[AW+] [M] Engage with the pain as a motive
#1

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

Specifically, this thread is marked mature because of: .

OOC: Ronald Winthrop's funeral thread; This is a non-mandatory pack thread! Set after the Clean Up - late October 1st, towards evening.|| WC: --
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There was nothing that Nazario could say that could soothe the hurt in the wake of turmoil, and much less in the wake of loss. He wrung his hands, his eye hollow as he looked at his late uncle, still and too quiet, sprawled on his side in secui, but washed clean of the blood and the mud. Were it not for his utter stillness, the unnerving calm of death, he looked as though he could've been sleeping. Resurrection had done well, prepping this site - Holly and Dustin had toiled long and hard through the afternoon to make their divot in the earth, a hollow marked by a mossy stone, and the Rey Salvaje clutched a little tighter to the heavy antler that suddenly felt so much heavier, and he attributed the weight to the inscription.

Brother, Uncle, Friend --

It felt cruel. He hadn't felt so deeply wounded since that fateful morning, at the mouth of the caverns, in the wake of Andrew's first departure, and that of Vicira - and he found difficulty swallowing the lump that formed in his throat. His call went up, short and succinct, before he laid out the broad antler over the grave's marker, and his palm brushed over its surface while he waited on family and friends to arrive, his palms folded neatly in front of him. Resurrection's dark palm found the Rey Salvaje's shoulder, and gave a reassuring pat, once, then twice, before his hands folded as well, and they murmured their soft deliberations.

#2
A knot of worry and disgust and grief -- familiar emotions from the multitude of nightmarish events that had effectively defined her life over the years -- twisted and tightened in the pit of her stomach. She ran her bandaged fingers over Luciana's creased brow.

"Oh, my daughter," she hummed quietly, rolling her thumb gently over the ridge above her eye. "Be strong." Leaning in, she pressed her lips to Luciana's forehead and rose.

Selecting a deerskin pelt that had been fashioned into a shawl, Evelyn wrapped it around her shoulders and turned to her eldest children. "You will see to the girls while I'm out," she instructed to Rafaela as Calhoun took up his mother's place next to Luci. "And you will mind your sister, now." She turned to face her youngest daughters. "Understand?"

And then, maybe to Santiago or to herself or to everyone or to no one, she added, "I will not be long."

Slipping out of the Old Mill, a home that had become a place of convalescence, and of death, Evelyn sucked in the October chill and made her way alone to The Parish where she intended to murmur a word of requiescat to one of the only Luperci around her who she honestly considered a friend.

"Mister de le Poer, Rey Salvaje," she greeted flatly, her eyes passing over them briefly.

Despite her intention to avoid it, with so few markers and his final resting place still so fresh, her son's little gravesite drew her eyes and she clenched her jaws to keep her billowing emotions shut tight. Weeping and wailing did nothing to alter reality; she would be strong and she would be steady.

Tilting her ruined face downwards, the Secui figure of one of the few who had won her trust lay cradled by the earth. Evelyn nodded her head to him in a gesture of thanks. "Que tu alma descanse en paz, mi amigo."

Her voice was nothing more than a murmur -- a whisper intended for no other but Ronnie's useless ears -- and so hushed that it could have been mistaken for a release of breath through clenched teeth.

Evelyn left the remaining survivors to their grief, and the dead to their slumber, not long afterwards, backtracking along the trail to return to her family house of anguish and anger and grief.

OOC: ;____; RIP Ronnie
[WC -- 395]
#3
There was grief for the new mother.

Grief for the death of a beloved packmate, while not all that close, they were still family through the pack. Her children were dead beside him too. Buried that night. Her black pants hugged her frame that suddenly felt barren. Her black Lacey shirt clung to her chest that was swollen with mothers milk. A single child of creamy colors and red freckles wiggled around and then stilled.

Peony placed a gentle hand over her son, her only living child. No words. A mother grieved and a father. But there was no time for the new mom to cry.

Not for the del Mar she loved and lost. Not for the children her and her lover lost. No, it was time to muster courage and face the world with big girl panties on.

