, and cups for those interested.
"Barley tea, locally sourced. I brew it strong, so won't take offense if you decline. It's the way Tată preferred his cup. I think he was losing his smell, and needed something to punch through." A sad smile dresses Kendra's visage.
"I think we still have another twenty minutes before undertaking the walk to the Restlands. I was hoping to ask- would some of you be the Professor's pallbearers? Father Grimburrow was uncertain if any of the villagers considered themselves close enough to Petros to volunteer themselves. With the rain, I'd rather decide in warmth."
Milo has vague cause to regret his ingrained polite offer almost as soon as he's given it, as both the sharp-tongued librarian and the gentleman who seems to feel it's civilized to swap his trousers out in a drawing room both make noises of enquiry. Thankfully, Kendra speaks.
"Oh. Oh, if there's need for... yes," Milo says with his usual verbal grace. "I mean, that is-- I'd be honored to-- it's the least I could do, given the debt that I owe your father, Miss Lorrimor."
"Thank you, Kendra." Sebastien replies, pouring himself a cup. "I'd be happy to help carry your father. Please, let me know if there's anything else I can do to help."
”Your generosity is appreciated, Kendra. I should be happy to stay here.” Millicent takes a cup of hot barley tea and sips on it. ”I would have the tea no other way. I made the tea strong when we were roommates at uni, and I am glad to see he finally came around to it.”
She pauses to let the warmth of the tea fill her up. ”As for pallbearing, I am more than willing to have the honor, though I must confess that I have the muscle-mass of a woman twice my age or a girl a quarter of it. If you are still willing to have me, then I shall happily take up a corner.”
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Marinus cups his hands over his lap as he watches Ajir change. The light russet skin of his downy cheeks redden. He's a comely lad, with high cheekbones and bright, hazel eyes. After adjusting himself less subtly than he'd hoped, he makes a gesture in the air.
Stop it. Not appropriate at a funeral, Littler Mari.
"Um, ahem. Yes. If you're staying here, you'll have the pleasure of my and my mother's company." He also takes a cup, adding a rather enormous amount of honey. "And of course I would be pleased to help, though I'm no strongman either. Petros — er, I mean, the professor — was a great, er, mentor to me during dark times. He always said, 'The debt of kindness is not owed to the giver, but to others in need.' I remember reading similar once..." His voice trails off.
His mother notices this and rather abruptly jumps in. "What a pleasure to see you again, Miss Jones. Thank you for all of your help over the years. I suppose we would not be here today if not for you."
It was a few years ago that Elsbeth Bicknell came to the archives in Kavapesta, distraught over her son's strange behavior. He had been speaking in some strange tongue and wagging his fingers about in what seemed a mystical manner. In his sleep, he would scream out. Objects went flying about his room of their own accord. Waking, he did not recognize her for some minutes. She feared a demon had possessed her son.
Millicent had been kind in that hour of need, finding some relevant tomes and, most importantly, referring the Bicknells on to the Professor.
Marinus tracks the exchange. "Oh, it was you who referred us to Pet— the professor. Yes, thank you. I feel much better now."
Not so familiar. It won't do for a fifteen year old.
He says this last with a bit too much conviction. Elsbeth gives a forced smile in response.
Ajir lifts a cup towards the hostess, "Thank you. It will be a privilege to be with your father as he begins his renewal."
"I too, am not of the strongest stock, but I'm sure many hands will make the burden lighter. At least, physically."
An eyebrow raises as the young man and his mother speak, without breaking his smile.
Oh goodness, two more people that know her. She had truly been hoping for a respite from constant expectation.
She inclines her head in a slight bow to the mother and son. "Think nothing of it. I merely pointed you in the direction of resources that may be of more use to you. My own contribution was minimal."
Millicent is especially glad that she took a humble stance as the boy appears to have not improved much since last she saw him. She makes a note to renew her studies of Varisian sign language. She had been in the beginning stages of learning it when the archive brought on a new staff member already fluent, and she had just put it off. She never did like leaving a matter unfinished, though.
Sipping his tea politely, Sebastien suddenly remembers Ajir's question. "Oh! I'm sorry Ajir. The refreshments and Kendra's kind offer distracted me! I'm definitely no archivist or doctor. Auntie Ulametria has me study at the archives pretty frequently but I'm no scholar. I'm probably a terrible burden to poor Millie but my duties can be dangerous and I wouldn't want to get caught with my pants d... ummm... wouldn't want to be caught unawares, I mean." A slight tinge of red mars Sebastien pale cheeks as he awkwardly resumes sipping his tea.
