RP:Cold Lazarus
Part of the Rise of Larket Arc
Summary: Frostmaw hosts a massive funeral service in honor of their fallen at the Battle for the Bridge. Larket, too, is recognized. High Priestess Leone performs the rituals as hundreds of corpses burn in cold pyres. Lionel delivers the eulogy, and Macon has words as well. Two embittered countries look forward to an uncertain future.
Frostmaw: Middle of Town
Leone :: The Middle of Town is drastically changed from day to day operations. Rather than a wide avenue with stores along either side, the roadway is now a makeshift crypt. Down the center of the road lay the bodies of the fallen atop a continuous, low platform. Each form is placed upon a thin, white cushion. The platform has a covering of sticks and twigs beneath. Each of the warriors' corpses has been washed, clothed, and swaddled in gauzy muslin that obscures body and face. The scent of rose hips, cedarwood, and myrrh seeps through the area. Steep bleachers crafted of ice and snow rise to the north and south, leaving generous aisles between the mourners and the funerary suttee. Regalia, bunting, and banners marking the ceremony as both Frostmawian and Aramonthian have been omitted, out of respect for the wounded and dead on both sides of the former fray. Villagers have already taken up residence in the benchrows, most of them clad in white. The far-off sound of music causes the din of the villagers and attendees to quiet.
Raphaline is dressed in all white. Normally dressed in colors, she either looks very somber or more like a creature of snow. All day she has been debating on what to sing for the funeral, and it isn’t until she runs across a song she had found in a book of Frostmawian songs, that she had found it. So, as the procession begins, her hood up to help stave off the cold winds, she takes in a deep breath and allows her voice to carry over the crowd watching. “The wintry west extends his blast, and hail rain and does blow, the stormy north send driving forth the blinding sleet and snow. The joyless winter day, as the tempest howl, it soothes my soul as my grief it seems to join. Shall the fallen come to rest.”
Grailan :: It had been close to a year. Perhaps longer. In the afterlife, time is a much less discernable thing especially to those that are blessed or cursed with timelessness. A year is both a second, and an eternity, simultaneously, every moment separate from one another and disjointed like some fractured schism -never quite whole. It was throughout that that not even a moment was wasted since Grailan breasted the threshold between the plane of the dead and that of the living, in order to save his beloved Leone from the clutches and throes of death so long ago. Not one passing moment wasted in his search and journey to return to her. That long torment, that impossibly-construed amount of time, both lacking definition and drifting into abstract, is now coming to an end. It is not quiet. It is not loud. First it is the soft crunch of booted feet atop snow that simply appear, as if beholden to some unseen man, at an even gait aimed perpendicular in apparent course to intersect the procession. Then it is the snowflakes and white flurries suspended in the air and forming the vague and obscurred visage of a man.
Macon , at the suggestion of Josleen, attends this mass funeral alongside her. The King of Larket, as usual for official events, is inside his specialized armor and balances the heavy marble crown of The Hard City atop his head. He still sports a bit of a limp from the injuries he suffered during the battle the deceased met their ends in. The future Queen of Larket is dressed appropriately for the occasion and in Frostmawian style (read warmly). The pair is accompanied by a quartet of Larketian Kingsguard, none of which participated in the battle at the bridge. Those guys have earned a rest. Upon arrival the couple separates so that Josleen can move about and offer condolences where they are required from The Thane of Frostmaw, leaving Macon to field the glares he is surely receiving from many in attendance.
