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Tweak says, "Raccoon City!"

Marcus Flint (marcedflint) wrote in finnigans_rpg,
@ 2015-08-08 20:47:00

Entry tags:

character: blaise zabini, character: bryony capper, character: gregory goyle, character: marcus flint, character: richard summerby, character: tristan travers

Who: Marcus and OPEN to multiples
What: His mother's funeral
Where: Surin Funeral Home and then Flint Manor
When: Saturday, August 8, beginning mid-morning [backdated]
Rating: TBD but probably SFW

The Surin Funeral Home was a wizarding establishment in the heart of London, and anyone not in proper attire - full, formal robes - would be refused entry. The guestbook was floating just inside the door of the viewing room, which opened into the back row of seats available. At the front center of the room was the casket, a large arrangement of hydrangeas sitting next to it. Per Pureblood tradition, because Phillipa had died in a non-violent manner, her casket was left open for the viewing, though it would be closed at the start of the actual service. That portion of the morning lasted about an hour, before the wizard in charge finished speaking and the funeral director began politely herding people towards the Floo in the entrance hall.

Guests who would be attending the family home were given directions to the ball room that was being used for the day. The four family house elves passed among the attendees silently with trays of finger food and drinks. The doors leading out of the room were warded so that guests could not wander off down the corridors of the manor.

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Marcus and Tristan

marcedflint
2015-08-09 03:40 am UTC (link)

As draining as the service had been, Marcus would have been happy to shut himself up in his childhood bedroom with only his flask upon returning to the manor. But the socital demands of receiving guests meant that he had a breif respite between leaving the funeral home after confirming the arrangements for the private burial tomorrow, and entering the room he'd chosen for guests. He'd taken the time to sit in the kitchen for a few minutes, another few swigs of Firewhiskey to get him through the conversations he was going to be required to have. The effects of the alcohol were familiar, even after so many years - the emotional numbness he was striving for while still managing to walk and talk and think mostly clearly. He could remember them perfectly from his Death Eater days, glad to be able to replicate the state now that he wanted, or perhaps needed, to.

When Rakey advised that the first guests had started to trickle in, Marcus had thanked the house elf, took one last swig from his flask before stowing it in an inner pocket of his robes, applied another charm to mask the alcohol on his breath, and headed upstairs. Fortunately, the first few people he encountered weren't particularly extensive or emotional conversations - condolences from members of the Arrows management, or old business partners of his parents from years before. He circulated as expected, starting to feel as though he might actually be able to get through the rest of this event without emotionally taxing himself any more than he already was. Turning around at the sound of his name, he realized he may have had that thought too quickly and he inclined his head to the latest visitor. "Mrs. Travers," he said quietly, keeping his eyes on the woman who had been such good friends with his mother while trying to ignore the fact that he could see Tristan standing behind her.

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Marcus and Tristan

alliterative
2015-08-24 01:40 pm UTC (link)

Had his mother not been having a good week and been well enough to understand that her friend had died that week, Tristan would not have shown up for Phillipa Flint's service or the reception after. Not that Tristan hadn't wanted to pay his respects. He'd just doubted his presence would be all that comforting or respectful or otherwise appropriate. He was pretty sure Marcus hated him, and he was pretty sure he still hated Marcus, even if that feeling was subdued thanks to Mrs. Flint's passing (it was, after all, a bit hard to hate someone in the middle of his mourning period for one of his parents). There were other negative feelings there as well, all currently subdued, though the most prominent one was anxiety just below the surface of his calm. He couldn't fathom why Marcus would ever want him back in his house, and the only reason he even bothered was because of his mother.

"You look like her, you know," Pearl said, reaching up a hand to press gently to Marcus's cheek. Her smile was soft, tinged with sadness, but she was also sincere. "I am so sorry you have to deal with such loss at your age," she continued, lowering her hand back to her side. She smoothed out her robes and started.

"Oh! I don't know how long ago it was now," she began, putting her hand into her pocket, "but we were having tea, and your mother left this." She pulled out a simple handkerchief with a blot of lipsticked lips stained in one corner. Honestly, it could have belonged to anyone, especially given Tristan's mother's sometimes lacking memory, though he remembered just that morning she insisted it had been Mrs Flint's. "I'll have Fluffy send anything else I find of hers over as well," she said with a smile.

While Pearl spoke with Marcus, Tristan tried his best not to look at Marcus while also trying to maintain a level of polite interest, his hands in the pockets of his robes. That turned into wondering if Marcus were drunk, and, if so, how much, as images passed through his mind. Despite his memory, some things were still jumbled when it came to the war. He knew he'd seen Marcus that year, knew Marcus had been drunk at least part of the time he'd seen him, but not all the details were in the right order. It wasn't something he wanted to think about it -- especially not on such a somber occasion -- but he found his mind trying to compare and contrast the various Marcuses in his head from various points in his own life. How did this one compare to the ones in the past? What were the similarities and differences? And did it really matter if he noticed or not? They weren't friends. They weren't even acquaintances at this point. They were just two young men with Pearl Travers talking between them.

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