The first grey light of morning peeks in around the edges of the shutters, and a servant moves around quietly, awakening those guests who had requested to be called before sunrise.  The light seems to carry a chill with it, and for those who take a moment to look outside, they find Fairhill shrouded in mist.  Not uncommon this close to the autumnal equinox.

Of those who requested to be roused, there are two merchants, on their way west, to Reme, who want an early start on the road to maximise their hours of daylight travel along the Tradeway.

And, of course, the Heroes of Fairhill, whose intent is, of course, to bid farewell to a comrade who will be leaving on quite a different journey.

A small pyre has been erected for the Nameless Monk in a field behind the temple of Freya, where the priestess Shandril will conduct a service - one that befits the customs and beliefs of those who seek ancient knowledge at the Lost Library, and serve the Rekindled Light of Wisdom.

While the morning may be tinged with sadness, the sorrow has, at least, been mitigated somewhat by decent food and a good night's rest.  In some cases a bath has helped the general feeling of wellbeing.

A quick breakfast is served - bread and honey, leftovers from the previous evening's dinner, oat porridge and fruit.

And then the adventurers begin their walk through the quiet, misty street to the temple, where they find Shandril waiting for them, clad in robes of dark green.

"Welcome." the priestess says, "I thought we could perform the rites for your friend, and then I will take care of any healing that you need."

Aarnr is out of bed early, pleased to feel some of the chill of the vampire lich-king's touch lifting from his bones, though he's still by no means fully recovered.  The priest prepares himself for the new day with some vigorous stretches, followed by some equally robust verbal tussling with Bowbe as he loudly and rudely demands the god's favours.

So nobody is getting much sleep after the start of that theological wrestling match !
This message was last edited by the player at 12:45, Wed 23 Apr 2014.

"Aarnr..."

Groaning in her room, Eilieen rouses herself at the sound of her companion's prayers.  Might as well get hers done as well, and it's a better 'wake-up call' than she used to receive at the temple.

Once cleansed, refreshed, empowered, and dressed - in that order - she heads out, first to breakfast, then to say farewell to her Nameless friend.  The priestess remains silent and solemn during her eating, dwelling on her time with the Nameless one.

When finally she meets Shandril, it is with a low bow.  "My thanks, Shandril.  Our friend has waited long enough."

Colwyn wakes with a groan.  Not all of the pain in his head is attributable to Arnrr, who is working himself into a berserk frenzy somewhere nearby.  The rogue rolls out from his blanket and rises to one knee next to the embers of the camp fire, looking round to see what the commotion is.

Aarnr and Fergus are about ten yards away, engaged in battle with a ginger cat as big as a cart horse.  The animal's eyes are mismatched, and one ear is badly torn.  Tommy!

Scrambling to his feet, Colwyn picks up his crossbow, only to have it snatched from his hands by Eilieen, who replaces the weapon with a plate of sliced pork and a flagon of ale.  "You're not going to fight on an empty stomach." she advises him.  For some reason Ozzy is playing a merry jig, while Aramil and Bilfro dance.  Further off, Erista is teaching what he assumes is an owlbear to read, rapping the monster sharply across the knuckles with a wooden spoon every time it makes a mistake.

"It's bein' a bloody dream!  Tha's what it's bein'"

The two owl familiars laugh at him from a branch above him, "Oh no, old chap.  I'm afraid it isn't." they say in unison, "If it were a dream, that cat would not be about to eat you."

Colwyn wakes with a groan.  Not all of the pain in his head is attributable to Arnrr, who is working himself into a berserk frenzy somewhere nearby.  The rogue rolls out of bed, and is relieved when his feet hit floorboards instead of earth.  He risks cracking one eye open.  It's the inn.  Then Aarnr's yelling must be his way of praying.  Unless he's having a bad dream too.

Getting ready for breakfast brings a sickening thudding in his head.  Still, at least that means he enjoyed himself the previous evening.  Memory confirms that fact, or will, when it returns from whatever errand it is currently engaged upon.

Breakfast, a plate of cold sliced pork and a flagon of ale, draws a suspicious glare.  The rogue doesn't say much during the meal.

