12th of Pharast, 4711 AR
Petro Lorrimor, world renown professor, died in the year 4711 AR, roughly half a month ago.
His death was sudden, but few were surprised by the news. Professor Lorrimor was well known for his lust for knowledge and adventure. Nobody questioned it when they heard that he'd had an accident while poking around in the ruins of a long dead prison. Indeed, some were surprised to find out that he hadn't died years ago on one of his long trips. If anything, it was strange that such a well traveled man had met his end so close to home. Some whispered that his daughter, Kendra, should be grateful that she didn't have to travel across half of Golarion to retrieve his body.
Professor Lorrimor was a teacher to many, but a close friend to few. Besides his daughter, only five benefactors were named in his will.
The sky over Ravengro is overcast, though the morning began clear and bright. It is almost noon, and the entrance to the graveyard, known as the Restlands, is deserted save for one lone woman standing in front of a coffin. She's dressed in a simple black dress, her hair pinned up and her eyes red. She carries a handkerchief which she crumples and twists between bouts of frantically looking around, as if waiting for something to take her away from this pitiful scene she's found herself in.
A few drops of rain hit the lid of the coffin, causing the woman's face to contort in pain once she notices.
Uriah approached the graveyard with a heavy heart and the tread to match. The journey from Absalom had been long, though the journey had contained a pleasant surprise when he met fellow Westcrowner Irina along the way. They had chatted of home and the darkness that had overwhelmed it, though this was also a secret source of pain for Uriah, as he could never go home again.
His brimmed cap and oiled coat served to keep the rain off his body and weapons, the shortsword and pistol belted at his side and the kukri hidden at his back. His backpack was strapped on over the coat, ready to be released at the first sign of combat, though Uriah expected none at this sad occasion.
Professor Lorrimor was too fine a man to have such a small funeral. There should be bards to sing of his passing, women to weep at his loss and men to say they would have saved him had only they been there. Listen to me, getting poetical at a time like this.
Approaching the woman Uriah doffs his hat and places it over his heart while speaking. His mismatched eyes look up into the rain before dropping back to the woman, his scarred hand holding the hat steady. Surely it is the rain in his eyes and the wind making his hat seem to quiver against his chest every so often.
"Hello miss, you must be Kendra. I'm sorry about your father. Truth is I didn't know him well, but I keen for him as well."
Try as she may to withhold the natural reaction to the act, Anca found her pulse and breath quickening in response to the care. An audible gasp escaped her lips, she flushed and a fine sheen of sweat stood out of her skin after a few moments. That is how their Lady mother, Narcizia Ravarath discovered her youngest children. She smiled and shut the door securely behind her, then slid the bolt into place.
The Lady Narcizia Ravarath had maintained that smile as she read aloud the announcement that her daughter's employer, one Professor Petro Lorrimor had passed and that Anca had been named one of several beneficiaries to his estate.
A curious reaction stirred in Anca's breast then, something akin to pity. It was on the whole antithetical with her passion, and a touch frightening. Her lady mother, light as a thrush, slid across her bed to pet her hair and softly kiss her forehead, eyes, cheeks and finally lips, soft as a butterfly might bat its wings against a human's flesh, her lips dry and cool in the winter air.
"Anca, my love, can you not see? With this, you are free!" she congratulated.
Arrangements were made in short order for Anca to travel to this... Ravengro. In addition to a coach, she would be afforded a groom from her father's own stables. It was hardly the optimal choice, but as she was yet unwed, she had no command of her intended's livery, though as was custom maids bearing his crest attended her toilet in the interim, three of them, to be exact, although he had advanced the idea of seven at once, three to attend her in bed and four to indulge her every fantasy while waking.
My dutiful husband Anca hummed while the two lithe females danced about fulfilling their purpose, packing her meager kit into the sad display of her rucksack while his eunuch dressed her for the occasion. Anca found the dress he had gifted her with on the occasion of the signing of their marriage contract to be... restrictive, now, although the satin had the most curious effect when it glided across the system of raw scars across her belly when she moved. A true artist, Anca sighed in appreciation as the eunuch lifted her breasts into the proper position in the bodice. At his instruction, she sat and allowed him to attend her hair, Henric was the only whose fingers were deft enough to pull the shortest of her silver gold curls beneath her bonnet, although they were continually foiling his efforts of their own volition.
