Forty columns lay with forty rows, and if those numbers were not precise then they at least functioned to get the point across. The days since their battle had been mercifully cool recently, with a great many trees to sweeten the wind with their scents and shade to hide away from the heat. This place was bountiful and beautiful, save for the destruction that littered the landscape around Castle Dormont. Shields were shattered and swords were broken. A sea of arrows covered the ground as though the earth itself had sprouted quills in its own defense against these tiresome human intruders, and stones were strewn about like forgotten mountains; boulders and mason blocks that stood out against the grass and mud of this place. It was a tragic sight, but it was not the sight that had brought the most disturbance to the victors of Castle Dormont. It was the smell. Immediately upon the victory of the siege people had taken to celebrating, trying to forget the chaos and death that still surrounded them. The Admiral had stolen a horse from their ranks and ridden hard and fast to Stokbon in order to spy upon the enemy capital and hear word of counter-assault, but the streets were notoriously quiet of news. Knowing that she could not waste time waiting and spying, she returned back on the eve of that same day they had won, and was sobered by the amount of work that lay before them. But before they could tackle the myriad issues of what it meant to rule, there was the massive and immediate concern of the dead. Already the elves had taken to claiming their lost and were burying them beneath trees, but the Farelden defenders knew no such love. It seemed that the members of the human guilds were more concerned with celebrating their victory than bringing peace and respect to the dead, and so the Admiral had ridden once again to the closest NPC village. There, she had hired every able bodied man she could to return with her and begin the arduous process of collecting and laying out each man and woman that had fallen in the siege of Castle Dormont. Those that were known and recognized were prepared for return to their home cities, to be buried among family and friend. But the one thousand seven hundred or so souls that remained were in need of proper burial. It was with those hired hands that the Admiral began to dig one thousand seven hundred graves, in which were placed one thousand and seven hundred broken bodies and lives cut short. The work had taken a day and a half, which was surprisingly quick paced for the amount of graves they had had to produce. In particular, her vehement stance on using magic to "speed things up" slowed the process; but to any who attempted to simply conjure up pits she spat in disgust. In her mind, if you took their lives with your hand, you owed it to them to bury them by your hand as well. Each shovel full of dirt was a reminder that this game was more than just a game. Each bead of sweat and broken bleeding blister on her hands was an indication that truth was perspective and reality was just a point of view. They might have been programs, but they were dead. That was forever, and that was not to be taken lightly or easily discarded. That was not to be shrugged off by the summoning of a mass grave to simply roll them into and forget about. And so it was that she and her hired men dug a single grave for each of the fallen humans. Occasionally a player would come to help, but there was no reward for this quest. No loot, no treasure, no fame and pedigree. So it did not attract the majority, who instead busied themselves with wine and song and rested on laurels, washed the blood from their newly claimed stone halls, and forgot the dead. That grisly work had been completed early in the morning, and the exhausted fellows who had assisted her with it bathed and crashed into cots and tents to rest before their journeys home. She had gone to a river nearby and washed the blood and dust from her body, dried her clothes as she slept naked under the shade of a tree, and returned in the early afternoon to look over the graves once more. Each hole had been filled with wood and tinder, upon which a body had been laid and lit in funeral pyre. When nothing remained but ash and ember the hole had been filled in with stone dirt, and a cairn of stones was erected on top of it with the helmet and weapon of the soldier who had fallen... or for the commoners and support staff of the castle, flowers were left beside the pile of stones. It had been gratuitous work and possibly overkill, but the Admiral had not wanted to bury a small army right outside their new capital which, in the face of a demon presence they possibly faced, could invite skeletal hordes up from the grave to siege them for past sins. If each grave was ash, it was doubtful anything could rise to harm them again. She walked among the thousand and more cairns and found one in particular which was stacked higher than the rest, adorned with a longsword that seemed to have warped and melted slightly from intense heat. The grave of Eren Winsolt was three times taller than the cairns of all the other fallen; created with shattered stones from the walls he died defending, cut down suddenly by the betrayal of those he had trusted his life to. Bile churned in her gut as she examined the sword whose handle still had burned... material upon it; leather glove and the flesh within which had been turned to charcoal and fused together, stuck to the thing. The man had died wielding his blade, and could now rest with it outside the walls he and his good and principled men gave