The Pipes of Caer Pelandin

The muffled drums beat their steady, mournful tatoo and marked the step of the stone-faced honor guard as they marched in perfect precision beside the ancient caisson. Their boots beat a singular tread as, in lock step, they made their slowly and in stately fashion away from the great cathedral of Neverwinter. They exited the drive and executed a smart right turn onto the main street that ran in front of Nasher's Palace. The six-horse team, all jet black stallions sent by the proud, but heart-broken people of Caer Pelandin, pranced a bit as they came to a stop just out onto the street, The honor guard coming smartly to a uniform stop as well.

There was a bitter breeze blowing down the length of the street and it lent a further bite to and already cruelly painful day. It seemed to echo the harshness of life, underscoring needlessly the bitter brevity of our human experience. Yet the eight-man honor guard stood in stoney, eloquent testimony to their love and esteem for the one whose last journey they guarded. They each wore the simple, ceremonial dress of a full KORT Knight, though most carried far more rank. Their uniforms were spotlessly neat and creased sharply. Each wore a black armband and had a black sash draped across his chest. All marks of rank or privilege were removed for this solemn occasion and they wore the glorious full battle helms with shiny leather chin straps tucked neatly beneath their lower lips. Each wore their finest weapon, but each weapon was tied into its scabbard with black laces giving mute testimony to their mourning. Their shoulders were covered with flowing cloaks in KORT's guild colors, each drawn about the wearer's breast with a golden chain. Their formal, silver breastplates glistened in the setting sun and the intricate etchings gave a silvery glimmer to all those who watched from the side. Each man stood, rock-solid in the chill breeze, as if a bronze statue to the memory of their friend and beloved comrade.

The other members of KORT streamed from the cathedral and wound their way to their place behind the caisson and stood, waiting for the procession to the cairn to begin. The silence was remarkable, for their group was known to be cheery and talkative, almost to a fault a times. Yet this day they stood in stark silence, in tribute to their deep sense of loss and their grief at the passing of such an esteemed and honored figure. Each one could tell tales of joy, love and friendship and each had told those tales at the ceremony the night before when the KORT family had said their own private good-byes. Now, words all said, there were only emotions and the raw sense of loss to be felt and expressed in their simple looks and murmured words.

The great crowd of assembled people, people from every walk of life and every vocation and calling in Neverwinter ringed the Cathedral square. Each was there for a reason. Some were there because of the spectacle. Some to be witness of history, as a great one was passing from the stage of life. Many, however, we there because this one had been a man for all people. So many of the powerful in Neverwinter were such that their time was fit only for those fortunate enough to be powerful as they were. The mighty fellowship with mighty, as the saying in the Realms was heard. Yet, for many, their lives had been brightened by this great man's presence, and many ordinary people were made to feel extraordinary because of his touch. The eyes of the KORT contingent were not the only ones that glistened, wet in the winter cold.

Present also, to pay respect, were old enemies and adversaries. The colors of virtually every Guild in Neverwinter was sprinkled throughout the crowd and to be found in the balconies that lined many of the buildings in the square. Most apparent had been the huge and lavish displays of flowers sent by the officeial of all of the Guilds, good and evil; a token of the high regard that this fallen one was held in, even by those whom he had opposed with all his breath.

The doors to the great Cathedral opened in massive majesty and laid open the immediate inner area of the church. The mournful wail of the pipes of his home village loosed their sound over the assembled crowd. The sound was as if the combined breaking hearts of the hundreds here assembled had sung out together giving voice to the exquisite agony of their loss. The dirge droned on is sad, sad melody renewing for many the pears thought previously spent. The world famous pipes of Caer Pelandin gave forth their delicate best for memory of their favorite son.

The muffled drums once again took up their measured rhythm and momentarily eight black garbed clerics, faces covered by the drooping cowls of their solemn, funereal robes emerged, slowing pacing their way from the Cathedral's inner sanctum where the old Knight had laid in state. They bore him, on his funeral byre upon their shoulders and moved, dignified step, by ever so dignified step, in perfect cadence with the sounding drums. Slowly, in stately procession, they moved down the steps to the Cathedral where they turn and, in intricate and practiced precision, laid the byre, gently and respectfully, in place on the caisson. Then they each bowed their hooded heads and, along with the entire population present at the square, spent five full minutes in silent reflection on this noble Knight, now passing from the scene. An unspoken command passed between them as the time dedication ended, and, in unison, they turned and left side of the caisson and marched quietly back in the church.

As the returned, the Pipers made their way to the head of the Caisson and formed up to lead their beloved on his final journey. The muffled drums struck up their dread rhythm once again, and this time, were joined by the mourning harmonies of the pipers and the procession started is last, slow journey. The honor guard turned smartly and, removing their helmets, fell into step with the caisson and, heads high, their sorrow spelled plainly on their faces, they accompanied their comrade on his final journey.

Through the filled, but silent streets of Neverwinter the sad procession wound until finally, it reached the south gate. There, the vast crowd of mourners halted, respecting the wishes of the hero now gone from them, and allowing his own family, the beloved people of the village he had grown up in, to have the privilege and duty of escorting him to the place of final good byes. The honor Guard stopped at the gate as well and with final salute, allowed the caisson, the pipers and the drummers to roll on their way. No eye was dry, and each heart filled with the bursting memories of good times, now gone past as the procession rolled out of sight and the gates slowly and finally swung closed. Memories of laughter and of pain. Memories of safety and of great danger. Each one could picture that craggy face, smiling as ever, as if still seated across the table, mug in hand. All could remember the flash of the eyes as he considered an enemy. It seemed that the melodious sound of his voice called out from their hearts. It would be a long, long time before they wold stop looking to see him in all of the old familiar places, and stop listening for the comforting sound of his voice or the reassuring tread of his boot as he approached.

It seemed as is the great gates of Neverwinter were closing a chapter in each one's life. Hearts swelled with pride at having known and walked a while with this icon, this Knight of Knights. These same hearts broke cruelly anew as each one watched with bated sob, the inexorable gates wrote the final epitaph to this part of their earthly experience. The mournful, yet grand sound of the Pipes wound their way through the narrowing opening and stroked their ears, reminding them of the shortness of life and of the vigor with which our eternal fate stalks us all.

As the gates thumped shut, for many, it seemed as if the sound betrayed the final bursting of their all-to-full hearts, as grief and loss held sway over all present. But as his life had been one of great and glorious service and grand principles, so it seemed strangely fitting that the last that all would remember of the final good-bye to this great one was the mournful, yet somehow grand and glorious music of the pipes of Caer Pelandin.