Michael didn't lay anything down, no was he required to as the bear pelt technically counted as his contribution, or so he was told by Valdr. Apparently, it was the biggest contribution out of everyone here today, which included the Jarl who'd personally laid down thirty Deathbells for some reason.
Soon enough, everyone was gathered around the pyre as Runil lit it. The Priest hadn't given any speeches of longwinded prayers, that would begin when they actually buried Lohir, which was confusing in itself. Apparently, if your body was too mangled to bury, they'd burn you on a pyre and bury your ashes... This only really occurred in Falkreath however, as it was seen as a great honour to be buried amongst the many heroes who rested here. Everywhere else only the Pyre was really required depending on the location's own traditions.
Strangely, the fire seemed to burn far faster and hotter than any regular flame. And once the Deathbells had started burning, it turned a shade of dark blue for a couple minutes before returning to normal. It was like the primitive version of fireworks Michael supposed.
Some people left while the pyre was burning, going to attend to their respective duties but promising to return for the burial and celebration afterwards. Not everyone could spend an entire day doing nothing after all.
Speaking of which, Michael noticed the Jarl and his Steward walking towards him, "Greetings young Michael, I am Nenya, Steward of the Jarl." she gestures politely to the man next to her, "This is Jarl Dengeir of Stuhn,"
The Jarl nods and holds out a hand, "It's always a fine day to meet a fellow warrior. I have heard good things about you."
Michael nods and shakes the offered hand, only to find the mand attempting to squeeze it into jello. Michael just responds with equal strength, not wishing to get into trouble offending yet more nobles. "Pleasure to meet you, Jarl. Stuhn is a title I'm guessing? Must come with quite a story?"
Dengeir's stern face loosens slightly, taking it as a compliment, "Aye it does, but we can trade stories later over some ale. For now, my Steward thought it appropriate to seek out your services, would you be willing to offer your aid in some more trying matters?"
Michael shrugs, "It depends on the job I suppose, but as long as it pays well and isn't too far out of my abilities..."
Nenya nods graciously, "That works fine for us. We can discuss this on another day, I am sure you are more interested in the celebration for now." she looks to the Jarl, "I will go about my duties, please do not drink too much, Tekla has enough work without you adding to it by emptying your stomach on the floor." she jokes causing Dengeir to sniff in annoyance.
"It was one time!" he exclaims, glances to Michael, "Women, make one mistake and they'll hang it over you until you die or they kill you." he huffs.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Soon enough, the pyre ends and Runil sweeps out some of Lohir's ashes and carries them into the graveyard to a pre-dug grave. Unfortunately for Michael, this is where the prayers begin... An hour of the Priest praying, moments of silence, people giving their last farewells to Lohir...
The only thing that kept Michael from leaving was the tankard in his hand that kept getting refilled by someone...? He was getting pretty drunk at this point, despite the low alcohol content drinks he was being served.
Eventually, the burial was over, and everyone ventured back to the pyre where Valga had arrived with many barrels of drinks... She even had Illococoo out here serving drinks to people, Charlotte was presumably back at the inn looking after Tiffania and her mother though... How did Valga get her to agree to let Illococoo out?
He didn't have much time to think on it before he was dragged to the largest table, handed many drinks, and badgered by almost everyone present to tell the tale of how he slew the bear. It was pretty nerve-wracking, to be honest, he hated public speaking, but the liquid confidence that was starting to slur his speech egged him on anyway.
He began the story, beginning it by explaining that he ventured into the cave alone after everyone else had either refused or was less eager to do so. This got the crowd to jeer at Valdr, his friends, and the couple of red-faced guards who were there and had now gone without their armour, but it was good-natured enough... Everyone had seen the bear pelt, so they understood why they had seconds thoughts about traversing alone through pitch-darkness.
He went on to explain his encounter with the bear, finding Lohir and having a life to death battle with it. The Nords were very interested in the specifics of it all, some even having him act it out with a chair leg...
A minute or so later, he spoke of his final confrontation with the bear, and everyone was on the edge of their seat, finally cheering when he stabbed down with the chair leg, "And I stabbed it in its throat! Even after that it still kept coming at me! But with its earlier injuries, it'd already more than enough blood. You lot saw me when I came back covered in it!"
"Hahahaha! You're a mad man Michael! I saw that thing dead and I was tempted to run! What made you fight it head-on instead of following the plan!?" a red-faced and thoroughly drunk Valdr asks.
Michael shrugs, almost letting slip that Hircine had trapped him there, "I wanted a challenge I guess!?"
Everyone laughs at that, the Jarl dropping into a seat next to him and heavily clapping him on the back, "Hahaha! You're different from those other Milk-Drinkers that usually come through here! You must have some Nord blood in you!"
"Maybe!?" he starts, "Didn't you say you'd tell me how you started being called Stuhn!?" Michael loudly asks, his volume levels becoming quite irregular due to the alcohol and loudness of the celebrating crowd itself.
"Bah! Don't get him started! He tells that story every time I see him! Oh, you got called Stuhn for raiding High Elf pirates attacking Windhelm!? Big deal!" an unnamed guest states, causing the Jarl to frown at having his tale spoiled, "At least this old man's got stories to tell you poppy-headed mud-crab! Maybe if you weren't so busy hiding behind you're mother's blouse you'd have something to say!"
"Grr, what did you say old man!?"
