NationStates Jolt Archive

A scroll made of the finest vellum is delivered. It is sealed with black wax and impressed by the royal signet of Freod.


My husband, Eadwacer bearn Garþeowes, Mearlanda þeoden, Freodes Weard, Titanes Eorl, Yutes Secg, a great warrior, now sleeps eternal and voyages forth with the grey wolf. He shall set sail in (three RL) days time.

Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes

OOC info:
If you are a member of the Triumvirate of Yut, you're invited. If you have an IC reason to want to attend, you can probably show up. If you aren't sure, ask me or a member of the triumvirate. Please remember that if you aren't a member of the Trimvirate, you can't just show but will need to get clearance from the navy. We're friendly, but a tad paranoid.

Finally, should you desire, the following information is available to anyone with halfway decent intellegence resources:

Eadwacer is quite old and has been sick for a while.
Eadwacer had no children nor, last you heard, had specified an heir
The two most likely successors are his nephews:
- Mægþeow (commonly known as feondscaða)
- Ælric (universally known as Stapa).


As always, if you have any questions including other information that you'd like your characters to come prepared with, just ask me.

Speaker doesn't sigh, because something like this doesn't cause something like that in his culture. The One Fanged God has recruited another Hero into His hunting party.

This is a good thing.

On the other hand, the kzintosh thinks with a low rumble, funerals aren't really for the dead they honor. I will have to call Julie and Bob.

Shifting in his seat, he pulls out a drawer from his desk and retrieves a sheet of good writing paper, a pen, and a bottle of ink. The bottle loses its stopper before Rrit dips the pen in the well and writes in a neat cursive.

Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes:

It is only right that we honor a warrior and a friend as noble and honorable as your husband. I will attend.

Respectfully,

http://www.weirdozone.com/projects/nationstates/speeks-sig.gif
Speaker-Rrit

OOC Note: Due to forum problems and real life concerns, I won't be moving this thread on until at least next Monday.

The deinonychoi play the waiting game below.

priority update

She's naked, unarmed; one claw has her knife. She had to leave it in his mate.

confirmation

She's splintering wood, salivating toxins, licking her nails.

transport request

It's full circle in a sense. The first time she met the man, she brought him a warm, armored fur. Now... yes. Yes, this will do.

message

She's sure of victory. If you aren't, you die. Still, if she's claw fodder when the man takes his leave his friends will know why.

The horse turns in the field, racing to his mistress. That's the image, and in a sense it's as real as the ship that leaves the vacuum ledge and goes to heavy boost for a pickup.

It's insane, but it's in his honor. She won't play the waiting game anymore.

Besides, the alpha female's claws will make a fine parting gift.

There are four aspects to her. The human one has very little to do with what drops from the tree.

OOC: Hope your issues work out, Ead.

The letter was delivered with little fanfare. Habakkuk didn't have any offices of his own, so he had taken up residence in an unused room in the Hack's embassy in the Dominion. It fit his needs and kept him in the nation he had grown to be rather fond of. Since he was in his room, he didn't bother with his tired, brown robe; instead, he was lounging about with his large wings folded around his body, deep in thought. After awhile he stood and silently crossed his room, pulling out a sheet of paper and a fountain pen. There were times when electronic replies were simply not sufficient.

Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes,

It is with great sadness that I learn of your husband's passing. I will most certainly be in attendence.

~Habakkuk

He looked over his letter -- well, note -- and lamented the brevity of it, but at times like this, there simply isn't much that could be said. He gave the letter to an assistant to be sent, and set about getting ready for his trip.

"This," remarks Gregor to his husband as he writes out a reply on formal paper, "is almost certainly going to be a remarkably unpleasant occasion."

"Can't imagine it's any worse than any other state funeral. Better than most, if anything. You can always count on any Freodan speaker to be reasonably poetic."

"Oh, I'm sure the actual ceremonies will be fine. It's the politics," Gregor all but spits the word. "Don't get me wrong, I liked Eadwacer, but in all honesty it's horrible form for him to up and die like this without a clear line of succession."

Tarvi raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"No, really. If you're going to have a monarchy, you should bloody well have that sort of thing sorted out. Especially since it's not as if he didn't have any number of life-extension methods available." Gregor stamps the letter with a seal, and hands it off to a waiting minion. "Trust me, even with people as generally pleasant as them, it's likely only a matter of time before they're trying to stab one another in the back."

"That's remarkable pessimistic, even for you."

Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes,

I am truly saddened to hear of the passing of your husband. I shall be honored to attend.

With the greatest respect,

Gregor V

A dull thud at the desk of the President was accompanied by a motion of surprise by said president. It wasn't often that he received paper mail anymore, especially not such well-crafted writing material. The president carefully opened the seal and read the contents. He wearily scratched a response using an old fountain pen- given the domestic and foreign policy issues that a president has to deal with, it's fairly difficult being the president. Well, being a successful president, anyway, which, fortunately, Bell was proving to be so far. The stationary itself was printed. The only preprinted official stationary on hand was printed 70 years ago, and the only choice was to print a new paper on the t-printer. Wetting the envelope sealant and sending it off, he slumped back in his seat. I need a damned vacation.

[Printed Material]
[To: Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes, Freod]
[From: President Richard P. Bell, the United Solaris Federation of Tiburon]
[Subject: Eadwacer's Great Journey]
[Classification: Declassified]

Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes-

I sympathize with your- and your nation's- recent loss with the passing of Eadwacer. In memory and honor of the great warrior of Freod, I shall attend the sail.

Sincerely,
http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y123/United_Solaris_Federation/4e12b887.jpg
Richard P. Bell,
The United Solaris Federation of Tiburon

OOC: Yes, I know that the signature name and the name of the president do not match up.

"Well, I suppose I'd best put the call in to ready the Queen's Wing for a trip to the Ring." Firefury frowns slightly, the reploid gingerly holding the scroll.

"I assume we'll both be attending, Queenie?" Tsume peers at the scroll over the orange reploid's shoulder.

"S'what I figured. Probably Naj, too."

The reploid rummages through her desk before locating a sheet of parchment, a small stick of sealing wax, and the metal seal of the Wings of Chaos (a trinket someone had made for her shortly after her ordeal with the infuriatingly vague Guardian). Digging further, she finds where she stashed her calligraphy set, and sets to writing.


Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes:

I am saddened to hear of your loss and mourn Eadwacer's passing. Tsume Dragonis and I shall be in attendance, as will Keeper Najoedo, Eldest of the Wetrcuto Boofohj.

Muo xo nxe xuj calot u xohe vco nocc, cavkot rooedt fuad, rooedt jehhen, rooedt toukx ed kxo Wectod Nadwj ke fuhutajo.
~Firefury Amahira
~Lady Shogun Eternal under the Wings of Chaos
~Shogunate of Reploid Productions

Brief note written, the reploid fumbles with the wax and the seal, given she is not generally accustomed to this sort of formality, and sends the missive on its way.

When the scroll first arrives, Nathicana is enjoying watching the children play in the courtyard while she sits at a nearby patio table, ice water close at hand. Gianni hands it over, along with several other paper missives, and she brightens on recognizing the seal. She sets the other things aside, carefully breaks the seal and gently unrolls it, scanning quickly, then stopping to re-read.

Her smile fades as the brief message sinks in, everything seeming to gradually grind to a halt for a few brief, quiet moments.

He’s gone.

She had not known Eadwacer nearly as well as she would have liked, in spite of the connection that had seemed to have developed there. Being at least on the face of things the oldest leader in the Trium, the image of father figure had been easy enough to come to. The quiet talks they had shared, the solemn, honorable manner he had carried himself with had all added to it. He had become in her mind, the vision of what she had always hoped her own father would have been like, had he lived.

Real or imagined, losing that tie all over again hurt.

