A Shallow Grave

[CoconutKing]

https://i.imgur.com/V3lBxwc.png
Kendra? It's your father.
(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCE3DIRtqlw&index=9&list=PLE4A0595A547BDB28)

When you first heard the sound of the quiet, but consistent wind chimes that were hung upon the groomed and trimmed edges of the horse carriage that was to take you to the famously inconspicuous town of Ravengro from Canterwall, it had been of little interest, not when you had such concerns as the event for which you raced to the queer community near the treacherous borders of Belkzen. But as the hours had passed, and its rattling had failed to cease, or even allow itself to drown into the constant and uninterrupted clopping of the horses' long gallop, it had become something more. Even when looking around to see your fellow passengers and event-goers sitting, bored, inside the wooden carriage, their elbows leaning against some rusted iron hedging on part of the seats, you can't tell if the others can hear it the way you can, or if they're affected by it in any way. Perhaps you're bad at reading faces, or maybe you don't care. What matters more is the incessant tinkling of the wind chimes had gone from barely heard, to a minor annoyance, to the sole sound for which you had developed a great hatred on the trip. It screamed, again, and again, and again. Its silvery cylinders clanked against each other, standing out against the pitch black of the outside like a full moon in a starless night. Clink... clink... clink..., it went, over... and over... and over... until you had begun to feel as though you could no longer take it. Reaching for it would take but a second, to grasp its metal body and crush it in your hand, whether it be a weak or strong one, would take so little effort.

Right as you find yourself bringing yourself out of the imprint of your body in the hardened cushions of your seat to thrash the annoyance out of your sight, you are stopped, by way of the carriage stopping, throwing you back into your seat if you were leaning forward. "We're here. Get out." snaps a gruff, scrambled voice, nay, a sound from the front, followed by a whinnying of the horses. Rudely, the door of the carriage smashes open, being pulled out of closure faster than you could've imagined the old, cancerous and cantankerous old man who was your driver could've ever gotten to it. There he was, gravely staring down each and every single one of you with eyes whose directions seemed to look at you, but yet... also through you. Almost like two, yellowed glass eyes, they seem, until they twitch and tumble to the left, as though to indicate for you to remove yourselves from his premises.

As soon as you exit, you realize the horses have begun galloping again, eagerly speeding their way down the road, where they are swallowed by the bare mist that surrounds you, the result of an afternoon shower nobody had predicted. In front of you lies an odder sight, one of a refined young woman in a red dress, made of rare velvet and a corset of which lace is a favored component. It's not this that most likely brings your attention, but rather the striking similarity in her face to the man for whom you are here.

A dead man.

Petros Lorrimor, once an esteemed professor of Lepidstadt, was the oddest man you ever knew. Whether as your lover, or as your adviser and helper, he had the oddest habit of caring for you in the most distant of ways, becoming attached to you despite constantly seeming as though he never cared, and chasing after conspiracies, myths, and histories that had no right to exist. So, when a request for you to be present at his funeral, of all things, came to you, you were possibly to be unsure of its sincerity. And why not? The man was old, in his fifties as far as you were aware, but in the picture of health. Not one hair on his head ever came close to falling off when you knew him, and he lived with a vigor rarely seen in men his age.

Never the less, you have decided to appear, for the promise of appearing in his will, or to lay rest to a man you held close as a lover, friend, or rival.

"I'm... Kendra Lorrimor. I am glad that you have come. We are about to appoint Pallbearers for... for Father." breaks through a reluctant and slow voice, fraught with equal parts grief, anxiety and curiosity. It appears you are alone with her, though others are clearly near the casket at which she points, down a path next to a sign labeled "The Restlands".

[Kvard51]

"It's true, then..." Harsk shoulders sag, just for a second, as he realizes his old mentor is actually dead. As he straightens himself, he looks intensely at the woman before him. The Professor had never mentioned a daughter, but really, why would he? Your conversations had been focused, neither of you really giving awy personal details. In fact, it was Lorrimor was the one who started you down the path you were following today.

Stepping forward, Harsk takes Kendra's small hand in his huge one. "Well met, lady. The Professor was a good man, and a friend. I would be honored to stand for him today, should you choose me."

[Hattish Thing]

Nylora:

The academic emerges slowly from within the depths of the rain-splattered stagecoach, wrapping her spidery digits around the handle to the stagecoach door. The woman instinctively taps her long, sharp nails against the metal of the door handle before turning her wrist, activating the mechanism before stepping onto the small platform attached to the stagecoach. After glancing down upon the filth and muck below, Nylora retrieves a thick black cloth from within her scholarly vest of a matching shade, allowing the cloth to fall to the muddy ground, soaking up a majority of the foul puddle below.

Confidently, Nylora steps out upon the cloth, her long, spindly limbs moving with an almost unnatural grace, her eerily slender form barely seeming to apply weight upon the cloth itself. Elegantly, the woman turns her head slightly, gazing imperiously towards the woman in the red dress. For a split second, Nylora's expression is one of stunned confusion and shock, before even this fades into a more predatory look. With a confident, yet subdued look of unmistakable and imperious superiority, Nylora steps forward towards Kendra, her bandaged hand behind her back.

With an extraordinary amount of grace, Nylora nods curtly towards Kendra, before reaching forward with her more intact hand, gently placing the supernaturally soft flesh of the palm of her right hand upon Kendra's face, a wanting expression upon her own. She tilts her head slightly before whispering softly to Kendra, "Ahh, you've your father's eyes..."

