A Knight to Remember

[Stephen Maturin]

"I am multi-lingual myself, sir," said Stephen, as though Dukes' response had loosened his tongue, "and still find it within me to use the appropriate terms at a funeral. Perhaps, had you not forgotten your own clothing tonight, you might have thoughts to spare for etiquette."

"I find it difficult that your Clan could mourn anything," the archon added, a deep bitterness evident in his tone. "You needn't be so immoderate and excessive in your praise of him, just be done with it: the sect did not appreciate Tristram's past, but had he lived on, perhaps, he would have made a new name for himself. Indeed, he was out of time."

Stephen is brought up sharp, hotly so, as Laurence appears. With a grunt, he nods, seeming content for the Brujah's gesture at the ground.

"Hail the valiant dead. He fought well."

[Miroslav]

Miroslav studied the stranger who entered the party in such a manner. It was rare these days to enjoy moments of bluntness. Straightforwardness was not Miri's fortress but he could appreciate coming from someone else. Entertainment those dark days were a rarity and whatever was disguised as entertainment it was a big pile of horse shit that he had no to take part in.

"Such a small world to compare one's palate Elder Dukes. Denying new experiences. Fearing suspicious liquors. Politely declining the offer by using lies where you can just tell me..."

the smile on the Elder's face tender as he softly continues "...to fuck off."

"Be more like the good sir here...I am afraid I don't know your name" he gestures towards Stephen "Be blunter and honest...or angry even...whatever spices up your palete....now tell me good Sir." his husky gaze on the Archon "What could possibly the honoured deceased have done wrong? What is that inspired wrath? "

Hail the valiant dead


Miroslav's attention gets distracted by the affairs on the grave. Perplexed why the grave was of any importance. Kindred had strange ways of mourning or even pretending they do. But he had no intention of ruining the party so he cheers with his bottle in the air almost melodically and making sure he will be heard.

"Hail and farewell,
We shall meet again in hell."

[alanwrotethis]

Dukes winces at Stephen's words like a wounded dog.
"Yes yes... trying to be genuine here, not all that practiced at it. More often than not it is not... people that I speak with."
He continues nodding and gesturing in respect, but when Miroslav's caramel voice turns to mockery his eyes lock into focus on the Toreador elder.
"Then in the name of all that is splendid Miroslav, why don't you cram a fucking sock up there, light the dry end and see how long you can hop before your arse burns off! Pick another waif to be your hart for the night, I am in no damned mood to play with you!"
A pause. Dukes blinks.
"To... to the valiant dead," he says, raising his hipflask in toast.

[Jean-Jacques]

Taking his lead from the Sheriff, Jean-Jacques approaches the grave.

His takes out a parcel from beneath his cloak and unwraps it and secretes the paper back within his cloak.

He then unfurls a cloth, largely green in colour, with a golden lion rampant embroidered upon it.

He steps forward purposefully and places the folded cloth, lion uppermost, next to the grave. Takes a deliberate step back, raises his head and stares directly ahead.

”zee green represents ’ope, joy, and loyalty in lurve.”

”zee yellow represents generositee.”

”zee lyon represents bravery, strongth, ferocity, and valeur.”

“Monsiour, le Knight, I honour your passing to beyond zee veil.”

Jean-Jacques makes s hort bow of the head, and then takes two steps backwards and wraps his cloak about him.

[Jerome Price]

Jerome waits patiently as each newcomer arrives and engages in their inevitable sparring, letting the rush of words wash over him as he contemplates his memories and experiences of the fallen elder.

Opening his eyes, he gazes over the gathered group, smiling contentedly at the range of kindred who have arrived, arching an eyebrow when he notes Miroslav amid the group and nodding as Jean-Jacques speaks for the fallen warrior.

"Welcome all, your presence here tonight is appreciated and thank you for your most thoughtful words neonate. I had wondered if any would come, Sir Tristram was a kindred of directness and one who tested the limits of any he encountered. I recall his first arrival in court, like a storm he blew past us towards the Prince and we followed in his wake, ready to act in case his intent was malicious, but it quickly became clear he was a man of honour and dedicated himself to the Prince and the city. A dedication which did not falter until the day he fell."

Jerome sighs. "I have to agree that he was someone out of his time, and if he had been granted the grace of a little more I am sure he would have properly adapted to this new world we find ourselves in. Perhaps, someone else might wish to share a memory of Sir Tristram we can begin commemorating his life and service."

[Miroslav]

Miroslav smiles at Dukes and bows "Very well Elder, well said". There was a pleasure in forcing gentlemen to lower their communication standards but it was no use if it was so effortless, Miroslav thought, as his eyes moved around falling on the french neonate. Walking closer and whispering to Jean-Jacques.

"Good Sir, such a lovely gesture. I can't help but wonder though. What lies beyond zee veil?"

[Yorick Von Watenberg]

The priest approaches, he has taken the time to survey the area, as he had been taught since his embrace, so many times had he done so it was automatic, check the area is free of kine, then reveal your visage.

“Greetings, elder Price, elder Dukes, Elder Mirislax, Living Saint”. - he nods to each in turn, saving his deepest bow for Stephen. He doesn’t bother acknowledging the neonates.

“Thank you for arranging this. Although I fear Sir Tristram failed in the challenges he was set, I continue to pray for his soul. Only god above can judge him now, and I pray each night that he might have mercy on his pagan soul. I hope one day to meet the Sir Tristram that could have been, not the one that was. What ever he may have done in the past, he gave his life in defence of the sect. I hope that had he survived he would have seen wisdom in joining.”

[alanwrotethis]

[Laurence]

Laurence watches with interest the verbal sparring between the two Elders. He had not heard the kind of language they used yet in Bath and it gave him some relief that outside of Elysium the Brujah were not the only ones who actually cussed.

Lady Leverson....the old Brujah Primogen and Prince. Well if there was some trouble between her and the Elder who was needling Dukes it would do well to find out about it. Sloshing another mouthful of wine into the goblet, Laurence once more dipped his fingers into the container and cast droplets of blood out into the earth, this time a few drops landing on the surface of the coffin and sinking into the wood.

Muttering a few phrases in Navajo, Laurence bows his head once more.

[Miroslav]

He glances sideways at Dukes with a smile almost reaching his eyes "Good old times, Leverson was a delight, bless her. Alas, fisting was never included in her threats although her repertoire was rather elaborate. Out of all, fisting would have been rather welcomed...If you do not know the pleasures of it, Elder Dukes, we can do something about it. As for what you offered to show me...I do not need you to show me hell..."

I see it every day here in this wretched earth, he wanted to add but instead, he clapped cheerfully at the Nosferatu newcomer "Living Saint?" he points at Stephen "He drunk too much of the blood of Christ, I am afraid."