“Gianni … please, keep an eye on the bambinos for a moment. There’s something I have to take care of.”

Always seeming to know when something was wrong, Naiya tugs at the hem of her mother’s shirt, looking up with a troubled expression while Marcus continues to run around the courtyard giggling. “Mama, why are you sad?”

Nathi smiles and reaches down to ruffle the little girl’s hair softly. “Nothing for you to worry about, la mia dolce. Just grown-up things.”

The child shoots her a look that clearly illustrates she doesn’t think much of the answer, and certainly isn’t buying it, little chin tilting up in an all-too-familiar way, brows creasing in a frown.

With a quiet sigh, Nathi bends down, balancing on the balls of her feet so she can talk face to face with the all too serious little girl. She struggles for a few moments, trying to find the right words, not wanting to say too much, but knowing she has to say something. “One of mama’s friends is gone, and won’t be coming back. And I’m going to miss him.”

“Is he on a long trip?”

“No … not exactly.”

“Why is he not coming back?”

Nathi shifts uncomfortably. Odd that one so versed in death and the consequences associated with it would have so much trouble explaining it. “Well you see, he was very old, and he hadn’t been feeling well for some time, and—”

“You mean he died?” Naiya asks without blinking, brows arching up slightly, and a wide-eyed emphasis on the last word which brings her mother up short.

“Yes … yes, he did.” A pause, studying her child’s face quietly. “Do you understand what that means?”

Naiya tilts her head slightly, looking around thoughtfully. “Um, yeah … there’s lots and lots of shooting, and then they put ‘em in a big box, and then there’s flowers, and lots of people, and crying, and then a fight, and—”

“Where the he—where did you hear that, Naiya?”

“On the TV on the movies.” This delivered with a tone of ‘you really ought to know this’ that only a child can get away with giving. As an afterthought, some clarification is offered. “Those ones in your room?”

“Oi, sweet Jesu! What were you … how did …” Nathi gets to her feet, horrified her little girl has been into her secret stash of old mafia flicks, and angry at both herself for not having noticed, and Naiya for having gone through her things, knowing they were off limits. Looking down with a calculating expression, she motions Gianni, who’s been standing off a ways while the two discussed.

“We’ll talk about this later, young lady. Gianni – if you please. I’ve a letter that needs writing.” One last shake of a finger and a look that promises this will be followed up, and she walks towards the house, taking up the scroll, and again frowning quietly. Mixed emotions, all things considered, while at the same time oddly relieved that she gets to deal with ‘hands off’ issues rather than long, drawn-out discussions about what death is - something she had hoped would not need to be talked about for some time.

On reaching her office, she chooses her finest personal stationery, and tries several times to come up with an appropriate response, muttering imprecations under her breath whenever she runs into difficulty. Better to channel her emotions into something other than crying. Time enough for that later. Words seem to fail, and finally, she opts for simplicity over flowery prose, which has thus far failed miserably. Signed and sealed with a rarely-used stamp, she sends it via the next available ship going to Titan.


Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes:

Please accept my heartfelt condolences on your loss, while at the same time saluting a Cyng who lived, and died, with great honor. I have no doubts that he has earned his place among the greats, though here, he will be sorely missed.

I will of course be there to pay my respects.

--Nathicana D’Aquisto



ooc: No, I've no idea where that all came from, just kinda did. Sorry for the delay in posting.

No, the Allaneans did not like the Triumvirate very much. Public figures made their political careers by criticizing the Triumvirate – a bit like UN-hating back in the Old Common Era. But de-facto, the Allanean government has long sought friendship with many of the saner nations of the Triumvirate, and has sometimes succeeded in doing so.

Regardless, many in Allanea had felt that Eadwacer was a highly respectable person, regardless of his politics. And so, quite a few bowed their heads in respect over the death of one so honorable. Allaneans may not understand decorum, but honor they do undestand. And as such, President Atchinson would have to be present at the funeral. If, of course, the Mearclanda let him

Dear citizens of the Mearclanda!

The nation of Allanea grieves with you over the loss of the Earl. While we subscribe to different philosophies, different alliances, and different politics, the Earl was a great man. In Allanea we believe that personal honor and morality are more important then any politics. And as such, let me present you all with a copy of the Earl Eadwacer Memorial Act – a joint resolution of both houses of our legislature, where we suspend the legislative session in Allanea for two days in memory of the Earl. As I sign this resolution, I cannot help but ponder the full greatness of Eadwacer. May God grant me the privilege to be as well-remembered by my friends and opponents alike, when my time comes.

As such, I humbly seek your permission to attend the great man's funeral.

Sincerely yours,
President R. Atchinson,
U. S. of Allanea

Ring

The ship hovers, silent, cautious, radiator plates ready to take care of unwelcome visitors. Hee hasn't any orders, she doesn't know what he's doing. There's a sense of it though, like a horse ready to stamp out snakes.

She doesn't quite drag herself up the ramp, and she doesn't quite walk. Limbs, hearts, livers steam on the metal, hastily dismembered, eviscerated remains.

Bushknife thunks into a haunch, and she collapses, holding most of two feet tenderly.

request

She could have ordered it.

Space

The Guardsman acquiesces, rummages, and soon her hand moves to another's will; Singh (a taken name) hand, pen, fine rag paper. Liberté penmanship, appreciation for the smells, the fine bone of the shaft.

As Marie Liberté's ship begins its slower course for Titan, Giti Singh's ejects a shuttle at brutal acceleration.

Titan

The shuttle hovers over a designated landing zone, and a short, dark woman in khakis set to grassland camo hops out. She moves to the local guards, saluting in the Territory fashion; a brief nod, and her head keeps tracking. Courteously, she appends a slight, slow bow and a flutter of hand over heart; eyes remain fierce, controlled half mad.

"Guardsman Giti Singh, with a message for the Queen. I request a messenger or an audience." The voice, melodious, Anglic with an accent not quite Spanish.

She's unused to outsiders.

The message, sealed in folded rag:

Wealhþeow Cwen Freodes, (hand uncertain on the non-standard characters, flowing)
I recieved the news that your husband is leaving.
We were all enriched by his life, and I will miss him. Attending as he leaves would be an honor.
If possible, I would like to finish my final gift to him in his home. If I may, I would arrive as early as possible. As I write, I travel toward Titan; Guardsman Giti Singh kindly lent me her hand and will carry your reply.
I remain, (here, there is an odd quality to the writing)
Marie Liberté

OOC: I may have misunderstood; the ceremony and the King's place of residence were on Titan, yes? Will edit otherwise, of course.

Rrit, Nægend Néatas,

We know of your exploits and of the great things that you've done by the side of Eadwacer. You shall honor us with your presence.

Weaþeow, Cwen Freodes


Habakkuk,

Our wínsælfreondas speak well of you and we wish you safe passage across the diamond sea.

Weaþeow, Cwen Freodes


Gregor V, Cásere Cetagandan,

I know that my husband would be pleased to know of your attendance.

Weaþeow, Cwen Freodes


President Bell,

A voyage is best travelled with friends and allies. With you attending, it shall be a good trip.

Weaþeow, Cwen Freodes

More coming, I'm working in order, but I have to run.

Chairman Kimsey broke the seal on the scroll and unrolled it across his desk. He read it over and sighed at the unpleasant news. He took a sip of tea before taking a sheet of paper from a desk drawer and writing out his reply.

Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes:

I am sorry for the loss of your husband and am saddened to hear of his passing. I shall be in attendance.

-Julian Kimsey
-Chairman of the High Council
-Defensive Pacifist Nation of Sneaky Bastards

He carefully folded the letter and placed it in an envelope, sealing with wax and setting it aside with his other documents that were to be mailed out. He then paged one of his assistants on the intercom.

