(123-08-24) People Die, We Do Things
People Die, We Do Things
Summary: The same old story — now with the promise of pie!
Date: 24/08/2016
Related: Related Logs (Say None if there aren't any; don't leave blank. You have to use full URLs, like http://gobmush.wikidot.com/logtitle)
Players:
Camillo..Tybalt..Esme..

Tybalt has made an effort to look presentable. He has tied back the loose hair and small braids with a grubby ribbon. He has actually scrubbed his hands and face and changed his tunic. There is nothing to be done about his disreputable trousers, but one can't have everything. He is subdued as they enter, wide shoulder hunches as he peers about furtively, glancing often at Camillo for cues.

Camillo doesn't seem as though he quite knows what he is about, either. He's never really performed such a ceremony. He's worn one of the brand new ensembles sent him by Prince Daevon, a blue shirt not yet seen by anyone. He looks very solemn indeed, and goes first to make a donation and take a candle. He looks at Tybalt.

Tybalt stick close to Camillo, looking particularly feral, as if he expects septas to jump out and attempt to cage him. He has his coin ready, clutched tight in his hand. He watches Camillo careful and makes his donation and takes his candle though.

Camillo makes a mild nod toward the statue of the Father, then moves in that direction so that he can light a candle, set it there, and kneel in deep and sincere prayer.

Tybalt peers around the Sept as if surprised at it's appearance, but slinks after Camillo. He eyes the statue suspiciously as if he expects it to speak or move. After a pause, he lights his own candle from Camilllo's and sets it in the holder next to his. He kneels a little awkwardly, with a creak of leather and copies Camillo's posture as best he can.

Far across the central open space beneath the Sept's great dome, shielded from Camillo's gaze by passing septas the one time he happens to look just that way, a tiny woman dressed in a very red and yellow and blue striped dress is kneeling before the glittering dragonglass statue of the Stranger. Her hair is modestly covered by a green scarf with yellow polka-dots, and her worn and wrinkled hands are clasped in her lap. Only her candle still burns at the Stranger's feet, and its height suggests a long supplication.

Camillo seems very serious about the whole thing. Once he's kneeled, he seems to concentrate on his own prayers, leaving poor Tybalt rather to his own devices. Not that much is being demanded of the sailor. At least practically speaking.

Tybalt mumbles softly in his own language, halting, but oddly beautiful.

The tiny woman in the striped dress lifts her head (that crack of her neck is rendered by the Sept's acoustics louder than it ought to be) and looks for a long moment into the flickering flame she lit half an hour ago. Then, with a sigh, she places her hands flat on the black marble in front of her and commences the challenging process of pushing herself up onto her feet… A young septon-in-training practically bounds over to assist, his warmly patronising remarks drawing out humble thanks and a quiet chuckle. They never leave well enough alone, do they. She pats his arm and thanks him again, and just then her sharp old eyes discover a pair of kneeling men they couldn't possibly mistake… She moves quietly nearer, but not to interrupt.

Camillo prays with fervor, hands clasping tightly and eyes screwing shut hard. When at last he may be done, he passes the palm of his hand over his eyes. Then he lets his hands down and puts one foot on the floor in preparation to stand.

Tybalt tries to hide his relief as he mimics Camillo down to the rubbing of his eyes and the placement of his foot.

A few paces away Esme is standing with her arms folded, to all appearances daydreaming. Her vacant gaze is directed slightly past them and she's smiling amiably at nothing much. (In fact she is eyeing the cut of Camillo's handsome new blue shirt — and Tybalt's instinct for protective colouration.) When they turn they'll see her. Any minute. She's not in a hurry this morning.

Camillo stands up and turns round, spotting Esme at last. His eyes open a little wider, then he inclines his head respectfully to the shopkeeper. "Good morning, Mistress Esme," he says softly.

Tybalt was watching Camillo's face just then and starts rather, echoing a hasty "Good morning, Mistress Esme," with a head bob. Having been startled once, his eyes dart about for net bearing Septas.

There is only one septa with a net: Septa Eldane, whose lessons in practical lepidoptery are such a delight to the orphans in the Sept's care. She and a colleague are superintending a small (in number, also in average height) party en route into the countryside to take advantage of the fine day.

