Open The Funeral of Kip Drawlins, Wave Guardsman

[Philomena]

Winter 40, 512 AV
Maria Satterwite Memorial Cemetery
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The Satterwte Cemetery is beautiful in the early afternoon light, the white snow like a continuation of the the marble stone, and a striking contrast to the black floor of the open peristyle of the temple. The preparations began early, today, a Nuit overseer watching workmen hack a hole in the ice of the pool, then stirring it to keep it from freezing again, craftsmen of the city coming to set up a temporary scaffolding for the coffin, the florists coming to bedeck it with the withered, dried blooms of summer, and even, ostentatiously some might say, a few forced hothouse blooms. Black linen is lain over the bier itself.

The people began to arrive mid-morning, a priest from the temple of the sea, and a contingent of the cemetery's keepers. These performed ritual cleanings of the temple, and the sea priest blessed the bier for its coming weight.

But in the afternoon, the procession began. The winding path to the cemetery is easy with a team of dray horses, but the coffin is born on the shoulders of 13 members of the sailors guild, all in their gleaming dress regalia, the navy blue of the guild itself on one side, and the other born by the azure coats of Wave Guard. At the front, in the symbolic white of the chief mourner, keeping one, more ceremonial than practical, hand on the coffin, is the widow. She walks steadily, her dark, Zeltivan hair, set wild after the old fashion of the mourner. Her free hand holds that of her three your old son, who the blue and golden sash of the Wave Guard, his father's guard-crest pinned at his shoulder, hug on his tiny body. A man, in black, a relative, walks nearby, in case the child grows tired, but he is a son of Zeltiva. He knows what this walk is, what it means, and he walks beside his mother.

Behind, the train of Mourners begin. The place of precedence is given to the family, who wear their best black crepes, with two younger fellows in the blue of the sailors guild interspersed. Behind walks the contingent of the Sailors Guild and the Wave Guard, who talk together, here, all blazing in their dress best, each wearing a band of black linen on their arm. A fifer and drum march at their front, playing the mournful march of the dead, and In the back three boys march in the square collars of the old dress, now defunct but for ceremonial occasions. Each bears an oar, held upright, each with a gilded word carved in the blade: "City","Guild", and "Fellow-men", glittering in the sharp, winter-cold sun. Beneath these walk two honor guards, with a silver casket heavily borne between them.

Behind, these, in less martial but more colorful array, is an honor contingent from the university. Professors walk in somber step, dressed in full academic dress, the gown, the gown, the epitome, the sash, the Tam-bonnet of the New Wing, and the Andrewes Cap of the Auld Wing, the fur hoods of the librarians, and the mitre of the chancellors. The robes burn in bright damascene hues of poplar, grosgrain, satin, Russel cord, their hues denoting the school from whence they originate. At the rear, the standard bearers of the school walk, bearing the banners of the colleges, and in the center, a single cowled figure with the Dread Banner, the banner of the dead, its words written in Old Common-tongue: "Ab Ghardi Hallibu, Ab Ghardi dune", "The Earth, the suckler's breast; the Earth, the final bed."

Behind this comes the final of the great parties, the office of the Government of the city. Ceremonial as they are, this is their element, and they shine in the silk robes of state, the ceremonial trident borne before on a velvet black pillow, draped in white mourner's samite.

And then, the mourner's train, a considerable one, and a mixture, still and somber. Even the thieves, by and large, are too frightened to case pockets on the sacred earth of the Dead, and most people have a great, isolating reverence, as they walk.

The space around the bier fills slowly, the guild given place of precedence, the scholars next. The government takes the right wing, the ceremonial place of the overseer. And the family, but for the widow and her son, are seated in the front. The widow, she stays standing, her white dress blowing in the cold wind, her son crying, silently. The coffin is laid gently on the bier, and the posting of the flags comes next - the standard of Zeltiva is planted by the government party, then the oars of the guild behind these, and the banners of the university to each side, but for the Dread banner, which is lain upon the earth.

