Open On Her Way (Matthew)

[Nathaniel Ankah]

What to do, what to do...

Nate went through his usual mental checklist, detached from the flames, the moment, the company... reality in general. Well, first he had to walk and feed Jorka, that would save

Kay

the trouble. Then he had to make breakfast for them both, mind that he didn't burn

Kay's

bacon. A brisk morning workout for maybe a bell, followed by fiddle practice, house-cleaning, some time with

Kay

and then off to work! After that he'd... he'd...

She's gone. She hasn't left. That means she might come back. She gone, and you'll never see her again. There is no Kay anymore... save what you carry around within you.

Well, not quite, actually. As the pyre finally collapsed into itself, wood burned down to smoking ashes, Nate held his hand out wordlessly... or would have, had he been there. As it was, one of the undertakers cleared his throat - a few times - and finally the big man blinked, coming to, turning-

-finding the cheap clay urn shoved into his grip.

"When you're, ah... ready, sir."

The sober little man was tired and sweating in his black velvet and wanted to get the petch out of this bug-ridden field, but they'd been paid for the full service, so here they would stay.

Stay and watch as Nate half-staggered into the smoldering embers of the pyre, wreathed in smoke like a cloak that billowed around and above him. He knelt in it and felt the ashes numbly scorch his knees... his fingers and palms as he searched for fragments...

Hunks of bone. Skull. Leg. Arm. Ribs. Anything left. Once his hands were blackened and stinking, he filled the rest of it with ash that still smelled faintly of cloying flesh and burned fat.

Nate hugged the urn tight to himself. It was still warm. The mad urge to laugh struck him: as a pile of faceless, pointless ash, she was warmer in death than he body had been. He rose slowly... painfully... and it helped, in a way. The pain. Seeing her, like this. It anchored him in the reality, which is what he would have to deal with.

Sooty hands streaked black marks across the pale orange clay. Nate pressed his forehead to it and sighed.

Later, love. We'll go somewhere... fitting.

"Well..." He croaked finally, but by the next words, Nate was speaking normally. "I dunno about you, but I'm getting fuckin' sloshed..."

The undertakers exchanged looked, but they were brief. That seemed to be the usual reaction to death in Sunberth. Even so... a little decorum, perhaps? Nate didn't seem concerned. He stuck the urn under his arm and patted the fiddle and bow in the pack over his shoulder. It tinkled of coins, not just polished, carved wood.

"Not gonna sit around moping and sobbing, either. Last thing she'd want would be us whining like women on her behalf. Nope. Down to the tavern, break out the fiddle - shut up, Nov, I've been practicing! - and we'll drink until we're climbing the floor."

The looming ex-brawler chuckled and patted the urn like an old friend, then turned to the mournful-looking Jorka and nodded towards the smoke-belching city beyond the sparse screen of trees, the black buildings and the rotting roofs.

"Let's go, love. Few tankards in my guts-" Nate flicked an eye at Matthew that seemed intent on more than just alcohol consumption "-then we'll see about the bloody future..."

[Noven]

He watched the whole process in solemn silence, absorbing the scene before him as though it might smooth away some of the failings in his past. The slow, dawning realization settling in Nate's features, the quiet way the undertakers moved things along, the last few pops and crackles of dying flame, Kay's ashy remains being collected into the urn...

Was this what it would have been like, if he had said farewell to Nona at decent old age instead of burying her bloodless corpse next to some nondescript alleyway?

He tried to imagine that it was. Tried to imagine his life without this well nursed hate. Without anger and pain and the breath of the Goddess of Murder and Pain caressing his ear every time he sought blood. Tried to imagine who he would be if Nona were still alive to keep him on a clean, straight path, what he would be doing with his life instead of making each day count towards hunting down her killer and bringing him to his knees.

Tried, and couldn't.

Nov blinked as his old friend announced his next plan of action: getting piss drunk. The cook's eyes were horribly dry now from the heat of the fire--as well as the unexpected tears, though he threw that out of his mind as far as he could. Honestly, drowning their woes didn't sound all that bad right now. Except for maybe the bit about Nate playing his fid--

Hah, beat me to the punch. Nov grinned and closed his mouth, swallowing back his unborn comment to trade it for another.

"If you insist," he responded, "though if the other folk don't take kindly to your, er, majestic fiddling, I'll be resting in the corner. Took enough beatings at our last gig."