Leone is behind Raphaline along the processional. She is, likewise, dressed in white. The High Priestess has donned mammoth fur robes to perform the rites. There is a sterling silver censer in one hand. The odor of myrrh floods out of bowl, blue-grey flames leaping and dancing over the surface. Curiously, the blaze does not flicker with the icy winds as they sweep down the road. A carved horn, filled with meade, is clutched in the other. As the procession approaches the center of the enormous pyre, the priestess halts, and dutifully awaits the last strains of Raphaline's dirge. Satisfied that the half-elf has finished her song, the priestess stoops, pressing the hoary, azure flame to the kindling beneath the platforms. It ignites a reaction that is almost instantaneous, and propels a flash of blue flame the entire length of the platform. As the bodies burn, the cleric recites, "We honor those who fought and died. We honor those who sacrified their lives on the field of battle. We burn their remains so that their souls may continue into the grey plane and feast in the halls until they are called upon again to fight for the end of worlds. We pay tribute with meade and song, so that all of their days are filled with feasting and festivities." The divine woman then flings the contents of the horn across the burning dead in an arc, earning hisses and smoke from the mysteriously cold fire.
Hudson arrives with Alvina, late. Hudson, for his part, had not really wanted to come. First, he's tired because their children colluded to scream in the middle of the night every 1.5 hours. Second, funerals are a bummer, and this is a funeral of a bunch of people they didn't really know personally. Third, they're going to park their kids with his mum for an hour and... use that precious time to drop in on a funeral? Is this a joke! Apparently it's not. They are here. Alvina has baby barf on the shoulder of her dress, but he doesn't want to point it out because they'd quarreled and are both in a bad mood now, using the funeral as an excuse not to talk. They stand along the edges of one of the clumps of villagers.
Alvina of course doesn't notice this about her dress because Hudson had been cursing the whole time she'd been dragging him into the carriage to leave his mother's house. What if Harper has some amazing bowel movement and he's not there to appreciate it?! It's very much like having a third child...and by the time they are out of the carriage, witnessing the procession, she has all the grace and patience of a wet cat. Her hair is dirty, thrown up into some messy bun thing (because that's what the kids are doing these days to look cool or posh or whathaveyou) and her dress is really two sizes too big since her stomach has gone down a bit...what with the having the babies and all that noise. She really didn't want to come either because she knew of course that Lionel would be here. On top of that, spending their precious freetime doing something that wasn't sleeping felt like a sin. They would be punished, by the Gods or Hudson's mother when they got back. Thankfully the babies didn't know how to do any alchemy, could not set anything on fire, and could be handled by the Author with ease. She made it look like...child's play (Oh my yes, Alvina thought this terrible pun and couldn't even enjoy it. It's a crime really). She managed to catch a glimpse of Josleen, surrounded by Kingsguard and nodding solemnly to those she speaks with. Hardly the time to barge over and say 'Oh I've missed you, let's get lunch sometime'. Hudson is grumbling beside her. She elbows him to pay attention and at least look like he's sad so many people died. Raphaline's song can be heard clearly from their position in the pack (which says a lot since they are towards the very back of the crowd).
Lionel is at the forefront of a legion of soldiers and he is utterly conscious of the myriad eyes cast upon him. This procession is somber; an entire city, mourning the dead. Some gathered here in the bleachers will resent that Larketians will be recognized in the slaughter, but Lionel will pay that mentality no heed -- aye, he brought that death upon them, but he will brook no quarter in honoring them. Although those bodies are Larket’s to burn or bury, they will be remembered here tonight nevertheless. His black silk is dress shirt and matching slacks, a signature style, are discarded in favor of simple whites. It is the color of funerals here in this kingdom of snow. Born in Catal, traveler and flawed hero of Lithrydel, Lionel is Frostmawian today. Some will stare in narrowed view, scrutinizing their former Knight-Commander for losing lives. With Queen Hildegarde’s decree of his demotion, public opinion is divided on the man. Yet others will still look with reverence -- and Lionel is uncertain which feels less comfortable. In any case, the Catalian can feel those stares begin to leave him as King Macon and his future queen, Josleen, come into view. Quiet murmurs are numerous enough to seem like a din of discontent, but Lionel purses his lips, and the ruckus subsides. Raphaline’s song, lifted across the city streets and heard by all, becalms. As the procession nears the columns and row of the fallen -- oh, too many by far! -- Lionel steels himself, clenches a white-gloved fist, and breathes. The battalion behind him slows and then halts. Frostmaw’s army becomes unmoving, unflinching as the very mountain this nation rests upon. And then it happens. Leone’s rites. The High Priestess’ rites. The words, ancient and glorious, and the fire which burns eternally. The cold fire which rips through and casts. Lionel, ahead at the far end of those columns and those rows, with soldiers on either side of him holding flagged halberds in honor. In the distance, in that crowd, he espies Valen. The vampire appears reverent and bold. Lionel has no time even to nod. Beyond him and to the east, there is Alvina. In his gaze, she is beautiful, no matter the state of her hair. Secretly, his heart aches anew, and it threatens to beat erratically, but again, he does not have time.
