Areon Baldwins Final Ceremony.

[Augor 142]

 Gregory Baldwin  climbs up the mountain, heaving a large sack over his shoulder. The sack is filled with logs, making it uncomfortable and bulky.  The wind begins whipping around him, his green cloak billowing about him as he finishes his climb. Standing atop the snow covered mountain he mumbles out a short sentence.

 "He will be one with the wind after this."

 Gregory sighs, and begins preparing the sight of his father's final ceremony. He sets to work quickly, laying the logs out as they are needed. He stands back, and stares at the logs for several moments. The winds constantly whip around him as he does so, almost as if his father was staring at him with his eyes, telling him how the fire would not be up to strong enough with the way he had placed the logs. 

 After placing the logs though, the wind died down to a cold breeze. Elorna would be informing the elves of Malinor about the Ceremony and its times. Gregory's work was completed though, he steps back, and looks upwards. Gazing at  the skies, where his father would be, he awaits for the elves that will soon arrive.

 

(( This will be a Forum Roleplay describing Areon's final ceremonies and his cremation. Once enough people arrive I will begin the roleplay. Simply post your character arriving. We are doing this so that none will miss out on Areon's final ceremonies, because of timezones, school, or work. )) 

[Elindor 666]

Elailer hears Gregory pass in front of his kitchen window. He glances out and recognising what is taking place by the expression on the boy's face. He grabs his staff, walks through the door and follows Gregory outside Malinor and up the mountainside.

[Salamandra 1136]

Salamandra, aided with the help of his staff, begins to make his way up the mountainside. He felt irregular without his hood, as if a part of him were missing, and as the sun glared down into his eyes and they began to sting, he wondered why he bothered to go without one again. But as he lowered his head, he remembered. His wife could show her face to the world, as with his children, but more importantly, he wanted Areon to see it.

 

Sometime later he found himself standing before the beginnings of a pyre, watching Gregory and Elindor while the wind gently kissed his exposed face.

[hex37 737]

Nienna emerges from the infirmary, cleaning the blood of a hard day's work from her hands. She sighs, as she sets the bloody rag in her messenger bag, and ascends the steps from the mali'ker district. Her face pales as she sees the procession, but soon turns grim. She takes her silver staff from her back, looking at it as she comes to the base of the mountain. This was not her staff... it never really was. It was Areon's staff. Areon's first staff. Nienna was given it, but she still felt like... It was only something she was holding onto, for safe keeping. It still felt like Areon's; like it was a relic of some bygone age, reminding her of the greatest healer she had ever met.



The silver, battered staff of Areon Baldwin clinked upon the ground as Nienna ascended the mountain.

[Telanir 6975]

Telinir's feet kick at the gravel path on the mountain as he heads upwards.

His gaze is caught by Gregory and he stops in his tracks, his expression growing grim.

Something he cannot miss, he instead follows silently to attend the funeral.

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

With a lowered head, Elorna ascends the steep path of the Mali'ame District, making her way up the mountain on her way to the peak. At one of the last landings she pauses, then turns her head slowly upwards to face the little home dug into the cliff-side. Not long ago this had been a scene of brutality and violence, but the destruction had been repaired and the welcoming home of the healer was restored. But the healer was gone. All that remains is a sign hanging above the door: "The Home of Walehir". Other signs adorn the entrance, messages left to honor the man who once lived within.

 

 

Peace, hileia. The aged human had come to the land of elves in search of peace, in search of a life far away from his past. Elorna smiles faintly, remembering the day in Normandor that she had helped him, a stranger then, find a name in Elven. Healer, walehir. Friend, llir - what this man had become to her, and so many others in Malinor. A friend, a healer, a protector, a counselor. His name and his memory would live long with the elves, long after all words in wood and stone had worn away.

 

Elorna reaches out her hand and rests it on the door, closing her eyes and trying to conjure up some appropriate words in Elven. After being silent for a long moment, she speaks, just above a whisper. "Hileia ito nae, lye llir'mayilu. Hileia ito ah'Areon." She smiles to herself, convinced that he wouldn't have liked the 'Elvish gibberish' and that she'd gotten the grammar wrong anyway. With a sigh, she gives one last, long look through the window at the familiar wooden bench, her smile flickering but not yet disappearing. Footsteps patter softly on the stairs and vines swish as she passes by them on her journey up the mountain, venturing on toward the frozen peak and funeral pyre that await.

[Augor 142]

Gregory Baldwin looks to the people that have arrived, and nods in thanks. He opens his mouth to begin saying something but  stops, the voice caught in his throat. Gregory opens his mouth once more saying, "I believe we know why we are gathered here. My father was a great man, and I thank you for being here to watch his mortal body leave this world." 

 

He turned, looking to the pyre where his father rested. With several brisks steps he was next to it,  kneeling next to the Pyre, he began whispering Areon's prayer just loud enough for those around to hear. "Blessed are those who walk in The Light... Sanctified are those who can walk with their shadow... For their path shall not stray, their step shall not falter... Never journeying alone... In the brightness or the dark..." Once the prayer was finished, he reached into his robes to reveal a small flint, and a knife. Sparks flew against the pyre, not catching due to the cold and wind. Gregory cursed beneath his breath, and struck the flint again. The Pyre took flame, catching slowly at first, but the flames spread quickly enough, hungering for fuel to keep them burning. 

 

Gregory took several steps back, and watched as the flames ate at the remains of his father.  Flames throwing themselves against the now partially frozen cloth, only to be pushed away again. Yet eventually, the flames took the cloth as well. The tendrils of fire wrapped around the body, crackling and popping as they devoured what was left of the flesh.  Gregory had a hard time looking at the corpse of his father, yet he did. He watched as the body fell apart, and ash formed in its place, the ash of his father. 

 

Gregory watched the remains of his father float off, to become one with the wind.