Anca arrives at the funeral and is immediately disappointed with her driver, who insisted that the detour around the locals gathered at their sad marketplace would not cost her even a moment's delay. She witnesses the curious fellow with the dour hat speaking to the woman beside the coffin, and her lips curl in an odd expression of frustration.
Her Lord, her sweet Master of Shade and Madness, and all things erotic suggested that this life was all man had, and that the pleasures of this life would simply carry into the next as her soul would be tortured throughout all time. Anca is aware that this is a high philosophy, however, and of little comfort to his daughter who gives every appearance of grieving for the departed. Has she no dignity? Anca wonders at her curious display, as though... Is she incapable of acting in her right?
And this one, Anca spares the man in the hat a sideways glance before settling a good distance from the sympathetic pair.
Davor arrived to the graveyard, making note that there was only one carriage. Strange, I expected more than one carriage... As he made his way to the coffin, he was surprised at the few people gathered for the ceremony. Surely there should be more people present. I am not early am I? He dared no say anything about the turn out in front of the attendants. Noticing the rain, Davor silently hopes that the weather doesn't worsen. He'd hate it if his face paint ran off.
Davor Sandman is a Half orc wearing a silk white robe with yellowish Grey skin. he has a bald head topped with a silk cap and has deep blue eyes. He is a bit lanky and skinny compared to the average halforc. The most notable thing about Davor is that he has a purple, silver and gold butterfly wing painted onto most of right side of his face, from forehead to cheek.
He finds a good spot to say his respects for the Professor and then steps back so others may have their chance. Seeing Kendra sobbing, he tries to say something to help put her at ease. "Do not despair child, your father had a good long life. He has not but gone on the greatest of journeys, one that we all must one day make. We will all meet him again when it is our own turn to make that journey."
Anca peers at the large... man? lumbering towards the coffin, and observes him taking a silent moment beside where the Professor's corpse was on display.
Is that how it is done among peasants? Anca muses. Thirteen generations of Ravarath dead were interred in glory beneath the family keep, even our infants have a place beside our greatest warriors, for theirs were the greatest struggle, for life amongst these harsh lands.
Anca does not hear the man's words, lost in her own thoughts as she approaches the coffin. She reaches for it almost on instinct, as she has often reached for the name plate bearing her grandfather's name.
Curious image, Anca's mind seethes as she forces an image of her jovial forebear from her mind. His hands had been overlarge, and even in old age, callused from his daily practice of his sword forms. Petro Lorrimor had never evoked such an image. He was her employer, on occasion, nothing more. If it were not for the contract, my contract...
Arkadi entered the graveyard on foot, glad that the sun had hidden itself and this if his eyes watered it would only be from sorrow. He wore his armor openly, as enemies could be anywhere, but for the occasion an armband of Pharasma's black and silver joined the more permanent display of Iomedae's white and gold. A few drops of rain thudded off his wide brimmed hat as he joined the small gathering.
A nod and a grunt were the only greeting he offered at first. Looking between the two ladies present it was a safe bet the daughter was the one sobbing, not the one sporting the air of cool detachment. He addressed himself to her and said, "Arkadi Spektor. My condolences for your loss, ma'am. If it's any comfort, the Professor was a good man and Pharasma's judgment will go lightly on him." He looked around at the odd gathering around the coffin and added stiffly, "He helped me though a bad part of my life once, so I feel there's a debt still owed. You say so if you ever need to collect on it."
Uriah puts his hat back on to keep the rain from his eyes and takes stock of the new arrivals.
A half-orc and a man who speak of death and a woman who looks it. Cold comfort for a daughter in such times.
Keeping his hands firmly on his belt and well away from his weapons, Uriah looks around for the casket bearers and grave diggers.
This country is as bedeviled as Cheliax if they have none to bear and bury the dead. Is this what it takes to create a man of the Professor's ilk?
Anca gives a brief shake of her head and pulls her mind back to the task at hand - ostensibly mourning the Professor. She turns to the only other woman at the site, his daughter, Kendra? and is quite disappointed to find that she is still weeping uncontrollably, despite the crowd that has formed about her. Anca has only vaguely recognized their attempts to comfort the woman have apparently gone unanswered by her. Miserable, selfish fool, Anca seethes. Who would have known that such a clever and capable man could spawn such weak offspring? Petro Lorrimor would not have wailed like a stray cat in heat when there were tasks to be completed.