"Yes, sir. What can I do for you?" came the response.

"I'll be leaving for Titan and will be gone for a few days. I'd like the Tsukumiya prepared for my trip. Also, please notify the other members of the council of my trip and that any business that requires my attention will have to be put on hold until I return."

"Right away, sir!"

He was a good friend, personally, of the union, and of the family. Bari agrees something should be sent in person.

And it is, diplomatic avatar dressed in somber and understated black of puritanical cut presenting a similarly-sealed roll of paper in a handcrafted marblewood carrier. She presents it with a quiet bow, then leaves as unobtrusively and wordlessly as it is polite to.

(In textbook-legible cursive, although thinner and more slanted)

Honored Cwen Freodes,

I have traveled far with honored Eadwacer; he was good council in times fell and truly wise. My husband and I owe our union to him; therefore, it is my honor and obligation to at least see him off on his last voyage.

--Shodan

The final responses are sent out: (This doesn't prevent late comers)

Firefury Cwen,

You, your Weards, and your Wyrmas Læferes are all more than welcome, as always, in my home.

Wealþeow, Cwen Freodes

Atelic Hlædige Nathicana D’Aquisto,

Mine sweostor. I know much of you, for as you know, the wife always knows all. I know that of all his peers, my husband felt closest to you and often regretted that politics kept him from knowing you better. I share similar regrets. I have spent my life maintaining the household and serving beor to our guests. While it has been a pleasant life, it is now over and I hope that we may grow to know each other better.

Yours in friendship,
Wealþeow, Cwen Freodes


President R. Atchinson,

While we are pleased (and perhaps a tad astonished) that the people of Allanea grieve for the loss of our king, we doubt that any representative of a nation with your history of relationships with the Triumvirate would feel welcome. Emotions may often run high at a funeral and so we must request, for your own safety and security, that you do not attend.

Unferð - Director of Intelligence

Marie Liberté,
I understand the presses of time and constraints of craft. You will be welcome no matter when you arrive. The mead shall be kept chilled and the meat shall be kept warm to await your coming.

Wealþeow, Cwen Freodes


Julian Kimsey, Eorl Héahþinges,

We thank you for your kind note and shall welcome you when you arrive.

Wealþeow, Cwen Freodes

Shodan & Bari,

It seems so recent that I saw you here and I saw the smiles of joy on your faces when you spoke your vows. It is unfortunate that this time shall not be so joyous. Our doors are always open to you and you shall never be guests here, for it shall always be as a home.

Wealþeow, Cwen Freodes

Freod has seen better years.

Everyone pitches in to give Eadwacer the funeral he so richly deserves, but there is a sour note in the mix. The harvest isn't as good as it once was and green crops are measured in six-foot lengths. Brothers working together to build the pyre watched each other suspiciously and didn't speak. The kaows and deor were slaughtered and placed on spits. There smell of good meat floated out past the hogsheads of fine mead and beer. Towering over all was the grand wooden ship holding Eadwacer's lícfæt. This would surely be the most wonderful funeral seen by Freod in many generations.

All was ready for the guests to arrive.

Landing

The ship is old, pods and pylons encrusting him, well worn. The name is out of the classics, and when she named him even vaguely original. These days you would not believe how many ships are named Bukefalos or some other transcription of that name. He's green with white trim, and here and there worn down to smooth grey BPC; and ols ship's skin.

He touches down, thruster pods smoothly pivoting past vertical, legs unfolding. Smooth approach, smooth landing, with maybe a touch of elan. Elan translates to discomfort for the only crewmember, gnawing metallic-tasting meat and sipping glucose. Still, she can't help it. He'd rather go slow, though.

The woman coming down the ramp doesn't exactly limp, but she moves with a lot of control. She wears light clothes, arms bare and covered in fast-healing wounds. Over one shoulder, a big gunny sack. In the other hand, a folded silk package, carefully held. Spaceblack skin, massive shoulders, weapon rig; a Territorial.

She gratefully unloads the gunny sack on another woman who just happened to walk up from her own waiting ship, Giti Singh the Guardsman. Then she greets the guards.

This was not the way she had hoped to visit. Not under these circumstances.

Why is it we seem to only get together anymore for weddings or funerals or matters of state? Shodey’s family, so that’s different. But it seems like ages since I sat down for a sandwich with Speaks, and I’ve not seen Razak since God knows when … Maybe after a respectful time I could suggest something on Machiavelli. Close for most, we’ve all the comforts there, and it’s friendly territory … perhaps something more secure like the Nuova Libertà site on Titan?

Gently gathering the skirts of her more ‘traditional’ dress and tucking a package under her arm, she nodded to her security detail, intent on attending alone. This was a personal matter, and one she had no desire to have tag-alongs to, regardless of perceived needs. A subtle earpiece/mic was what she had consented to for keeping in contact, and under their watchful eye from the comfort of her shuttle, the Tempest, but no more than that.

She was among friends here. And she was tired of being afraid. Chin tilted up slightly in that imperious way she had, she stepped through the door and made her way down the ramp with a confident step, putting her hesitancy aside.

The nanoweave fabric of her simple ensemble was, she admitted, comfortable. Trade with the FSP had been good that way, and others, in spite of differences in opinion on governance and diplomacy. Both the subdued red under-dress and rich black of the over-tunic were made from it, though the matching veil and simple gold trim were a light silk made in the Dominion. She’d braided her hair back, and kept the veil in place with a small, unadorned gold circlet, with a similarly simple gold belt accenting her waist. It had just seemed more ‘right’, making the attempt, whether or not it was exactly true to form. At least she hopped it would not offend.

As Nathi walked, wrapped up in her own thoughts, she took the somber atmosphere to be expected, all things considered. Though the scent of food was no doubt delicious, she found her appetite not up to task, at least not yet. Her pace slowed as she took the time to look around more carefully, and she sighed softly.

I wish we would have had longer.

Having returned from the briefing with his heads of state and security, Gorrm sets down in his office on a private island on Sslaa V. Numerous messages from various minor dignitaries in various minor territories were yet to be responded to, and he filed those under boiler-plate responses with apologies made, and sent them out.

His aide enters as he finished that business, and was about to get to the next task at hand. The aide carried an ancient-style scroll case which looked rather newly polished, made a low bow and offered the case to him. "What is this?"

The aide lifts her head. "It's a message from the Triumvirate ally Freod. Their method of official communique." The head bows again, eyelids closed.

Gorrm eyeballs it a moment, then clasps the case in his hand, opens it and removes the scroll. A symbiote is procured with one hand and placed over his eye while his tail breaks the seal on it and unravels the scroll. The symbiote is a text-translator; a tad different from the vocal translators that seem to be always on their persons right behind their ears. The message reads....

Originally Posted by The Scroll
My husband, Eadwacer bearn Garþeowes, Mearlanda þeoden, Freodes Weard, Titanes Eorl, Yutes Secg, a great warrior, now sleeps eternal and voyages forth with the grey wolf. He shall set sail in (three RL) days time.

Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes

Gorrm looks up. "Why was this not brought to my attention earlier?"

"My liege, messages sent in this manner take more time than otherwise to reach us here. The Freod are not known for embracing new technologies."

The symbiote is removed and replaced in its nutrient bath. "Yes. Very well. Do they still consider us monsters from ancient tales?"

"Unknown, sire. But it would be good for Triumvirate purposes to put forth a unified stance in this despite any .... misconceptions.... others may have of us."

"Good call. Send this message out....."

Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes

It would be an honor if my personage and that of my immediate family were allowed to attend the services for Eadwacer bearn Garþeowes. Although we have rarely met in an official manner, any times we did meet were an honor for my peoples. His Herpatra was mighty and we were all better for his presence.

