Seymour Guado (deathawaitsyou) wrote in lunarcry, @ 2014-11-09 09:40:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !narrative, seymour guado |
Who: Seymour Guado + NPCs
What: Funeral
Where: Macalania Temple/Guadosalam
When: Saturday, November 8th
Warnings: None
Sleeping, Seymour thought, considering the expression of the intricately tattooed figure reposed on the platform ahead. The pale, nobly garbed form was surrounded by short, soft candles and a generous array offerings to sustain him on the only journey left for him. One that led to a final place of peace and rest. The gifts were so many that the majority had been placed on the steps leading to the stone table. He'd been respected, loved, and would be missed by many, if the number of mourners gathered in beautifully crafted temple's main chamber was any indication. A silly, wasteful tradition. Very little of what was there would be buried with him. The rest would be shared among his family's household. Which was, in fact, only Seymour. The fool looks as if he's only sleeping. There was no sadness there, only a calm, thoughtful consideration. His lack of concern or distress was well-hidden by the glossy dampness he carried in his eyes. His mouth forming a dutifully worn frown that projected just the right hint of despair. It was a mask that was expected of him, and he wore it well. "May he rest with the ancestors, and join his wisdom to their own." The Grand-Maester continued on, though Seymour hand only been half-listening. He'd been mulling over the next stage of his plans, realizing that many would need to be postponed due to this unfortunate interruption. Not only the funeral, but the necessity of disposing of the man himself. And now he'd have the added feat of performing Maester duties in his father's stead. An inconvenience on all accounts. There was nothing left of the thing on the slab to honor. Whatever soul a living being might have possessed had departed with his life. It was only meat now, a plentiful feast for the creatures scrounging within the floors of the tomb he'd be placed in. A life given so that others might continue and flourish. Fitting, really. Seymour stood, though it was not entirely expected of him, nor proper protocol for such a ceremony. None would stop him. Seated at his side, Tromell shifted, as if making a move to follow after his master. Seymour subtly let his hand rest out, halting the servant as he continued on. The moment he moved, every eye in the chamber moved to him, the sympathetic gaze of hundreds witnessing the final farewell of a doting son. He played the part as if he'd been born for it, the thick, dark robes of mourning trailing behind him as he took the steps with an easy grace. One hand slid carefully from the confines of one cloth sleeve, the palm and fingers moving to curve lightly over the top of Jyscal Guado's head. "Goodbye, father." The words were quiet, but his voice reverberated over the silence in the large room. A few patrons intensified their weeping, and Seymour could almost feel the collective bowing of several hundred heads. In his peripheral vision, he noted the sympathetic look the Grand-Maester aimed at him, a supportive smile and gentle nod. Such a display from the very man who'd requested Jyscal's disposal, matched only by the play of sorrow from the man who had carried the act out. A well-played farce for the good of the Guado. "Praise be to Vascaroon," the Grand-Maester bowed his head, half-crouching as his hands swept around and formed a loose circle in the air, left hand hovering above the right, palms facing. It was the silent prayer to the ancestors, one that had remained with them for several thousand years. "Praise be," the chorus of voices behind Seymour parroted back, the sound causing the air and ground to vibrate for a brief moment. Seymour watched his father's face, half expecting the eyes to flutter open, to furiously accuse him of crimes unthinkable by those around him. He even waited a breath, inspecting that visage, but here was nothing more Jyscal Guado could do to him. He'd hesitated too much, taken too long, cared too late. Perhaps he'd even loved too greatly, unable to bring such an onslaught of allegations against his only son. Sweetly sad. A small smile curled the corners of the blue-haired man's mouth, as if daring him one last time to try, but the expression only turned sympathetic. Don't worry, father. You have my word. You'll not be alone for long. Tear-stained purple eyes moved to regard the Grand-Maester, the smile remaining only half-hidden within them, nodding in return. "Praise be." |