The morning was dark and dreary, such that even though it was well past the hour for the sun to rise, the lamplighters had not yet gone around and doused the flames that kept the city lit at night. The atmosphere was heavy, with fat grey clouds that let little sunlight through, and a misty fog that did its best to disperse the rest. The temperature hovered around the freezing point, though the skies couldn't quite decide whether it should rain, snow, or sleet, instead choosing a mixture of the three that made the cobblestones slick and hazardous. Still, the people came.
There were city guardsmen present, blocking off the roads and watching intently for any signs of trouble, but other than that and the presence of those who appeared to be part of the city's government, there was little at first to indicate that anyone was in charge of the proceedings. There was no rhyme or reason or pattern to the way the citizens lined up. Some formed strict military marching lines, others bunched up tightly together, with the majority falling somewhere in between in organization. Everything seemed to hinge on the six men carefully carrying a cast bronze sign, with a post to (presumably) stick in the ground somewhere. Clad in white robes, with the cowls up over their heads, they didn't seem to notice the hustle and bustle behind them. They stood stock still until, at some unseen or unheard signal, they started to walk slowly towards the marketplace. After a few moments, the rest of those present followed suit.
Without specified groupings, the marchers lurched and straggled towards their goal in strange pairings. Priests clad in plain white vestments marched side by side with elven druids dressed in hand-made furs and trews, while pastors from other faiths wore less conspicuous signs of their beliefs. A clerical collar poking up from beneath a jean jacket, or a crucifix on a chain around the neck of a suit-wearing man. Ordinary citizens from countless worlds and eras all came together, dressed in drab muslin dresses and pantsuits and leather breeches and cotton tunics and old plate armor and bomber jackets and some kind of space age material that was silvery and reflective. Members of the city guard and mages interspersed themselves throughout the ranks, dressed in their standard issue armor and robes, respectively. Perhaps most striking, though, were the victims present. Some were identifiable by the black ribbons they wore, or the t-shirts they donned in brave opposition to the elements with simple images, slogans and phrases: The smiling faces of men, women, and children who were no longer present in this world, ironed on to the front of white shirts. "Never Forget." "11-28-07." "We miss you, Thalion." A myriad of other phrases in other languages as well. Other victims were easily noted by the wounds they still bore. Some used canes to assist them in walking. Others were missing limbs, making use of replacement arms and legs crafted from wood or metal, wheelchairs, and crutches to move them along. A woman with dark glasses and a red-striped cane ably made her way forward, while a little girl in cerulean pigtails and missing one of her pointed ears sat upon the shoulders of a silver-haired elf. Children of all races walked hand in hand with adults who clearly weren't their parents. Dwarven children with humans, human children with elves, frail and grey-haired grandparents with babies and toddlers, halflings with youth barely shorter than they were. As they made their way down one of the city's primary thoroughfares, shutters and doors occasionally opened, as curious citizens poked their heads out to see what was going on. The march was mostly silent though, save for the sound of footsteps pounding on stone and the periodic sob from a saddened parent or child.
Finally, the journey took the rag-tag assembly into the Marketplace plaza, to a nearly forgotten northwestern nook of the square. Some of the stalls that had previously been there had been cleared out, leaving an oddly empty space. Someone appeared to have blocked off room for a flower bed, complete with a short wooden fence and mulch, but no flowers seemed to have been planted yet. A couple of wooden benches were also present, but the robed men paid no mind to those, heading straight for an empty patch of ground. As if an invisible wall had been placed in front of them, they suddenly stopped, and the crowd behind them fanned out into a half-circle, straining and standing on tippy-toes to try and see what they were doing. Carefully, the six men hoisted the bronze sign they had been carrying vertical. As they did so, it became evident why they had chosen to stop in the place they did: the ground was fresh concrete, grey and slightly liquid to the touch. They worked the post into the mixture, grunting and grimacing with the effort, then carefully pushing and prodding it until it stood upright. Finally, with one last downwards shove, they completed their task, and stepped out of the way, to let those present read the words engraved on both sides of it.
