The Song of the Morning Temple RP Thread

[Hidennka]

Having ended her most recent guard shift with a vigilant eye on the comings and goings of the temple, specifically the room of Antolina, Cecilia spends some time catching up on the reports of others and reading notices on the board. A disappointed frown finds her weary features as she exits the archive, parchment in hand.

"Send word to Hannah that I wish to speak with her within the tenday." she informs the clergy in a stern tone, returning to other duties once the order is given.

[mireigi]

Over the past few days, Dawnpriest Tolan, along with the rest of the temple, have been tending the Lady Burgoz. Rumor on the street has it that she is in recovery, showing signs of waking up. It is an ardous task, however, as her imminent regaining of conciousness, require constant attention to assure she doesn't wake up alone in a place she doesn't recognize. Of Hannah, the priestess helping tend to Lady Burgoz, there have been no sign.

[IAmDiagnosingYou]

Hannah returns her keys and cloak to the temple. It is clear that she is no longer part of the clergy but has promised to continue working allied with the temple. She leaves some more berries and contact information for Tolan Faeglin before she leaves.

[Hidennka]

It is a joyous day within the Song of the Morning, hope flooding those who were present to witness such. Following the relatively peaceful process in the streets outside the chapel, two new faces are seen within the temple walls. The Paladin Anaseth Zesiiro was welcomed as initiate, passing her opening examination under Commander Al'maire. Garrison Heathen also took his first steps on a renewed path, offering himself up to the Morninglord in quiet ceremony under Dawnbringer Cecilia.

Clerics of the faith continues to come and go from the room in which Antolina Burgoz recovers; tending her wounds, making careful notes as to the changes in her conditions and offering prayers for the woman in her comatose condition. Templar remain on high alert both in guarding her current state, and the temple itself.

[Syracuse]

A letter with a broken arrow arrives at the sanctuary. The arrow is absolutely soaked in ink, and to anyone with proficiency in the language, all seem to be prayers to Solonor. The fletching is accompanied by a bit of red twine.

The letter, to anyone who would read it, is written in flowering script. The parchment is stained in several places, perhaps to rainfall, leaving a few words a bit obscure but far from impossible to make-out.

To the tribe of Dawn,

I come to beg a favor of you. One I hope you will trust me enough to do. I must make ammends to Lady Burgoz.

It haunts me constantly to have failed her so miserably. It haunts me enough that I've taken up a sign, and screamed slogans and other odd things that I still don't quite understand yet, am compelled to do as if it somehow would please her. Somehow would make it up to her to act like a human. My failure has led to extensive pain. And I want to apologize.

I hear that she has trouble with maintaining consciousness. I understand if my apology must wait until her condition is less fragile. But I hope you will trust me a minute or two by her bed side soon, that I may apologize. I will be staying in the tavern across the way.

Thank you for all you've done for her. And all you consistently do. The Dawn Tribe are worthy of respect.

Good hunt, and good feast,
Wyn'caellia of the Four Winds Tribe

[mireigi]

A letter with a broken arrow arrives at the sanctuary. The arrow is absolutely soaked in ink, and to anyone with proficiency in the language, all seem to be prayers to Solonor. The fletching is accompanied by a bit of red twine.

The letter, to anyone who would read it, is written in flowering script. The parchment is stained in several places, perhaps to rainfall, leaving a few words a bit obscure but far from impossible to make-out.

To the tribe of Dawn,

I come to beg a favor of you. One I hope you will trust me enough to do. I must make ammends to Lady Burgoz.

It haunts me constantly to have failed her so miserably. It haunts me enough that I've taken up a sign, and screamed slogans and other odd things that I still don't quite understand yet, am compelled to do as if it somehow would please her. Somehow would make it up to her to act like a human. My failure has led to extensive pain. And I want to apologize.

I hear that she has trouble with maintaining consciousness. I understand if my apology must wait until her condition is less fragile. But I hope you will trust me a minute or two by her bed side soon, that I may apologize. I will be staying in the tavern across the way.

Thank you for all you've done for her. And all you consistently do. The Dawn Tribe are worthy of respect.

Good hunt, and good feast,
Wyn'caellia of the Four Winds Tribe

With Antolina Burgoz finally out of her unconcious state, though with the occassional relapse for a few hours at a time, Dawnpriest Tolan finds more time to tend other duties within the temple, having spent the majority of the past two tendays tending to Lady Burgoz. He spends a few hours outside the temple, enjoying the relative quiet of the town, only interrupted by the occasional disgruntled muttered outburst from the citizens opposing the new tax hike.

