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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Mary sympathizes with the Lord's plight... to a certain degree. The host of angels staring at her from above most certainly makes her feel ill. It is a feeling of both revulsion and love, the same knot of confusion and fear that always sits in the center of herself. A void where perhaps God should have been, but where instead a great and terrible nothing resides. She would prefer not to attend these sermons, but she sits alongside her pupils in dutiful silence.

She picks discontentedly at her fingers, prying back thin layers of dead skin. When she pinches too far and draws blood, the finger goes straight into her mouth. A habit her mother never did manage to break her of.

She looks up from her distractions very suddenly when Lord Valdemar goes tumbling past. He didn't seem to be walking so 'uprightly' now, and Mary a cruel smile. She remains seated a few moments longer, but her eyes keep flickering up towards the empty lectern, and around the room at all the watching eyes. She's beginning to sweat, and her mind turns uncomfortably over the little soul she is responsible for.

( But she is a long way away from that little grave, no chance to pour sweet milk upon the stone and beg her spirit be deemed clean on All Soul's Day. )

It is eventually too much and she rises, hurrying out of the chapel and out into the brisk November air where she stands gasping for breath, a pale hand clutched over her heart.

Our father who... the words evade his thoughts and Warsman glances sideways, ever aware of his own presence and trying not to raise his line of sight to the point where it might just cross Lady Valdemar's. He'd like to admire the chapel in all its gothic splendour, but he finds himself waiting until her back is turned before he gets to his feet and pads softly to the side as though he were a thief rather than a guest. A subject, too. Maybe that's why he's so eager to remove himself from Lady Valdemar's sight; when she looks at him, he feels her eyes blueprinting his entire body.

And he doesn't want to feel that. Not on today of all days, when simply sitting before the altar was enough to make him wonder if a man with a metal heart could truly call himself a Godly creation.

But that line of thought could only make him maudlin, and so he focuses instead on the elegant white walls- he'd rather worry about whether his own dark suit, perfectly acceptable by most people's standards, looks shabby by comparison, or whether wearing his helmet in here is disrespectful. Then again, he isn't sure that anyone here looks particularly at ease this morning. It's too quiet in here, the space too large for so few people to fill it comfortably.

With his size, though, standing around like this is making Warsman feel even more conspicuous, and so he quickly makes towards the trays of candles towards the back of the chapel. Taking one of the lit candles, he carefully tilts it so that the flame touches an unlit wick until it flares up itself. He might not be in any position to ask God for mercy even in the name of others, but going through the motions is soothing in its own way and he finds himself lighting a second and a third just to find something to do with his hands.

Lancer stands out from the rest of the servants. If not by his posture, then by his activities. He had fallen asleep and was currently snoring and drooling. He never was very good at listening to long religious services, even if they were being given by his boss. If those people sitting next to him aren't careful, there's the very real danger that he'll fall onto their shoulders and continue drooling while using them as a pillow.

Obviously, someone should wake him before the entire room can hear his snores.]

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.

When the service ended and it seemed as though it were permissible to leave, Shirogane had wasted no time in getting outside. He'd never been much for religious services, and he wasn't at all objecting to this one having gotten cut short. It's a minor miracle of its own sort, and Shirogane is happier to be outside because of it, though he soon sees he's not alone out there.

He spots the governess and frowns. It looks like something had been a bit too much for the woman to handle. "Are you all right?"

Her eyes jerk up towards him, startled. Her eyes very blue and very large and... at first it seems that even though she is staring right at him, she doesn't see him at all--( Is she alright? She isn't alright. She's never been alright and she will never be. The world is tainted and poisonous and she is no better, blood-stained little Mary who sent a babe to Hell. )

"Yes, I..." she looks away, finally, no longer staring at him like a trapped animal. "It always seems strangely claustrophobic in there. Doesn't it?"

She gives a soft girlish laugh, smiling absentmindedly at the wet ground for a moment before her gaze drifts up towards the greyling sky. "Perhaps it's just this oppressive weather."

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...

"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.

It's rare to catch a glimpse of the gamekeeper in the chapel, as calling him a religious man would be a gross mischaracterization, but he's made an appearance today. Kiritsugu's hair is combed and his boots are clean, though he hasn't gone so far as to shave. He's not much for religion, but today is different. The Commemoration of All Faithful Departed. It's one particular departed that Kiritsugu has on his mind. He all but completely ignores Lord Valdemar's words, sitting in the back of the chapel with his eyes closed, as unobtrusive a presence as it is possible for him to be. In silence, he says a prayer for his father, hoping to feel some sign of the man's presence, a warmth or an awareness.

He senses nothing. He can hardly recall his father's face.