Lionel has time only to speak. “Someone once told me understanding is a three-edged sword.” A brief flicker to Raphaline, then to the burning dead, then to Macon himself. Then back to the audience. “Your side. Their side. And the truth.” Lionel bites his lip, sighing. “I don’t buy it. What happened eight days ago between our two countries, Frostmaw and Larket, is a tragedy. It isn’t about sides. It isn’t about some distant universal truth. It’s about understanding. Today, we gather to understand that over a thousand souls fell at the Battle for the Bridge. Today, we recognize that each and every one of them died fighting for what they believed in. I shoulder the burden for this loss. I remember them, every last one, as best I can. We will memorize their laughs, their smiles, their tears.” Someone’s face begins to form in Lionel’s mind’s eye. “All of them touched at least one of us in some way.” He swallows hard, arching his back to gain greater posture against the growing weight he feels in his chest. “We try to be remember them all evenly, but it’s mortal nature to grow fonder for some than others. Among the dead here tonight, Briar Ku Risu is that someone for me. She was twenty-seven. A native. Bold, yet kind. I don’t know who she was before she served the queen. I don’t know her story. I wish I did. The world is dimmer without her.” At last he unclenches his fist. “We remember.” It’s spoken like a promise. The floor is now open to any who wish to speak.
Macon makes his way to the forefront where Lionel has just spoken and then opened the floor. The Kingsguard charged with protecting the monarch peel off and stand at attention as he nears the focal point of the ceremony. His presence alone, as he stands there glaring at the crowd as one would expect a Rage Knight to, likely silences the crowd. He doesn't have anything prepared, but the death knight really never does. He glances towards Lionel, who killed so many Larketians so very recently and just barely maintains his stone expression before looking out at those gathered as a whole again. “It is a great honor…” his voice is a loud growl that projects outward powerfully for all to hear, “...in Frostmaw, The City of War, t’die in battle.” His slate stare finds Josleen in the crowd and fixes on her for some time, “This is true for Larket as well. Today we celebrate their glory and remember their lives, but tomorrow we will begin t’forget them. We can't help it…” this perhaps contradicts what Lionel has just said, but the killing shows no remorse. “What we can help is knowing that each of these warriors and all of the fallen Larketians died in a battle tha’ led t’peace. We can rest now because of them. Do -not- waste this peace. It is rare. Especially here. Remember them, forget them, it doesn' matter. Do not waste them.” At some point in all that growling and shouting his eyes left The Thane and scanned the crowd again, and now that he is abruptly finished he turns and exits the spotlight the way he came into it.
Grailan :: The recognition of funeral rites pulsed through the god-forsaken creature, who, damned in sin, knew that they were not for him. He knew they were not able to deliver him to any sort of afterlife. But there is solace present here in the form of a person. His form ripples from being made apparent by the accumulation of snowflakes to an ethereal and ectoplasmic, phantasmal blue, practically incorporal and shimmering as the Dread Knight pushes forward. Every step has that wispy incorporeality being pulled away from manifested solidity; solid black armor like the deepest of obsidians, pale, bloodless face etched in an eternal look of sorrow and sadness from cold, cloudy and lifeless gray eyes. Long, dead locks of white were pulled at by the whipping winter winds, and from his form an oppressive aura of despair.
