aungier | All Soul's Day- November 2nd, 1888

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All Soul's Day- November 2nd, 1888

Date: November 2nd, 1888
Time: 10:00am - 10:30 am (service- characters may stay for longer, though)
Location: The chapel
Characters: Everyone [OPEN/~~CLOSED~~]

Summary: The household gathers together in the chapel for a short All Soul's Day service.
Warnings: None.

The Valdemar family are not, by and large, particularly religious. "My faith," proclaimed Lady Valdemar once, to the horror of her husband's parents, "lies while science and science alone. If God should have a hand in that, so be it. I couldn't care less either way."

Yet here they were, gathered together in silent prayer before the altar and the glassy purview of King Solomon and a host of angels, huddled in the dark pews at the front as if in collective repentance- not that Her Ladyship seems particularly repentant. From the slant of her shoulders to her poker-straight back to the upward jut of her chin, all of her bearing is far too proud for a humble servant; she watches her husband take to the lectern with an almost feline boredom, thin lips pursed. Even a servant watching from a second floor balcony might note the smear of carmine on them, as if brushed on for the sole purpose of better expressing her disdain.

"The righteous perish, and no one ponders it in his heart; devout men are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil." Lord Valdemar seems uncomfortable with so many eyes upon him, and he studiously avoids his wife's stare. He dabs at his brow with a handkerchief before continuing. "Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death."

His voice, though low and quiet, echoes throughout the space with a new importance that could only have been built into place by a canny architect with an ear for dramatics. A Madonna relief rolls her eyes piously to the ceiling; a spider inches its way down her shoulder and drops onto the organ, silent for years now.

The final stretch now. "I live in a high and holy place, but also with him who is contrite and lowly in spirit, to revive the spirit of the lowly and to revive the heart of the contrite," he finishes- and, the bible closes in a dusty thump. With another mop of the brow, he murmurs something pleading about feeling faint before bolting for the hallway wearing a martyred look.

Lady Valdemar sniffs. "A migraine," she informs no one in particular, rising from the pew. She makes it sound like an accusation. "His health is so tenuous these days."

But for all of her snide comments, that she is the one left rather than her husband does allow for a little breathing room. If anyone should want to light a candle or speak a silent prayer of their own, now is the time.

[This is an open post for all of the household. Threads may either take place during, before or after the service. Lady Valdemar will also be available to speak with, assuming your character is either of the right station or has an excuse to do so- say so in your post's subject line if that would interest you.]

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L is used to the feeling that someone is watching him. Through the course of his life, servants have often been silently omnipresent, and there's also the matter of being sure that he has the attention of the research assistants. Still, sometimes he feels a prickle at the back of his neck, and he's always in the habit of scanning the room to catch anything he's missed.

The small boy doesn't interrupt him, but does catch L's gaze with his own, and it's hard to miss. L pauses, then bends to look at the child, not quite looming over him.

"And who do you belong to?"

It's not hard to guess. Violet eyes are extremely rare.

"Oh, of course you can. I certainly do." That time the amusement is a little more obvious. "And I didn't take offense, I assure you. I doubted your offer had anything to do with any of our behavior. Still, unless you wish to be paid for your services, and spurn the Master's hospitality, I might in the future keep such offers to yourself."

Not only might the staff be annoyed, but he'd likely get laughed at by the family and other guests. Lyall likes the humility the fellow shows, certainly, and he'd rather spare him that embarrassment. He's mild enough to not make him feel it too badly; others, not quite so much.

He opens the chapel door, holding it for Warsman, and any other household members following behind them.

"I cannot for the life of me remember what I liked so much about it, though it is a lovely painting, and my head ached abominably the morning afte--it is not funny, at all," he adds, a little sourly, though the frown quickly fades away, replaced by curiosity.

"I should think it requires a little more than luck to be a boxer, particularly one so successful; I quite regret never being able to attend a fight, now that I know what I have missed. What are they like?"

It wasn't a servant or student that stopped him this time. Robin caught up to him as he passed under the arched doorway and entered the hallway, long legs carrying him on several strides to close the gap. "Terribly busy today?" he put a hand to his shoulder to stop him, "I suspect that if you have no time for God you'll have none for me."

His tone was conversational but it disguised how closely he had been watching him throughout the service. Was it devotion that kept him so still and focused? He had never appeared especially fanatical about religion and one glance at her ladyship’s almost scornful expression throughout the proceedings was enough to tell anyone that he hadn’t married into such a family either. But then again, he was hardly an expert on the subject, as much as he had tried to remedy this recently.

Those first few months, they were more strangers than brothers, connected by half a bloodline that he had otherwise severed himself from, like a surgeon cutting out a tumour- or so it had felt at the time. It had been easy enough to declare himself estranged when he was on another continent to the rest of the family but it made for a humbling return.

Maybe he should have taken the opportunity to offer the Lord a grateful prayer for having mercy enough to take their father before he attempted it.