Then the silver casket is brought forward, and the widow takes her son up to it. He reaches in, and so does she, and the two of them lift out a gleaming, golden-scaled Koi Fish, wriggling in their hands, and place him gently into the hole cut in the ice of the pond. As they do, the boy, in his best, brave voice, lisps out his father's name:

"Kip Drawlins of the Wave Guard. My Father."

Then begins the funeral itself. It is long, filled with the pomp and ceremony of a grieving city and a hero's honors, but remarkably, once the speaking begins, open, and almost informal - it is the Wave Guard's funeral, and true to the traditions of their brothers in the Sailors' Guild, they see death as the great equalizer. The bier is opened to whomever would speak. There is, of course, unspoken rules: everyone knows there are certain members expected to speak, and that no one should speak if they have no business doing so. The podium is a place for comfort, and for honor, rather than for politics or opinion. But it is open, and anyone is allowed to speak.

The widows speaks first - this is expected. She speaks very little: mercifully also expected.

"My husband... was a good man. My son and I... we are... right proud at what he done before he gone. Some men, they die for drink, and some men, they die for money. My Kip, 'e died for our city, and may his soul be blessed for 'at." she stifles a sob here, but continues, shakily, "And I know the city will care for little Kip and I, so my husband can rest here, and wait for the day when I come up this same 'ill, and lay down with 'im. Bless you, Kip, you done us all proud."

With this she slips back to sit in the seat provided for her at the edge of the bier. Her son, dazed, and still crying, clambers up in her lap.

(OOC: Kip Drawlins is the Wave Guardsman who was murdered in the line of duty in the East Street on Winter 36 (see the Chronicle for more details). Anyone who wishes to speak, and would have good reason to, is welcome to attach a speech here. I'll wait a week or so, then tack on the end of the funeral. IF you do not wish to speak, but attend the funeral, you are welcome to attach a post expressing as much, and what you did there, as well.)

[Philomena]

Philomena wore a heavy robe of wine colored damask, the traditional shade of the Department of Literature, and the flat cap of the Older Wing of the university. She stood by one of the librarians, a florid-faced woman in a robe of sailor-blue, the color being the Library's standing tribute to the founding work of Kenabelle Wright. The librarian wept freely, if quietly, and occasionally Philomena reached over to squeeze her hand.

Her own thoughts, though behind a sombre mask, were wild - she was to speak. This was a public funeral, and it was only fitting that he university offer its condolences, and in the alchemy of politics at the old wing, this was the sort of task that might end up in the lap of a frightened professor of literature. She murmured, nearly silent, her lips barely moving, the words that she had had prepared, and squeezed the edge of the wax tablet she ha outlined her points upon. She looked at the widow, and sighed heavily for her, and for her son. She didn't know her. She had a few friends in the less afluent parts of the city - the work of a researcher led one down peculiar pathways at times - but the Drawlins were a mystery to her. //This poor woman// she thought, //I can't imagine she wants to hear the vague praise of some halfbit doctor like me.//

But such was the way of things, something must be said, and someone must do the saying.

She waited, letting the Wave Guard go first, then the crabbed figure of the man's wizened father. Then a few of the sailors. She wavered on her feet - as one of the professoriate, her work was a work of vigil, they did not sit, but stayed on their feet throughout, their robes waving like the lurid souls of lost flowers. The damask was not warm, and underneath, she could not wear too much in the way of protection - a sweater, a thin petticoat. The line of the robes was meant to be straight, severe. It was her legs that suffered most, for her wool stockings, when she pulled them out to dress, had been snarled across the calf, and she had had to wear her best - silk, lovely and sleek feeling on her legs, but god-forsakenly cold. And the cold drained her heart, drained her courage, left her limp.

//But she must expect something. She wishes, at least, to know the city cares.//

Her friend the librarian leaned towards her, very quietly, and squeezed her hand, "Go on, Minnie. You'd best go. Its you place, now."

Minnie squeezed back, her fingers cold despite the rabbit fur lining of the sleeves. She sighed, nodded, stepped forward.

