All Soul's Day- November 2nd, 1888

[valdemars]

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.]

Comments

[professorwolf]

Church is not really Lyall's cup of tea. It never really has been. He knows perfectly well he'd be as likely to be cast out as accepted, and he's not really interested in a deity that is so harsh with his supplicants. He sits thought the service politely, of course, as it is expected for his position within the house, if not necessarily required. Instead of thinking on the homily, however, his mind is moving through lists of things that need doing today, people he needs to check in with on various tasks, and a shipment due to arrive in the next couple days that will need people reassigned to handle organizing. When Lord Valdemar finally flees, he breathe a small and silent sigh of relief, and rises smoothly. He'll light a candle of his own, if just to see the altar light up with warmth, and then be on his way.

Warsman is there first, his much longer stride and more awkward impatience moving him more quickly. The quiet butler offers him an amiable nod and a small smile. "Someone on your mind?" he asks, voice soft in the open space, eyes on the slowly growing collection of votive candles.

[mouthbreathing]

Soft though the voice that addresses him is, Warsman still finds himself instinctively twitching a little, his head jerking as if to weave away from a left-hook-- but for all his defensive instincts the blow never comes. It's just the butler: a friendly enough man by all accounts, though he's never really found the occasion to speak to him all that much. Truthfully he's still trying to figure out where he sits in the house's admittedly unusual hierarchy. Would his hosts be insulted if they caught him speaking to servants, or is he barely one step above them himself?

Regardless, he tilts his head both to return the nod and direct what he hopes seems like a smile in Lyall's direction, the eyes of his mask softening around the edges. It's much easier to offer a response when the silence has already been broken for him.

"I think everyone has someone they like to remember on days like this." A pause. "Mr. Lyall, isn't it...?" Or is it just 'Lyall'? He doesn't want to seem rude, but...

[professorwolf]

"Yes, Mr. Volkoff," Lyall agrees amiably enough. He always tries to be polite with the live-in visitors, in particular, since in his experience they always seem to be the ones most likely to complain about something insignificant. This fellow at least hasn't caused much in the way of trouble, yet, and Lyall prefers that kind of guest in the house long-term. "Randolph Lyall. I'm not certain we've been formally introduced. I take care of the house."

He turns a little to offer his hand, his own candle lit and flickering.

[mouthbreathing]

It's a nice, clean, untroubling answer, and for moment Warsman wonders if Lyall is just humouring him because he's a guest, which in turn only makes him worry that he's putting the man on edge as well as his best behaviour. But if he were all that worried about speaking to him he wouldn't have approached him in the first place, and so Warsman forces himself to shake off the thought and instead clasps Lyall's hand lightly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lyall- I'd seen you around, but..." He trails off for a moment, before, ducking his head, he quickly adds, "... just 'Warsman' is fine. I hardly ever go by anything else these days." He wasn't just trying to be humble. What had started as a stage name that pinched and rubbed had been worn hard and stretched over the years; it was strange to think of being called by any other name anymore.

[professorwolf]

"Mister Warsman, then." Who is Lyall to question what the guests want to call themselves? The title isn't going away, though. That would just be improper. "It certainly is a name that stands out. I don't think I should do quite so well with a name like that."

That would be a joke. Lyall isn't really very good with them.

He does turn to start out, pausing mid-step to see if Warsman is coming with him. "Do you have plans for the rest of the afternoon, Mister Warsman?"

[mouthbreathing]

With a name like... Warsman watches him uncertainly from behind his mask, breathing those soft, metallic little breaths of his while he tries to work out who the butt of that particular joke was supposed to be before deciding that he's being overly sensitive.

"It's... something you earn, I suppose," he answers, a fraction too late to really be worth saying, and just as Lyall starts to turn to boot. Very quickly indeed, he dives in to answer the more immediate question. "I wouldn't say so... I was only going to familiarise myself with the libraries. I didn't even realise there was more than one until the other day," he admits, following the man's step. "Of course, if you need help anywhere else around the house..."

[professorwolf]

Yup, the attempt at humor-- self-deprecating, of course, as Lyall would never do anything else with someone he doesn't know, and thus doesn't know if he respects or not-- falls fairly flat. Ah well, Lyall is used to that. Butlers probably aren't supposed to be funny, anyway.

He glances back at the odd masked face at the last comment. While probably kindly meant, it's entirely out of the question. "Oh goodness, no," he says mildly. "You're a guest, not staff. Whatever gave you the idea that you should be put to work?"

[mouthbreathing]

Lyall's tone wasn't scolding by any stretch of the imagination, but he still finds his mask warming with embarrassment. That is, he's learning quickly, the downside of not being grandfathered into this sort of life; he's got a lot of ground to cover as quickly as possible.

"I'm sorry, I-" He cuts himself off in favour of offering a self-deprecating little laugh, glancing sidelong at Lyall. "I've never been anyone's guest before. Not like this, at least. I didn't mean to imply anything about your staff." He tilts his head. "I... can call them 'your staff', can't I?"

[professorwolf]

"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.

[mouthbreathing]

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."

[professorwolf]

"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."