"Such an exquisite shade, ah, the shape of you! My, how you've grown. Do you remember me? You were so little then, so small."

"So young."

--

Nylora pulls away after a moment, glancing towards the funeral procession with a particularly grim expression upon her face.

[Xenopax]

The hunter slowly gets out of his seat after Everyone else. He stretches. It had been a long ride without any stops.
Internally he was quite surprised at te Old Man's death. He was sprightly and hadn't seemed sick in Anyway the last time he had seen him. But it had been a while. A year was plenty of time to get sick and die. However his Letters hadn't mentioned anything either. Maybe his daughter knew.
He grasps Kendra by the hand and gently says
"I am sorry for your loss. The Professor was an Esteemed Collegue and a dear friend of mine,"
He thinks for a second on how to make the next sentence sound better but decided to just go for it.
"May I see the Body? I wish to pay my respects,"

[Kiranvonstrom]

Czeslaw Wyklęci

Czeslaw is the next out of the crowded carriage, where he had been sandwiched between the titan of a half-orc and professor. The half-elf had been the first into the carriage, scurrying in to avoid sitting in the corner. The ride had not been kind to him, between the lack of space and the incessant clinking of the bells, and his tailored suit is somewhat rumpled from attempting to take up as little space in the carriage as he could. As he exists the carriage, a breeze catches the chimes, setting them to clink again before Czeslaw's slender pianist-fingered hand shoots out to quiet them.

By the standards of half-elves, Czeslaw is short, his silver hair kept neatly combed and his heart-shaped face recently and expertly shaved. From over a thin pair of wire-framed glasses he stares with too-green eyes unblinkingly out at the funeral procession. With the hand not quieting the chimes he reaches back into the carriage to retrieve a slim black cane with an ornate figural silver handle, a cane he doesn't seem to need for support so much as a fashion accessory. A small clink sounds as Czeslaw releases the chime and, with a small hop, he exists the carriage, landing on a relatively dry patch of dirt. Carefully, he navigates the side of the carriage door, carefully avoiding disturbing any of the puddles. Every one of his movements seems to be full of barely-contained energy, like he were constantly and consciously fighting the urge to sprint off.

From behind Czeslaw emerges a second passenger, a stocky red-faced Ustlavic man attired as a valet, holding a black woolen overcoat over one arm. He steps out of the carriage with no attempt at grace, sending out a splash as one good leather boot lands directly in the middle of a puddle. (Czeslaw's jaw tightens a bit, but he says nothing) Without a word, Boruta places the overcoat over Czeslaw's shoulders, and the half-elf busies himself with buttons as his manservant steps back to survey the proceedings.

Czeslaw's intense gaze turns to Kendra when she speaks, standing completely still in utter silence as she speaks. He nods, once, satisfied with Kendra's description of the situation, not wanting to remind her of the vicious argument that was the last time they had spoken. Despite what his family might say about the matter, there were times even Czeslaw knew not to ask questions.


I'll take Teal as my speech color.

[CoconutKing]

Though clearly shaken by the quick entry into the field by more of her fathers' kin than she'd expected to have crawled out of such a small carriage, Kendra manages a small smile as a response to the many, simultaneously arriving words of encouragement and sympathy. There's a kind of a broken, typically Ustalavic outlook in her face, one that speaks volumes more about her emotional state than what she would proceed to say could ever get across. To those who had never met her before this day, it appeared quite in line with the rest of those who surrounded them, fitting in with the way one would imagine the people of the world's most cursed nation would appear. But to those who had known her or ever seen her before... they would quickly realize that this funeral was not for one man, and one man alone.

Her eyes are red and puffy, but seem to still have the cutting edge you knew from the eyes of the Professor, the black of her iris glinting back at you when you make eye contact. It's unclear what kind of turmoil exists within her head after having seen many of you again, and others for the first time ever, but she tries to emulate the mood of some kind of gentle hostess, though she's clearly failing to do so. "I'm glad my father was so well loved for so many to have come such a long way for his funeral."

Her eyes glance over each one of you, proceeding down the formation as if trying to rack her mind about the identities of many. Her eyes flutter as she reaches Nylora, catching herself from letting this awkward social fumble from becoming any more apparent than it already was. She holds her composure, though even more unnerved than before. "Auntie... Nylora. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know such distance would've been difficult to cover, and I hope we can help each other through this trying farewell." she cautiously says, before her eyes take a suspicious sentry of the dark behind all of you. She then turns, facing to the side while looking at you, and curving her hand to point into the path into the Restlands. In the distance, you can see several lanterns piercing through the dark, just barely illuminating the dirt path leading up to the lantern. There are silhouettes of a horizontal coffin and a stocky man by the lantern, most likely the coffin of the late Professor himself.

[Hattish Thing]

Nylora:

While the others attending the funeral, including Kendra herself, look down in the rain with sorrowful expressions upon their faces, Nylora smiles softly, her sharp teeth glittering in the lantern-like. Although a hint of sadness is apparent upon her unnaturally perfect and umblemished flesh, if anything, Nylora appears relatively comfortable with the bleak atmosphere of the funeral.