their all for. Sighing, she had stepped away from the graves and began to inform people, one by one, that she would be holding a service for the fallen out of respect for all that they had given. She had not bothered inviting the elves, though she did not exclude any who might be interested in attending. In point of fact the only person she chose to purposefully exclude was Merkaba and her ilk, who would likely upset those mourning... Most importantly she went to @Aaron Steele, @Astor Balthas, @Jack Anders, @Lucia Mierz and @Aaron Marone. It would be important that the leaders of the guilds spoke, or at least attended, so that they could do the decent thing and pretend that this world was anything more than a playground to them. Marone she remembered from days past, in a camp where militia trained to fight gnolls. He was honest and decent, and she had not seen him in the siege upon the castle's doors... though he had been present when conflicts began. So then he had likely sided with the defenders, and it would be vital to get him here, to say some words. To try and right some of the wrongs and undo what damage could be undone. There was no preventing war with Farelden at this point, but... But perhaps they could keep friendly relations with the NPC villages in the area, by showing that they were not war-hungry monsters and heartless beasts. @Gwyn ap Herne was similarly invited, for she was a woman of compassion and did not let her heart be restrained. She had sided against the castle early on, before the betrayal, but it had become revealed that she did not take lives unless necessary. That her battle had been of principle, not of greed. She invited the hired NPC muscle to return home and bring others, from their own and other villages, to observe the service she would host. That had been a day ago. Now they were arriving in droves, settling their carts in a hillside clearing near where all the fallen were buried. Walking to the top of the hill, a score of men and women and their children came to observe the Admiral overlooking the field of graves, their faces pensive and angry, but curious and expecting. The woman waited in common clothes, her armor and weapons safely stored. Where once she had held a hammer she now held a holy book, which contained a collection of passages and hymns for all occasions. Opening the book, she turned from the graves to the faces of the NPCs and the PCs gathered, and began.
The gathering was not monumental, but the moment was. The Admiral let her eyes drift across each person assembled there, her stern gaze reflecting the gravity of the situation that was apparent in every NPC father and teary-eyed wife. Even their children were unusually sober and well behaved, with hands tucked in pockets and attention kept, for the most part, upon those gathered to speak and listen. Most wore black in mourning; the Admiral herself was garbed in dark tunic and trousers, boots, and had a black ribbon to tie back her braided white hair. Her pale grey eyes finished their cold inspection of everybody and locked on a point ahead, focusing on none of them but appearing to penetrate all of them with her gaze. Licking her lips once to wet them, she spoke: " 'Treason doth never prosper: what's the reason? For it it prosper, none dare call it treason.' These words were spoken long ago and far away by a man of considerable wisdom, who served as seer to history's considerable shortcomings. It is the victors that write their history, and in the interest of empires, who would damn themselves the traitor to history's purview? When has honesty rallied troop, and truth built wonders? They have not; rather, they were piled alongside the needless fallen as foundation and sacrifice. Are we to do the same, then? There are nearly two thousand buried here who serve as testament to the actions of the guilds Yulan, Valor and Coven. Nearly two thousand souls who perished when those trusted to help fend off the invading elven forces turned back and blade, and slew their brothers and sisters in cold blood. To call our hands clean is to call the day dark, and the sea dry, and I encourage us to embrace the truth of events. We were called to arms, and those arms were turned upon our allies." She let her gaze flicker to those PCs gathered there, then to the NPC villagers, gauging responses in their faces for a four second pause before she continued. "...But let us in admitting the truth of this, admit the whole of the truth. King Theodore and his gentry have for some time played a cruel game amongst themselves. In violation of the most basic respect for life, they have captured and enslaved elves for their own amusement and personal gain. Treated them as chaff and cattle, locked in cages, starved and abused and humiliated. Denied humane treatment, denied safety, denied family and hope and love and respect. 'What of it?' some of you may be thinking. 