20 Pharast 4711 AR,
Ravengro, Canterwall,
The Immortal Principality of Ustalav,
The Inner Sea Region, Golarion,

Life had its cruel twists, as you had learned more than once, and another such blow came in the form of a letter. It was sealed in black wax and bore the familiar hand of Kendra Lorrimor, daughter of your old friend Petros. In it, she invited you to his funeral.

The news struck deep. Petros had been more than a friend to you—and he must have felt the same, for your name had been included in his will. Well, let's say Egelina was going to the funeral on behalf of her late brother. Perhaps he had seen in you something you had yet to recognize in yourself. Or perhaps he simply knew you were someone he could trust, even beyond death.

The shock lingered as you read and reread the words. Petros had been nearing sixty, but his vigor—of mind and body—was something even younger men envied. A lecturer at Lepidstadt University, a celebrated writer, and a man who had braved dangers beyond counting, he was nonetheless careful, deliberate, and difficult to imagine meeting his end so suddenly. Kendra had not written how he died, but you could guess: his life had been too steeped in peril to end quietly in a bed.

By noon, you arrived in Ravengro—a somber little town crouched between the forest’s shadows and the gray sheen of a lake. Fate had bound you together on the road the day before, in the “Shadow’s Claws Inn" between Chastel and Tamrivena, where, by chance or by darker design, you discovered that all of you traveled to the same funeral.

The town’s welcome was no warmer than its weather. A sagging fence and a rusted gate marked its edge. Just within, a wooden pole bore a nailed board with a crude map of Ravengro. Beneath it, painted in black letters already streaked by rain, stood the words:

It hardly surprised you. In Ustalav’s smaller towns, suspicion was a second religion. The folk feared magic, and anything—or anyone—different from themselves. Rahela, Shaewyn, and Vladislava might be taken for too pale, but under Ustalav's sun, forever dimmed by clouds, pallor was no rarity. Calpurnia’s horns could be hidden beneath a hood. Yua’s exotic features drew the most curious stares, though not kindly ones. Egelina, clad in steel, might be dismissed as another wandering soldier of fortune. Still, none of it mattered—not today.

You traced the professor’s home on the rain-soaked map and set out. The downpour had not relented since morning. As you walked the narrow streets, houses of wood and brick hunched together as if in conspiracy. Curtains stirred, eyes watching. Those few townsfolk who braved the weather hastened away at the sight of you, faces curled in open contempt. Yet none dared confront you. Behind shutters and lace, they whispered, and they watched.

On a low hill beyond the town rose the silhouette of a larger, darker shape. Its walls loomed through the sheets of rain, heavy with foreboding.

At last, you stood before the Lorrimor house. It lay withdrawn from the main path, amid an untended garden choked with weeds and barren shrubs. Once proud, the two-story timber house sagged with age, its best days long past. Whether the professor had chosen its seclusion to keep the town at bay, or whether the town had driven him to its edge, you could not say. The windows stared with hollow black eyes, and the whole place seemed to shiver with a chill grief, as though it knew its master would never return.

You climbed the narrow steps to the veranda. Egelina rapped hard upon the door. Silence, for a time. Then, at last, the sound of a lock turning.

The door opened.

A woman stood there, young and fair, yet worn by sorrow. Her eyes were glassy and rimmed red, her cheeks pale against the black mourning dress she wore. No adornment marked her but a single golden pendant, hanging heavy upon her breast. She sniffed once, gathering herself, and her voice—low, feminine, and trembling—broke the rain’s drumming silence.
“So you have come, after all. I am glad… I feared you would not make it. My name is Kendra. I am Petros’s daughter.”

She stepped back, opening the door wider. Her gaze lingered on you—on the tiefling’s horns, on the pale faces, on the stranger’s eyes from distant lands—but she showed no fear. Only weariness.
“Come in. The weather is merciless today. You may warm yourselves by the fire.”

Inside, the house smelled faintly of lavender. The warmth of the hearth reached you as she led the way down a wide hallway into a parlor richly furnished yet strangely cold. Shelves heavy with books lined the walls. A leather sofa and two armchairs framed a low table where a carafe of wine and six waiting glasses gleamed. Firelight flickered against the bricks of the wide hearth opposite the door.
“Please, sit,” Kendra said softly, gesturing to the seats. “How was your journey? Not too hard, I hope? Will you drink or eat something? I prayed you would arrive in time, for I have no one here to carry my father’s coffin.”

