A Knight to Remember

[Jerome Price]

The night after Elysium, a non-descript message will go out to all those resident in the city inviting any who wish to attend the opportunity to pay their respects to a fallen warrior, Sir Tristram. This will be taking place on the following night at 11pm, two nights after Elysium, in Twerton Cemetery which is currently fallow territory*. The invitation is signed 'Elder Price' and lacks any of the normal formality of the normal sect missives, both of which seem to imply this lies outside the usual sect-sponsored events.

***

Jerome strides through the graveyard, the light fog reaching and clinging to his new morning coat like clawing hands of the spirits of the dead reaching up from their resting places to attempt to pull him to join them. The torches he arranged to be placed along the route illuminate the cracked stones of the vague path, great divots of earth showing where the erstwhile jungle of weeds had been plucked to avoid snagging the clothes of those arriving. Hopefully none would attempt to deviate from the path and find themselves assaulted by the wilderness of the unkempt cemetery. There were of course grander graveyards in the north of the city, but to Jerome at least it seemed a more fitting setting for this. He did not want accusations of undue importance being granted to Sir Tristram and he had only been reading last night about the poor knights and this definitely felt like the kind of place a poor knight might be buried. He was certain that this wasn't what was meant by a poor knight, but it had felt right. Unsure as he was about Sir Tristram's own knightly heritage it had seemed wise to spend an hour or two familiarising himself with some of the basics of the key orders that had existed over the years.

Reaching the chosen area, a little more spacious than the rest of the crowded plots that he had passed on his way, a heavy set and dirt-covered gentleman stood in the shadows his hands resting on the large headed spade that denoted his trade. Jerome nodded, his tall black hat dipped in polite salute, before reaching into a pocket to dig out a few coins.

"Thank you kindly sir for arranging the torches in addition to the digging, perhaps if you might return at first light to remove the torches and refill the grave. I hope the sum provided will see to your discretion on our arrangements too?" The ragged individual shakes the coins in his meaty fist and grunts in approval before hefting the spade over his shoulder and ambling off into the darkness.

Jerome casts a glance back to the hole in the ground and the wooden box now resting inside. He had arranged for a coffin to be delivered, nothing spectacular and it was entirely for show but it was worth keeping up appearances. He pulls out his pocket watch, a quarter to ten, plenty of time but he had wished to be here early and ensure there were no issue before anyone arrived. Walking over to the hessian sack he opened it up and checked, indeed there was the sword and shield, everything was ready... now to see if anyone would care to pay their respects despite the sect's indifference to the sacrifice of a warrior who as far as Jerome was concerned had shown nothing but respect to the court since his return from torpor. The necessary warrior not the celebrated one, he smiles, that is a role he could well empathise with.

*Unless an ST suggests otherwise

[Amelia]

Amelia stalks in the shadows and just watches Elder Price. She keeps an eye out for any trouble, her hand on her small dagger.

[Jerome Price]

Jerome shifts uncomfortably, the hackles on his neck up. Glancing around the shadows dance and play in the torchlight, giving life to his imagination with the shifting fog. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply extending his senses beyond the veil to the multitude that reside there, the gentle sussuras of their movement and voices soothing him. He waits for the sound of footsteps to break his silent meditation.

[Miroslav]

The night was long covered in blurred words and fog. His steps hidden beneath the foggy level, his cloak dragging threateningly or joyfully as he denied to move on the straight path leading to the party. It is always a matter of perspective. Is it a dance or a snake's method of navigation. Snake or no snake, he despised the straight paths, these were only for the fools (the real ones) and the neonates (the real ones too). He found his own thoughts rather amusing as he sipped from his bottle. He assumed this kind of party couldn't be equipped with the appropriate beverages so he took it upon himself, graceful attendee as he was, to provide.

The view of a kindred from behind stopped him in his tracks. His eyes gleaming as they moved from the neonate to the dagger. His smile progressively widening in delight. Stalking his prey like a Christmas gift, moving silently and fast like a cat who wants to play.

"My darling" he whispers inches from behind her "Holding the dagger in the dark will do you no good. I would advise next time to hold a decent sword in the open, otherwise, you are in danger of being ambushed in the dark by despicable predators who don't know how to be gentlemen. I will accept a trivial boon for the advice. Thank you, darling."

[Jean-Jacques]

Checking his pocket watch, he dismounts and ties his horse near the gateway to the cemetery.

His long black woolen riding cloak covering his dress uniform, newly pressed for the occasion.

jean-Jacques, the young neonate walks, actually marches, slowly towards where he has sensed the keepers presence, taking note of the sounds in the gloom beyond.

Her approaches, ensuring he is approaching from in front of Elder Price and stands at attention, his gaze lowered toward the open grave, whilst his sense maintain a watchful ear for movement.