Esme's smile turns to a brighter and kindlier beam when Camillo acknowledges her: "Good mornin' to you too, Master Camillo," she says, equally formal on this holy ground, nodding to him and then to, "Master Tybalt. How d'ye do." This for the northman by way of Meereen, whose accent has at last become explicable to her. "I hope you don't mind; I saw you as I was goin' and I thought I'd stop and say hello, and Seven blessings to you both."

"Blessings to you," Camillo replies softly. With an almost imperceptible lean, his shoulder slightly contacts Tybalt's. "I hope you find…yourself well," he says to Esme.

Tybalt eyes the septa much as he might a lion and edges even closer to Camillo so he might press even more against Camillo's shoulder for comfort. He doesn't echo the blessing, but rather bares his teeth in alarm, the cheek scar more prominent when he draws back his lips.

Esme, who has her back to the butterfly hunters, widens her eyes at the sight of Tybalt's alarm: she quickly peeks over her shoulder, then, seeing nothing at all deserving of such a reaction, keeps turning all the way round, her skirts a quick stripy swirl, till she's once again looking up into Tybalt's eyes, this time with friendly concern. "What's the matter, dearie?" she asks him more softly, glancing to Camillo and then back to his friend.

Camillo doesn't look to Tybalt directly, but it seems obvious that he is aware of the discomfort. "Let us step outside," he proposes, voice very soft, a slight nudge on Tybalt's arm.

Tybalt seems at a loss to answer, but gives Camillo a relieved look at the suggestion.

Not quite certain whether she should go with them or say goodbye, Esme steps out of the men's way. Then after a second or two her colourful little figure follows along after them. Well, she was going anyway, wasn't she?

Camillo is in some ways leading the way outside, but he doesn't get much ahead of Tybalt at all. He pushes open the door and nudges Tybalt into the sunlight beyond. He glances to Esme behind them. His hair looks a little shaggy.

Tybalt calms down once he's fully out into the light and the open air. He looks rather sheepish and asks them both, "Did I do it right?"

In the sunlight Esme, who was inside for ages and with the sun rising all the while, blinks two or three times and raises a hand to shield her eyes as she looks up at her younger companions. Inquiring, but politely so. "Oh, that's better in the air, ain't it," she says kindly to Tybalt.

"Just right," Camillo murmurs for Tybalt's benefit. Then he looks at Esme, gaze next moving to Tybalt. "I think…Tybalt prefers the outdoors," he says mildly.

Tybalt nods, eyes lowered, "I'm… not good indoors and fancy stone buildings. In Meereen…. It was… I knew in advance you'd have statues and not trees, but it was… overwhelming to see and all echoey and strange." He looks alarmed, "No offence or disrespect meant. I just… am not used to it is all." He flashes Camillo a relieved smile at being told he didn't right. "I didn't want to embarrass you… Should we… ask her to the party?

Esme nods understandingly through much of what Tybalt has to say. "First time in a new place, even when you think you know what to expect you don't always," she suggests, "and then, there are things other folk wouldn't even think to tell you, because they take for granted how it is…" Then, politely, she pretends not to hear anything about a party. She is good at pretending.

Camillo nods once, perhaps confirming that he may have overlooked telling Tybalt some important details. He squints at Esme's face. "She can come. We're going to eat and drink," he tells her.

Tybalt nods, "It may be a little… rough for you. It will be in the woods. There will be cider and roast pig and whatever else people bring." He gives Camillo a shy look, "He's never had people throw a party just for him before.”

Really, it's an overwhelming invitation. The warmth, the grace, the generosity, the eagerness to secure her presence. She can come. Esme beams up at her socially polished young friends and declares to Tybalt: "I'd be happy to come, dearie, if it's on a day when I can. I'm very partial to roast pig." Not that there's any way he could possibly already have known this. "Thank you for askin' me, Master Camillo," she adds to the blue-shirted wonder.

Camillo bobs his head to Esme. "You are always kind," he tells her sincerely. "And you are my friend." He glances at Tybalt regarding the date of the festivities.

Tybalt gives Esme a grateful look. "We really would like that. I… we want all his friends there." He suggests a date, a bit tentative, "You're the first we asked. we can move it."

