votivescholars | The Engagement Ceremony of Viatorus and Ingirun

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The Engagement Ceremony of Viatorus and Ingirun

Welcome to the world of the Durants...

Guests from the Nexus are met by an Isidor who is still dressed for business when she PINpoints them directly to the venue. She is on a mission and pleasantries are swiftly exchanged so that she can give instructions and explain how the day is going to go. The first thing to hit them is that it's hot, and bright. They are now in France, Isidor tells them, her narrative changes appropriately as she leads them from the small stone building, through immaculate gardens and towards a sprawling palace which she insists is small for what it is. This is the home of Gnonyma Durant, her grandmother. A 17th Century French palace once owned by royalty but was gifted to her family as thanks for 'a service' which Isidor says was so private that even the mage's journal doesn't detail what it was.

The air is dry and still, which makes the cool shade of indoors a pleasant relief. Like the ornate facade, the interior of the building is lined with intricate mouldings; decorated with impressive portraits; painted in bright, colourful shades; and filled with flowers and draping fabric. There is plenty of space, a fact emphasised by tiled floors that amplify each step and word. It looks as though almost every room is being used, from the way all the doors are held open for the steady flow of traffic. They are, however, let through the building and out another door. It's the quickest way to where seats sit lined up to face a gazebo decorated with ribbons and flowers that stands in front of a pond that might as well be a lake. Some people might notice the air above them ripple slightly, which certainly has nothing to do with the perfectly ornate poles at each corner of the seating area.

There are already plenty of people milling about. Servants stride from one place to another, expertly staying out of the way of the guests. There are some men and women who are dressed well for the occasion, but like the servants they stay out of the way and scan the area repeatedly, making no attempts to engage with the guests - security, judging by their earpieces. Members of the Durant family are easy to spot. They move in groups or pairs, often getting headed off by people looking to talk to them. A large majority of them also sport sashes of either red or purple with gold trim and ornate pins that vary from person to person. This, Isidor explains, is how you spot a patron and an accomplished scholar, based on the red or purple respectively. Viatorus is not yet an accomplished scholar, which is why they have no sashes. Members of Runa's family are equally easy to spot for those that know her. They would be the large group of tall, golden haired men and women with the distinctive Swedish accents happily talking to anyone and everyone.

After guiding them to their seats she tells them that the ceremony will be another twenty minutes and takes her leave to go and sort out the other numerous things on her endless list. Nobody bothers them while they wait. Everyone is too busy spotting old friends or making their way to their seats. It's a good time to enjoy the scenery. There is a small collection of musicians with harps, violins and flutes to one side. Even the breeze is smelling sweet with the perfume of the bouquets.

Within fifteen minutes Viatorus appears in a tailored suit of light grey and deep purple. He is closely followed by an older, stocky looking man in a black suit and purple tie, and sporting a red and black sash that is even more ornate than any others. Whatever the man is saying to him Viatorus barely gets more of a wave of recognition in to his friends before he's being guided to the gazebo and kept there. Shortly after he's joined by a young man and two women with tanned skin and black hair dressed in simple, but high quality clothes of purple, draping fabric. They look as serious as the man beside Viatorus. That is about the time Isidor reappears in more appropriate attire. She in turn heralds the appearance of a woman who shares her features, dressed in elegant gold and black, who is accompanied by a man whose black suit and purple tie are considerably more simple than his purple sash. Its intricacy matches that of the red one worn by the man standing next to Viatorus. The mood seems to shift at the appearance of these last two guests, becoming quieter, expectant. The Durants gather together, and Viatorus' fidgeting increases tenfold as they exchange words. The men with the sashes and the woman in gold take their seats, many of the guests follow suit.

The ceremony begins...

The young man in purple walks with his staff to stand at the head of the aisle and asks that everyone takes their seats. Exactly twenty minutes after the Nexus guests were shown their seats, the ceremony begins. The young man introduces himself as the high priest of Despoina and welcomes them to the union of the two families Durant and Nyström. As it is a ceremony to mark the union of two families with two sets of tradition and two sets of gods to honour, this will be a merging of these two cultures. It will be a handfasting ceremony of the Old Ways, he explains. This means that the couple will be as man and wife for a year and a day, and after that time they must choose if they wish to marry or separate. The guests now better informed, the priest stands back under the gazebo where a nervous Viatorus and patient Isidor stand waiting. On cue, the musicians start playing unfamiliar, but pleasant music to introduce the arrival of Ingirun dressed in white and accompanied by a rounded, red cheeked man, and followed by a woman who must certainly be one of her sisters. Once she was beside Viatorus, Ingirun's father sat down and the ceremony began.