Her voice wavered. She lowered her head, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, then looked at you again.
“The coffin lies in the room at the end of the hall. It must be borne out the back doors—there is no other way. Father Grimmburow will already be waiting at the graveyard.”

She hesitated. Her eyes narrowed slightly, studying your faces one by one.
“But… wait.” Her voice was quieter now, but sharper. “I sent a letter to a man named Galbreath, of Dawnton. Yet here I see six women. Six invitations, but no man here... Can you explain this to me?”

OOC

Yua stood among the others, the rain matting her sandy-blond ponytail against her back and her purple eyes narrowing with a sharper edge as she read the crude sign outside Ravengro: “Wizards will be burned.” For a moment, her expression hardened into something resembling focus, and she thought briefly how fortunate it was that she alone had come and her master was safely at home. The townsfolk’s stares slid from her like water off stone; she gave them no mind in the rare cases she even noticed. Books and tasks filled her thoughts, not their misplaced suspicion. Still, the message was clear. She had no reason to use her magic in public here, so simply would not - unless, of course, someone gave her cause.

When the Lorrimor house’s door opened, Yua stepped in with the others, quiet as the turning of a page. She looked about the parlor with keen eyes, lingering on the bookshelves. As if not hearing Kendra's offer of a seat and wine, her steps carried her toward the books almost unconsciously. Her voice came belatedly, soft but precise, as if the thought of introductions had only just occurred to her. “I am Yua Kurosawa,” she said, gaze skimming a spine of cracked leather. It didn't occur to her that her foreign name and appearance made this obvious enough already. Tilting her head slightly toward Kendra without turning to face her, she added, “Why did Professor Lorrimor live in this village? It seems the townsfolk do not value scholarship, least of all in the arcane.” The words are not unkind, but neutral, investigatory.

"I am...unskilled in manual labor, but will do my best to assist with carrying the coffin. If he desired his corpse to be buried after death, we should honor his request."

Vladislava had been unerringly silent the entire time the group had been travelling from the Shadow's Claw Inn. Not that, even in the best of times, she was a particularly talkative woman, but beyond a few brief words identifying herself and her reasons for visiting Ravengro she had obstinately refused to speak. A less inquisitive mind might have simply assumed that she was unfriendly - the way she wore her collar high to hide her pale skin certainly didn't help the impression - but any who studied her features more closely would mark the grief written plain on her face. It was easy to see in the constantly furrowed brow, the tight-set jaw, the lower lip held so tight that it could be quivering. As the rain poured, plinking against the wide-brimmed hat she never went anywhere without, she held her head high and her gaze straight ahead, looking like all the world around her didn't exist. Though covered by a shawl she had wrapped around her body to protect herself from the rain, the end of a longbow could be seen peeking out, as well as the pommel of a sword. She also walked with a long, gnarled stick in her left hand, one whose many deep scratch marks suggested that it had seen many years of use.

She paid little heed to the map and its accompanying warning. Vladislaya had wandered through most of the small villages in that part of Ustalav, and knew many of them well; however, she had only stopped into Ravengro itself a scant few times. It was only after she had met Professor Lorrimor that she had much cause to come to the place at all. It hadn't been that long since she had passed through, though the days tended to blend together, and the professor had seemed hale and hearty for someone of his advanced age. The news had equally devastated her and surprised her, not merely because of his death but because he had thought of her in his will. To be sure, they had grown close over the past few months, closer than she had been to anyone in a long time, but she didn't judge them close enough for such a remembrance. She supposed it wasn't her place to judge the actions of the dead, merely to try and honor their lives and their last wishes.

"Vladislava Ciobanu." She said flatly by way of greeting after Kendra and Yua had introduced themselves. She knew Kendra by name if not by sight; the two of them hadn't met before today, but the professor had mentioned his daughter before. Yua, however, was an entirely unknown element to her, and Vladislava preferred to keep it that way. The six of them had met by chance on the road, but like as not they would not be long in town. After the will was executed, they would go their separate ways. She strode towards one of the available armchairs in the room, unslinging her bow from around her shoulder and leaning it against the chair; she had left her muddy walking stick outside where it would not dirty the floors. She then took a seat, but did not seem very keen on relaxing. Indeed, her back was exceedingly straight as she regarded the others in the room, then gazed in the direction of the hallway. Doubtless, she was imagining the room at the end of the hall where the professor lay in his coffin. Her fists were clenched, though it was unclear if from anticipation or simple nerves. 