Careful of fixing her cool blue glance upon any member of the party for any amount of time, Anca steps back from the display, and maintains her distance, content to wait until she has been instructed to do otherwise. But not quite patiently...
"...So, uhmm... How did you all know the professor? Desna had lead me to the man as he was being overran by the undead, and with the Great Dreamer's blessing, I smote the undead before they could do much harm. Oh, I am Father Sandman, by the way." Devor says, going silent to allow another to introduce them-self.
"Truth be told Padre I met the Professor by accident in Absalom. His offer to walk a lady home met with a certain displeasure from the other patrons, and one of them attempted to express it while the Professor was walking away. Lucky for all I was able to diffuse the situation."
Close enough to the truth not to upset the ladies. Doubt the Padre will get my meaning either for that matter.
Arkadi bowed his head in respect to the priest and paused to consider his words before replying. "I was ...exposed to the touch of the undead at a very young age. It had some lasting effects that still trouble me to this day. The good Professor found me while I was training with the knights of Iomedae. He helped me map the effects and learn how to not let them interfere with my work." A fond smile glimmered on his face before vanishing again. "Putting the discovery of new knowledge ahead of his personal safety did seem to be a habit of his."
Anca observes the recent arrivals speaking, and listens. A priest, and... her eyes narrow as she studies the second speaker. Is he being deliberately vague?
A knight of Iomedae! Anca's mind reels. Every fiber of her being wishes to escape, but she has discipline. She releases a pregnant breath in a slow, controlled exhale, completely emptying her lungs before speaking.
"Petros Lorrimor had no fear of the unknown. He called upon my services and contacts to achieve his ends in Caliphas, and Karcau," Anca supplies. "He was a fair employer."
"Never had the pleasure of being his man, but I'll do my best to make that up to his daughter. I'm remiss in my introduction, my name is Uriah Hays."
Seems awkward to introduce ourselves while his daughter cries over his body, but there's nothing for it.
Anca inclines her head in a salute, and even goes so far as to raise her skirts slightly to dip her knees in a perfect, practiced courtesy. "Anca...," she replies, and trails, somewhat confused as to her status now. If not for the summons to this dreary plot, Anca would be wed. The contract had been signed and Lady Narcizia and Lord Dorin's steward witnessed the exchange of their vows, but the formal ceremony and announcement had been postponed. "Lady Anca Ravarath," she answers finally. "Formerly of Caliphas, Karcau and Odranto."
Irina swore under her breath. The market had been a disaster; the innkeep was wrong that it would be clear this time of day. Seeing the carriage move past the throng of people as she pushed and jostled her way among the crowd put a frown on her face. I have some gold left and this is important! Why didn't I think of that?
Shaking the thought from her mind Irina pushed forward, oilskin bags in hand. She has asked Uriah three times about the time and place of the service. In his way he seemed amused that Irina seemed nervous, but he answered evenly and without a hint of irritation. "Midday, the graveyard. The one we passed before."
She had met Uriah on the road, a somber sort but a fellow traveler from Westcrown. After he shared that he was on to Ustalav they became companions. A road story or two later they had realized that they had met some time ago perhaps, in a dark alley or a busy street. They had been doing the sort of the thing that gets people into trouble; defiance, vigilantism, aid for the downtrodden or undesired. They spoke of their efforts little, the silence between them affirming that it needed to be done but that they had to leave home. The Professor's passing was the perfect excuse.
Finally breaking free from the crowd Irina moved as fast as she could. Her bags hampered her movement. The route through the market was the first mistake. Not keeping the room another day to stow her belongings was her second. Hopefully my luck will run better from here on out.
With the cemetery gate in sight the rain that had threatened to mark the day let loose in light, soft, patter. So much for my luck Irina looked down at her clothes. The soft grey leathers were tight against her skin so she could move with speed and skill. The black shirt was clean but simple. It was her vest that made her frown; she had foregone her matching grey for a soft quilted green brocade, one of the few uniquely Chelaxian things she owned and ever cared to be seen in. The rain would make it mold if she was not careful to dry it properly. Putting the concern aside she her hurried along her path.