It was not until she looked over the crowd, that she knew that all the claptrap that one of the rhetoricians had helped her with simply woudln't do. She turned, to see the widow, and the widow stared back at her, pale and brave. And she turned again to look at her tablet. Seats began to shift just slightly, people perhaps growing the slightest bit impatient to keep things moving along. She sighed, and to remove the temptation mashed a finger across teh stylus marks, blotting out her chance of retreating. They were good words, perhaps, from a great stentorian voice. Her tiny one would have made them sound artificial. So she simply spoke.

"On... behalf of the University, Miss... Drawlings..."

Her mind reeled, and bucked - Drawlings? It was the worst of outcomes, she thought, her lips, her mouth, her mind was reverting, to the low canting accents of her childhood, to the intonations of Minnie the street-child, instead of Minnie the professor. This was horrible.

"On b'half of the university, I... I want to tell you I'm sorry. That we're sorry, we're all sorry. It is horrible, to have a... a man die."

She gulped, and closed her eyes a moment - then realized how much easier that was, an left them that way.

"I... I do not know - er - did not know your husband. Honestly, I suppose, most of the people here didn't. I'm probably entirely the wrong person to speak - I have never had a lover, a husband, none of those things. I cannae give you any real sympathy. Sympathy... is what one gets from those who understand what one has lost, I think. I wish you sympathy, the hands of those who comprehend your loss. To me, it is too great for my small heart, I think.

But then, you probably wouldn't ask me for sympathy, either. This... whole thing, this business of funerals, it is ceremony. Ceremony is important, it... I don't want to make it small, it gives one markers, and shape in life. I can tell you the shape of the post the University and I would strike here - regret, that nothing... nothing is perfect. That the best work of the Guild to enrich our city, to bring opportunity to it, that the best work of my colleagues to bring wisdom to this city, to help it to grow, that the best work of the citizens that work each day to pump the blood of this city to and from its fingertips, I... none of these things saved your husband. Sometimes, men die, sometimes, the future feeds upon the sacrifices of the present.

I can... I can say all that, and if it will help you to know how much I, and all of us feel it, I can tell you - it comes from the deep corners of our hearts. I know that. I hope that is some small gift to you.

But I... I want to tell you something more, there are things one wants to say in the face of... tragedy, and death, and all the horrid demons of living. There are things one cannot say - or I cannot. Poets say them, sometimes, and painters paint them. Singers sing them. Professors... what do we do? We only feel them, like everybody else. We aren't any grander or different from any other men. We only feel them, and the name of the feeling is love, I think. There's no other name for it, for the claw and nail of it, that pricks at one, and makes one wish one was something greater, that makes one want to be a god for a moment, and press comfort down into the hearts of the sufferer, like grapes in a winepress. Oh.. Miss Drawlings... oh... I..."

She stifled a little sob, and turned back, and there stood the woman and the boy, looking at her, the tears of the mourner shining in their eyes.

"I... can't give you any more than that. You have given us your best, missus, and all we can give you in return is our love, all of it. I hope... I hope that that is something, at least."

She stepped backward. It was a funeral, no one budged, nothing changed. The air still moved, a howling, living creature, pelting death knells now of half-frozen rain into the cheeks of the onlookers. Minnie turned with a quivering step step toward the widow and bowed, a low, clumsy but correct curtsy. She stood again, and from her sleeves withdrew the white rod of the university, the ceremonial gift of mourning. It was slender, carved in bone with intricate whorls of movement, and on the side bore the sigils of the old schools of the wing. The woman took it, gently set it down, in her lap beside a bundle of flowers. That was all of Minnie's duty. But the widow's eyes were cold, dead, lonely. Minnie could not leave her like that. And so she bent down, took the woman's hand, gently, and squeezed it, pulling forward to kiss her cheek, in a gesture, perhaps more typical of an intimate friend. She stood again, and released the hand, her own face as flushed as her robe, and with a half bow returned to her place, in the standing ranks of the professorate.

The wet wind picked the long skirts of her robe up, pelting tiny teardrops into the mottled silk. The breeze ran up her stockings. The librarian, still weeping, smiled to her and squeezed her hand.