The priest talked of uniting the two families, naming the virtues of both, as he got the bride-and-groom-to-be to hold hands which he bound in ribbons. He then took them through their vows before invoking the gods and goddesses to bless the union. The mixture of Greek and Norse deities made for a complicated blessing that might have been compared to seeking the approval of two powerful families. With wishes given, the priest unwrapped their hands and had the betrothed drink from the same cup. All in all it was a short ceremony as ceremonies go. A few more blessings were given and then the couple were prompted to kiss to seal the pact, which a bright red Viatorus did, very timidly. Luckily that only made Runa beam more brightly than she already was.

Dinner was in a large hall with close family at the head of the room and everyone else seated at round tables. Every position was carefully chosen, of course. The inevitable speeches came from the father of the bride (who rambled joyously about how happy he was to see his daughter with such a fine young man) and the mother of the groom (who gently, warmly, welcomed Runa into the family and spoke of how proud she and his father were). Drinks were plentiful, as were the courses. There were six in total with a selection of each: Appetisers, soup, fish, the main course, dessert, and a palate cleanser. No one will be going hungry tonight, that's a certainty.

After dinner it's Isidor who stands to say a few last words. She thanks everyone for coming and instructs them to enjoy the evening and all the festivities which "will go on at least until dawn". With that, guests are bid to go and enjoy the entertainment filling the palace.

And now for the party...

There isn't a single place that isn't being used for the party. The gardens have pleasant music playing in them, chairs and tables laid out with cushions and blankets for people to lounge in. One of the largest halls is set out for dancers and their spectators to enjoy live musicians that will play ballroom music for the first part of the evening and be replaced by a band that plays modern music for the second. There is a small room of bookshelves and leather armchairs where men congregate to sip whiskey. Rooms with couches and chairs have people moving in and out of them joining and starting conversations. The priest tends to three statues of goddesses that stand at the end of one room. Here he collects gifts and offerings for the couple's happy future. A man with a perfect smile enthralls a crowd with stories that are only exciting because of the way he tells them. A demure woman facilitates a conversation between straight backed men with chiseled features and shorter tanned men who look equally as disciplined. Servants are found throughout, bringing drinks and snacks to anyone who asks or so much as looks as if they're considering either.

((Feel free to backtag, threadhop, start threads, look for more NPCs, whatever you like! If you're unsure of something, looking for more details, or want to plot then you know the drill - Send a message my way and we'll chat!

Note about gifts: It will say on your character's invitation that gifts are optional and it is suggested that a gift to the gods/goddesses would be more than suitable instead.))

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You'll fit right in here. Harrowheart's lips purse and eyebrows lower in disappointment. He said he didn't want to sound like he belonged with the people at this party! The guy doesn't have to rub it in! There's a little delay before he half-heartedly laughs. Being undead doesn't make him learned or bright of suave, clearly. He's certainly no vampire.

"Napoleonic," he repeats in the lowest whisper. It's a new word he's just learned and he's trying to commit its (probably wrong) definition to memory.

"A wraith?" he asks, then huffs a more sincere laugh. "Everyone wants to call me a draugr. I'm a death knight, somethin' from another plane. But I'm curious about you." He squints like he's trying to hear an answer that hasn't come yet. "No one on your world acts like there's any undead who can think. So that makes you?..."

He can't even begin to guess, honestly.

The man's eyes flash and his lips crawl into a broad smile. "A secret. Isn't that exciting?"

A beat passes and then he interrupts the thread of tension with a laugh that shows off his small but noticeable fangs. Once he's done he clears his throat and then flattens his cravat. "I'm a vampire, of which there are many, many types. Most of them are little more than mindless, starving beasts. Those who can think are sensible enough to stay out of the spotlight. That goes for all undead, really. And to the living, the thought of the dead being able to think and feel is... uncomfortable. Best for them not to worry about it."

