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At the time they reached the cemetery, it was as if a search party was thrown into action without a word muttered. Jefferson watched quietly from the sidelines as Jantus and his extravagantly large party flooded the gravestones looking here and there anxiously; the cyclops could only think of hungry flies and beetles scouring a dead carcass for food. The cemetery was a small one, rather quaint and with relatively few headstones. When they finally located their friend -- something the cyclops hadn't expected, really -- the group briefly discussed spelling and language, and needless to say the conversation was far over his head. Jefferson was still struggling with trying to teach himself to read, aided only by the knowledge that he'd been able to before his amnesia. Geneva, on the other hand, could read and write effortlessly. Perhaps she'd have been useful in such a situation.
Jantus began. He held the stance and air of a leader, of someone experienced in exactly what he was doing; briefly Jefferson felt a tinge of compassion at the concept, wondering how many funerals Jantus had performed in his day. For the Patriarch, of course, this was a first. He hadn't even known Skoll, but as he stood uselessly in the background and apart from the funeral party as a sidelines observer, Jefferson's full attention lay with them. Some names he didn't recognize were brought to air. A rank or two was mentioned, then the story was laid forth. A creature injured badly while trying to be a hero. He survived, then inspired others and led them into the battle, and now he was a legend. Had he not been struck by the seriousness of the funeral, the cyclops might have ordinarily scoffed.
When he was finished, Jantus stepped away to allow the others to have their time with the dead man's grave. The fellow cyclops took his place beside Jefferson, who pointed his one-eyed stare at the funeral party. They were mourning over a dead man, a ghoul -- and somehow a rock bearing his name brought a level of comfort. Jefferson didn't understand, and yet he knew that if he'd been able to locate the late Iskata, resting her body somewhere safe would probably have done the same. "I don't understand funerals," the Patriarch said, his eye unmoving from those at the grave. "The dead are dead. By now, his body's probably been eaten and his bones frail." He sighed. "But despite that, everything he inspired lives on. I can see that in you bunch. I thought funerals were just for honoring, but I guess this is a way to remember as well." His eye and demeanor was serious, if not somewhat desolate. Somehow, Jefferson wished he'd known this Skoll as well.
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