Nylora pulls her hand away slowly from Kendra's cheek before placing it behind her back, standing tall and glancing down imperiously towards her "niece", an expression of what can only be described as an uncomfortable-looking attempt to convey sympathy. Ultimately, its rather unconvincing, but Nylora proceeds as if nothing was amiss.

She speaks softly towards Kendra, "It is not my preference to see to matters personally, no. However, I felt an exception ought to be made to my general rule, the situation being what it is."

"Your father was a brilliant man, you know how fond I was of him."

"Of you both."

[Kvard51]

Harsk ducks his head as Kendra's eyes pass over him. Unused to the attentions of the fairer sex, he is suddenly stricken with shyness. He manages to push words out in spite of his affliction, because of his love for the Professor.

"I could not have been anywhere but here, Lady. The Professor was worthy of any effort to say my goodbyes for a final time."

With that, he turns and begins walking towards the lanterns and the resting place of his mentor, head down.

[Xenopax]

It would have been a shame to my dignity and a slap in the face to the many years of friendship me and the good man shared if I had not come.
Todir played with a necklace that had come from the Professor in one of his first letters. It was supposed to ward off death and plague spirits. The old man should have kept it for himself.
He walks solemnly toward his friends coffin.

[CoconutKing]

Kendra, in the manners of trained Ustalavic decency, only bows in response to the others, bending low and spreading out the buffeted skirt of her dress by trims on both sides, signalling that she, as the primary mourner of the funeral, was going quiet. It was not a required part of the procedure, as you all knew of it in some way (though it's background was a bit more difficult for you to be aware of unless one knew the folklore of this backwards region of Ustalav fairly well), but it signified how much she cared for her loss. She would not be speaking for the remainder of the funeral. She then proceeds along the path at a brisk pace, catching up with Todir fairly quickly.

As the rest of you follow, the location from where the only light falls on the path becomes better and better lit to your eyes, reminding you that there appears to be a slight fog causing light in the dark night to be further suppressed. A most fitting night for such a loss, though one cannot help but feel that it seemed altogether too gloomy, too storybook perfect for it to be anything more than just a coincidence. As your group closes in, the figures in the dark become further apparent, shedding most qualities of the darkness as to become more human than shadow. Clad in a black shawl and plain robes etched with white sidings is a man that Czeslaw, Nylora, and Todir can all recognize as a frequent visitor to Lepidstadt to meet with the Professor, large quantities of paper always on hand. A priest, which is obvious from the way he dresses, one would imagine he is to officiate the funeral, considering the grim face he wields and the presence of an incredibly girthy, white clad text in the the clutches of a curled arm. Alongside him are two burly men, their muscles and chest hair bulging through skim-white transparent tops. In their hands are entirely wooden shovels with a large, clearly visible mark of a spiraling comet.

In between them lies the coffin, an open coffin in which lies great numbers of white, cushioning cotton, and a fair number of roses who have apparently begun to tinge with the colors of wilting. And, of course, the body of the once esteemed Professor Lorrimor, whose elegance and strength in life are reduced to the weak and atrophied state of decay that comes with death. A grim reminder that death waits for no one, not even the great. Clearly, his body is far better preserved than it should be given that his death occurred a week ago, but perhaps you ignore this fact, or chalk it up to "magic", or are simply aware of exactly the process of his preservation.


And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

"Ah, Kendra and my fellow mourners. My name is Father Grimburrow. The coffin has space for four pallbearers. The Professor's will requests that those of you who were listed separately, and were contacted separately, ought to be those who carry him. The rest of our man's friends wait at his dug grave, patiently standing as is custom. Who would like to take their place in delivering the man to his final resting place?" speaks the priest.

[Kvard51]

Harsk steps to the left rear corner of the coffin, ready to do the honor of carrying his mentor to his final rest. He looks at the others expectantly and waves them forward.

"I can carry the entire back end, if any of you need to double up on one of the front corners."

[Xenopax]

Todir moves to the front.
I will help carry him good father.
He turns to Harsk
You offer is appreciated, although I doubt it will be needed.
He looks for a second at Kendra, wondering whether the woman would help in the carrying of the coffin, before glancing away. Not his problem anyway.

[Hattish Thing]

Nylora:

With almost supernatural grace, the eerie academic performs the ritualistic funereal procedures perfectly, as would be expected from one with a background entrenched in ancient Ustalavic nobility. A slight smile forms upon her angular face, her sharp features enshrouded in mist as she steps forward, her sharp-toed heels somehow stepping upon the muddy surfaces of the ground without disturbing the puddles, providing the illusion of apparent weightlessness by cleverly spreading body weight throughout her lower body as she moves, signs of an excellent understanding of human anatomy.

Once the body of Professor Lorrimor is revealed, Nylora's customary sharp smirk fades away, replaced instead by one of genuine sorrow, a rare expression from the generally unemotional academic. She recognizes the gruff looking priest from her earliest days at the college, when she'd just met Lorrimor. The memory was a painful reminder of what once was, fortunately, the heavy rainfall masks the few tears shed by the academic as she stands in the midst of the storm, staring towards the corpse of the one person she'd ever felt any form of genuine attachment to.

Her discoveries came at a great personal cost. She wouldn't have had it any other way.

--

As the priest speaks, Nylora steps forward, her expression unreadable. She produces her black-bandaged hand, gesturing gracefully with a touch of the dramatic as she displays the palm of glass hidden within the bandages, rainwater dripping off of each of her four-inch long black nails, each finger and nail reinforced by a small system of glass pipework buried beneath the bandages.