Emperor Gorrm, Sslaa V

=<Transmission Type: Diplomatic Communique>=
=<Sender: Andrew Seal, Prime Minister, Imperial Commonwealth of Khenala>=
=<Destination: Cwen Freodes, Mearclanda of Freod>=

Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes:

The Imperial Commonwealth of Khenala mourns with you the loss of Cyng Eadwacer, and this day share the sorrow of the people of Freod.

As allies, friends, and neighbors, we extend our most heartfelt condolences on his passing. I would be honored to attend the services.

With highest regard,

Andrew Seal
Prime Minister
Imperial Commonwealth of Khenala

=<End Transmission>=

There's not much an armored combat machine can do to "dress up", let alone a combat machine built in the form of a black dragon, so little description needs be spent on Firefury Amahira or Tsume Dragonis. The orange reploid simply leaves her helmet with her things on board the Queen's Wing, revealing her short brown artificial hair tugged into a neat braid, and adopts the plain black armband favored by reploids to display mourning. Tsume likewise has such an armband, the cloth merely a darker shadow against his black armoring.

What the two reploids lack in formal attire however, Najoedo makes up for in spades. While the winged Keepers often prefer to go about in the nude out of simple convenience, they also have elaborate costuming in their traditional formal attire. The cloth itself is unremarkable, a durable thick linen weave dyed a dark grey, formed into a pair of loose-fitting pants tied shut at the knee (so as not to interfere with the motion of the ankles and feet when walking), and a sort of shirt cut in a way to drape over the Keeper's front and back, with wide slits cut for his milky wings. What the attire lacks in silks however, it makes up for with other crafts. Either a testament to the creativity of the Keepers or to the sheer amount of boredom and free time they had in the Valley of Dragons, the entire outfit is adorned with beadwork and metalwork. Very little precious metals or gems are present however, the beads being simple wood or stone and painted with comaritively mundane pigments, most of the metal being simple iron and bronze worked and polished to a gleaming finish. Both Najoedo's wings and tail are similarly adorned, metal pieces fitted around the wing bones and tied securly around the tail. The only gemstones and precious metal adorning the Keeper are worked into a comparitively simple headdress, a gold band inlaid with only a few small rubies. It of course goes without saying that his weapon hangs sheathed at his side, the Eldest of the Keepers standing a stark contrast beside the Lady Shogun and her right-hand reploid dragon.

While Firefury and Tsume likely feel slightly out of place, Najoedo gazes all about him to the extent decorum allows, drinking in the sights and smells that remind the ancient man of ages past. It is a great regret that the Keepers did not wake to this age until it was too late to come to know the man who leads these people. I am certain I would have enjoyed speaking at length with he who sails today. It is true that the greatest voyages never truly come to an end, there will always be something new to learn.

Gregor and his husband arrive aboard a nondescript military shuttle. Both wear military dress uniforms in blue-and-white Imperial livery, as befits the funeral of a warrior king. They're not particularly fancy, with only a few simple service pins and (functional) dress swords and pistols, mostly due to their decidedly short terms in service. Tarvi spent only the requisite two years in the Home Guard needed for citizenship and never went past PFC; Gregor's career in the Fleet came to an abrupt halt in the middle of his last midshipman cruise prior to graduation and he was only officially an ensign for all of ten minutes. The only other ornamentation they wear is a simple silver circlet worn by Gregor.

The pair arrive deep in conversation, but pause to nod politely to the other guests. Gregor seems a bit distracted and uneasy, despite his best attempts to cover it up. Tarvi, on the other hand, is as comfortable as anyone attending a funeral might be, although he occasionally shoots his companion a worried glance when the other isn't looking.

Edited for spelling.

Responses are sent out as before, but one deserves special mention:

Emperor Gorrm, Sslaa V, Mihtig wyrm, mannes freond,

You will honor us with your presence, and perhaps we may begin mending the long held blood-feud between our peoples.

Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes

Meanwhile, on Freod:

Freod does, despite rumors to the contrary, have a rather decent and modern spaceport. Rarely, though, is it filled with so many dignitaries. The honor guards are out in force making sure that each person gets where they need to, and the spaceport workers making sure that the honor guards don't kill themselves on the runways.

The honor guard around the Reploid Production's delegation seems a tad different. They excude a feeling of not being used to the role of honor guard. Their weapons look well loved and their eyes look wary Each member of the (slightly larger) force wears insignia proving service in the greater TYCS. Perhaps it is due to this more cosmopolitan experience that they do not gaze at the Keeper with the same mix of wonder, horror, fear, and hatred that some of the bystanders do, but instead gaze right back at the bystanders with their weapons safed, but loaded.

Food (or batteries), drink, rest, and showers are (politely) offered to all guests so that they may freshen up prior to the ceremony. And while each guest is assigned a person to take care of their needs, the queen is nowhere to be found.

By the harbor a grand amphitheater has been constructed with benches for hundreds, standing room for thousands, and comfortable reserved seating at the front for special guests. A stage of carved wood stands at the front. Trees and plants interweave with knotted animals in a dance of life, warfare, and death. Behind it is the ship piled high with riches and mead surrounding the towering pyre for the Cyng.

The return message makes its way through the Imperial Channels to Gorrm's personal aide, who forwards it to the Emperor even as he briefs his adopted hatchling while he makes his own preparations.

The hatchling, now a pre-teen by Sakkran standards, packs his finery while casting one eye on his sire. "But why is there a blood-feud? I don't understand...."

Gorrm chuckles lowly as he inspects his funerary dressing for signs of wear. "By our standards, Sskeera, it is not really a blood feud. That would involve both parties acknowledging it, and giving no quarter to the other. No, this is a fairly one-sided affair. But that should not stop us from honoring the fallen lord of their realm, who in spite of everything we still consider an ally."

"Humans are the strangest people." Sskeera shakes his head slightly and continues his packing, then lifts his head up and eyeballs the doorway. "I think sirrah Kraah is here." A second later, the door chime sounds and slides open. Indeed it is Kraah and Sszeera, with Thress and Sesska behind him giving greetings to the staff. Kraah holds in his hand the reply from Freod.

"Good cycle, my boy." His claw skritches behind Sskeera's earhole resulting in a low keening sound from the neonate. "And my Emperor. How hangs the head which wears the crown?" A mockery of a low flourish is given, which Gorrm pays little mind to.

"The head hangs low this day, sire. You know why as well as anyone."

"Yes, yes. Saddening business. It's a shame the humans don't share our longevity, but then every body has their time. Ours will come as well." Kraah then hands the message to his hatchling, who takes it with one hand.

Gorrm looks over the frame of his father. Although still daunting and formidable, signs of age show up every now and then. His scales have more grey to them, the tendrils on his chin seem longer and more profuse, his eyelids seem to hang a bit lower than before, and his gait isn't as swift and steady as it once was when Kraah was Emperor. "Yes, yes indeed. It is the way of things." He reads the message and keys up his personal messenger behind his ear.

"Trisska, voice comm. Dictate and send through appropo channels. *ahem*

Wealhþeow, Cwen Freodes

It is with honor that I would like to discuss ending this feud. Our party will involve six in total, all immediate imperial family. Any guard we bring will remain on-ship during our stay as we have faith in your security measures.

We here in the Herpetological Empire hope this message finds you in steady spirits, and may your herpatra never be doubted.

Emperor Gorrm

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

*the next day*

The shape of an old-style S.I.S.N. command cruiser enters the Sol System just outside the system's edge. It's been refitted to serve as the Imperial Cruiser, more a pleasure craft than a warship, but fit for duty just the same.Communications officers seeking clearance send out the message "This is Sakkran Imperial Transport Guanaar's Eye requesting clearance and landing protocols. Transmitting SigIdent now."

