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31_days2009-07-06 02:46 pm
seta-suzume.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2009-07-06 02:46 pm
[July 6, 2009][Original] No Peace for the Dead
Title: No Peace for the Dead
Day/Theme: July 6, 2009 "rage, rage, against the dying of the light"
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: Fado, Simcha, Bashir, Saselia, Page, Simmo
Rating: PG
"What's all the fuss down the road?" Bashir stood up on tiptoe, but he still couldn't see over the heads of most of the crowd ahead. There was an odd gathering blocking the road. A mix of pilgrims, peddlers, and local farmers' families were milling about, presumably to gawk at some strange sight.
Fado caught the attention a white-haired old woman hustling away from the scene with a basket of white radishes over her arm. "Madra," he asked, "What's the cause of all this?"
The woman smiled. The proper usage of Silesian terms of address could be a tricky thing. If someone like Simcha had called her "mother" she could very well have turned away in offense- it would look like some wheedling sort of sales pitch. But when Fado, so handsome and well-mannered, called her "mother," she was flattered and turned easily away from her work to chat with the gentleman pilgrim. "A wizard died in that town there after blowing in earlier this week. A Catalonian, I think. Nobody knew him there, but he was called Simmo Kepelgann. Turns out he was a famous sort, hisoka." In calling him "sonny," she returned the compliment of his form of address.
"Thank you," he bowed his head and allowed her to go on her way.
"'Kepelgann?' Sounds like a weird name even for a Catalonian," Simcha scratched his cheek.
"It's 'Kipilgaln,' Simcha, you know, 'nightingale.'"
"The Kipilgaln! The Nightingale!" It suddenly rang familiar to him. "We used to hear stories about him, Saselia! They said he was the greatest sorceror on this continent. ...But I thought he was young. Too young to die like that."
"Wizards can get sick just like anyone else," Fado noted somberly. No matter how skilled they might be, there was no one who could evade death. Of course, some fought the end harder than others.
They continued on, pushing gently through the crowd until they could see the hub of all the fuss. The body of the Nightingale was laid out, stately and simple. A few bouquets of white flowers were laid at his sides. He looked very small and the white of his burial garb only accentuated the pallor of his face. From listening in on the talk of the locals it seemed that the source of most of the trouble was not any reaction to who in particular had died- the only mourners present were those nicely dressed professionals employed by the temples- but rather how to deal with the body. Although it had been discovered that the wizard had carried a white tunic to be buried in, he had left no instructions regarding what should actually be done with his remains.
"Is there no one who can claim him?" Fado asked no one in particular.
"Don't get too worked up about it, Fado," Simcha patted his strong arm. "I'm sure the local priests will handle it. Hey, they probably already have a set way of dealing with this kind of thing."
"It doesn't look like any priests are here yet," Saselia observed. She remembered the stories they had heard on the road of the man who spoke with birds. He had parted the rivers in Ghiran and reattached a man's severed arm. Magic like that wasn't normal.
"He's a Catalonian and they bury their folk facing west," one merchant was saying.
"But he died on our soil," a village elder protested, "And we put ours to the pier. He must've had some reason for coming here to die."
"It was a coincidence," others insisted.
"But who goes about carrying their own shroud unless they have a dreadful fear of dying? I think the burial garb is evidence enough that he planned to die here. And he must've known our customs."
"I want to try and help," Fado decided, following his own will to help as he usually did and striding off into the center of the argument. Simcha groaned. It was good and fine for Fado to want to be do-gooder of the year, but did he always have to do it on their time?
Bashir smiled. He thought it was admirable. Fado was a very good man, the sort of person he hoped that he might become someday. It was almost hard to believe that he had once made his living as a brutal general. During their pilgrimage thus far, he hadn't committed a single act that could be construed as cruel or even militaristic. He'd really completely left his old life behind.
Fado was trying to speak with the village elders, but was having some trouble holding their attention due to all the distractions drawing their attention this way and that. Like Fado, many other passersby thought they knew the best way to resolve the situation and were more than happy to express their opinions.