Nylora reaches for the coffin, wrapping her hand around it tightly.

"Mm, despair has its own calms."

"I am ready."

[Kiranvonstrom]

Czeslaw stares at the body silently, green eyes unwavering from the corpse of his advisor and mentor. His features betray very little emotion, still as unnaturally still as the rest of him. He doesn't shed a tear, hardly something that anyone who knew him would comment on.

"So," Czeslaw speaks aloud, his voice quiet, with a slight stutter, "He's really dead," He hadn't really doubted it, but enough had happened in the past week that had caused Czeslaw to doubt his own senses that it was nice to have something reinforced. "I would be honored to carry Petros's coffin. Boruta, you should join the other mourners. I will be fine here,"

The other man retreats, leaving Czeslaw alone in the rain, departing to join the rest of the mourners at their traditional area.

[CoconutKing]

There's a surprised glance shared between Kendra and the priest as soon as tears appear in Nylora's eyes, but it is waved off quickly as both begin to assemble alongside the pallbearers of the funeral. The two diggers place themselves behind the group, while the priest opens his book, a Pharasmin book of hymns and prayers for the dead, out of which he takes out a noticeably fancy piece of paper and tucks into his robes in a swift, clear motion. He begins to chant, and motions for you to lift and follow as he continues down the dark path forward to the heart of the Restlands. The fog begins to thicken as you do, and the brushing trees close in on you as you advance

Kendra meet's Harsk's gaze for a second, and you swear that there's a flash of fear before it floods once more with a tear, but you're likely used to this. What, however, becomes more disconcerting to you is the sudden appearance of a clearance in the path, where there appears to be a crowd of men. In their hands, you can't quite make out what's there, but you can tell that they're metal from the glint of a lantern spilling across one of the blades into your eyes. You look around to the other pallbearers, who are all struggling to heft the surprisingly heavy coffin, and realize they are all aware of this unknown.

As you all enter the clearing, it becomes apparent that there are a dozen locals, six of whom stand in front armed with various farming tools brandished as though they were real weapons. Each looks strong from what is likely a lifetime of toil (though none match the sheer muscle-bound stature of Harsk), and grim with a surly expression of what can only be described as unsure hatred. The procession halts, blocked by this mob, and are suddenly confronted by the only man to come out of the mob to approach them. A wiry fellow, wearing an old dusty combat dress of the Ustalavic Principality's gendarme units, he seems as though he's about to speak with some dignity.

Instead, out comes a rapid advance of slurs. "THA'S FAH ENUF, BOYS." he screams, the veins in his wrinkled and heavily mole-apparent neck bursting out like the roots of a tree being removed from an ancestral ground. "We's deside' thas y'al ain't puttin' thas fookin' narcromancer in the Restlands! Yous can toss 'im in the rivah if y'like, but ee's not gettin' 'uried, thas fookin thas!"

Kendra rushes ahead of you, a worried emotion falling on her face faster than anything you've ever seen. Of all the things, she breaks her silence to scream back. "What are you talking about?" she yells, her voice crackling from worry into rage halfway through the sentence. "The Father and I arranged it!" she continues, now clearly furious about the men. The Father clears his throat in response, and some of the men in the back seems to lose their expressions and become even more unsure, but are pushed to the front within seconds by others.

The shouting match is continued by the veteran, who cuts off something Kendra before she can say another word to scream, louder than before, his voice now cracking "FOLKS BE PRETTY UPSER 'BOUT A NERCROMANCER BEIN' BURIED WIT' ARR DEAD! GIT-"


"NECROMANCY? ARE YOU REALLY SO FOOLISH, SO IDIOTIC, SO BLOODY IGNORANT OF WHAT MY FATHER DID FOR YOU?"

This sudden outburst from Kendra surprises everyone, but after a moment of an awkward silence passes, it appears the men with weapons are enraged, and are ready to attack.

[Hattish Thing]

Nylora:

The appearance of the angry mob breaks Nylora out of the nostalgic pseudo-trance she was experiencing as she walked along the mud-spattered path, the thick fog twirling about her, memories of better times with Lorrimor flashing through her head. Once her concentration is broken, the academic frowns deeply, grimacing a tad as the lantern-light reflects off of the number of rusted instruments wielded by the throng of townsfolk before her. Clearly frustrated by the appearance of the poorly equipped band of peasants, she carefully lets go of the handle upon the coffin.

With a sour expression upon her face, Nylora tightens her fingers over one another, a curious and vaguely painful-looking gesture. The somewhat ominously dressed academic cranes her neck forward, hands perfectly steepled as the leader of the angry mob continues to spout nonsense, before uncomfortably beginning to wring her black, rubbery glove against the bare flesh of her other hand, an unsettling motion made only more sinister by the tightening of the gloves over the Practitioner's long, spidery fingers.

After a moment, Nylora coughs politely before chuckling softly and condescendingly towards the man, a grating noise which drips with malice and genuine threat. She steps forward boldly towards the man, thoroughly confident. The doctor speaks, her tone authoritative and self-assured.

"Ah, look at you. Such a flawed creation, and yet here you stand, a man not worth the dirt he'll be buried in, making mockery of a man who's been called worse things by better people."

"You're not welcome here."