Unferð, Chief of Security, stood by aircontrol and received the transmission:

Wesan eow hale,

Please land on the spinward runway where an honor guard will greet you. We recognize your ancestry and thus your guards may be defensively armed and accompany you, should you so desire. Please meet me in my office after landing for a general briefing.

Unferð,
Chief of Security

When the Sakkran ship lands, they will find an absolutely normal honor guard (though with more cosmopolitan soldiers) at attention. It is the circle of Beaducafas surrounding the runway that provide the attention this time. Their powered armor (http://server106.totalchoicehosting.com/~tpjzdd/gallery/Mecha/beaducaf_close?full=1) is gleaming and ready with the royal sigl of Freod on the chests.

How they arrive isn't particularly important, except in that it's politely coordinated with the local Freodian authorities, whatever they might be at this juncture. Perhaps it stands to be noted that the 'big three' of the Federated Segments' command staff takes great pains not to make an obtrusive entrance; then again, anyone who knows the triumvirate of friends to any degree would probably not be overly surprised. Whilst there's probably no avoiding an honor guard--it's probably intended as an honor, after all--they still do what they can to make no more of a scene than their hosts intend.

The first, Alshai, exemplifies the Arab tradition of the Segments. Muslim funerals aren't exactly known for being black-suit affairs; there not being anything in the Qu'ran that specifies. Dress is therefore a matter of what is locally apropos and, in the Segments, a matter of personal symbology. Kommetrez is not what would be considered in other, more conservative, times a good Muslim, but he's good enough for the Segments. He wears a monochromatic suit the shade of ashes, with a matching shirt, trenchcoat and fedora.; the shirt has a half-high collar in an Occidental style, precluding the use of a tie. What makes it properly Arabic is his bearing--somber, serious, and most of all, absolutely silent. His brown Angelan eyes look perfectly normal, the back-lighting turned off as is appropriate.

The second, Julius, follows the epitome of the Scolopendran military man, probably far less surprising than just how well the old Infantryman cleans up. Meticulous black-and-red Class As, with ribbons seconded by the actual medals they represent when possible adding a slight sense of being top-heavy. Gold six-pointed pip-and-bar stars atop their little white retiree circles on the ends of his shoulderboards, combat boots and black combination cap's visor all polished to a shine impossible without decades of practice; brushed steel insignia and belt with its peace-bonded powergun pistol less so, gleaming with a more softly reflected light. Finally, fine white gloves--which only ever appear at funerals, by the military tradition of the Segments. He carries himself like he did decades ago, eyes caged, face a mask of seriousness. Being the "old man" in his circle of friends, there aren't many in his circle of peers he could respect as elders. Now there's one less.

The third, Speaker-Rrit. His official blue-and-black uniform is mostly hidden by the sleeveless rough-hewn brown robe he wears, covered in orange dots-and-commas runes stitched simply onto it. Over that, the rough-braided baldric of his Patriarchy. Things had changed since he and the old hero Eadwacer had spoken sincerely last; the kzintosh somehow became the undisputed of the Race of Heroes and its concomitant religion, and--doubtful of the existence of true coincidence in a universe of the One Fanged God's construction--it all seemed to happen for a purpose. A true Hero, perhaps lacking in mass and teeth and claws and pelt, but a true Hero nonetheless has fallen quietly yet nobly, and it is only right that he be respected as the Hero he was.

As the six members of the imperial lineage descend from their craft, they allow a moment for their eyes to adjust to the lighting being that it's markedly different than the soft yellowish light Sakkrans prefer. Gorrm leads flanked by Sskeera, then Kraah and Sszeera side by side, and Thress and Sessra also side by side. Their personal honor guard consists of a pair of Deep Ones (http://www.5amfunnies.com/sakkra/deep.JPG) in their ceremonial sashes that wrap at the waist and dangle like a short wrap. They seem to bear no visible weapons save their massive lobster-like claws.

All six members of the Imperial Line wear what seems to be an off-white cheese-cloth material that shimmers slightly. What it is is a silk made from a breed of domesticated spider tended by Sszeera herself. The flowing robes are handmade and are translucent, allowing light to shine through. No markings of note can be seen on the material as is customary when attending a funerary service. The cowls of the robes are pulled down to drape slightly at the back of their necks.

Gorrm greets the nearest honor guard after taking a moment to make sure his translating symbiant is awake. "Good cycle to you and yours. We are to make an appearance at the office of the Chief of Security, yes?" Wherever the honor guard would lead them, they follow silently.

The Sakkrans are led to a small office in the spaceport. It is clearly not Unferðes permanent office, but appears to be a temporary home to manage the arrivals. It still feels homey, in a military sort of way, with the walls covered with arms and mail. Unferð rises and bows when the Sakkrans enter and then quickly signal all of the other Freoden to leave. He stands at attention and speaks:

Wesan eow hales. Good cycle to you and yours, Emperor Gorrm. I wish to extend my deepest apologies to you and beg your forgiveness for what I am about to do. Please know that I speak for myself and for neither my Queen or her people. However, I feel that you deserve some explanation for how you will likely be treated here.

Our histories speak of evil serpants from our distant past who fought with us and slew us. It was a dragon that finally laid low our greatest hero of all time, Beowulf. In our tongue, the word for these beings is wyrm. The connotations are universally negative. "Sakkran" translates to wrym Sakkres or "serpant of Sakkra". I think that you see the problem here.

Most people here believe you to be direct descendants of these syn-sceaðas or evil-doers. I know that this isn't true and that your appearance is pure coincidence and I've selected heroes of like-mind to be your guards. But you must realize that there are but few people here who consider you allies.

The Cwen does not consider you an enemy and recognizes you as a de-facto ally, but do not take this to mean that she is free of prejudice. Even the honorific that she unthinkingly chooses reflects this conflict of mind. Mihtig wyrmas, freodas mannes, "Mighty Wyrms, Friends of Man." She desires peace, but believes that there is violence in our pasts that must be reconciled first. I ask that you be understanding and work with her honestly, as she works with you honestly, and forgive her her unthinking slights and the slights of our people. (with this he glances towards the reptilian arm that makes part of the seal of Freod)

I recognize that I have grossly broken the rules of diplomacy and propriety, and I throw myself upon your mercy.

With this he bows once more and returns to attention, clearly unarmed and with no weapons within easy reach.

OOC Note: While I remember to post it, this is the schedule of events that is made available to all upon landing:

Beginning at sunset on the eve of the funeral is a wake with food and feasting. This will continue non-stop until the ceremony begins.
The funeral begins at approximately 3 hours prior to sunset on the next day with a prayer.
The history of Freod and the lineage of Eadwacer are recited
Special guests are invited to speak on whatever they feel appropriate.
At sunset the pyre will be set alight.
The Cwen speaks
Ælric speaks
Mægþeow speaks
Closing prayer

The reploids quietly follow their escort to wherever they're to go. Tsume, already well-aware of a cultural animosity toward draconic-seeming entities in general makes certain to keep his fangs covered and his claws held close and in as non-threatening a manner as possible. While the reploid drake trusts his hosts, he also knows better than to accidentally provoke the civilian population, especially at times such as these where emotions are running high and fear of the unknown undermines everything.

Najoedo frowns, the ancient man well aware of the distrust exuded by some of the bystanders at his appearance. Indeed, this land does bear more in common with the old clans than I would care for. Respect and dignity on the one side, distrust and fear upon the other. Perhaps the time has come for a new journey of my own, to these worlds beyond the reach of Keepers' wings. He keeps his stride carefully measured and his wings furled tight against his back, the appendages lending the appearance of a white cloak.

Hey, Naj? To the Keeper's slight bemusement, he glances at the source of the mindvoice, mental volume no greater than a bare whisper. Even he was baffled by what had happened some time ago involving that winged figure, but the reploid Queen had become unusually proficient in the Speech of Souls favored by the Keepers.