If he had any more reservations, for the moment at least, they were eased by the new lilt in his voice and the way that his eyes appeared to soften. It had always fascinated him how a mask could express so much with so little but he took a different pleasure in it now- and not a little pride at his progress in learning to read those subtle expressions.

Robin smiled encouragingly. "Excellent. I have yet to fully acquaint myself with them either but I'm sure we'll manage between the two of us," he said, "We should use the folly as a landmark."

It was frankly embarrassing that he had probably spent more time staring forlornly out of the windows of his room at the grounds than actually being in them. The late autumn air, damp and crisp and prickling with smoky smells, had revived his appetite for exploration in such a boyish kind of way that he couldn't help but share Warsman's enthusiasm.

Ivan's voice is high, very much fitting the form of a six year old, though the words are formed too harshely, the sounds not quite right on his tongue - clearly not a native speaker of English.

It isn't hard to decipher that he was asked why he was here, or so Ivan reads the question (what he understands of it) at least. And that is thus what he will answer to, not out of intimidation - the large man is intimidating, but his father told him that nobody here would hurt him on sight, and at least with Timo this close by, he trusts that that estimate is true.

"I'm Timo Väinäimöinen's son." The sentence is a bit disconnected, between the almost accentless Finnish name and the heavily accented English words that nontheless don't carry a Finnish accent, so he speaks a bit slowly. But he is quite sure that it was correct, and is a bit proud of that. It's been less than two months since he started practicing English, after all.

So the smile that he gives Robin changes from just a smile without much emotion in it to one that radiates some excitement.

Those violet eyes stay on L as he moves over and down to him, though it's not clear if the looming over him made him freeze on the spot or if he simply doesn't deem it necessary to move - it's a mix of both, really. L makes him nervous, but it also would make no difference if he leaned away, right? Not like he can actually get away.

Plus he's trying to make a good impression. To get a good start in this house. "I'm Timo Väinämoinen's son, sir." It's understandable, though the accent is heavy, and Ivan raises an arm to point over at the man who is standing a few feet away, chatting eagerly with another adult. It takes a few moments before he has successfully strung another sentence together, but then he adds: "I come yesterday night." A pause, and then he adds by way of explanation, meaning to make the time clearer: "It rain, yes?" Past tense is something that he cannot form yet, the man who brought him to Britain considered it not as important as a solid basic vocabulary and things like genitive and word order.

It's only passing irritation, and though Warsman feels a little guilty for reminding him of what sounds like one hell of a hangover he's actually enjoying himself a lot more than he thought he might. As Temeraire nudges the conversation back towards the ring, he gives a heartfelt, nostalgic sigh.

"I meant more that it isn't really proper, but sometimes, it can feel like it comes down to chance," he confesses. "Some of the people I've fought... they're monsters. Or gods. Sometimes it feels like both when you come face to face with a true champion, but when the crowd is on your side and your heart is pounding-- none of it matters. Nothing makes me feel more alive." He cocks his head thoughtfully. "I think spectators understand. It's why they come to watch, too."

Mary nods pleasantly in response, unlikely to argue with anyone even if she did disagree, not forcefully. She smooths down her skirts absentmindedly for a moment, letting her fingers weave in and out of the creases of the soft blue fabric. Her clothes are slightly out of fashion for England, truthfully, but she was fond of what she had brought with her from home.

"Is it listening to your prayers, footman?" Her eyes flicker up, more focused than they have been at any other point in this conversation, ice cold blue and intent. "Do you have a lost soul to pray for?"

A lady would ask the question more gently, there is almost a bluntness to her now.

Her smile brightens a little for him, as a congratulations for being brave and using a tongue that his not his favored. She gives his shoulder a gentle touch, fingers tips light.

"Hello, Ivan," she responds pleasantly. She doesn't speak unduly slow for him, but she's clear and kindly. "It's a pleasure to meet you too. My name is Catherine Saint Croix, but you can call me Mary. I am from Louisiana, where are you from?"

It may bee too much, if he was only taught that one greeting, but she will continue to be friendly to him, no matter what language, no matter the quality of reply. She had a daughter of her own once, but Mary prefers not to think about that. It's difficult on a day like today, a day for souls like the one she lost, but perhaps that was why she had allowed herself to be drawn to this little boy. It was a distraction, something to warm her heart when it was otherwise shivering with the cold dread of what she had done; what she had become.

Lyall has a point- Warsman isn't sure he especially minds someone like Lyall poking fun at him gently, but he knows that Lady Valdemar wouldn't be quite so forgiving. It does make him feel as though he's rather unkindly using the man to test his limits, but given how obviously his own inexperience is showing he'd like to think that he understands.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he answers quickly. "Thank you for the warning. I still don't quite know what is expected of me." Or maybe he knows all too well. He was being tolerated as a guest, yes, but only on the flimsiest of social ties; the real reason the Valdemars are offering him shelter is the machinery inside of him, Czech technology as yet unknown to them.

