[P] I Have Gone to Lie Me Down in That Holy Digger's Hole

[Joaquin Rose-Morales]

(500+) - Gravetender Occupation Thread

He hadn't needed long at the Parish to grow intrigued by the place.
The sky was a dreary sort of grey, clouded over with hints of sun rays desperately attempting to break through. Dead branches littered the freshly fallen snow, dark skeletons of once flourishing limbs that stuck out of the white blanket like something trying to break free from its grave.
The scene seemed fitting enough as the pair made their way to the All-Saint's Church sitting alone among the naked trees.

Before, the Unkindled had only heard mention of the location, having travelled out only so far with his rank restricting him to Charmingtown. He'd managed to sneak out just once before being caught by the Rey Salvaje himself, though was given a chance to explore alongside the leader rather than being reprimanded as was expected from the coyjackal mutt.
He toured briefly with Jimena, but the young Escuella girl had seemed to find her interest in hobbies outside of Joaquin's own. They saw each other on occasion, giving but a nod while passing, but that was all these days.

Otherwise, there weren't many trips outside of the hub. Once, twice, a few times for pack gatherings, but nothing for a while.
With the chill of winter came the urge to bundle up with furs and refuse to leave the Inn. The Rose-Morales youth was used to drops in temperature, his own hometown experiencing chills that were even too cold for snow. But this was different. It was wet and lasted far longer than what he was used to.

¿Dónde está? El cementerio, quiero decir. He muttered, looking over to the company that escorted him to the Parish and all it had to offer. Mention of the cemetery was what piqued the morbid male's interest, wondering if the Ashen cared for their dead in a similar fashion to Truth or Consequences. Though, the only chance he had at experiencing a funeral more intimately than watching a procession through a window in their adobe home was taken from him as he was banished from the New Mexican town, still blood soaked and trembling.

Maybe he shouldn't care so much about comparing the ways of Del Cenere to that of his past home. This was home now and he would have to assimilate if he wished to not to continue on feeling like an outsider. But there was something irresistible about it, innate almost as his hometown being all he knew during the most formative months of his life.
The graveyard. He translated later on, aware that he may not have been understood.

He might have come off as a little impatient, especially considering the intended destination. He did not consider how his rare enthusiasm would come off in the moment.
Surely they'd stumble upon it soon, as they rounded one side of the church. Joaquin wouldn't wish to leave without at least taking a look into the inside of the building, maybe warming up indoors before they headed back to their room in the Inn. But for now, his heart was set on seeing their collection of those dearly departed.

[Cassidy Sinclaire]

The path towards the Parish had always been seemingly out of place with it’s quiet calm, largely untouched by the general feel of chaos that encompassed all Charmingtown’s hustle and bustle lifestyle, or even Irving’s busybodied individuals. The earth seemed to come to an untouched standstill, all hushed and unperturbed. The small paddock a small collective of the Gang’s horses was white with snow, untouched as they had been turned out towards Tierra Amplia – save for Taja, and her yearling colt, Atascadero. The two moved as a unified collective about the pen, heads down as they nosed through the ice for what sparse vegetation dared to spring up this time of year.

It was a welcome reprieve. Out here, in the less populated areas of the Ganglands, Cassidy could find some sense of peace.

Partly, he supposed, this is why he had enjoyed Joaquin’s company as well – the hybrid was dour, and morose, and morbid, yet, largely unobtrusive. He did not carry with him the weight of preconception, and, whilst cagey about his own past, he had looked upon Cassidy with nothing but fairness. There was no Del Mar blood there -

Just Cassidy - wholly, and utterly, a Sinclaire.

His ear twitched as he heard that Spanish lilt, uttered quietly as the coyjackal often spoke, and whilst not entirely fluent in Spanish himself, he caught the gist.

”Aqui.” he answered plainly, gesturing with his hand to follow out towards the imposing silhouette the All-Saints Church cut in the distance against the sloping hillsides. The stone plinths stood the test of time, each covered in hoarfrost and winter, and, past them, smaller plots – fresher, and evidently Luperci made. Come spring, these would be flush with flowers, manicured and pristine.

Cassidy ventured into the rows, and hesitated near a grave, the tatters of what was once a neckerchief weighted down by the elements drawing his attention, before he stooped a little lower to adjust it properly atop its cross, and fingers brushed away what he could of the crust of snow that swallowed the tines of antlers.

”Well,” he started, placing his hands on his hips as he straightened back up and looked towards Joaquin. ”This is it. Pretty neat, right? It’s quiet, y’know, this time of year. Most people are driven inside by the cold n’ all.”

