### **The Preparation of the Body** The room is quiet, save for the steady rasp of a whetstone on steel and the occasional scrape of cloth over polished armor. The chamber is dimly lit, a handful of **lanterns and candles** flickering against the wooden beams of the barracks. Caldor Bracken lies upon the great oak table at the center, his body already washed and dressed in **his finest armor**, the dents and scratches of battle polished away. His hands are folded over his chest, resting upon the hilt of his sword. His face, once full of **gruff humor and sharp wit**, is now **still and silent**. Sir **Brinnard Whitewood** stands over him, his **broad hands working with methodical care** as he fastens the **cloak of House Whitewood** over Caldor’s shoulders, ensuring the silver-clasp is **aligned perfectly**. The men assisting him—three seasoned warriors who had fought alongside Caldor for years—watch with **somber reverence**, each taking their turn to adjust a buckle, straighten a fold, or brush away unseen dust. Brinnard exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. _"Damn fool always complained about wearing a cloak,"_ he mutters, pulling the fabric into place. _"Said it got in the way in a fight. And yet, first sign of cold, he’d be the first one to steal mine."_ One of the soldiers, **Derric Valen**, lets out a rough chuckle, his hands tightening on the straps of Caldor’s breastplate. _"Aye, and then he’d have the nerve to tell you it looked better on him, too."_ Brinnard grunts, his lips twitching at the memory. _"That he did,"_ he admits. _"Bastard never knew when to shut up. But that was the way of it, wasn’t it? You never had to guess what was on his mind. If he thought you were a fool, he’d tell you. If he thought you were right, he’d fight to the grave to prove it."_ His fingers move to adjust the **Whitewood insignia** upon Caldor’s shoulder, rubbing a calloused thumb over the etched stag-and-tree emblem. His jaw tightens. _"He should have been the one standing over my grave, not the other way around."_ A heavy silence follows those words. No one dares to disagree. --- ### **Family and Duty – The Final Preparations** The barracks chamber is quiet, the air heavy with the weight of loss. **Caldor Bracken lies in full armor, his sword upon his chest, his cloak draped over him like a burial shroud.** The fire in the hearth burns low, casting **long shadows against the stone walls**, flickering across the faces of the men gathered around him. **Brinnard Whitewood stands over the body, hands resting on the table’s edge, his gaze fixed on the man who should have outlived him.** His broad shoulders seem heavier tonight, as if bearing the weight of not only grief, but guilt. He exhales slowly through his nose before breaking the silence. _"His wife will not be here."_ The words are flat, factual. But those who know him well enough—**those who have followed him through war, through victory, through loss**—hear what he does not say. He turns away from the bier, moving toward the writing desk in the corner of the room. There, resting on the wood, is a letter, already sealed with **House Whitewood’s silver and green insignia.** His fingers brush over it, but he does not pick it up. _"I wrote to her,"_ he says, almost to himself. _"Told her what happened. Told her that he died a warrior’s death, that he didn’t suffer. That he fought to the last."_ A pause. A slow breath. _"And she will read it, and she will know that I lied."_ The men in the room shift uncomfortably, but **no one speaks.** Brinnard clenches his jaw, rolling his shoulders as if trying to force down whatever is clawing at his throat. _"I will have to face her when I go home."_ He lets out a sharp breath, then turns back to the body. **Caldor had made a choice. He had left behind a home, a family, a future in Brevoy—all to follow Brinnard to Rivermarch.** **Out of honor. Out of friendship. Out of duty.** And now, it had cost him everything. --- ### **The Ritual of Arms** _"Bring me his sword."_ One of the men steps forward, holding **Caldor’s longsword** with both hands, its hilt wrapped in worn leather, its blade sharp despite the countless battles it had seen. Brinnard takes it with **careful reverence**, running a calloused hand over the weapon before setting it down beside the body. _"And his dagger,"_ he adds after a moment. Another man retrieves **the small, well-worn blade**, the one **Caldor had used to cut Brinnard free all those years ago.** It had been **a joke between them**, a story told over drinks—**how the great and fearsome Brinnard Whitewood had been caught in a bandit’s snare like a fool and had to be cut loose by his own man.** Brinnard smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. _"He never let me live that down."_ A few of the men chuckle softly, the sound **rough and hollow**, but **needed all the same.** --- ### **Final Preparations & The Last Words** The final touch is a **small wooden carving**—**a stag, simple but well-crafted, its antlers raised in quiet defiance.** It is the **only token of home that Caldor carried with him to Rivermarch.