Marianna Furotazzi
Fortuna Survivor
Marianna knelt and set the flowers down on the grave, replacing the dessicated husks that had mostly been overtaken by grass and weeds. She carefully brushed away the detritus that had gathered on the face of the tombstone, using her claw to clean out the engraved letters.
A little cigar ash drifted down onto the top of the tombstone, and Marianna wrinkled her snout in disgust before wiping it away. "Could you not?" she shot at her brother, who shifted from footpaw to footpaw as he idled near the grave. "Have some respect for the dead."
Falun shrugged, taking another draw on his cigar and sticking his free paw into his coat pocket to keep it warm in the bitter Dismembre wind. "Don' see wha' differ'nce it makes. Th' dead don' know, an' sure don' care." He kept shifting as his gaze swept the tombstones and monuments of the Imperial Cemetery, scanning with almost a paranoid eye. Marianna knew from previous trips that her brother disclaimed any belief in ghosts or even an afterlife as pure superstition. His discomfort stemmed from something more primal: an unease with such a tangible reminder of mortality and the fleeting nature of life. Even Falun couldn't punch his way out of death, though he'd drunkenly sworn a few times that he'd deck any skeletal stoat that tried to collect his soul.
Marianna sighed, settling back on her heels as she knelt at their mother's grave. She stared at the letters, wondering on whose order they had been carved, and what they had intended by it. A beast she could barely remember, her entire life reduced to five words, only three of which were nouns. Had that been her father's work? Had he so little to say about the vixen who, if the biographies had been accurate, he had eloped with at only sixteen, throwing away both of their futures for a chance at love? The vixen who had stood by him through his rise and fall, only separating when his obsession overtook his reason? Or had the headstone been the work of a well-meaning friend, one struggling to define her through their own grief?
Falun tapped his cigar against the edge of the tombstone, the ash drifting down the back of the stone. "Won'er if dear ol' Da e'er visited," Falun mused idly. "Ei'er a' them, I mean - 'Nithias, or Vito. 'Ey, ya think 'ere was any truth t' th' stories 'at Vito an' Mum were grindin' th' corn t'gether?"
Marianna snapped, getting to her footpaws as she exclaimed, "Great Kitsune, Falun, what in the Hellgates is wrong with you?! That's our mother you're talking about."
Falun shrugged, turning and walking away. "Ain' our mother. Jus' a buncha bones, same as any. Yer th' one 'oo keeps draggin' 'er memory outta th' grave."
"Oh, go sod yourself right in the tailhole!" Marianna swore, vehemently making a rude gesture at his back. Falun casually returned it without glancing back at her, still puffing on his cigar as he meandered among the graves of mayors, ministers, and captains, leaving Marianna to grieve alone.
~~~
Aran Mateu stood alone at the grave, his ears twitching as he heard the distant sound of two foxes arguing elsewhere in the graveyard. There was a slightly tinny sound to it, the noise echoing off the field of carved stones between them. There were much nicer graves throughout this lot, even a few mausoleums and monuments that put the war memorials in the city to shame. The grave he stood at, though, was far more modest, a single stone set into the ground. This stone was faded, the letters nearly illegible from the elements wearing away at its surface. No one had come by to clean it or to trim away the grass; it seemed as if the groundskeepers themselves had forgotten about it.
Aran Mateu stood in his civilian clothes, the Miklarian-style coat and trousers his parents had crafted for him, and stared down at the nearly-blank stone. Then he reached down and carefully unbuttoned the straps around his crotch. It took a moment for the stream to start, the yellow liquid steaming in the air as it rained down upon the grave, spattering the tombstone and slowly revealing the letters carved upon it:
Aran Mateu let the stream run until only dribbles fell off the stone, then spat on it for good measure.
"Vai ranr runem, ques freiw danl."
"Rot in hell, you murdering bastard."