Alvina has a hushed argument with Hudson while Lionel is addressing the large crowd gathered. They exchange exhausting insults and she rolls her eyes dramatically. This is typical. Her fuse is also a little shorter than usual. They really share equal blame here but there's no way she'll ever entertain that idea. In her mind, it's all his fault, and it will always be this way. "This is a funeral, for Sven's sake, not a rock concert!" She hisses, trying not to look in the direction of any Frostmaw soliders for no reason whatsoever. "No, just, go. Go." The bard, dressed in her two sizes too large white dress and cloak, weaves inbetween new onlookers and attendees with the most embarrassed expression a woman can have. Once she's on the outskirts of the crowd, she hails a carriage and turns around sharply, waiting for Hudson to resign to his fate and get in the carriage with her. So much for trying to spend two seconds being proper adults, that do things like attend funerals without their children. Alvina wonders if it would have gone worse if they'd actually brought the little tyrants. Take a bow, Laidon, you got everything you ever wanted. And more. Hudson parks himself grumpily on the opposite side of the carriage and Alvina casts one more gaze out at the crowd. Thousands of people died so Hudson could be upset about attending a funeral. Talk about perspective. The procession vanishes from the carriage's rear view, and they are back on their way to the Fort to relieve E.L....less than an hour into their baby freedom. Macon's speech completes it's booming just as they are out of sight.
Raphaline stands dutifully by her friend (Leone) as the rites are performed. Not much a religious woman herself, she can appreciate the structure and honor of such things so when he song ends and the voice beside her begins to speak, she clasps her hands before her and peers out over the fire with solemn eyes. There hasn’t been time for her to glance around at who is there, but she can hear voices and feel the presence of both villager and otherwise. When Leone finishes her prayer, the bard cants her gaze towards her as she silently raises a gloved hand and places it gingerly a top the other woman’s shoulder. It was an honorable rite, and she knew that those who had sacrificed could move on to wherever they may go in peace.
Maledict walks into funeral area wearing his most formal attire. It seems he is late though, he does not know why he even came to the funeral for soldiers he did not know that died in a war that never affected him.Though because he planned on attending the wedding he thought it would be right to attend both ceremonies.He tries to not interrupt or draw to much attention by quietly slinking into the crowd, even if that may be a difficult feat given his only formal attire is gold laced, but with the King of Larket speaking he doutes it will be to hard to try and meld with the crowd.
Leone lingers only long enough to hear Lionel's speech. She begins to move as soon as the former Knight Commander exits the podium. A smile is presented to Raphaline, a brief, glowing review of approval of the bard's song choise and execution. The sacred smith takes several steps backwards until she's in the midst of that unsettling, undead aura. The petite plover waits for the black armor to emerge, the silver-white hair to appear, before she presses her side against the dark paladin. She lists, allowing her body weight to rest upon the strength and frame of Grailan. A milky white hand, tipped with blackened fingers reaches across her own body to splay and rest against the dread knight's chest(plate). And then, her attention is returned to Macon who has finished his speech and exited.
Josleen before and after the ceremony and eulogy, Josleen greets dignitaries and defeated military officers, consoling them whether or not they want to be consoled by the Thane. Some do, some don't. Some see her willingness to marry King Macon as a service; others, as betrayal. She greets them all the same, pausing only out of respect for Leone, Lionel, and Macon's speeches. She listens and applauds each. During Macon's, she meets his gaze under the assumption that he speaks to her as a mental exercise to keep himself from shouting. Without realizing she's doing it, she also parses his speech for connotation, word choice, phrasing, tone. Strongest feedback: growl less, smile more, know your audience. Why all this talk of fallen Larketians?! If she has any criticisms of King Macon's speech, you'd be hard pressed to guess it. She holds her chin high, applauds first and loudest, smiles with pride. Wonderful speech!, her performance says. Having greeted soldiers, she moves on to personal friends: Alvina, Hudson, air kisses and hugs for both. Josleen asks about the babies, earnestly interested in every detail. Harper made a fist! Luna grabbed Harper's blankey! She spends some time with them, cooing at the baby stories and wishing she had some of her own. Josleen's ancient yearning for children of her own comes roaring back. The couple soon leaves and Josleen returns to Macon's side. Throughout the funeral, the Thane has tried to appear politely distant from Macon, lest any Frostmawians be offended by her closeness to him. But, having just been bit by the baby bug, she can't help the sparkle in her eye as she beholds him, briefly, before remebering herself and looking away.