As she breached the cemetery gates she saw Uriah's distinctive hat and other people as well. There were few of them though and a sick feeling grew in Irina's stomach. She had missed the service.
Taking care to place her bags in an out of way spot along the path, Irina doubled her stride and attempted to smooth her short-cropped hair and clothes in an attempt to look as presentable as possible. Navigating the narrow footpaths between plots and headstones the people at the grave came into better focus and as Irina subconsciously fiddled about her person she took in who was waiting at the grave site.
Uriah she knew, and she imagined the woman who faced the casket most directly might be the Professor's daughter. Irina scrunched her nose in frustration as she realized she had forgotten the woman's name. Not your day Irina As she made her approach she made out the trappings of Iomadae and the strange butterfly on the face of the half-orc. Was that Desna maybe? Irina had never paid attention to the gods very much in Westcrown. Not that they would ever show their faces in that place
Closing the final paces to the burial site Irina first noticed that the casket was still aground. Yet the oddity of that left Irina quickly as became transfixed by the final attendee: a woman of poise and finery that made Irina's cheeks flush slightly. Irina felt herself staring as she approached the group. She had met women like this before. They had bought their beauty with blood and fell arrangements. They were the darkness that plagued Cheliax and Irina felt her anger rise as she approached the woman, her mouth opening in manner matching a mix between gaping and yelling, watching as the woman courtsied to the group and offered a few words. With a sudden jolt, Irina's thoughts came to her.
Irina have you no shame? Far from home this woman has done nothing! She doesn't even look Chelaxian! Not everyone who is cultured in this way is as bad as those you hold a grudge against. You left home to meet new people, to change your preconceptions like the Professor always counseled. Control your temper!
Coming within the final steps of the group Irina closed her mouth with great force and a loud clacking sound of her teeth jarring together penetrated the silence. It seemed the group had just exchanged words, she thought she had heard them as she approached fixated on the woman, but with that sound whatever exchange had been happening ended and Irina closed to the group in embarrassment hoping the group had not noticed the sound and the woman had not noticed her staring.
Irina bowed awkwardly at the group. Irina Kayzeld. Looking at the group a sudden dawning sensation came over Irina. Where is everyone else?! Wheeling towards the grieving woman and the casket Irina throws her hands into the air. What of a service? I see godly representative's abound, why is he just sitting here? Irina feels her temper begin to cool as he realizes the outburst probably seemed childish. She resolved however to stand her ground. What was going on here?
The full extent of Arkadi's visible surprise at the late arrival and her sudden outburst was a single raised eyebrow. He replied dryly, "I would suspect the Professor's travels left him with few friends at home. Everyone seems to have come a distance to be here. If there were others invited, they may not have been able to make the trip. If the messages even reached them in time."
"As for the service, that's her affair." A short gesture indicated the sobbing Kendra. "I'll happily say a few words if asked. But I'm a guest, same as you."
"You might have observed, mistress, that our hostess is unwell," Anca states coolly in response to the queer young woman's hostility. "We are as well informed about the situation as yourself, which is to say, each of us are ignorant," the word causes the edges of Anca's lips to twist in something akin to a frown.
"Irina, you made it, good. Arkadi, the young man who spoke, is probably right, and Miss Ravarath says we are waiting for Kendra to give us the word."
Poor Irina. No doubt most feel the same about Lorrimor's current state.
Uriah shifts his weight and twirls his right hand in lazy circles, clenching and unclenching it as he speaks to Irina.
"The Professor and I never got to the topic of religiosity, one of you fine spiritual leaders want to take charge here and see what we should do?"
The woman, now known to be Kendra, nods at Uriah as she wipes away her tears. "I'm sorry," she mutters, obviously frustrated at her sudden lack of poise. "I just...I was starting to think that no one would show. I...thank you, thank you all for coming. I'm Kendra Lorrimor, his..." She pauses as her face twists with grief again, but she recovers much better than before. "Daughter. I'm his daughter," she says with conviction, as if saying those words brings her strength. She takes a moment to dry her tears again, to maintain some level of dignity.