As he props the door open, though, Warsman quickly shakes his head. "Ah, no thank you. I was going to stay here for a little longer, if that's alright."

"Have you?" Warsman asked, with some surprise. "I would have thought that you would have memorised every possible route on the estate by your second week."

He'd barely spoken the words before he started to regret them. Robin had been here for a long while now, yes, but he'd already realised just how profoundly he'd changed in the intervening years. For all he knew, the man standing before him now hadn't even left the house in all of that time- and, God only knew, didn't need to be reminded of that fact by his clumsy observations.

Trying to make amends was, then, Warsman's utmost priority, even if it meant making himself sound like an idiot in the process. "This is going to sound incredibly ignorant, Robin," he started quickly, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to get the question out, "but what is a folly?" It's a horribly transparent cover-up and he knows it, but his intentions, hopefully, will be understood.

He's not sure which of the many names was her actual name, and repeats what she said under his breath in an attempt to sort it out. It doesn't help much with the name - he can ask his father about that later, or maybe someone will come over and adress her - but it alerts him to the 'from' in front of Lousiana. ...Wherever that is. It sounds English. Maybe a town in the area so she thinks that he might know it?

"Lousiana?" Then again, it could be butchered French. He's heard a bit of that on the way up. Or... Spanish? Things really are hard to recognize when they have a certain accent.

"Ah, well, all right then." Lyall tips his hat at the tall gentleman behind the mask. "It was a pleasure conversing, Mister Warsman." And getting a feel for one of the master's guests. He does like to know who he's dealing with. He has a feeling this one won't be trouble of the typical sort, though he might have to find a time to look into just how he's made. Without being obtrusive about it, of course.

"If there is anything you need in the manor house, or from the staff in particular," he adds from the doorway, "please do let me know."

"Thankfully." Her face pinches, but she doesn't say anything more than that about it. "You'll be accompanying me back to the manor, of course."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you saw one. It's not a bad day for a walk. Could be better, but..." He shrugs. It could also be worse, his unfinished sentence suggests. "Good for the constitution." Kiritsugu tends to keep things simple, providing simple answers to complicated complaints, but he knows things aren't actually so straightforward. None of his simple solutions have ever truly helped him with his problems, but they help him get by.

He chuckles. "There'll be no shortage of them on the table this year." Butchery was a part of daily life, to him. "I sent a few to the kitchens not along ago."

"I don't have anyone worth lighting a candle for," she tells him in reply, the answer coming quickly and perhaps more blithely than is appropriate for the holiday. With that said, she doesn't hesitate to bring the conversation back around to him; after all, she hadn't approached him to talk about herself. "Nothing worth mentioning, though? Don't be so modest. Your thoughts are worth just as much as anyone else's, I'm sure."

Her words come out sounding more probing than encouraging, but her smile stays in place and unchanged.

Edited 2013-07-09 00:44 (UTC)

"You don't even need to say it."

And already, he's walking toward the door, ready to hold it open for his mistress.

Kiritsugu shook his head, with a smile.

"They haven't moved it, so far as I know. Looking forward to it. I'll try to have some food ready for you."

By rights, he should have had a wife, to do his cooking for him and help manage the cottage, but he'd never found it in him to marry.

"That sound even better."

He licks his lips. A childish gesture, but he really does like Kiritsugu's food.

"What sort of food?"

Say scones, please?

Lancer's face was the very picture of eagerness, and Kiritsugu stifled a laugh. They were already misbehaving. Best not to compound their sins.

Kiritsugu wasn't the greatest cook, himself, but they were kind to him in the kitchens, as he provided them with the best game available, and he knew that being friendly with the kitchen staff went a long way.

"Anything you had in mind?"

She allows herself a smile at his reply, the expression pleased but not exactly warm. Even though she takes his obedience for granted, she still feels a thrill whenever she receives it so promptly. As he starts toward the door, she follows behind him, remaining silent for the time being.

"Well, that's what they'd have you believe." They're alike in that respect, at least, and from her tone an outsider could almost mistake that reply for friendly banter. She can't exactly give a candid opinion on the sermon, much less to Kiritsugu, so she simply says, "It was passable."

"A newcomer, then. Welcome, Ivan. I hope you'll like it here. It was raining, yes." Yorkshire's not the rainiest part of England by far, but it has its share of rainfall. He nods, encouraging the boy's attempts at English. He seems to be doing quite well. A bright boy.

He gestures toward the candle, still clutched in Ivan's hand. "Can I help you with that?"

"Who am I to second-guess the divine?" He says this cheerfully enough, none of his sarcasm evident in his tone. "Yes, a rousing sermon on his Lordship's part." He seems to be referring to Lord Valdemar's uninspired delivery, followed by his sudden departure, though it wouldn't do to appear disrespectful. "I do hope he recovers shortly."

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All Soul's Day- November 2nd, 1888

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