In the wake of magister Eximium's assassination, much of the square had been partitioned away. Hastily erected tents hardly kept the encroaching chill of the night at bay, and temporary tables had since been set up. In the largest tent, at the head of a small desk with another chair opposite it, sat Saint Deimar.
Scribbling with pen - as though the events that had transpired were but a passing dream - against an open book, the aged laicar sat back in the uncomfortable wooden chair. His oaken eyes, partly sunken into his head and with bags drug beneath them, still managed a keen gaze out the open flap that served as an entrance. Across the square, another tent had been set up for peoples of interest to be held. The rest had long since dispersed to their homes, news of the event - including the broadcast - long since permeating the metropolis.
Standing to either side of the makeshift door, a pair of Arcanum medics stood in plain white robes. Dirtied and scuffed with the mayhem of the day, a single stripe ran vertically down the left side of the garment.
Speaking, the saint's voice was a baritone rumble, and he cleared his throat before trying again. "First one."
Nodding curtly, the first medic - with a shaggy mop of blonde hair and expressive green eyes - turned and left for the one across from Deimar's. Leaning back into his chair more - and lamenting silently on his loss of posture - the saint straightened his own robes. His almost-balding head held perhaps the barest scraps of snow-white atop it, little more than a dusting. Against his ocean-blue robes, his tanned complexion stood out, three white lines adorning the left side of the attire.
In the next tent, sat four individuals. All were tended to with care and courtesy, benches sitting on either side with gas lamps sitting near each to illuminate the place. In the center, a large camping stove and table had been set up, where hot cocoa was easy to claim.
A strangely eclectic bunch, the first was a demvir who observed his surroundings with a passive attention, head rotating in firm shudders to greet the blonde medic who entered the tent. The second, a velen, barely spared a glance in the laicar's direction before returning to another demvir in the room - whose fitful movements seemed only to be quelled by the velen's own presence. The third, perhaps most put-out, was a peculiar laicar wearing garbs of a Northern make, a sign of her unusual ancestry. Finally, a lone half-breed seemed to occupy a whole section of corner.
Clearing his throat, the intruding medic offered a simple question, "Sigrid, is it? His Holiness would appreciate your presence."
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Scribbling with pen - as though the events that had transpired were but a passing dream - against an open book, the aged laicar sat back in the uncomfortable wooden chair. His oaken eyes, partly sunken into his head and with bags drug beneath them, still managed a keen gaze out the open flap that served as an entrance. Across the square, another tent had been set up for peoples of interest to be held. The rest had long since dispersed to their homes, news of the event - including the broadcast - long since permeating the metropolis.
Standing to either side of the makeshift door, a pair of Arcanum medics stood in plain white robes. Dirtied and scuffed with the mayhem of the day, a single stripe ran vertically down the left side of the garment.
Speaking, the saint's voice was a baritone rumble, and he cleared his throat before trying again. "First one."
Nodding curtly, the first medic - with a shaggy mop of blonde hair and expressive green eyes - turned and left for the one across from Deimar's. Leaning back into his chair more - and lamenting silently on his loss of posture - the saint straightened his own robes. His almost-balding head held perhaps the barest scraps of snow-white atop it, little more than a dusting. Against his ocean-blue robes, his tanned complexion stood out, three white lines adorning the left side of the attire.
In the next tent, sat four individuals. All were tended to with care and courtesy, benches sitting on either side with gas lamps sitting near each to illuminate the place. In the center, a large camping stove and table had been set up, where hot cocoa was easy to claim.
A strangely eclectic bunch, the first was a demvir who observed his surroundings with a passive attention, head rotating in firm shudders to greet the blonde medic who entered the tent. The second, a velen, barely spared a glance in the laicar's direction before returning to another demvir in the room - whose fitful movements seemed only to be quelled by the velen's own presence. The third, perhaps most put-out, was a peculiar laicar wearing garbs of a Northern make, a sign of her unusual ancestry. Finally, a lone half-breed seemed to occupy a whole section of corner.
Clearing his throat, the intruding medic offered a simple question, "Sigrid, is it? His Holiness would appreciate your presence."
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