Aw... well, it was a pleasure playing with you folks. I hope to meet you again on the virtual tabletop, for a perhaps longer lived game.
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While I find it very sad that you must leave us, I am sure that you are doing it for your and our best. I wouldn't object if you went to seek a GM to take on this game for us, but I doubt there is someone who can handle this version's intricacies as well as Scott.
Ah, ten weeks feels like both such a short time and a whole eternity! I was having a lot of fun with the game until now and am sad to see it take a long break, but I know it's for the best. I will use this time to build Ivan's past to more than the generic tragic "everyone I knew died" backstory, and hopefully hone my creative skills. Thank you to everyone who have played in this game until now, and best of luck in whatever you will choose to do during this break!
I'm enjoying the game very much; until now I have mostly played with amateur GMs who never strayed from what is written in the book and didn't give much space for character building. This style of play is interesting to me, and I feel like I actually am a narrator helping to create a story and not just a dice-rolling pawn for a pre-written adventure. My only problem is my posting schedule; I live in a boarding school with terrible to sometimes nonexistent Wi-Fi connection, study a lot and am expected to do homework or practise the piano on my free time. I do, however, manage to find some time to catch up and post my actions and thoughts. I feel like I'm not as involved as others in the story, but I see this as a problem caused by myself alone and is in no way your fault.
Level 2: HP: +4 (rolled in Gameplay)
Skills: +7 (4 + 1 intelligence + 1 human + 1 FC) +1 Diplomacy
Special:
Ivan stalks into the library, setting his path towards a corner bookcase filled with dusty tomes and torn manuscripts. A few books stand out as they are filled with pieces of newer paper - comments by none other than Professor Lorrimor himself. Several of these books have seemingly unrelated titles: Twenty-One Folk Dances, Vol. I, by Jan Avramovich; The Harrower and the Prince, a play by Annsa Shivarlu; Whispers of the Wind: a Caravan Driver's Account, by Wladyslaw Czerny; The Modern Cultural Significance of Thassilonian Runes, by Prof. Vinchent Owls; but sifting through the pages of these, and other, books, immediately yields the connecting theme for these works: Varisian culture. Ivan sets his eyes on the Folk Dances, pulling the tome from its place and opening its index. Folk Dance No. 5 in F# minor .............................. 35 Ivan turns to the thirty-fifth page, sighing at the sight of the sheet-music. As he looks at the notes, at the dynamics, at the fingering and at the additional scribbles in ink surrounding the staves -- I wonder, did the Professor even know how to play the clavier? -- Ivan is thrust 10 years back to his childhood in Caliphas, specifically to the small house of the moderately successful Fabulanov Family. Evgeny Fabulanov, Ivan's cousin, was holding a recital celebrating traditional Varisian music - Channeling the Spirit of Varisia, he called it. Oh, the irony of fate. The music fills Ivan's head - a heavy, ominous beginning, developing into a rhythmic rondo jumping between festive major and menacing minor. The image of his parents dancing together to the sounds of Varisia appear before Ivan's eyes; where did his innocent youth go? As he snaps out of this daydream, Ivan returns to searching for a book that could unlock the mystery of his planchette. Soon enough, the storyteller spots a leather-bound volume titled in surprisingly familiar faded gold letters: Channeling the Spirit of Varisia: an Inquiry into the Background of Varisian Mediums and Spiritualists. Ivan pulls the book with hidden elation, wild ideas of what the book could contain flooding his mind. This essay is no simple work; it is a massive book, filled with hundreds of pages of occult and horrifying information. Eager to solve the mystery of this talking board given to him by the late professor, Ivan sets off on a few hours of reading - revealing to himself secrets not only about the brass spirit planchette, but also about how he - a simple storyteller - can channel these spirits that haunt him.
Ivan turns to address the beggar. He examines the man, checking whether he is visibly wounded or incapable of conversation. He glances at the pieces of torn and shattered accordion, scattered across the floor like little insects fleeing from the rain. He opens his mouth to speak, not knowing what to ask first - about the music, or about the Illmarsh, or about the stirges. But when words do come out of Ivan's mouth, they are not well-thought ones, but rather are the result of anger and exhaustion: "What have you done?"