"Excuse me," piped up a small, nervous voice. Bashir and Saselia stepped apart to allow a small girl, dressed in white and red, to pass between them. If he hadn't heard her voice before laying eyes on her, Bashir would've thought she was a boy. She looked rather like a novice priest with her white robe and round cap.
Simcha appraised her somewhat differently. "Catalonian," he thought. "You know the Nightingale, girlie?"
"What did you call me?" she wrinkled her nose and raised a tiny fist in the peddler's direction. "I happen to be Master Kepelgann's number one disciple! I am no mere 'girlie!'"
"Then you do know him." Simcha nodded calmly, not taking her threats very seriously. Saselia couldn't help but think it would be deliciously ironic right about then for the novice wizard to give her uncle a good smacking around with a spell.
"Do you know...?" Bashir trailed off weakly. She was too energetic. There was no way a "number one disciple" would look that way after learning of their master's death. His spirits sunk. He couldn't bear to be the one who broke it to her.
"I traced Master Simmo to this area, but I haven't been able to find anymore signs indicating his whereabouts since last night. But then I saw all this fuss, and I know as well as anybody, that a bunch of fuss can only have two different kinds of relationships to my master- he caused it or he's checking it out."
"He...he caused this one," Saselia answered. She bit her lip immediately after saying the words. She was as reluctant to let it out as Bashir had been.
"But- but those look like lilies for a...funeral..." Her eyebrows jumped up her forehead and her eyes sprung wide along with them. Her lips trembled slightly. "He isn't..." she whispered. "He can't be..."
Bashir felt distinctly uncomfortable as the girl left them, pushing her way through the few gawkers remaining between her and her quarry. She had discarded her politeness at the shock, no longer giving out "excuse me"s and "pardon me"s as she forced onward.
"No..." she denied it all again, even though the truth lay plain before her eyes. "No... He wasn't supposed to go like this. He was stronger than death. He was supposed to come back victorious."
"You know this man?" Fado picked up on her distress. He still hadn't been able to talk those he had intended to speak with.
"He's...he was my master." It was all too much for her. Her vision was blurred. Fado saw the color draining from her face, and managed to sweep her up as she fainted, crumpling toward the ground.
Day/Theme: July 6, 2009 "rage, rage, against the dying of the light"
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: Fado, Simcha, Bashir, Saselia, Page, Simmo
Rating: PG
"What's all the fuss down the road?" Bashir stood up on tiptoe, but he still couldn't see over the heads of most of the crowd ahead. There was an odd gathering blocking the road. A mix of pilgrims, peddlers, and local farmers' families were milling about, presumably to gawk at some strange sight.
Fado caught the attention a white-haired old woman hustling away from the scene with a basket of white radishes over her arm. "Madra," he asked, "What's the cause of all this?"
The woman smiled. The proper usage of Silesian terms of address could be a tricky thing. If someone like Simcha had called her "mother" she could very well have turned away in offense- it would look like some wheedling sort of sales pitch. But when Fado, so handsome and well-mannered, called her "mother," she was flattered and turned easily away from her work to chat with the gentleman pilgrim. "A wizard died in that town there after blowing in earlier this week. A Catalonian, I think. Nobody knew him there, but he was called Simmo Kepelgann. Turns out he was a famous sort, hisoka." In calling him "sonny," she returned the compliment of his form of address.
"Thank you," he bowed his head and allowed her to go on her way.
"'Kepelgann?' Sounds like a weird name even for a Catalonian," Simcha scratched his cheek.
"It's 'Kipilgaln,' Simcha, you know, 'nightingale.'"
"The Kipilgaln! The Nightingale!" It suddenly rang familiar to him. "We used to hear stories about him, Saselia! They said he was the greatest sorceror on this continent. ...But I thought he was young. Too young to die like that."
"Wizards can get sick just like anyone else," Fado noted somberly. No matter how skilled they might be, there was no one who could evade death. Of course, some fought the end harder than others.
