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

[dracobin]

Temeraire returns what he decides is probably a smile, nodding immediately.

"I suppose the people we are are remembering have a little further to travel than most," he offers, "so it is not as if we can blame them for not being here."

He hesitates, then after a moment carefully lights a candle of his own: he has half-forgotten all the old prayers, even if there were anyone he were inclined to pray for, but he supposes the other man is right, and it is the thought that counts.

[mouthbreathing]

Temeraire's response isn't quite the mild skepticism Warsman was suggesting, but maybe that's for the best- he doesn't know that religious crises are really the ideal topic for light conversation, even if their starting place was a little heavy anyway.

Quickly, he gives a soft, slightly embarrassed laugh, loosening his collar a touch where the thick, starched edges dig into his neck. He wasn't made for clothes like these, and with a family's worth of eyes to dress for he feels more obvious in them than ever. "This is a fine way to start a relationship, isn't it? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to slip into philosophy. My thoughts... sometimes they..." He gives a helpless shrug, then tries for something a little safer. "Your name is Temeraire, isn't it?"

[dracobin]

Temeraire, for his part, has never held much truck with spirits, but has never entirely closed himself to the idea, either, and he shrugs slightly, still smiling. "The subject matter is fitting, in any case, given our surroundings, and I do not mind."

He inclines his head in response to the question. "It is. Well," he adds, "it was T'ien-hsiang, to start with, but my professors in Peking all despaired of ever getting it right: so now my name is Temeraire, and I find I like it as well as my last. And your name is Volkoff, is it not? I am sorry: I know we have been introduced, before."

[mouthbreathing]

T'ien-hsiang... he could try to pronounce it, but he has a distinct feeling that he'd make a fool of himself and seem vaguely insulting in a single breath if he does, and so Warsman simply nods. It is, actually, something of a relief to find himself using another handle; it makes his own name seem so much less conspicuous.

"Nikolai Volkoff- but most people only ever call me 'Warsman' these days." It might not be the most elegant of names, all brute force and violent suggestion, but he is more the boxer now than the derelict and somehow it sits better with him. A pause. "You're from China, then? Where did 'Temeraire' come from?"

[dracobin]

"Oh, that is right! I overheard one of the servants mention as much." Temeraire makes the admission without much shame; eavesdropping has always been a habit of his. "You have made quite a name for yourself in the ring, have you not? There was evidently a great to-do, when you arrived."

At Warsman's question, however, he grows a little sheepish, shrugging slightly. "They had us study a great many things at the T'ung-wen Kuang, among them European art: there was a painting I saw, by Turner, of a ship being towed away, and I quite liked both the painting and the name. I can never remember how the nickname stuck, but I am certain some measure of alcohol was involved."

[mouthbreathing]

That, at least, is something he can be more proud of; mentioning it seems to lift Warsman's mood, raising his head and the lilt of his voice just enough to make a difference. "Ah, well-" Rather than look away he manages to meet Temeraire's eyes, even offering a warm, good-humoured little laugh. "It isn't really something to boast about, is it? Like gambling, or..."

Or maybe the other man's own nickname, judging by his expression. He can't say he knows the painting from the name alone- art has really always been more Robin's area of expertise- but he does know the look on his face perfectly well and finds himself hazarding a little gentle teasing. "So they had to tow you away at the end of the night? I'd never have guessed just from looking at you," he adds lightly. It may be wrong, he muses, to speak so lightly in a church, and he'll probably feel awful about it later, but for now he's hoping that any watching spirits would understand.

[dracobin]

"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?"

[mouthbreathing]

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."

[dracobin]

Temeraire himself has been in his share of odd scraps--impossible not to, growing up as a schoolboy in a rural village--but nothing quite like what Warsman is describing. His smile widens despite himself, the words tugging at some indefinable, distant part of him.

"Well, it is a great pity you have stopped," he says after a moment, eyes shining a little. "All the more because I will not be able to see you fight in the ring. But--"

He pauses, clearly trying to work through the words in his mind, before he blurts out, "Do you think you might--teach me a little, sometime? The basics?"

[mouthbreathing]

It is a great pity, and Temeraire's interest is only making him realise just how much he's missing out here. Prizefighting is the one thing he's always been able to do; he shouldn't like to stay away from the circuit for too much longer, not when there's so little else he can honestly say he-

"Pardon?" Warsman stops, brought abruptly back out of his reverie- by a very unexpected question. It isn't as though Temeraire is especially small or thin, but he's hardly been thinking of him as boxing material. But then, he's also seen lightweight fighters do well with a similar frame, and he certainly can't fault the man his enthusiasm. A little of that, he knows, can go a long way. Part of him is worrying about the practicality of it: whether he might hurt the man, or whether he'd just make a fool of himself, or whether he'd learn anything at all.

But the other part of him, the part that can't resist the prospect of a friendly fight, is already way ahead of him.

"... I... if you'd like to learn," he answers. "I don't know how good of a teacher I would be, but I'd be happy to pass on what I can. We could always use the stables."

[dracobin]

"It is settled, then," announces Temeraire, beaming. "I have an experiment to run this afternoon, so I am afraid I will not be available today--but at your earliest convenience, perhaps? Pray let me know."

It only just now strikes him that perhaps this is not the proper conversation to be having in a place of worship, particularly on a holy day of all times--but he dismisses the thought after a moment. Surely whatever spirits are present will not begrudge them this.