[Valo]

When a man dies, the world does not stop as it should. Time does not freeze as it should. The entirety of everything fails to halt in it's wake, to express grieving in all it's propriety, for the world is a cruel place and it will never stop as it should. People's lives continue as they should. Though the prerequisite to such death is where their hearts linger, and the fallowing days become just that, a cruel fantasy they wish to awake from. But as such days continue, the realisation is imminent. A man has died and the world stops for no one, as it should. The artist lingered in the depths of the crowd, not towards the front yet not quite at the back either. Dressed in his finest black, he had come to pay respects to the very man he had met past the hour of death. For he did not know Kip personally, never had they exchanged a word. In fact upon their very first encounter, Kip Drawlins was no longer able to speak anything other than the letters WEAK carved across his chest. A final message to the city, not from the Wave Guard him self, but from an ominous shadow which took his life. A righteous ceremony to honour a righteous man, a good man who should be honoured by the way he lived his life - a loving husband, a wonderful father to a three year old boy - not the circumstances in which he perished. And as it was accustomed, people came and spoke of their very feelings. The widow was first to speak and as she did, all eyes were on her and the words from her lips brought tears to many pairs of eyes. Many but the artist's for his eyes were already rimmed with red - more red perhaps than his hair. He had done enough weeping in the past days. Solitary weeping which manifested shamefully in his features, for the ghost of the red haired artist had aged terribly over the past few days. The grieving had drained his youth and replaced it with a mere ghost of his formal self. It wasn't true what she said, for Kip did not die for the city. There was nothing he protected the city from. Though t'was not a shameful death, quite to contrary, but a death that assisted the devious plan of an evil man. The city had turned on it's own. The city had turned on those who protected it with it's very lives. The city grew hungry and the life of Kipp, the lives of all those who died of pox and the lives of many more to come, will not satisfy it. A great shit of the tides was at hand, a shift in the very fabric of Zeltiva. And the death of Kipp Drawlings was the catalyst. A man who died with a warning carved into his very flesh. The desperate screams of his Wave Guard comrades perpetually haunted the young artist's mind. And when he closed his eyes, reality was washed away by the tide and he once again stood, rooted into the cobbles like a fool, staring with horror at the mutilated corpse in Ricky's arms. A memory of pure grotesque, macabre, there were not words powerful enough to describe it. And that very memory dulled those green eyes of his. When a man dies, the world does not stop as it should. Time does not halt as it should to pay it's respects to the soul of the diseased. A terrible truth that the artist only began growing aware of. For his mind was still trapped at the timesnap of five days ago. The even playing over and over in his head, as if the world had truly halted. Had five days really passed? For every moment of every bell of every days seemed the same, clad inn monotone grey. It was the widow and the child that Valo wept for, perhaps more than the deceased him self. A woman who lost her lover and a child who lost his whole world, lost a man who's shoes he'd have to grow into. But those shoes lay in the coffin now along with the man who loved him more than anything. The ties of family severed so cruelly and with so little mercy. The boy would grow into a righteous man, yet no fatherly eyes to display their pride. Death is kind to those who pass yet death is agony to those left behind. And it was only after that flame had been so lividly stamped out by the city, it would return to show it's reverence to the family. What a cruel game the city plaid. Many people spoke on that day and their words of remorse washed over the artist like the sea washed over the base cliffs. He may have remained standing for now,but those words hacked mercilessly at his very substance and eventually even he would collapse into the ocean of grief, along with everyone else. But did it matter. Perhaps nothing really mattered any more, for death had a peculiar way of causing one to re-evaluate their entire existence. He came here not to speak, not to display his grief in an elaborate ceremony. And if anyone was to question him upon that, he would not give a coherent answer. Perhaps simple mourning for a flame stomped out too soon. A simple statement, the only thing in his power to show his respect for the life of a good man. Why is it that men do not have the power to turn back the hands of time? However there was one woman who did catch his attention long enough, for his cluttered mind to listen just for a moment. A petite woman, much older than him who spoke on behalf of the university. And when she spoke, the message was simple. A message of grief. But it was not the message that caught his attention, for she was a woman he'd met as a direct prerequisite to that tragic day. And he prayed that she was not to notice his flaming hair in the crowd, for she was the last person he wished to speak to - not because he held her in ill regard, but merely because he wished to speak to no one now. No one would suffice. If anyone was to turn around and look into the fact of the artist, they'd find nothing but ghosts. A haunting expression of a man who witnessed to the horror this world could provide. An elegant man, clad in black with his fiery red hair tied back and a dull grey tint to every slightest animation of his. The woman finally concluded her moving speech and a gift from her, on behalf of the university, an ivory staff was handed to the widow. but no gift would replace that which she had lost. Even the genuine gesture of remorse would do little of stitch up the gaping hole in her heart. And for that very moment, that such gesture was shared between two women, the world indeed seemed to stand still, as it should.