Ivan mutters a Varisian swear-word to himself when, although the music stops, the massive insects continues to leech on Jominda's blood. He ducks backwards when Alec takes his carefully studied strike, smiling a victorious grin when the insect rolls of to the ground. There's more in that soldier's head than mindlessly attacking, then. However, the hit does not finish the stirge off, and Ivan thinks for a moment. Perhaps it is time I used this old thing. He sends his hand behind his backpack, recovering a bundle of ragged cloth. Ivan unwraps the bundle, revealing a large wooden crossbow emblazoned with several Ulfen runes. He takes a bolt from a concealed quiver behind his backpack and prepares to load it into the heavy crossbow, taking a deep breath. "Spirits guide me."
Ivan's eyes widen at the sight of the stirges, but he focuses himself with a deep breath. "It is as I feared... the supernatural and horrifying has become commonplace." Ivan paces over towards Esdras, hiding behind his back. He makes a peculiar arabesque-like gesture with his hand and whispers some words of praise to Sarenrae. "This is a blessing practised by followers of the Dawnflower; may it help you strike true."
Ivan raises his eyebrows at the Sheriff's question. "Whether my strong feelings could affect my objectivity regarding the professor? Of course. I loved the man more than I had ever loved a woman. His death left me devastated, and your townspeople's objection to his burial amplified this feeling. But this question is redundant, don't you think? When facing death, no one can stay objective. Am I right?" Ivan brushes some hair away from his eyes and throws a meaningful look towards the sheriff's eyes. "I know Trestleman was your friend. I know you and your fellow townsfolk had your reasons to protest against Professor Lorrimor's burial. But I implore you; prove that your position as sheriff has been rightfully earned, that you - unlike me - can hold justice above emotions." Ivan smiles compassionately. Well then, I have not died in vain. Alec: Ivan sighs. "Mr. du Chevrou, trust me - I am as confused as you are. Ever since that damned night my adventuring group was murdered in - the same night I met Professor Lorrimor - I've had these sort of... fits. This might sound like madness to you, but really, there is nothing I can doubt anymore. I believe the restless spirits of my allies reside within me - whispering in my head, giving me advice or trying to drive me mad. But the professor's death worsened my conditions; no longer just figments of thought, the spirits have taken to directly affecting my actions, as you've seen during our violent encounters in the Restlands and at the crypt. But last night's events..." Ivan grasps his head and absent mindedly brushes his sleeves, as if to clean them of the ashes conjured by Gamorak's appearance. "I have never encountered this before. I haven't imagined this to be possible. Gamorak was one of my fellow adventurers - a gifted arcanist from a remote Elven community, where the esoterica of magic is common knowledge. He had a particular fondness to fire, which might explain the spectral flames that came with him." The storyteller clenches his fist and closes his eyes. "I don't know. I can't know. Common logic and rational thought won't solve this enigma. This is it, Alec du Chevrou, this is the world we live in. A world of spirits and magic and monsters. And we have two options... either we delve deeper and go mad, or we stay blissful idiots."
"My relationship with the dear departed professor? Very well then. I met the professor one night, on an expedition with some of my friends. After an incident I shall not elaborate on, I was left without food, without a place to call home, and without people to call my family. The professor was that for me. He raised me from the ashes, found a place for me to stay and helped me financially, paying me to tell stories at inns and arranging for others to be my patrons. He was basically a god to me. That was my relationship with the dear departed professor." And what was your relationship with the dear departed Riff Trestleman? The question lingers on Ivan's tongue, like poison coating a hidden blade, ready to strike. The obvious injustice carried out here, the cynicism in the sheriff's description of the event, pushed the storyteller to his limits. He knew asking this question was a death sentence... but he needed to know. But you know better, Ivan. It was the voice of reason, of forgiveness and truth. The voice Ivan heard the least; the one of a quite half-elf paladin who was tired of this world's cruel unbalance, but more tired of its cruel residents. When the voices carried out heated arguments in Fabulanov's head, this one would only appear to stop the others from driving poor Ivan mad. Darlann was the voice of good. In life, he protected Ivan's body, and in death, he protects Ivan's mind. This appearance startled Ivan a lot, whose curiosity nearly defeated his common sense once again. For your own, and your friends', well-being, I suggest you leave the matter alone. Ivan sighs, internally rather than externally - he doesn't want to confuse the sheriff, or steer him towards more private questions. "Anything else, more obviously relevant to the case in question?"