Shaewyn Mistgrove was a halfling, standing at just slightly over three feet tall. Her skin was quite pale and her hair a light grey. She wore a light grey tunic, covering her chain mail. She added dark leather pants, and a charcoal grey cloak surrounded her. In her hair, she wore a small sprig of dark green leaves. A warhammer hung at her belt, and she carried a dull round metal shield across her back as the group traveled. A small metal amulet hung from a black choker around her neck. It had a depiction of a shadowed golden eye. "It is the symbol of Tanagaar," she had explained. "I serve him as a cleric. We are called to be watchers and protectors." 

During the journey from the Shadow’s Claws Inn, she had mentioned that she had come from Woodsedge in Galt. It had been a long journey through the River Kingdoms just to get to Ustalav. She said little else unless asked.  

When Kendra invited her in, she had given the woman a slight nod of her head. "Thank you. I am Shaewyn Mistgrove. It is good to meet you Kendra, even if the circumstance is not a happy one."  Moving inside, she caught sight of the wine glasses.  She stepped over to the low table where they sat. When asked about the journey, she responded. "My path was long, but I am definitely glad to have taken it in order to honor your father. Petros Lorrimor meant a lot to me." 

Shaewyn didn't sit yet but filled a glass for herself with a tiny bit of wine when Kendra mentioned drinks. She looked around to the others, offering to a fill a glass for them should they wish it.  But when their host inquires about a man named Galbreath, she has no idea what she means. She remains silent as she sees if one of the others knows the answer. 

It was a long road from Mendev, and for all of Egelina's journey, the heavy clouds seemed not to let up. She went on foot--it was not the season for road travel, she had given her wages to her family rather than spend it on a horse, and after years of forced marches to the front lines in Sarkoris, it seemed the easiest and fastest way to her, and if the hardship was a little more and the comfort a little less, so be it---a weary road eased her grief with the plodding of dull purpose. And yet the roads that wound southwest towards Ustalav were nearly empty of travelers going her direction--but in the other direction, heading north into Mendev, the road was repetitively full of grim-faced mercenaries, desperate refugees, and even a pious and hopeful soul or two... a line of fodder for the neverending war.

After a couple of weeks of travel, the sleeting snow storms gave way to rain and heavy drizzle, the sun's rays breaking through the clouds along a hundred mile stretch of road before it descended into the unending gray fog that shrouded Ustalav. Egelina only wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself and pressed on.

The fortuitous meeting with five other women at Shadow's Claws Inn who were also headed to Professor Lorrimor's funeral broke her dutiful numbness a little bit. Just looking at their faces, Egelina could tell that they were closer to this man than she ever was. The Professor had so many dear friends. Galbreath had been one of them. She had not even thought to write the Professor the terrible news, so swallowed she was in her own grief. Now it was too late.

Egelina kindly greeted Kendra, if her salute was a bit stiff. But she welcomed the warmth of the fire, removing her cloak and shaking the rain from it, setting down her shield and sinking into one of the armchairs. She pulled off her helm, leaving only the travel-stained coif covering her head. She blinked the rain from her eyelashes, the firelight glinting off of her chainmail and the sword and dagger still belted to her waist. At Kendra's words, she looked up, her eyes as gray as the frozen north, but substantially less frozen, as they welled with tears that suddenly escaped her tight emotional control. "I am Egelina of Dawnton," she said, her voice full of raw heartbreak. "Galbreath was my brother. He and the Professor worked closely on the Orb of Tala. Perhaps your father did not hear of the tragedy caused by that Orb, and I regret now that I did not write, nor did I even think of the Professor, when my brother perished in the deceit and betrayal of the demon Isilda. I met Professor Lorrimor, of course...but I was not close to him as Galbreath was." She leaned forward, her elbows resting heavily on her knees as tears flowed from her eyes, blurring her vision. Her voice was choked as she spoke again. "That was almost two years ago. My brother and I fought together in the Crusades for fifteen years. I am here to pay respects to his dear Professor in his stead, because... we were inseparable."

She never thought someone’s death could leave her with such a sense of emptiness. But she quickly realized why. Professor Lorrimor was the last person in the world who cared about Rahela’s fate. The woman had last had any contact with the scholar about a year ago, when they exchanged a few short letters. They had last seen each other face-to-face three years earlier, and now they would never have the opportunity again. Life was terribly short and unpredictable.

