The procession begins just an hour shy of twilight. Through lengthening shadows and gloomy summer warmth they walk; to the tune of nothing but their own shod feet. They begin at the iron gates of Lothbury, proceeding from there towards the town itself; they walk trails both narrow and broad, two-by-two and with caskets upon their shoulders.
Those are what draw eyes, when they've reached Myrkentown proper: the caskets, and the unmistakable crimson and gold of their bearers. There is not a man, woman or child in their number that doesn't sport those Lothbury colours.
Through Myrkentown streets, the procession winds; past the shattered offices of Councilor Helstone; past the barrister's notices of warrant. Past the Beast's gruesome leavings, they march; past homes and businesses and chapels. This is Lothbury's mourning, silently displayed, and soon the procession has aquired followers. Children, curious at so solemn a display; mothers who have lost sons to the attacks on those caravans; fathers who risk their lives by daring to till a field. Myrkentown has, in recent months, learned a great deal of the nature of suffering, so that such a procession speaks naturally to the heart; by the time it has reached the town square, it has almost tripled in size.
That is where the pyre awaits.
The flames draw those bystanders that the procession had left uninterested. They illuminate the square in tones both golden and fierce; they drive back the shadows, make shining luminaries of mortal men and women. And they consume, one by one, the bodies finally drawn from those caskets.
Had the swelling crowd expected a speech, from the Lothbury Lord who has led the procession all this way? For at first, there is none. There is simply this:
"Aideen Godart." Who'd been a pretty thing, before a chunk of falling stone caved in half her face. There's still a bit of auburn hair that isn't quite stiff with dried blood. The flames devour it, when her corpse is cast atop them.
"Finian Hob." Who won't be much good as a beekeeper, what with that crushed arm. The fire that consumes his body doesn't much care that there was a hint of kindness in his weathered face.
"Mathieu Beaudouin." They're covering their children's eyes, when it's this one's turn. He, however, has none left. Liquid flame had taken those, along with all of his hair, and most of his left side. The pyre takes the rest.
And on reads the list, and on yet further -- and not all of these are unfamiliar names. They've families in Myrkentown, some of them. They've friends. And seventeen of them burn here in the town square, each name spoken firm and grave, before the Lord speaking them finally ascends to the square's Deck.
Did they imagine that he had escaped this holocaust unharmed? Plainly not. Like so many of those that have marched in this procession, he sports bandages beneath his garments -- and atop, as well; they are bulges beneath the longcoat, at shoulder and side; they are wound about one of his hands. The other employs a cane, for Guillaume now walks with a pronounced limp. But this does not keep him from ascending to that Deck, nor from lifting his voice once more, as:
"Perhaps they believe this will cow us. Do you think so, Myrken Wood? They fling rocks at your home, and fire at mine. They savage caravans bearing food, and slaughter your sons for the crime of defending them. They wish us to fear -- and for that, I would fault no man. They clearly wish us to despair -- for they imagine that we have not known hardship before; they imagine that we are not well-aquainted with grief.
I cannot make sense of this for you. I cannot point you to a man and say that he speaks only the truth. I cannot point you to another, and say that he knows only falsehood. But this much is clear: that the drow, who wish to shake our hands with one of theirs, and murder our sons with the other, are not an 'ally' who I would willingly trust. That Thessilane -- a territory three times the size of ours -- would send spies and assassins upon us, when their armies could seize this province within a week."
There is a hush upon the crowd. There is the crackle of flames, as they consume human flesh; the stench of burning skin and hair. It is, by now, a familiar one. And Guillaume steps towards that pyre with a sash in each hand: one cheery blue; one lifeless grey.