[Miles]

Miles did not want to be seen.

Shadows were his only friend in these "dark" times, and it seemed fitting that even the Sun's rays seemed dreary to him at the moment. He wore his dark cloak, hunched in to it against the cold wind that seemed to pass through cloth and flesh alike- that froze even the spirit. Miles did not watch the speaker, nor the widow and child. On one hand, his heart went out to them, sharing their trauma with losses of his own. However there was a much more important task: a man was dead. East street had claimed another life, and it seemed that no one had come to justice for the crime. Miles whispered to the shadows his disdain for work left undone- it was time to grieve yes, but a murderer walked free and that alone should have been cause enough for action. How can one be laid to rest knowing his killer remains without punishment?

The man's eyes scanned the crowd, looking for those out of place like he (he had no ties to the man) any triumphant faces, or "less than mournful" groups. It was time something was done about these deaths. Miles left the comfort of the shadows briefly to pass a note to one of the guards, intending it for any of those in charge. It was in simple hand, stating only "I wish to investigate" and a date that Miles would present himself before Zeltiva's governing body, to apply for an investigative position.

It was time to do something other than mourn what could be avenged.

[Wrenmae]

"I would like to speak."

The voice came from a man among the guard, a new arrival that morning who'd been brought to know the situation. Upon hearing the details of the murder he had immediately volunteered to take a position as part of the honor guard. Wrenmae was lined in navy blue, both long dagger and rapier gleaming at his side. One of the few who had returned from the quest to Sahova, he had been met with relief. He had left a Trident Champion, a talked about hero of Zeltiva, responsible for almost single-handedly bringing down a smuggling ship the season before he left.

As Miles slipped his note to another among them, Wrenmae stepped forward and ascended the incline to stand beside the grave. The crowd looked up at him with serene terror, a dead sort of lethargy infecting them as thoroughly as the rash of illnesses that had been burning through the population since nearly a week ago. Even now, some of them held hands to their mouths, coughing and gazing weakly, blindly, up to hear another sorrowful murmur of heartfelt grief.

But they would not find it in Wrenmae.

"My people!" He began, his voice filling with the crisp winter air and spewing out bellowing tone and sonorous syllable, "We stand here today to mourn the passing of a friend, a husband, a father, and a protector...but when I look out upon you, I only see the tears and the sorrow, not the rage."

A murmur started in the crowd, Kipp's widow shifted uncomfortably.

"The Waveguard was established of volunteers...men and women who felt in their hearts and souls that to defend Zeltiva was to give back their home, their family, their people. We were never more than men in uniforms who sought to keep the peace. With the help of the Sailor's Guild and the University, we have maintained that goal til now." He looked away from them, down to the coffin, "Til this."

"I tell you that Kipp Drawlins was murdered, cut down from duty by some dishonorable snake that struck him unawares and alone." Pale faces stared back at him, some with the embers of spirit in their eyes and others who looked away...ashamed that such a private affair was becoming a political grandstand.

"This monster struck Kipp to give a message to those brave volunteers. The beast called us weak, each and every one of us. I will not stand idly by while those with murder in their hearts are allowed to walk the streets, while plague and sickness run rife through our fair city."