Michael watches in fascination as the Jarl, a man reaching his twilight years, throws himself over the table and begins throwing fists. He and his quarry brawling as if he wasn't the leader of this entire Hold... Still, the drinks in him had his less rational mind working, causing him to join the crowd and cheer for one of them to win.
Strangely, that was where Michael's memories of the night ended... Not having any clue who'd won the fight between the Jarl and the other guy.
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"Uuuuggghhhh..." Michael groans as he wakes up, his head pounding with a fierce hangover. "Urgh, wasn't my passives supposed to heal this?" he questions aloud, only then realising that he was snuggled up in bed with Tiffania. He was holding her in the big spoon position, which is probably why Shadow Dance hadn't been working.
Eventually, he pulls himself out of bed, once up, he goes to wake up Charlotte, her mother, and Illococoo so they could get ready to see Runil. Charlotte's mother is a bit rowdy, refusing to leave the room, but that's solved fairly quickly as Illococoo somehow convinces.
When they're ready, Michael picks up Tiffania in a Princess carry and carries her out of the inn and towards the Hall of the Dead. Fortunately, Runil is present, and crooks a brow at the small group as they enter. "Ahem... Apologies, but usually people not personally carry their dead to me..." he says, glancing at Tiffania in Michael's arms.
"W-what!? She's not dead! Just in a coma!" Michael sputters in both indignation and worry, walking over and gently placing her on a nearby stone plinth. "We're here to see if you can do anything to wake her up!"
...
The High Elf frowns as he walks over and begins examining her, his palms glowing golden as he waves them over Tiffania's sleeping form. Charlotte watches on with rapt interest, her eyes locked onto the unfamiliar focus-less magic.
"Beg my pardon but," Runil starts, seemingly confused by what his spell had found. "What is this girl?... She isn't human, nor is she an Elf... I've never seen anything like it, if the Dominion-er, the Thalmor-" he corrects himself, "Gets word of her, they'd feel honour bound to eliminate her at all costs." he mutters, causing Michael to scowl.
"They can try." he mentally intones before focussing on Runil, "Why?" he asks, surely the elf supremacists would celebrate a new race of elves, right?
"You know the differences between Men and Mer, correct?" he asks, but upon seeing Michael shake his head, goes on to explain further. "We Mer believe ourselves to all be descended from the First-Folk, the descendants of Aedra and the first Elves to arrive in Tamriel. Altmer, Bosmer, Dwemer, even the now fallen Falmer knew this... Though whether or not the latter still remembers is debatable.
The reason why the Thalmor would hold such animosity against your friend here is because, from what I can tell. She holds no resemblance to any elven race in Tamriel, indeed, she doesn't seem to be related to Mer at all. But, I can tell she possesses similar traits to we descendants of Aedra... They would regard her as an abomination and insult to Mer as a whole."
"Did your spell tell you this, or are you just making assumptions?" Michael inquires, hoping to find a way to avoid the Thalmor's attention that wouldn't include cutting Tiffania's ears shorter...
Runil nods, "Both. Her ears match none of the records I know of, and the spell only confirmed it for me. Do not worry, I have no intentions of revealing this information to anyone... I only want you to be careful with what you now know, I wouldn't put it past the Thalmor to take her apart to see what makes her 'tick' as it were."
Michael frowns but relents, knowing that this information could very well help them further along the road. "And her coma?"
Runil's lips thin, "Ah, that... It's strange. A phenomenon I've not ever encountered before. It appears as though all of her Magicka had been pulled out of her, her reserves are slowly refilling, but she'll not awaken until it does. I would suggest using a Magicka Potion to expedite the process, but... I believe letting nature run its course would be for the best. Who knows what would happen if you drowned her in Magicka that her body is steadily adapting to."
Michael lets out a long sigh of relief at the news, smiling as he rests a hand on the top of Tiffania's hand. "So she'll be fine? That's a huge relief, thank you."
Runil smiles back, "I'm glad I could be of assistance. Was there something else you needed?" he asks, glancing to Charlotte's mother who was twitching erratically and looking around with a paranoid expression... Yeah, dragging her through a graveyard probably hadn't sat well with the manic woman.
"Yeah, actually... This is..." he pauses, realising he'd never actually gotten the woman's real name, "Er, Charlotte, what's your mother's name?"
"Maria de Gallia." the short girl quietly answers, not wishing to draw the attention of her mother.
He turns back to Runil, "Her name is Maria, she was poisoned years ago and hasn't been right ever since. To be put it simply, she's lost her mind and barely remembers or recognises anything." he explains.
Runil nods, "I see, well, let's have her sit down so I can take a look at her... If that is possible." he adds, seeing the woman scowl at him as he tries to approach.
It takes a bit of work, but thirty minutes later, Maria de Galia is lying unconscious on a stone plinth nearby the one Tiffania was lying on. Runil went through his usual process, holding his glowing hand above Maria's head. "Hmm, no... That's not- right?" the man says with a frown.
"How is it?" Michael asks after Runil goes silent.
"It is worse than it appears, I'm sorry to say. Whatever poison she ingested has, to put it mildly, caused not a small portion of her brain to atrophy. It isn't within my power to heal, nor do I believe anyone else would be able to do anything to help either. There are limits to what Restoration can do, sometimes we can heal mortal wounds... And sometimes an emperor can fall from his horse surrounded by the most talented mages and still perish. It's in the hands of the gods now." he sadly says while shaking his head.
His solemn expression hits Charlotte hard, but Michael takes something else from his words entirely. "The Gods, huh?"
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