--

She continues, raising her un-gloved hand high into the air before grimacing slightly, raising her other as well. With a sadistic expression upon her face, Nylora clenches her bandaged claw of a hand into a fist, activating the small glass node contained within the palm of her bandaged limb.

Immediately, her healthier hand begins to rapidly decay, flesh sloughing as the limb darkens and shrivels, veins rupturing and nails cracking as her fingers contort, bits and pieces of necrotic flesh falling to the muck below. The degeneration continues for several seconds, black ichor seeping from the flesh as pustules form and burst, producing a nauseatingly wet noise, bones crunching and frothy blood spraying through the mist, coating the path below in a slick layer of vile looking fluid, all blood, pus, and fouler juices.

The remnants of her once-perfect hand appear as chunks of pus-encrusted flesh, hanging off of exposed bones in gorey flaps.

--

The doctor gestures towards the no doubt horrified mob leader with the remains of her unnatural hand, the flaps of flesh hanging off the blackened bones all covered with weeping sores and horrific, pus-spewing lesions suggestive of some kind of horrific disease, the remnants of necrotic flesh all mottled and foul, caked with vile fluids and drenched in gore.

"Flee, now, or I will unmake you, like so."

[Kvard51]

Harsk stares in shock at the chain of events unfolding before him. The massive monk moves to put the Professor's coffin even more bete\ween himself and Nylora. He turns to look at the others he had ridden to the funeral with, halfway expecting someone to grow an extra head or reveal themselves as bloodsuckers or what? The sense of relief that washes over him at seeing them still in their normal state retreats the moment his gaze returns to Nylora, replaced by utter horror.

[CoconutKing]

The display, as is the only accurate possible way to describe the moment of total fear that enveloped the crowd at that moment of Nylora's seamless transformations of her own flesh into a style of existence that had little ability to belong to the ways of the Material Plane and back to normality, seemed to completely toss the situation on its head. Not one person in the area of vision was left mentally unscathed, for it demonstrated Nylora's very own control over the matters of life in a most visceral and direct way, tapping into a primal fear of that which comes undone in the crowd. The first man to run, screaming bloody murder in terror, was the leader of the group. The rest of the others are not far behind, and all notice that Kendra herself struggles to hold her own screams back.

There is a long moment of uninterrupted silence after the last of the mob dissipates into the paths leading back to the town, oddly seeming glad as they are swallowed by the darkness that they rush right into. It it only broken by the sounds of footsteps, as the entire group begins to move forward in utter silence down the path, as though there were really no way to respond. The priest no longer chants, and there are no murmurs from the back. Only silence grabs a hold of the procession.

---

It takes several minutes of continuous, uninterrupted walking for those carrying the Professor's casket to reach the Restlands, which is heavily characterized by a much lighter atmosphere than the draping dark of the paths before. It's almost absurd, you think, that its the graveyard that provides the respite from the oppressive night, thanks to the almost abusive placement of several lanterns at each of the many gravestones pushed into the yard. The priest, knowing exactly where Kendra's bought plot is, takes the party along a brutally unmaintained path, which is only defined by having more grass on it than the rest of the muddy field has. At the plot, you find that there is a large rectangular hole already dug, but more importantly, a small podium lies at the hole's head, surrounded by a tiny tribe of humans, all dressed in black. Two appear to be dressed in governmental garb, while one bears the stench of a barkeeper and keeps a small child of seemingly 13 tugging right on his sleeve. The last one is a female with the smells of herbs and spices that one expects of an apothecary, and whom Nylora recognizes as an... old friend of Lorrimor's. Each introduces themselves quietly, unaware of the issues that prevailed only moments ago, as being Councilman Vashian Hearthmount, Councilman Gharen Muricar, tavernkeeper Zokar Elkarid with his 13-year old
son Pevrin, and Jominda Fallenbridge respectively.

The readopted silence of Kendra is not broken, as the main priest of the town arrives, called Priest Grimburrow, stepping up to the podium almost immediately. With a thud, he drops a large book of prayers onto the podium, and begins to chat, his monotone voice droning on about the prayers for the dead for a few minutes in a language none of you really quite understand, either from the man's old age caused lisp, or if the language is actually unknown in nature. Suddenly, he stops, and beckons for the pallbearers, who are now beginning to struggle with the weight being held for so long, to finally lay the professor to rest. Kendra chokes back tears in the back, making the first sounds after a long period of utter silence. As the task is done, the priest steps away from the podium, calling out:

"To most trusted attendees, I invite you forward to share with us your stories of knowing the fallen, to let us remember the great things we've seen with he who has passed."

[Hattish Thing]

Nylora:

As the mob begins to disperse out of fear, Nylora cackles quietly, clenching her decayed hand into a fist. Once the gathering of peasants has more or less fallen apart, the academic flourishes with her other hand, still wrapped all in dark bandages and glasswork. In an instant, positive energy begins to flow through the necrotic fist.

Immediately, flesh begins to knit together, layers of skin bubbling into creation, veins glowing a bright white light as they pulse with positive energy. Within seconds, the entirety of the limb had been fully rejuvenated. Nylora waggles her freshly regenerated hand before the academic resumes her position beside the coffin, staring forward.

Sensing the awkwardness, she merely mutters over her shoulder towards the others.

"Shall we, then?"

