“I truly despise churches.” Hans watched from the rear of the crowd alongside his fellow Fingers. Twenty of them now, as if Hastur had four hands. In truth, he supposed that was very possible considering how good at working the flesh the former primus was. He cleared his throat loudly in the middle of the presiding priest's speech, spitting a fat glob of phlegm onto the center aisle of the cathedral, alarming many. Some, namely the knights and paladins glared at him, but they'd always avert the gazes when their eyes met. Nobody wanted that fight, and that was unfortunate.

Some 'pride' these champions of honor and dignity had.

All of them clowns.

Hans possessed a rather unique and terrifying power, the potent ability to drain and destroy matter by touch. To take energy from others, just not quite so finely as Pattoli. The drawback being that he was always taking from himself, existing in a constant state of irritability after being artificially awakened. Constant agony, too.

Raj didn't share his reservations, glaring at the gaunt man too with his deep brown eyes. Assyrians and the Ind alike were quite devout in the worship of their 'one god', but they largely respected the establishments of others. A conservative people with progressive morals of a sort, the 'love your neighbor' type. Hans hated them too.

He heard, rather than felt, a fist nearly strike the back of his head. Turning, the burly Pattoli had Rommel's hand clutched in his own significantly larger digits. Her eyes were red, strangely, she'd been weeping, and her characteristic arrogance was long gone. “Yeah, I get it, it was a beautiful funeral. The fuck do you want me to say after what he did to me?”

'What' being the repetitious occasions where Tyr had cannibalized Hans, ensuring the latter was always conscious when it happened. Hans had his moments, he'd never call himself a good person – but that was profanity beyond reason, something he couldn't remotely consider forgiving.

“You deserved it.” Yucca hissed, the young, black haired woman similarly dour at the auspicious event of a primus' burial rites. “Now shut up before you get us thrown out.”

None of them wanted to kill the boy, least of all Hastur, but the plan had abruptly changed – their mobilization still continued and they were thrown toward the city unprepared for some reason. Nobody knew why, but it worked out and that was what mattered, an archmage by the name of Tykr Brandos had done far more than Kael Emberwind to see it done. Hastur never shared with them his finer points, nor how he had so many allies, which had been a source of chagrin for many. But weighed against the gifts they'd received, it wasn't a difficult thing to get over.

Their master was frantically working at his 'solution' even as they watched this farce. Given context, it was a beautiful funeral, all of the respect and custom deserving of a king. Even a false one. A host of robed priests offering their benedictions, many houses choosing to participate in the sanctification of the body before it was burnt. A crowd of thousands in attendance, men in midnight black plate carrying the mentioned and so shortly lived royal sovereign down the crimson carpet, their steps measured and robotic.

Beautiful, noble. Out of respect for Jartor, who was fortunately not present, they had seen fit to do this much for the would be tyrant of Amistad. All under the guise that Tyr was the true target and Hastur no longer planned to invade them. Again...

What a bunch of fucking idiots. A wicked grin split Hans' lips, but he restrained himself otherwise. His drain touch was powerful, but Rommel wasn't someone he wanted to fight – and he knew the others would follow her rather than him. He himself would rather follow her lead rather than his own, after all, he didn't blame them.

Hans had hoped there'd be a nice, bloody battle, but the entire city had simply laid down their weapons in surrender after a brief stalemate at the gates. He didn't understand that either, some of those so-called 'archmages' had clearly wanted a piece of Baccia's army, but they had all capitulated. To keep their holdings, and lives, if only for a scant few months. They didn't know that, of course, believing themselves safe. It was early spring now and by the time summer came they'd all be food for the crows if they tried to resist the second coming.

They could've won, too, the Baccians and Fingers alike had run straight into a disadvantageous situation. All by Hastur's command, and Hans was more than willing to serve. Even still, it irked him, not the fact that he felt party to a pack of blabbering fools, but the fact that every body replacement he received he felt less of the soft tender flesh he touched. Little by little, it wasn't as pleasant as before, losing parts of himself. That gift that would become a curse.