This guy is ominous! And yet, somehow – probably against better judgement – Harrowheart can't be too perturbed by him. He's another undead, after all. There's got to be some unspoken solidarity between them. And knowing what little he knows about vampires (and it is very little) he's well-convinced he's got nothing this man could want.

Harrowheart smiles lopsidedly at the vampire's advice. "Little late for me to stay out of the spotlight, but I'll do you a solid and not tell anyone I met you. And I... Noticed that, yeah. That they can't handle us bein' people in our own right. It's different from how it is on my world. There, they say we can be but that we can't belong. Here, they think we can't be at all. If it weren't Viatorus' big evenin' I'd'a clocked that Poenia girl for tellin' me I gotta be someone's thrall."

Having said it, though, Harrowheart winces. He tries for a queasy smile and shakes his head. "I probably embarrassed myself sayin' that just now. You don't look like the sorta undead who takes part in violent things. You got a better look about you, like a... Vault master at a bank." He plucks at his own collar and nods the vampire's way. "It's that thing you got on."

Only after saying that does something occur to him. His eyebrows twitch and he quickly asks, "Just a minute now. Other undead? What sorts are there on Earth?..."

"That's appreciated," he purrs when Harrowheart promises not to tell anyone about their little encounter. In fact, the more Harrowheart speaks, the more interested the vampire looks. It's an expression that is hard to place on his face. The look of a vampire hungry for blood, a scholar starved for new knowledge, or a man reveling in the dose of camaraderie. It all looks much the same on a pale, fanged face like his.

"All men have violence in them, dead or not," he says reassuringly. Though the encouragement may be partly due to the compliment on his cravat which he is clearly pleased by.

Harrowheart's question turns the vampire's expression from amused to thoughtful. "All kinds. It depends on whose classification you work with, but there are ghosts, wraiths, restless spirits, zombies, flesh golems-" He tips his head and shakes it disapprovingly. "Utterly grotesque."

Putting that aside he continues, "But when it comes to the living dead who still have their bodies and their wits it's really down to vampires, liches and some very, very rare cases of animated corpses."

Mention of liches catch Harrowheart's attention immediately. If he were living, it might be a warning sign of his personality. As it stands, he might as well be recognizing the name of an old friend after ages apart.

He takes a step closer and curiously asks, "So why are you here? An undead alone with all these breathers and a necromancer lurkin' around downstairs... You must know someone here, someone who'll keep you safe. Lieselotte?"

The more he talks, the more things begin to occur to him. "Is she your livin' friend? Are you her family? Or are you two..."

He hesitates to say it aloud, but the tilt of his head and the attentive expression in his eyes might suggest the question he leaves unasked.

The unasked question leaves silence between them for the time it takes the vampire to realise no conclusion is incoming. His mouth twitches and he looks over the Death Knight's face. "The things your eyebrows say… No. No. Lieselotte is a talented hostess, that is all."

"I should ask what you are doing here," he says instead of answering Harrowheart's questions. "I do not know much about Death Knights, only what the people whisper, but is it normal for you to surround yourself with the living? I think every undead being who has any wits left needs a goal, something to hunger for. For vampires that is usually blood, or life, or sex. But you…" He tilts his head, dark eyes staring deeply into Harrowheart's bright lights. "What does a Death Knight hunger for?"

Harrowheart's immediate response when asked why he's here is to laugh, a sound of both surprise and entertainment. "I'm here to celebrate for Viatorus and Runa. They're my friends. Honest. Where I come from, the dead and the livin' can be friends, if we all mind certain rules. About a quarter of my world's undead, I think it'd be pretty damn hard for us to avoid the livin', really. We're useful to 'em, too. We do things they can't – physically and morally. We don't need rest, or food, or air, and we heal right up with a little magic. All we need – all we hunger for – is killin'. That's what a death knight hungers for. Our runeblades hunger for souls, and our bodies hunger for pain."

He tilts his head curiously and says, "Is that anything like what you heard people whisperin' about me? I figure it is. Seems like everyone everywhere knows that the undead cause destruction to stay alive. It's just Runa and Viatorus who don't mind conveniently forgettin' that fact." There's a moment's hesitation before he uncertainly adds, "Isidor, too. Maybe."