--

Once she's called upon by the aged priest, Nylora steps forward, grimacing slightly as she looks on over the others gathered. With a prying expression upon her face, the academic rests her long, sharp nails against the sides of the podium, clacking the sharp nails against the wood for several moments as she stares down at the coffin before her.

Finally, she speaks, her voice low and harsh.

"When I consider the magnitude of the subject which I am to discuss before each of you-a subject, in which the interests, not just of this old soul standing before you, nor of the souls of those dearest gathered about, but of the souls of all who were graced by his presence, and of posterity and legacy, are involved: and when I think, at the same time, on the weakness of the advocate who has undertaken this great cause-when these reflections press upon my mind, it is impossible for me not to feel both terrified and concerned at my own inadequacy to such a task."

"Swallowed by my fear, by sensations of utter insufficiency, I stand here, gazing upon the faces of all who once knew the man. "I am unworthy of such an honor", I think to myself."

"But when I reflect, however, on the encouragement which I have had, through the whole course of a long and laborious examination of the man, of noble Petros, and how much candor I have experienced, and how conviction has increased within my own mind, in proportion as I have advanced in my fields of study-when I reflect, especially, on those many years spent together, youth expended within darkened laboratories and expansive libraries;-when I turn myself to these thoughts, I take courage-I determine to forget all my other fears, and I march forward with a firmer step in the full assurance that my cause will bear me out, and that I shall be able to justify upon the clearest principles, every resolution in my hand, that there are none who yet live who knew the man as well as I."

"I knew Petros Lorrimor to be a great man, a good man."

"Too good."

[Ilorin Lorati]

Modeya (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1602602)
F Liminal Death Druid, Level 1, Init 3, HP / , Speed 20
AC 16, Touch 13, Flat-footed 13, CMD 15, Fort 3, Ref 3, Will 6, CMB +2, Base Attack Bonus 0
Club +2 (1d6+2, x2)
Shortspear +2 (1d6+2, x2)
Sling (10) +3 (1d4+2, x2)
Leather Armor, Light Wooden Shield (+2 Armor, +1 Shield, +3 Dex)
Abilities Str 14, Dex 16, Con 12, Int 12, Wis 18, Cha 8
Condition None

Modeya remembered clearly where she was when she first heard word of the professor's passing; travelling the road west from the Old Capital of Ardis, she came upon a messenger meant for her - bound, beaten, removed of almost almost all possessions save for the lone letter stuffed within his shirt and the countenance of an angry spirit who refused to give up on the world. Rennas, he had called himself; in life, he had known his attacker, and in death he raged at himself for having grown so trusting in his middle age even as the memory of his attacker's face faded from his mind. The attack, she surmised, had been made to look like a robbery.

He needed justice, or perhaps revenge, and so she vowed that whoever did this would pay. Time would tell if it was the work of the law or the work of her hand.