"I wonder why he's so shy about his dealings with the Professor?" Sebastien thinks before deciding to ignore it and change the subject.
"Those hand gestures seem very intricate Marinus. Do they have some special significance?"
Marinus clasps his twitching hands together. "Just a bit of sign language from my, eh, forebears. I find myself practicing when I'm anxious."
Good. That sounded convincing. As Petros said, these aren't matters to discuss with just anyone, Mari. Nor the night terrors. Nor mother's somniloquy journals...
Elsbeth puts a steadying hand on her son's right shoulder. "There, there, Mari. It's been such a loss for my son. Professor Lorrimor was dear to him."
"Oh. Oh, if there's need for... yes. I mean, that is-- I'd be honored to-- it's the least I could do, given the debt that I owe your father, Miss Lorrimor."
"I'd be happy to help carry your father. Please, let me know if there's anything else I can do to help."
"As for pallbearing, I am more than willing to have the honor, though I must confess that I have the muscle-mass of a woman twice my age or a girl a quarter of it. If you are still willing to have me, then I shall happily take up a corner.”
"I too, am not of the strongest stock, but I'm sure many hands will make the burden lighter. At least, physically."
Kendra gladdens to hear four voices raised in acceptance.
"And of course I would be pleased to help, though I'm no strongman either. Petros — er, I mean, the professor — was a great, er, mentor to me during dark times. He always said, 'The debt of kindness is not owed to the giver, but to others in need.' I remember reading similar once..."
She rests a gentle hand on Elsbeth's hand, resting on Marinus's shoulder. "We shall walk together, and accompany the Professor, alright? I would take your arm, and steady myself." She looks to Elsbeth and smiles her gratitude for present company.
...
The appointed time to depart for the Restlands arrives. Kendra takes a light brown cloak from a back room, and secures it about her neck with bronze clasps, before pulling the hood over her hair bun.
Departing the Lorrimor Place, you are reminded that the skies fail to respect the schedules of ceremony, and your circuitous walk is puddled and muddied. Across a short bridge over a small distributary of the larger distributary from Lake Lias, you continue along the graveled road.
You cross another bridge, this one covered, then cover more road, until you stop at the Temple of Pharasma. The late Professor awaits you here.
The narthex is quiet, twice sheltered by the stone of the building and the wood of the porch cover. Kendra doesn't call out, proceeding confidently to the western transept, where a lone, poplar coffin rests upon a table. She greets a quiet blond woman who sits with the Professor, before beckoning the four pallbearers to take up the weight of the wood.
The acolyte of Pharasma whispers a short send-off, and smiles at you all. Now relieved of her duty, the acolyte departs for other parts of the Temple, leaving you in peace.
Kendra turns to you all. "Are we ready, then? Father Grimburrow and his staff should be waiting for our arrival at the Restyards." Before you have a chance to answer yourselves, the black clouds above speak a distant discontent, and the Temple resonates with a thunderous chorus.
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Ajir has decided against clothing for the inclement weather, allowing his more urban and formal garments to drench in somber accordance of the task. He acknowledges the exchange and quietly takes his place among the pallbearers.
When the temple resonates with sound, he tenses and has sudden interest towards the rest of the temple as if expecting something hideous to emerge. When the thunderclap's echos subside he loosens up... shakes his head and grins at himself.
"Looks like the gods themselves mourn your passing, professor." he whispers to the coffin.
Marinus walks to the coffin. He runs his hands across the wood as though he were stroking the professor's hair. His speaks softly what must be a prayer, though in a rarely spoken tongue.
"May you find new life soon, in Elysium or upon this earth should it be your fate. I'll miss you."
He walks back to join Kendra and his mother, a peaceful look on his face unmarred by the weather.
Millicent wears an all-black ensemble extremely similar to her earlier attire, along with a long water-proof jacket and hat against the rain. She strains to hold up her corner of the coffin, but she does so silently and without complaint. Marinus's surprisingly lapse into Thassilonian reminds Millicent of a delightful Thassilonian funerary oath she has always been fond of.
Properly, you would then cremate the subject of the oath being sworn to, but that is not her decision to make.