When Lord Valdemar leaves, Kiritsugu opens his eyes to watch him stumble from the chapel with a faint frown. He probably shouldn't have come. He rises to his feet, yet instead of leaving, he walks to where the candles stand. He sinks to his knees and lights one. This action may bring his presence to the attention of the others, but he doesn't appear to mind the thought that he's being observed as he says another silent prayer. It's only once he's offered these final words to his father that he rises again and unceremoniously walks out.

He could return to his work or his cottage, but instead, Kiritsugu lingers nearby. He takes a pipe from his jacket pocket and proceeds to light it, smoking slowly and thoughtfully as he stands at the edge of the lawn. Pale smoke rises into the air. Proper decorum it isn't, but proper decorum isn't exactly what one has come to expect from Aungier House's gamekeeper.

Kiritsugu's level of caring about someone sleeping in church hovers somewhere around nil. Sleep is probably one of the better uses of church, in his opinion. Yet it's an infraction, and the boy is likely going to get in some amount of trouble for sleeping during the service. Kiritsugu has no particular fondness for punishment without good reason.

That's why, from his place seated behind Lancer, he cuffs him in the back of the head.

Lancer yelps and bolts up. He's just about to glare back and ask what that was for when he remembers that he is, in fact, in a church. And he is, in fact, listening to the Master giving the services.

So instead of any more sudden movements, he just sits back and listens to the Master continue on with the sermon. When the Master's back is turned though, he looks back.

"...Thanks."

He whispers.

Misaya cares little about religion, and even less about the dead, so it's no surprise that she has already made her way outside when Kiritsugu exits the chapel. Her lips purse together when she takes note of him. He's one of the few—perhaps only two—members of the staff that her sharp eyes do not skip over as though there were mere scenery. Setanta is her possession; Kiritsugu is a liability.

...But, allowing him to catch her had been her mistake, so she can do nothing but monitor him and make sure he has no reason to give her away. For now, this means staying in his good graces. "Good morning, Kerry," she says, a charming smile fixed on her face by the time she addresses him. "I hope you didn't find the service too torturous."

Unfortunately, Lady Valdemar's granddaughter isn't much better. There are few things that would prompt Misaya to linger inside the chapel after the end of a service; Warsman is one of them.

And she truly does think of him as a thing, her gaze, bright with compassionless curiosity, darting up and down his body as she sweeps over to him. This is hardly the first time she has fantasized about quite literally pulling him apart and examining what makes him tick, and it's unlikely to be the last. Her eyes flick to the candles briefly, then up again. "Much on your mind?"

Kiritsugu can't suppress a smirk at that yelp. Ah, youth. His means of awakening him weren't the most subtle, but they got the job done. He's glad that Lancer manages to recover himself fairly quickly. One does learn such things working in the house.

When Lancer thanks him, he nods, with another faint smile and a careful whisper of his own, though he's not nearly as likely to be reprimanded as Lancer. "You're welcome."

"How long do you think this is gonna last?"

He continues whispering. He hopes it's going to be short. After all, the Master and Mistress aren't the particularly religious type.

As he waits for an answer, he quickly wipes the trail of drool off with his sleeve. He doesn't want anyone to catch him looking so stupid (well, stupider than he usually looked) after the Servant returned to their duties.

Kiritsugu lowers the pipe he was in the process of taking out, then lowers his head respectfully. There's nothing to fault in his manner. "Good morning, Miss Valdemar. A pleasure to see you today." One of the house's treasured young mistresses. This one is interesting, and in a way he's not sure he likes. He's seen her viciousness first hand, and it's not difficult for a man of his experience to tell when someone takes real pleasure in killing. Not the sport of hunting, but the kill itself, the suffering and death of another living creature. He had had the delightful experience of seeing her at work. He wasn't squeamish; a man in his line of work couldn't be. It wasn't the sight itself, but the intent in her actions that had given him pause. Not that his current bearing gives away any hint of what he's thinking, though he's well aware that she knows that he knows. It's something of an understanding that they have.

"Ah, no, it was mercifully brief, but I'm sure it was good for my immortal soul." He believes no such thing, but he smiles. "And yourself?"

Temeraire's visits to the chapel have been few and far between, thanks to the Valdemars' typically lax attitude toward religion; he can count the number of times he has attended a service here on the fingers of one hand. Now he takes in the sights around him with undisguised curiosity: the ramrod-straight posture of Lady Valdemar; the blank, stony stares of the saints; the dull gleam of the organ in the half-light of the chapel. It is all terribly stiff, once the novelty of it all has faded away, but there is nevertheless something familiar in the pomp and the circumstance. Temeraire himself has never been particularly religious, but he remembers the funerals in the village where he was raised, and there is not such a great difference between those ceremonies and this. He draws some comfort from the thought, if nothing else: a memory of home, so very far away.