She buried the body, performed the rites - he was a follower Kurgess, she found, and buried him accordingly - and set back off towards the small town of Ravengro once more. She had looked forward to speaking with her old friend, but now she had a much more somber task ahead of her...

~~~

The druid had not taken a place at the casket as one of the pallbearers - her own choice, being unsure if she would be able to keep the tears from flowing if she had taken that task upon herself. The man had never seen her cry before, even in the darkest of her times, and the 'young' druid refused to let him or his daughter from seeing him now. She had known Kendra since the girl was a child, and it would just not do for a priest so steeped in death to cry over this loss.

She was not going to allow anyone from letting her speak, however, and as soon as this Nylora was finished and made her way off of the podium, Modeya took the steps up onto it. At first glance, what the others see might be monstrous in its own right - the pale faced woman, dressed in simple clothing, could be easily confused for a vampire and a dhampir - though she had been around the village quite enough to have proven, time and time again, that she was nothing of the sort. Whatever supernatural blood flowed through the woman's veins, it was not of undeath.

"Professor Lorrimor was always a man marked by his curiosity, and his willingness to share the fruits of his labors with those who needed it. It was under these circumstances, one score years ago, that I initially met with the man whom I would eventually come to call a dear friend, and it is no exaggeration to say that the knowledge he shared with me has saved my life on more than one occasion."

The woman continues speaking for another few minutes, sharing a few short snippets about the man's life as she knew it, ranging from the man's sense of discovery and a contagious thrill he shared with those who had the pleasure to know him when he was on that path, as well as examples where those qualities shone through. Recognizing that she had started to drag on too long, eventually the apparently young woman rounded her monologue out:

"The professor's legacy is not one of one grand, world changing creation; no, instead he touched the lives of thousands of students, friends, and loved ones, proving himself a steady ear and a warm hearth on a cold, dark night - preparing each and every one of them for the next leg of their journey, wherever it lead. Though his spirit may have passed onto judgment and the body that carry his flame may lay still, it has not yet gone out; instead, it has passed like one torch unto countless more and the responsibility lies with us to see it carried forward, through the darkest of nights to one more dawn."

[Kvard51]

Listening to the powerful words of the two women reminded Harsk that he was not the Professor's usual sort of friend. He knew words of that sort would never spill from his lips. He was more blunt, coarse most would say. But for Petros Lorrimor, he would try.

He licked his lips as he approached the podium, suddenly very dry. He turned to those assembled, rubbing his huge hands together. "I'm not sure, really, what I should say at this moment. I only know that Professor Lorrimor would have wanted me to try." He looks around at the small gathering, stopping his gaze on Kendra. "Miss, your father was a good man. That is what I mainly want to make clear. He befriended me when I had no real friends and taught me much of what I know about being a good man. We shared many a pipe and glass of spirits over a late night discussion, and though I am not educated in the way of the ladies who spoke before, the Professor made sure that I recieved the learning I needed to become that which I am called to be."

The big half-orc looked down, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "When all is said, Professor Petros Lorrimor will be missed.
And isn't that enough for any life?"

[CoconutKing]

After each speech, a clattering of "Hear, hear!" erupts in a sort of tender, composed manner from the crowd of mourning individuals gathered around the lowered casket and the podium. As Modeya comes off the stage, Kendra begins to break down, shedding tears at a blistering pace as a dam in her eyes cracks, letting the past hour of stress and grief pour through. No one, as is appropriate, from the group of other mourners move towards her, but they do stare in pity, knowing well the closeness of her to the late Professor. As the tales and speeches are wrapped up, each of the people gathered seem vaguely impressed with the level of closeness between many of the so called "newcomers", as well as the way with words possessed by some of them. It does not take long for the funeral to wrap up after this, for the sermons had already been given and the atmosphere of the mob "attack" and how it was dealt with still reigned upon many of those there.

--

Once the final sods of dirt are piled into the grave, finally putting the Professor to rest, Kendra walks up to the edge, waving with a now wet handkerchief borrowed from a bystanding mourner earlier to the leaving guests. She breaks her hour long era of silence to speak up, once the last of the others had made their way back onto the path leading out of the Restlands, her voice crackling under the strain of such a long period of grief. Her voice seems to wobble, as though getting itself used to the concept of language once more after a period of silence as such, but her words are otherwise clear, "I think it's finally setting in. It's the warmth, the damp warmth and the perichor of this earth before me that finally sends home to my very being that he's gone. He seemed so healthy..."

She stares into the patches of grass around the newly put together grave, before shaking her head and turning to look at you, speaking before her eyes even leave their concentration on the ground: "I suppose it is now time for the real reason you were called here. His will... it includes all of you. Come with me, hi- my home is not too far from here."

--

After an agonizingly quiet walk, interrupted only by quips from any of you that are returned with a clueless, dispassionate silence from Kendra, and the sounds of minor vermin crawling out of their holes as the rainwater finally seeps into the earth, the spires of a quintessential Ustalavic house comes into view. Though one of modest size, the tiling on the towering staccato of rock-based edges and the almost-battlement like roofs of the vaguely Victorian house seem to feel completely out of place, seeming as though each and every bit of the house was maintained carefully, month by month. Kendra smiles on any acknowledgement of this, a thin, wavering smile followed by an ever quiet "I had little to do when not reading, and I grew a habit of maintaining the house when I was younger." When entering through the curved, oak wood single door at the front, past a completely shabby excuse for a garden in the bailey, one is greeted by the musk of a million old documents and books, each having collected dust in overuse or lack of use in the many, many library-sized shelves that deck each and every room you are led through, even the narrow hallways. Lorrimor, both the Professor and Kendra, appear to never have heard of curtains, for windows lie cleaned and transparent while others facing the East in the bedrooms are almost entirely covered with a shelf full of books moved in front of it.

She leads you into a kind of living room, where there are two large sofas, with velvet cushions pressed up against a carefully crafted wooden exterior with holed engraving depicting something that closely resembles the dawdling doodling of a master artist rather than an actual pattern of any kind. She asks you to sit down, before leaving through the entrance of the room towards the entrance of the house. Quickly, you can hear the sound of the door opening and shutting, but before any concern can arise in the group, Kendra comes back in, followed by one Councilman Vashian Hearthstone, someone who was present at the funeral.