** Brinnard picks it up, turning it over in his hand. _"He carved this for his son before we left Brevoy,"_ he mutters. _"Said he wanted the boy to have something to remember him by. Something to keep him from forgetting."_ His fingers tighten around the carving. _"I will send it home with my letter,"_ he decides. The room is silent. The work is done. Brinnard **straightens, adjusting the clasp on his own cloak, tightening his gloves.** His men watch him, waiting. _"No wailing. No weeping,"_ he says. His voice is **low, firm, absolute.** _"Caldor was a soldier. He will be honored as one. We march through Stromhaven with our heads high, our blades sharp. If he cannot go home, then we will take him where he belongs."_ He steps toward the bier, resting **one final hand on his fallen friend’s shoulder.** _"Goodbye, old friend."_ The torches are lit. The doors are opened. And the **procession through Stromhaven begins.** ### **The Torchlit Procession** The gates of the barracks swing open, and the cold night air rushes in. **Brinnard Whitewood steps out first, his broad shoulders squared, his face unreadable in the flickering torchlight.** Behind him, six warriors bear **Caldor Bracken’s bier**, their grips firm, their expressions carved from stone. The streets of **Stromhaven** are lined with people. Some hold torches of their own, their flames **a river of orange light winding through the dark city**. Others clasp hands over their hearts or bow their heads in solemn respect. Even those who did not know Caldor personally have come to stand witness. Because **tonight, a warrior is laid to rest.** ### **The City Watches** The atmosphere in Rivermarch has been **tense for weeks**—whispers of political strife, of Pitaxian spies, of rising tensions between factions within the city. But tonight, none of that matters. Tonight, **they are simply a people mourning one of their own.** Brinnard’s boots strike against the stone path as he leads the procession. **The rhythmic step of the soldiers behind him is steady, deliberate—each footfall a drumbeat of loss.** The bier does not waver. The men carrying it would **sooner break than let it fall.** The wind carries the **distant toll of a bell**—slow, deep, final. As they move through the city, Brinnard glances at the faces in the crowd. He sees **hardened warriors standing at rigid attention**, hands clenched behind their backs in salute. He sees **merchant families watching in silence**, their children clutching at their mothers' skirts. He sees **ratfolk from Tybalt’s community**, their keen eyes tracking the bier with quiet reverence. And most of all, he sees **a people united, if only for this moment.** Rivermarch **has struggled, has fractured, has fought against itself in ways that have tested its very foundation.** But tonight, **they stand together.** And for the first time in a long while, Brinnard feels the weight of what they have built. This is not Brevoy. **These are not men and women bound by blood, by noble houses, by the games of power.** **They are bound by something far more simple.** Caldor had fought for this city—not because of birthright, not because of duty to a crown, but because **he believed in it.** Because **he believed in Brinnard.** Brinnard swallows hard, pushing the thought away before it can sink in too deep. --- ### **The Approach to the Tree** The procession winds its way through Stromhaven’s **cobbled streets, past the marketplace and the watchtower**, the steady march of boots on stone the only sound beyond the **low crackle of torches**. The road ahead leads to the edge of the settlement, where the land **opens wide to rolling fields and quiet forest**. Brinnard **keeps his gaze forward**, his expression locked in iron. The bier moves behind him, carried with **unwavering precision**, flanked by **the warriors who had fought alongside Caldor**—the men who would see him to his final rest. But **the city watches still**. Windows glow with candlelight, faces **half-lit in the dark**. Some hold **hands over their hearts**, others offer **silent bows of the head**. This is not Brevoy, where noble funerals are displays of power and legacy—**this is Rivermarch**, and here, **a warrior is honored by those he fought for**. And then, **a single voice breaks the silence.** _"Caldor Bracken! May the land remember his name!"_ Brinnard turns his head **just slightly**, his steel-gray eyes landing on **[[Gerrek Thornwall]]**, the **Rivermarch Guard captain** standing at rigid attention, torch raised. His **voice is strong**, carrying over the flickering firelight. Another voice joins him—**[[Darren]]**, a younger soldier, his **face grim but his words clear**. _"Caldor Bracken! May the land remember his name!"_ And then, **[[Mirek Odan]]**, his broad frame towering over the others, adds his voice to the cry. _"Caldor Bracken! May the land remember his name!"_ More join. The **kobolds**—warriors who once fought against Rivermarch, now standing among its ranks—**raise their voices high, sharp, unwavering**. _"Caldor Bracken! May the land remember his name!"