"The Archon's own daughter would not be such a poor patron to not realise that. His son, on the other hand..." The vampire waves a hand and nods.

"People whisper all kinds of things. A lot of it is foolishness, but there are some things worth listening to." Here he pauses to look Harrowheart up and down. "Someone said that you darkness clings to you. Another that they have caught glimpses of a terrifying rage within you..."

He says all of that as if it's unimportant, if curious. Somehow he doubts Harrowheart will say much about what other people think of him.

"I still do not understand," he admits, sounding genuinely perplexed. "You hunger to kill, and you're stronger, better than the living... Why befriend them?"

Harrowheart huffs disappointedly and puts a hand on his hip when he hears the rumors. "Shoot, I already know I'm full of shadow and rage, that's what bein' a death knight's all about. Tell me somethin' I don't know. I wanted to hear some good rumors! Some fake stories! Some scary lies! Now I'm gonna have to go tell the Nyströms somethin' fake and spooky about me, get folks thinkin' I'll curse 'em with a glance or steal their firstborn if they fall asleep in my line of sight or somethin'." He mutters another disappointed 'shoot' with a shake of his head.

But that next question brings his attention immediately back to reality, and seriously so. And still, he can't help his first reaction to be an incredulous little scoff-laugh. Is this guy for real? He searches the vampire's face for a second or two before he realizes that, yes, he is.

"Why do you go to fancy parties? Why do you stand around drinkin' wine makin' conversation with strange undead? 'Cause it's fun, right?" Maybe not, but Harrowheart isn't a man of great schemes or social machinations. He's not yet accustomed to people attending parties with people they hate just to get in on the 'know' and curry favor with powerful people they don't care at all about.

"The livin' are fun in all sortsa ways," he says, perhaps the most cheerful now than he has been all night. "Everything you do is new and excitin' to them. They'll riddle over you, they'll wanna know all about you. You can offend 'em with jokes about death, and you can surprise 'em with just a little kindness. They get curious, and the more they learn, they start to get attached. They think you're real special when they learn to be your friend. They'll stand up for you to other breathers when you can't stand up for yourself. And for the ones you don't like?..." A greasy grin spreads across his face and he says, "Well, it's a whole lotta fun scarin' the shit out of 'em. The only ones you really gotta avoid are the ones who don't like you and ain't scared of you. Otherwise, they're a real hoot."

He leans in slightly, curious and somehow sympathetic. There might even be a hint of pity in the tilt of his eyebrows and the pinch of his confused smile. "You really ain't got any breather buddies? Then you gotta know other undead, right? You don't live all alone all the time, do you?..."

"I don't listen to those kinds of stories anymore," the vampire drawls tiredly. "They say those kinds of things about mages, nevermind creatures of the living dead. You can hunt out that nonsense yourself if you enjoy it. It bores me."

Harrowheart might feel more comfortable with speaking to this man. He doesn't blink or breathe while he listens to the Death Knight speak. He barely moves at all. Instead he watches, taking in all he can about Harrowheart's reply. In fact he's so focused on the other that the vampire seems a little surprised to have questions turned back on him.

With a small, passing frown he waves away Harrowheart's well intentioned queries. "I have sired others, and am well connected with the living and the dead. I am as social as it is wise to be."

"But I hear talk as if you spend so much time with the Archon's children. True, we have time to spare, but for the living?" He lifts an eyebrow, looking at Harrowheart with uncertainty. "They will die soon enough. Why do you risk the pain of loss? They must have a purpose for you, or give you something, perhaps...? Do Death Knights naturally seek out powerful people? For solidarity, or leadership, maybe?"

Harrowheart's smile wavers. He's not following. The man asked him the same question twice in a row, and he's at a loss for what to say or do now. Only this time it comes with the reality of it all. The reality that the undead recognize and the living, through naiveté or a need for comfort, ignore.

"They give me... Happiness?" Light, he feels so foolish saying it like that. "They give me someone to care about. They give me a reason to look forward to the future. Somethin' to live for."