'They are mere elves, not men. What concern of it is ours?' To you I put this question: If your neighbor is needless cruel and kicks his dog, do you call him neighbor? If your spouse goes from rearing your child to beating them in the street, do you call them beloved? How can you love a king that spits in the very face of compassion and charity, of decency- HUMAN decency, that is evident in the Elysid Court? How can you swear fealty to misers and monsters that encage their neighbors and treat them as less than beasts? You ought not... Would that those alone numbered the sins of the nobility, though. Sadly this is not the case... Just as many of us so-named traitors saw, with our own eyes, the horrible conditions of these enslaved elves... others of us have witnessed their tale of plight, and King Theodore's stubborn refusal to render charitable aid. What possible reason could he have had to do so? What calamity had brought the elves to your door, asking for assistance?" She swallowed, took a breath, and gestured behind herself at the ruins of Castle Dormont and the graves, for impact. "Nothing short of demons. Foul and sinister things that have poisoned their homelands and driven them south, where they sought only to live as friends and seek help from the monsters that are slowly undoing them. King Theodore and his jackals turned ear from their pleading. They have allowed demons to PROSPER in the north, caring nothing for the destruction of those lands or the people that dwelt there. So when the desperate came south, they placed bounties upon their heads, and sent agents to slay their elven neighbors. Siding, as it were, with the demons themselves. Allowing such filth to PROLIFERATE and FESTER undeterred. Attempting to FINISH the work of these DEMONS by sending soldiers to fight. And when at last the final straw fell and the back of the elven patience was broken, the scene before you took place. Elf and human came to blows; one in desperation, the other in despotism. Sadism. Satanism. Fearing the loss of his bastion here, King Theodore invited the guilds to join his forces and 'quell the invading elven menace.' But some among us knew the truth, and others it was revealed. To serve the greater good, we named ourselves turncoat and traitor. There was no time to explain in the midst of war, no table at which to sit and avoid rash action. And the course of events unfolded as we have known them now to unfold: the war tilted against the castle's forces, who, not understanding the FULL truth of things, fought valiantly and bravely to the man. Songs should be sung of their courage and character, and tears should be wept that their lives were lost in service to a terrible tyrant that would cloud the minds of his subjects with bitter lies, and reveal to them only the lies he and his jackals spat out. Nearly two thousand lives were lost. We the traitors took them... But Theodore the Tyrant left them as lambs; innocent and ignorant that, even if they overcame the elven invasion, a demon army would soon follow and kill them all regardless. It is with this whole truth that King Astor hopes to amend the mistakes made here," Well. That was definitely not part of the whole truth, because she'd had no such conversation with the man. She was merely trying to undo the damage that had been done, and act as a head of Public Relations, spinning things in their favor, undoing the grease fire of politics that they now faced. And what better way than a large funeral service to show respect, and a flowery series of speeches to color perspectives? "...and it is with this whole truth that he wishes to rule these surrounding lands, with the justice, strength of character, and reverence for all that is decent and holy that King Theodore and his ilk have forgotten or betrayed. I recall more ancient words of seers distant and past, one of which said: 'For forms of government let fools contest; Whate're is best administered is best.' Who are we to care over the legitimacy of one monarchy over the other? Let us instead focus on the rightness of each, and follow that which is judged most proper... I have here a holy book containing several passages and songs, but one among their number stands out to me the most. It marvels at life, and it mourns at death. It is a hymn to Idei and it encompasses the bittersweetness of her glory; the healer and the hearse, whose power it is to watch over and celebrate all life... Whose holy symbol of water and crown is no doubt the representation of the tears she has shed for those that had to fall to fate. Those of you that know the words, please sing along..." She had, of course, transcribed a few copies on parchment for the PCs to sing along with should they feel so inclined... but she did not expect much from them. As she began singing, some of the fathers and mothers joined in, their children mouthing the words or stumbling to carry along as the words not entirely known spilled from their babe mouths. It was a sad and solemn song that rolled down across the hills, fitting the somber scenery and the dusky shade of clouds overhead. "Hear my voice, O gentle Iedi Salve my sorrow, life is fading. Muse, add thine eloquence to mine. End of year and end of harvest; Burnt the fields where life abounded. All that remains is memory's wine. Where the roses of the summer? Where the light when life has fallen? Where are the works that I have done? As the sowing, so the reaping- Turns the years to joy, or weeping. The hour of weighing grain has come. Wine distilled in sun of summer; Drunk to warm in winter's slumber. Planted as seeds beneath the ground. Yet my eyes see light and darkness- Yet my soul knows truth and longing. Yet I yield fruit upon the spring. Deep in silence seek her wisdom. Let me treasure autumn's season. Time to reflect, to dream and plan. Burn the weeds and fill the grain bins- Close shutters to winter's coming. Earth rends her garments, mourns the sun." Smiling sadly, she closed the book and looked out among the crowd, seeing if there were any earnest expressions. Seeing what moods were present upon the company there. The service was far from over, of course, and as her sad smile moved softly to the PCs, she gestured for one of them, any of them, to come on up and speak and take her place.
