The Stormfather

Mark stepped aside from where he had been speaking, trying to indicate that someone else could say some words. Saying anything to anyone didn’t seem right, seemed like it would be unfair. If he were to ask, someone would feel obligated. So silent he stood. And in the passing silent moments, in the tranquil sorrow and painful memories of times lives so happily in such terrible conditions… Mark found himself feeling strange, without even the hint of the other Hims in his head. He knew it was good, it was a development that could only be positive. He would just have to figure out how to patch himself back together after the parts of him were gone. He exhaled softly, the thoughts of theoretical futures of pain leaving himself with it.

Mark clasped her hand, a tear rolling down his cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered, almost silent.

“I never met most of these people.” He prefaced. “But what I saw when they fought in those games was bravery and valour unlike anything I’d seen before. Most of us, we know how hard it is to compete in those games, and we know how difficult it is to try and kill people who hadn’t done anything wrong. We know how wrong it feels to kill because of the luck of the draw. These people did not cower. They fought, fought with all they could. Once they knew that they weren’t escaping, they knew that their last chance was winning. A thought process I think many of us can relate to.” Mark paused for a moment. ”Many of you know that Maj was a part of my…group…the Steeles. But he was a lot more than that, in many ways. He was a friend to me, and a good one. When we knew that he was going to be picked, I began to train him. We sparred, but I also tried to teach him about the way things are in that arena. In the end, he died of his own choice, of his own abandoning of the gamemakers ideals. He did what so many tributes have thought about doing in the past- “And with it, he will live in the hearts of people like us, the opposers of the games, of the Dystopia, of the Peacekeepers,” Mark was speaking passionately now. “He was a spark that may have ignited a far larger fire than he thought.” ”And he was my brother.”

Mark had gathered those who he could actually find, which at the moment was Marewill’s family, he and Astra, and a few other of the tributes who were standing around like npcs because their rpers aren’t looking at this thread. They had assembled at the graveyard, ready for the ceremony (assuming there’s some kind of ceremony in the free states) and the burial of the coffins.

@Through the Living Hope

“Yeah, I’ll go knock on some doors.” And knock on doors he did, gathering those that he could find. It took a while to get to all of the houses, but his pace did not slow as he strode across the streets.

“Blarglefereterelr!” Mark grunted, waking. “Sorry,” he said after. Shaking himself, he woke fully.

Mark begins to doze off, having recurring short dreams of his own games, waking, and then fading back into sleep.

Mark sat silently, his eyes locked on Maj’s coffin. He felt that a lot of people would have had words to say, or think, to try and connect one final time with Maj. Maj had been like a brother to him- and he and Mark had spent so many hours training to fight and survive in the wilderness before the games. Mark recalled for a moment what he had been told about Maj’s death. How he killed himself. And finally, a few words came to him. ”You did the right thing,” Mark murmured. “Nobody could have won that- anybody could have run away and let the other tributes get killed by that maniac. But you fought. “That’s all you could have done.”

Mark nodded. “We don’t need that sprayed all over your truck,” he said in agreeance.

He hadn’t done labour in a while, and it took a lot of concentration to not bang around the coffins without care like he or the Steeles would do on a construction site.

Mark sighs and begins to help load the coffins into the truck.

With a grim face, Mark looks around the coffins for any sign of names or identification.

Mark nods absently and starts staring off into the distance, (or just a wall, he does that too) waiting for the grim package to arrive.

Mark looked around himself. “Where even are we? I don’t think I’ve been in this part of the [city/town/place/whatever] before,”

Mark hopped out of the truck. "How...How many of them...How many were preservable?"

Mark snapped himself out of his strange reverie and dismissed the shard-duck. "Is this the place?"

Mark fidgeted with his shardblade, summoning and dismissing random objects. He eventually made a shard-duck and left it sitting on his lap.

Mark got into the backseat quietly, a mask of solemnity across his face.

Mark followed quietly. He noticed that his Spren, who was generally quite shy and hid somewhere near him, was sliding-growing-vining-whateververbyousayforacultivationSpren towards Crocus, investigating her curiously.

Mark thought for a second. "Yes," He said quietly. "I can help you with this."

Mark let out a breath. "They...Yes. We should...That would be good. Especially...Well, the Steeles and I have had enough of our brothers-in-arms fall without any ceremony, any honor. We should...We ought to give these tributes what was never given to (God dang it i forgot the name of the tribute that Mark and a few others reluctantly killed bc he attacked them and he wanted a rebellion im pretty sure it started with a Qu) and the others."

Mark sat down on another chair (Which i presume exists). "Care to...Elaborate?"