He shakes his head slowly, sadly, as he considers the vampire. "I know Isidor and Viatorus are gonna die someday. I know all the livin' folks I love – my parents, my brothers and sisters – they're all gonna die some day. And... It hurts. Course it hurts. But I don't plan on livin' forever either. I'm already here longer than I wanted to be. When the folks I care about are gone, then I'll be gone, too. And I know that don't go over too good with most undead, but they're my friends, and it's my life, and those are my choices."

"So, no, I don't care about their power, or their leadership. No offense to them, but they ain't really the sorts of folks I'd want to lead me, and there's nothin' I can do with their power. I don't want their money, and their name means nothin' to me. I like 'em. That's all. If you don't understand it, I can't explain it to you."

And he's not sure he wants to linger on it, either. With some reluctance he asks, "So why are you here?"

A small breath escapes the vampire, one he'd been holding onto as he listened. It has the vaguest hint of disappointment in its tone, as does the twitch of his brow. Both pass as quickly as they appear.

It appears as if Harrowheart's distraction will be allowed this time. The vampire holds up a hand (with nails that ought to be trimmed, really) to show off a large signet ring with a dragon engraved on it. It's a familiar symbol. Even the wedding invitations had the Durant crest on them. "I'm here to support family." He lowers his hand to take a sip of wine again. "They don't have to know I'm here for me to support them... Not all of them, at least."

Harrowheart's eyebrows rise, and as he takes a stunned step back he also takes in a sharp breath of air. Wordlessly he mouths, 'Undead Durant...' This, more than anything tonight, has shaken him.

And as soon as he's got his wits about him again he steps forward, stopping just short of taking up the vampire's personal space. His eyes are bright, alight with a renewed curiosity. His hands are twitchy, like he's desperate to touch this man, to feel him, to be sure he's real. His lips part, but it's a while before he knows what he wants to say and what he ought to keep inside.

"You're a Durant," he finally says. It's such an obvious fact on the surface, but a man from such a lineage must surely understand the implications. The vampire was born a Durant, certainly, but in Harrowheart's opinion continues to be one.

And now, now he's just brimming with questions. "Who knows about you? When were you alive? Wh– What's your name?" Light, he hadn't even asked that! How incredibly rude!

It has been an exceptionally long time since someone looked as shocked as this about his family name. Especially after his revealed vampirism passed with barely a batted eyelid. He can't help it, a pleased smile sprawls across his face while he enjoys the sight unfolding before him.

Only after Harrowheart has gasped and gushed does he speak again. His long fingers rest on his chest, gesturing to himself. "I am a Drachenblut. Mislav Drachenblut. The Durants are my descendants and distant relatives, Drachenbluts in all but name."

"And I'm, hm, a little over five hundred years old." His fingers drum once against his chest. Mislav goes quiet for a moment then, and sets down his glass on the banister rail. This gives him the freedom to slink closer. His voice lowers, hushes to an eerie quiet. "The Elders, the Archon and his patrons, and a few select individuals know of my existence. Discretion is more valuable than gold in a world like this one."

"Drachenblut," Harrowheart repeats quietly, still awed by this turn of events. "Dragon blood. Five hundred years..." In a rushing sigh he whispers, "Light."

And suddenly his surprise and wonderment melt away, his eyes stop their frantic darting across the vampire's features, and he becomes thoughtfully still. Then he leans in, lips parted, and for a moment he's hesitant. He knows this question is pointless, knows it must have been asked of Mislav dozens if not hundreds of times in his long life, and yet...

"Were you alive when Nandhuglynd was around? Did you know any of the original Drachenbluts?..."

"My grandfather was Volknand Drachenblut, a son of Nandhuglynd himself." He speaks with no small amount of pride, and a hint of amused curiosity. "I did not meet the great dragon, but I heard tales of him often."

He tilts his head, watching Harrowheart thoughtfully. "Did the Durants tell you about Nandhuglynd? Not many people these days know his name."

Excuse Harrowheart's complete honesty of expression – he's beyond stunned. Wide-eyed, cheek in one hand, mouth open, he stares at the vampire with no hidden amount of awe. "Your grandfather," he sighs. It seems it's all he can do around this man, whisper in quiet surprise and repeat what he's hearing.

"Isidor told me!" he's quick to reveal. "She mentioned that her family – your family! – has dragon blood. I told her that there's dragons on my world, too, but I never heard of any part-dragon humans, and I asked a little more. She said that Nandhuglynd was her ancestor, but that he disappeared hundreds of years ago. No one knows where he is, but..."