Milo looks vexed at the dark skies outside. (It is to some extent Milo's natural state, to be vexed.)
Well, it's only fitting that after making us come halfway across the country in wretched weather, we should get drenched one more. The gods have the last laugh. Or the Professor, himself.
Milo's thoughts wander as they walk. He finds himself tensing for no reason he can elucidate, as they reach the covered bridge. Good spot for an ambush, whispers a dry, rustling voice, and Milo inhales to himself, and darts a short glance around, at his walking companions. But he knows that none of them spoke.
He walks easier when they're past the bridge, however.
***
Knowing no Thassilonian, he neither remarks nor contributes to the two murmured statements. He stands awkwardly by the coffin, letting others have their profound statements: he has no idea what he'd say. Oh, he's grateful enough to the Professor, who made his entire livelihood possible. But he's been conscious of the debt he owes for years, and dreaded the time it would be called in. And this funeral... suffice to say it's not coming at a good time. The past is already much too real for Milo.
He watches the Pharasmin walking away, and wraps his arms around himself as the thunder booms and rattles through the land.
The rain bogs down the enemy as much as it does us. But mind your perimeter all the same. It provides cover, and the orcs are stealthy bastards...
"Well, shall we?" Milo says, abruptly, rather more loudly than he means to, to try and interrupt that rasping whisper that only he can hear. "--I mean-- the coffin. The rain isn't going to let up anytime soon. I-- I mean, I don't want to rush anyone. Who wants to pay respects."
Sebastien wraps himself in a cloak and follows the to the church.
As they enter the cathedral Sebastien clutches the silver spiral hanging around his neck and takes a place by the coffin. "I'm sorry you didn't get to finish your work Professor. I know how important it was to you but takes solace in The Lady's embrace. You have more than earned your final reward."
Milovic's outburst startles Sebastien out of his quiet reflection. Taking up a corner of the coffin he replies, "You're right Doctor. Let's get the Professor to his final rest."
Dilettante. What does she know of Thassilon? Does she fancy all of the tales about the Runelords were true? Has she really done no research into the common folkways?
Marinus clamps down on his fidgeting hands, as well as the scowl that crosses his face at Millicent's recitation. His smile returns, gently, as he looks at Kendra, his equal in height. "I've no doubt the Gray Lady shall have good news for him."
It is a strange thing, hoisting a coffin onto one's shoulders. Stranger still, to most of you, to walk with said coffin on an unfamiliar town road, towards an awaiting cemetery. Occasional lightning strikes in the distance, accompanied by the thunder, keep you company as you proceed to carry the late Professor. The first couple of minutes, there is an expected awkwardness for the task at shoulder. Eventually, you become familiar with each other's heights, each other's gaits. By the time you reach the Restlands, you have found your funeral stride.
As you approach the Restlands from the southwest, you catch out of the corner of your eye a strange figure entering the Restlands at the southeastern entrance. The rain interferes with your ability to see much more than this, without getting closer...
Passing through the southwestern entrance, you take in the breadth of Pharasma's local boneyard. As the crow flies, you can see several forms waiting in the rain, at a distance of roughly 200'. The rain does an admirable job obscuring your sight, as you blink to clear your eyes of its waters. Kendra indicates to you that your destination, Lorrimor's gravesite, awaits your travel along first the Dreamwake, then onto the Eversleep, paths named reverentially and practically for locating family graves.
Your attention is ripped from Kendra all of a sudden, as a much, much closer group of villagers comes into focus, a gruff voice at the back barking his confrontation. His voice is loud, competing with the curtain patters of rainfall.
You recognize the man as Gibs Hephenus. He appears older than you remember him, but the voice is clarion. You've been yelled at numerous times for alleged trespassing, for running when you should be walking, and for disgracing your mom as a bastard...
Unwelcome to the Restlands.
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Ajir strains from the tension in his shoulder, loose clothing exposing the thin strands of corded muscle that run from neck to ear.
"Sir, surely you don't speak for the whole town." he takes his free arm and waves it over towards the rest of the gathered at the grave-site. "I cannot imagine your intention here is to cause young Lady Kendra more distress at the loss of her father than she's already endured. Let us take him to his grave and then you can make your case to everyone gathered, and hide your shame behind civilized discussion."
