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Sendor War: The Funeral of Versis

Page history last edited by rgs 11 years, 11 months ago

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=<* Overlooking Versis(#1020R) *>=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Versis is--was--a moderately sized township surrounded by comfortable farmland, farmland now frozen over by Sendor's bitter snow. The town, even from this distance appears deserted despite its location along a cross of Sendor's trade routes. Among the Myrrish encampment, rumors circulate--heavy, angry rumors and the weary looks of the clergy: something's wrong in Versis. Even from this far-off distance, the evil stench to divine noses is nearly overwhelming.

The encampment itself is impromptu, though thanks to the discipline of the Myrrish army, well-organized and as solid as could be hoped for. The soldiers have arranged the tents in neat rows, and the clang of hammer, the crackle of fire, are already heard. There is no Blushing Rosalia, but the men and women make do, and one farmstead, further from the shadows of the airships and the hammering of its crews, has been donated by Sendor's grateful populace for resting, talking, drinking. Another, for command. Beyond all this, a day's march away, lies the bulk of the airship fleet, tended to night and day by engineers and crew.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

 Whirlpool A pile of stench. 11s 1h

 SiAmun Dark-skinned, muscular, tattooed young highborn male. 6m 6h

 Lahar Labyrinthine Fireys dancing around a mudslide 0s 6h

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= Exits -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Versis <V> Crashed Airship <CA> Old Farmstead <OF>

Southeast <SE> 

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Announcement: Lahar shouts, "Versis is about to kick off! Please ping if you'd like a summon, or just head through and use the exit in the RP Nexus (Hint: It's called RHAR!)."

Carmina has arrived.

Mikilos exits the farmstead, wrapping thick cloak around himself as the icy air hits. Peering around a moment, he heads to where the crowd seems to be gathering for the ceremony, glancing for familiar faces.

The night of the 'funeral' for Versis has arrived. 

It begins, first, with a large number of Althean sisters and brothers offering instructions. Torches are being handed out in bundles, one to each person who plans to participate. Apparently, the first segment is said to be a torch light march into the remains of the town, a symbolic banishing of the darkness that infested it. Once within the now secured remnants of the town, the march will continue until it reaches the Cathedral of Daeus, where yet more preperations are still being made.

Curse this infernal cold. Out of curiousity, Faroud follows both Mikilos out of the farmstead, waving to Chiddle, spiced wine punch in hand. As the wind whips at his young form, the Veyshanti youth staggers a bit, before hurridly wrapping the flowing fabric of a scarf dangling from his headgear around his face. Then he stuffs his free hand in a pocket, hoping the mug will keep the other warm. Blinking several times, nervously so, he finally takes the torch after reluctantly pulling his hand from his pocket.

Curse the cold! CURSE IT!

Sophia holds her torch at the ready, helping others light their own as she instructs on the particulars with the other priests and priestesses. She nods faintly at the occasional greeting, recognizing no few from her time spent with the healing tents. She seems to have a somber expression about her, but there's a sense of relief in her presence as well, as if this chapter has finally come to an end. Or soon will.

Ceres mixes in with the others, taking a torch as bidden, and offering a slight smile as she lights hers, against one already lit. That settled, and well wrapped up in her own cloak, the bard mingles with others, for once being mostly silent - just another face in the crowd.

Xenarchy is present, dressed in black as appropriate for a funeral, although it's the same black she most often wears anyway. There's no madness or mockery this time; the sorceress shares the same countenace of somber sincerity as many others here. Versis was her home, not very long ago. She's with Usha, walking beside her and holding her hand.

Hekton's face is sober, composed, still. Though that is his usual expression, he seems even more-so tonight. He takes the torch he is given, following the ceremony gravely. He is incapable of being quiet, but at least he is loud respectfully.

Donatien has his staff along, as usual, so he holds his torch aloft in his left hand. It leaves his cloak largely flapping on the wind but today he seems to bear up well under the cold. He circulates a bit, offering some words of encouragement here and there and repeating instructions for those who still have questions. Despite the name given to the event he appears rather upbeat.

Usha is wearing... black. Actuall, hoenst to goodness, black. It is weird to see, for many, who are used to seeing Usha wearing white clothes that starkly contrast her shadowy skin. She has one of the Torches, even though the glares she gets from some suggest they expect her to do sometiong violent with the thing.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=<* Overlooking Versis(#1020R) *>=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Versis is--was--a moderately sized township surrounded by comfortable farmland, farmland now frozen over by Sendor's bitter snow. The town, even from this distance appears deserted despite its location along a cross of Sendor's trade routes. Among the Myrrish encampment, rumors circulate--heavy, angry rumors and the weary looks of the clergy: something's wrong in Versis. Even from this far-off distance, the evil stench to divine noses is nearly overwhelming.

The encampment itself is impromptu, though thanks to the discipline of the Myrrish army, well-organized and as solid as could be hoped for. The soldiers have arranged the tents in neat rows, and the clang of hammer, the crackle of fire, are already heard. There is no Blushing Rosalia, but the men and women make do, and one farmstead, further from the shadows of the airships and the hammering of its crews, has been donated by Sendor's grateful populace for resting, talking, drinking. Another, for command. Beyond all this, a day's march away, lies the bulk of the airship fleet, tended to night and day by engineers and crew.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