Dr. Julia Freedom
Thermidor 19, 1710 ~ Frimary 9, 1735
Beloved healer, wife, and mother
Thermidor 19, 1710 ~ Frimary 9, 1735
Beloved healer, wife, and mother
A little cigar ash drifted down onto the top of the tombstone, and Marianna wrinkled her snout in disgust before wiping it away. "Could you not?" she shot at her brother, who shifted from footpaw to footpaw as he idled near the grave. "Have some respect for the dead."
Falun shrugged, taking another draw on his cigar and sticking his free paw into his coat pocket to keep it warm in the bitter Dismembre wind. "Don' see wha' differ'nce it makes. Th' dead don' know, an' sure don' care." He kept shifting as his gaze swept the tombstones and monuments of the Imperial Cemetery, scanning with almost a paranoid eye. Marianna knew from previous trips that her brother disclaimed any belief in ghosts or even an afterlife as pure superstition. His discomfort stemmed from something more primal: an unease with such a tangible reminder of mortality and the fleeting nature of life. Even Falun couldn't punch his way out of death, though he'd drunkenly sworn a few times that he'd deck any skeletal stoat that tried to collect his soul.
Marianna sighed, settling back on her heels as she knelt at their mother's grave. She stared at the letters, wondering on whose order they had been carved, and what they had intended by it. A beast she could barely remember, her entire life reduced to five words, only three of which were nouns. Had that been her father's work? Had he so little to say about the vixen who, if the biographies had been accurate, he had eloped with at only sixteen, throwing away both of their futures for a chance at love? The vixen who had stood by him through his rise and fall, only separating when his obsession overtook his reason? Or had the headstone been the work of a well-meaning friend, one struggling to define her through their own grief?
Falun tapped his cigar against the edge of the tombstone, the ash drifting down the back of the stone. "Won'er if dear ol' Da e'er visited," Falun mused idly. "Ei'er a' them, I mean - 'Nithias, or Vito. 'Ey, ya think 'ere was any truth t' th' stories 'at Vito an' Mum were grindin' th' corn t'gether?"
Marianna snapped, getting to her footpaws as she exclaimed, "Great Kitsune, Falun, what in the Hellgates is wrong with you?! That's our mother you're talking about."
Falun shrugged, turning and walking away. "Ain' our mother. Jus' a buncha bones, same as any. Yer th' one 'oo keeps draggin' 'er memory outta th' grave."
"Oh, go sod yourself right in the tailhole!" Marianna swore, vehemently making a rude gesture at his back. Falun casually returned it without glancing back at her, still puffing on his cigar as he meandered among the graves of mayors, ministers, and captains, leaving Marianna to grieve alone.
~~~
Aran Mateu stood alone at the grave, his ears twitching as he heard the distant sound of two foxes arguing elsewhere in the graveyard. There was a slightly tinny sound to it, the noise echoing off the field of carved stones between them. There were much nicer graves throughout this lot, even a few mausoleums and monuments that put the war memorials in the city to shame. The grave he stood at, though, was far more modest, a single stone set into the ground. This stone was faded, the letters nearly illegible from the elements wearing away at its surface. No one had come by to clean it or to trim away the grass; it seemed as if the groundskeepers themselves had forgotten about it.
Aran Mateu stood in his civilian clothes, the Miklarian-style coat and trousers his parents had crafted for him, and stared down at the nearly-blank stone. Then he reached down and carefully unbuttoned the straps around his crotch. It took a moment for the stream to start, the yellow liquid steaming in the air as it rained down upon the grave, spattering the tombstone and slowly revealing the letters carved upon it:
Colonel Whitaker Johas Khan
108th Battalion
First and Second Alkamarian War
Valles Mensa War
108th Battalion
First and Second Alkamarian War
Valles Mensa War
Aran Mateu let the stream run until only dribbles fell off the stone, then spat on it for good measure.
"Vai ranr runem, ques freiw danl."
"Rot in hell, you murdering bastard."