On the road to Ravengro, she joined a merchant caravan, because anyone who had even passed through Ustalav knew that traveling alone was never a good idea. She kept to the back of the caravan, scanning the surroundings. She was used to people eyeing her with suspicion—at least until they needed someone to guide them through the desolate backwoods of Ustalav or track down a beast that threatened their village. Her crossbow remained at her belt, as did her quiver and finely crafted rapier. A long scarlet-and-black cloak billowed gently in the wind, revealing the leather armor of a blood hunter. On her head rested a wide-brimmed black hat, adorned with a single feather. Long black hair flowed freely over her shoulders, stark against her pale face, marked with several scars. Her unnaturally blue eyes were calm, yet ever watchful. The sun would soon set; they needed to find shelter.

Fortunately, Ravengro wasn’t far away. Just one stop at the Shadow’s Claws inn, and she would be in town by noon the next day. Fate, however, had its own plans. She happened to sit at the same table as a certain group of travelers. Surely, if the other tables hadn’t been occupied, they would never have met that night. She had to admit, the professor had gathered a rather colorful group of friends. All of them women. Rahela knew nothing about them—Petros had never spoken much of his expeditions. She herself didn’t contribute much to the conversation, answering questions briefly and objectively, but she listened intently to what the others had to say. It seemed they would be spending the next few days together. She had no interest in heavy drinking—alcohol only dulled the senses. She was one of the first to retire for the night, though sleep did not come easily. At least the journey to Ravengro passed quickly the next day.

Entering the town immediately set magic-users on edge, but she had expected that. The residents behaved typically, and she understood it well—she was one of them, after all. Centuries under the rule of an immortal tyrant left scars that no one knew better than the people of Ustalav.

Petros’s house did not surprise her. The professor had always been too consumed by his work to care about appearances. She wondered instead why he had never invited Rahela here—or the others he had named in his will—if they were so important to him. When she finally saw Kendra, Rahela realized she had imagined her differently. Silly, of course, for how could she have known what the girl looked like? She didn’t even know who Kendra’s mother was.

“Rahela Corbeanu.” She nodded in greeting. It was plain that the young woman was deeply shaken by grief.
“Accept my deepest condolences,” she added, her voice dry. Politeness did not come naturally to her, and the words stung on her tongue, but in this situation, they were the only proper thing to say.

Upon entering, Rahela glanced around carefully. Nothing surprised her—it was a typical bookworm’s house.
“Of course, I’ll carry the coffin,” she said. That no one else was willing to see to the burial did not surprise her either. The professor had rarely been at home; he hadn’t made friends among the locals. People here cared only for their own, and the scholar had clearly been an outcast in Ravengro.
“Forgive me if I’m being indelicate, but tell me, Kendra—how exactly did your father die? And when? You didn’t mention it in your letter.”

((Posting from my phone. I will edit to include the token and bolding of speech in the morning.))

Calpurnia Pallas had not expected company on the road to Ravengro. She had expected rain, suspicion, and silence, and perhaps, if she allowed herself honesty, solitude. But fate, it seemed, had other designs.

The Shadow’s Claw Inn was little more than a halfway house between wet roads and colder destinations, but it had become the unlikely cradle of a strange fellowship: six women, bound together by a single name, Petros Lorrimor. The tiefling had sat alone that night, her back to the wall, cleaning her sword as the others gathered around the same fire. Strangers, all of them. But the same letter. The same funeral.

And now, a day later, they stood together at the edge of Ravengro.

Calpurnia kept her hood up as they entered the village—more for the rain than for the stares. But she felt them, all the same. In Vigil, suspicion had a purpose. In Ustalav, it was just another kind of rot. The armor beneath her cloak gleamed faintly through the downpour, and the golden shield of Lastwall sat proud on her surcoat, daring anyone to look too long. Still, no one approached. This town, she thought, had no room for courage, only cowardice peeking through shutter slats.

She kept her silence as they walked the soaked, narrow streets. These other women had proven themselves competent travelers, respectful enough of the quiet. But she didn’t know them. Not yet. There was a tension between them still, not distrust, just unfamiliarity, like the stillness before a sparring match. Calpurnia found herself observing them as she might a formation of new recruits, noting how each carried herself, who watched the road, who watched the people. Who might be trusted, and who was still hiding something behind polite smiles and unreadable eyes.