As he prepares to go to sleep, Ivan lays the cloth bag containing his beloved journal on a desk with a wooden thud. Of course. Ivan takes out the strange wooden board he has found in the crypt and quietly enters the library, looking for a book on the subject of Varisian mediums and occultists. Should one be found, Ivan will mark the pages that seem appropriate and go to sleep. An important day stands before us.
Ivan nods as Wictor speaks, unable to take his eyes off the flasks of holy water. His thoughts wander off towards his backpack, from which he recovers a small ornate bottle. Tattered leather strips wrap this glass vial, elaborately decorated with images of the sun and stopped by an Angelic Ankh-shaped cork. Ivan frowns and shakes the flask around, the pure water inside it sloshing lazily. One of his last physical memoirs of his previous party, Ivan never thought of his phials of holy water as more than fruits of superstition and belief; but the professor was not a man to carry around tokens of good luck, let alone pass them in his will. Combined with the silver arrows, these were more than simple clues - this was a message, and one that Ivan was not easily willing to receive. "Most of us should leave the meeting unharmed", he finds himself saying to Dmitry with a sorry smile. "I might know you to be innocent as in the day you were born, but I can't say the same for the rumour-mongering citizens of Ravengro. We can only hope the sheriff allows justice and truth to prevail above mundane emotions, though I doubt that."
Ivan hides a sneer when he sees Alec crouch and start sneaking towards the source of the mysterious music, but his expression grows bewildered when Dmitry follows suit. He opens his mouth to speak, realizing any voice loud enough to be heard by his sneaking comrades may also be heard by unwanted listeners. He turns around to the others, making a confused and annoyed gesture with his eyebrows. "Are we letting these madmen go?" He disapprovingly watches the two stealthily move ahead. They could get caught... but they could also find out some interesting secret. Let's wait and see.
Ivan is surprised by Alec's kind reply. Their paths have clashed multiple times now, always leaving a bad mark on their relationship. Nevertheless, and despite all the horror, the pain and the stress, Ivan can't help but grin as he slides open his box and takes out the decorated board. He examines it, turning it around in his hands and peering through the various holes in it. "This looks like a Talking Board of sorts," he says in some strange hope that someone might be listening. "I've seen Varisian mediums use them to communicate with the spirits of gone beloved ones. Of course," he chuckles, realizing his head is not actually physically wounded like he thought it to be, "these mediums are naught but fraud. Outrageous claimants to psychic power, they prey on the weak of mind to make their living." Ivan takes one final look at the curious group around him, this time whispering to himself. "But if this strange device could actually work... if I could call my allies at this dire time..." Ivan trails off as his focus wanders to the inheritance the others have received, all clearly much more practical than his.
Ivan's eyes flash in horror as blurred images of men and insects move through his field of vision with splashes of crimson blood. He gasps loudly and stumbles against the wall, struggling to catch his breath. "Enough... I have had enough ambushes in the dark for a lifetime." The storyteller leans towards the wounded Wictor, but before beginning to assess his wounds, a certain madness catches him. "Who was it this time," he cries hoarsely, "what did they make me do?"
Ivan freezes as he feels the tiny pincers gnawing at his boots and pants, seeking his pale flesh like a madman seeks the truth. His shaken expression grows wilder as the horror lunges at Alec's throat, but abruptly switches to a calmer, wiser one. "Worry not, seekers of justice; the quest for good will eternally be filled with obstacles..." Like his face, something about Ivan's voice has changed too; it has a metallic ring to it, as if his throat was coated with silver. The storyteller watches his hand as he reluctantly raises it and scribbles the holy symbol of Sarenrae on Alec's back. "But go ahead, hero, and show the Dawnflower what you're worth."
Ivan nods in approval of Edras's plan. "I hope there will be no need for these precautions, but I'm grateful for whatever you can do to protect us in an emergency."
Ivan follows Kendra hastily, images of ruined headstones and exhumed bodies flooding his mind as he tries to imagine what the simple townsfolk could have done to desecrate Lorrimor's tomb. The truth hits him hard in the guts, and he quickly averts his gaze. "This is the monstrosity that is mankind; make up an enemy in your mind, then become worse than it." The deformed sow and the ruinous state of the grave shift Ivan's stream of thought towards an image he made a good job of pushing aside. He approaches Kendra, the words ready on his tongue: How did your father die? But just in time, the storyteller freezes in his place, letting common sense overcome his curiosity. The woman has suffered enough. Let us not make her recall any more gruesome events. Ivan nods as Kendra suggests defiling the Van Roeyen tomb. He tries to think of a reason not to follow her; moral issues? The tomb belongs to a long dead family, there is no reason for anyone to care about it. In fact, checking the mausoleum could prove useful for investigating this mystery that has been slowly unveiling itself in this town.