Lionel cannot help but brace as Macon speaks. He is standing here not so far from the man whose blade he locked with. He is standing here not so far from the man whose life he tried taking, who tried taking his in earnest. He is standing beside a suspected death knight, or worse, but Josleen’s past conversations on the subject ring in Lionel’s ears and everything feels like a cloud of doubt. There’s too much confusion; the realm cannot get the relief it needs. All along the bleachers, the crowd stands strong. Unbowed and unbent. Frostmaw remains unbroken. “Go in peace,” Lionel whispers to a nearby soldier as he burns. It is not Briar, but in dark truth he has no idea where her corpse is kept. They’re all ashes now -- or near enough. Dozens speak, reciting loved ones. They talk of sons, daughters. Husbands, wives. They weep. The night wears on and the light of the moon wanes; everything is dark, but for the last of Leone’s embers. The battle, and now its aftermath, have ended. The wedding, the ‘peace’, is what remains.
Grailan :: Dead eyes show no emotion but the cloudy haze of lifelessness and gray as they slide over the present, as the dread knight's face remains trapped in sadness that makes it all too appropriate to be among the mourning. Yet still, his arm finds itself around the petite plover, his body finds itself easily supporting the light, weary weight of the divine servant. "They cry," he murmurs to her, his voice like several voices displaced, as if reaching a grand distance to emit, "but I see the dead souls, and they are peacefully passing." He turns her, twists, and lifts her from her feet, cradling the plover in his arms as he begins to carry her away, gray lips twitching at the corners in defiance of his sadness.
Raphaline does not hinder the plover from leaving, but she has not quite decided where from here she wants to go. She hears the words of others speaking, one of which being the king of Larket, but she isn't really paying attention. Her worry though is on those who were closely involved with the battle on the Frostmaw side. She gazes up from beneath her white hood and looks to Lionel, her emerald eyes full of concern. When it seems as if those who have said their peace are beginning to leave, she moves through the crowd until she is at his side. Gently, she presses a hand to his shoulder but remains silent.
Macon has grown used to and good at the charade of distance between himself and Josleen in the month and a half or so that it was required. He steals glances her way every so often when possible, doing his best to look at her without looking at her. Otherwise he occupies himself with quick conversations with those in attendance, most of them with anti-Larketian or anti-Fury Knight undertones that he skillfully ignores to play his part as a peaceful foreign ruler. The counterparts of his chats are mostly Frost Giants and the four Kingsguard are nearby and vigilant, but not on edge, having some faith in the Rage Knight to keep things civil.
Lionel is surrounded by dozens of soldiers -- veritably enveloped -- as Raphaline approaches him. None can see him but the soldiers and his friend. Her shoulder startles him, but he remains composed. He feels odd, here in all white, watching those final embers. “Well, we can scratch that off the itinerary.” His voice is hollow; clearly, he is far grimmer than all this. But at least it is finished now. “I need a drink. A strong drink with room for another.” He nods, turning to Raphaline even as the crowd around them begins to clear with similar thoughts in mind. “Join me if you like. I wish Brand were here. Rorin, Krice, any of ‘em. But I can’t see the tavern being anything less than packed, regardless.” He eyes the dead, one last time. He will not forget. “I’m sorry, Briar.” He pauses. “I’m so sorry.”