"In memory of the victims of the November 2007 R.S.C. Marketplace bombings." Below this, in several other languages, was the same phrase, rendered in dwarvish runes, elvish script, elaborate draconic letters, and several others. In common, the phrase translated out to "May peace come to the realm of RhyDin." ((This SL is completely open. Feel free to post and participate. Thank you!))
There were city guardsmen present, blocking off the roads and watching intently for any signs of trouble, but other than that and the presence of those who appeared to be part of the city's government, there was little at first to indicate that anyone was in charge of the proceedings. There was no rhyme or reason or pattern to the way the citizens lined up. Some formed strict military marching lines, others bunched up tightly together, with the majority falling somewhere in between in organization. Everything seemed to hinge on the six men carefully carrying a cast bronze sign, with a post to (presumably) stick in the ground somewhere. Clad in white robes, with the cowls up over their heads, they didn't seem to notice the hustle and bustle behind them. They stood stock still until, at some unseen or unheard signal, they started to walk slowly towards the marketplace. After a few moments, the rest of those present followed suit.
Without specified groupings, the marchers lurched and straggled towards their goal in strange pairings. Priests clad in plain white vestments marched side by side with elven druids dressed in hand-made furs and trews, while pastors from other faiths wore less conspicuous signs of their beliefs. A clerical collar poking up from beneath a jean jacket, or a crucifix on a chain around the neck of a suit-wearing man. Ordinary citizens from countless worlds and eras all came together, dressed in drab muslin dresses and pantsuits and leather breeches and cotton tunics and old plate armor and bomber jackets and some kind of space age material that was silvery and reflective. Members of the city guard and mages interspersed themselves throughout the ranks, dressed in their standard issue armor and robes, respectively. Perhaps most striking, though, were the victims present. Some were identifiable by the black ribbons they wore, or the t-shirts they donned in brave opposition to the elements with simple images, slogans and phrases: The smiling faces of men, women, and children who were no longer present in this world, ironed on to the front of white shirts. "Never Forget." "11-28-07." "We miss you, Thalion." A myriad of other phrases in other languages as well. Other victims were easily noted by the wounds they still bore. Some used canes to assist them in walking. Others were missing limbs, making use of replacement arms and legs crafted from wood or metal, wheelchairs, and crutches to move them along. A woman with dark glasses and a red-striped cane ably made her way forward, while a little girl in cerulean pigtails and missing one of her pointed ears sat upon the shoulders of a silver-haired elf. Children of all races walked hand in hand with adults who clearly weren't their parents. Dwarven children with humans, human children with elves, frail and grey-haired grandparents with babies and toddlers, halflings with youth barely shorter than they were. As they made their way down one of the city's primary thoroughfares, shutters and doors occasionally opened, as curious citizens poked their heads out to see what was going on. The march was mostly silent though, save for the sound of footsteps pounding on stone and the periodic sob from a saddened parent or child.
Finally, the journey took the rag-tag assembly into the Marketplace plaza, to a nearly forgotten northwestern nook of the square. Some of the stalls that had previously been there had been cleared out, leaving an oddly empty space. Someone appeared to have blocked off room for a flower bed, complete with a short wooden fence and mulch, but no flowers seemed to have been planted yet. A couple of wooden benches were also present, but the robed men paid no mind to those, heading straight for an empty patch of ground. As if an invisible wall had been placed in front of them, they suddenly stopped, and the crowd behind them fanned out into a half-circle, straining and standing on tippy-toes to try and see what they were doing. Carefully, the six men hoisted the bronze sign they had been carrying vertical. As they did so, it became evident why they had chosen to stop in the place they did: the ground was fresh concrete, grey and slightly liquid to the touch. They worked the post into the mixture, grunting and grimacing with the effort, then carefully pushing and prodding it until it stood upright. Finally, with one last downwards shove, they completed their task, and stepped out of the way, to let those present read the words engraved on both sides of it.
"In memory of the victims of the November 2007 R.S.C. Marketplace bombings." Below this, in several other languages, was the same phrase, rendered in dwarvish runes, elvish script, elaborate draconic letters, and several others. In common, the phrase translated out to "May peace come to the realm of RhyDin." ((This SL is completely open. Feel free to post and participate. Thank you!))