Kneeling down she laid a single kiss on the child and went outside. Hosea glanced at her but she didn't respond to him, instead she knelt down and plucked a single purple flower. Trekking towards the normally bustling city, suddenly, it was eerie. Pale eyes filled with sadness. Glancing at Nazario and then at the woman- Evelyn she thought- and then another man she didn't recognize. One glance at the fresh graves for her children made her work her jaw in a painful way.

There were no words she could say, as she approached Ronnie's grave, her hands touched the antlers then laid the flower down. God, take care of mi amigo. Of mi familia. A whisper.

Turning on her heel she gave the Rey a soft I'm sorry for your loss. Just as she came quickly, the chipper and happy female was suddenly quieter. Pain painted on her face and in her eyes. Peony could only blame herself. With that she returned to a beaten path that would surely take ages to be home. Filled with nothing but grief and broken hearts.
#4
OOC: Wordtober Oct 5: apprehensive | WC: 282

IC:
With everything that had gone on recently, Auger found himself feeling rattled. Each call to the pack made him apprehensive, although he tried to hide it as much as possible so that it didn't make Notch more nervous. He'd had a rough time trying to patch members up; the injuries had been more than he was expecting to take on with his beginner skills, and the experience left him feeling a bit overwhelmed as the events set in. Notch had been unusually clingy lately, which, honestly, Auger wasn't complaining about. They were both here, safe, and physically unharmed. It was more than they could say for a lot of their pack mates.

They went together, their fingers laced together where they held hands. Normally Auger wasn't one for public displays of affection, but he could make an exception for this. Besides, their relationship wasn't a secret; they had no one to hide it from. Auger just didn't like feeling like attention was on him. It wouldn't be here, though; instead, Auger figured that everyone would be paying attention to the funeral proceedings.

He and Notch stopped where the others had gathered, though neither made a move to approach the grave. They were there to show solidarity with those who were grieving more deeply. Auger attempted to catch Santiago's gaze to give him a nod. Notch grew more tense the longer they stayed, and Auger eventually wrapped an arm around him to tuck him against his side. They did not stay long after that, heading to visit the horses where they could hopefully keep busy and take their minds off of everything that had happened.
#5

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

Specifically, this thread is marked mature because of: suicidal ideation.

OOC: Zsorthia is having a total breakdown over all this... Not handling the aftermath well *at all*. C:

IC: She had been at the fringes of the fighting. Directing the wounded to triage. She had seen what had become of her pack mates, (and of the enemy) and it had all happened so gods damned fast she felt so useless when it all boiled down. There had been so much confusion, so much chaos, and so much blood. She was still seeing red, still hearing the howls and cries...

Zsorthia clamped her golden eyes shut tight and clutched the tree she leaned against harder to steady herself, willing herself not to vomit for the third time since the funeral proceedings had begun. The mourning of her fellow Ashen in the distance fell like stones upon her heart and made her physically want to shrivel away into nothingness. Turning away and pulling the hood of her cloak tighter around her face, the crimson woman staggered away into the trees, furiously wiping away the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

Leaves crunched under foot as she hurried away from the painful scene and back towards her cabin alone by the lakeside. Once word had reached her that Ronnie had died, and that John hadn't been among those fighting, and worst of all why he hadn't... the range of emotions that she had to try to accommodate was too much. She didn't know how she was supposed to react. What she was supposed to think or how she was really supposed to feel anymore. She just wanted to end everything. The pounding in her ears, the tightening in her chest, the rage burning at her core, the clawing desire to get the hell out and run away now, now, now, the numbness that seemed to have overtaken her mind. She felt so stuck, so trapped. No, the only course of action was clear now. She knew what she had to do.... Besides, everything seemed to be under control around the place again now, and she didn't seem needed. Right?

She didn't need any special funeral rights. Alone on her couch suited her just fine...
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#6
(400+) OOC: :'(

He didn't know what to say.
The archer had always struggled with putting words to his emotions, but it was only growing more and more difficult with the turmoil. He'd gone from an adventurous youngster full of live and ignorance to a devastated father of one more experienced with death than he'd ever planned to be.
He knew at one point he'd have to get his hands dirty. The Courtrights were mercenaries and much as they were guards. They were hired hands, so it was inevitable that he would have to take a life at some point in his life.