"Oh, bless you, dearie," says Esme to Camillo. An extra eighth blessing on top of the other seven! "Oh, now," she muses, stroking her chin as she turns again to Tybalt, "I don't reckon I've got anything in particular to do that evenin'. If I can find someone to sit with my son for a few hours — I don't know that you've met my son, have you?" she asks him. "He's a bit simple, see, and he don't do well on his own… Well, I'll find someone — in fact, I know just who I'll ask — and it'll be a treat for me to get out," she informs him decisively. "Thank you," she repeats to them both. "Is it any particular occasion?"

Camillo bobs his head in Esme's direction. "It's a mourning feast for my father," he says. "I told you he died."

Tybalt nods, remembering the son from his first visit to the shop. He starts to speak, then stops when Camillo gives his answer, "I just… want to fill his belly with pork and his head with drink and have people who are his friends… there. Sharing meat and drink and bread. It's… a Northern thing." He blushes, but lifts his chin a little defiantly, "Kin need a proper send off, and the ones miss the dead need to say good bye proper." He gestures at his friend, "I mean to do it right, like we would back home, close as we can manage in this place."

"Aye, I remember you tellin' me," says Esme kindly to Camillo, giving his blue-sleeved arm a little pat so that she might covertly discover the texture of this new garment. She gives him a long, opaque look, and then says to Tybalt, "It's a very kind thought, Master Tybalt, and I'm honoured to be invited, I surely am. We all have our different ways of showing our respect for the dead and the living, and yours sounds very nice."

The quality of the cloth is quite good, but hearty enough to be suitable for a working man. A servant, anyway. He nods faintly with what Tybalt and Esme have to say. "I think Tybalt may be right," he agrees.

Tybalt gives her a small shy smile, made ugly by scarring and the missing teeth on that side, "Thank you Mistress Esme." He gives Camillo a look of such love and loyalty that can't be disguised, even though most of it is just about the eyes, "Camillo deserves it, and his da ought to be sent off proper, even if he's not here to pray over."

Certainly it's no good trying to disguise it from Esme, who, now that her eyes have grown accustomed to the light, is standing with both hands tucked into her pockets, discreetly watching both men and the way they watch each other. "Now, what d'you want me to bring?" she asks pleasantly. Because there is to be a pig, and cider, and whatever else people bring. They said so.

Camillo doesn't watch too much. He does a lot of squinting at nothing, but he listens. And he does seem aware. Maybe even of that look of Tybalt's, from the corners of his eyes. "Whatever you like, or nothing. It will not be so crowded."

Tybalt looks down, shy again, "Pig goes best with apples, so maybe an apple thing baked up all nice?" He eyes her hopefully, "Things at a funeral feast need to be things people share, like cut apart so everyone gets a bit, or poured from one barrel, you follow? I don't know how many we'll be…."

Esme nods interestedly. "I do a spiced apple pie that ain't all bad," she confides; "would you like that, Master Camillo? I don't know that you've had my apple pie. I usually make it more in the autumn."

Camillo nods once. "I haven't had it, Mistress Esme, but if there are apples then it would be very fine, I think. Thank you." He glances at Tybalt again.

Tybalt flashes them both a smile that looks almost innocent, and lovers his eyes, "I think that would be perfect. Thank you Mistress Esme."

"I'll make two, just in case," promises Esme, giving his arm another pat. She really does approve of the shirt. "This is quite nice," she remarks, as though she has only just noticed he's wearing it. She blinks inquiringly.

Camillo looks down at himself. "Oh…thank you," he says softly. "I… Ser Daevon was kind enough to gift it to me. Perhaps in return for my going to Dorne."

Tybalt nods approval at the extra pie, "There is always room for more of your baking…." He watches her face, not his at the mention of Ser Daevon's gift.

Mild surprise and mild interest flicker in tandem across Esme's wrinkly features. "That's right generous of him," she observes. "The colour suits you, too," because you should always take fashion advice from smallfolk women who pair patterned with patterned. "I'll leave you two to get on," she declares; "and I'm sure you'll let me know where it's to be," this to Camillo, "when we're nearer the time, eh? Seven blessings," she repeats, in farewell, "and I know you'll take care of yourselves and of each other." She beams.

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