The Graveyard

[Shinzon]

"Oh, not again!" groaned the knight as he pushed him down to the ground and raised his fist. "Look, you cryptic fool, here's how it's gonna go; either you speak clearly, or I mash your head in. Do you understand?!" With that, he menacingly pressed his other hand onto him to keep him down, setting up his foot onto his leg. "Don't do anything you're gonna regret. Speak."

[Kidney]

"You will die alone. With no soul."
Dewitt looked upon the seals of which names had been written.
Sins. Sinful activities.
The names of the passed.
"Will you mash my head in and feel good? Or will you get heavier?"

[Shinzon]

"I'll die on my own terms, fool." With that, he went to his feet, raising the man in the air as he did, gripping him by the tunic. "I took no pleasure in killing them", he said with bitterness in his voice. "Orders are orders. I don't expect you to understand."
And with that, he groaned and tossed him aside, walking to pick up his discarded Halberd. "You'll die before I do anyway."

[Kidney]

Red. Red knights. Red blood. Red names. Red.

Dewitt looked down, tying the rag to his head before getting up.
He looked upon the knight's back

"Goodbye."

[Shinzon]

"Whatever", he said with a groan, not even bothering to look back as he made his way out of the Graveyard. Silence appeared just as immovable and tough as always.
But he was deeply disturbed by the encounter he had just bumped into.
"Not going back here anytime soon."

[Silence is making his way to the Tavern.]

[Kidney]

Pain.
It hit Dewitt like a ball of lead, and it came from multiple places. The first being his face, which gently flowed blood from his nostrils. The second was his chest and back, which Dewitt feared he had broken a rib inside of. He got up, the pain tremendous, and began walking towards the gate of the Graveyard, turning down the stairs. He moved slowly, with grunts. And headed towards the Sanitarium.

To the Sanitarium.

[Shinzon]

It was a day like any other in the Hamlet. The beggars raised their hands to block out the kicks from passerbies, the farmhands tried to forget the horrors of their lives for a time around a strong drink of the company of a (cheap) harlot; only the most pious of the rabble, roused by the Abbey's messengers, had flocked to the sermon. The Graveyard, as usual, was deserted.
As it should be.

But, as the faihtful went to listen to Grace's attempt at a sermon, foul energies dwelled there... something stirred withing the tombs, awakening from it slumber.
A skeletal hand shout out of the poisoned earth, struggling to find a grip; moments later, the other hand followed, and started to claw away at the dirt.
From the grave, rose...
A skeleton.

After biting, scratching, pulling, tearing at his poor-quality coffin for what felt like years, the undead had finally manage to break through... only to realize, to his discontent, that he still had six feet of dirt to claw through. Dirty and covered in the brown surface, it slowly pulled itself out of its grave, placing its skeletal hand over its skull in a facepalm.
Ka-ka-ka, went his skull as his jaw uselessly opened and closed itself for a moment. "Boy, I have a killer headache", let out the very-dead highwayman.

[Shinzon]

Already the sound of the bell from the Abbey frightened Mc Skellington. "Kakaka. Nutjobs down at it again!" he swore as he rose a bony fist in the building's direction. "That's it - I'm moving! Terrible neighbors, they are, kakaka!"
And with that, Skellington left the Graveyard, murdered a thug on his way and wrapped himself in his newfound clothes, running as fast as his bones could allow. "Kakakakakakaka, I'm out!"
And thus he rushed through the Weald, reaching for the Ruins. Things wouldn't be as lively and jolly, but less people would be trying to kill him - well, kill him again, that was.
It was only halfway through that he realized he had no idea who he was before he died.
"Kakaka, bugger."

[Mr Skellington departs for the Ruins!]

[Bloodtrailkiller]

Come the first hinting embers of a new dawn, smearing the sky with oranges and reds amidst a smokey field of grey clouds, the Graveyard had found itself occupied by a slowly growing square of piled wood; dry and grey, as all things were in the Darkest Estate. Indeed, even hay (which was meant to be starting fuel for the coming fire) seemed to be mottled in that sickly dower hue.

A wooden table was set before the square pyre as well, all of which were placed precariously close to the edge of one of the grated walls of the Graveyard; poised closer to the coast, so that the pyre's smoke might be caught by the oceanic winds...

/A Brotherhood of Monks/

Shuffling, whispering indescribable verses and instructions to eachother, a varying mass of hunched forms; perhaps ten in total, all meandered about the slowly finalizing funeral pyre.

All were bedecked in hempen, hooded robes, hued to a charring black, so that the only true color on their persons was the oblong nose, the jutting chin, or the calloused hands which held a menagerie of items: from gilded censers to a flag made of iron, capped in gold shaped to fire. Most were busy piling wood, however, or studying scrolls.

At last, to declare the grounds ready for the arrival of those who might mourn the passing of Roderick of Oxwood, a Monk; tall and strong, built to rival the Abbey's austere architecture itself, planted a flag readily into the earth before the Graveyard.

The flag itself bore the name of Roderick, on a field of black with a gilded starbust design emanating from a torch still burning bright. The metal which it was stood upon was made of ash-covered iron, with a torch at the top burning lazily before Dawn's first light.

Thus was announced the beginning of Roderick's funeral, in solemnity, as his gear: his armor, a standard, and his tabard were lain out upon the table. Any other personal affects not found on his person, had been well and duelly returned to his last set quarters.

The Brotherhood of Ten Monks, after arranging the equipment upon the woody table before the Pyre, set themselves on either flank of the soon to be burned wood; awaiting but one arrival.

//

[Vanitypirate]

Made muddled and drunken by hunger, the robber Tilly could scarcely recall her first days in the Hamlet.

She dripped into the grooves of civilized nature. She serpentined shyly in between the crannies where no one minded to look after, so long as she never stagnated in any way that might beget a flush of unwanted greenery-- rather, she wormed her way unobtrusively, with no level of force and mass that might carve a trail in the wake of what she had seen, nor with the strength to ferry debris off with her, spiriting on over the cobbled horizon like boats descended from upwardly boughs.

When she had first tasted her petrichor, seeping outwards from what careless crack or nozzle or cask or another, she knew thirst, but not the danger of standing ponds. What bore brilliant, verdant life had poisoned Tilly. Her blood boiled and purged to near nothingness and vapors to rid itself of it. She was certain she would expire, then, but she wound on...

She no longer trickled onwards. Here, she was gathering up into her own puddle in this Hamlet, stagnating, lush with a verdure of her own, and mortally toxic to all who dared to drink from her.

Tilly arrived in the spring to pick off the coins and bits from corpses and wring coin from their undoing in the name of sustenance. She never looked into their eyes, or in the sockets of where the eyes might have been. When she circled the graveyard, her eyes glazed over the names in search of the death date for a grave not too ripe and not too new.
She drifted about the outskirts of the cemetery, expertly noting routes of escape and entry like so many times before. The Hamlet was not the most desirable of places, ironically due to its wide collection in corpses, which were of no slim pickings, but it was the nextmost downstream reservoir, and hunger was an excellent motivator.

She found the section of graveyard wall in the most severe disrepair, just the same as she had done nearly three exact years prior. But when she hoisted herself up to drape her spindly legs over its precipice, she found it easier than when she had first scaled the wall. She pivoted on arms made hard and lean, with practiced muscles that flexed beneath her metal-plated coat. And instead of a shovel looped over her shoulders and carried on her back, a sword bounced against her thigh. When her legs hung down, her bootbuckles glinted greedily in the early sun. When the wind chilled her dampened cheeks, she'd only just realized she had begun to cry, though she had stopped the flow off as swiftly as it had begun.

The ex-robber rubbed her eyes, perched atop that cobblestone wall in the shadows that bordered the graveyard. She lingered like fog, too cowardly to approach Roderick's pyre before his corpse started burning; she knew she would not be able to avert her eyes from his elsewise.
In that tavern room, she couldn't, and neither could he. He knew that she was poison, and she had warned him, but he indulged regardless, and there was some part of her that resented the good crusader for being desperate enough to do so.

Burn well. She wished silently for the man while she watched the monks construct his pyre. Wherever you go, burn well and burn bright.
Though, regardless of whether he burned sufficiently brightly or not, she knew she had little choice but to burn brightly on his behalf, too.

[relentless]

So did the blackened entrance, deaths literal door swing open with a violent and creaky nudge. Several matte black crows perched themselves atop the gate itself, and nearby graveyards, squawking in protest. A gnawing sound, the lick of birds tongue and the rasp of their corvine throats singing a hellish choir of disturbance. The dark, murky green grass flowed bitterly from portside to starboard, acting as a carressing wave to signpost the taint that marred this place in an unsusual sense.

Though when a sanded, tanned thick leather sole accompanied by ridges of steel plating giving resemblance to a boot pressed deep into the earth, though it moved on with slow stride, from which the corvine choir would sprout their wings and take high into the sky, perhaps to sing a more 'heavenly' tune.

Libourg, a pious knight of faith, reduced to a grumbling man in a metal shell thanks to that of a black cat dancing across his scales of fate, along with more... real, tragic events. Though the man remained steadfast, his joviality seemed to run drier by the second in general. To those he knew, which were very few, perhaps even none, he would give them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps anyway.

'Shackle' and 'Rattle' did the knights armour say, a rabble of incoherant noises that weren't that loud to be irritable, but loud enough to be heard with every gracing movement. Clanking and clunking, jingling and singing did the chainmail frolic, but very quietly in fact, muffled by the small movements of his steel plate reinforcements, making him safe, or at least feel safe.

He moved with slow, respectable grace, his injured left arm bound tight to his chest with the sling wavering in the breeze, though it remained steadfast across the mans right pauldron despite the slow dance from right to left, left to right. In his functioning hand, he gripped tight onto the underside of his visored barbuta, gripping the visor tight as if he were clenching the grip of his longsword. Thankfully, or at least hopefully, he wouldn't need to use his longsword.

Then again, the dead could fight back in this wretched place, so Libourg at least hoped he wouldn't have to defend himself against the corpse of Roderick.

He passed down a small, thin dirt path inbetween rows of graves, some were untouched, some were crooked whilst others had been ransacked. In any other scenario, Libourg would probably care a great deal. Though he had enough things to worry about, the dead could wait... along with their belongings. He wouldn't trail far from the pyre, nearing closer to it.

Libourg's expression only faltered slightly, and he came to a pause in movement as he analysed the pyre, before he sighed again with tiredness, setting off down the path.
'Purification, in its ultimate form.'
Libourg thought to himself, awash with grimness instead of the anxiety that grew fond with him. Roderick, soon to be reduced to a pile of ash. A respectful fate, though Libourg couldn't feel nothing but dread from just looking at his fellow.

Would he return to ashes just like Roderick?  To be encased in a pot, or cast into the sky to be free? A fate that Libourg quickly shut off from his mind as he focused on walking, his eyes narrowing on the pyre and the path, nothing more, nothing less.

[Outisakanobody]

Celeste had been told about the funeral services, naturally, be she lagged behind the rest. She walked slowly, without purpose. Her face was a mask of indifference, her eyes largely dead as she watched the monks go about their business. She made no effort to talk or even look at anyone. She just watched passively.

//

Grace brought Mercy back to her room, hoping she would be safe there while she went to see Roderick off for the last time. She remembered distantly when she had received that note. It weighed heavy on her heart, even now. All the questions of what she could have done different for him. She stood tall and proud, her face betraying nothing about her internal struggle.

//

Lance had been wandering about the abbey when he heard tell of some kind of funeral. He wasn't normally the type to frequent such morbid affairs, but he had nothing else to do, with his mentor still missing, so he decided to see what it was all about, and hopefully meet some interesting folks there as well. He stayed to the back, for now, quietly observing the proceedings.

[Bloodtrailkiller]

/A Brotherhood of Monks/

The one who'd hoisted the Banner stood solemnly at his vigil, as those few that approached came. He bowed his head and greeted each in kind,
"Flames brighten your path." He murmured to the nurse whom sluggishly came past, even behind an ironically impenetrable veil of shadows over his eyes, the Monk's words and gaze was warming, fatherly as he clutched the iron pole of the flag like a sailor to the downhaul.

Next, his gaze swept to Grace, whose presence begat a more formal salute; the Monk raised his right hand to tap at the ends of either of his brows, his chin, then his forehead.
"Lady Grace; you illuminate these grounds and we mourners few. I-if you've words to add to the flame, speak with Brother Volk--" The Monk, pulled away one white-knuckled claw from the pole, and pointed to an easily passable monk; only notable for his pointed and firey red hued chin-curtain that only emphasized a large smile and hooked nose.
The hairs of the chin-curtain reached up and around the man's dimples, as he worked.

Brother Volk immediately noticed the pointed finger, and turned away from his tendings of Roderick's armor and bowed kindly to Grace, before returning to his work in brushing the brow of Roderick's helm with an oily rag.

The Flagbearing Monk nodded, and returned the hand to its home around the pole. Giving Grace one last glance,
"--May smoke clear your lungs, good Lady."
Now, his veiled eyes scanned and stared rather poignantly at Lance, then Libourg; the Monk shifting where he stood, looking about, and moistening his mouth for some encroaching prayers.

His gaze seemed to drift over Tilly's position, lingering only briefly, before returning to the approaching Libourg, and awaiting the man's proper arrival.

--

The rest of the proceedings seemed to be finding their end; the light given to them being a stark bluish grey that stood in vivid contrast to the luminous golds of the mourning standard and glimmer of the ever polished metal armor of Roderick.

The Pyre seemed to have received the last of its kindling; no corpse was present atop it, instead, a rather impressive monument of sticks made the shape of a torch on its more sturdy woody log platform.

