The Johnathan Maynard Grounds of Rest - move 1

4:57

The black gates - the universal sign for a cemetery - tower some twenty feet tall, with a lacquer so black it seems to suck in the lightness around it. The undisturbed snow behind the gates prove to be an odd contrast, twice as bright once it escapes the darkness of the gates as though thanking the God's themselves. The darkness is ever present as the day falls into twilight with the setting sun disappearing behind the town of Framingham.

Acolytes of Chumbe roam the crowd, the temple's sign of two horns crossed on a sun making for easy identification on their thick black cloaks, whisper politely that the Johnathan Maynard grounds are not cleared by man nor beast out of respect to nature, the snow is now three feet deep on the grounds after the recent storms. Wagons, carriages, other vehicles are not permitted, though animals of any kind are.

From the outside there are only leafless trees surrounding the cemetery. No gravestones, no tombs, merely the beginning of an incline.

4:58
A throng of 50 people has gathered at the gate. All of the major races are represented - elves, eldritch, even the scaly skinner dragon born. As the time grows closer various others appear out of thin air. Teleporting, gating in, one man even flies.

All are respectfully silent when they approach the gates.

4:59
People with portable sun dials seem to breathe heavier as the time ticks down. The acolytes, most are teenagers, rush about. Slightly more frantic at the number of newcomers.

You still cannot see behind the gates though. No one on town, save for the wealthy about to journey to the "Guilded City" ever pass though these gates.

Any would-be thiefs are most likely cowed by the sheer amount of weaponry gathered. A few of the would be mourners are heavily armed, providing an irrefutable air of danger. Some carry rods, the weapon of choice for a wizard.

5:00
The black gates swing inward, pushing though the snow as though it is not even an after thought. The insides of the Johnathan Maynard cemetery reveals itself.

A series of lanterns acts as a pathway up a hill. It is not a shoveled path, only a series of lanterns so the path is lit. The pathway continues up a hill nearly 300 yards long. Now the tombstones are present; peeking up like mushrooms through the snow, tombs dot the area grounds, gray beacons in the land of white.

How and why you cannot see this from the outside? The world is full of magic. Who knows.

Some of the more heavily armed warriors walk though the snow first. One man so large he certainly has ogre blood in in his veins.Wizards and spell weavers hold back spells, it would seem sacrilege to cast any.

It takes nearly a half hour for the first people to reach the end of the pathway.

Others follow, creating a path for those who are last. A halfling stays on the fringes, one of the end, he being one of the smallest creatures there besides two young boys among the crowd who are sticking closely to one of the fattest human's you have ever seen. For every step the fat man makes he takes too deep breaths.

A stunning human female woman wearing a dwarven cloak of royalty arrives ten minutes late to the gate. Unsurprisingly a male dwarf accompanies him, his beard adorned with thick black beads signifying dwarven mourning.

No one chooses to ride a creature in. Respect for Donal driving everyone up the path.

Two humans and a tiefling are the last to arrive. They are hurried, slipping in just before the gates pull themselves shut.

5:30
At the top of the hill is the Temple of Chumbe. The walls of the temple are perfectly carved with an odd white enamel on the walls. The reason the Temple is not visible from the ground is now obvious. The walls reflect everything around the grounds back on itself. Snow makes it appear white, in the summer when the grounds are green it most likely appears green.

A perfectly simple camouflage. With the darkness it is impossible to tell how far back the temple extends. The height is obvious though. Two stories.

There is an open archway in the front of the Temple with inlaid carvings around its edges. Several Priests in their mid-20s stand in archway.

In front of them is a wooden coffin that has been carved directly out of the trunk of an oak tree. The bark has been left on the coffin, giving it the appearance of a canoe. An elvish tradition signifying safe voyage to the next life.

There are nearly 100 people gathered in front of the Temple in front of Donal's open coffin including a few mysterious ones on the edge. One man at well over six feet tall sees over everyone.

One of Priests steps forward, opening his arms skyward in the form of an embrace. The timing is perfect as his forward step coincides with the sun disappearing and the moon making its foray into the sky.

"He erred greatly," says the Priest. His voice is amplified magically, coming from almost all directions at once.

"Donal uses to come and tell me, 'I have erred greatly' and I used to laugh. The man who saved a thousand people? The man who was friend to every manner of every creature? Yes, I used to laugh. Donal would tell me that he was merely a making up for the gravest errs."

The Priest sighed deeply.

"I used to laugh. If he, Donal was repentive - how could the rest of us measure up? I used to laugh. Donal would smile that smile of his. Whatever answer he knew he kept to himself."

The Priest looked upward as though awaiting an answer.

"Today I cry though. I would ask Donal for the answer he never gave. To hear his words of pain, try to comfort my oldest friend. The world owes Donal a debt it can never pay. Today is a day where we are worse off. In the end Donal would have laughed. Those in front of me today. Those who rode the wings of magic. Fought through ice and snow. He would say, 'I erred in life, no need to make a fuss in death'"

The Priest composed himself as he fought back tears.

"I would have laughed. Which Donal would have loved. Which was his greatest gift."

The Priest reached into the inside fold of his robe, withdrawing a copper coin. He twirled it around in hid fingers.

"The coin in death is a multifaced tradition. 'Always put a coin on the eyes of the dead to let them know how we feel.' For an enemy it means you hope the undead scratch his eyes before he gets to the after life. For a friend it means money for safe passage to start hid life. You were my fried Donal."