While no one would properly prepare for that, it wasn't the attack that left him feeling so hollow now.
It was the death of others around him that should have been his to protect.

First his Uncle Ulysses, shot down without question like a lame rabbit.
Then there was poor Marilyn, who succumbed to an arrow through her throat, bleeding into the lap of her dear cousin whose cries couldn't save her no matter how loudly he pleaded with a God he now felt betrayed by.
Peony had almost been claimed, but any relief felt by the realization that she would continue on with her life was cut short by the heart-wrenching loss of their pups.

Hosea glanced over to his Braithwaite lover and watched as he gave their surviving son a tender kiss atop his head. She stepped forth and offered her condolences, but the Palisade native knew she needed them just as much as their Rey.
Nothing he could say would make things better, so he let her start home before him to give the lady time to think on her own.
He would join her in a moment.

The Courtright male stepped forth and took note of those around him; Nazario, of course, grieving with Resurrection by his side, the scarred Miss Evelyn and a few others not known by name but familiar in face all stood around and silent sorrow.
A deep breath lead to a heavy sigh as he stared at the body of Mister Ronald Winthrop before him.
He looked like he was sleeping, but Hosea had seen death too frequently now to be so hopeful.

He blinked away a tear: a tear for the lost and the broken, for the new mounds adorned with wilting flowers, and for a life that would be forever changed by recent events.
With a sympathetic nod to the Rey Salvaje, the archer turned about and followed after his mourning beloved after taking a look around him.

The cemetery was looking too full too fast.
[Image: M8AUygW.png]
So come by west by east
↞ Come by drunk or sober ↠
Tell me what you've done
Over and over
#7
Wordtober: Occult
The howl resounded to call all to the farewell.

Eusebia came and stood where it was polite to do so, her eyes resting on the corpse before them all. She was dressed properly for the occasion, but her features were stoic. Ever more did she feel like she didn't belong in this place and as those that mourned came to pay there respects, it reached deeper into her. Respectfully, she remained quiet, and purposefully did not allow her eyes to reach around the space between them all. It didn't take long for her, however, to bow her head and make her silent peace and then turn away.

As she left, the blue-eyed coydog entered the scene and drug his feet the whole way. Bee bit her tongue purposefully, the look on that man's face nothing like she'd ever see.

After he passed her, he moved with his hat veiling his eyes to the others that stood by. They all expressed their grief differently, and the quiet man chose to do so afar from the rest. The rise and fall of his chest was heavy, but not in sorrow. His temples flared with his grinding teeth and arms were tucked close to his chest. His head was down until he'd found his place to stand, and when his eyes slipped from beneath the rim of his gambler, his attention didn't rest on the body that laid before them all.

There was a lot of hot temper beneath that old hat and the chill in blue eyes that rested on his noble leaders didn't waver. Emotions, long buried, had been summoned by this whole fiasco. He didn't feel himself immune to the guilt, no. Wayne was just as guilty as the rest of them, but he wasn't going to play this stupid game. A game where the prize was right in front of them. A rigored man was on wait to a cold hole in the ground.

Were it for any other reason, Wayne could have blamed in on some occult curse or witch's spell, but the way in which death seemed to follow those faithful to the Rey Salvaje and the Comandante wasn't something to be ignored.

A bitter part of him wondered who would be next?

The other half of him knew that it'd be best to keep his distance a little bit longer. For just as long as it took for his blood to cool.

Finally, he took his hat in his hand and pressed it to his chest, but he never once removed his eyes from Del Cenere leadership. Without a word, he mourned the long gone soul who won the roulette spun by prideful men.

Wayne's had found his crown and, finally, his eyes moved their anger back to the ground. Features hidden beneath the hat, he turned away and let his fury take him someplace where he couldn't find himself in trouble deeper than he could get out of alone.

[+509]
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#8
At first, Rhodes wasn't even sure if he should be going.