Afore the pyre was a table with the armor displayed out and attended to by the monks; the Helm lay at the center, atop the man's breastplate, tabard, and maille. His gauntlets, pauldrons, and greaves were equally set on either side of the helm and breastplate, while his boots were placed below the table.
And, infront of this, some meter or so away, was the humble tombstone for Roderick himself. Enough room on either flank for one to pass by, but only so far as the words and name of Roderick to be visible.

Most of the Monks, besides two tending to the armor, and the Standardbearer, now retreated to form a semicircle around the pyre. Hunched and hands clasped together in ceremony, the bowed their heads in rumination and prayer.

//

[Vanitypirate]

It was a lovely service. His pyre burned as brilliantly as Tilly could have hoped, though it was bereft of any actual corpse.
It seemed that she missed the burial itself.

And now she was on the outside, looking inwards. To attend the service of a man, among his friends and his mourners, she personally unraveled could not have been anything but desecration. So she cowardly lingered on the outskirts, not quite taking part in the pyre and the ceremony, but neither shying away.
She brought a knee up, perched on that wall. While the monks gave their prayer, she watched the flame of the pyre dance for a long while.

He was already buried and she did not even know.
Roderick was gone.

What good would idle prayers do to a man already long gone?
Tilly rested her elbow on her upraised knee, frowning; indeed, where were those prayers when he was alive?
Resting a hand on the pommel of the sword she carried, she supposed she knew one way to honor his memory, the ghost of the man Roderick had not been for some time.

Silently, under cover of the dark, she slunk off the wall and landed lightly on her feet outside the graveyard.
It was as if she had never been there. She knew that she had no wish to remain to see the fire burn out.

[relentless]

/Libourg/

/The Pyre/

He passed with heavy, leather bound soles past rows upon rows of cold gravestones, where bouquets of flowers had long since returned to the mud with dead stalks sticking up from the dirt, and grassy deathbeds left untidy with no one to care for. Though despite such lack of care for the dead, Libourg wouldn't give his attention to the ones that passed long ago, giving the same lack of attention to those that gathered, or for a fair few, fled the funeral. His mind wandered, though his emotions seemed to remain frozen.

A cold, frosty but light sensation of wind pressed him against his face like a lover, nipping at his cheeks and turning them a bitter cold, the sensation making his entire body slowly more chilled. Perhaps it was mental, approaching the deathbed of a brother he tried to save, but failing despite his best efforts. With this infectious kiss, recieved perhaps from the whispers of the dead, his mind began to wander to darker recesses of his mind.

"Stay with me brother."
An etheral voice gave out, morphed and distorted to be almost unaudible. But Libourg knew who was talking, since he was there, in that moment. Soon the waves of the past faltered for a moment, fluctuating in and out of reality before he fell back down into the mental pit of his mind.
"The light isn't done with you..."
The distortion of words called out in his mind, maintaining the same level of distortion, yet it grew in volume, worry and irritation, making his senses wince as the voice inside his head began to sing.

"Stay with me!"
The voice cried out loudly and more clearly, Libourgs own voice shouting back at him, his senses tingling and burning, making his eyes shut tight and a harsh breath follow out of his mouth as he returned harshly back to the planes of reality. He kept on walking ahead despite the flashback, his brow furrowing breathly as he bit his lip, before opening his eyes, raising his brow and maintaining the same glum expression he carried with him.

He was dead. Gone... and soon to be returned to ash. But Libourg wondered to himself, did Roderick die in vain? Will his vigil upon these accursed lands ever be met, like all knights who have tried and failed be forgotten?

Was Libourg the next knight to fall for a similar fate?

Libourg rattled in his armour, but only slight, yet enough to make his chainmail jingle as a lapse of fear washed through him.

Finally, he met with the flagbearer after a long walk through the graveyard led him around to the pyre, standing a meter between the flagbearer to provide him comfortable spacing. Before Libourg spoke any words, he adjusted his posture to the best of his ability, hindered by his injured arm making him rather clumsy, though he tried his best to maintain his respect for the monk. Placing his left foot back and right foot slightly forward, he leaned his upper body forward, performing a short bow with some struggle apparent in his movement.

He remained like this for a few passing moments, before straightening himself, thankfully not wobbling due to his armour holding him down onto the ground.

"Glory to Flame, brother. I'm... glad I could attend this funeral."
Libourg nodded, speaking in a hushed voice in order to not taint the silence that had gathered. Clearing air through his nose, his eyes travelled to the left and right from the area of the pyre, noting two notable figures though quickly asserting his attention to the pyre, watching as the monks gathered around and mumbled prayers with the a more hushed tone than Libourg. His attention quickly locked back onto the monk standing in front of him.
"... I'm thankful for what you've done here, giving Sir Roderick a proper... send off."
Libourg admitted, remaining glum in expression, yet a grateful smile fought to be on his face as he thanked the monk.