[alanwrotethis]

The silence of the cemetery is briefly broken by the rhythmic squeak of rusty gears. Dukes, riding a battered safety bicycle (not pedaling, the bicycle moves itself), careens onto a nearby lane.
Dismounting, the Sheriff appears to be having one of his 'off' days. His coat is buttoned up irregularly and his hair is unkempt. He is barefoot.
Walking towards the grave, a small owl flutters down onto his head, quickly hopping down to his shoulder. He doesn't seem to mind, or notice.
"Sorry... sorry. I am... short notice of the missive and all, I didn't see it yesterday as I was reading, writing... being thoroughly scholastic. Yes."
His eyes, wide and unblinking, dart around the cemetery. He takes in the tombstones, nodding at a few as if in recognition.
"Ah!" He says, fumbling in his pocket for his spectacles and setting them on his face. Blinking, he nods at Jerome.
"Not sure what the dress code for this is. Based on my conversations with Ser Tristram he would not have been offended by small blunders in garmentry... he was a man of action and intent. Also, a man of integrity, almost pathologically so. Denying basic pleasures for the sake of adhering to a moral principle."
Dukes glares at the grave, almost accusingly. "Madness, utter lunacy, but as far as faults go, a pleasurable one. Not sure if I could make such a choice myself, and I know of few other kindred capable of such a moronic yet ultimately world-enhancing methodology."
He squints into the shadows, looking for Tristram's clanmates.
"Is moronic the right word? Misguided? Erroneous? Alternative? I would say he was positively deviant, good-strange. Seven shades, who let this idiot speak!"
He looks to Jerome, wondering why no one is stopping him.
"Anyway, I did some reading up on the Brythonic era, and I have to say that Tristam got a raw deal. A lot of his contemporaries did. Nennius and Geoffrey of Monmouthshire were fucking hacks, and.... don't get me started on what the French concocted in the 16th century. Paring the fiction away from the deeds of heroes past, from Tristam the placid hunter to Gwynhwyfahr the unbridled stomper of unworthy asses... where was I?"
Another look around, he is asking the group a legitimate question.
"So... Tristam was an odd duck, from an era of odd ducks, but only because the modern mind cannot comprehend the values and strength which defined him. Umm, rest well Ser Tristram, I hope, in time, that people see the truth behind your message."
Dukes backs away from the grave, muttering to himself as he rests against a nearby wall, sometimes turning an accusing glare to the bicycle he discarded by the gate.

[Miroslav]

A tiny snort escapes from the shadows and Miroslav appears. He tilts his head, his long black hair smooth and glossy, freshly washed.

"Elder Dukes, would you like a drink? I am afraid you may need one." the blue gaze of the Toreador elder observing the murmuring and mumbling. He understood that state of lunacy but at least he knew how to enter it with grace and poise.

"Tell me all about the moral principles of the deceased. I have all night"

[Stephen Maturin]

"Yes, tell us," comes a new voice, clipped, angry.

"Tristram was moronic, was he? Misguided? Erroneous?"

"That is rich, from a Usurper."

The stranger was looking at Dukes with a furious glare of contempt that suggested he was perfectly willing to expand on the insult.

Stephen stayed in this attitude as he halted, beside the grave. The alcohol was no excuse, though the wine had been uncommonly good, and Stephen had drunk more than his wont. The coca leaves ought to have produced no effects which he could not regulate, even if he had indulged in six rather than his usual three this evening. And Jack was certainly not to blame; he had only ired Stephen in any number of his usual ways. Perhaps it was just Christmas, it made everyone think too much of their lost human life.

This sensation of anger, the electric shiver that ran along his limbs and trembled his hands, could only be explained by some inherent weakness, some hitherto-unperceived cast to his own character and rationality. But Stephen did not care tonight.

"Tristram was a fellow who needed leadership, who craved duty and place to call home to his values, and he did not find that in Aquae Sulis."

[alanwrotethis]

Dukes looks up, mid-conversation with his bicycle.
"I..." his hackles rise, he stands straight for a moment, taller than the kindred at court are used to seeing. His eyes flit from figure to figure. He smiles, showing slightly more teeth than is necessary.
"Apologies, Angle-ish is not my first language, nor is it my second, or third. I struggle to find the correct words, or the correct sentiment to them. Let me try again..."
He gestures towards the grave.
"Tristram was an excellent specimen, singular, unique. In his own era he would have been the epitome of decency and virtue. In modern nights, in a world so far detached from that excellence... he appears at odds. But it is the world's sickness, not his. We lost our decency, and when decency becomes rare it becomes the mark of the mad. I mourn his loss, it is one step closer to a new normalcy bereft of virtue."
He pulls a hipflask from a pocket and glances at Miroslav.
"And I thank you for the offer of a drink Elder... I have my own. I fear that my delicate, uneducated palate would struggle to appreciate your own cultured tastes. Never was much of a socialite."

[Laurence]

Laurence stepped lightly up the path, riding boots being placed carefully one in front of the other as he moved down the path. Dressed in plain and practical clothing that was accented with a long red cloak to obscure the pair of heavy bladed daggers in his belt.

The torches made the path easy to follow and follow it he did. Stopping at the edge of the group and observing the heated words thrown at Dukes by Stephan.

Should I intervene here...one of the duties of the Ancillae is to act as a form of mediator between the young and the old....

Making his decision, Laurence stepped forward into the gathering. Looking down at the plain coffin that held nothing but a suggestion of Tristram’s spirit, Laurence bowed his head.

“Hail the valiant dead.”

Taking a goblet from his belt and a hipflask from one pocket, a splash of rich blood was added to the goblet. Holding it in one hand, Laurence dipped his fingers into the fluid and scattered a few drops across the ground in an act that looked almost ritualistic, before draining the blood in the goblet.