What troubles you, Firefury-Uccjooh? You seem restless. The Keeper responds in kind.

This whole situation. No clear line of succession? In a modern society like the Segements or the Shogunate, it's not a big deal. But with a... ah, antiquated society like this? Firefury glances around to emphasize the point. You've been around the block a few times, you should know what it could mean.

Najoedo tips his head slightly, the barest hint of a nod. Indeed, that is a troubling matter. As with the clans of old, if there is a void, there will be those all too eager to fill it, battling for position. It is a strange paradox, to find a people living in this way here, so near to the Far Moon. I am certain there will be much to discuss lest blood needs be shed.

Preparations were minimal; perhaps because of his culture, but equally likely because he just wasn't too familiar with the culture of Freod. He had read dossiers and briefings, but that never seemed to be enough, and always painted a biased picture. Besides, how could you distill an entire culture -- especially one as unique as Froed -- to a single sheet? Or even a single tome?

Still, he wanted to show his respects, and he wanted to address his nation's shortcomings. He couldn't spend all of eternity hanging out in the Dominion, after all. His pragmatic side saw this as a perfect opportunity to get a bit of networking done. Or at least allow others to become familiar with the LiMEs.

His brown, monkish robe was traded in for something a tad more dignified and fitting. Barely pausing to flex his long, alabaster wings, he gathered up the robe that he had settled on. It was a relatively simple affair, a black robe made of silk with silver trim. It did create a dramatic contrast with his white skin, but he felt it looked good, and seemed appropriate for mourning. On the off chance that such colors would be viewed as offensive, he packed his standard robe as well as a twin to his current, save being white. With no fanfare, he boarded his shuttle and made his way out past the asteroid belt for the funeral.

In an equally minimalist manner, he runs through the age old dance of stating name and destination, offering authorization, requesting permission to land, so on and so forth. The sleek, black craft gently lands on its assigned spot; emulating its owner in seeming completely inobtrusive and unassuming. It was something of an art. Habakkuk, a delegation of one, slowly stepped out of the craft, bowing to his assigned guard and attache.

Gorrm returns the bow given by Unferð, and listens as he describes the situation. When he completes his briefing and stands at attention, Gorrm raises his clawed hand palm up, showing both thumbs tucked into the hand, a motion of appeasement. "What you have described is good for my hatchling to hear. He was confused as to what could have started this feud, and I did not have the luxury of time to describe everything in full. I trust he nows knows who, what and why?" One eye looks down at Sskeera, who nods ascent quietly.

"Very good." He returns his full attention to Unferð. "You need not apologize or ask for mercy. Diplomacy and tact have their place, and brunt honesty would serve better here than otherwise in this situation. I am aware of your cultural history in regards to the hero Beowulf, and my guard has been briefed on what to expect. We will work with the Cwen in whatever capacity we must to reconcile this .... misunderstanding between our people."

"Thank you for understanding." It was only now that Unferð allows a trace of the nervousness that he felt to cross his face. "I am a man of action and not of diplomacy. Sometimes, that can cause problems.

"Unless you have concerns that I can help you with, I'm afraid that I must get back to work. The wake is beginning shortly in the main hall, and I'm sure that people are starting to arrive and tap the mead. Please feel no hurry to make it to the winhal. The wake will continue for the next twenty hours. I expect that the Cwen, her family, and the rest of the lords will be floating in and out over the entire period, so you'll be hard pressed to miss them."

Then, if there is nothing else that needs to be dealt with, the guards politely escort the Sakkrans to their lodgings and then on to the wake when they so desire.

Of course, lodgings were quite comfortable, and all that was needed attending to was done so quickly and efficiently. Looking over the schedule of events, Nathi makes a note to keep something on hand to make notes with, just in case. If nothing else, perhaps something for the Cwen to hold in remembrance, if she could find the right words.

She made her way to the Hall, unsure of exactly what to expect, all things considered. Wakes were not unheard of, but every culture had it’s differences. In addition, there was the matter of the break in succession – something she knew all to well could inspire unhealthy thoughts in even the best of people in the best of times.

It would pay to keep her eyes open, and her ears pricked for any mutters or whispers – something that was decidedly easier to pull off thanks to Shodey. In addition, the increased metabolism and ability to filter alcohol to a good degree would assist in being able to take part in the feast and what looked to be a traditionally large bout of drinking without ill-effect, for which she would need to thank her sister-in-mind for as well the next time she saw her.

Entering the Hall, she looked around to get her bearings, and see who was present.

Speaker, Razak, and Kommetrez sit more or less to themselves at the end of one table in the mead hall, still dressed in their respective uniforms and suit. The steel centipede 'S' on the still-active government workers has a black band over it crosswise, forming a shape resembling an old dollar sign but meaning something completely different. None of them speak loudly, or particularly call attention to themselves, but all have a different bearing than usual.

Not with the sort of slouching relaxation of depression, not at all.

No, they seem stiffer, sitting nearly at attention on the backless benches, talking quietly in short, simple Arabic phrases. It is an unintentonal show of control borne out of respect. Now is not the time or the place for a raucous wake nor piteous wailing; rather now is the time to remember and moreover replicate the nobility that has been lost.

The great winhal stretches off into the distance, literally so long that you cannot see the end. (Of course, that may also be due to the thick smoke from fires and pipes.) Down the center are heavy wooden tables laden with food and drink. The walls are lined with benches with comfortable pads. Already many are passed out (for reasons unknown) on them, snoring gently. In addition to the numerous servents walking through the hall filling horns there is a sculpture of a goat on the roof and from its udders flow a fountain of fine mead.

The walls are lined with tapestries telling the stories of battles long gone and those yet to come. The stone floor is soft and warm with the steps of many people. The benches are worn naturally into the shapes of those who might sit there. This is a living place and serves as home to many people. The hall towers, it's gables wide and high and awaiting a barbarous burning.

There is music, drinking, eating and dancing.

At the far end of the hall, Wealþeow sits. Her face held strong and serious as she gazes over her people. Though there is food on her plate, it remains untouched, and no matter how often the servants may check, her horn is rarely empty.

Mægþeow is also there and can be found easily by his hearty laugh, though if he thinks no one is watching, a hint of his pain shows through his face. His clothes simple and soiled with work. There seems to be an ever moving and shifting cloud of people about him.

Ælric can also be found, though never too close to Mægþeow. Sorrow is etched on his scarred face. The battle scars upon his visage seem even more ugly in comparison to the royal garb he wears. He drinks with determination and speaks quietly and seriously to a continual stream of individuals who come by to converse with him.

Let this not grant the impression of a few royals surrounded by commoners, for this is the great wake of Eadwacer. Sooner or later, almost anyone who is anyone in Freod will likely meander through and all you need do is wait long enough to meet them.

Certain descriptions adapted from Seamus Heaney's Beowulf (http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0393320979)

Part of her wants nothing more than to sit with her friends, and part would prefer to melt quietly into the background to just observe, and distance herself somewhat from the entire situation. Death, involving someone she gave a damn about, had never been something she’d dealt with well. It brought up far too many painful memories. The fact that she had come to see Eadwacer as the embodiment of all those things she had hoped her father was, or would have been had he not been killed in one of the many ‘purgings’ when she was quite young, didn’t help matters. Though it’s decidedly more comfortable than the last funeral she attended for the Vrakian leader, she doesn’t feel much like dancing, or drinking overmuch, and her appetite isn’t what it should be, all things considered.

As she scans the room her eyes come to rest on Wealþeow, and she knows what she needs to do. Though they had not had the opportunity to get to know one another well during her husband’s lifetime, Nathi felt a tie to the woman nonetheless, and could not help but admire how the Cwen too exhibited those same qualities she had come to appreciate in Eadwacer. Seeing her sitting there alone, strong and silent, surrounded by her people, and yet apart … she quietly made her way through the crowd to where the Cwen sat.

