A Knight to Remember

[Yorick Von Watenberg]

“Yorick turns to face Mirislav, answering the question that was not addressed to him. Simple elder, after this life is over, truly over, not this heresy that is practised by necromancers who see a ghost and fantasise they understand the mysteries of life and death. No, when one truly dies they are judged by the lord our God. For us as kindred our lives are judged against the purposes god has assigned us, and if we have done his will and are god fearing, then we will be ushered into the kingdom of heaven to sit on his right hand.”

“I know you do not appreciate my clan, but I hope you could put this to one side so I may teach you the answer to these questions you foist on neonates”

[Stephen Maturin]

Stephen looked caught between wanting to add further insult to injury (indeed at any other time he might wince for the crude desperation of his emotion, but it made no difference, his anger was not lessening) but stymied by a very real and vaguely impressed pause at the Sheriff's outburst. He was about to open his mouth and defer to the heat in his blood, but as always happened when you least wanted it, Yorick appeared.

Now Stephen did wince. He had slept uneasily ever since Yorick had appeared above him, in the cave, and he was fast sensitised now to his presence. To his dismay, he could no sooner correct the title than draw attention to it. And so Stephen fall awkwardly silent as Yorick spoke, hoping the monologue swallowed itself, and all meaning.

'I hope that had he survived he would have seen wisdom in joining.'

"I'm sure he would have," Stephen clipped, shifting his weight.

Miroslav - to whom Stephen was not aquainted - drew a baleful (and slightly tense) look from the Archon. "It's just a pointless term, an endearment if you will. Think nothing on it."

[alanwrotethis]

Dukes listens to Miroslav, chuckling quietly to himself, his expression more present than the distracted gaze he normally presents. He looks ready to raise his voice again when Miroslave turns attention to Stephen, but halts when Yorick intercedes.
He turns back to the coffin and nods.
"Yfych ch'in yn Afalon, heddwch gyda chi Tristram," he whispers.

[Miroslav]

The Elder Toreador lit up like a child who found too many gifts under the Christmas tree. A lunatic Christian and a man who gets off by being called a saint. He takes a few steps back towards Stephen and faces him. His features softening as he licked his lips starring at the Archon's eyes. His smile was involuntary. He disliked genuine smiles and gestures of abundance. These did not fit in the hell he made for himself nor the stories about ghosts and God's judgement. What was the point of guilt and agony if there was also a torture chamber waiting for you in the afterlife.

"Endearment you say...Like sweet nothings? That's an overkill don't you think?" his tone smooth as he takes a step closer

"I like to use other kinds of endearments. Little darling...toy...pet...I must admit, the living saint wouldn't be up to my list..maybe my naughty little Saint, that might do...But each with their likes. No judgement here..." he turns around "Only God can judge us...obviously" and then his attention levitates back to the Archon as he gauges his reaction in intrigue.

[Stephen Maturin]

"Perhaps we are fucking," Stephen snapped - purely to be contrary - and quite without thinking. His Beast was close to the surface; this month he could practically feel it, simmering beneath his flesh. He inhaled a deep draught of the night air, tried to force himself to cool.

"More easily by far, 'overkill' is simply how fanatically you focus on trivial matters. Are these sort of statements your only cusps of revelation these nights? Can you truly take such enjoyement out of so little?" Stephen said, impatience rising. "How dull your life must be, sir. Indeed: let us be fucking, let these be sweet nothings, or sweet somethings. At least I am able to solicit some form of endearment, and loyalty. I'd wager your hand is your surest ally these nights?"

"Tired, sir, are you, for such base and weak measures."

[Miroslav]

Miroslav's smile faints along with any gleam. His features the epitome of a young man but as he frowns and darkens there is nothing of that youth left. There was so much fire in this boy, he thought, the kind of fire he secretly longed to bring back. Alas, it was six feet under and no amount of excavation could give the breath back to his corrupted lungs. Instead, he was setting fire to his insides for fun and with a long sip from his bottle, he laughed without humour.

"Loyalty is the past of loss. Loss your only future. You think you have a choice and that's sweet, boy. May you enjoy your sweet nothings now that they don't tear you apart yet. May the likes of you judge the likes of us for as long as they can. So I would rot in my unloyal hole where everything minor is a source of entertainment." and with that, he bows to the Archon and laughs like there is no tomorrow.

[Amelia]

Keeping her dagger in hand, Amelia steps out of the shadows appearing next to Elder Price She eyes Elder Dukes, Elder Miroslav, and the one Elder Yorick called living Saint wearily.

Amelia makes a point of ignoring the existence of Elder Yorick.

"what's up with him?" she murmurs to Price, pointing to Elder Dukes.

[Jerome Price]

The bitterness and bile being spat across the grave seemed to Jerome a most honest obituary for a man and kindred who had led his life amid eternal conflict. Looking at the assortment of kindred who had arrived, each seemed an emptier vessel than the previous their own voids far deeper than the six feet betwixt them. Interesting.

Amelia's arrival tugs at the corner of Jerome's mouth, he cannot resist his mirth at her continuing audacity and irreverence. Following her gaze to Dukes he shakes his head a little and says quietly, "If by 'him' you mean 'Elder' Dukes, then he is as ever uneasy around others preferring the company of his books and objets non pertinents. That and I believe you are witnessing some genuine mourning."

Jerome's eyes flick to the knife in her hand, she seemed quite ... attached to blades, it was not so long ago she had attempted to sneak one into Elysium. A thought. He moves to the sack and reaches in, his fingers wrapping around the decorated leather of the scabbard and slowly drawing out the sword. A plain enough affair, nothing like the more sophisticated duelling blades of the current era. No, this weapon spoke of the past in its simplicity and forthrightness - the pommel large enough to be gripped by both hands if required with a solid cross-guard. He turns back to Amelia, the weapon dwarfing her slightly, "As a member of Sir Tristram's clan, would you act as his sword-bearer?" He proffers the sheathed blade to her.

[Yorick Von Watenberg]

“How dare you. How dare you! How dare you disturb the funeral of this pagan with your sinful words!”

“That you seek to denigrate that which is holy. That rather accepting and championing the road god put you on you instead you denigrate it! Have you no shame Stephen? No desire to take up the creusable God has offered you? Instead you engage in this revolting language that both insults god and all of us who witness it. What would Elder Tristram think?” - Yorick had a fair idea what Tristram would really think of all this. But the bastard was dead so who cares?

“And you elder Mirislav. I name you the most foul, beacon of sin, font of wickedness. My clan are aware of what you get up to with kine women. You too make a mockery of the gifts god has given you. Jesus and his angles weep at what you have become. Seek repentance or be dammed!”

[alanwrotethis]

"Hmmm..."
Dukes eyes the two bickering elders.
"Must you? Yorick, Miroslav, I understand your bile, you stand so far apart that you lap the world and become twins again... But don't turn a fucking Archon into a staging ground for your verbal assaults. It's... Bad manners. If he kicks your rumps into oblivion for the slight I may not be able to protect you."
He shakes his head.
"Jerome has the way of it, maybe this is what mourning looks like. Mourning Ser Tristram, mourning ourselves, maybe even mourning the things unsaid and undone. Every funeral is an echo of the funerals that came before, a reminder of those to come. Saying hello eventually means saying goodbye... An unnecessary sentiment, no wonder I prefer books."