The Priest flips the coin into Donal's coffin.

People line up, coming forward to whisper a few private last words then depositing the coins into the coffin. As each person passes the Priest who gave the eulogy says, "Thank you for coming," as he stares at each persons face.

The fat man hangs back, muttering some words to himself and not approaching. Not everyone approaches the coffin. More than a few tears are shed though, some from the heartiest men and women you will ever see, as they walked away from Donal's coffin.

After the last person walks away you feel it first. Definitely a feeling that makes your body vibrate slightly. A feeling none of you have ever had before. It starts in your toes, quickly making its way up your legs, your spine, then settling into the base of your neck.

Fear.

Some people immediately freeze. The moon is momentarily blocked out, the lamps reflecting off a bright red chromatic surface.

A red dragon.

There be dragons here
The red dragon circles once over the crowd. Letting the fear wash over people. On its back is a small man in a saddle that blends perfectly into the dragon. The dragon looks over the crowd with a nasty gleam in its eye.

"Whatever you're thinking. Don't." Its voice is deeper than a chasm with an aloof coldness more icy than the arctic.

The Priest turns ashen.

The dragon lands in the snow with a "foomp." The rider leaps from the back of the red dragon. His armor is some sort of red scale male, his eyes deep-watery blue.

You recognize those deep-watery blue eyes. The same colors as Donal.

"Robert," the still-ashen Priest whispers. The amplification giving the voice an odd reverberation.

"Well met, T'alon. My apologies for my tardiness. This thing is a bitch to park," laughs Robert, slapping the red dragon lightly on the haunch. The red dragon snorts in appreciation of the comment.

Robert walks over to the coffin, looks into it, then back up at the Priest, "the Dragon State of New York sends its regards."

Robert leans into the coffin, kissing Donal gently on the forehead. He then takes a copper coin out of his pocket, placing it on the large pile that covers Donal's face.

"Good bye, brother." He kisses Donal's forehead a second time.

"Only those with the coin may enter. So now I shall leave." Robert makes his way back to his red dragon. With an effortless push it is airborne. "Oh, T'alon, make sure my brother rests peacefully."

8:02 pm...Now a party?
You recall Donal's dream message. The Happy Swallow. That is where you head next.

It is something of a nexus point. There seems to be one in every universe, every time period, every place in the world, but when you walk inside, it always seems really familiar somehow. Perhaps it is because of the same fat man behind the bar, the same swill on tap, the same bowl of wisely untouched peanuts on the counter.

Maybe not all the dreams are the same. Most of the people leave directly after the funeral, muttering comments about dragons and damn New Yorkers. There are less than two handfuls of people at the Happy Swallow.

The fat man with the two boys is there. He wears fraying robes of former royalty. Most likely someone who used to be someone who wishes her were again. The two boys quickly disappearing into the chamber pot room.

Another man is there. He strikes an imposing figure at just over six feet. He wears a black cloak which covers his armor, an intricate suit of scales, which seem to shimmer, but only out of the corner of your eye. He carries a large Axe-Hammer, a rare but coveted weapon used primarily by Dwarves of yore. His hair is short and sandy brown, his ears clearly visible, revealing the presence of a bit elven blood, but he is thicker and sturdier than any of the Fey people. He is well dressed, his boots, trousers and gloves of obvious quality. His face is lined and wrinkled around the eyes, either from years of suffering or years of happiness. It is impossible to tell which, or perhaps both. When you meet his gaze, he does not smile, does not flinch, but does not glare or challenge either. He simply sees you where you stand, and notes your position, moving his gaze onto the next person, as if studying a chessboard. He seems at ease, and at the same time, coiled and tense.

There is also a halfling who is short by human standards, but average for a halflings. He's 4 ft tall and has light brown hair and green eyes. His hair is short and messy and uneven from his diy haircuts. His figure is slender, but not completely toned. He wears shades of brown and green pants and shirts that allow him to blend into the forest. He carries a short bow and quiver of arrows and a short sword and hunting knife. His skin is well tanned and he has a small scar on his right cheek by his ear.

The woman with the dwarf is also there. She is extraordinarily beautiful. Her wardrobe is very expensive and her cloak clasped with the dwarven royal emblem to mark her stature - clearly the not royalty, but definitely some sort of authority.

The dwarf with her wears plate and carries a long sword. He has a look of a man who would just as soon kill you as look at you.

Another man, 6'6" tall and about 270 lbs...He is large, but long and lean. He has an olive complexion and in the summer months has a dark tan. He has close cropped brown hair and green eyes. He has a strong jaw and a nose that has been broken many times.

He wears a long brown cloak and wears a backpack. There is a long sword slung across his back as well with the hilt showing above his shoulder. He wears only a padded vest, bracers, leather pants, and sturdy boots, with long sleeves under his vest. He looks very much like a tribesman.

There is also the group of the two men and the tiefling. The tiefling gives off an air of authority, though his pants are too large for him. Some would call him a handsome little devil standing around 5'10" 160 pounds.

One of the humans is a cross between a ranger and an armored knight. He stands just over six feet tall, wears armor, and has a long sword along with a set of quivers with over 100 arrows total.

The other human looks like he could be the every man. He wears a long brown cloak, his hair parted slight to the side. Other than that there is absolutely nothing remarkable about him at all.

When the sizzling roasted pig and charred venison platters arrive you realize how hungry you are. The free meade and ale...well that makes everything a bit better.