When they finally stood before the Lorrimor house, its timbers sagging under time and grief, Calpurnia felt something in her chest twist, just slightly. The garden was dead. The windows stared. The place looked… abandoned by life, the way a sword looked once it had drawn its last drop of blood.

Egelina knocked, hard. Calpurnia watched the door, jaw clenched.

And then Kendra stood there.

Grief clung to her like the rain to her hem, heavy and quiet. She was younger than Calpurnia remembered, no older than herself, really, but her face bore the hollow shape of fresh mourning. Calpurnia lowered her hood slowly, revealing her horns and amber eyes, and met Kendra’s gaze with all the gravity of a soldier returning from a battlefield bearing bad news.

"I am sorry for your loss," she said simply.

The others followed Kendra into the house. Calpurnia hesitated only a moment before stepping across the threshold. Inside, the air was warm, scented faintly of lavender and woodsmoke. Yet it still felt cold.

She stood by the fire but did not sit. Her gauntlets dripped rainwater onto the rug, but she made no move to remove them. Her gaze lingered on the wineglasses, on the untouched chairs, and finally, on the hallway where Kendra said the coffin lay.

When Kendra finally questioned them, confusion touching her voice like a knife’s edge, six women, no man named Galbreath, Calpurnia’s brow furrowed, ever so slightly.

She stepped forward, her voice calm, clipped, and precise. “I was called by letter. Addressed directly. There was no mention of a Galbreath to me. Only your father’s name.”

The mystery was solved quickly by one of the women, Egelina, revealing Galbreath to have been her brother. Discomfited by the display of emotion, Calpurnia turned away, although the mention of the Crusades was enough to pique her interest. She would have to speak further with Egelina.

"I will bear his coffin, if you’ll have me," said Calpurnia finally.

There was no embellishment to the offer, no attempt to soothe with soft words. Just the plain truth, spoken by a woman who had carried many burdens in her life and was ready to carry one more.

Kendra turned to Yua.
“My father never cared much for what people thought of his work, only that it was worth doing. He came here years ago, after retiring from his post in Lepidstadt. I think… he wanted peace, and perhaps distance from those who might have wished him ill. Ravengro may not value scholarship, but it gave him quiet, and in his way, I believe he found contentment here.”

She gave the wizard a faint, weary smile.
“As for the coffin—your willingness is more than enough. My father would never have expected brute strength from everyone, only respect. Helping to carry him already honours his last wish.”

Her expression softened as she listened to Egelina, lowering her eyes respectfully.
“I am so sorry for your loss. My father spoke of Galbreath more than once—always with admiration. I cannot pretend to know the depths of your grief, but I believe he would be touched, and grateful, that you are here today. It means a great deal to me as well. You honour not only my father’s memory, but your brother’s bond with him. Whatever the past held, please know you are welcome here.”

Kendra wasn’t surprised by Rahela’s blunt question; she had likely expected it sooner or later.
“Father had an accident. He was exploring the ruins of Harrowstone Prison—that grim shell on the hill outside the town; perhaps you’ve seen it from afar. The place is old, supposedly haunted, and Father wanted to find out how much truth there was to the stories. A few days before his death, he became strangely pensive, restless. He didn’t tell me why—he never shared his research with me. Apparently, one of the stone gargoyles fell on him, killing him instantly. That, in all this tragedy, is almost unimaginably absurd.”

Kendra gave a short, bitter laugh.
“For so many years, he wandered the world, exploring far more dangerous places, facing both men and monsters who wished him dead—and in the end, he was crushed by a simple stone statue.” She shook her head and sighed heavily.

She dabbed her nose and eyes with a handkerchief, then looked back at you.
“Thank you again for coming, and for your words of comfort. It means more than I can say,” she murmured, rising to her feet. “Come—I’ll take you to the room where my father’s body rests. I’m glad you’ll be carrying the coffin. I think that is exactly what he would have wanted. I am not in the best of health myself, but I will try to walk at the head of the procession.” She managed a small, gentle smile.

You followed the brunette deeper into the dimly lit house. From the room ahead drifted the cloying sweetness of decay. Inside, you found a small guest chamber. Upon the bed rested the coffin, surrounded by bouquets of flowers whose mingled scents, instead of masking, only sharpened the odor of death. A dozen candles flickered on the cabinet beneath the window, their flames casting long, restless shadows.