Kendra also speaks up, her voice tinged with a lesser strain of despair. "What are you talking about?” she cries out. “It has already been arranged. The grave is already dug..."
The villagers don't retreat, but they don't advance, either. A couple of them look towards the speaker, while others tap their hands with various farm tools.
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Millicent scoffs at the accusations. "'Necromancer?' Why, he may have known a necromancy spell, but what wizard doesn't? Hardly makes you a 'necromancer.'"
She fails to consider that the academic distinction may not make a difference to these particular people.
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Milo grimaces at the sight of the man, of course, of course this last errand couldn't just go-- smoothly. And it would be such an unpleasant man, too. Remembered insults from childhood spring suddenly to mind, though Milo's also abruptly conscious that he stands a foot taller than he did back then (now he's all of five-foot-eight!) and has put on considerably more bulk. For a moment, a brief moment, he--
Cut him down! Give them no quarter, lads! They're hungry for blood but we'll fill their bellies with steel!
Milo squeezes his eyes shut and wills the voice to silence. No, no, he's a doctor, for all the gods' sake.
"Mr. Hephenus," he says, trying to will his voice to calmness and mature confidence. "Surely you remember me. I grew up in this town. Whatever the professor's.... interests... I doubt I am the only lo-local," dammit! "t-to--, that is, to have benefitted from his, his, generosity. He'll be resting now, let whatever you imagine his, his crimes to be to-- rest with him. Pharasma judges, not us mortals. Please, Mr. Hephenus."
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Marinus' keeps his eyes trained to the southeast, squinting a bit. Shuddering, he turns to the ringleader of the assembled circus.
"Sir, could you tell me why you think my uncle a necromancer? He has ever been kind. If anything, he has been a true friend to those who honor the Lady of Graves."
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Sebastien keeps an eye on the figure but focuses on the mob barring their path.
With a warm, reassuring smile, his holy symbol dangling around his neck, Sebastien adresses the assembled townsfolk. "Listen friends, Professor Lorrimor is no necromancer. I knew the man my entire life and he was an ally of the Pharasmin church and of my Aunt, Bishop Ulametria. He would never deny a soul its final rest."
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The ring leader is one Gibs Hephenus, ex-soldier and now retired farmer. One ornery fellow. Has a house on the south side of Ravengro, and makes sure folks know exactly where his property lines are.
When Ajir speaks, it seems his words are on the brink of halting each and every villager, whose mob mentality balances on the head of a pin. The balance sways briefly, when Millicent splits hairs with a bald man, until Milovic regains the momentum, addressing the man Hephenus by name.
The mob no longer appears eager to step into the Dreamwake. In fact, as Marinus speaks friendship, two of the men step off the path, making room, while Mr. Hephenus considers his next words carefully.
The mob disperses by the western gate, mainly. A couple of them move south and southwest, averting their eyes as they pass the funeral processional.
...
Continuing to the open grave of the late Lorrimor, you are not accosted again. The rain continues to shroud the surroundings. It tries to rinse away the recent confrontation, to varying degrees of success, as you spend mental and physical energies to maintain your uniform pace, as the path softens to mud at intervals.
Kendra is holding onto your arm more tensely than before the encounter.
"At long last. These are your friends, Miss Kendra?" A very old priest steps forward, bidding the burdened to set the coffin down next to the excavated ground.
"Yes, Father. These fine people are to be considered family to Petros, and accorded the same respects you would me. This is Ajir, Millicent, Sebastien, Marinus, and of course you know Milovic." Father Grimburrow nods with not one jot of doubt, before turning to the gravediggers, who expertly lower the coffin into the earth.
There are, of course, others in attendance, and Father Grimburrow reciprocates Kendra's brief introductions with one of his own. "These are Councilman Vashian Hearthmount, Councilman Gharen Muricar, tavernkeeper Zokar Elkarid and his son Pevrin, and Jominda Fallenbridge, our local apothecary. Now, if we may begin? We are soggy enough."
As if insulted, the rain picks up a little, the drops falling harder and colder than before.
There stands a sixth individual, beyond the five to whom you've been introduced. He is an odd-looking man. He twitches at times, scratching at the side of his head, fiercely. He appears to be watching the gathering from afar. If others have seen them, they don't seem to pay him much attention.