 Myrana A short young woman with thick coal-black braids 6m 40m

 Mikilos A tall, handsome, high elven male, strawberry blonde 37s 1h

 Hekton Giant Robot with sword, axe, and cardoor. 20s 27m

 Donatien Rather attractive young man in fine clothes. 1m 7h

 Xenarchy Scarred, gothy creep of a sorceress. 49s 1h

 Carmina Short, slender, blond half-elf in wizard attire. 2m 3h

 Karelin Tattooed Korite warrior. Tall, dark and scarred. 4m 1h

 Amir'a A short figure, typically wrapped in Veyshanti Nomad- 15s 31m

 Whirlpool A pile of stench. 27s 2h

 SiAmun Dark-skinned, muscular, tattooed young highborn male. 2m 6h

 Lahar Labyrinthine Fireys dancing around a mudslide 0s 6h

 Ceres Silver-haired elf, tall and extremely graceful 55s 12m

 Sophia A young highborn woman in priestly attire. 2s 1h

 Calamity Oh. It's just a cosmic catastrophe. Move along. 5m 4h

 Usha Shadow-elf dressed in white. Big hair. 19s 1h

 Jareth Tall young man with a strong build, wearing a breastp 1m 1h

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= Exits -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Versis <V> Crashed Airship <CA> Old Farmstead <OF>

Southeast <SE> 

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Taking a torch in hand, Jareth lights it with help from someone else's before he joins in with the processional towards the temple. The fact that this whole ritual could well put an end to those blasted nightmares that have been plaguing him since this whole encampment began.

Carmina slips into the crowd, taking a torch from a passing priest. Reaching up, she pulls the hood of her cloak up, and the torchlight illuminates her features. Her face is somber and weary, and she's quiet, simply watching for now.

Down below, Versis waits in darkness beneath the receding light. A long passage awaits the procession, one carved earlier from the footsteps of soldiers and merchant, and now lined with long sticks: unlit fires to be spread, lit as the procession moves forward.

An older priest steps forward from the masses, a sout man in steel-gray hair, in the gray robes of Vardama. He raises his hands. "Beloved, gathered here. We are here to set Versis at rest." Here, he pauses. "Today has been a long time coming. Too long, for some of the souls here. Please...Priestess Sophia, if you would, and your scar-faced guardian. Yes, the one with the scowl. Let us begin the procession to the Cathedral."

He stops. "As we move, think of the words you may say. We...let us all prepare to move on." And with that, he raises a hand, a hand pale and cold and signals to the Althean and begins to walk down the way.

Karelin takes the torch up in his hands, dressed in his full battleplate, the mana-light spilling from the symbols of Kor on his pauldrons. Everything has been polished up, and he's even washed his cloak and worked the worst of the stains from his boots.

Wrapped in bandages all the way from her left hand up to her shoulders and torso and smelling strongly of astringent antivenom, Myrana accepts one of the torches carefully into both hands. Rather than the tattered and burnt clothes that she's been wearing for the majority of the war, the little sorceress walks alongside Jareth dressed in a somber charcoal-grey kirtle, braids hanging heavily down her back. She shivvers slightly, but goes to follow along with the procession.

Sophia bows deeply towards the older priest, "Thank you, Father." She gives the man the respect he is more than due, then moves towards the front of the procession. Her torch is held high, the firelight causing her hair to gleam slightly as she glances once at Karelin, then walks forward with a firm stride. Her eyes are focused on the destination, not wavering as she moves ahead.

Mikilos accepts the offered torch with a solem nod, moving towards the edge of the gathering; not to keep to the outskirts, but to block the chill wind for those more likely to be bothered by its bite. An eye is kept towards others, offering a hand to any having apparent trouble over the terrain along the way.

Oh, right! Somber ceremony - religious ... thing. Faroud's dark eyes look left then right, watching the otheres that take torches, that move along. Glancing at the mug still in his hand, the young Veyshanti man fumbles until finding a stump, a rock, anything to set it down upon - the torchlight hinting at a reddening of the face beneath the dark scarf of his headdress as he looks down, avoiding any gaze.

More torches are being handed out. The procession is going to be long and much of the army is involved.

Naturally, when the army is involved, there must also be its leaders. Prince Verin, heir to the throne of the Myrrish Kingdoms, is here as well to pay his respects. He is dressed regally and dignified for the occasion in dark clothes, a dauesite sunburst emblazoend upon his cloak being the only real adornment this time. In this particular time, he is taking pains to merely be another soldier, but even then there's a small number of rather obvious bodyguards staying within striking distance.

He takes a torch and lights it.

Karelin nods towards Sophia, and he lifts his chin to her, pointing it at the head of the procession. He waits to shadow the Prince, eyes flicking about.

As they and everyone moves, the steel-gray Vardaman priest reaches outwards to light the roadside torches. He does not light them all--many are left to those in the procession, to symbolically "light the way" into Versis itself.

Beneath, the ruins of the city wait in darkness. Those here will return the light to it through the torches they hold.

You head into the town of Versis.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=<* Versis(#590Rh) *>=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

The remains of Versis lie in a river valley. The sluggish water emits the only sound here: the town lies empty and abandoned. Its most dominant, remaining feature is the Cathedral in the distance, a structure of over 300 years with burn marks on its sides. It looks pristine compared the surrounding wreckage; Versis' last bastion of hope.

Along the cobbled roads lie the remaining marks of Hellgates, and the darkened blood of child and adult alike. Scorch marks burn the walls and buildings illuminated by mostly repaired mana lamps, although bodies remain conspicuously absent. Demons, and later the army, saw them taken care of one way or the other.

Today the sulfur smell lingers only in memory. In preparation for the upcoming ceremony, tall, stout torches with ribbons of every color and faith line the entrance of the town and mark a path along the road that ends at the cathedral's steps. Along the pathway and interspersed throughout the town proper, priests of Althea stand by, handing out food and drink to refugees.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Lahar Labyrinthine Fireys dancing around a mudslide 0s 6h

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= Exits -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Versis Cathedral <VC> Leave Town <O>

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Xenarchy mutters quietly to herself as the gathering begins to move. She lets out a slow sigh and looks to Usha, then returning her gaze directly ahead. This event is having some impact on her, but in what way is not terribly clear.

Usha wanders alongside Xenarchy as they head into the town, carrying her Torch. She glances to her as she mutters, and then speaks, quietly, so as not to disturb the proceedings, to her.

CLANK, CLUNK, CLANK, CLUNK, CLANK, CLUNK.

It's always easy to tell when Hekton is coming. Because he makes the most noise, not having any squishy organic bits to absorb the sound. His torch is held high, extended to the fullest extent of his arm, which might as well be that of a statue, from how little it seems like it will ever move. Rock solid, unwavering, casting a pall of light over all those around him. His shield is strapped to his back instead of to his arm, and he marches slowly and precisely.

Mikilos eyes the surroundings with a mix of idle curiousity and quiet somberness, pondering the portents of his first trip into the city proper being part of a memorial procession.

Carmina follows the procession, stepping carefully as she looks around the town, expression thoughtful.

Donatien comes along with the throng, walking carefully to prevent the indignity of slipping and falling. He doesn't hold his torch quite so high, anymore. It's going to be a long march and he's only got so many arms with which to hold it up throughout.

Versis looks ... different from afar. Certainly, from a distance, it is still a ruin - razed and burned by the invading army. But now that Faroud is here, the poor lad comes to a stumbling halt in his tracks. Dark eyes widen as he looks around - slowly at first, but building in speed as he takes in this, and that, scorchmarks and stains of blood, and various other little things. The tourch he holds slowly lowers itself as shock sinks into the gaping young man. And even in the torchlight, as his other hand comes up to his lips, in an effiminate gesture, it is obvious that the Veyshanti Lad's eyes are glassy with unwept tears.

Holding his torch up with one hand, Jareth uses the other to gently prop up Myrana's elbow as they walk into and through Versis. Upon seeing the Cathedral of Daeus, he lowers his head and whispers a short prayer to his deity and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he continues following the processional.

Come here and hearken

Come here my brethren

Come here, come here

Lay the souls

Lay them peace

Lay us in peace and peace

Old words, repetitive words. They hearken back to rituals of the old days of the old Myrrish, and rise overhead Versis' lighting face through the priests' voices and tonal chant.

The procession begins moving again. As it does, Carmichael reaches down to clasp Sophia's shoulder, and nods towards the procession. "Lift your heads high, and come with me!"

Ahead, the Cathedral looms. Some soldiers, some clergy, have surged ahead. Lights along its gigantic form begin to appear as you move.

Versis is still deadly quiet but for the sounds of the solemn march. At first, it seems as if there are noliving things left here but you... but on the march there does seem to be some signs of hope now springing forth. A couple of blades of grass push their way up from between pieces of cracked cobblestone. You can actually hear a cricket or two. Life is returning to the shattered ruins, slowly, but inexorably even inthe days following the conflict.

Now filing into the back, there is a coterie of mages. All of them appear to be the recent arrivals from Rune, making their way through as well. Behind them is a single high elf, one who looks so deeply touched by the terrible conflict that has been wrought here that he seems to've been brought to tears and rage. High Elves feel deeply and this one is no exception. The clear rage he's feeling towards the perpetrators of the crime that took place here is both great and obvious, but he does not let it distract him from the solemnity of the occasion. He carries his torch.

Myrana doesn't look at the buildings this time. In fact she hardly notices when Jareth lends her a bit of support, lost in her thoughts, dark eyes distant-- but she blinks away those thoughts, coming back to the present. She gives her friend a thankful, if slightly embarrassed look. Its quiet here still. Even with all the footsteps of the procession (especially Hekton's). Myra wipes her eyes hastily with a sleeve, bringing bright flames to waft dangerously close to her coal-black hair, then proceeds along, keeping quiet.

Karelin looks back up at the cathedral, grinning at it as he approaches. His back is straight as he goes, grinning, licking his teeth.

Mikilos has reconnected.

Mikilos has partially disconnected.

Gauvain arrives intown.

Gauvain has arrived.

Carmina glances over her shoulder, catching sight of the mage coterie. A brow quirks and she slows, waiting for them to catch up.

Carmichael, the priest, grips the front of his robes. He looks about to say something, and smiles instead. "Thank you all for coming. There are torches along the city--light these as we go. And if you know the words--" he nods to a small gathering of gray robes, who step forward, and begin a tonal chant.

Come here and hearken

Come here my brethren

Come here, come here

Lay the souls

Lay them peace

Give us peace and peace

Old words, repetitive words. They hearken back to rituals of the old days of the old Myrrish, and rise overhead Versis' lighting face through the priests' voices and tonal chant.

The procession, with the addition of the Runites, begins moving again. As it does, Carmichael reaches down to clasp Sophia's shoulder, and nods towards the procession. "Lift your heads high, and come with me!"

Ahead, the Cathedral looms. Some soldiers, some clergy, have surged ahead. Lights along its gigantic form begin to appear as you move.

Sophia raises her voice, singing along with the chant. While untrained, her voice has a certain strength to it as she nods towards Carmichael. Holding up the torch, as her chin is tilted upwards as only the Highborn can manage, she moves towards the cathedral.

Mikilos's chin lifts as he joins the chant. Though no Elven Bard, the Llyanisti does the sterotype proud, his resonate voice blending with the other singers.

Jostled unintentionally as the procession moves past Faroud, the lad blinks back the tears, clearing his throat and wiping at his eyes. Bowing his head, the lad tries to hide the wetness left behind from the gesture, as if it were a thing of shame, perhaps. As the procession begins singing, there is naught for the lad to do but listen. While repetative, he bites his tongue, fighting back joining in the song, though clearly he wants to. His left hand balls into a fist, as he fights the desires of his blood suddenly welling up. A deep swallow is given, then the lad pulls the scarf away from his face, inhaling then exhaling of the cold air, telling it wash over him before eyes open, and he begins moving with the procession once more.

Karelin strides onwards, holding his light higher, magic guttering on his shoulders. He doesn't sing, though he does murmur something low, under his breath.

Xenarchy moves along in silence now, for the most part looking downward at the ground before here. She hears the sounds all around, of the people moving and chanting. Her voice is not added to these.

Usha doesn't sing, either. She doesn;t know the words, and would likely just cock it up anyway. She glances across at Xenarchy, and then looks onwards again as the procession advances towards the Cathedral itself.

Usha has reconnected.

Usha has partially disconnected.

Hekton continues marching, torch still held high. His voice doesn't ring out, as he knows both that he is incapable of carrying a tune and that he is incapable of projecting without drowning out those who's voices /are/ raised in song. So he makes his march his song, each foot planting as each verse ends, and makes his way to the cathedral.

------------------------ At a glance around Versis -------------------------

Gauvain 1m 6'2" 213 Lb

A tall brown haired armored man.

Jareth 1m 6'2" 197 Lb

Tall young man with a strong build, wearing a breastplate.

Hekton 33s 7'6" 575 Lb

Giant Robot with sword, axe, and cardoor.

Calamity 48m Lb

Oh. It's just a cosmic catastrophe. Move along.

Sophia 14s 5'8" 153 Lb

A young highborn woman in priestly attire.

Myrana 13m 5'0" 125 Lb

A short young woman with thick coal-black braids

Whirlpool 4m Lb Otyugh

A pile of stench.

Ceres 25m 5'8" 130 Lb Grey Elf Female

Silver-haired elf, tall and extremely graceful

Mikilos 37s 6'8" 180 Lb High Elf Male

A tall, handsome, high elven male, strawberry blonde and well dressed.

Amir'a 47s 5'0" 100 Lb

A short figure, typically wrapped in Veyshanti Nomad-style clothing.

Usha 38s 5'8" 119 Lb Shadow Elf Female

Shadow-elf dressed in white. Big hair.

Xenarchy 49s 5'8" 130 Lb Human Female

Scarred, gothy creep of a sorceress.

Karelin 2m 6'2" 232 Lb Human Male

Tattooed Korite warrior. Tall, dark and scarred.

Donatien 16m 5'9" 161 Lb Human Male

Rather attractive young man in fine clothes.

Carmina 3m 5'2" 100 Lb

Short, slender, blond half-elf in wizard attire.

Lahar 0s Lb

Labyrinthine Fireys dancing around a mudslide

==============================================================================

Following along with the chanted prayer, Jareth gives Myrana a quick glance and a reassuring half grin before resuming the pace into the church. His torch stays up the whole time, casting its own part into the collective glow of lights.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=<* Versis(#590Rh) *>=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

The remains of Versis lie in a river valley. The sluggish water emits the only sound here: the town lies empty and abandoned. Its most dominant, remaining feature is the Cathedral in the distance, a structure of over 300 years with burn marks on its sides. It looks pristine compared the surrounding wreckage; Versis' last bastion of hope.

Along the cobbled roads lie the remaining marks of Hellgates, and the darkened blood of child and adult alike. Scorch marks burn the walls and buildings illuminated by mostly repaired mana lamps, although bodies remain conspicuously absent. Demons, and later the army, saw them taken care of one way or the other.

Today the sulfur smell lingers only in memory. In preparation for the upcoming ceremony, tall, stout torches with ribbons of every color and faith line the entrance of the town and mark a path along the road that ends at the cathedral's steps. Along the pathway and interspersed throughout the town proper, priests of Althea stand by, handing out food and drink to refugees.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Myrana A short young woman with thick coal-black braids 14m 1h

Mikilos A tall, handsome, high elven male, strawberry blonde 1m 17m

Hekton Giant Robot with sword, axe, and cardoor. 1m 1h

Donatien Rather attractive young man in fine clothes. 17m 8h

Xenarchy Scarred, gothy creep of a sorceress. 7s 1h

Carmina Short, slender, blond half-elf in wizard attire. 1m 3h

Karelin Tattooed Korite warrior. Tall, dark and scarred. 4m 2h

Amir'a A short figure, typically wrapped in Veyshanti Nomad- 2m 1h

Gauvain A tall brown haired armored man. 2m 17m

Whirlpool A pile of stench. 5s 3h

Lahar Labyrinthine Fireys dancing around a mudslide 0s 7h

Ceres Silver-haired elf, tall and extremely graceful 26m 56m

Sophia A young highborn woman in priestly attire. 1m 2h

Calamity Oh. It's just a cosmic catastrophe. Move along. 49m 5h

Usha Shadow-elf dressed in white. Big hair. 55s 4m

Jareth Tall young man with a strong build, wearing a breastp 30s 2h

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= Exits -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Versis Cathedral <VC> Leave Town <O>

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-<* Versis Cathedral(#898Rh) *>-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Huge. Massive. Grand. Though not the cathedral of Alexandria, Versis' golden dome stands large overhead for a town this size. Its walls shine, cleared of blood, its pews righted and repaired by work of townsfolk and soldier alike, the structure stands defiant against Versis' fate.

Priests in Althea's robes work alongside Daeus's acolytes, and a smattering of other faiths. Prayers to the goddess touch the highest rafters, echoing on one another in prayers of healing. Vardama's Gray Robes also stand evident as they prepare torches for the upcoming ceremony.

The massive structure lacks its tapestries, and scorch marks remain that refuse to be scrubbed away. A local artist's work partly covers some of the darkest, reworking them into montages, a story depicting Versis' eventual rise from destruction.

The most impressive item by far is the altar. Rebuilt, the massive crack still shows...but now hastily covered by a shining disc of flattened copper.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Myrana A short young woman with thick coal-black braids 2m 1h

Mikilos A tall, handsome, high elven male, strawberry blonde 2m 20m

Hekton Giant Robot with sword, axe, and cardoor. 33s 1h

Donatien Rather attractive young man in fine clothes. 2m 8h

Xenarchy Scarred, gothy creep of a sorceress. 6s 2h

Carmina Short, slender, blond half-elf in wizard attire. 1m 3h

Karelin Tattooed Korite warrior. Tall, dark and scarred. 1m 2h

Amir'a A short figure, typically wrapped in Veyshanti Nomad- 2m 1h

Gauvain A tall brown haired armored man. 2m 20m

Whirlpool A pile of stench. 33s 3h

Lahar Labyrinthine Fireys dancing around a mudslide 0s 7h

Ceres Silver-haired elf, tall and extremely graceful 23s 1h

Sophia A young highborn woman in priestly attire. 7s 2h

Calamity Oh. It's just a cosmic catastrophe. Move along. 1m 5h

Usha Shadow-elf dressed in white. Big hair. 31s 8m

Jareth Tall young man with a strong build, wearing a breastp 5s 2h

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= Exits -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Out <O>

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Old. Ancient.

Repaired.

The Cathedral's walls illuminate light by light as the procession moves in. The gathering is huge, represented by refugees, Irregulars, soldiers, and faiths of every shape and color. The Irregulars, and most of the army have turned out for it, and seating is scarce: this is standing room only.

Carmichael moves towards the front and towards the altar.

"It is my understanding one of the sisters of Lady Compassion has a eulogy." He pauses. "Sister, I invite you forward to speak, now. Afterwards I will open the floor, and welcome everyone to say a piece, share your thoughts, experiences, that Versis and its people may finally the peace that was torn from them."

He pauses again, somewhat awkwardly, then bows his head and steps aside.

Karelin finds a wall to prop up -- after all, he's seen temples fall. The torch starts to burn down in his hands as he considers the priest. Eyes crinkle and squint at the sudden glare of the collective torches.

Gauvain moves beside Myrana. He is for once not in his armor though his large heavy blade still reside on his belt. He sighs and looks over the Cathedral, memories of the recent battle in it's ante-chamber still fresh in his mind. He folds his arms when the prosession stops and watches those aorund him.

The Prince, of course, is here. He arrives after looking horrified and distraught throughout the town to find hismelf s eated here in one of the pews. He shakes his head, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. There are no words for him to say, none yet. One hand clutches the front of his tunic for little else to grab at. White knuckles.

The mages solemnly arrive as well, taking seats towards the back of the room. The powerful magics that were wrought in Versis to do this are affecting them keenly. All of them have expressions of the deepest level of graveness upon their wisened faces.

Donatien maneuvers about to find a spot where he can stand without being in the way of those who need to find their way in behind him. Now he holds his torch higher and simply leans his staff against the opposite shoulder

The difficulty with being short, and being in the back. Faroud actually tries to stand on the tips of his toes to see, gnawing on his lower lip. Giving up that course of action, Faroud tries to squeeze between people, and find a place where some glimpse may be caught. Just in time as even more push their way in behind the young Veyshanti lad.

Carmina blinks. "Eulogy" she mouths the word to herself, brow furrowed. Then she blinks, pushing back the hood of her cloak and finding a seat toward the back, nodding politely to the mages from Rune.

Mikilos shuffles around a bit before finding a spot towards the back, in part to keep from blocking anyones view, in part because everywhere else is full, and in part to be near other magi.

Myrana shivvers again, stiffenning. She reaches out to light one of the braziers on the way in, one that had been knocked over not a week beforehand by a fight here.

Stepping back from Gauvain and Myrana, Jareth takes a seat by the aisle in the pew behind theirs, resting his scabbarded sword across his lap as he waits for the eulogy for the fallen to begin.

Sophia walks towards the front of the procession, giving a nod towards the Vardamite priest. She murmurs a quiet thanks to him, then glances over at the assembly, her torch still in her hand. Her eyes shimmer, though no tears fall yet, as she says, "It is always the innocent, that suffer in wars like this. We all... Irregulars and soldiers, priests and wizards, human and hobgoblin, elf and gnome and all the others gathered here. We know, and we accept, what can happen to us."

She pauses again, gathering herself, "We all willingly accept the risks and fortunes of conflict and battle, and we are prepared to pay the price. However, this town... they were not prepared. And they were taken from us in a most cruel fashion, that haunted the dreams of us who were left behind."

She lowers her head a bit, then gathers herself and looks out towards the sea of light, "This struggle has been long, my comrades... my friends. It has been a bitter fight, with awful tragedies such as what has happened here. And it might be thought that this has been in vain." With that, her voice nearly cracks, before she continues with a strong, clarion voice, "It has NOT!"

The priestess gazes around, seeming to take in each individual with her eyes, as she continues, her voice gaining strength with each syllable she utters, "In honoring our dead, as we always have, we declare this is not true. Out of this battle, htis war, comes a lesson which transcends the horror, the tragedy, the folly. It is a lesson about ordinary people, and the lesson is that they are not ordinary. They were the heroes of this war, not irregulars or generals, but soldiers, farmers, merchants... those who taught us all to endure hardship, to show courage, to be bold as well as resilient. To stay together."

Sophia smiles slightly then, hope breaching the somber expression she wore to this point, even as tears trickle down her cheeks, "This is the heart of Versis, that which we inter today... this shows that real nobility and grandeur belongs not to empires and nations but to the people upon whom they depend. It is not too much to hope, that though we inter Versis today, that we will remember them and honor them always."

She glances around to the assembly, "May the love and grace of Althea guide you and shield you all. In her name, and in the name of Daeus and the Light, may you all find your way." With that, she takes a step back, then nods and makes her way off the center stage.

Hekton wouldn't sit even if given the option. He doesn't do well with the whole 'chair' thing. So, he stands, feet braced wide, still holding his torch, still as silent as he can be, and listens to the speakers, listens to the stories and the glories and, privately, laments the news that took him away at the crucial time. However, this is not the time nor the place, so the lament is a quiet and brief one as he continues to pay attention.

Xenarchy has herself a seat, folding her fingers together in front of her. She listens to Sophia with her head bowed and eyes closed. The expression on her face - for those near enough to see - is one of mixed anger and sorrow.

Gray glinting on his hair and beard, Carmichael steps forward then as the speech concludes, and the priestess of the Lady of Compassion steps down. "Tonight, the podium is open. I invite you all to speak and come forward. Versis is open, the survivors are here. Let us hear, and share from your hearts that we may at last bring these souls to the Gate and the rest that awaits them beyond."

Karelin listens, eyes open and scanning the crowd, fingers tracing some kind of symbol on the opposite vambrace. A very specific symbol. He keeps looking, carefully, even as the words wash over him.

Listening to Sophia, Jareth can't help but worry at the cuffs of his tunic's sleeves. Tugging them down to the tops of his wrists, his jaw clenches, muscle twitching as he nods slowly to the priestess' words.

Small, and feeling smaller as he looks around at the great, the strong, the noble, and the divinely touched, Faroud ends up backing himself against a wall, as if trying to find a corner to hide in. It doesn't help when he suddenly sniffs, hurriedly wiping his face once more.

Usha has disconnected.

The Prince looks moved Sophia's words, truly, and he nods his head. He seems to be getting a little more in order and begins to get to his feet. Seems that the Prince intensd to say something. He makes his way towards the front.

Mikilos stands quietly, listening with respect to those with better oritation then he speak.

Gauvain listens. He watches the crowd silently and occassionally runs a hand through his hair.

Myrana watches the Prince as Sophia speaks, her dark eyes sharp despite the antivenoms running through her strong as dark whiskey. Watching his reactions.

Karelin is still waiting and wathing, carefully. At least he's stopped whispering to himself.

The Prince steps forward and then says, quietly, "I had some remarks prepared." He pulls out a piece of paper and waves it, "just thoughts I'd scribbled down over the course of the fighting here. I would speak about the brave sacrifice of our soldiers, of the tragic loss of lives that happened here. But it would not hold a candle to the words that were just spoken. Truth was spoken there. And truth must be remembered here. We must not forget, *never* forget, what has happened here. I will be sending a missive to my father. I will ask him to declare this day, the tenth of pryntar, as a national day of mourning in perpetuity so that the brave souls lost here are *never* forgotten. It is only right that we remember the depths to which some might sink." He shakes his head, sadly, "There is not much more for me to say but only that the one who began this will see his life ended in just punishment for his crimes."

With that statement, the Prince moves down the steps. He stops by Karelin and gestures towards the front. Clearly, he anticipates the warrior wants to speak, and he does make his way to his seat afterwards.

As Faroud wipes his eyes, another attendee turns and looks at the young lad. Trying to shrink further away, Faroud misses the Prince's speech. Realizing that it has come to an end, the Veyshanti youth glances in the direction of the stage, unable to see over other's heads, while gnawing on his lower lip even more, before looking down at the floor, painfully looking out of place all of the sudden.

In the back, the older wizards lean together and talk to each other, quietly. Their mouths are moving but there's no actual -words- there.

Karelin steps forwards, giving a grunt to the Prince. He strides up to the front, scanning the room. There are scratches on his armour that he hasn't been able to repair yet, but he's done his best to be presentable. There's a pause, then he blows out a breath. "I'm not here to talk about the past." He holds up a hand. "I am here for the future. What happened in this town is a reminder of why we fight."

The audience in attendance is nwo focused on Karelin. He seems to be wanting to talk, after all, and is being allowed to do so! They settle in and watch and the Prince is watching as well, as our his bodyguards. The mages have stopped their sub-vocal whispering. For now.

Carmina has settled into a seat, hands primly folded into her lap as she leans forward and listens intently to the different eulogies.

Mikilos sighs quietly to himself, and stands, edgeing around the sides of the Cathedral towards the front, pauseing occasional to listen to those already there.

Karelin shrugs his shoulders, Korite symbols shifting. "Like all things in war, it reveals the nature of our selves, our enemies. We fight because we must," though his smile suggests that some have other reasons, too, "and we fight because if we fail, then the whole world -- including all that we know and care for -- will sink into the abyss of a new sundering, made more sinister and more protracted, by the lights of perverted magic." Arms sweep about to take in the cathedral, gesturing at points now repaired. The altar, the doors.

"I can only speak for myself, but in this effort, I have nothing to offer by my blood and tears. We have before us a great ordeal -- for all sieges are ordeals -- and the many months of struggle and suffering that investing and freeing Vinas Solmnus will entail. However, the aim is both noble and simple: Victory."

He licks his teeth again. "Victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory against this enemy, there is no survival."

Opening his hands in a benediction, he intones: "This is what we are fighting for, our spirit, our laws, our ways, so let loose the dogs of war, for heavens or hells we shall not wait."

At Karelin's words about magic perverted, the Runite mages stiffen substantially. They do not much like hearing about it and that it happened is still maddening to them. All of them sit straight and pale-faced for the moment.