They continued on, pushing gently through the crowd until they could see the hub of all the fuss. The body of the Nightingale was laid out, stately and simple. A few bouquets of white flowers were laid at his sides. He looked very small and the white of his burial garb only accentuated the pallor of his face. From listening in on the talk of the locals it seemed that the source of most of the trouble was not any reaction to who in particular had died- the only mourners present were those nicely dressed professionals employed by the temples- but rather how to deal with the body. Although it had been discovered that the wizard had carried a white tunic to be buried in, he had left no instructions regarding what should actually be done with his remains.
"Is there no one who can claim him?" Fado asked no one in particular.
"Don't get too worked up about it, Fado," Simcha patted his strong arm. "I'm sure the local priests will handle it. Hey, they probably already have a set way of dealing with this kind of thing."
"It doesn't look like any priests are here yet," Saselia observed. She remembered the stories they had heard on the road of the man who spoke with birds. He had parted the rivers in Ghiran and reattached a man's severed arm. Magic like that wasn't normal.
"He's a Catalonian and they bury their folk facing west," one merchant was saying.
"But he died on our soil," a village elder protested, "And we put ours to the pier. He must've had some reason for coming here to die."
"It was a coincidence," others insisted.
"But who goes about carrying their own shroud unless they have a dreadful fear of dying? I think the burial garb is evidence enough that he planned to die here. And he must've known our customs."
"I want to try and help," Fado decided, following his own will to help as he usually did and striding off into the center of the argument. Simcha groaned. It was good and fine for Fado to want to be do-gooder of the year, but did he always have to do it on their time?
Bashir smiled. He thought it was admirable. Fado was a very good man, the sort of person he hoped that he might become someday. It was almost hard to believe that he had once made his living as a brutal general. During their pilgrimage thus far, he hadn't committed a single act that could be construed as cruel or even militaristic. He'd really completely left his old life behind.
Fado was trying to speak with the village elders, but was having some trouble holding their attention due to all the distractions drawing their attention this way and that. Like Fado, many other passersby thought they knew the best way to resolve the situation and were more than happy to express their opinions.
"Excuse me," piped up a small, nervous voice. Bashir and Saselia stepped apart to allow a small girl, dressed in white and red, to pass between them. If he hadn't heard her voice before laying eyes on her, Bashir would've thought she was a boy. She looked rather like a novice priest with her white robe and round cap.
Simcha appraised her somewhat differently. "Catalonian," he thought. "You know the Nightingale, girlie?"
"What did you call me?" she wrinkled her nose and raised a tiny fist in the peddler's direction. "I happen to be Master Kepelgann's number one disciple! I am no mere 'girlie!'"
"Then you do know him." Simcha nodded calmly, not taking her threats very seriously. Saselia couldn't help but think it would be deliciously ironic right about then for the novice wizard to give her uncle a good smacking around with a spell.
"Do you know...?" Bashir trailed off weakly. She was too energetic. There was no way a "number one disciple" would look that way after learning of their master's death. His spirits sunk. He couldn't bear to be the one who broke it to her.
"I traced Master Simmo to this area, but I haven't been able to find anymore signs indicating his whereabouts since last night. But then I saw all this fuss, and I know as well as anybody, that a bunch of fuss can only have two different kinds of relationships to my master- he caused it or he's checking it out."
"He...he caused this one," Saselia answered. She bit her lip immediately after saying the words. She was as reluctant to let it out as Bashir had been.
"But- but those look like lilies for a...funeral..." Her eyebrows jumped up her forehead and her eyes sprung wide along with them. Her lips trembled slightly. "He isn't..." she whispered. "He can't be..."
Bashir felt distinctly uncomfortable as the girl left them, pushing her way through the few gawkers remaining between her and her quarry. She had discarded her politeness at the shock, no longer giving out "excuse me"s and "pardon me"s as she forced onward.
"No..." she denied it all again, even though the truth lay plain before her eyes. "No... He wasn't supposed to go like this. He was stronger than death. He was supposed to come back victorious."
"You know this man?" Fado picked up on her distress. He still hadn't been able to talk those he had intended to speak with.
"He's...he was my master." It was all too much for her. Her vision was blurred. Fado saw the color draining from her face, and managed to sweep her up as she fainted, crumpling toward the ground.