Father Grimburrow begins the eulogy, speaking warmly of his friendship with the Professor, who seemed to make friends with anyone who regarded him with an equally open mind. For all his focus, he wasted no time trying to convince those unable to accept change. Though not a devout follower, Petros Lorrimor was a generous benefactor of the Ravengro Temple of Pharasma. Many of the sacred texts found on its shelves were delivered by none other than the Professor himself, a great lover of books.
Keeping his own words short, Father Grimburrow turns to Kendra, and encourages her to say a few words to mourn her father. She accepts, biting at her lower lip to maintain her composure. "Thank you all for coming, despite Gozreh's discouragements. My Tată gave the best hugs. He said the trick was to enjoy the connection, until the one in your embrace lifted their head, waking from their comfort, and ready to take your body's warmth, and bear it away to others. He never scolded me, but he would ask if I was sure of myself, and the actions I took. When I'm unsure, I still hear his voice, and my heart breaks to answer him, one more time..."
Kendra looks from the townsfolk gathered, to you all, her eyes imploring that you take up the responsibility to finish the eulogy, as words fail her altogether.
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Sebastien looks briefly at the others standing by his side before slowly stepping forward, giving Kendra a consoling hug, and turning to those assembled.
"My name is Sebastien Lupescu and the Professor was like a father to me. The Professor really did give the best hugs and that was because he cared so deeply about other people. He was a brilliant man and could have been or done anything he wanted and chose to teach because he cared. He shared all his knowledge with any who would listen. He spent countless hours in research and traveled frequently all so he could better the lives of those around him and he did..."
Sebastien pauses to choke back tears of his own before continuing.
"He did. He saved my life before it had even begun. Without the Professor, I honestly can't say what would have become of me. Likely I would have known nothing but fear and pain, but because the Professor cared because he helped a terrified pregnant woman in need, I have lived a life full of joy. He saw a darkness that had infected his homeland and did everything he could to make it a brighter place for us. I only hope I can put what he taught me to good use and maybe one day I can see his work finished."
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Who or what is that odd looking man?
Marinus takes out a note and starts to read, his voice cracking with adolescence and pain.
"Fra Baltezar of the Veil once said..." The words catch in his throat as he weeps.
His note falls to the muddy ground and the words swiftly smudge. Lasting just long enough for sharp eyes to read.
Fra Baltezar of the Veil once said, 'To illuminate the word is to light the world. For our words to each other may be the only path through dark times.' The professor helped me find those words, written once but never read. And now we must continue to bring that light into the world. Through words of love, and trust, and sometimes terrible truth.
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Millicent notes the strange figure, but she otherwise leaves the matter alone for now. Propriety demands that her full attention and focus be given to the proceedings.
She stands still and silent as Kendra gives her account. The mention of hugs pulls a smile onto her face. Even Millicent can be moved by such earnest sentiment. When her turn comes, she nods and approaches. She has never been the person to enjoy public speaking, nor has she ever enjoyed talking about herself to strangers. But there is nothing more earnest and honest than death, and it would insult the proceedings to give anything but the same. She spent the entire journey to Ravengro figuring out what she would say and how she would say it. Whether it was too personal or not, she didn’t care. She’d probably never see most of these people again. Just saying it like it is and getting it out was more important than the after. At least for her there would be an after.
”My name is Millicent Ardenia Jones, and this is how I knew Petros.”
”I walked into my room to see him holding a kettle of tea. It was technically our room, and even more technically the university’s room, but I did not care much for sharing, especially with a man, and refused to consider my roommate as anything but an intruder. All I knew of this invader was that he was starting post-graduate work as compared to my own humble graduate program in library sciences, so I hoped that he would be so caught up in research as to always be out and indulge me in the fantasy that I lived alone. I set down my luggage and he handed me a cup. He smiled and told me that he wanted to start us off on the right foot. ‘We are stuck together, so we might as well make this pleasant, yes? I’m Petros, by the way. You probably already saw it on the room papers.’ I took the cup and sat. ‘You know my name, too, then. I prefer M, though.’ He laughed. ‘M it is, then.’ I smiled back, an unusual expression from me then, and took a sip.
I can only describe the taste as ‘burnt grass-flavored water.” Up until that moment, it had never occurred to me that someone could actually make tea undrinkable. I was certain this must have been a prank. Then he took a drink and his face clenched, and I knew it wasn’t. I still even now do not know what he did to muck it up so badly.
Regardless, I made the tea from then on.