The coffin was plain oak, its lid nailed shut and crowned with a wreath of flowers. Metal handles gleamed dully on the sides, ready for pallbearers to lift it.
“I had thought to leave the coffin open, so that guests might say their farewells,” Kendra said quietly. “But Sheriff Caller advised otherwise—for aesthetic reasons. He told me my father’s face was terribly damaged in the accident. It would not be right for me, or for anyone, to see him that way. I prefer to remember him as he was in life.”

She stepped back, drew a black hooded cloak about her shoulders, and led the way toward the rear door.

Outside, the rain had slackened, but a heavy fog had gathered, cloaking Ravengro in a milky shroud that thickened with every step. Kendra led on, the coffin borne behind her by steady shoulders. Along the way, a few more villagers joined the procession—three men, three women, and a child in all. Not a great number for a man who had lived in Ravengro fifteen years. But you knew the professor had always cared more for his studies, his travels, and the company of fellow scholars than for cultivating shallow ties.

In silence, broken only by the patter of rain against the coffin’s lid, you came at last to the walls and weathered gates of the Restlands Cemetery. Mist swirled between the bare, twisted trees, lending the place an uncanny, dreamlike stillness. Kendra turned along the right-hand path, and the mourners followed. The fog coiled among the leaning headstones, as though watching in silence as the dead welcomed one of their own.

It was then you saw them: fires glowing faintly through the mist, growing closer with each step. Shapes emerged—first shadows, then figures—torches and scythes, hoes and pitchforks gripped in rough hands. A dozen men and women barred your way. At their head stood a gray-haired man, his body still solid with strength though his prime was long past. His glare was sharp with envy, his jaw set. The crowd surged forward, stopping only a few paces from Kendra, weapons raised and voices shouting, their anger defying even the sanctity of the graveyard.

The leader raised his hoe, and silence fell.
“You’ll go no further!” he barked, glancing back at those who pressed behind him. “We’ve spoken, and we won’t have Lorrimor laid in our cemetery! Not in our sacred ground. Take him upriver if you like, bury him there—but keep him out of the Restlands!”

Kendra’s eyes widened in shock, grief burning into sudden anger.
“What nonsense is this, Hephenus!” she snapped. “I arranged everything with Father Grimburrow! The grave is already dug—he’s waiting for us now!”

“You don’t understand, girl!” the old man cut across her. “We don’t want necromancers buried where our ancestors lie. And I suggest you think of leaving Ravengro yourself, before long. People are losing patience.” His voice was calm, but beneath it lay a note of warning, of barely controlled rage.

“Necromancers?!” Kendra cried, her voice trembling with outrage. “Are you really so backward, so ignorant? My father—”

“Your father had no good name here. Everyone knows he dabbled in things the rest of us want no part of. We won’t have Lorrimor or his friends among our dead! Leave this place—or we’ll make you!” the man hissed, raising his hoe as men behind him shouted their agreement.

"Thank you," Egelina said quietly to Kendra. "I am honored to be here in respect to a man whom my brother loved dearly." She stood, brushing the tears from her eyes, and prepared to follow the others to act as pallbearer. How little joy, how little celebration, how little faith and trust in the eternal destination of this man... only uncertainty, loss, and grief. Noting that the rain continued outside, Egelina wrapped her cloak again around her shoulders, and slid the strap of her shield across her back. Donning her helm once again, she grasped the handle of the coffin in her place, and resolutely, with the others, marched the coffin out the back door and along the dreary road towards the Restlands.

She murmured a prayer under her breath as they marched. "Let me shine in the legion of the Inheritor. Grant me her strength that I may not tarnish her glory." The dark, winding road seemed to accentuate the gloom and hopelessness of this town. What scraps of hope did they even hold to? Though Egelina had felt blanketed by its despair, and by her own grief, nearly since entering Ustalav, she felt a small light of warmth now, in the respectful act of bearing a dead man to his grave. To bury the dead is a great act of mercy, for we know that the soul travels on to its eternal destination, and in death we place our trust in the gods that they will light that soul's journey and judge its resting place.

The paladin paused in surprise as the angry mob, their torches sputtering in the light rain, pressed forward to challenge them, to challenge the right of Professor Lorrimor to be buried here in the Restlands. For a moment, she let her gaze rest on their faces--angry, indignant, maybe even fearful. Necromancy is a terrible crime, and if they believed that the Professor had his hands in it... their reaction was understandable. Egelina felt a small spike of unease. She did not know what this Professor studied. Of course she had never heard breath of anything like necromancy from what Galbreath said of him. And Kendra's indignant reaction further confirmed her hope that there was nothing like that tainting the man's life.