He awkwardly fumbles through a file of papers, before bringing one ornate one that seems close to something Nylora might've seen Grimburrow take into the office of the Professor at some point. He clears his throat, before explaining, in a voice that very clearly showcases some level of disapproval for the presence of people one might've heard him mutter and call 'bloody outsiders', that "I am the closest thing to a barrister in this town, a solicitor of sorts. I am legally obliged to read this will, with the fullest measures explained as is the law of our land."

Kendra seems curious, having lost a lot of the grief that had defined her face for the past while, but it is clear that the tears seem to have permanently stained her beauty in what seems an irreparable fashion. She does not appear to know what is on this paper, other than the fact that it is the "Last will and testament of my father."

The Councilman clears his throat again, though now it appears to be a forced gesture of legality and not one required by any blockage of his throat. He begins to read, all tone, accent, and inflection having disappeared from his voice as he does so. "“I, Petros Lorrimor, being of sound mind, do hereby commit to this parchment my last will and testament. Let it be known that, with the exception of the specific details below, I leave my home and personal belongings entire to my daughter Kendra. Use them or sell them as you see fit, my child. “Yet beyond the bequeathing of my personal effects, this document must serve other needs. I have arranged for the reading of this document to be delayed until all principals can be in attendance, for I have more than mere inheritance to apportion. I
have two final favors to ask. “To my old friends, I hate to impose upon you all, but there are few others who are capable of appreciating the true significance of what it is I have to ask. As some of you know, I have devoted many of my studies to all manner of evil, that I might know the enemy and inform those better positioned to stand against it. For knowledge of one’s enemy is the surest path to victory over its plans. “And so, over the course of my lifetime, I have seen fit to acquire a significant collection of valuable but dangerous tomes, any one of which in the wrong circumstances could have led to an awkward legal situation. While the majority of these tomes remain safe under lock and key at the Lepidstadt University, I fear that a few I have borrowed remain in a trunk in my Ravengro home. While invaluable for my work in life, in death, I would prefer not to burden my daughter with the darker side of my profession, or worse still, the danger of possessing these tomes herself. As such, I am entrusting my chest of tomes to you, posthumously. I ask that you please deliver the collection to my colleagues at the University of Lepidstadt, who will put them to good use for the betterment of the cause. “Yet before you leave for Lepidstadt, there is the matter of another favor—please delay your journey one month and spend that period of time here in Ravengro to ensure that my daughter is
safe and sound. She has no one to count on now that I am gone, and if you would aid her in setting things in order for whatever she desires over the course of this month, you would have my eternal
gratitude. From my savings, I have also willed to each of you a sum of one hundred platinum coins. For safekeeping, I have left these funds with Embreth Daramid, one of my most trusted friends in
Lepidstadt—she has been instructed to issue this payment upon the safe delivery of the borrowed tomes no sooner than one month after the date of the reading of this will. “I, Petros Lorrimor, hereby sign this will in Ravengro on this first day of Calistril. May the gods protect us all, and guide my soul.”"

As he continues to read, the pace of his monotone voice increases, clearly becoming more frustrated with having been brought into an affair he wants little to do with. Kendra's mouth falls agape at the last requirement of the will, looking to each of you one at a time as she grappled with the reintroduction of some measure of grief, some memory of her father probably filling her mind. "I.." she lets out, as Vashian finishes speaking, before shutting up, and looking back to all of you.

[Ilorin Lorati]

Modeya (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1602602)
F N Liminal Death Druid, Level 1, Init 3, HP / , Speed 20
AC 16, Touch 13, Flat-footed 13, CMD 15, Fort 3, Ref 3, Will 6, CMB +2, Base Attack Bonus 0
Club +2 (1d6+2, x2)
Shortspear +2 (1d6+2, x2)
Sling (10) +3 (1d4+2, x2)
Leather Armor, Light Wooden Shield (+2 Armor, +1 Shield, +3 Dex)
Abilities Str 14, Dex 16, Con 12, Int 12, Wis 18, Cha 8
Condition None

Far from the eloquent and kind worded woman that she was on the podium, Modeya keeps silent during the walk back. Once or twice she makes to approach Kendra in what is likely an attempt to console the young human, but each time the woman decides not to - be it by her own demons or not feeling she could help with the daughter of her old friend. She did, after all, have plenty to think about; why had Lorrimor called her here? What was in his will? She wanted nothing of his, save maybe one of his books on spirits, and they were never so close as to be given anything more. These thoughts, and others, swam through the mind that she now shared with another.

~~

The woman's jaw slacked when she heard the full truth of his plans for the group of them, closing slowly as the realization of what he was asking set in. Something was wrong. For all the realms in the beyond, and the secrets that lie past judgment, she had not known Lorrimor to bring together this kind of muscle for any task. These were not mere guardians; she could tell each of them was exceptional in their own way. No, the good professor was worried about something. Did he think these evils would come to claim his daughter, and his hidden tomes? It was the most likely explanation. Without saying a word, the woman stood and walked over to Kendra, leaning over and kissing the girl softly on her head. "I will help in whatever way I can. I owe you and your father both that much."

Even as she spoke, the words turned over in her head. What happened, Lorrimor?

[Hattish Thing]

Nylora:

Though the academic takes time to explore as much of the small home as possible, harboring a particular interest in the rows upon rows of rare texts and dust-covered tomes, when it comes time to discuss the contents of the Professor's will, Nylora settles down upon the most comfortable seeming of chairs, steepling her fingers in a showing of confidence.

She remains relatively quiet until the reading concludes.

--

Once the reading has officially ended, the academic speaks, leaning forward in her chair.

"A number of controversial texts were mentioned, do you happen to have these on hand?"

[Kvard51]

As the funeral drew to a close, Harsk felt a sadness he had never really felt before settle over him like a wool blanket. He had been very young when his mother was killed, and the life he lived amongst the orcs did not leave room for such feelings. The slaughter of his tribe had meant little to him. They had beaten and abused Harsk terribly. And though he had lost other companions, they had not been anyone he had developed a deep bond with, as he had Lorrimor. This blanket came with an ache.

And now the will? Harsk had not come expecting the Professor to leave anything to him. After all, he had already received so much more than he deserved. The friendship and respect Lorrimor had given him changed his life. Instead of a half-tame savage fighting for survival, he was now a man who did good in, the world, who made the world a safer place for others. Professor Lorrimor gave him that.

He spent the walk back trying to imagine what the Professor would have wanted him to have. There was nothing he could even imagine. Loorimor knew Harsk's chosen path, that he would have less and less need for worldly goods the farther he walked down it. He was so deep in his own mind that he missed the little bits of conversation going on around him.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harsk kept losing focus as the condescending solicitor read through the will. He perked up when it became clear that, instead of willing something to those gathered today, he was asking for one more service. Another opportunity to pay the Professor back for all he had given was something Harsk could get behind.

"I will do as the Professor asks." He rises and bows from the waist to Kendra, "Whatever your need, lady, I stand ready."