Ivan quietly goes along with the group, listening closely to Kendra's explanations. After his life with a famed adventuring party, Ivan was used to being accepted at every town, getting discounts on warm meals and sleeping well at a good inn. Even after the tragic end of his journeys, Ivan was a friend of every town, where he could tell his tales and perhaps collect some more. This situation was hard for him to accept: living with some strangers at an old house, businesses closing as he passes through; this was like those cheesy old Taldan plays about a king falling from power, becoming the lowliest of beggars. Hearing of Riff Trestleman's fate only increases this feeling of discomfort. This man, Dmitry, with whom he could make deep conversation, has suddenly become a murderer; what if the sheriff took him away? What would happen to his lost daughter, to the mysteries he could unravel?
That teaches you not to judge a man by his looks - a lesson we all should learn.
Ivan nods as Kendra delivers her testimony of the event. While the story only slightly piques his interest, a feeling swirls up inside him - some sort of unnatural urge, a reaction to Kendra Lorrimor's tale. This is it, Fabulanov! Finally, after all this time wandering around aimlessly; some intrigue, some potential for action! The rough voice echoes inside Ivan's head like the ghost of a thought, the essence of desire not materialized into a full emotion. Ivan tries to suppress the urge, but his willpower fails him. "I don't know about you, fellows, but this tale intrigues me. Perhaps we should go and investigate further?" No, Ivan! They will never agree, why would they come with you? Returning to the Restlands after yesterday's incident? This is practically suicide! This voice, softer and deeper, tries to combat the urge. The two keep speaking inside Ivan's mind, casting their shadow over his own thoughts, and he finally groans and seats himself on the closest couch, grasping his head.
Ivan follows Alec's actions with his eyes, cringing slightly when the man shakes open what could contain an invaluable, fragile artefact. When a medallion appears instead, Ivan eyes it with interest.
However, his mind still trying to process the night's events, he fails to make anything of the piece of metal. "Master Lugaulle, what do you make of this coin?" Ivan turns towards Wictor and a feeling of relief surges through him as he sees that the man is once again full of life and energy. However, he doesn't comment on the change.
Ivan stares at where, until mere seconds ago, his old ally's form had floated in the air. As he realizes the fire and smoke were phantasmal illusions, his coughs and pants turn into sobs. Ivan lays in his bed and closes his eyes, his arms resting on his chest. "That was my friend, a great wizard. But this man has already passed on from this world." The flames, these words, beware the madness... Ivan's mind loosely links between Gamorak, Lorrimor, Dmitry and the forbidden tomes before his consciousness slips back into the realm of uneasy sleep. But this time Ivan's dreams aren't of that same horrible night; they are surreal theories of the madness Gamorak was referring to - the dark truths of Lorrimor's work.
Ivan lays stiff in his bed. Dreams of his close encounter with death were commonplace for him, and he found no reason to try and break out of this one. But deep in his mind, Ivan realized something about this dream was off. The images ran through his head again and again, stepping in the searing fire, feeling the branches crack beneath his feet, the flames licking his bare feet. The sensation felt just like it did on that day, a steady stream of heat and pain. But that was wrong. Ivan couldn't have stepped in the fire on that day, nor could he on any other day; his friend, the pyromaniac wizard Gamorak, used to cast mystic charms that preserved the fire and protected it, arcane secrets Ivan could never dream of understanding. Why, then, was this sensation so real, how could the smell of boiling flesh could be so fresh in his nose? In fact, if this indeed was a dream, why would he feel the flames engulfing him, the smoke filling his lungs---
Ivan darts awake, coughing maniacally as he tries to assess the situation. He spots a spectral figure, engulfed in flames, floating in front of him, and makes a small hand gesture - a "charm of good luck" his friend Raham the Righteous taught him. This was in fact a divine spell , but the cleric did not want to overburden Ivan with such esoteric information. Aided by this sacred magic, Ivan manages to see through the smoke. My eyes deceive me. The figure, floating cross-legged in the middle of the room, has the arched singed eyebrows, pointed ears and particular crooked nose that could only belong to one elf. "Gamorak", Ivan croaks, "Gamorak Greensmog! But I have witnessed your demise, your voice has echoed countless times in my head; how could you be here?"
