RP from an attendee:
Roleplay from Donovan Montague (5 hours, 42 minutes ago)
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Donovan loathed funerals. The misery of an eternal farewell was always a bitter pain to bear, and he could only imagine the suffering of the MacTir Family at the loss of such a great man. His journey had left him worn and dirty, but Anora had been an astounding host upon his arrival by giving the footsore Marshal access to her estate's bath house. He was joined by his brother before long, Victor looking almost as weary, and as they soaked in the warmth of the baths, the two men talked of death and war. Victor firmly believed their role in this war had ended with Westmoor City's loss. Donovan disagreed. The two argued, at times so loudly it drew the house servants in a fearful panic, believing someone was moments from a physical fight.
Eventually, Victor left in a huff, leaving Donovan to sit and cool off. The time alone allowed him to review his position, where his personal code came into play, and whether or not he might possibly be wrong. When he left the bath to get dressed for the funeral, his mind was in knots, trying to untangle itself. He prepared for the event like a shade, no real thought or care to his movements, completely lost in thought. He had ordered ahead that funeral clothes be brought to Winkamus for himself and Victor. Donovan pulled on a white cotton shirt, lacing it up near the throat. Over it went a black doublet with long sleeves, hemmed and threaded with charcoal grey. His trousers were blackened cotton, stiff but comfortable and tucked into his polished marching boots. He wore his swordbelt, his Jyuuchi Fuyu and Terumi blades having been sharpened and polished by the estate's blacksmith, the scabbards also treated with similar care. With a sigh, he swept his crimson cloak over his shoulders and pinned it in place with a burnished emblem: a gold disk with a steel bridge painstakingly etched with cobblestones, and wreathed in ruby and amber flames. The only color he would permit on a day of morning, as a show of honor to the men he had fought and bled with...and those who had never returned.
He didn't really remember walking down to where the rest of the guests were gathering. Victor was present already, his clothing muted dark blues and grays. They avoided each other for most of the proceedings. Donovan approached Anora and gave his condolences to her and a young man he did not recognize. After that, there was the ceremony. He paid attention, sitting upright and pushing his thoughts aside for a time.
When the moment came for the guests to step forward and speak their final words to the deceased, Donovan waited patiently in line while again reviewing his quandary. He didn't reach a conclusion until it was his turn to stand before Loghain MacTir, Marshal of Panther Claw army. It was fortunate that the fatal blow was so easily hidden, and whoever had dressed the body had placed the man in a relaxed, quite repose. There was still a sterness in his face that Donovan remembered in life, but he also looked...content. Donovan bowed his head, and spoke words so softly that only the dead man would've heard.
"Loghain...though I was only your Vice Marshal for a short time, I considered it a great honor. You did everything you could to fight an implacable enemy. Your Sacrifice has reminded me of something important: That my duty is to Fallangard First, Her allies Second, and my own needs Third. I know now this war is over for us. Iskra and Victor are both right. Your daughter is right as well. I only wish we could have reached this conclusion before Perdan's idiocy and their savage agenda had cost you your life. Redeemer forgive the sins and burdens you bore in life, and may Hood personally meet you at his gate, and reunite you with all you loved who passed before you. Rest now, Marshal. Fallangard is in good hands."
He moved on then, and found his brother to apologize for his pig headedness...over a pint or two of good Fallangard Ale.