And then he is trailing along behind the others, walking in the early morning mist, when he suddenly remembers why they are all up so early.  "Nadgers!" he mutters.

The whole group are led around to the back of the temple, where the monks body lays upon a funeral pyre, a scroll, a quill and a vial of ink with her.  The village magistrate, Arlen, is there, as is Baran, the leader of the watch.  There are a few other villagers too, and the number grows as Shandril commences a prayer to send the monk on her way.

By the time the prayer is finished, and torches are thrust into the pile of logs, it seems that most of the adults in the village are there to pay their respects.

As the flames take hold, Shandril asks the monk's companions, "Do any of you wish to speak a few words about your friend?"

Aarnr keeps a close eye on both Arlen and Baran during the ceremony, determined that neither of the hell-hated pig-nuts should interrupt the sending off of their comrade.  He does, however approve of the number of villagers gathered for the event, certain that a goodly number of them will be sacrificed at some point in the proceedings ... though he is prepared for disappointment, having little confidence that these civilised folk know the right way to bid farewell to a warrior.

At Shandril's prompting, the priest steps forward eagerly, addressing his choice remarks to the deceased, not those assembled.

"Thou may have been a priblin', tickle-brained prater," who could fail to note that the Nameless Monk's words were at best enigmatic, and at worst barely comprehensible, "but thou always fought bravely, thou gleekin', guts-gripin' gudgeon, and died froggin' well !"

"BOWBE !" the sudden bellow might well startle any who weren't expecting it, "THOU FOBBIN' WELL WATCH OVER HER SPIRIT, THOU PAUNCHY, FULL-GORGED VARLOT !"

Aarnr holds up the axe he recently acquired, lifting it over his head as he quickly checks to make sure the chief magistrate and leader of the watch aren't getting up to any mischief while his back is turned, then tosses the weapon onto the pyre.

"Thou may be needin' this," he tells the Nameless one. "Fight well ..."

Farewells said and duty done, the priest steps back.

"Well said, Aarnr.  A tribute fit for a hero, like the composition of some legendary skald of old."

Corian steps forward and adds some more sheets of parchment to the burgeoning flames.  "I'm afraid I did not know my fallen comrade as well as I would have liked.  Her words were filled, always, with wisdom and, while she had a gentle soul, she was not afraid to set that gentleness aside when some vile creature of darkness was in need of a sound thrashing.  I have no doubt that she will be sorely missed as the journey of her companions continues."

"May she find herself in a place where all the knowledge of the ages is stored."

Colwyn, too, seems eager to add his own eulogy, though the only thing he can offer in the way of a parting a gift is a dagger, which he casts onto the pyre, "Like what Aarnr were sayin', she were able ter 'andle 'erself in a bloody fight.  The rogue shrugs, apparently unsure whether or not to add anything else, then finishes awkwardly. "I were likin' 'er."

Eilieen stands quietly as the prayers and pyre begin.  She stares around at the growing throng of villagers, then quickly turns her face down, studying her feet.  The prayer drones on, and she regains her control, waiting for the crackle of lit torches and pondering the enigma that was the Nameless Monk.

Aarnr's words draw a disbelieving smile from her, and his outcry to his god brings a wince.  But that is the man's way, as is the axe he hurls upon the pyre.  Corian and Colwyn follow with words and gifts of their own.  Eilieen takes a deep breath and walks forward, briefly pausing to place a hand upon Colwyn's shoulder before facing the flames.

"I wish I had known you better, but what I knew of you was enough, my friend."  Eilieen swallows.  "Brave, strong, and true.  And a mystery, in your own way, even to the end."  She manages a smile.  "I think that you would be satisfied."  The priestess pulls back her hood, the morning sun shining on her platinum hair, now arranged into a single braid in defiance of her usual style.

"Zadastha accept you with the love you deserve, and guide you to your true keeper - whoever or whatever that may be.  Know peace, Nameless One.  We shall not forget you."