All the same, he breathes a small sigh of relief when Lord Valdemar makes a hasty exit, and he pushes to his feet and stretches his aching back as the low murmur of the other congregants begins to fill the chapel. He is about to take his own leave when the unmistakable figure of Warsman catches his eye.

He has introduced himself to the Russian before, though only briefly; he would be lying if he said his current interest in the big man were not primarily motivated by academic curiosity. Still, even that curiosity is accompanied by a simple, straightforward interest in getting to know the other residents of the manor better, and this--a lit candle, a silent prayer--this, too, is not unfamiliar.

"Pray, what are you doing?" His voice is meant to be pitched low, but it comes out a little louder than he intended; with any luck, Warsman will interpret it as the friendly inquiry it is meant to be, rather than an accusation.

Shirogane generally doesn't like being cooped up indoors for too long. Too much like prison. He's happiest outside where he can feel the wind, and so there's a nod of agreement. "It does tend to be pretty stuffy in there sometimes..."

He follows her gaze up to the sky. At least she seems like she's more relaxed now. "The damp's no help at all...I suppose it'll rain soon enough." If there was something else going on there, he wouldn't pry. Everyone had their secrets, and he knew to leave well enough alone.

"Not too sure about that, but the Master doesn't look as if he has much left in him." Kiritsugu hasn't missed the sweat and signs of strain. He has a good eye for others' physical limitations, and he knows the Master's heart is far from being in this. It's not a religious household, which suits him fine. He wouldn't have bothered coming if not for the draw of just what this one particular day means. It's been months since he was last in the chapel.

He leans forward, keeping his voice low. "I wouldn't worry too much. Just try to keep your eyes open for another few minutes."

He rubs at his eyes.

"That's when we get to light candles, right?"

When Mary leaves the chapel, Kiritsugu's not far behind, though he has his own reasons for leaving.

Once he's outside, he notes her distress and pauses. The governess. He knows her on sight, though there's not much call for the two of them to interact in the course of an ordinary day. He wonders what could be the matter with her--a mere case of nerves? Or something else? He's no expert on women's ailments, and he's not sure what help he might have to offer, but he comes toward her with a nod.

"A walk might do you good."

It often helps him. He usually heads out into the woods if he needs time to himself or life starts to wear on him too much, though he has more freedom where that's concerned than most of the other servants. Yet it's not as if she's chained to the house, and she looks hale enough, in spite of her current state. He's not much for the idea that women should be treated like invalids.

"That's right. If you want to, and you have someone to pray for." He assumes most people do. Most people have lost someone important to them. Loss is part of life. "Then you can go back to your duties, I assume." He has no say in what the servants do, and no knowledge of what they might be ordered to do. It could be some of them would get the afternoon off.

It's not what he expected when the man that they told him was his father told them that they were attending a kind of worship. For one, there seems to be no priest, and it's very - dry. Yes, that might be the best description. That there are few people, or that half of them don't look like they are particularely fond of being here, is not nearly as odd. He notices that some are about as confused as him apparently. And some are not...

But no matter how odd the worship is, he cannot get up and wander around to look at things. That's forbidden. So he'll stay where he is, unsettlingly calm for a boy his age, and just look around and watch with a somewhat disconnected smile on his lips. He's looking at people openly and won't avert his eyes should someone look back at him, and even stay where he is when the first people start to get up, because he wasn't told that he was allowed to.

When Kiritsugu took the candle and lit it, Ivan was watching him, and once he has been told that he can get up he moves over to the candles, pulling one out and with some stretching up managing to light it... and then standing there, candle in hand and not tall enough to put it up where it belongs.

It seemed like a good idea to light a candle at that time. Turning his head, he looks into the direction into which the man who lit his candle earlier vanished into. His eyes shortly dart back to the mop of blond that indicates the only person in the house that he at least technically knows yet, but he's chatting with someone and children aren't allowed to interrupt adults. But that other man was alone. Maybe he hasn't gotten far yet...

Candle in hand, the little Russian ventures outside and upon spotting the gamekeeper walks towards him, his aim obvious.

Though he could never be so crass as to admit it, in her own way Misaya almost makes him as nervous as Lady Valdemar herself. He's been told that she's something of a prodigy, more than clever enough to carry on the family's legacy with a little nurturing, but maybe that's what unsettles him about her. They'd never have been left alone together of course, a fact for which Warsman was generally grateful (and then felt terrible about being grateful for) but as she approaches him in the church he nonetheless feels oddly cornered by her. Ridiculous, considering the immense difference in their size.

"I... nothing worth mentioning." Should he really be speaking to her like this? He finds himself glancing over her head briefly, trying to reassure himself that this is a very open and visible space- though he doesn't know why he's worrying about intimidating someone like her. "Did you want to light a candle for someone?"

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All Soul's Day- November 2nd, 1888

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