Ivan finds it hard to make up his mind while the will is being read. He devotes as much of his attention as possible to his late patron's final wishes, but his worry for Lugaulle and dissatisfaction with the townsfolk betray his ears. He repeats every sentence being read in his mind, trying to seal the words in his memory, to questionable success. Ivan doesn't reply to the Professor's outrageous requests, nor to the Sheriff's snide comments. The day has taken its toll on the storyteller, and his mind wanders off to daydream of a bed, a warm blanket... and monsters. Fey lurking in the shadows, ghouls and zombies scratching the bolted door. 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... the words from Lorrimor's will echo on his head. What could his close friend hide from him all these years, what dark and terrible secrets did the scholar take with him to the grave - yet leave in a chest in this very house? Ivan shudders, and regains focus to hear Kendra sending each guest to a room. Alec. Ivan's previous encounter with the man was full of deceit, lies and selfish pride - both on Alec's side, and on Ivan's. The impression Torin's outburst has left on him must have been less than ideal as well. And his reaction to Master Lugaulle's crisis; how could Ivan spend two weeks living in the same room as this man? None of these thoughts materialize, however, and Ivan merely nods at each of the guests present and starts to wander towards the western chamber, each step heavy and tired. Ivan arrives at what his presumably his bed, sits down and takes out the Fabulous Tome. He runs his hand through the pages, stopping at a tiny fold in the upper edge of the book. He takes out an inkwell from his backpack and adds a note next to the title: -- the key to decipher the fairy tales' mystery
Ivan nods absentmindedly as he watches over the poor Wictor.
After watching his old master's face for a minute, Ivan understands what Magdalen is talking about. "No. A surprising burst from the fireplace would certainly be frightening, but not lead to this distress. Something is definitely wrong here." Ivan motions with his hand backwards without looking at Alec and Esdras. "Please keep your cynicism away. You may keep indulging in your alcohol until we get this sorted out." Ivan closes his eyes, trying to make sense of the event in his mind. Too clouded by endless thoughts, darting from a raving Victor to an inquisitive Dmitry to a dead Petros, he sighs and looks once again at Wictor's face, pale in horror. Something's telling me this'll be a night to remember, and not necessarily for good.
Ivan instinctively flinches towards the wall, then rushes down to investigate the sound's source. Deep within, he thanks the gods for this distraction- Ivan didn't have the heart to tell Dmitry that he couldn't help; that all his knowledge on the subject of the silver strands came from mere fairy tales and they, until now, were assumed to be just those. Besides, losing your daughter in the middle of the night to a mysterious predator, a vile creature of unknown origin nor purpose; for a moment, Ivan's loss of his friends seemed like a minor event, a tiny tragedy that comes and passes. Ivan stops once again when he sees Magdalen leaning next to Wictor, his mind reaching the conclusion that the woman is responsible for this as quickly as dismissing it. "Master Lugaulle! What's going on here?" Ivan moves slightly closer when his eye catches the glitter of shattered glass on the floor. He leans, smelling the foul odor of strong brandy. Ivan wrinkles his nose and leans, preparing his throat for a more light and comfortable tone than the obvious panic and awe from his conversation with Dmitry. "Master Lugaulle, are you alright? It seems the day's hardships were a notch too much for you, and you have taken an overdose of alcohol. Did you encounter any hallucinations, or did you feel physical pain?" Ivan pauses for a moment, thinking about his encounters with drunkards in the various inns and taverns his party had stayed at. "Are you in proper condition to listen to the Professor's will being read? I believe you require a healthy helping of sleep."
