Sir Diebold's Wake
Andric turned from the now-resting form of the Slayer, his ink-stained fingers finding the small silver hammer that hung from the chain at his neck.
Such strength of will these Dwarfs have, to stand against the tide of Chaos. A sure sign of Sigmar’s wisdom that his will should unite Dwarf and Man together against our natural enemies, Andric thought as he quietly left the Dwarf’s room.
Andric looked out from the top of the stair, taking in the sober quiet that had descended on The Happy Hearth since the Seven had returned with Diebold’s remains. Silas Greenrtee was sitting down at one of the tables made for one of his size, his manner properly respectful and somber. His son was outside hawking pies to the line of people outside the Inn.
Even Oldric seemed subdued, his energies focussed inward on some inner plane. The bespectacled scribe he seemed to have inherited was scratching away with quill to paper.
Rudiger was nowhere to be found. Nicodemus was quietly drinking with the two Watchmen of his squad. Throngor had checked on Imrak’s health and then quickly left, muttering something about work on a project going slowly. Luther had gone down the mountain to check on his hunters.
It seemed to Andric that Diebold was never the favorite of his companions, perhaps because of his natural station in life. Surely Diebold had never done much to ingratiate himself. It said much about the quality of his companions that while the group had little beyond his prowess as a fighter to praise Diebold for that they would rather be away than utter platitudes and falsehoods in his name.
Almost against his will, Andric’s eyes went once more to the front of the tavern, to the area Silas had asked the High Priest of Morr, Allenstag Breur, to allow to be set up in the tavern for the viewing and wake.
Diebold’s finely crafted closed casket lay in state upon a low bier. Draping it was a plain silken banner with seven golden stars surrounding Ulric’s Wolf rampant, The Hammer of Sigmar in its paws, symbol of his short-lived house.
Two black-robed Initiates of Morr watched over the long line of commoners and other folk paying homage to the fallen Knight of Middenheim. For two days the common folk had waited patiently as each in turn was given the opportunity, "To see good and brave Sir Diebold off."
As Andric watched a woman dressed in threadbare rags with two young sons in tow knelt before the bier. At her gentle urging, the older of the boys, a blond-haired child of about twelve years, stepped forward a pace and touched his forehead to the one edge of the banner, his manner reverent. The mother offered a silent prayer, and then took her sons by the hand and walked out to whatever fate Sigmar and Ulric might have in store for them, their heads held higher than when they came in.
Such strength of will these Dwarfs have, to stand against the tide of Chaos. A sure sign of Sigmar’s wisdom that his will should unite Dwarf and Man together against our natural enemies, Andric thought as he quietly left the Dwarf’s room.
Andric looked out from the top of the stair, taking in the sober quiet that had descended on The Happy Hearth since the Seven had returned with Diebold’s remains. Silas Greenrtee was sitting down at one of the tables made for one of his size, his manner properly respectful and somber. His son was outside hawking pies to the line of people outside the Inn.
Even Oldric seemed subdued, his energies focussed inward on some inner plane. The bespectacled scribe he seemed to have inherited was scratching away with quill to paper.
Rudiger was nowhere to be found. Nicodemus was quietly drinking with the two Watchmen of his squad. Throngor had checked on Imrak’s health and then quickly left, muttering something about work on a project going slowly. Luther had gone down the mountain to check on his hunters.
It seemed to Andric that Diebold was never the favorite of his companions, perhaps because of his natural station in life. Surely Diebold had never done much to ingratiate himself. It said much about the quality of his companions that while the group had little beyond his prowess as a fighter to praise Diebold for that they would rather be away than utter platitudes and falsehoods in his name.
Almost against his will, Andric’s eyes went once more to the front of the tavern, to the area Silas had asked the High Priest of Morr, Allenstag Breur, to allow to be set up in the tavern for the viewing and wake.
Diebold’s finely crafted closed casket lay in state upon a low bier. Draping it was a plain silken banner with seven golden stars surrounding Ulric’s Wolf rampant, The Hammer of Sigmar in its paws, symbol of his short-lived house.
Two black-robed Initiates of Morr watched over the long line of commoners and other folk paying homage to the fallen Knight of Middenheim. For two days the common folk had waited patiently as each in turn was given the opportunity, "To see good and brave Sir Diebold off."
As Andric watched a woman dressed in threadbare rags with two young sons in tow knelt before the bier. At her gentle urging, the older of the boys, a blond-haired child of about twelve years, stepped forward a pace and touched his forehead to the one edge of the banner, his manner reverent. The mother offered a silent prayer, and then took her sons by the hand and walked out to whatever fate Sigmar and Ulric might have in store for them, their heads held higher than when they came in.
posted by Semper Septum at 23:39
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