Gripping the braid with one hand, Eilieen draws her small knife and, with a grimace and wince, saws through the hair close to the nape of her neck.  The tears in her eyes from neither smoke nor pain, she steps close to cast the offering into the flames.  Then she turns away, leaving room for the next as she brings up her hood once more.

Aarnr nods in sympathy.  Though at first he was surprised to see Eilieen with the warrior's braid, the ritual severing of that single strand is significant indeed.

"That was froggin' well done," he tells the priestess, hand on her shoulder.

Erista steps forward as Eilieen moves away.  Then she steps forward twice more, as the first one left her still considerably short of actually forward.

Taking in a deep breath, she closes her eyes.  "I hope that she has gone someplace where everybody knows her name.  Where they will always be glad she came.  I hope she can be where she can see that our troubles are all the same.  That she can be, where everybody knows, her name."

Astral makes a soft cooing sound; four short notes and two longer, and then Erista returns to her original place behind Fergus.

The flames leap higher, and still the congregation of villagers stand in silence behind their leaders, heads bowed in many cases as they offer prayers of their own to guide the Nameless Monk on her way.

Aramil is the next to make his way forward, "I have nothing to offer my fallen companion except my words.  I will use those words to keep the memory of her deeds alive in the minds of others.  She was reliable and trustworthy: not one to hold back in a crisis, nor one to rush blindly forward heedless of risk.  At the same time, mere risk would not stop her offering aid.  She cherished peace, but was prepared to fight in defence of that peace.  She sought knowledge, and understood its value.  And she understood that sharing knowledge increases its value."

"I know little of her order, but I feel that it has been significantly diminished by her loss."

At the end, he bows his head, and adds a few words in his own tongue... [Language unknown: "Tiette sonarehat, tr wasntitho, ur pro missuspl ho ne aveyinundhas ss."]
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:28, Fri 02 May 2014.

Through the funeral its all Ozzy can do to keep his eyes open and his head up. Not that he was bored, but his head hurt and the morning light felt like sharp blades stabbing him through the eyes. Too many pints taken too quickly had left him with the mother of all hang overs, clouding his brain and thickening his tongue and leaving him wholly ineffective as a bard. He had no song, he had no poetry, he only had the pain of trying to live like his blood brother. He keeps his head down respectfully, chancing silence over slander lest he open his mouth and say the wrong thing.

His expression dour, Colwyn nods as each of his companions says their piece, impressed by the quality of tributes to their fallen comrade.  One hand taps Ozzy on the shoulder, as Aramil finishes speaking, and he whispers, "Don't be fallin' asleep, mate, or Eilieen'll like as not be chuckin' yer in the fire."

Fergus is the last of the original group to speak, keeping the hood of his cloak pulled up the whole time, as he wishes the monk well on her journey to the next world, and scatters a handful of earth on the pyre.

"My dad was always telling me," he explains, "about how good soil makes good crops and strong people.  Wherever she goes next, my friend will take part of Fairhill, and its people, with her."

The service continues for some time, with prayers from Shandril at appropriate times.  Nobody is sacrificed, not even a sheep, and Bilfro remains a silent observer throughout, perhaps feeling that it is not his place to speak about a person that he has never met.

At last, thogh, it is over.  The flames are dying down on what remains of the pyre, and apart from a few villagers who remain to ensure that drifting embers don't ignite any fires, most of them start to drift away to their daily duties.

Shandril leads the party into the temple, where she says, "A sad business, but her death was not a complete waste.  We will remember her, and how she gave her life to defend people she had never met."

A sigh, as she gathers her wits, "Which of you require healing?"

"I am well enough, thank you," Elieen quietly replies.  She keeps her hood up, the feel of the tips of her hair brushing against the nape of her neck terribly unfamiliar.  Stepping back, she considers the priestess' words.

'Not a complete waste'.  Such a terrible phrase, she thinks.  No fault to Shandril, who meant well, but.

"Her death was a tragedy," the priestess whispers.  "I shall need to grow stronger, that I can save my friends from a similar fate."  Then she blinks.  Enough monologuing, Eilieen decides, grimly going over the prayers she has requested from Zadastha today.

She needs to be ready.