Stepping forward, Wrenmae opened his arms out, launching a barrage of suffused hypnotic Djed into the crowd. There was strength within it, a flash of pride, of rage, of hope. "I am Wrenmae, son of Alvadas and adopted son of Zeltiva. I rode with the Sylirans to fight evil in Sahova and I have returned with that battle in my heart. Now I am expected to bow my head in sorrow while the killer still lurks? No. Never. I tell you that I will not rest...the Waveguard will not rest til the murderer is found and brought to justice. We will not be weak. We will become stronger, strong enough so that the kind of person who took the life of Kipp Drawlins will never again take a father from a son, a husband from a wife, a friend from a friend, and a guardian from the city."

Someone shouted support, another two or three chiming in, caught in the movement of the emotion Wrenmae had unleashed upon them.

He went to his side, pulling a bulging coin pouch and thrusting it out at the crowd.

"In this purse, more than a thousand mizas of earned gold will be given to the doctor's of Zeltiva, to the Waveguard of Zeltiva in order to fight the rise in violence and pestilence. I give this freely, and am happy to be rid of it...for in the hands of one man, gold can only corrupt. In the hands of the community he protects, this gold will find relief to those who so desperately need it."

Cheers resounded, and yet several still looked on quietly, suspiciously. Wrenmae expected nothing less.

Heroes did not exist in such dangerous times...only charlatans and opportunists.

He wondered if Kipp would have stirred in his coffin if he knew who spoke on his behalf...the very man who had torn the life from his body and left that message to the rest.

Certainly there was some irony in it.

"My people," Wrenmae continued, "Join me. Those who are able to fight and defend, join the Waveguard...we need you now more than ever. To the rest I urge you to look after your neighbors, seek to help them in times of need and sickness. Share food and shelter and we will emerge from this winter reforged, reborn, and stronger than ever."

He held up his hands, another pulse of hypnotism, patriotic pride, rage, joy, hope, all thundering together in heady clouds of magic. Wren's vision blurred a moment and he cut off the djed...any more and he might accidentally trip into overgiving.

"We will cut out the infection from this city, we will route the evil that has taken to our streets! Rise with me Zeltiva, rise up and shake the shackles of fear."

He handed the coin purse to the guard in charge, stepping down among the people, his voice rising over their cheers as the widow of Kipp looked on in mute horror.

Her husband's funeral had been transformed into a rally.

"We will be greater than we are."

[Valo]