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[Joaquin Rose-Morales]

(600+)

Keeping company was unexpected.
While he had been quiet social growing up in Truth or Consequences, he'd grown into a solitary being with little to say and even less to carry with him. He recalled as a pup running from door to door, casa to casa, and calling out to the other pups his age, gathering a horde of the youths to run about the dusty village that was decorated with ribbon and paper lanterns and marigolds. Paintings could be found upon the chipping adobe homes, scenes of flowers and sunshine and animals of all sorts.

He remembered following his brother, who was the self-declared leader of their adventurous group, falling back to keep an eye on his sister so that she didn't feel left out when the other easily outran her.
Back in Truth or Consequences, he'd visit the town's abuela, though nobody was quite certain who's grandmother she actually was. To everybody in the place, she was simply abuela, and treated all her visitors like family, ordering them to clean up and rewarding them with treats.

When his mayoridad[i/] had come along, there was a huge gathering. There always was to those sorts of events, but he recalled feeling so full of love and admiration as his odd eyes scanned over the crowd of proud faces. These were his friends, his [i]familia, and all that he knew.

But on the night of that very same day, they had turned to... nothing.

He had been banished from his home with nothing and nobody to accompany him. Had it not been for his sympathetic sister, who risked her own status among the town by helping him, he doubted he would have made it where he was now.
The urge to form relationships along the way was nonexistent. He had already before worked to be a part of a close-knit community, only for those same trusted individuals to restrain him, brand him, and send him to what they all assumed would be his death.

There were a number of strangers Joaquin had met on his travels, some kind and generous, others standoffish and dismissive. Very occasionally did he come across anybody downright rude, but he treated them all the same; he did not ask questions outside of where he was, and where he should go. He did not care about these wandering souls, as he knew he meant nothing to them.

It wasn't until he met Cassidy that his attitude started to change.

Joaquin rather enjoyed the other's presence, as difficult as it was for him to show it. Cassidy was quiet, but determined. He was friendly, but able to stand his ground when necessary. There was an aura of appeal that surrounded him, drawing the wayward ofrenda in like a moth to a flame. He was the first to pique the Rose-Morales' youth's curiosity, and proved helpful to have around on multiple occasions.

Such as now, as the Sinclair Ashen presented the graveyard.

Joaquin took notice of his Spanish reply and tilted his head some, as if giving some slight nod. He wasn't the most expressive mongrels, usually showing his feelings through minor movements that may not be noticed by others not already acquainted with the coyjackal.
Ah. He uttered, eyes tracing over the crooked antlers and markers that filled the area.

Si, it's... peaceful. He finished with a proper nod, finding the word appropriate enough. Another reason he felt comfort in Cassidy's company was the man's unwavering loyalty shown so far; he didn't abandon Joaquin when it was revealed how dark or obscure he was. In fact, it seemed welcomed.

The Unkindled started through the cemetery, shaking his head some at the wear the winter likely brought along, It could use some care, though, don't ya think? He asked, before looking over to Cassidy, Or no?

[Cassidy Sinclaire]

Cassidy had always been far from a polyglot; Spanish had been his father’s tongue, but given their lack of in-depth interaction, and he had not picked up on it in whole outside of slang or small snippets of conversation. The reign of the Del Mar had since passed. Cassidy was merely the byproduct of a bygone era, from Palisade to Del Cenere.

As such, he had grown to at least be mildly perceptive of others, dodging the discomfort of being known; Bastards held little value, he learned. Sometimes, he sorely missed Rembrandt, and the understanding he so bestowed upon Cassidy’s wayward youth and growing conception of the world at large; while the discovery of his own identity was not entirely grasped, his uncle was supportive, nonetheless.

Perhaps that held true as to why, and how, he took so well to Joaquin’s company – two outcasts, two minor menaces, navigating a strange and at times cruel universe of circumstance.

Cassidy planted his hands on his hip as he looked over frosty gravesites, barren and sad looking this time of year; come spring, the flowers would sprout anew, and continue on as they always had, but Joaquin had valid points.

”You’re right,” Cassidy started with a curt nod. ”Could use a little patching up so things aren’t in… Total disarray come thaw – maybe we could trim back summ’a these dead stems, dust off frost, straighten things up.”

He respected the dead. He had been exposed to it young, after all.

”What do you think it’s like?” Cassidy asked as he moved to the next plot to adjust its décor and the protections laden on its marker. ”Being dead, an’ all.”

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