The Prince nods his head at Karelin's words, seeming to understand them.

Late, a figure pushes her way inside and sits herself down in back. A tall, dranei woman with scars on her person. She wears the vestments of a Priestess of Angoron.

Clearing his throat, Gauvain stands from the pew and walks toward the front. He pauses at the podium and runs his hand along it’s edge as he gets there. He pauses and looks out over the people assembled there and looks into the eyes of the Prince. He takes a deep breath to steady himself and clears his throat. "Here. In the city of Versis a terrible tragedy occurred. I don’t need to repeat it. You’ve all heard the tales. They’ve been told over camp fires of refugee and soldier alike." He pauses and pulls out a piece of paper.

He looks over the sheet of paper and seems to consider his next words. "I have here a list of names. It is a list of the Children who could not be saved here. We talk so much of how it is the innocent who pay the price. How those who know not of the world find themselves paying the price for others decisions." He closes his eyes. It almost seals the barbed wire tattoo on his face into one continuous line. Making him look much more frightening. "You might be saying to yourself that no children were killed here. That is true. But they were not saved. Instead they found themselves used by dark forces right out of their nightmares. Imagine it. You’re just a child. The boogey men your parents tell you are not real comes out of the shadows, kills your parents. Kills your pet. And takes you away for some dark ritual that can only be described as a scene from one of the layers of Hell. They lived, but their happiness. Their innocence. Their childhood was killed."

The knight takes a deep breath. "A year ago. Had I heard of this place. I would have congratulated the man responsible." He narrows his eyes and looks at the Prince for the invariable reaction. "Because it would have slowed the enemy’s advance. Delivered wounds and killed enemy soldiers while they tried to save these people. And why?"

The knight slams a powerful fist on the podium. "Why? Because here. In Versis I realized that it is not about Military objectives. About how many enemy soldiers are fielded against us. Or how we will re-supply. It’s about them!" He holds up the list of paper with the names. "It is about our future. They. The Bludgun. Tried to take your future! Tried to turn it against us. Tried to use it as a weapon against us. I say. Regardless of the delay here, they failed!" He pauses for a moment and looks over the crowd. "I say that when we press on. When this army leaves here we remember the children of Versis. We remember that represent our future and it is THEY we fight for. For every soldier that dies, do not mourn for them. Instead. Remember him. Remember his sacrifice. Remember that he died to protect these children and the children of all of you." He closes his eyes again and looks up at ceiling. "I..." he shakes his head and steps away form the podium and moves back to his seat.

As more speakers come forward, people shift and begin to sit up. Father Carmichael begins subtle directions of hands and fingers to direct the crowd. A number of survivors, some of whom carry blades for the first time in their lives, begin to nod.

"We will fight with you!" one man shouts, a former merchant. His brother reaches over to shush him, looking frightened.

Karelin takes up his place against the wall, watching the Runite mages amusedly.

Rising to his feet, Jareth walks up to the podium, nodding once to the Prince, and then to Gauvain, Karelin and Sophia who spoke before him. Sucking on his teeth for a bit, the warrior rests both hands on the top of the stand, leaning forward as he weighs his words, scanning the faces all inside of the church. Finally, he clears his throat and says, "I thought that some of the things I saw at Fort Gettys were right at the very edge of what should be allowed to happen in our world. Then, I came here. Since we've come here, some of us have been plagued with horrific dreams of the terror the people of Versis suffered through. Fort Gettys brought me into the faith of Daeus. Versis has cemented my commitment to it. As we give our condolences for what happened here, to the people and the very city, we must steel our resolve to see this through to its end. It does not end here. It will not end here. It will end when Kinnevack is made to stand for his crimes and receive just punishment for each and every person he has caused to suffer!"

A number in the various priesthood present start to nod--at the young warrior's words, some forget themselves and begin to applaud before being hushed by the elder Vardaman. In the soldier ranks, Kinnevack gets called a few choice names.

Quietly, Myrana wends an arm through Gauvain's when he sits back down, bandages whispering over the fabric of his sleeve.

Mikilos pauses by the edge of the stage, waiting a moment to let any others step up first before proceeding. Walking to before the alter, he pauses again, clasping his hands together nervously.

Pauseing for a moment longer to gather his thoughts, Mikilos looks out over the crowd, nodding to a few familiar faces before he begins to speak.

"Versis is not my home. Sendor, is not my country. This is not my land, these are not my people. Yet I have come here to offer what aid I may.

And as I look around this room, I see others like me. Those from other land, with no kin or claim to this war. No claim other then what has happned here is wrong, and we wish to make it right.

This isn't just about Sendor or Bludgun, Myrr or Chan, human, ogre, elf, hob, gnome, dwarf, Daeus, Vardama, prince, commoner, young, old, farmer, fighter.

It's about doing what's right.

Doing what needs to be done.

All of us, together, stopping Kinnevack, stopping those who would use this world for their own greed, and together building to a better world. A world where this never has to happen again.

The price paid here was high.

Too high.

But from it we have come together, learned to work together, to fight together. And perhaps because of that, something better will come of it.

I can only do my small part to make that better world, and ask that each of you do the same."

Mikilos steps down, and heads back towards the rear of the cathedral again.

More in the audience nod as the speeches continue. An older man reaches down to lift his grandson, who clings tightly to his side but waves to some of the soldiers. Carmichael continues moving down the aisles, speaking to those present in a quiet voice, nodding, nodding, and moving on. At the end of Mikilos' words, he turns around and nods again, looking troubled. "We can never forget." He stops again. "We will /never/ forget." He looks around at each of you in turn, and "...if anyone else have words, let them hold to them for now. If no one else has words, let us move forward. Does anyone else have words?"

