Four days have passed since the Motor Duel that cut the Tax Patrol in half. Four days since Rain was last seen. Four days since the hard, hard blood rain that washed out Cobbler Jander's stall and left him homeless.
Your flock is arranged in front of you, their clothing dour, faces even moreso. They look to you as you stand under the shadow of your church, the cross standing proud like a weather vane to God. You stand alone, a rectangle of dirt on the ground between you and your people. Their sorrowful loss weighs heavy.
There are others, not of your flock. Most of Grindhouse is here, odd occurrence to see the nighttime performers out in the bright light of day, but they cared for him, and they love you, Gates. Here for support, to pay respects. Merchants as well, those who aren't ill with the redsick, they are here, hats in hands, never mentioning how they turned you and yours out, refused you aid when your people starved.
Of the two who were afflicted, you lost one of them, Gates. Who was it, Easy or Utilikilt? The other is well enough, still carries a cough, may always be a bit infirm and susceptible to infection. But alive. Thankful to be so.
What words do you offer up to the Lord for your fallen friend?
You're here, watching Gates speak about a dead man. The Grindhouse players are here, nearly all of them? Who gave this a miss and why does that tweak you a bit, August? Did you ask them to come, or merely mention it?
Icona's declared a Rumpus tonight, a mourning dance for Gates' flock. All the peep show folks are hoping to get them dazed and confused, maybe a touch happier. What about this Rumpus has you a bit worried, August? And what's got Queen Anne seriously miffed?
As you're listening to Gates pontificate, Drumma comes flying by. It's been weeks since you saw Drumma, and there the bird is, no apology, no soulful look and gaze. He flitters down to land lightly on the top of the cross marker for the grave, like a parishioner.
What do you do?