It was bad enough when his nervous energy flared up around a group of people, but knowing that his mother was going to be there helped to put him at some ease. She had even agreed to not only stand off a bit to the side so it would be the two of them, but assured him that everyone was going to have their attention focused on the funeral rather than on him. He had to trust her words, and so he ended up agreeing. Nearly an adult, he had already gotten his first taste of it as a guard with his best friend, now it only seemed fitting that even as young as he was to pay his respects.

The young male could hardly believe how empty the Ugly Coyote seemed now that one of the primary assistants in running it was gone. He wondered if his family would be expecting him to step up as a replacement, something he really didn't want to do. He shook the thoughts from his head. Ronnie had been a prominent figure in his life, and they were going to honor him. He didn't have the time to be worrying over his inner thoughts.

True to her word, the Winthrop pair stood off to the side, watching the others that had come to gather. He knew his mother would want to step ahead like everyone else, and he couldn't hold her back. Giving a small tug on her arm to get her attention, he motioned his head forward. He didn't want to hold her back.

She gave him a look, but at his smile had ultimately stepped forward.

Hands moved up over his arms, giving a small shiver as he stood by himself. He stared at what he could see before closing his eyes. He hoped that Ronnie would find some peace in the afterlife, and praying that some of that peace would come back over them once again. He had to be in a better place now after his life was cut short. He would be greatly missed, and everyday he now walked in and out of the bar, the man would come to his thoughts. He lowered his head in silence, letting his words of prayer flow from his mind to the air around him.
(400) | NPCs: Dahlia
---
Rhodes Winthrop


Avatar art by Lin · Sig art by N/A
#9
(400+)

He hadn't known the individual well.
Ronnie, was it? That was what everybody called him, he recalled. As an infrequent patron of the tavern (he more hovered about the gardens and made friends with the butcher for fat) he was sure he hadn't more than a passing greeting or two with the deceased.

Still, as he was involved in this whole thing now, the witch thought it appropriate for him to show up to the funeral.

Even if it was for nothing more than to make sure that the body was properly lead to rest.
One could bury a corpse and be done, but without the right rituals, the spirit could become malicious or otherwise upset and would haunt the living who prevented his safe passage into the afterlife.
At least, that's what he mother had always taught him.

In the Prince's culture, it was practice to wear white to these sorts of events. While he wasn't one to usually wear much at all, he'd snagged a white hair fur to drape over his shoulder and adorned his dreads with plenty of white feathers.
His clay-coloured hands toyed idly with an offering to the recently departed; he carried with him a small trinket, a sigil carved into a circle of wood and a bottle of Bugaboo's best batch of cranberry wine.

His sister had tagged along, but was always a bit squeamish about the topic of death, and had hurried off after shedding a sympathetic tear or two.
She'd come with the wine and had handed it off to her younger brother to carry forth, trusting he could handle the sight better than she could.

Sugabear stepped forth and set the trinket and the bottle next to the other offerings; they say among the antler and pebbles and flowers and whatever else was piled up in honour of the fallen Ashen.
He closed his eyes, clasped his hands together, and prayed.

The Perrin du Lac mongrel called out to Catholic Saints to grant the spirit safe passage and to wish luck and comfort to his surviving family and friends. He wasn't too experienced in the speech he gave, but he felt confident enough that his wishes were heard.
With a quick nod to Nazario, a few strangers the witch didn't know by name nearby, the coywolf muttered a soft, May he rest in peace., turned on his heel and started off.
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Lover indeed they have covered with weeds
↞ My body but my soul remains 
So play louder, and faster, and stronger
Make this soil break
#10
(500+)

While he wasn't quite familiar with any other Ashen other than the small group of youngsters he happened to spend the most time around, it wasn't as if he was completely unaware of the going ons around Del Cenere.
The Butler male didn't completely understand the fued, but he could see the result just as clear as any other; packmates had gone missing, were shot with arrows, had their crops burned to the ground, and now...

