The Funeral of Harry Turkleton

[Forn Clakes]

Odd Fellows Lawn Cemetery is nineteen acres of stately trees, delicate patterns of sunlight and shadow and spacious expanses of vibrant greenery. The first thing visitors notice as they enter the twin iron gates is how peaceful it is for friends, family and loved ones to come and say their final farewells.


Entering the estate and following the driveway, the guests on this Tuesday the 9th of March 2010 find a slight raise of grass that is catching the full glory of the noonday sun, a fitting resting place for Harry Turkleton, the recently deceased King of Summer. As guests begin to arrive, they find a number of seats have been respectfully laid out around the freshly dug grave, awaiting their arrival. A priest, wearing lone flowing robes of brilliant white, waits patiently next to the grave, and as the mourners come to say goodbye, he greets them with both courtesy and respect.

[Rust Mane]

Rust sits back in his chair, eyes closed and deep in thought as the sun glints off his metal form.
He wears tailored black shirt and black slacks with A brilliant red tie is around his neck. A series of red satin ribbons lock his cable mane in an intricate braid.

Even without a great blessing of Mantle Rust would seem a king, he would if not for the rust covering his body like a diseased rash.

As for his mantle. It hums around his shoulders like a roiling cloud of potential wrath. Like the moment before a summer storm breaks when the air draws cool and crisp with excitement. It's a stark contrast with Rust Mane's relaxed appearance.

Of course the Mask hides the Wyrd from mundane eyes. To those whose soul remains intact Russel is just tall man who seems vaguely grey. His long hair and beard are a deep rusted orange. He seems notable only for the his presence and and for his seeming lack of expression. Nothing particularly memorable.

Rust scratches at his neck with the practised grace of a barber using a straight razor, flexes a shoulder, and settles back into his chair with eyes still closed. Is that purring?

[Nightfall]

For once, the hair almost stays in place. A dark suit replaces the usual toggle coat, and a white tie is the sole obvious concession to the Archer's Court. Aside from the flakes of snow in his hair and lashes that sparkle like diamonds, that is. Soft grass crunches under his feet, and struggles to stand back upright against the weight of the snow left in his wake.

Although they will come to honor Summer, they will pay homage to Winter, with their sorrow. Some might rail in anger at his death; or fear what killed him; or give in to desire to forget and celebrate life -- but only the most callow would refuse to grieve at the passing of a Sovereign; of a cornerstone of the Freehold.

Despite the occasion, and the suit, a black-swathed scabbard hangs at his side -- the attack upon Spring not forgotten. The Archer waits, and watches, silently.

[Fu]

Tears slide slowly down Fu's face as he sits a few chairs away from Rust. Harry may have been the jackass of jackasses but he was their jackass. The tears only slide an inch or so before they evaporate into the dry desert air that hangs around Fu.

A muted threat of violence surrounds Fu. Like when you see a wounded dog and now it would go for your throat if it wasn't bleeding so bad. A black pair of dress pants and a discounted black blazer cover a muted red shirt. Summer will prevail because it must, there isn't any other option to Fu.

[Marcus Evan]

Sitting close, but not next to, his Brothers, Marcus casually looks about the scene, still searching for any sign of Emma. He glances at the faces of Fu and Rust Mane, understanding at least a little of what they must be feeling... which is why he gives them the space they so obviously need. Wearing a charcoal jacket over a black shirt, Marcus draws the most attention to his tie. Red, gold, and black fight for dominance in bold splashes of color intersected by delicate spirals and intertwining floral patterns. The more perceptive observers around him will notice that his outfit is brand, spanking, new. However, only those sitting in his immediate vicinity notice his hands holding a dull, metal crown so reverentially in his lap. Close examination will reveal an iron circlet of sunburst design with delicate engravings dipicting the themes of Summer and Wrath. Marcus knows that every King needs a crown.

[Frost]

Asia walks slowly toward the fresh grave and somber funeral. She looks like nothing more then a cold black shadow against the brightness of the day. Wearing a simple, yet form fitting black dress, black heels, and her dark hair done up in ringlets it seems as though it is hard to tell where her dress ends and her skin begins. To all normal eyes she is merely a woman in a dark dress, grieving for a lost loved one.

She calmly moves among the chairs until she finds a comfortable seat close enough to see the priest but far enough away to be unobtrusive. A chill wind seems to float around her and settle with her in the chair.

[Sam Barkley]

A small, dark figure in the distance reveals itself to be Sam Barkley, dressed in a cheap, ill-fitting black suit. Nobody ever makes suits in Barkley's size. The clothes hang loosely upon the Hunter like a scarecrow, with tufts of moss and twigs sticking out at odd ends. Accompanying him are his stick and a pair of sappy eyes hidden behind his trademark shades. Sam nods at those of other Courts who have come to pay their respects as he makes his way to sit with the Rust, Fu, and Marcus. "Boys," he says quietly, acknowledging them with the same moniker Harry had, and knowing even as he did so, that it wasn't the same, that it would never be.

[Fu]

Fu nods to Sam and smiles meekly. The tears stop and the desert air abates but anyone near him will be sweaty in a few moments.

[Lesingnon]

Rick Pereg

Rick arrived to the funeral with Terri, taking a seat a respectful distance from the Summer Courtiers. He was dressed in a black suit, with a deep red shirt underneath and a coppery metallic tie. Colors that brought Autumn to mind, but were fitting for the fallen Sovereign's season as well. His mantle seemed oddly...subdued, for lack of a better term. As if the mystical connection itself realized that this was a Summer event, where the Summers could grieve, and respected that. And so he sat, waiting for the memorial to begin, traces of sorrow present in his usually confident expression.

Brianne Hildur

Brianne arrived in a dress that was modestly cut. Its muted golden color comparatively bright for a funeral, but symbolic of the Summer Court and the King that had fallen.

She does not join the rest of her Court, sitting together. She could mourn the passing of a King; but she did not know the man who had worn the crown, she could not mourn him. And so she would not intrude upon those who did. Instead she stands back, behind the furthest row of chairs. Taking comfort in the presence of what weapons she'd managed to conceal on her person in case the Freehold's foes tried to take advantage of its grief. Her mantle simmering around her as she also pays silent vigil, and homage, to the event.

[John Gears]

John made his way among the rows of chairs, his eyes falling onto each of his former brothers of summer. He was wearing his regular trench coat as usual, but wore white button up site, a black vest and a red tie. He made sure to clean up every inch of his cloths before he headed out. He gave the boys a nod, eyes distant as they fell on the open grave. He didn't know Harry well but the death of a sovereign was always a deep blow to many, especially one that embodied the fury of summer as much as he did.

He took his seat and a deep breath. He never liked funerals, but he would endure. Even gone from the Court of Wrath he still felt he was needed in some capacity.