He was the first person I lived with aside from my parents and siblings. As I would learn, I could not have wished for a more average roommate. He did his share of chores most of the time, needed to be let in because he forgot his keys only once or twice, and kept himself reasonably clean and polite except for one horrible week when he was crunching. His clothes quite literally crunched by the end of it. We were friends and allies by then, so we worked it out.
My last year, some issues of my own came to a head and I was forced to make a decision of such consequence as to affect the rest of my life. As some of you may have already gathered, the dorms at Lepidstadt were only made co-ed in the past couple years and would not have been when ancient creatures such as us walked those halls. The explanation for this discrepancy is that I had been pretending I was someone I am not for my whole life, and by that last year I could no longer bear it. My parents had certain expectations of me, expectations that a daughter, at least in their eyes, could not fulfill. When I showed them my resolve, they showed me theirs by shutting their door to me.
Petros kept his open, though. He dragged me out of bed when I refused to go to class because I could not take the stares. He bought me tea. Most of all, he was there. I was at the lowest point of my entire life, and he was there. People do not give that enough weight. Being truly present for someone else means more than any dramatic gesture. To be able to step back and say, ‘This time is yours, my friend. I know you would do the same for me.’
I am old enough to have my share of regrets. Amongst my greatest is this: that I was never able to do the same for him.”
She leaves to make way for the next speaker. She does not cry. She put enough into the words that she didn’t have any left for tears. She stares off into the far distance, frowning to herself, at herself.
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Ajir claps lightly, the splashing of two rain soaked hands making more noise than the hands themselves.
He stands, "Good share, Emm", saying her stated name with a question of acceptance or rejection.
"If I may, it seems so very strange to be standing here and acknowledging our shared sorrows for a man who invigorated our lives."
"When my ancestral home was ravaged, there were only two survivors. The man I would call Master and myself, too young to know his own peril. Along came the professor, I suppose he had not heard from a friend amongst my people in some time and had rightly worried. His keen eye and bright mind saw the darkness that had enveloped me, and bore me away from that place."
"I travelled at his side for a while, too sickly to really understand his attempts at tutoring from dusty old tomes. But he did expose me to so much life and wonder from the people he engaged with. He would quickly find what each place had to offer his intellect, and collect allies and brotherhoods between townships to further their collective goals. And he never turned away a needful soul."
"For all candles brought to him were given their brightest flames."
"If I may..."
Ajir takes a breath and starts a song in bass.
Here your twilight passes,
tallow gone and wick in ashes.
Though your glow has dimmed obscure,
your brilliance on this world is secure;
in the sea of wicks your candle lit,
you left Golarion brighter than you found it.
Marinus watches Ajir Jiro intently, his eyes moist from tears. Rain water cascades off of the wide-brimmed hat he put on as the group left the house. "It seems we are kin, then, bound by an uncle sent by heaven." Looking to Millicent, he adds, "And by the embrace of bone-deep truths."
He becomes quiet, waiting for Milovic and others to have their say.
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In amid faces and names known to him from youth, Milovic spots... another. He stops, squinting through the drizzle at a twitchy chap on the perimeter of the mourners. Ravengro is not large; he's surprised to see a new face.
Then again, he reminds himself, he's been gone for years, with only the occasional visit home. Nobody says that your hometown, or any other part of you life, will stay static, after all.
He tries to focus his attention on the respectful and sometimes poignant words being said, and pay the jittery figure no mind. But his eyes keep drawing back to the old man.
It's sadly true that the beauty of the eulogies is lost on him. He barely hears them, between his distracted glances and also the raspy voice that dwells in his ears like a persistent flea.
mind your perimeter - trust your gut - steel in hand, lads - forty dead - this round's on me - pour one out for the fallen
He becomes abruptly aware that there are eyes on him, and despite the fact that he's already damp from the rain, breaks into a bit of a sweat. Did he say any of that out loud? Did he- are people staring at him because--
Someone in the little crowd murmurs, "Is the last pallbearer not going to say any words for the professor...?"
--oh.
Right.
Milo runs his clammy hands against his jacket-- it doesn't help, since his jacket is already rain-damp-- and clears his throat, offering a smil to the assembled. "I-- I-- am-- very grateful to... the good professor. Because of him, I was able to attend university, and... graduate. I owe my livelihood to Petros Lorrimor. I -- hope in time to-- be able to offer the same, the same, b-benevolence, to-- to other young men and women."
