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A group of men and a woman, their clothing muddy from their recent travels, arrive at a graveyard, a mutual friend being interred today in the Restland’s graveyard. Overhead heavy clouds release a steady downpour of drizzle adding to the somberness of the funeral and chilling the faces of the attendees while underfoot the sodden ground squelches as they walk towards the group.
Ahead the men and women who recently arrived can see the group of mourners already in attendance. Half a dozen men and a woman stand opposite another woman who you recognize from description as Kendra Lorrimor. Kendra is standing by a small wagon hitched to a mule and in the back of the wagon lays a coffin. The coffin is made of an unknown dark wood with its top embossed with a carved symbol of Pharasma with at short prayer to the goddess of bones etched underneath.
As the travelers approach Kendra nods to them and they take their place standing by the other mourners.
“Greeting everyone, as you know it is tradition for those who have died to be carried to their final resting place by those who knew him well in life. I ask you, who will carry my father to his final rest?” Kendra asks her eyes still puffy and red from her tears.
"Miss, I'm sorry for your loss. I didn't know your father all that well, but he was kind to me. I'll gladly take up this burden." The speaker, whose savage features mark him as a half orc, leans down to lift up the coffin, looking expectantly at the other mourners, seeking those who would join him.
A tall man with the tanned flesh of a Varisian steps up to the coffin. His shoulder length silver hair does not quite obscure the pointed tips of his ears. Looking to Kendra, he offers shallow bow. "Miss Lorrimer. I knew your father, though perhaps not so well as you. I will not pretend to understand your grief your cheapen or cheapen it with lies of "I know what you're going through," for truly I can do no more than imagine. Suffice it to say, I am sorry for you, and I will help bear his to his rest."
The curious black fox at his side gives a soft whimper as the half-elf takes his place by the coffin and gives a somber nod to Gregor, indicating his readiness.
A young lady stood to the side with the rest of the mourners, her dark hair hanging wet over her eyes. She stepped forward, the ends of her dark robes dragging in the mud slightly.
“Lady Lorrimor, I knew your father well, he taught me much, I would be honoured to carry such a man.” Alexia bowed slightly before standing again and slowly walked over to the coffin not really looking at anyone in particular.
Carefully making her way across the soft, muddy ground Sophia approaches the wagon. She clears her throat, attempting to say something when feelings of sorrow well up. Unable to talk, she takes a moment, sweeping her sodden fringe out of her eyes and glances at each individual standing close by the coffin.
Quickly forcing down her grief she speaks up, directing it mostly to Kendra.
“Even though I am no stranger to death, I had yet to lose someone close to me –“ she cuts herself off to regain her composure, before placing a hand on the corner of the coffin. “I will be honoured to carry him.”
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With the four pallbearers now gathered the procession begins its slow measured march through the graveyard, the illumination of the sun lost as the storm clouds overhead close ranks throwing the area into an early dim twilight. The graves and plots of land surrounding them were obviously well tended, no doubt cared for by a dedicated cleric of Pharasma. The only sound accompanying the slow march is the sound of creaking armour, the squelch of mud underfoot and your own heartbeat beating out a steady dirge.
By your reckoning you're about halfway to your destination when a group of local men step out of the gloom and rain ahead of you blocking the pathway deeper into the cemetery. There are a dozen men all told and, judging by their dress and wellbeing, they look to be a mixture of local farmers and fishermen mostly down on their luck.
One, no doubt the leader, steps forward and addresses the mourners, though obviously aiming his words at Kendra.
"That's far enough" the lout says in a roughly accented voice "We've been talkin' we 'ave and you isn't gonna bury Lorrimor 'ere. Yous can take 'im up river ifs you want, but he ain't goin' 'in the ground 'ere"
Gregor begins sliding the casket to the ground, as gently as he can manage. "Any of you all speak bumpkin? Or should I just go split the unlicked cub from top to bottom?" Once the professor is safely stowed, Gregor begins to draw his sword, but waits for someone of a more diplomatic bent to have their try at defusing the situation.
"I'd rather not begin our stay here by killing the locals," Dherisan whispers. His fox tilts its head quizzically as Dherisan turns to the leader of the rabble, speaking in a calm, nearly lyrical voice.
"And why is it you would interfere with this procession? Would you truly deny a man such as the Professor his eternal rest?
"I'd just scare the hog-grubbers. I don't really plan on splattering their insides all over the professor's daughter, just leave them blubbering. But go ahead, Sir Elf of the Fox, see if your fair words save those cod's heads some embarrassment," Gregor relaxes his hold on his sword, waiting to see if a fight breaks out.
Alexia looks at the men, glaring though her matted fringe.
“Who are you and what right do you have to interrupt this procession. I advise you turn around and leave right now before you cause more distress for the lady, or I will be forced to make you” she says clenching her fist at her side. Looking over her shoulder she sees the half orc holding onto his swords hilt lightly.
“And I won’t be the only one” She says turning back to face the men.
Dherisan's winces as he hears Alexia's thinly veiled threat, keeping one hand gripped firmly around the casket's handle, he presents his other palm to the gathering mob, a gesture meant to dissuade them from rash action.
"Tensions are high here," he cautions the masses. "Whatever problems you had with the late Professor, is it truly worth inflaming this situation? Death quells all bitterness, and comes to all of us in turn. Denying his soul this one final respect may well give rise to restless spirits. Would you truly stop us from interring him in this communal place of repose?"
Diplomacy Roll: