The 59th of winter, 517 AV...
The 60th of winter, 517 AV...
It had been a very long day. Twice he'd stumbled into a thicket of brambles that seemed to have been at least somewhat poisonous, as he'd been itching for the better half of what had been left of his evening. Though he wanted very little more than to slump down into his bed and let sleep take him, his ears caught the sound of what sounded like sobbing. It was not the gentle trickling of a lover scorned. It was loud, heavy, and decidedly deep and throaty: the tears of a man well into his age.
While grown men could certainly shed tears, Gomer found that the sheer force of the unseen man's misery was curious enough to warrant investigation - he was rarely one to pass over the chance to see what the city had in store for him. Following the wailing, he picked his way through yet another bed of thorns, this particular instance speckled with oddly shaped fungi that proved perfectly capable of supporting his weight. Hopping from one to the other, he managed to clear the field without any further thorny pricks, though as he leaped from the final cap, he misjudged the distance and was forced to tuck his head and roll off the impact as his shoulders met the cobbled street.
Tumbling in a full, awkward somersault, his boot heels hit the ground in front of him as his head was forcibly brought up by his momentum. Blinking in a daze, he realized the empty plaza he'd seen from the bed of brambles must have been an illusion, as there was now a small, grassy pond with a portly, translucent man hovering over its surface, dramatically bouncing with each of his aggressive, blubbering sobs.
The snow seemed to stop where the grass began, and Gomer had landed just short of it. Wincing as he pushed himself to his feet, his heels lamenting the impact they had just been subjected to, he crept a bit closer to the spirit, waving an unassuming hand and clearing his throat so the man might know he was no longer alone. "Hallo there. You seem to be having quite a go of it."
"Ohh..." With a whimper, the man turned to him, the wispy flesh around his eyes darkened and sallow - certainly not from crying. "Y-you... boy."
Nodding, Gomer raised a brow. "Yes... man?"
The ghost's eyes took on a harder sheen as he squinted at Gomer. "You look like... like that- that Craven man. Godric."
"Do I?" A wide, happy grin spilled over his face. "Well, that's a compliment if ever there was one."
"No! No, no, no..." The spirit began to grow in his hysteria, and Gomer, realizing he'd misread the situation, tried again, his voice a bit more soothing and soft.
"Erm... the resemblance is shared by our blood, but... I am not a Craven." Most ghosts usually found Gomer's lack of title relieving, and the man before him was no different.
Immediately, his tears stopped, and it was his turn to raise a bushy brow. "Oh?" Sniffling, he adjusted the belt that sat snug beneath the bulge of his stomach, a habit, no doubt, he had carried over from when he had been alive. "Then... you are the younger brother? The one who helps ghosts?"
Though he did, on occasion, assist the errant spirit, he didn't consider himself the sort of spectral vigilante the man seemed to have in mind. "Well, erm... I-"
"Piers and I are... acquainted." The manner in which he spoke the lascivious spirit's name suggested he had, indeed, had the mild displeasure of meeting Piers after all.
"Oh. I've assited him before, if that's what you mean." He had settled a comfortable distance from the man who still floated over the middle of the pond, his posture relaxed but polite. "Does this have to do with your... earlier display?" He did his best to keep his comments benign. There was no need to upset the man further.
"My- oh! Oh yes, indeed it does!" Seemingly having forgotten his soul-wracking sobs, the man grinned wide, though his eyes seemed to glow with a determined spark. "Will you help me, younger brother of Godric Craven?"
Pursing his lips, Gomer took a short breath in through his nose before offering a polite, "Gomer suits me fine."
"Gomer, then. Whatever you want to be called I'll call you, if you'll lend me your aid." The man brushed off the introduction unceremoniously, "I am Laurant Pummeroy, and I need you stop a wedding."
While grown men could certainly shed tears, Gomer found that the sheer force of the unseen man's misery was curious enough to warrant investigation - he was rarely one to pass over the chance to see what the city had in store for him. Following the wailing, he picked his way through yet another bed of thorns, this particular instance speckled with oddly shaped fungi that proved perfectly capable of supporting his weight. Hopping from one to the other, he managed to clear the field without any further thorny pricks, though as he leaped from the final cap, he misjudged the distance and was forced to tuck his head and roll off the impact as his shoulders met the cobbled street.
Tumbling in a full, awkward somersault, his boot heels hit the ground in front of him as his head was forcibly brought up by his momentum. Blinking in a daze, he realized the empty plaza he'd seen from the bed of brambles must have been an illusion, as there was now a small, grassy pond with a portly, translucent man hovering over its surface, dramatically bouncing with each of his aggressive, blubbering sobs.
The snow seemed to stop where the grass began, and Gomer had landed just short of it. Wincing as he pushed himself to his feet, his heels lamenting the impact they had just been subjected to, he crept a bit closer to the spirit, waving an unassuming hand and clearing his throat so the man might know he was no longer alone. "Hallo there. You seem to be having quite a go of it."
"Ohh..." With a whimper, the man turned to him, the wispy flesh around his eyes darkened and sallow - certainly not from crying. "Y-you... boy."
Nodding, Gomer raised a brow. "Yes... man?"
The ghost's eyes took on a harder sheen as he squinted at Gomer. "You look like... like that- that Craven man. Godric."
"Do I?" A wide, happy grin spilled over his face. "Well, that's a compliment if ever there was one."
"No! No, no, no..." The spirit began to grow in his hysteria, and Gomer, realizing he'd misread the situation, tried again, his voice a bit more soothing and soft.
"Erm... the resemblance is shared by our blood, but... I am not a Craven." Most ghosts usually found Gomer's lack of title relieving, and the man before him was no different.
Immediately, his tears stopped, and it was his turn to raise a bushy brow. "Oh?" Sniffling, he adjusted the belt that sat snug beneath the bulge of his stomach, a habit, no doubt, he had carried over from when he had been alive. "Then... you are the younger brother? The one who helps ghosts?"
Though he did, on occasion, assist the errant spirit, he didn't consider himself the sort of spectral vigilante the man seemed to have in mind. "Well, erm... I-"
"Piers and I are... acquainted." The manner in which he spoke the lascivious spirit's name suggested he had, indeed, had the mild displeasure of meeting Piers after all.
"Oh. I've assited him before, if that's what you mean." He had settled a comfortable distance from the man who still floated over the middle of the pond, his posture relaxed but polite. "Does this have to do with your... earlier display?" He did his best to keep his comments benign. There was no need to upset the man further.
"My- oh! Oh yes, indeed it does!" Seemingly having forgotten his soul-wracking sobs, the man grinned wide, though his eyes seemed to glow with a determined spark. "Will you help me, younger brother of Godric Craven?"
Pursing his lips, Gomer took a short breath in through his nose before offering a polite, "Gomer suits me fine."
"Gomer, then. Whatever you want to be called I'll call you, if you'll lend me your aid." The man brushed off the introduction unceremoniously, "I am Laurant Pummeroy, and I need you stop a wedding."
The 60th of winter, 517 AV...
Just a tick after midday, Gomer arrived at the venue. Cateline Pummeroy and her soon to be husband Yrien Vasilev had rented out an old abandoned building several weeks prior. In that short time, the Vasilevs, along with the aid of hired professionals, had transformed the empty space into a blooming wonderland. Though the exterior had chosen to present itself as a short, dilapidated shack with a crumbling, clay shingle roof and rotting wooden door, the interior was expansive, more than enough for the several hundred guests the family had invited, along with the servants who were to attend to them.
Rows of simple but elegantly carved chairs were arranged around a stage of what appeared to be a grassy knoll. The floors had been transformed into a lush, verdant carpet of mosses, out of which sprang delicate, aromatic flowers in the shape of little bells. Long, sweeping, flowering vines hung from the ceilings and along both sides of the walls were an assortment of musicians. Once the ceremony was ended, the chairs were to be pulled aside and the moss removed to reveal a sturdy wooden dance floor.
Master Laurant had explained that while the guest list was exclusive, no one paid much mind to the servants. Thus, when he was stopped at the door and asked his business, Gomer did what he did best. In as polite and unassuming a tone as he could manage, he frowned out a question. "Is this not where Madame Pummeroy is to be wed? I was told under no circumstances was I to be late."
Without asking him the specifics, the man at the door gave Gomer a knowing, apologetic nod of his head and allowed him pass. Once inside, he was whisked away, shoved into a suit, and given a quick run-down as to his duties. He was to greet those at the door and assist them in finding their seats; after the ceremony began, he was expected to aid the other attendants in preparing and distributing refreshments for after Cateline's performance and before the actual ceremony. Afterward, he was to help clear the moss and ready the dance floor, after which he was expected to dance with anyone who seemed without a partner - as no one was to feel left out on such a wonderful day.
It all sounded a bit hollow to him, what with the knowledge Master Laurant had imparted to him, but he nodded along. Getting thrown out due to someone realizing he didn't belong there wouldn't help Cateline and it wouldn't help the anxiously waiting ghost he'd left nervously pacing back and forth in the safety of his home.
From what he understood of the situation, Cateline had met and fallen in love with Yrien all in the same day. As far as their families were concerned, they were mad for one another, and it was a joining of wealth that benefited all. She, a slim, delicate thing not unlike the little bell-flowers that dotted the mossy ground of the venue; he a strong, sturdy figure like the vines above; all who knew them were glad for their coming union. All but Laurant.
The man had taken ill a decade prior. Cateline had always been his world, and though death claimed him, she could not draw him away from his daughter. Thus he'd remained, watching over her in much the same way as he had done in life, until she'd met Yrien. Right away, he'd known something was wrong about the man, but no one seemed to take notice; if anything, they all were annoyed by his continued presence. Sleepless as spirits were, Laurant had taken to following the young man around in secret, constantly keeping an eye on him, even as the rumors spread of Laurant's growing malignancy.
It so happened, not two days before Yrien and Cateline publicly declared their engagement a season ago, that Laurant finally found his vindication. Some time before Cateline had taken her fall from a bridge only to be saved by the valiant Yrien who had caught her from below, it seemed the Vasilev's had run completely out of money. Not only they, but the Pummorys had dug themselves into a steady debt as well, for the fortune Laurant had left Cateline was only accessible to her, and her alone.
Of course, upon her death, her money was to be passed onto her husband, as dictated by Laurant upon his death bed. In relaying that particular rule, he had begun to sob so heavily with regret it had taken a good half bell for him to finish his recount. It seemed that both families had decided to conspire against the admittedly head-strong and willful Cateline who was only delicate in her appearance, springing back up just as fit as before when she was stepped upon, exactly like the bell-flowers.
They had managed to stage so elaborate a play that everyone, including Cateline, had been quite convinced. From what Gomer could tell, she legitimately cared for Yrien, and had not the entire plan been to murder her and divide her substantial reserve of mizas between the families, he might have let Laurant continue to bemoan his fate - as, after all, even he reported Cateline was quite happy. Not keen to condemn a woman to her unsuspecting execution, Gomer had decided to help.
In a hushed conversation between Yrien and a hooded figure, he finally had been clued into the plan: Cateline was to be killed the moment after she had taken her vow and her death would be blamed on an obsessive, ghostly father who simply could not bear to see his precious daughter wed. The problem was Laurant didn't know how his daughter was going to be executed, only that it seemed to be triggered by the phrase: "All cheers to thee." It seemed the families had begun to take precautions against ghosts after he had tried, in vain, to alert his daughter.
In context, Gomer assumed the phrase might be something shouted by one of the guests gathered, but Laurant had been unable to give him any further leads. Thus, he was relatively unprepared, forced into a pseudo-servitude, and uncertain whether he'd be much help at all. He supposed, at the very least, he could just do something to stop the wedding altogether if he was unable to find a more delicate and altogether better way to handle things; though if it came to that, he doubted he'd have a second chance to set things right.
Busy as he was, he didn't have much time to search the venue before the guests began arriving, though he did take note that while there were twenty-four places for the musicians, only twenty-three had arrived. With that small tidbit of information in mind, he began to greet the various guests at the door, leading those who requested his assistance (primarily the aged females who were keen to wrap their bony hands around his arm and laugh ostentatiously at his polite discomfort) to their seats.
All seemed well enough, and he was keen to examine the faces, remember the names, and search for anyone nervous or suspicious; that is, until he was face to face with a familiar, porcelain visage dotted with two glassy, icy eyes. As he had already begun to spout the preordained greeting, he followed through with confidence in his voice, though his eyes twinkled mischievously as his professional smile turned more a wolfish grin. "Master Vasilev and the soon to be Madame Vasilev warmly welcome you to their celebration of matrimony. May I guide you to your seat, Miss Madeira Craven?"
He expectantly held out his hand for her invitation and, should she so desire, extended an arm to for her to wrap her hand around and be guided to her designated place.
Rows of simple but elegantly carved chairs were arranged around a stage of what appeared to be a grassy knoll. The floors had been transformed into a lush, verdant carpet of mosses, out of which sprang delicate, aromatic flowers in the shape of little bells. Long, sweeping, flowering vines hung from the ceilings and along both sides of the walls were an assortment of musicians. Once the ceremony was ended, the chairs were to be pulled aside and the moss removed to reveal a sturdy wooden dance floor.
Master Laurant had explained that while the guest list was exclusive, no one paid much mind to the servants. Thus, when he was stopped at the door and asked his business, Gomer did what he did best. In as polite and unassuming a tone as he could manage, he frowned out a question. "Is this not where Madame Pummeroy is to be wed? I was told under no circumstances was I to be late."
Without asking him the specifics, the man at the door gave Gomer a knowing, apologetic nod of his head and allowed him pass. Once inside, he was whisked away, shoved into a suit, and given a quick run-down as to his duties. He was to greet those at the door and assist them in finding their seats; after the ceremony began, he was expected to aid the other attendants in preparing and distributing refreshments for after Cateline's performance and before the actual ceremony. Afterward, he was to help clear the moss and ready the dance floor, after which he was expected to dance with anyone who seemed without a partner - as no one was to feel left out on such a wonderful day.
It all sounded a bit hollow to him, what with the knowledge Master Laurant had imparted to him, but he nodded along. Getting thrown out due to someone realizing he didn't belong there wouldn't help Cateline and it wouldn't help the anxiously waiting ghost he'd left nervously pacing back and forth in the safety of his home.
From what he understood of the situation, Cateline had met and fallen in love with Yrien all in the same day. As far as their families were concerned, they were mad for one another, and it was a joining of wealth that benefited all. She, a slim, delicate thing not unlike the little bell-flowers that dotted the mossy ground of the venue; he a strong, sturdy figure like the vines above; all who knew them were glad for their coming union. All but Laurant.
The man had taken ill a decade prior. Cateline had always been his world, and though death claimed him, she could not draw him away from his daughter. Thus he'd remained, watching over her in much the same way as he had done in life, until she'd met Yrien. Right away, he'd known something was wrong about the man, but no one seemed to take notice; if anything, they all were annoyed by his continued presence. Sleepless as spirits were, Laurant had taken to following the young man around in secret, constantly keeping an eye on him, even as the rumors spread of Laurant's growing malignancy.
It so happened, not two days before Yrien and Cateline publicly declared their engagement a season ago, that Laurant finally found his vindication. Some time before Cateline had taken her fall from a bridge only to be saved by the valiant Yrien who had caught her from below, it seemed the Vasilev's had run completely out of money. Not only they, but the Pummorys had dug themselves into a steady debt as well, for the fortune Laurant had left Cateline was only accessible to her, and her alone.
Of course, upon her death, her money was to be passed onto her husband, as dictated by Laurant upon his death bed. In relaying that particular rule, he had begun to sob so heavily with regret it had taken a good half bell for him to finish his recount. It seemed that both families had decided to conspire against the admittedly head-strong and willful Cateline who was only delicate in her appearance, springing back up just as fit as before when she was stepped upon, exactly like the bell-flowers.
They had managed to stage so elaborate a play that everyone, including Cateline, had been quite convinced. From what Gomer could tell, she legitimately cared for Yrien, and had not the entire plan been to murder her and divide her substantial reserve of mizas between the families, he might have let Laurant continue to bemoan his fate - as, after all, even he reported Cateline was quite happy. Not keen to condemn a woman to her unsuspecting execution, Gomer had decided to help.
In a hushed conversation between Yrien and a hooded figure, he finally had been clued into the plan: Cateline was to be killed the moment after she had taken her vow and her death would be blamed on an obsessive, ghostly father who simply could not bear to see his precious daughter wed. The problem was Laurant didn't know how his daughter was going to be executed, only that it seemed to be triggered by the phrase: "All cheers to thee." It seemed the families had begun to take precautions against ghosts after he had tried, in vain, to alert his daughter.
In context, Gomer assumed the phrase might be something shouted by one of the guests gathered, but Laurant had been unable to give him any further leads. Thus, he was relatively unprepared, forced into a pseudo-servitude, and uncertain whether he'd be much help at all. He supposed, at the very least, he could just do something to stop the wedding altogether if he was unable to find a more delicate and altogether better way to handle things; though if it came to that, he doubted he'd have a second chance to set things right.
Busy as he was, he didn't have much time to search the venue before the guests began arriving, though he did take note that while there were twenty-four places for the musicians, only twenty-three had arrived. With that small tidbit of information in mind, he began to greet the various guests at the door, leading those who requested his assistance (primarily the aged females who were keen to wrap their bony hands around his arm and laugh ostentatiously at his polite discomfort) to their seats.
All seemed well enough, and he was keen to examine the faces, remember the names, and search for anyone nervous or suspicious; that is, until he was face to face with a familiar, porcelain visage dotted with two glassy, icy eyes. As he had already begun to spout the preordained greeting, he followed through with confidence in his voice, though his eyes twinkled mischievously as his professional smile turned more a wolfish grin. "Master Vasilev and the soon to be Madame Vasilev warmly welcome you to their celebration of matrimony. May I guide you to your seat, Miss Madeira Craven?"
He expectantly held out his hand for her invitation and, should she so desire, extended an arm to for her to wrap her hand around and be guided to her designated place.