Valo did not notice his friend Miles in the crowd. And even if he did he would not have gone out of his way to greet him, for he the artist was not in the mood to speak with anyone, no matter how fond of them he was. His mind was darkness. However another man had chosen to speak and he was the one upon whom Valo's entire concentration was bestowed. A Wave Guard lined in navy blue, armed with a gleaming rapier that reflected the subtle rays of light with elegance. No doubt speaking on the behalf of the Wave Guard as a while about the tragic loss and the sadness that they shared. Speaking on the topic of a loss of comrade. To Valo's surprise this was not the case and as the very first words saturated the air, the artist's very heart stopped. It stood still and his eyes widened. Never would he forget that voice. That seemingly strong voice, yet the sound was that of poison not nobility. The very man at who's hands Kip lay dead in his coffin. How dare he? How very dare he to show his face, the face of a cold blooded murder at such a solemn event? And the artist grew bitter, stern on the outside, but beneath the skin his face was a convoluted twist of disgust. An outrage. If not for his manners he would spit and cry out, if not for his wit. But his words would do no good, so he stood silent and cold as a rock and listened to what he had to say. "This monster struck Kipp to give a message to those brave volunteers. The beast called us weak, each and every one of us. I will not stand idly by while those with murder in their hearts are allowed to walk the streets, while plague and sickness run rife through our fair city." Well it was established, Wrenmae was a beast. Even he admitted it. And a chameleon with no moral, for no scrupulous man would dare to turn a funeral into a political statement. By now Valo had seen right though the charlatan. It was all a charade. All of it. A cleverly conducted murder and once no one took notice of the meaning of the mutilation, the deathly artist him self stood upon a podium, proclaiming his dogma into the crowd. Proclaiming his disease. Drawing the attention of each man and woman to his original propose. A man who would halt at nothing to reach his goal. And what was that goal? To bring Zeltiva to it's knees, no doubt and to mock it's citizens in the most cruel and explicit of ways. For Wenmae was nothing but a mad man, in Valo's eyes. "My people," Wrenmae continued, "Join me. Those who are able to fight and defend, join the Waveguard...we need you now more than ever. To the rest I urge you to look after your neighbours, seek to help them in times of need and sickness. Share food and shelter and we will emerge from this winter reforged, reborn, and stronger than ever." He was bluffing. Lying though his teeth. Why would a man who wished only the most terrible of tragedy upon Valo's beloved city say such things? Why would he prompt it's citizens to grow in arms and strength? What was this purpose of his? Surely these words were his own undoing, for the stronger the city was the weaker was he by comparison. and if he was planning to murder every last Wave Guard or any other such atrocity, he'd remain quiet in this moment. Valo's mind tried to very hard to make sense of it all, but was there any sense to make? "We will cut out the infection from this city, we will route the evil that has taken to our streets! Rise with me Zeltiva, rise up and shake the shackles of fear." Perhaps for his disguise to be successful, he had to appeal to the masses as a beloved hero. A clever trick, to hide in plain sight. This meant that no one would suspect him. thought the red haired artist as he listened with intent and a stern coldness in his eyes. Fists clenched, he was shaking ever so subtly, perhaps from the chill or perhaps from the rage that surfaced into his mind. A raging storm on the usually tranquil, if a little cluttered, lake of his thought. The crowd now cheered. Many yelled his mane in awe and no one took any notice of the poor widow who gazed at him in horror. Her husband's funeral had become a political rally and though she did not know of it, the very man who slew her husband was not the charlatan conductor. What cruel irony. "We will be greater than we are." However Valo remained cold and remained still. His posture unchanged by the 'inspirational' speech. His thought exploring the very last possibility. And suppose that the man's words were honest. That he wanted better for Zeltiva and like a phoenix under the evil's shroud, the city would rise from the ashes to become greater and stronger. But at what a cost? If the pestilence that plagued the citizens was an atrocity, than this man Wrenmae was a dark overlord who brought nothing but disease wherever he went and to whom ever he spoke. A man who's very soul was black as tar, who's very heart was rotten in the cavity of his chest.

[Miles]

As Miles finished handing his note off, a Waveguard began to speak. Miles took a moment on his way back to the shadowed places to really take note of those watching- those affected by this tragedy. Miles wondered how many of those gathered knew the deceased- how many had sat at his dinner table, or had carried his burdens. How many lives would be touched by the death of Kip.

He did not see the Waveguard approach, but when he turned his eyes back upon the stage, his chest seized with tension.

"My people!"

He carried himself as a cut above the other Waveguard, his booming voice carrying out through the crowd. He spoke of Kip as if they had been good friends, as if the death was taken personally at first, and then transformed the meaningful remembrance into a rather electrifying rant on Zeltiva's strength and potential. Miles had barely noticed the shift- the crowd went from a group of broken men and women victimized by the monster fear to a mob of outrage- amidst that outrage was a spark of hope- maybe Zeltivans were strong enough to handle this crisis. Miles swept his gaze along the crowd once more to see the hopeful faces, and froze on one.

The red hair gave him away. Amidst the hopeful and intent faces, Valo's stuck out like an infected wound. It was twisted with disgust, colored with heat and his eyes blazed with passion. He looked more than overcome with grief- it was as if the inspiration the man speaking wished for had turned to something dark in Valo's heart. It was hard to imagine the man he met having any dark or malicious feelings before that moment, but there was little mistaking it. There was hate in Valo's gaze- hate directed at the speaker.

Miles owed the artist for charity offered him during a rough time, and Miles would return the favor. Valo needed council- in the man's own words "loneliness and seclusion when in pain, can frequently result in the most terrible of thoughts. Often I find, that a good conversation can prove a temporary medicine, quite similar to that of turning back the hands of time. Perhaps after escorting this lady to a medic, a conversation would be what you're in need of."

