"Ho there, young Master... I hae a delivery for the Cathedral!" called the teamster, climbing down from his pony cart. Brother Benjamin paused on the steps, and turned to the dwarf. "What is this, then?"
"Special delivery from Mistress Bryllia Ironbrand of Ironforge... some paladin ordered them, special. I'm supposed to deliver them to Lord Grayson Shadowbreaker? He dwells within?" the dwarf asked, beginning to unload the wooden crates from the cart.
"Lord Shad... oh yes. These are for the Day of the Dead observance," the cleric answered, remembering the last year's somber rite. "One of the Order came up with the idea of honoring those who've fallen with candles of different colors - red for those who were warlocks, green for druids, black for death knights, and so forth. The flames throw colored light. Its really quite striking... you should come and see it with us, friend Dwarf," he invited.
"The offer does ye credit, Holy One... perhaps I shall. Do ye need help taking the crates inside?" the teamster said as he heaved the last one on the pile.
"No indeed, but I thank you for your offer in return... we have noviates a-plenty, who will not suffer overmuch from a little honest labor." The priest chuckled; given the groaning when he fetched them, you would think that honest labor was anathema."
The dwarf chuckled. "Very well, Holy One..." The dwarf turned, and began to climb back on the cart.
"Wait..." the priest called. "Don't we need a bill of lading, or a bill?"
"Nae, the costs were already paid for, good Brother. They're a gift from one of our own to his brethern in Stormwind, from Sir Griffonclaw to his brothers and sisters in the Light."
Griffonclaw raised his head from where he had knelt, and issued a final prayer at the graves of his mother and sister. "May the Light keep your spirits safe" he intoned, the lights from the white candles flickering on the night breeze. "I'll be back as soon as I'm off the rotation again." He walked past the rotting wood of the old house, where he had left his ram to graze on the weeds and grass, surrounded by the still, unmoving bodies of the Rothide Gnolls that roamed his master's farm, and that his master had struck down each time they made the trip to his family grave plots.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)