He pauses, and licks his lips, is that enough? People are still looking his way.
"Uh-- that's all. All I had-- to say."
Milo wishes the crowd were bigger. He could step back into it and be somewhat anonymous. He tries to do so anyway, arms hunkered around himself.
He looks again for the odd figure...
You've heard of the strange man, the crazy one, wandering about Ravengro, popping up in odd moments in random places. Antrellus the Mad. Harmless, most folks would say. But still, probably best to leave him alone...
The strange man seems intent on watching from a distance, rocking back and forth, in place. He occasionally looks over his shoulder, though nothing greets your eyes when you follow his head's gesture.
Councilman Hearthmount waits patiently for you all to finish, understanding his place during the funeral, just behind family to speak for Ravengro. His small contribution is respectful, and raises up the Professor as a rare coin Ravengro was lucky enough to have tossed into its fountain.
Councilman Muricar pats Vashian on the shoulder, acknowledging without words that Hearthmount speaks for them both. The tavernkeeper and son stand silently, heads bowed. Jominda steps forward, then first tosses what appears to be fresh basil into the dug grave, followed by a handful of unhulled barley.
"Kendra, you and your father's friends spoke beautifully. I especially liked your singing, Mr...? I can only add my voice to yours, to describe the Professor as one of the sweetest people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. I will miss our river walks, and the smell of his library just after his return from Lepidstadt."
Father Grimburrow takes a headcount, and seems satisfied that all those present have had a chance to speak. He waves to the gravediggers, his hand transforming them into gravefillers. The sounds of shovels digging freshly dug dirt begin posthaste, dirt now almost mud, heavier for the petulant rain waters.
The funeral for the late Professor Petros Lorrimor comes to a close. The attendees all begin to take their leave, seeking dryness and warmth elsewhere. Kendra turns to you all.
"Let's do the same, shall we? Vash... Councilman Hearthmount will be with us shortly at my home, when we'll read the Professor's Last Will and Testament. Then perhaps a lunch at the Laughing Demon? I'm growing weary of the leftover casseroles."
One of the gravediggers stands up a little taller, slowing his shovel. "What, you didn't like Marnie's sweet potato? I could have her try something else..." Kendra startles to answer.
"Oh! No, Russel, it's delicious, it's just so... much... pasta. I'm set for a season for how good Marnie was to us. To me. Please, tell her thank you, and thank you, Russel, for seeing to my father." Russel looks pleased, despite the water running down his face.
Kendra is ready to depart. Unless there was something else you'd like to do before leaving the Restlands behind this morning?
"It's Ajir. Ajir Jiro. At your service kind miss." He bows politely, and lets her continue her delivery.
Ajir takes a moment to relieve anyone with a shovel, wishing to further his part in the professor's journey to renewal. He quietly whispers a solemn mantra in Vudrani while he shovels a few small mounds of dirt onto the top of the grave.
Millicent stifles a laugh at the exchange between Kendra and Russel. The girl is so earnest. It’s honestly rather refreshing. The relief of finally getting out her eulogy and the associated emotions has also significantly improved her mood for the moment.
”I could eat a Laughing Demon right now, I think.”
Sebastien laughs at Millicent's comment.
"What an interesting name. Do you know what inspired it, Kendra?"
Marinus takes a little ball from his pocket and, with a nod of respect and permission to the gravefillers, drops it into the Professor's quickly filling new home. He murmurs to no one in particular, "A seed pod. Meadowsweet for peace, speedwell for safe travels."
It is not a tradition that anyone present knows, but Ustalov's folkways are as varied as it's many vales and mountain tops.
His hands twitch of their own accord.
Farewell, Petros. Your kindness will remain in this one's memory through many lifetimes.
He turns, clasping his hands less forcibly than usual — almost a caress. "Yes, I'm very hungry too. Not for demons, but dumplings would be nice."
After some squinting after the old man, Milo shrugs. Antrellus, that's the name. Well, every town has at least one. He thinks of his time at University, and supposes Ravengro's lucky to have just one mad old coot.
"An excellent suggestion," he agrees to the idea of adjourning somewhere dry.
"Miss Kendra, did old Antrellus know your father? --that is-- I mean, i suppose in Ravengro, really, everyone, ah, knows everyone."