Egelina spoke up, raising her voice to address the crowd. "My good people," she said, speaking loudly so that they could all hear. "Your concern for right action and just recompense is commendable, as is your desire to protect the sanctity of this cemetary. I am a stranger here and I know nothing of the Professor's involvement in anything like necromancy. Where my knowledge fails, perhaps yours is more, but I cannot be the judge of that. Is not the Restlands dedicated to the jurisdiction of the great Pharasma? Is she not just in her judgment? Does she not correctly condemn every wayward soul to its eternal punishment, and reward every good soul to its blessed reward? If we lay the body and soul of the Professor in her graveyard, and submit him to her judgment--do you not think that she will make the right decision?"

As they walked down the hallway, Vladislava took the opportunity to make her way to the front of the queue, just behind Kendra. Gently, she placed a hand on the woman's shoulder, not so much to stop her as to get her attention. "Your father was a good man." There was none of her usual gruffness, though the words were still awkward in that way that was only possible from someone unaccustomed to expressing herself with words. "The best man I have known in many a year. I...I hope he finds peace. He did not deserve such a death." Even as she spoke the words, her grip on Kendra's shoulder grew tighter for a moment, and the look in her gray eyes was distant, as if she weren't really speaking those last words to the person she was talking to. Before anyone could comment on her behavior, however, she seemed to realize herself and released the woman's shoulder, taking a step back with a cough. Though there was no noticeable flush in her pale face, her downturn expression spoke enough for her contrition at what she judged to be untoward behavior.

After that, Vladislava did not speak anymore. She had attended funerals before, of course, but even as a child she had found there to be something halting about the entire process. Maybe it was just because, where she had grown up, death constantly nipped at her heels, and she didn't understand why it carried so much pomp and circumstance to it. Not that, among her clan, there was as much pomp and circumstance as there was here. Certainly, nobody she had ever known was buried with a wooden coffin and a headstone. The deceased were typically interred in a burial chamber, where the natural processes of decomposition would return their bodies to the earth to begin the cycle anew. Then, after time had passed for such to occur, the bones would be collected and more permanently interred in ossuary urns. Vladislava remembered all this quite well because she could never forget how it was her first time seeing a corpse. It was of her great-grandma, she believed, though she was too young for such a detail really to register. What she could register was the state of decomposition it was in. Her ma ushered her away from the burial chamber, still in tears as a younger her strained to get a better view.

She came to understand better, after what happened to her clan. That these rituals, the pomp and circumstance, they were as much for the living as for the dead. They provide a sense of closure, a chance to reflect on the life that the deceased live, to believe that they will be safe and know peace in the end. Without that closure...you never can move on, can you? So, to say that she was enraged by the crowd that appeared would be an understatement. She was properly incensed. Not merely at this disruption of such an important occasion, this final act performed for the dead, but at the implication that the man in question was a necromancer. A monster. Something to be feared and mistrusted, whispered about behind backs, in the shadows, away from vengeful eyes and ears. If they wanted a monster, a monster she could give them, alright.

But before Vladislava even found the words, Egelina was already speaking to the crowd, attempting to talk them down. She had to restrain herself from scoffing. Did she really think that honeyed words would be solution to this situation? She had seen what a mob of angry peasants were capable of, once whipped up into a frenzy. Fortunately for her, that frenzy was never directed at her, but it was still a humbling sight. She knew that it would not take much for such wanton violence to be directed her way. She had no intent of not repaying it in kind. She made no overtly hostile move, though she would attempt to subtly feel for her sword with one hand, to ensure that it was still in its proper place and ready for use should the moment arise. If they were going to desecrate a funeral, let them try; their insolence would be more than answered for. 

Gathering in the parlor, it had seemed Shaewyn had been the only one who showed interest in the wine offered. With no other takers she set the carafe silently back onto the table amd slowly sipped at her glass as she listened to the others.  When Kendra invited them to come to where the coffin rested, she set the glass down and wordlessly followed after the others.  