His eyes drift away and his new emotions take the place of his previous surprise. Embarrassment, self-consciousness, uncertainty. It's a while before he admits, "I'm real curious about him. Not for bad reasons or nothin', which... Probably ain't easy to trust, I know, but... He's a real kinda mystery to me? I really wanna know what happened to him. Why he disappeared, if he's alive or if he ain't, what drew him to the family in the first place, everything." And then as an after-thought he tacks on a meek, "Sir." He considers you an expert on the subject, Mislav.

It looks like Harrowheart's fascination is an easy thing to forgive. Mislav's chest rises and his chin lifts in pride with Harrowheart's whispered awe. Although he shifts his weight so that he looks as majestic as a lean, sickly looking gaunt fellow can look, he'd deny any accusations of posing.

"My father, and my grandfather were both firm believers that a man should be independent and strong. We were expected to go our own ways, paired as scholar and patron, of course." After the anecdote he pauses to breathe. It's hard to tell if it's to give him a moment to think, or because he forgets how to breathe properly. "By the time I was born Nandhuglynd had gone. I only know what I was told, and what I saw. His influence was considerable. I often think that if I had not been as close to him I would not be as welcome as I am in this place."

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug and takes a sip of wine. "Your curiosity is well placed. I have known men to wonder over far more foolish things." Placing his glass down again he raises a finger. "But! These are family secrets. If others knew the great dragon was dead, they would not fear his wrath if they should murder his line. If others knew he was living, they would hunt him down. For sport, or weaponry, for his heart or his soul."

"You know how strange it is hearin' someone related to Isidor and Viatorus talk about bein' independent and goin' their own way? That's the last thing they want these days. Five hundred years after Nandhuglynd they're all concerned with stayin' on the path their 'family destiny' put 'em on." He breathes a heavy sigh – because he does still breathe, decoratively at least – and shrugs one shoulder sheepishly. "I can't wait 'til you get a chance to meet 'em and teach 'em a thing or two. And..."

Despite how innocuous his thoughts are he can't help but pause. Undead like Mislav – or like Harrowheart imagines Mislav is – don't generally appreciate suggestions like these. And yet he can't help saying, "Maybe when it's their turn to lead you'll feel welcome again? They're already friends with one undead, and family means everything to 'em... I-Idunno. If you let it, the future might be real different for you once you aren't a secret to 'em anymore, that's all." A moment's pause before he quietly adds, "I won't be the one to tell 'em, though. That's news for someone else to deliver."

And then he leans, twisting to look around the halls to ensure they're still alone. They've been speaking together for a long while, and anyone could come along and catch them. A secret can't stay hidden under these kinds of circumstances.

Turning back once more and with some hint of urgency he says, "I got so much I wanna ask you, so much I wanna talk about, undead to undead, but this don't feel like the place. Will I ever see you again? Soon, I mean?"

Mislav raises an eyebrow at Harrowheart while the Death Knight rambles. If he were to stop for something longer than a sigh he might get the impression that the vampire has opinions on those matters. Though that's not really a surprise. Durants and their bloodline have opinions on everything.

Still, he can't resist a small huff of, "If they lead."

But Harrowheart is distracting him just as quickly. He doesn't seem overly concerned about anyone sneaking up on them, but it's... sweet of Harrowheart to care. "That depends on you. You are the foreigner who needs to travel." He hesitates then, and thoughtfully continues, "If you arrange to stay a night in this world I will find out and meet you."

Harrowheart laughs like he's in on a secret joke. "If I get to stay a night here in the future I got a plan for how to spend it... But breathers sleep, and I don't have to. Someday I'll be around when none of them are awake, and you and I, we'll meet each other then."

He nods respectfully at Mislav as way of a goodbye, but as he goes to return to the party he can't help glancing back.

An undead Durant...

Undead Durant? Whatever is he talking about? When Harrowheart looks back he will see no one and no sign there was ever anyone there. Not even the smallest stirring in the shadows...

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The Engagement Ceremony of Viatorus and Ingirun

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All of my icons mashed into one, if possible, as Harrowheart experiences All Emotions

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