Even Aurelius was present, if only to gloat. Staring with fevered eyes at the body of the primus, they'd been ordered to take the heart back with them, the 'why' didn't matter. Hans knew very well what kind of person he was, but that 'hero' gave him goosebumps. A real sick fuck. That was the problem with churches, earn a modicum of influence in them and all of a sudden they were looking the other way when unsavory things began to take place, and Aurelius had been part of quite a few. Another reason Hans hated the gods. He didn't blame men for being villains, that was the way the world worked, but in a world where gods gave and took every day...

Aurelius was just another example of how corrupt and vile religion had turned out to be.

–

Alex stared down at the cold body of Tyr. Sigi and Astrid flanked her with Goroshi, Tiber, and Samson at their back serving as their personal escorts respectively. Tiber was wearing his helmet for the first time in... Maybe ever, she'd never once seen it on his head, but she knew why. Even at two arms distant she could hear the choking breaths of a man attempting to rein in his emotions, but she'd been clear. No blood, not yet, that was for later. Samson on the other hand wept freely and bereft of any covering, standing proud and revealing his face for the whole world to behold his mourning.

Why? She didn't understand the reaction. Tyr had been good once, she'd seen it and fallen in love with that, remaining so even after he'd fallen into his ways, no matter how toxic it was. She had a reason to weep, and she did, as did Astrid. Sigi just stared mutely, a hard look on her face, something akin to disappointment or poorly disguised anger. In complete disbelief that after all things, Tyr had lost. Not a simple battle, but his very life itself.

Okami was nowhere to be found, gone somewhere to be about the business of an animal most likely – even a magical one, he wasn't much different.

Their friends were seated in the pews. Alex didn't need to look to know that few of them wept as she did.

Tyr was 'liked' or at least respected by many, but loved by few. It was the way of things, even in his darkness and foolishness alike, he was still a primus – and to any godfearing man that made him a 'god king' of sorts by birthright alone.

Micah, though... He was clutching Nala's midriff and sobbing violently into her breasts. Whether that was a genuine display of sorrow or another excuse to grope was an unknown, but Nala didn't seem to mind. The others just stared, a bit pale but that was all. Other than the display of disrespect from the untouchables at the back, everything was so quiet. And so was Tyr, for all the majesty of the ceremony it was a poor excuse to mark the death of a primus – not offering him the respect of a burning in his own homeland. Unattended to by his house and clan, lonely, not so much as a single cousin present to see him off.

Just as quiet and still as when he was meditating on the balcony or watching the children play at the orphanage. Alex felt great regret, watching as the priest set two coins over the scarred face of her dead husband and best friend. Not necessarily because he was dead, that was bound to happen and she'd come to terms with that. But because she'd never figured out who he was, had never gotten the chance to learn and know him at all.

He was given a southern funeral, in a church, and would eventually, presumably, be sent off in the northern way. Not buried, but burnt at sea. Something symbolic of the way their kind had come here in the past, the ancient kings that had settled this land ages ago from the west and across the waves. Laid to rest as a half burnt corpse at the bottom of some waterway in a boat of ironoak and black yew. As half done as that plan of his, as if the men and women of Amistad would bend the knee so easily after living so long as a free people. Done in by a little poison, something he'd called his 'Achilles heel' once. He'd told Alex of this warrior from the past once but she'd never been able to find any such mention of that man in any historical text.

“Would you like to say a few words of remembrance?” For a Cardinal, Howard Cartwright of the Aphrosia sect wasn't bad. And they usually were, Alex didn't like churches any more than the average Harani. They were more familiar with humble shrines and sacred places than these high ceilings and ridiculous amounts of gold filigree.