Somehow stepping into the room with the coffin focused her mind back to what Kendra had said about Petros' death. 'An oddly mundane way to die,' she thought. 'After all the dangers he had faced that it would be as simple as something falling on his head.'  But she then recalled what else had been said. 'Pensive and restless just before his death. Could he have had some idea this was coming? Perhaps just a portent or omen he had seen. But could it have been part of his studies?'  She mulled her thoughts on her own. Now was not the time for these questions. There was the coffin to bear and a funeral to attend to. 

Many others had taken their places, so Shaewyn simply moved to wherever there might be place remaining. She was not worried about having the strength to carry this burden. But she was unsure how her slight stature might affect the other, taller, members of the group.  She did the best she could to keep the handle as high as she could manage as they trudged out into the heavy fog. 

The crowd with torches was already before them by the time their presence had registered in her mind. And Egelina was quick to address them. She hoped the words might work. Though she couldn't help but note her exhortation on how the soul might find proper torment or reward had likely fallen on unreceptive ears. These townsfolk cared little for his soul, nor the person that he had been. They worried only for themselves and somehow running afoul of that which they knew nothing about. When Egelina concluded, she added her own remarks. 

"The dead deserve to be buried," she calls out in a stern voice. "This man, Petros Lorrimor, was no Necromancer. Let his daughter bury him in peace. That's all we ask." 

While the villagers shouted and Kendra’s voice wavered with grief and fury, Yua seemed curiously untouched by the noise. Her violet eyes flickered with thought, the metaphorical gears of her mind whirring as she revisited Kendra’s words. Distance from enemies. Restless before his death. An “accident” too mundane for his reputation. A sheriff who counseled against confirming the body’s condition. And now, townsfolk united in anger, too quick to accuse him of necromancy…

She turned, calm and deliberate, her robes whispering as she faced Kendra once more. “Forgive me if this seems untimely,” Yua said evenly, her voice cutting through the din with its stillness. “But I think it would be wise to examine your father’s remains ourselves. Death is inevitable, yes, but for a man of the Professor’s expertise, the details surrounding his final days leave more questions than answers. The townsfolk clearly dislike your family. Perhaps the sheriff acted to shield you, or perhaps to hide something more sinister.”

Her tone carried no fear of the crowd, nor anger, only clinical resolve, like a scribe recording truth to parchment. “I believe your father would want the truth uncovered, even if it points to those here in Ravengro…or to something stirred from the ruins he explored. I ask your permission. You need not look yourself. But I have some training in medicine, and I can confirm what happened to him. If it truly was a simple accident, perhaps the findings will be enough to quell the concerns of the townsfolk. It is unlikely that a dangerous necromancer would be killed by something so mundane."

Questions danced through Calpurnia's mind as she and her fellow pallbearers took hold of the coffin's handles and bore the body of Petros Lorrimor from his home to the Restlands. The Professor had been killed by a falling gargoyle? Kendra was right. It was absurd. Could that really be how such an esteemed life came to an end? It seemed cosmically unfair to Calpurnia. Fate could be cruel indeed. The rain had relented a bit, but mist still floated through the air like a death shroud. Very apropos, the knight of Lastwall thought. The funeral procession did not get far before the sight of torches in the gloom brought them to a halt. Villagers with scythes and pitchforks stood in their way. 

Egelina and Shaewyn attempted to soothe the ire of this mob with their words while Vladislava's eyes flashed with anger. Yua turned to Kendra and spoke about the need for a proper examination of the body. Her words sounded far away as all of Calpurnia's attention was fixed on the mob, the lead villager in particular, a man by the name of Hephenus apparently. It would be better if she had both of her hands free, but the knight extended her left hand palm outwards toward the mob, her right hand still supporting the weight of the casket. Her left palm bore the Shield-Mark, the golden shield of Lastwall, a testament to the dedication of the descendants of the Shining Crusade and their eternal vigilance over the Gallowspire.

"Hear me, citizens of Ravengro," the tiefling called out to the crowd in a steady voice. "This is the symbol of Lastwall, the Shield against the darkness that was the Whispering Tyrant. I am a Knight of Vigil. We keep the watch eternal over the Tyrant's prison. Do you think I of all people would carry the casket of a necromancer?" 

Her eyes are hard and unforgiving as she surveys this rabble of humanity. "Petros Lorrimor was no necromancer. You insult his memory. You insult his daughter. Cease and disperse immediately. If you heed not my words, you will heed my steel."

Persuasion: Nat 1 (First of the campaign. This should be interesting...)