_ Tartuk stands among them, **his small frame rigid with uncharacteristic solemnity**, his usual smirk absent. He does not yell, but he **nods once**, a rare show of quiet respect. The cry **builds**, **rolling through the gathered citizens**, through **farmers, merchants, blacksmiths, and warriors alike**. _"Caldor Bracken! May the land remember his name!"_ Brinnard **does not join in.** He simply **listens**, his jaw clenched, his breath slow, his hands tightening behind his back. And yet—**something in him shifts.** This city—**his grandson’s city**—is not Brevoy. **It is something else entirely.** And it is **worth bleeding for.** The chanting fades as the **procession reaches the edge of town**, where the great **whitewood tree stands tall against the night sky**, its **branches reaching like outstretched arms**. Brinnard exhales slowly. It is time. ### **Beneath the Whitewood Tree** The procession reaches **the outskirts of Stromhaven**, where the land **gives way to open fields** and the air is thick with the scent of grass and damp earth. The torches flicker as the wind picks up, whispering through the **tall branches of the great whitewood tree** that stands alone on the hill. It is **a tree of strength, of endurance**, its roots deep, its canopy vast. **Brinnard Whitewood chose this place for Caldor Bracken—not for its beauty, but for its permanence.** A warrior should rest where **the land itself will remember him.** The bier is **lowered gently**, the men who carried it moving **with the same discipline they did in battle.** **Silence falls.** The gathered soldiers, council members, and citizens of Rivermarch form a **wide circle**, torches planted in the ground, their flames swaying in the wind. The flickering light casts **long shadows across armor and worn faces, across hands still calloused from war.** Brinnard **takes his place at the foot of the grave**, his shoulders squared, his hands clasped behind him. His face is unreadable, but those who know him best can see the weight pressing down on him. He takes a slow breath. Then another. And then he speaks. --- ### **Brinnard’s Speaks** _"Caldor Bracken followed me into this land when he had no reason to."_ His voice is **low, rough—but unwavering**. _"He was not a nobleman. He was not bound by duty to me, to Rivermarch, to anything but his own honor. He could have stayed in Brevoy. He could have lived a life of comfort with his wife and children."_ A pause. A shift of his jaw, a tightening of his stance. _"But he came with me."_ He looks out over **the assembled warriors, the guardsmen, the men who knew Caldor better than most.** _"He came with me because he was my brother. Not by blood, but by bond. By steel. By the battles we fought, the wars we bled through, the years we endured together. And I—"_ He stops himself, just for a moment. _"I should be the one lying in that grave. But war does not ask what should be."_ His **gaze hardens**, his stance unshaken. _"Caldor was a warrior. He was a father. A husband. A man who did not flinch in the face of death. And if there is anything I know to be true, it is that men like him do not die. Not truly."_ He **steps forward**, removing the **Whitewood cloak from his shoulders**—**deep forest green, lined in silver.** He kneels, placing it over **Caldor’s chest**, his fingers brushing briefly over the worn hilt of his old friend’s sword. _"Your watch is ended."_ --- ### **The Rite of Passing** One by one, **Whitewood’s soldiers step forward**—**the men who had fought beside Caldor in Brevoy, who had bled beside him, who had called him brother in war long before Rivermarch was even a dream.** These are **not Rivermarch’s guardsmen, not city watchmen**—these are **veteran soldiers, hardened by years of service, men bound not by duty alone, but by unshakable loyalty to one another.** Each carries with them **a final offering**, a piece of Caldor’s story, something to lay upon his grave so that **he will not go into the earth alone.** #### **Lord Edric Vayne**, an old campaigner with a **scar running from brow to jaw**, steps forward first. He holds out **a battered bronze medallion**—**the insignia of an old Brevoyan regiment, long disbanded, but never forgotten.** _"We swore, long ago, that we would all return home together."_ His voice is **low, rough, choked with something he will not show.** _"And one by one, we’ve broken that oath. But you, old friend—you will not be alone when you cross over."_ He presses the medallion **into the soil beside Caldor’s chest**, nods once, then **steps back into the line.** #### **Sir Roderic Halveyr**, a man with **salt-and-pepper hair and a swordsman’s frame**, follows next. He draws **a flask from his belt, uncorks it, and takes a deep swig before kneeling beside the bier.** _"Caldor Bracken,"_ he murmurs, tilting the flask and letting the **amber liquid spill onto the fresh earth.** _"The finest drinking companion I ever had. No war was ever so grim that you couldn't find a reason to raise a glass."_ He smirks, just slightly. _"Drink well, wherever you are, brother."