When he returns, he is informed of the note and takes it inside to inform the others of Wyn'caellia's request, and then heads back to the room in which Lady Burgoz is currently housed, intending to speak with her, not on the matters surrounding the attempt on her life, but rather her person and what she values in life, thinking it best not to trouble her too much just yet with topics she might dread.

[Miasmata]

Whispers spread in the Song of the Morning about Lady Burgoz, her state, and what the clergy intend to do regarding her person.

Eldarian can be seen visibly roaming the temple once more as he returns to his regular duties.

[Miasmata]

Lately Eldarian can be seen in the temple's library scouring over numerous books and tomes both old and new. They lay scattered across the table upstairs in haphazard directions with some stacked high enough to topple over with a passing breeze.

His features remain contemplative for a long time as he takes notes and scribbles things down in haste.

[Hidennka]

Returning from an unannounced trip to Silverymoon and having been volunteered for the Sunite Soiree, Cecilia remained true to her word to attend, and is once again seen within the Song of the Morning temple mere days before the event is set to commence.

The Dawnbringer spends some time catching up on recent events and the comings and goings of the temple, though her presence in the public eye is seen sparingly. Members of the temple take note that she spends a great deal of time within her private chambers, packing her belongings into a number of delivered crates.

[Miasmata]

A day of celebration is had at the Song of the Morning. Wreaths of flowers are strung about and various flowers also adorn the altar in the main part of the temple.

A woman’s voice echoes throughout the halls in a soft but cheerful song and the sounds of laughter and tapping feet in the rhythm of a dance flow forth once the doors are opened, beckoning people inside.

The holy touch of Lathander is also rumored to have graced those within that day, as a bright light burst forth from the altar amidst the cheer and glory of life shared.

[Miasmata]

Various personal items of Knight-Commander Eldarian Al'maire can be seen slowly being removed from the temple and packed into various boxes and trunks in his private quarters.

[ghostly_rose]

With a heavy heart the small blonde woman also packs her things, following her commander.

[Care]

Enora can be seen praying most of her free times, often late into the night and getting up very early in the morning, and taking all the gard duty possible to free the leaving brothers and sisters.

If she see them in need of help, she would also give a hand.

[Syracuse]

Fresh from combat, Wyn'caellia enters the temple of Lathander in a by now sleeping Beregost. Her purse slightly heavier, herself still half saturated in the thick perfume of someone that walks through battlefields, and her cold eyes glassed over with hints of binge drinking.

She's dismissive of His Most Radiant, though the man had a penchant for prayer that not anyone seemed capable of disturbing, more often than not. She simply strides past the altar and dips her hand down alongside it.

Her arrow. Her solemn swear to the Lathanderites, when Sir Al'maire would still stand beside the altar, his smile a warm welcome. And Cecilia would greet her like a woman of dignity, even if Wyn hardly held substance for the title. It was still nice. A after thought as she spun the simple, utterly normal ammunition in her tattooed fingers. The scripture entwined shaft and the proud plume of red feathers and twine. The immaculate make of a utterly mundane thing.

The arrow is cracked, loud enough to penetrate all procession in the small temple. The two halves of her vow to them, ended with a cold glare as she exits.

The once very proud plume somehow shifts so easily in that moment. What was a prideful declaration of alliance is brought to nothing more than the red of fury. The cracked shaft synonymous with vows that can not be mended. The wild elf departs with a heavy slam of the front door, and departs Beregost with another bottle of wine in her tight grasp.

[Miasmata]

Anger welled in Eldarian’s chest and suddenly the sound of glass shattering echoed throughout the main room of the temple. Fragments lodged into the golden flesh of his hand and the rest fell to the floor in a scattered symphony.

His name echoed in his ears.

“Eldarian. . .” The words caught in the woman’s throat and she moved to hold out her own delicate hand toward his. “May I?”

Blood welled around the glass that had cut into his skin and the color of crimson began to stain the floor. It sullied the otherwise fresh glow of the holy temple.

". . .I'm sorry," he murmured in apology to the woman with crinkled brows. His anger was starting to become like a snake that coiled up too tightly and struck when it could no longer be contained. The question he asked himself lately and all too often was if the fury held in his breast was righteous or vengeful. The answer no longer came so easily to him.

After a long minute of hesitation he pushed the bloodied and glass-ridden hand toward her in a sign of trust. A symbol that went beyond the moment and one he hoped would not be misplaced.

“You needn't apologize to me,” came her quiet words as she gently began to pick the shards out of his hand.

His golden-flecked eyes darted along her features as she set to work and his anger slowly faded to oblivion.

. . .

A few hours later the door to the temple clicked closed and his gaze danced to his bandaged hand. His features turned thoughtful over what had been whispered between them.

His fingers then curled inward into a fist.