He'd never been to this sort of ceremony before. He'd celebrated first shifts and the birth of new pups in Portland. There were a couple of mateship events his father had dragged him along to, though he mostly gravitated to the sidelines and mingled with the other miserable groups that would rather be anywhere else.
There were deaths in Portland, he was sure, likely natural or of some sort of sickness, but nobody that he knew by more than a name.

Sean didn't know the deceased even now, but this felt oddly more impactful. Perhaps because it was a violent death or because it was before the poor man's time? Or maybe it was because this fighter died defending his pack and the community the aspiring fisherman was now a part of. Either way, it felt... personal. Like he was obligated to attend.
Like it was only right of him now, after having disrespected the fine folk of Del Cenere before for their assumed boring and sullen attitudes about life.

Golden eyes glanced about, trying to locate somebody he knew among those gathered. There was Nazario, of course, and a few consoling him. The Butler hybrid wondered if their Rey was emotional for all Ashen deaths, or if he had some sort of close connection with the poor canine who'd met his demise settling this dispute.
Then there was a sorrowful Rhodes, the young man kind enough to give Sean a tour of the place when he'd first joined. His mother was there with him, and the Portland native offered a sympathetic smile their way.

Several others he knew only in passing had walked up and given their prayers. A scarred couple of canines, a fiery red female, a freckled mongrel, and a sullen pale coyote.
Among other strangers there was a couple of darker figures adorned with bones and beads. Sean wondered if they had some of ghoulish reason to be here, given the furs and obscure trinkets they wore.
With a grimace, he looked away from them and took a deep breath.

Would it be foolish of him to step forward as if he knew the fallen? Was that was expected of these visitors? Would he be singled out if he were to keep back and simply observe or pay respects from afar?
He wasn't exactly the praying type. Despite the Catholic upbringing of his many aunts, uncles, and cousins, since the death of his faithful Uncle Basil, he never really looked at God the same.

But he did at least hope that wherever this poor soul ended up, it was some place a little more forgiving than life could be here.
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Take my hand
Come out here with me
↞ Of course I'd never leave 
And you'd float out to sea
#11
Azade made her way through the crowd to take a look at her departed pack mate. She hadn't known him well, but she still felt a tiny pang of grief in her heart, especially when she saw those who had known him well. That he was dead wasn't news to her, she had been among the first to see the evidence. Nando had puked. With a sigh, she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and he wrapped his around her waist. It was a gloomy day for Del Cenere, that was for sure. The past few months had been gut wrenching, to say the least, and now that it was over she wasn't sure what to do with herself. Well, that was a lie. She knew exactly what she'd be doing for the next little while.

She wrapped an arm around Nando, pulling him close against her. He laid his head against her shoulder, sighing heavily. He hadn't known the man, either. But he was an empathetic man, and felt other's pain as easily as he felt his own. She was not like that. It made for a better warrior, to be able to shut out the feelings of pain that came with the death of those she wasn't close to. It made it easier for her to kill, so that she wasn't able to feel the pain that came with murdering another canine. She didn't have to imagine the widows and orphans that her path of destruction left behind. She knew that Nando had never killed anyone before, he'd told her as much, and she knew that he didn't understand how she could murder someone in cold blood. They'd fought about it before, only once, but still. Eventually they'd decided to agree to disagree, and never brought it up again. Even so, she knew that he still thought of it. Brooded, more like.

She could understand why he brooded. Murder was a horrible thing. The death of a loved one, was heartbreaking. Even the death of someone you didn't know was sad. He didn't understand why she would put someone through what the pack was going through right now, what those who loved Ronald were going through. All she could say in response is that she had to do it. Not always in self defense, she wasn't as good a canine as that. But sometimes she had to do it to gain livestock, food, wealth. Other times she had to do it to further her pack's power. Sometimes it was due to war. She refused to feel bad about it, and instead prayed for their souls in the land beyond. She did what she had to do, and she accepted that, even if Nando did not. She looked down upon Ronald's dead body, and sent her own prayer for him. She knew that he hadn't been spiritual in the same way as her, but she hoped her prayers would reach him nonetheless. She hoped that he would be safe and happy with his ancestors, and that he felt no more of the pain that accompanied the living.
(537) | NPCs: Fernando
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