_ #### **Damon Arvest, a once-fierce warrior turned elder statesman**, moves forward next. In his hand, he carries **a tattered scrap of an old Brevoyan battle standard**—**one Caldor had helped carry through one of the last battles of the Aldori-Surtova conflicts.** _"This should have been yours to keep."_ His fingers tighten on the fabric. _"Instead, it is yours in death."_ He kneels, pressing it **into the dirt with deliberate care**, before stepping back. #### **Tomas Berholt, the oldest among them, his hair stark white, his posture still straight despite his years,** takes the last step forward. He says nothing at first. Instead, he **reaches beneath his cloak, drawing forth an old iron ring—a simple, unadorned band.** Brinnard watches, his brow furrowing slightly. Tomas lets out a quiet breath. _"Your wife gave this to me before we left Brevoy,"_ he murmurs. _"Said if you ever needed a reminder of why you had to come home, I was to give it to you."_ He kneels, setting the ring **upon the fresh earth.** _"I should have given it to you when you still had the chance to return."_ --- ### **Brinnard's Farewell** **Brinnard moves last.** The soldiers who served with Caldor **stand in silence**, their torches **casting long shadows** as they watch the grave take shape. **So many years spent together, so many battles fought side by side—and now, for the first time, they must walk away without him.** Brinnard steps forward, the last of them to offer his tribute. He kneels, resting one calloused hand on the fresh earth, fingers curling slightly as if to anchor himself. His voice is quiet, but it carries. _"If the world had any sense of justice, you'd be standing here instead of me."_ A pause. A breath. The wind moves through the whitewood’s branches above them. _"But the world is a cruel thing, and we are left to carry what it takes from us."_ He straightens, **his posture stiff, his hands clasped behind his back.** _"We will march on without you, Caldor. But we will not march without your name."_ There is no flourish, no breaking of composure. Instead, **he does the simplest thing he can do—he lifts his chin, turns from the grave, and begins the long walk back to Stromhaven.** One by one, the soldiers follow. And **Caldor Bracken is left to rest beneath the great whitewood tree, his name carried on the wind.** ### **The Soldiers’ Farewell** The wind picks up as Brinnard **steps back from the grave**, but none of the soldiers move to follow him just yet. The men of **Whitewood’s company**—those who had fought beside Caldor for years, who had called him brother—**stand in a tight formation around the freshly packed earth**. Their **torches burn low**, flickering in the cold night air. For a moment, there is **only silence**, save for the wind shifting through the whitewood’s branches. Then, in perfect unison, **each soldier unclasps their cloak and lets it fall**—a **ring of deep green and silver laid upon the ground**, a final tribute to a man who **had followed them through war and into exile, a man who had earned his place among them in death as he had in life.** Brinnard does the same, **his own cloak the last to be placed**, draping the mound of earth like a shroud. Then, without a word, each soldier **draws their sword**—the whisper of steel against leather filling the night air. **They hold their blades before them, hilts to their chests, points downward toward the earth.** And as one, **they drive their swords into the soil.** A final salute. A warrior’s farewell. No one speaks. **Words are not needed.** For several long moments, they stand there, heads bowed, letting the wind carry their unspoken oaths. **Their grief, their loss, their respect—all given to the land, to the man who now rests beneath it.** Then, as one, **they turn.** Brinnard leads them away from the whitewood tree, away from the grave, away from the past. **They do not look back.** --- ### **The City’s Farewell** As the soldiers disappear into the darkness, **the gathered citizens of Rivermarch remain.** They do not march away as warriors do. Some step forward, hesitant at first, placing **small tokens at the base of the mound**—a **carved trinket, a coin, a scrap of cloth from an old banner.** Things **small, but meaningful.** A child—**no more than ten**—kneels by the grave and sets down **a single sprig of wildflowers.** He does not know Caldor Bracken. But he knows **he was important.** The wind stirs again, rustling the **fallen cloaks**, shifting the **torches still planted in the ground.** And one by one, the people of Stromhaven begin to **speak his name.** _"Caldor Bracken."_ Soft at first, then **stronger**. _"Caldor Bracken."_ A final gift to a man who gave his life to a kingdom still in its infancy. A kingdom that will **not forget.** And as the last of the torches are **extinguished**, the **whitewood tree stands tall against the night sky**, its branches **carrying his name into the wind.** ![[DALL·E 2025-03-11 17.32.10 - A solemn nighttime funeral scene beneath a towering whitewood tree, its vast branches illuminated by the glow of scattered torches. A single, freshly .webp]]