That was partly true, anyway. The two of them had given twice as good as they got and Nov was likely to join in one way or the other if a good brawl got going, but hey. It was just nice to think about not going home with bruises and cuts and a damage bill from the tavern. For once.

"You coming with us, Pretty Boy?" he directed at Matthew, a rare glimpse of camaraderie shining through his teasing tone.

[Matthew]

Sloshed? That was a new word. Or was it even a word? He peered at Nathanial, feeling a mild amount of suspicion. Both Noven and Nate had been shaped by Sunberth, something that had ended up giving them a unique education. Not a bad one, just a different one. Was this a product of that education? He would have to further study it. He was still very aware that it was not a proper time to even think about asking. He just paid close attention, blue eyes focused and intense. Eventually the implied meaning became clear. He was saying that he needed to get drunk. Perhaps the term was used because of the sloshing sound a full belly of liquid could make? That seemed rather accurate. He made a rough mental note, satisfied with his deduction. It didn't take much. The Harlot was so simple sometimes that it was complex. He was so distracted by his thoughts that he didn't notice the look that Nate gave him, though suspicion would have welled within his gut once more if he had.

More interestingly to him, Nathaniel could play the fiddle? He stared at the man for a moment and then blinked in Noven's direction, suddenly curious if the other man had a hidden musical talent as well. It was right about then that he realized Noven was talking to him. Pretty boy? Was that an insult? He had heard it directed at himself in a way that seemed as if was intended to insult. At the same time, how could a compliment be taken as an insult? He furrowed his brow, pausing a tick, mulling over how to handle the interaction. He was getting tired. This was getting hard. He normally kept his social interactions quite limited when it came to time and this one was starting to stretch a bit. After another tick Matthew finally made up his mind, deciding that it was probably a good-hearted jab and that one fired back in response would be the correct move.

"I'll have to politely decline, Readied Cock." The nickname might come as a total surprise for Nate, but Noven would no doubt realize that Matthew's response was definitely aimed below the belt.

"This is an odd hour for me. I am a bit tired and I don't actually drink." This was true, just not all of the truth. He didn't drink, he couldn't stand the taste of alcohol. He was also a bit tired, but it was from the prolonged effort he had put into acting like a semi-normal person at a very sacred event. He had felt it was the least he could do for Nate. It was his own way of paying some sort of respect. He had very nearly reached his limits though. He would need more practice in these types of situations. With people that he could perhaps consider friends. "So, with that in mind, I am actually planning on going back to the bed and getting some rest before work tonight. I hope that won't offend?" A glance was cast toward both Nate and Noven, seeking confirmation that this was okay. He would certainly stay if it was demanding, still feeling that he could at least do that much for Nate. If not pressed though, Noven and Nate would be left alone within the timespan of two parting handshakes.

[Nathaniel Ankah]

There weren't many things that could have raised a smile on Nate's face at that moment, but that name, delivered in that flat, neutral tone... well, what else could he have done?

Laugh, of course; and he did, until his shoulders bobbed and his cheeks hurt and he had to cover his mouth and the corners of his eyes pricked with tears. The big man shook his shaven head and clapped Matthew on the shoulder.

"Yer a weird one, lad, but I'm glad ya came." He shook his hand, green eyes alive again with mirth and gratitude. "Be safe on yer way."

He didn't waste time with a raft of pointless words that merely belabored the same point. Matthew had come, and Nat was grateful. No other dead horses needed to be flogged. Nate would wait for Noven to bid his own farewells and then the two of them would be walking back into that stone-and-brick crater struck by all the evils of the world.

Home, in other words.

"This one," Nate said after a while, ears pricking as he heard just the band he was hoping for, "Golden Calf..."

As Sunberth taverns went, it was quite a genial affair. The beer wasn't watered down too blatantly, the cutpurses didn't like leaving bodies and the whores were... well, no, they weren't clean, but two out of three is practically elite by Berth standards. When the door opened and Nate entered with his friend, the glares were cursory... and the band did not stop.

Fiddles. Cello. Drums. Flute. All pounding out a medley of whaling songs that combined the frenetic pace of Svefra tunes with good ol' Berthian boozing chants. Anywhere else, it would have been dying cats scraping their nails on chalkboards. But to them?

"Knew you liked these boys, darlin'," he muttered to the ashes, kicking a senseless drunk off the table nearest the stage and planting her in the middle, along with a handful of coin, "Order up, Nov. I wasn't petching joking about trying to kill me liver..."