Ivan mind races, images of silver weapons and tools popping up, tales of grand silver mind and wicked white-haired ladies reading themselves to his internal ears. He frowns, his memory not finding rest, when the shrill cry of a wolf from outside captures his attention. Of course. Ivan shuffles to his tome of tales, flipping the yellowed pages rapidly until he finally comes to a stop, a wicked grin of satisfaction on his face. The grin slowly transforms into a strange mixture of horror and awe as he realises the same artefact he heard all these tales about currently lays on an outstretched hand before him. "Mercuria," he says, his voice trying not to break in bewilderment. "It is a rare alloy, a metal that can only be crafted by expert arcanists and their complex magical rituals. But... there are stories." Ivan lays his journal on the table. 'Shehelana and the Grey Flower' reads the grand, ornamented title of the page. "The folk-tales speak of evil fey, child-kidnapping atrocities that prize these silver strands for unknown reasons." Ivan turns over a few pages, pausing at a story titled 'The Scourge of Lozeri'. "Mercuria also plays a part in werewolf tales. It is depicted as a powerful tool, capable of binding or even dominating the moon-touched horrors. Others," he points at the open book, "say that the werewolves make use of the alloy to convey their animalistic messages to each other - claiming territory, victims and so on." Ivan grabs the Fabulous Tome and carefully tucks it back into his backpack. "But as you know, these are all folk stories. Fairy tales. Fables made up to strike fear into the hearts of the commoners. So how, in the name of the gods, did this end up in your hands?"
Ivan smiles with disappointment as Wictor hastily leaves the room. He brushes his hair back and gazes at Dmitry. "Some people find it harder to accept, it seems. I understand them. I'd rather live far from the horrors that lurk in the darkest pits of our minds." Ivan sighs, thinking about his earlier outburst as the spirit of Torin took over his actions. "But alas, the will of the gods was not in my favour. You may remember the... peculiar actions I took during today's brawl against the dull-minded rabble." Ivan wipes his suddenly-sweaty palm against his pants, finding that his head feels warmer and heavier now that he is talking. "This was a manifestation of the occult powers that have filled my mind. Ghosts, spirits of my former allies. They usually whisper in the back of my head, only slightly disturbing the the delicate line of my thought. But to completely take over my body, my actions... that has never happened before. Perhaps..." Ivan trails off, his eyes fixed upon Dmitry's face, realizing that the man has posed his question while he was rambling. "Fascinating," he says, examining the strands with his sight. He mutters a bit to himself, trying to think of any encounters he might have had with such a strange fiendish creature, leaving a hair in return for a life.
Ivan smiles at Kendra's offer, trying to push the horrors of the day out of his mind. Ivan used to come to this house to meet with the professor, exchanging stories, small-talk (which Ivan usually tried to avoid) and the like. Other than his adventuring party, Lorrimor was the closest thing Ivan had to a patron. "I thank you for your generous offer, Kendra. I believe I shall indeed find peace in the library I know so well." Seeing Wictor following Dmitry to the library, Ivan thanks the gods for this opportunity not only to visit his favorite library, but to follow his former employer- and to stay away from Alec. He throws a tired nod of gratitude at Kendra and paces towards the library, each step heavy with fatigue and sorrow. When Ivan walks through the library doors, memories hit him like a crashing wave. He grabs a book from a table- "The Windcaller"- the book he half-read, half-stared at when he first visited this house. It was the day after he saved Lorrimor's life at the necromancer cave; Ivan had nowhere to go to, so the Professor kindly invited him to stay with him. With half an ear, Ivan listens to Wictor and Dmitry's conversation. Ivan is usually not one for pointless talk, and he'd rather read a book than hang out with the few people he can actually call friends. However, this dialogue intrigues Ivan much more than your everyday conversation. He takes note of the two's tales about meeting the Professor, wondering if it is uncalled for for him to join in and tell his slightly more gruesome story. However, Dmitry's final line manages to captivate Ivan enough to suck him into the conversation. "I am sorry for interrupting, Pavlovich, but if horrors and monsters are what you seek, I think I can help. Demons, lycanthropes, elementals, undead... these eyes have seen their atrocities, these ears have heard their tales." Ivan looks at Dmitry, perhaps more horrifyingly than he intended. "And you have my condolences. No one without a dark past should want to know about these miscreants."