“Wes þu hal, Wealþeow Cwen,” Nathicana says as she rises. “Would you mind some company, or would you prefer to be alone for now? ”

"Your company is welcome, Atelice Hlædige. This is not a time to be alone." She offers food and drink, though continues not to touch her own. "Eat if you wish, I have been told that the food is great, but I lack appetite.

"I have always regretted not knowing you better and hope to remedy that. My husband always spoke well of you. What is the Dominion like now? I have always imagined it to be a more cheerful place than our land."

Wealðeow gestures vaguely around. "We have our traditions and our history, but the old is not always good. You, at least, don't seem to be doomed to relive history."

The space set aside for Gorrm and his retinue was comfortable enough. It's a difficult thing to have the humidity levels and temperature set just right for optimal comfort if those things aren't pressing issues for your specie. This is the reason Kastaa BioMed engineered time-released symbiotes to supplement these things for voyages away.

After ensuring their kit was stowed and everyone was briefed on what to expect, the group made their way towards the hall where the wake was held. As was customary, they would fast during these proceedings. Other Sakkran customs would be quashed, however, in observance of the customs of the hosting parties unless it was requested. Loud bellowing would probably be looked at ascance, for example. Rather, it would be expected the Sakkrans would wear their ceremonial sheer white raiments, and observe silence, preferring to converse in gesticulations and scent unless directly addressed.

For Sskeera, this wold be an opportunity to see other people's customs in practice. For Gorrm, it would be a chance to reacquaint names with faces not seen in some time. For Kraah and Sszeera, it would be a chance to stuff themselves stupid and hear glorious tales, perhaps to be incorporated in future operas. Sszeera has decided to try her hand at the playwright's pen, after all, and is always on the lookout for a good tale.

They enter the hall, and take a moment to take in the full breadth and scope of the chamber before them.

“Grazie,” Nathi replies, drawing up a chair, accepting some wine for now. “I too have regretted the lack, and thank you for your kind words. It seems our positions rarely allow us the time and space we would wish for things other than duty.”

She takes a slow sip of her wine, glancing around again and nodding, trying not to think too hard on some of the memories the Cwen’s questions bring up. “Still, a rich history and strong traditions, yes? The good one can hold onto in the bad times. Our history has been varied, and not nearly so stable as many of us would like. I’m hoping to change that trend. Too often we have relived the past, time and again, even as we progressed – making the same mistakes, doing what our predecessors did before, simply because it’s how it’s ‘always’ been done. I hope things have improved, but only time will tell.”

Tsume wisely remains something of a wallflower, keeping his armored bulk out of the way and simply observing the proceedings, leaving the more social activities to Firefury and Najoedo. The former, being a reploid, politely declines food and drink, and spends some time looking back and forth between the notables present before apparently deciding who to speak with first, and she joins the steady stream of people wishing to speak with Ælric. When she finally gets there, she bows formally at the waist in the manner of the Shogunate.

"I don't believe we've met before, and I am ashamed to confess I didn't have the opportunity to truly come to know those in power here. Would that we could have met under more pleasant circumstances. " The orange-clad reploid straightens. "My condolensces on your loss, everything I have heard of Eadwacer tell the tale of a great man."

Najoedo on the other hand partakes of the food and drink as he surveys the room with unreadable eyes, the Keeper certain to be on his absolute best behavior as such events warrant. With so many dignitaries in the room, many of whom he has not yet met in person, it takes the winged Elder some time to decide where to go first, though his sense of proper etiquette settles the question- the widowed hostess.

With the usual serpentine grace of the Keepers, Najoedo carefully winds his way through the crowds to where he sees the Cwen and Nathicana engaged in conversation. When there is a break in their discussion, Najoedo steps forward, bowing very formally to a kneeling position before the women (though given the culture, he wisely keeps his wings furled during the manuver.)

"A whook kxoo ad kxo dumo ev mo foefco, Naten, Nuhcuto." He nods briefly to the Cwen and to Nathi in turn with the Keeperspeak titles. "I am Najoedo, Eldest of the Wetrcuto Boofohj, I bring greetings in the name of Firefury-Uccjooh. I sorrow for your loss, though I was never fortunate enough to share speech with Eadwacer-Nuhceht. I am sure his tale will still be sung long after we are all dust."

The (translated) traditional funerary greetings from the Keeper's youth completed, Najoedo stands upright again with the soft jingling of his garb. "There are many here that I do not yet know. If Wealþeow-Naten permits, might this old warrior join your conversation for a time?"

Wealðeow
"That is what we are. We are our history and traditions. Our culture is a long golden thread stretching back through history and forward to the sisters' scissors."

Wealðeow sees Najoedo approaching and leans over to Nathi. "Perhaps I might visit you and spend some time in the Dominion? I have never been there and it might be a good excuse to get to know each other better.

Najoedo, wes þu hal. Come join us. It is said that immortality on Earth only comes from the strings of the Scop. Eadwacer did much when he walked among men, and I'm certain that he shall live forever in verse. I trust that you have been made to feel welcome?"

Ælric

"Wes þu hal, Firefury. My uncle was an amazing man and served as a lesson to us all." Ælric is, for lack of a better word, rugged. His hands are calloused and his skin leathery. He is a man who has worked and worked hard. "Though it is sad that this is our first meeting, I hope that it shall not be our last. Yours is a great nation of great people. We must certainly forge stronger ties.

"We are two great peoples and we must work together. Before we were apart, but with our pulling together, I am sure that we can make this world a better place and raise the status of all."

Razak spies the Sakkrans off at one end of the winehall--as if they could possibly be missed--and then silently indicates their presence to his comrades. The last time anyone could check, Freod was on particularly good terms with Scolopendra and not the best with Sakkra. Perhaps it would be for the best if the good friends were seen leading by example when it came to the giant reptilians. From there perhaps things could be made to go more smoothly.

Getting up as one, the three let Julius take the lead. He was the primary contact with the Sakkrans originally, after all, and friends had been made. Upon intercepting the scaled crowd Julius bows shortly and politely before speaking with the grave formality the occasion demands. "Emperor Gorrm, HeirPrince Sskeera, Advisor Kraah, Advisor Sszeera, Chancellor Sessra, and Director Thress. I wish a good cycle to you all, despite the unfortunate reason we meet." Speaker sniffs the air quietly; something in Razak's intonation sounds familiar somehow. The old man usually isn't anywhere this loquacious... but he and Alshai have both seen him in a professional military setting before and so that isn't exactly surprising.

The silver-haired man lightens up a bit, even allowing himself a wry smirk. "I get the feeling that we're going to be hearing that a lot. It's a damn shame it takes a death in the family to get the whole gang back together again." Nothing in his tone suggests irony or humor at any point. "Still, every day's an opportunity, eh?" Now that has the old Julius M Razak dark humor to it.

Looking around, Razak seems to note the procession of quiet, stolid mourners for the first time and notes it with the appraising but curt nod of a colonel noting a new tactical fact. "We've been remiss in paying our respects in the local way--our culture sometimes clashes too, it seems. I don't mean to presume too much, but will you join us, friends?"

Underneath his sheer raiments, Emperor Gorrm returns the formal bow, as does the rest on the immediate Imperial line. "Padishah Speaker-Rrit; Colonel Razak; Mister Kommetrez. Your invitation is accepted gratefully." Gorrm casts one eye rear-wards to see if there is any dissension, of which there is none. "By your leave then."

Kraah manages to step up his pace a touch, coming closer to Razak. "It's been some time, eh? We haven't paid our respects either, but you've seen our funerary customs. Quite a raucous hoop-la in comparison." Thress hangs back a couple of paces, her eyes constanly scanning about for signs of overt-aggression while Sessra keeps Sskeera close at hand.