[Noven]

Nov stared at Matthew, then the guffawing Nate, his expression dead pan with a hint of irritation. "One job," he cursed, "one lousy little job and I'm haunted for life..."

Krysus. It took him a moment to realize the complaint held more than one unintended meaning. Anything that reminded him of Mae these days tended to turn his mood a bit sour. Couldn't be helped, just was what it was. At least it was fading, that much he could be grateful for.

Seeing Nate laugh though...it was alright, Nov decided. Worth a smidgen of humiliation. The man looked like he needed some levity anyway, to put things mildly. Which was where this whole liver poisoning was coming into play.

"Don't worry about it, mate," the cook offered, shaking the harlot's hand without his usual edge of corrosive wariness. "We're a rough lot and the night is still young. Plus, from the looks of things--"

He paused, shooting a blatant glance at Nate.

"--it might get a mite rougher with a few pints in us. Wouldn't want our high jinks to get in the way of your, ah, line of work and all."

Nov placed a hand on his ribs and stretched a little to the left, wincing as he did. Hanging around the older merc had certainly left him looking worse for wear. But, for some reason, it didn't bother him as much. Maybe it had to do with all that delightful information they'd beaten out of Rohs.

As soon as they'd made their quick but frank goodbyes they were off to the taverns. It felt strange, like they were back to old times yet...not. Past and present jarred against one another, at once familiar and unfamiliar, comfortable and unsettling. Noven supposed this would take some getting used to, working with one another despite their differences from long ago.

Besides, they had a lot more in common now. They both had dead mothers to mourn and no one to stop them from drowning in booze.

No sooner had they entered the Golden Calf than the fun times began. Nate kicked down one drunken customer to commandeer his table and the poor sod narrowly missed banging his head open. Not the best of signs for things to come, but Nov had more or less come to terms with their immediate futures. Either they were going home drunk, or they were going home drunk and bruised and picking out splinters till infinite tomorrows. Nothing new by their standards.

Nate placed Kay in the center and insisted his partner start ordering it up. Noven wasn't exactly thrilled by the idea of getting sloshed in front of Kay's recently burnt ashes, feeling like somehow she would frown upon them even from beyond the grave, but he understood all too well the need. They were natives of the Berth and they were thugs. There was only one way they knew to cope with immense, irreparable loss that didn't involve killing sprees.

They drank themselves senseless.

By their fourth or fifth pint Nov was flagging down the waitress again. "Enough of this piss," he announced loudly, "bring us something stronger!"

Vinia rolled her eyes and went back to do as she was told. Or to not do as she was told, whichever the wench was in the mood for.

Nov stared down into the shiny bottom of his empty pint as he tried to think of the right words to say. "Hey Nate...so...now that, you know, she's gone and all, what are you...well, what do you plan on doing? Same old thing, or...?"

[Nathaniel Ankah]

"Enough of this piss, bring us something stronger!"

"Yeah, like... like... trupent... turpen... stuff ya can clean spoons wiv'..."

Whether or not Vinia came back promptly (preferably with something oozing smoke and steam and the ability to massacre hordes of hapless brain cells), it would be all the same to Nate and Nov. They were both deep in their cups, as it were. Through the bottom, actually. Into the table. On the floor.

"Remmemer..." Nate slurred, apparently forgetting about the second letter of the alphabet. "When we could... y'know... drink more... well... more and spock... spek... talk, like..."

There was a gurgle by way of response... or perhaps it was just a gurgle. Nate didn't know. Finding the wherewithal to stay upright in his seat was challenging enough for the moment. But there was still some small, sharp mote of clarity in his mind. Enough for him to realize that "something stronger" would probably be a bad idea.

Nate would have dearly loved to ignore it, but sensible advice like that always took Kay's voice. The bastards.

"Hey Nate...so...now that, you know, she's gone and all, what are you...well, what do you plan on doing? Same old thing, or...?"

Nate just snorted and made a face like he'd bitten into a lemon. Grieving as they were (in the standard Sunberth way), the alcohol surely was helping him think. The brooding melancholy that had been choking him before was stripped away: now he could tackle each question... honestly. Yes, that was the word... if a dirty one in The Berth.

"Wot? Lugging fuckin'... sacks? Barrels and shyke? Yeah... s'pose..." Nate started moodily into the dregs of his ale, seeing his future in that spent, bitter mouthful. "Kay woulda'... woulda' wanted me to stay out of trouble..."

He said the words, tried to fill them with some weight, but even a fool could have seen Nate didn't mean it. He wanted to; truly he did. He wanted to be the kind of man that Kay would be proud of. That wherever she was, she could look upon him and see those decades were not wasted.

But did he really want the grey road of... legitimacy, to be all he had going for him? Breaking his back ten hours a day or more for a single gold miza? Working until even his formidable frame was bent and haggard far before its time, becoming another derelict in the bars...

"But I think I might... do something else. Maybe..." He took a deep breath, like he was about to throw himself off a cliff. But what his addled mind was suggesting... well, it had to be addled before it could. "... maybe... not in Sunberth. Maybe out west."

Nate gulped and gave Noven a tick or two to absorb that blow, just as Vinia swept buy and all but threw a fresh bottle of something brown onto the table. Nate cracked it open with his teeth and sniffed-

"Hells'... fuck, woman!"

Maybe she didn't hear; maybe she didn't care. She kept walking and weaving and sliding through the throng, as Joay and the Boys belted out "Jim Dwyer's Funeral".

[Noven]

He was face down on the table behind the sanctuary of his arms, forehead smashed against ale-soaked wood. Wheezing with laughter as Nate tried to talk.

But then more serious thoughts decided to invade his otherwise merry ignorance. The younger merc just couldn't help it, what with having no choice but to stare at Kay's ashes every few ticks. The bloody thing was just sitting there in the middle of the table. There was no escaping its somber memory.

Nate snorted at his question and answered with typical, brutal honesty. At first, it seemed he was going to stick with the miserable shyke he did for a living. Legitimate work moving heavy merchandise around like a pack mule.

There wasn't a shred of conviction in his words, even as he said them.

What came next wasn't exactly a surprise to Nov, but it still sent a spark of bewildered excitement through his veins. Going out west. Leaving Sunberth. Gods, could he even imagine doing something like that?

Oddly enough, the more he drank the more Noven began to think he could. They already knew where Silver liked to stake himself. With a bit more planning and muscle Nov might just be able to see the fruition of his well nursed vendetta after all. But he knew better than ever that he wasn't ready. Not by a long shot.

Silver was a fucking Boss of the Daggerhands. Nov and Nate might able to take out the guy's goons and come out of the massacre alive, but that was only the first layer of security. Someone who had survived as long as Silver in a business that didn't get any more cut throat than it was would have defenses in place. Fall backs, extra tricks, trump cards, whatever he could get his grubby little paws on.

And not to mention there was something Nov wanted to know. Something he was becoming increasingly more determined to find out before his suicidal attempt at revenge.

He wanted to know his past.

There were no true libraries or institutions in the Berth to speak of. Nov wasn't even sure if there were any scholars still alive, period. He thought of asking that harlot they'd just exchanged goodbyes with at Kay's wake, but never worked out exactly he'd go about doing that. Showing up at Ruby's was out of the question. Brega would murder him just for walking on the same street.

It was crazy. Impossible, even. Maybe. But the more Nov thought about it the more that tantalizing impossibility in the distance became tangible.

Nate swore openly upon sniffing whatever it was Vinia had brought them.

Bringing the bottle closer, Nov took his turn for a whiff and instantly began coughing. His vision had become a watery blur as the fumes seared his eyeballs.

"Krysus...that's the stuff," he rasped.

Pouring them each a glass full of what may as well have been named Liver Killer, Nov looked up at his old friend with bleary eyes and a drunken grin."I'm likin the-hic-sound of that...second pleh...plan. Get the petch outta here. Innnfact it sounds so good I think...I think Imma go with you!"

He barked with laughter at his own, crazy suggestion.

"To us!" Nov toasted, raising his glass of pure rat poison, "And to leaving this piss pot of misery we call home."

Then he downed the liquid fire and tried not to think about how he no longer had a throat by the time it hit his stomach.

[Nathaniel Ankah]

"Krysus...that's the stuff."

"Stuff?" Nate mumbled as an ominous glass was filled before him. "That'll make m'guts crawl out marse... oh, c'mon, naaaah... dun stin'..."

But Noven seemed not to share his friend's concern; instead Nate saw a glint of inebriated hope flare behind his eyes. As he listened, he caught it, infectious as hope always is. Noven... joining him? Could such a thing really occur? Noven was much like Nate in many ways, not least of all that while they were both Berth boys by years and scars, they were not by birth. Both had been bought there my malicious fate, and done their best to survive in a clime that stamped out the determined.

But... leaving? Suddenly the idea, inverted by Noven's enthusiasm, seemed outlandish to Nate's mind. What would he do? Where would he go? The world was wide and wondrous but in its breadth was... much unknown. Nate had heard scores of tales of monsters and devils and all manner of mortal fates that awaited beyond the clusters of civilization peopling the world. Jungles that devoured as sure as beasts; grass plains that stretched on for days and days, even at full gallop; deserts that could drain and bleach a strong man in mere days...

"To us! And to leaving this piss pot of misery we call home."

The tavern quieted in Nate's mind. There was him and his friend (and the urn) and the tentative plan they'd made. His caution evaporated at Noven's tone and he took up the glass, clanging it against his own, face splitting into a grin.

Aye, a wide and wild place... but not so much with one you trust at your side.

"Aye!" He roared, loud enough to throw off the band for a tick, especially after he pounded the table with his free fist and tossed a laugh that stank of fool's courage and madman's ale. "To us! To the world! Poor fugger never know what hidit!"

They drank. They talked, of plans and scenarios earnest and detailed and sure to be forgotten along with the morning when their minds scrubbed their inebriation clean, as strong drink was want to do. Nate didn't know when they left: he remembered some commotion, but soon they were on the streets again, supporting each other, passing a pilfered bottle back and forth, feet carrying them to...

Nate paused when he saw their new locale. Some sense and memory still guided his feet, apparently. It was a pier farthest from the Docks, at the very edge of city, it seemed. Beggars and dregs scuttled here and there but they were savvy enough to know drunks could be plenty dangerous. Best to let them pass out, perhaps?

Maybe. But Nate had no such plans. He walked as if unwilling, some sobriety returning to his features. His eyes were glazed and he swallowed hard as he came to the edge of the pier. The sea was a black sheet of swaying ebony beneath Luna; silver and pitch where the rays fell and the water shifted. Mercurial, ever-changing... taking him back...

"She bought us... me... here, once..." He said, voice a whispered rasp, far away in his own mind. "I was... just a sprat. Festival day, some... dunno what god. Summer, maybe? Dunno... she danced and she dragged me up to do it."

He laughed and it ended close to a sob, but one that came with a smile. The joy of recollection: nothing could take that from him. His memories of Kay, smiling and strong, not crippled and weakened. The woman so beautiful in her soul that she'd changed that feral boy into some semblance of the man that stood on the pier, with her ashes in his arms.

"This was... a good place, for us. We laughed a long while, until Syna slept..." Nate's voice cracked and he turned from his friend. Nov had seen too much of his tears. "She loved the sea. She would... want to be here..."

With slow reverence, Nate raised the urn and uncapped it. At the doing he smelled ash and charred remains, smoky and harsh to his nose. He paused as he extended his arms. But it was... easier, after that day. He had grieved... and part of him would never cease that... but the grim reality had wormed its way into his soul now. It could not change, and he would not seek to do it.

All that remained was to send her abroad. Send her with a kiss planted to the urn, and a wet smile on his lips.

"Until then... mother..."

The urn turned. A sooty waterfall of ash and fragments of bone poured from it and there was nary a sound as it found the water. There was a stain, though the waves obliterated it it within ticks. Nate dropped the urn in after and watched the floating pile turned and twisted and consumed and... then she was gone...

"I remember something." He said, unlimbering the strange case over his shoulder. "Something for this..."

Nate put the fiddle to his shoulder. Notched it in accord with the bone and muscle there, cradled and fixed by his neck. He caressed the strings with the bow and tried to still his nerves. He wished he'd bought the band; serenading her by professional bards would be better. But this was him.

This was her son. His hands, his heart, his will and his love. It could not be the master's muse that drifted over the fetid waves carrying her onward to the edges of the world... but as he played, in a halting, childish pace, Nate felt the tears course down his stoic cheeks.

He could see her there. He would see her again. Until he did, for some strange while in the dark of Sunberth, "The Last Tankard" wafted across the Docks.

[Noven]

He couldn't help it. Nov's heart swelled ten times its size at the sight of his old friend reciprocating emboldened feelings of camaraderie and hope.

When Nate threw in a few deafening words of his own, his partner burst with laughter, and familiar emotions he thought he'd long since buried rushed back in the span of a breath. Gods above, he'd forgotten how good having a friend could feel.

The young merc felt like he could take on the world. Consequences be damned.

And how the two talked! They fed off one another like oil and flame, hardly stopping to take a breath between all the talking and drinking. One person would toss out an idea and the other immediately spun it into something bigger, something grander, imaginations no longer inhibited by worldly trials and tribulations.

"Oi, you mates might keepin' it down? We're actually tryin' ta listen to the music here. Can't hear nothin' with you two suckin' each other's cocks all night."

All too soon, their fun came to a violent end.

Literally, as one thing led to another and Nov found himself escorting Nate hurriedly out of the tavern. And by escorting one could assume it went something more along the lines of making a drunken but well timed escape before people started noticing that the four blokes passed out at what used to be two, conspicuously loud mercenaries' table were slowly soaking the aged wood with their broken, bloody noses.

Nov wasn't overly concerned with a specific destination. He was too drunk and too worried about not getting caught and was just grateful Nate was moving at all. There was no way in Hai he could carry the big man all the way home.

So it was when they finally looked up from their boozey stumbling and sloshing about of their last bottle that Noven found himself struck by surprise.

The Docks. How the petch did they get here?

"She bought us... me... here, once..."

He looked over to the grieving, piss drunk, and now suddenly joyous mess that was once known as Nathaniel Ankah.The man who, like Nov, had lost everything.

The cook listened in silent respect. Granted, the docks were still tilting at odd angles now and then and he could've sworn he could feel the waves beneath his feet through solid wood, but the gravity of the situation remained.

There was a moment when alarm coursed through his veins as Nate walked to the very edge of the pier. For half a tick, Nov was readying himself to try and stop the massive man from drowning his sorrows in the most literal way possible. But he ought to have known better. Nate never had been the type to off himself over grief, anymore than his friend was, even in the face of absolute tragedy.

They were born and bred to survive. It just wasn't in their blood to quit.

Nov watched as Kay's ashes flowed into the water and churned in languid movements. The urn they'd been staring at for the past bell or so followed soon after with a soft plunk. And just like that it was done. Kay had been laid to rest, they'd said their fair share of goodbyes, and her ashes were finally being set free.

Only, Nate had one last thing to do.

His partner resisted the urge to cringe as the familiar sight of a fiddle emerged from its case. Sober Nate was somewhat tolerable with that thing on a good day. Drunk Nate...well, suffice to say Nov was getting ready to jump in after Kay any moment now.

The cook was surprised, however, at the tune Nate chose. And even more so at the fact that it was actually pretty...fitting. He listened with his heart in his throat, watching with burning eyes as the last of Kay's ashes either sank into watery depths or were carried away with gentle waves. The urn was long gone, no doubt resting at the bottom of the sea for years and years to come.

When the song ended and nothing more could be seen of Kay's remains, Nov placed a warm hand on his friend's shoulders. He didn't have to look to know Nate's face was once more covered in his powerful grief.

"Come on, Nate," he managed, voice coarse with raw emotion. "Let's go home."

[Caela Dorin]

Grade Awarded Nathaniel Grade withheld until ledger is updated. Matthew Experience Skill XP Earned Acrobatics 1 Acting 1 Auristics 2 Bodybuilding 1 Planning 1 Running 1 Lores • Lore Earned • Running: How to Pace Oneself • Bodybuilding: Plank Technique • Kay is Dead • A Corpse Still Has an Aura • Acting: Showing Appropriate Emotions at Funerals • Noven: Knows Nate and Kay • Being Present at a Funeral is Enough • Sloshed: Word for Getting Drunk Noven Experience Skill XP Earned Observation 2 Rhetoric 1 Socialisation 1 Lores • Lore Earned • Accepting that Kay is Another One of the Dead • Nate and I: United in Grief for Kay • Readied Cock: Name from Matthew • Location: The Golden Calf Additional Comments A touching thread that really shows how heartbreaking loss can be. And then of course you've got Matthew who sticks out like a sore thumb at looks at everyone as if he's examining them under a magnifying glass. He really is a bizarre individual. Please edit or delete your grade request and PM me if you have any questions or concerns about your grade. x