"More are coming," she assures them, raising her voice as if to prove that she can in fact speak without a tremble. "They promised me they would be here, and we still have some time. Father Grimburrow of Pharasma is at the grave site, as is tradition." She gestures past the gate. The path into the Restlands goes around a hill shortly past the entrance. The grave must be behind the hill somewhere, for nobody else can be seen from the gate. The graveyard is large, almost too large for such a town. The drops of rain come faster now, slowing just before a proper downpour.
"I wasn't able to acquire pallbearers, so..." Kendra starts, her mouth twisting into a bitter frown. "I...I have to lead the procession, but if some of you would be willing to help with the coffin, I would appreciate it. It's...I should probably wait until the others get here though." She rubs her face, biting her lip to keep a small sob contained. "The way things are in town these days...well, I think only a few more are coming."
The coffin looks large enough that it'll take at least four people to carry it. Kendra seems just about ready to shed a few more tears when she's interrupted by the sound of an approaching carriage.
Uriah steps forward and shakes the rain out of his coat with a twist and flex of his arms. It does little good in the continued rain but the gesture serves to remove the casual slouch with which he'd been standing.
"Well Miss Lorrimor I wish we'da met before and happier. I'd be right honored to carry this burden."
Least I can do for him.
Uriah turns at the sound of the coach and waits for it's occupants.
Anca inclines her head in a salute of approval as Kendra pulls herself together, and while she is unable to discern where Professor Lorrimor's spirit went when he crafted his offspring, she is more inclined to civility.
"Would that I might assist you," Anca says to Uriah and Kendra when he offers to carry the coffin. "I am recovering from an illness and have been advised not to strain myself over much." Anca spares a slight smile for Kendra, she has oted that delicacy seems to cheer the woman. "If you would have me, Mistress, I would offer you my arm."
Davor Smiles at Kendra. "It would be my greatest pleasure to assist the professor on this adventure! I believe I hear some of the other guests coming right now."
Davor listens and looks towards the sound of the carriage, seeing if he can get an idea of who is coming.
Perception
Arkadi started to make a military salute, but checked himself midway. "Of course. I'll be honored to help carry him. He's gone to his final judgment now, the one there's no avoiding, so we need to show him our last respects."
Well then I guess that leaves me to help these big strong men Irina jokingly strikes Uriah on the shoulder. Grateful that the moment of her tantrum seems to have passed she lazily waves the others over to assist her as she approaches the casket.
Uriah rubs his shoulder where Irina hit him, giving her a smile and a wink as he does so.
"Modesty 'rina? You know I have delicate hands."
Little girl packs a punch.
Uriah moves to help the others with the casket.
The coach approaches the Restlands and stops in front of the gate. The driver makes a gesture over his chest and nods to those gathered. The door swings open and out steps a rather corpulent middle aged man dressed in a suit. His black hair is slicked back, and his mustache and beard are waxed to points. Kendra glances to Davor, and then to the man, a slightly worried look on her face. Her expression turns to relief, however, when a middle aged woman steps out of the coach. Her dark brown hair is pulled back, and her face is caked in layer upon layer of makeup. She wears a simple, low cut dark gray dress. "Kendra, dear!" she calls out, rushing over and barely dodging Anca to embrace the poor woman, whose face wrinkles in response to the newcomer's strong perfume.
"Jominda, I didn't...I was afraid you wouldn't show!" Kendra says, her words muffled against the woman's shoulder. The corpulent man thanks the driver and approaches, appraising the group with a severe look on his face.
"I'm sorry we're late," he starts. "We went to pick Zokar up, but found that he was tending to his son's illness. He sends his regards." He glances to Davor and raises a brow, but says not another word.
Jominda releases Kendra and looks around as if just realizing they weren't alone. "See dear? It's not all that bad! Just think of how long it took these fine people to get here, all for Petro!" She gives everyone a smile, the rain making it hard to tell whether she's crying or not.
Kendra only nods, rubbing her face again. ”I...I suppose we should start then. Ah...thank you for the offer, Lady Ravarath, but tradition dictates...” she pauses, looking to the gate. ”This is something I have to do alone.” As if on cue, the two newcomers trace a spiral over their hearts.
Uriah looks at the newcomers with concern until he sees they know Kendra. His relief is short lived when he realizes what odious people they are. Pulling his hat lower and nodding his head forward to avoid giving away his thoughts, he studies their hands carefully.