Howard had the eyes of a grandfather and an appearance to match, with a calm demeanor and a beautiful voice that seemed created by the gods to speak on occasions such as this. It was an odd thing to see a Cardinal of the goddess of love presiding over a funeral, but these were strange times. Tyr was 'beloved by Aphrosia', apparently, the oddest thing she'd ever heard in her life. The goddess of love, loving someone who might've never been capable of feeling any such thing. The house of light in general seemed to favor Tyr quite a bit – which had come as quite a shock. Aotrom's templars flanked the pillars in honor guard, and Vestia's priestesses had attended en masse in a great show of unexpected solidarity.

Alex shook her head numbly. She couldn't, feeling like she might vomit at any moment. Remaining on her own feet was hard enough, but she was too proud to buckle under the strain. They didn't know him like she did, and that wasn't very much at all. Watching Mother Mary and Farron break down had been enough to freeze her blood and nearly send her mind spiraling.

Sigi had done the rest, seeing to the arrangements with composure, and she'd do it again. Tall, straight, proud and unwavering.

“I will.” She said, returning the calm nod of the priest and marching up to the dais that sat level with Tyr's casket. Staring down at it with sharp eyes, exhaling before she gave remembrance of a dead husband and a failed dream alike. Her last and likely only chance to achieve closure with her lost homeland.

“Tyr Faeron.” Sigi spoke coldly, a hard edge to her voice, letting the name hang in the air. “Tyr Faeron was a piece of shit.”

“...”

“He was selfish, uncouth, and altogether an unpleasant individual to most that interacted with him. Arrogant, vain, prideful, and full of everything I disdain in a man – unreliable and whimsical at best. Even now, looking at this cold cadaver of what was my husband, all I want to do is strike him. He was an idiot, always living in the moment and never thinking over the consequences of his actions, and it finally got him killed. I am not surprised whatsoever at what has become of him.”

There was a lull, a heavy silence in the room that pervaded everything. It had been quiet before, but now it was almost haunting just how little noise could be heard in the vast chamber. Alex almost sighed if not for being at risk of breaking that tremendous quiet. It was nice, to be deprived of a sense just for a little while, making her feel light and calm under Sigi's crisp and authoritative tone. Wide eyes stared back at the tall, silver haired woman at the podium. Standing still and at attention like a soldier.

Arms locked behind her back. Sigi began to pace, calmly at first, but the clack of her boots against the marble grew louder over time.

“He was lazy, too, my husband. But his perfectionist attitude ensured that he always tried his hardest at every little thing he did, only things that interested him though. That includes your governance. He cared about you, so far as to labor beside your trench diggers himself without complaint, none of which – mind you – are present. Just you people, the high born and privileged in a land that claims to give no such extra face to the sort.” She stomped, her boot settling on the floor, enough to chip at the glossy marble below, the first sign of real anger. “And you betrayed him, stuck a knife in his back all out of a self preservation you'll never get. The rich who will run when the fighting starts, the commonfolk slaughtered because you think yourselves above becoming a target, so you'll let others die in your place. If not for my status, I would have personally rigged each and every one of you filthy rats from a gibbet and funneled your throats full of burning sand. You roaches, scurrying about with your schemes and plots. I almost look forward to the day Hastur shows his true colors and burns you all alive, as he most assuredly will. My husband was an idiot, and yet before you lot I find him a genius – believing yourselves safe...” She spat. “You disgust me, all of you.”

Silence reigned yet still, her gravity as an orator lay heavy on the crowd. The accusation so fierce no rebuttal came, and how could it? She was right. Some of the highborn and more self important people in attendance gave her scathing looks, but those kind of people respected only one thing. Status. As a princess of three major nations, though her homeland be a thing of the past, she had more than enough of that to go around. A real 'purebred', enough to ensure nobody with a brain had ever disturbed her in anything.

“...But, luckily for you.” Sigi interjected with a flinty look, the depths of the sea she'd been baptized in reflected in her eyes. “I am not that kind of person. Hastur will come, you're all being lied to, and I'll fight alongside you as I always planned to. Just know that you deserve what is coming. We all do, and I am of no exception.”