Debts weighed heavily on Miles as he watched his friend in such peril. He would reciprocate the kindness Valo demonstrated to him in the weeks past. Miles kept an eye on him to seek him out after the service was concluded.

[Philomena]

Minnie took deep, slow breaths, stilling her heart. She squeezed the Librarian's hand back, and felt something to it, just a... a certain waxy quality, a rough oily quality. She drew a deeper breath and her eyes opened now.

It had been only three days before that she had been interrupted on her way up to her flat by her landlady. The woman had chattered and chattered - as she grew older, the old tailor grew more loquacious as well. Minnie hardly heard her anymore, she had learned it was better this way. The woman gave the sort of conversation in which interaction was easily confused with interruption. Minnie drifted mindlessly, her hand on the railing, smiling blandly.

"...but of course, its a grand think my Harrison, he's out to sea. He won't be catching this plague, thank the Gods. Not like that last time, hem?"

Minnie had started at the time, realizing what the woman referred to, to the 'last time', to the time when the tailor's son, Harrison, had been a mere child, to the time when the plague had come. From Lanie, Lanie who had crouched there in Minnie's room, years ago, the mark of Vayt on her infecting the city at large.

It would be inaccurate to say that some part of Minnie's heart had not thought of Lanie from the first reports of sickness in the city. And yet... she had pushed the idea down with obliterating force,, had steadfastyl ignored the nagging voice that murmured 'Lanie is here. Lanie is here. This is Lanie's doing.'

And now, sitting in this funeral, feeling the librarian's hand, she recognized it - that waxy, pallid roughness, that slight oily feeling. It had been the feeling of the baby's hand, those long years ago, just... just the beginning of the feeling, before little Gypa had grown as desperately ill as he eventually became. She looked sideways at the Librarian, trying not to be obvious, looked at her cheeks - they bloomed with the cold in a way that made them hard to read. At her lips. At her eyes. She looked... so well. And yet those hands. Those terrible hands.

*I am Wrenmae, son of Alvadas...*

The words rung out with a force of voice tinged with hypnotic power, carrying something with them that crawled into Minnie's mind - anger, pride, joy. And the complex of these emotions, and the ring of that name, that name that had been a secret, that she thought was written nowhere but the books in her own flat and the tablets of her heart, all these combined to leave her feeling sick.

//I'm going mad. I'm going mad. This is not happening.//

And so, in her mind, it didn't.

In a sense, it could be described quite clinically, perhaps, by one who studied the human mind. Minnie possessed a strong streak of disassociation, already, visible in her pathological code-switching, in her wavering from deep, emotional connection to cold, sterile detatchment. This was simple for the cogs of her brain - the moment need simply be compartmentalized and put away in its box, and the box slid into that part of her brain that the brain itself avoided.

But Minnie was not a clinical girl, and in her subconscious, the process was more violent, a sort of nauseating cut, a surgical slice of the tumor of thought.

//Take it away, take it away, that name cannot be here. No. No. No. You're being stupid, look at him? He's just some man. A Wave Guardsman. Forget him, you are not thinking of him at all. You are thinking of Lanie. You are hearing what you wish to hear.// The echoing shadows of half thoughts cut, and cut, and cut. She dropped the librarian's hand, and her eyes closed, opened, closed, opened, slowly. Slowly. Slowly.

[Paragon]

Philomena

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Observation	1
Rhetoric	3
Philosophy	2

Lores

•	Lore Earned
•	A Zeltivan Funeral
•	"The Earth, the suckler's breast; the Earth, the final bed."
•	Kip Drawlins (Wave Guard)
•	Seeing Mara Capinsal Cry
•	Conflicted Suspicions

Wrenmae

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Hypnotism	1
Rhetoric	3
Persuasion	3
Acting	1

Lores

•	Lore Earned
•	A Zeltivan Funeral
•	Kip Drawlins (Wave Guard)
•	Rallying for a Cause
•	Crowd Hypnotism

Legend Becomes Reality

Beautiful! Valo, Miles: Let me know if you decide to return to activity and I can add in your grades. If you have any questions or concerns regarding your grade, please send me a PM and we can work from there.