Perfume that strong, wouldn't last a day. Any Wiscrani would know better. And this walrus looks no better. Soft hands hiding a heart of rock.
Turning back to the casket Uriah takes his place at one of the corners and awaits his fellow pallbearers. He turns up his coat collar to better keep the rain off his neck and the woman's perfume out of his nose.
Anca's smile fades as though it has never even graced her face when she is so obviously ignored by the painted woman. How... impolitic she muses, and steps out of the way. Anca knew this sort of woman well, simple fools desperate to conceal flaws within themselves with paints and sweet smells. A great number of her contemporaries, lacking not only in technical merit, but in social graces used such devices and assumed airs that would shame the host of the court at Caliphas. Anca had not troubled herself to grieve the loss of their company, she would not trouble for this woman, either.
Anca gives naught but a firm nod when Kendra refuses her assistance. Finally, a demonstration of initiative, "As you will, mistress," she answers, then looks to the varied group of Professor Lorrimor's extended relations.
My wounds have only just closed, and as it may please my Dark Lord that they should reopen and I might achieve that particular state of bliss in public, I shouldn't think that that is how Lord Dorin intended to receive his bride, Anca muses.
Anca lays her right hand, adorned with an overlarge signet ring, flat against her stomach and strokes it softly, smoothing a wrinkle in her dress. "I am unfamiliar with this tradition. Is there any manner of assistance I might lend you?" she inquires.
Such soft people these cities breed. But softness is not a sin by itself, so I should not judge them on that alone. Still, with friends like these it's no wonder the Professor traveled. With an internal sigh Arkadi moves to one of the handles of the coffin. "We'll follow your lead then, ma'am."
Irina watches the newcomers offer pleasantries to the Professor's daughter but quickly changes her attention to the other far flung travelers that she had met first. It was Irina's training to watch people, to hopefully understand them, and if need be, fight them. She did not have the innate gift that others might have, her temper seemed too often to get in the way, so she cultivated her skill by watching whenever she could.
The half-orc seemed oddly pleasant and calm for all the stories Irina had been told. She had met few of his kind in her life but they had tended towards brutish and not prone to flowery words. This one, it would seem, was different.
The Iomedean seemed rigid in his ways and formal in his speech. Considering the circumstances she did not blame him but his manner was hopefully not always so. Irina could do without the stoic oversight of a godly type like him. Perhaps he is more relaxed in less somber circumstances...
The woman seemed calm like a lake, prepared for all that a social situation might offer. Irina found it impressive, had someone nearly bowled her over, even in an effort to assuage grief of another, Irina was quite sure she would have made some quip or comment. Is that what being cultured means? Enduring politeness in the face of irritating people? What a massive amount of effort that must be.
Irina's gaze falls finally on Uriah and she cannot help but turn a corner of her mouth upward in a sardonic smile. She was quick to anger and fast to cool down but this man seemed...to smolder. Though they had had many conversations in their time, thoughts of home and the people there were rarely a subject. Despite this Irina suspected much like the this Anca had initially put her ill at ease, Uriah found these new arrivals less than tasteful.
Irina clears her throat slightly, Perhaps then, as Ms. Kendra makes her way to the cemetery as, ah, tradition, dictates we might begin the Professor's journey as well? Irina moves her hand to rap the casket for emphasis but think better of it at the last second opting instead to la her gently against the rain spattered wood.
"I'm sorry we're late," he starts. "We went to pick Zokar up, but found that he was tending to his son's illness. He sends his regards." He glances to Davor and raises a brow, but says not another word.
Sense Motive
Davor speaks to pointy mustache, hopefully putting his feelings about him at ease. "Illness? Do you mind me asking the child's name and what ails him? I will send a prayer to Desna, so that the child shall rest easy this night." He says with a toothy smile.
Jominda releases Kendra and looks around as if just realizing they weren't alone. "See dear? It's not all that bad! Just think of how long it took these fine people to get here, all for Petro!" She gives everyone a smile, the rain making it hard to tell whether she's crying or not.
Sense Motive
Davor returns Jominda's smile. "No,no,no, it was no trouble at all! I would've gladly traveled around the world to make it here today!"