Ivan manages half a smile. After the brawl, Ivan broke into silent sobs and stuck to holding the coffin. However, now his Tome was in his hands, his hands intuitively writing down Wictor's tale. "Thank you, Master Lugaulle. It is important we remember the great man Professor Lorrimor was in life; that is what he would have wanted." Ivan stares at the coffin and images of Lorrimor flash before his eyes; laughing, scowling, offering a helping hand. That dreaded realization creeps up Ivan's throat, the realization that this man is now gone and Ivan will never see him walk this earth again. Hopefully. "Professor Lorrimor was there when all my friends were gone. It is not so obvious that a simple man such as the Professor could be so important for one, let alone for many. Mr. Lorrimor had many sides, and I've known just a fraction of them; but I know he had a place in his heart for each and every one of us, and we should have one for him." Ivan steps back and looks at Alec thoughtfully. Professor Lorrimor found it right to invite this man to his funeral. Perhaps he is more than the liar I know him to be; perhaps his story is much sadder and complicated than mine. We all have a tale to tell, and no one's tale is more important than another's.
"Halt! This is sacred soil! Fight here, and the corpses of innocents will be desecrated!" Ivan watches helplessly as the battle unfolds and rises to his feet. "Damned be all of you, stupid townsfolk! May Pharasma banish your souls to oblivion!" The voice comes from Ivan's mouth, but has a clear Ulfen accent. Ivan's pupils dilate and he waddles awkwardly towards Alec. His face is a mixture of horror, confusion and wrath, and his feet seem to be acting independently from his will. "Torin cannot crush his enemies in this body, but he can aid his friends!" Ivan makes some strange hand gestures and speaks a few mystical words, then touches Alec's shoulder. His expression is reluctant, even annoyed, but the rest of his body acts in perfect coordination, with sharp movements more fit to a fighter than to a scribe. "Oh, I feel alive again!"
The rain, sweat and mud overcome Ivan's willpower and he drops the coffin. At the sight of the corpse, Ivan starts and instinctively reaches to the Holy Water in his bag, but regains his composure and turns towards the villagers with a cold expression. "The hideousness of this deformed corpse cannot match the ugly, revolting thing that is your soul. Throwing stones at harmless people, at a man's coffin; I've seen zombies more honourable than you." Ivan kneels down, not looking at his comrades, and places the coffin's lid back.
Standing in front of the coffin, a tear hanging from his eye, is a young man in long, dark robes. His unkempt hair is flattened by an endless stream of tiny drops, and his pale hand clutches a leather-bound book. Ivan wipes his eye with the back of his hand and opens the Fabulous Tome, its pages fluttering in the wind. The Horrible Night, or an Adventure with Petros Lorrimor. Ivan tears his eyes from the journal and gazes at the strangers, trying his hardest not to frown at the sight of Alec du Chevrou. He looks down at the muddy earth, the same cold earth upon which he was born and in which he will doubtlessly be buried. He kicks the ground, mud splashing around his feet, and grins. How curious it is, the man thinks, and how terrible. I cannot say people who have already dealt with the greatest loss find it easier to encounter it again, but this expression won't leave my face. As he listens to Kendra speak, a sudden wave of warmth surges through Ivan's body, surprisingly uncomfortable for the chilly weather. Ivan grunts, loosening his grasp and making him nearly drop his beloved Journal, shaking his head slightly as a voice speaks within. How unpleasant. He was quite the fascinating scholar. The elf wizard's spirit chuckles and shifts Ivan's gaze back towards his book, where he has unknowingly written several lines. You probably do not remember, but Professor Lorrimor introduced you to this poem. It would be lovely if you read it out loud for our grieving friends. Ivan nods, slightly annoyed by Gamorak's apathy, and clears his throat. "Upon a long bridge all people walk;
Ivan's low, clear, quiet voice echoes around the cemetery, like a thunder rumbling far away. He speaks with the stability of a man who has encountered death many times before, but is shocked by it once again as if he had witnessed it for the first time in his short, meaningless life. "When I witnessed my allies get slaughtered, Mr. Lorrimor was there for me. He helped me when I thought everything was over; when I was at the lowest of lows, he came and held me up. I believe it is only justice that I carry his coffin in one final gesture of honor. It is unthinkable that I must say goodbye to one of the greatest people to walk this land."
Since Ivan's main hobby (besides wiping out undead) is recording stories, I guess an addition to the story could be that when Ivan arrived in Vigil, he met Alec and started writing down his false tales. When he finally touched upon a field Ivan was more knowledgeable in (probably related to Undeath, Sarenrae or Ustalav), Ivan realized this was a lie and slowly unraveled all of Alec's stories as such. He now views Alec as a man who cannot be trusted and has generally started doubting the truth in the legends he recorded- even the ones he was involved in.
I'm here, was just busy lately. |