After some squinting after the old man, Milo shrugs. Every town has at least one mad old coot, don't they. He thinks of his time at University, and supposes Ravengro's lucky to have just the one.
"An excellent suggestion," he agrees to the idea of adjourning somewhere dry.
"Miss Kendra, did that strange old man at the funeral know your father? --that is-- I mean, I suppose in Ravengro, really, everyone, ah, knows everyone." Though he's aware that he doesn't, know. Away too long...
Russel begrudgingly gives up his shovel, so that Ajir might have his moment over the grave, taking back the shovel wordlessly. Zokar and his son have already taken their leave, well before the rest of the mourners begin to depart.
"I could eat a Laughing Demon right now, I think.”
Kendra stifles a laugh, while taking Millicent's arm. "I'm glad you're hungry, but don't get your hopes up too high. Ravengro's 'finest' is, well... I'll let it speak for itself."
"What an interesting name. Do you know what inspired it, Kendra?"
"Zokar is a ray of sunshine. He can't help himself, doing his best to bring some lightheartedness to Ravengro. I think he succeeds, for the most part. Some folks are just mopes, and would rather drink, than sing."
"Yes, I'm very hungry too. Not for demons, but dumplings would be nice."
"Then dumplings you shall have, Marinus. Zokar will probably call them ghost flumps or something silly, but they will taste the same in gravy."
As you leave the Restlands, you are aware that the odd-looking man stands where he is, and observes you all depart. The rain eventually obscures him to your sight, as you pass through the southeastern entrance, but his still form is still there, when you take one last look behind you.
And you are certain... he is watching you.
"Miss Kendra, did that strange old man at the funeral know your father? --that is-- I mean, I suppose in Ravengro, really, everyone, ah, knows everyone."
Kendra raises an eyebrow. "Strange old man? I must have missed him, for the rain..."
The return to Ravengro is its own funeral procession, led by Kendra and her new companions. The citizens of Ravengro in attendance keep a respectful distance, holding their own quiet conversations.
This time, instead of veering right, and returning to the road past the Temple of Pharasma, you veer left, towards the river. As you enter the covered bridge, you all see an odd-looking fellow at the opposite end of the bridge. The sound of the rain beats the rooftop, but it is not enough to drown out the words that reach you.
"The Beast has many legs... The Beast will walk among you all... From Leng they will come... it is written... you will see!!"
By the time you finish your walk across the bridge, he is gone.
Kendra tsks. "Sorry, Milovic. You were referring to Antrellus, weren't you?" The Professor's daughter sighs. "I suppose it can't be helped. A funeral is a kind of excitement, and it's open to all. Antrellus is harmless. He's been about Ravengro for I don't know how long now. Maybe, a couple of years? I've never spoken with him, and this is the first time I've heard him put more than one coherent sentence together."
Entering Ravengro's Town Square is peaceful enough. Several buildings about what really is more than a circle than a square sit quietly, for the late morning hour.
A simple wooden gazebo at the center of a grassy circular plaza sits patiently in the rain. Kendra doesn't stop, her path curving to the right, and towards your immediate destination, the Laughing Demon.
Councilman Hearthmount speaks up. "I'll see you all in one hour's time, alright? At the Lorrimor Place. Until then." The older man nods his adieu, and takes his leave with Councilman Muricar. Jominda does the same, bowing politely towards you all.
The light of day fighting its way through the storm clouds manages to reflect across a pair of canine eyes currently taking shelter under the gazebo's deck.
The dog you see must be Old River,the town dog. Old River has been ownerless for more than a decade, but the citizens of Ravengro have taken to looking after it—the dog has become something of a beloved town mascot. Old River is particularly protective of the town’s children, following the smaller ones if it spots them running off alone. The dog almost always spends its evenings sleeping under the gazebo steps.
Entering the Laughing Demon, you can already start to hear the sound of the locals' voices, murmuring and laughing at intervals. There is a vestibule, surprisingly enough, which keeps the outside weather outside.
As your group enters, the place grows quiet, except for the husky voice of Zokar, who calls you from the bar. "Kendra! So glad you could join us! Please, take a seat, and let me feed you and yours!" The tavernkeeper has a towel about his neck.
His is the only friendly set of eyes, as several of the men sitting at scattered tables look familiar to you, for their recent hate and distrust in the Restlands.
Welcome to the Laughing Demon.