A Knight to Remember

[Yorick Von Watenberg]

Yorick smiles at Dukes’s analogy, given his oversized maw and countless spiked teeth it seems more threatening then a sign of
levity. Instead Yorick relies on his eyes to convey his humour.

“Well spoken sheriff, But this archon is so much more. But it is not for me to calibrate his glory before he is ready to announce it to the world. It is my responsibility as a Shepard of God to guide him along the path of revelation. If he is to, as you put it ‘whoop my ass’, well, that is the least I would be willing to pay in the glory the Living sant will reveal.”

Turning to elder price and away from Mirrisalv. “Your choice of Amelia to be the late elders sword bearer is very apt. I heartily approve and I am sure Tristram would have been honoured as well”.

[Amelia]

Amelia pulls an apologetic look, "Yes... Sorry... Elder Dukes." She looks at Elder Dukes with a warm look. "He's a strange fellow, surely you can't trust books either."

She looks at the sword Elder Price is holding then up at him. "Wait... Sorry... What did you say?... Where did you get that from?... Is that Ser Tristams?" she says distractedly, still watching Elder Dukes.

[Stephen Maturin]

"Oh for heavens sake, Tristram was fucking Verity, I'd say he wouldn't have minded the language. You have to own some sort of ludicrous fortitude to withstand sexual deviance of that degree. Whenever did funerals become a farce to truth? This has nothing to do with shame and everything to do with...."

Stephen faltered slightly. Paying respects seemed a bit far-fetched. "With bearing witness. To who he was, to Tristram's life, what little we knew of it."

Seeing as Stephen absolutely agreed with everything Yorick said about Miroslav, however, he wisely said nothing, and only tightened his jaw.

Having been elevated now to the 'fucking Archon' - Stephen wasn't sure what to make of that - he blinked, casting a lightly hazy gaze to Dukes, and in a gesture that betrayed his own social exhaustion, perhaps also his intoxication, he lifted his shoulder, in a shrug.

"And what a great many things there are to mourn. Our entre existence, perchance. If there is any here who truly enjoys their life, every aspect of it, I would call that fellow a liar, or drunk. Let us hope Tristram is in a better world than this. Though we all doubt it sorely."

[Jean-Jacques]

Jean-Jacques takes the pause in the exchange between the archon and the elders to speak, to no one in particular,

“Tears are the silent language of grief, mine own tears are long exhausted.”

“For hoom do we conduct memorials?” Ze dead may lingere to ‘ere us, some may lingere evermoor, clinging to zome mermory latched ‘pon ze world of ze living.”

‘Ze memory fades over time, we kindred have time, time is ze enemy of ze mind, yet we steel desire to prolong as such.”

He continues, he is clearly in rehearsed, the words flowing as if his soul is bared, his beast is rising just as his speech becomes more impassioned.

“Ze dead are what, zey are dust, yet zey live in our minds, ‘aunting us. “

“We speak at zere death, it is to encourage such as zey were seen, yet we are adorned wiz ze eyeglass of ze rose colour in memory we maginify what we desire ze dead to have been in life.”

“In truce, we act in memory for our own raison, zose zat we wish to follow also.”

“We all stand in hypocrisy.”

he seems to falter, and realises where he is and his audience and stops his monologue, though clearly unfinished he moves away form the grave and the bickering that had previously ensued.

[Stephen Maturin]

"I don't think anyone is rose-tinting Tristram," Stephen muttered blandly. "Perhaps we should."

He slides a low glare to the Brujah. "Quite a statement for someone ignorant of - what did you say - everyone here? You can't claim hypocrisy until you have a shred of knowledge yourself, sir, on our motives. Call it what you will but at least everyone is being honest tonight, which is more than can be said for most funerals."

[Jean-Jacques]

Jean-Jacques returns the archons glare with a simple smile,

He speaks more softly.

“Archon, i struggle with forgoing my memories of life as a kine. Eeech day passes with zose memories fading.”

“I find more and more ze memorials of ze passing are rituals at wheech zose attending perform to type, almost in eetself a nod to ze rites of ze kine.”

“Eet ees whati see, zo i know my eyes are young ‘ere in zees place”

“My own impression of ze elder, now departed, was one of makeeng my very senses feel on edge, i cannot place why, yet it waz zere.”

“He was, however, always honourable, at leest to mine simple sight, in his speaking to my lowly position at court.”

He pauses, more than half expecting a tirade from one of the senior elders in attendance

[Miroslav]

Miroslav would have asked Elder Dukes what kind of drug he had that night and if there was any left for him. Alas, the living Saint was higher in his curiosity list. An Archon. Jerome's displeasure unimportant to the Toreador. He found funerals and their mourners pathetic.

He titled his head to the side, an odd expression forming as his attention drifted between the Elder Nosferatu and Stephen, his next words barely a whisper as he took a step further towards the Archon.

"If one uses sex with a nosferatu as a cover-up for another secret then consider me eternally intrigued." but the next words from the Archon makes him wrinkle his nose.

A wave of theatrical dizziness envelopes him as he walks towards the grave starring at the ground with a tut.
"My beloved Verity bedding a Nosferatu?" he moves his pale long hand to his heart and closes his eyes "What else have I missed, what other shame will be brought upon me. What more I meant to suffer."

He sighs staring at Jean-Jacques and as he raises his bottle he adds "Anozee one bites zee dust"

[Stephen Maturin]

"Don't let those memories go, then," Stephen grunted. "What are we without humanity? Monsters, or glorified parasites. For those of us with any sense, holding onto humanity is the surest pursuit in your unlife that you should invest absolutely into. There are ways to prolong those memories, sir, to make them more vivid and real to you, and it is not some noble pursuit to do so, it is fundamental to this existence. There are ways, too, to create anew that which you feel is lost. You may not realise it, but there are a considerable wealth of Elders in the Camarilla well versed in this practice."

"If they become rites and nothing more, that you follow emptily, at least there are still attempts to cling to that which keeps us sane, and whole. It is better than nothing, a step in the right direction. It is a weakness to let go, it is of course easier to slip into the Beast's clutches. It is the greater challenge to maintain a semblance of who you once were. If you're finding you're slipping already, then you need to develop quicker strategies, and firmer ones, before you struggle yet more, entering your ancilla years."

"Oh - Tristram deviated from this standard path, that's likely why he set your teeth on edge. He did mine, too. No one is pretending that was a good thing, however. Look how isolated it made him. Tristram struggled to connect with anyone outside of his role as a tool of service. He was a machine, in some ways, made so by this deviance. And - ho! Stay back there, sir."

Stephen actually took a step away from Miroslav, dancing around with a step that was quite indicative of a duellist. "I've no desire to spill blood at a grave. I'm an unsuperstitious individual, but no fool."

[alanwrotethis]

[Laurence]

Draining the goblet of blood in his hand, Laurence listens to the words spoken by the others at the grave side.

“When one finds themselves slipping to the beast...one must remember who they are. Take upon themselves those things that make the blood rush once more.”

Laurence blinks, adding another splash of blood to the goblet and inhaling the smell.

“My nightmares are filled with the thoughts of slipping to The Beast, losing who and what I am. Either to the beast...”

Falling quiet again, Laurence glances around at the other Kindred around the grave. Nodding to each in turn, the Brujah stows his goblet at his belt and double checks the daggers at his back. Once more wrapping himself on his cloak, Laurence starts to walk back down the path away from the gathering.