Gorrm sidles close to Speaks, and talks in low tones. "Quite a solemn occasion. Our databases have little information on the customs observed here for this occasion. Any advice?"

"Indeed it has, old friend," Razak replies, looking around, "and by all measurements it's been far too long. But that's the past and we gotta live in today, after all..." He glances back at the kzintosh, more or less listening in on the public advice Gorrm is requesting. Speaker-Rrit ponders for a moment, eyes slitting as he takes in the room and the not-completely-organized procession. "Our first concern--you and I--is because we match the patterns of their mythical beasts is to not look too suspiciously conspiratorial."

Is that a wink? Naw, couldn't be.

"Next I think we should join the 'procession' and pay our respects. It is not exactly a line, as you can see, so we should take the next several opportunities one-by-one. Then we should join the conversations around Wealðeow and Ælric over there. That is where the real diplomacy starts, built up on what they have observed of us previous."

"Well, you're the diplomat," Razak notes with a smirk, "and so I guess for us Segmenters at least those count as marching orders?"

The kzintosh doesn't make any other move but to lead by example, walking up to where Eadwacer is laid out. Standing still and looking down, he quietly growls a prayer in the harsh gutteral tones of his native tongue commending the dead Monkey Hero's soul to the One Fanged God before saluting in the old fashion: claws out and canted inward as he passes them over his face. Doting is not a Heroic trait, and so slowly he backs six paces away, turns, and goes to speak with Wealðeow.

Alshai and Razak go next as one. Julius' tendency to hang back and to the left of Kommetrez may seem odd to outsiders, but as the one representing the military in the group it's only right he cede the place of honor to the civilian (that the civilian is retired military is only icing on the cake). They stand and look down, hands at their sides--it's impolite to hide things from the dead.

"He's not exactly of the Dar-al-Islam," Kommetrez murmurs, lips almost not moving, "and I don't know how he'd take something appropriately religious said by me."

"I doubt he minded Speeks' sendoff," Julius replies in the same fashion, albeit a bit wryer.

"Speeks is something of an authority in his religion. I'm somewhat prodigal in comparison."

Razak frowns slightly as he forces his way deep into his memory. Traditional funereal prayers from back home elude him, so he extemporizes in the vernacular he grew up with. If one can speak Polish, it goes something like this: Dear God, please take this good man into Your arms and keep him safe. I know he's not the first person I've commended to You and hoping him to be last is something of a shirk. Alshai over here is also a good guy and wants to add his well-wishes and concern with mine. As for the big cat over there, well, he says You have fangs but whatever he said he meant and so I hope it just adds to the case for our friend here.

I was never called into the vocation of a priest, and of course You know why. Please protect the soul of our departed friend, who did everything he did out of a deep human honor and a deeper respect for You.

Leaning forward, Alshai gently traces a cross on Eadwacer's cold forehead with a thumb and says, a little more loudly, "Chwała Ojcu i Synowi i Duchowi Świętemu, jak była na początku, teraz, zawsze i na wieki, wieków. Amen."

The two bow shortly, back up, and then turn to join Speaker. Speaker-Rrit is still growing into his role as religious leader and, seeing Wealðeow's efforts to be the strong and silent type, is Heroically trying to match; Razak, on the other hand, has put his foot into it so many times that there's a sort of fearlessness in his attempt to connect. "Our condolences, ma'am. The loss is... mutual. Old Eadwacer was a da... a good friend."

Gorrm observes the Scolopendrans as does Kraah. As they complete their words, he group approaches in twos. Gorrm and Sskeera approach first, bowing to a knee with their hands splayed against their chest.

As they stand, their hands remain on their chests and Gorrm leads Sskeera in a rough prayer via subsonics. May the warrior's welcome greet you on your passage to the Void. The sun shine gently on your brow, and the winds cool your neck. May you walk softly on warm sands and find your peace. They both stood and turned slowly, making their way towards Wealðeow.

Kraah and Sszeera made their approach next, also with a hand splayed on their chest as they made their bow. Kraah spoke in a low tone. "We never got the chance to get together in life, Eadwacer. I'm sure there would have been one hell of a party. You might even have given me a run for the money in wine quaffing, to paraphrase a human saying. Perhaps when my time comes, it can be arranged yes?" He traced a semi-circular pattern 2 feet over Eadwacer's head with a single claw. "May the Scions guide you towards the true Path." At that, both turned and followed behind Gorrm.

Then Thress and Sesska made their approach. Both made their bows with hand over chest, and thrummed lowly as one in a harmonious, low manner. "The field of battle welcomes the warrior-king. The Host will greet the newest to be among them, and all will rejoice. The traveler will be renewed in mind and spirit, and great feasting will occur. As it has been, so it will be, and always will remain." They then stand, turn slowly and follow behind Kraah.

OOC: Bleah. Behind as hell.

The Presidential shuttle touches down at the designated area following clearance, and President Bell hurriedly steps outside. He's only a bit late, but even this could be a problem. The dishonor aside. Tiburonese are, after all, part Japanese and part American. The President enters the hall and makes his way towards Wealðeow. This is a funeral, after all, regardless of the meeting of the Trium council that it has become. He bows slightly and waits politely for the conversation between her and Nathi to terminate. They had to wait for him, after all, and now he must wait for them.

Nathi smiles warmly at Wealðeow and nods, replying quietly. “You would be most welcome. If you think you could weather my two little terrors, I would like nothing better than if could stay with us at the villa, or I could happily make any other arrangements that suited your fancy. It would be a pleasure.”

She nods respectfully to Najoedo, waiting for the Cwen to respond first before greeting the Keeper in turn, thinking back to the beautiful arcane charm they had graced her with what seemed ages ago. “It has been a long time, Honorable Keeper. I hope that you and yours have been well.”

At the approach of the three ‘Pendrans, Nathicana looks up and offers them a quiet close-lipped smile, hoping to convey that in spite of the cause for the occasion, she is very glad to see them. The arrival of President Bell did not go unnoticed either, though she remained silent for now, not wanting to interfere with the greetings and condolences, as seemed proper.

((OOC: Sorry for taking my bloody time responding.!))

Najoedo cracks a slight smile at the Cwen's comments. "Indeed, I have been made as welcome as one may be in these circumstances. It has been a most intrigueing voyage, my first trip to the far moon. I fear I am sorely inexperienced with things that are clearly so commonplace now."

There were probably a few funny stories to be told on the stoic old Keeper about his first experience with zero gravity, but fortunately Firefury was elsewhere in the room and unavailable to share them.

He nods slightly to Nathi's greeting. "It has been far longer than I would like. My kindred are doing well, though some are more hesitant to experience this world than are others. I trust you and yours are flourishing as well?"

“In time. Change does not always come easily after all. As for me and mine, very much so, grazie,” Nathi replies quietly. “We have been quite fortunate. Blessed, as Cardinal Battista would say.” The same Cardinal who had been gently yet firmly ‘suggesting’ a number of things that vexed her, not the least of which was ‘coming back to the fold’. Bless his meddlesome hide.

She sits to the side, eating, drinking, working. There are gleaming steel tools and two great curved bone daggers on white cloth; the tools meet bone. Scrimshaw, working around bloodstains.

Marie Liberté, soft-looking in wide spacer silks, deadly-looking with muscle and wounds and unblinking eyes, night-black skin and hair spilling down her back in fine braids.

Slow precise scrape of steel, spacer's handicraft, elbows hardly moving from her side. Slow-motion stream-of-conciousness imagery, images saying quite a bit about the conciousness.

OOC: Lost track entirely...

Now, Marie's doing this somewhere. Possibly the hall - include a flashback to a greeting?