Karelin waggles his gauntletted fingers to the grandchild. Hopefully, he didn't wear a tinpot hat.

And now Vica strides forward, making her way from the back. The Angorite stops up front, steps up and turns to regard the crowd. "Never again. We all say it. But how does this 'never again' become 'another' in the first place? It takes place because wounds heal. Because memory becomes legend and then legend becomes myth. It happens because we would rather not think of darker things. I say to that, too, no more. We say now we will never forget, and we won't. Our children, though, might. Their children's children. They will forget. It is time something more permanent was done. So that this is not relegated to some mythic tale. I shed blood here in VErsis and I hope never to see its like again. Something *will* be done." And with that, she steps off, seeming firm in her conviction of something coming from this.

Myrana shakes her head silently.

Words? Faroud have words? No, there are no words that the young Veyshanti, so new to all of ... this can give, or feels he can give that would compare or say more than what has already been said.

As Xenarchy listens to this, still she does not look up. Her steepled fingers part, then tap together again. Quietly, she murmurs, "It's not enough..."

Karelin bares his teeth, listening, smiling grimly at those words. He shakes his head fractionally.

Carmina sits back, listening intently. She clearly looks as if she has no intent to speak, but only to consider and absorb.

Mikilos quirks a brow silently. Perhaps a fey elf from a mystic land with an ageless queen has a diffrent viewpoint on 'myths'.

Hekton has remained the entire time, motionless as a statue, his unwavering pose and posture almost of supplication to the gods above his contribution to this occasion and the topic at large, to those lost and those found, those who showed their worth and those who never got the chance.

Those, who fight.

At the end of it, as the ceremony and speakers draw to a close, Carmichael steps forward again in his gray robes. He scrubs at his beard, wiping away tears. The gray-steel of his hair shines in the torchlight, reflecting hundreds of torches and flickers of light. Each one of you. All of you, have illuminated the cathedral.

"Thank you. Thank you for coming tonight, and Vardama bless and guard your souls, may Angoron give you bravery on the field, and Althea take you in when you get home. Let Daeus guide the hearts and mind of your leaders with kind wisdom...and Cienara lift your hearts in your time of trouble."

As he speaks and finishes his speech, divine wind moves past the open flames, which gutter, flicker before rising higher. Scorchmarks so dour before on the cathedral walls ease away, nightmares that plagued the mind and sleep now ease, and sufferers will know they're gone, gone, for now at least, not to return (although Marks remain).

As the closing speech by Carmichael comes to an end, Ceres makes her way through the crowd, towards a small grouping of Cienaran Acylotes against the wall, between the podium and the entrance to the Cathedral. As the wind kicks up flames, and the scorch marks ease away, the bard gains the attention of the group, and with little fanfare and no instrumentation, the group starts to sings in the background, song presented in a series of minor melodies, all woven back together into the lyrics.

As Nature's temple, living pillars rise,

With words murmured, none 'til late have understood,

As man has wandered through a dreaming wood

Of souls watching with watching eyes.

As long-drawn echoes are heard as far-off chime

Mingle to one deep sound and fade away;

Vast as the night, brilliant as the day,

Colour and sound and perfume speak of time.

Some perfumes are as fragrant as a child,

Sweet as the sound of daisies, meadow-green;

Others, scared, lost, found in dreams come-and-gone,

Versis caught, now released, a journey gone un-riled.

But as the expansion of things infinite:

As scents, both light and heavily seen,

Souls are never lost, but now go on,

To life's rest, returning delight.

Karelin listens, letting his shoulders relax as he listens to the music. He smiles, though, relaxing from the bared-teeth pose of earlier.

A night of grief, sorrow, hope, and revelations is enough to make one wide-eyed, but Faroud is almost overcome, staring all about, or trying to, at once, as the divine wind blows through, urging the flames higher, and easing the marks on the walls of the cathedral. Stumbling away from the wall, Faroud looks up, looks around, then clasps at something beneath his kaftkan. There is a spark... of hope, before suddenly it is gone, and the young man's face drops once more to the floor.

Myrana's hand creeps up to her forearm, fingers gripping there over the bandages. Her jaw tightens.

Jareth seems to visibly relax as the wind blows through the cathedral, an easing of a burden he'd been bearing for a while. Tugging his sleeves up a bit causes him to furrow his brow and frown a little though. Pursing his lips, he looks about and pulls the cuffs back down as he waits for the procession to leave.

Myrana's gaze flicks over at Jareth. She looks down at his arm then at his face. Questioningly. Still gripping her own arm under white fingers, grey sleeve wrinking.

Jareth shakes his head at Myrana's gaze, keeping his forearms still covered.

Mikilos remains quietly near the back, watching those who choose to depart and those who do not, an eye towards the visitiors form Rune and their reactions.

Donatien heads down the stairs of the cathedral and into the street.

Too much for Faroud, the young Veyshanti man, still looking at the floor, though his gaze appears to be beyond it, shambles towards the doors, along with the throngs of others who are dispersing from the ceremony.

Myrana looks down at the silent reply, the blood draining from her face, eyes closing.

"We leave now?" Carmina whispers to the person sitting next to her, as it becomes apparent that the half-elf is inexperienced in the reality of funeral/memorial services.

Ceres doesn't stay to provide more music, the acylotes dispersing to do their own thing, but seperates to head towards the flow of traffic out of the cathedral.

The woman next to Carmina nods, bobbing her head as she collects her things. Her fingers shake somewhat, and she appears old. Older, with recent events, and grips the edge of the pew to stand upright.

Amir'a heads down the stairs of the cathedral and into the street.

Amir'a has left.

 

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