Poetry is about the words, naturally. But Melina has always felt that some poetry has a connection to the world around it. A poem about nature may be beautiful, but to get the full sensory impact you simply can't beat reading it in a natural setting. Which is why she's always interested in a quiet graveyard.

She's dressed in beatnik blacks today, a black turtleneck and black jeans, both faded. Over her shoulder, her messenger bag contains a couple of ratty books, E.A.Poe, naturally, and Baudelaire, Dorothy Parker, Emily Dickinson.

But first she wants to get a feel for the place. It's a gray afternoon, but the rain seems to be holding off for right now, as she walks around the rows of tombstones, reading the inscrïptions, puzzling out family relationships, and admiring interesting statues and images.

She keeps her eyes out for a nice place to sit, picking out a few that she will choose from when she finishes her exploration.

Gray clouds move across the gray sky as Melina selects a large tombstone to nestle behind. Before she loses herself in her poetry, she makes her last check of the cemetery, peering over top of the grave, looking around her on all sides. Sergei always told her to be careful in these places. Just because it looks empty, doesn't mean you don't have company. And one should always know the company one is keeping.

(Looking for wraiths: 2009-02-22 15:06:46 Melina Petrova rolls 6 dice to Perception + alertness (Diff 7) 1,3,3,6,8, 8 (1 success) )

The graveyard and the church come into sharp focus, and she can just make out if there's anyone... special near by.

 As you peer with your eyes at those that are departed you see just whisps at first, the ephemera far distant. After some focus and concentration the images start to coalesce into more distinct images. Images of the dead, those that could not move on, those that never left.

A man dressed in priestly vestments wanders the grounds far in the distance. He seems to be dragging something in his wake, but at this distance it is certainly hard to tell what.

A woman sits on a bench much nearer. She looks to be dressed in Victorian era clothing, in a dress that is ragged. Her dress is covered in dark stains emanating from her lower abdomen. She weeps in a shuddered silence at a grave that appears to have not weathered the time as well as some others. Around the trees that surround her are shadows that seem connected, writhing in her misery.

Melina glances around. Suddenly her quiet graveyard feels a bit crowded. And while none of the company seems threatening right now, she certainly can't go back to reading without finding out a little bit more about the inhabitants.

She ducks back behind the tombstone, thinking for a moment. While sitting there she closes her eyes and shivers as she lets glamour fuel racial memory of the cold Russian nights, listening to the voices in the wind. Here, on this windless rainy day, she can still hear those voices.

(OOC: Spend one point of Glamour to hear wraiths. At 3 of 4)

Now that she's better equipped to understand, she stands up. Being careful not to stare, she weaves between the grave markers, moving closer to the crying woman. As she approaches, she whispers,
"I dreamed that one had died in a strange place
Near no accustomed hand,
And they had nailed the boards above her face,
The peasants of that land,
Wondering to lay her in that solitude,
And raised above her mound
A cross they had made out of two bits of wood,
And planted cypress round;
And left her to the indifferent stars above

Melina stops several feet away from the dead woman and makes eye contact with the ghost, and then bravely offers a polite nod to the woman, before continuing.

"Until I carved these words:
She was more beautiful than thy first love,
But now lies under boards."

Finished with her poem, and maintaining eye contact a few feet away from the woman, Melina whispers "Good afternoon, Madame."

 She appears to stare at you for a bit before acknowledging your presence. At this distance you can clearly see the dark stains upon the front of her dress are in fact blood. As she speaks her voice is hollow and far away as if carried on the winds of despair.

"Who are you child? You glow with the light of the living, but I do not know why."

Her eyes narrow quickly snapping upon the girl, "Where is the shrine to my child? She that hast brought me low and made me nothing. Where is her legacy, that of a dead mother," the last screamed from beyond.

Melina speaks as calmly as she's able, trying not to appear excited or nervous, though she is both. "You may call me Melina if you like. I am alive, and my spirit is more then alive. THat is why we may speak as we are."

She steps back when the woman becomes angry. Now she does look scared, and whispers quickly "Who are you ma'am? If you can tell me that.. I may be able to find your child's shrine."

Thoughts swirl around in her head, shrine.. is that grave? Is she looking for the grave of her child? Did her child kill her, or (Melina eyes the blood around the woman's abdomen) was it the reason she was killed?

Melina remains quiet for now, waiting patiently for a answer.

 She begins sobbing deeply, "She has lowly wrought me, that which should not be. Why are you asking now, that which should not be, that which did not care so long ago?" her eyes depict a shadowed soul. One wrought of tears and desperation. This has been her penance for so many centuries, who are you to disturb their solemn vigilance?

"Where is my child, whom has she become?"

"Where is her crypt? Where is her legacy?"

Melina looks down guiltily. She considers the woman's words.  She whispers more quietly then normal. "I should not be, just as you should not. I am a half breed of magic, thrown together because the world could no longer stand me as I was. You, ma'am, are a lost soul, surly deserving of some greater reward or peace of mind then what you have. I ask now because maybe one of these wrongs can be righted."

She has made no decision of whether to help the woman, if such help is even possible. It may well be that this woman is simply damned. But any decision one way or the other will require more information.

"If you wish to know what became of your child, what became of her shrine, you must first share your secret. If you wish me to keep it with you, I will. If I doesn't matter once it's no longer yours alone, I will let those know who care to. But in order for me to answer the questions that bother you so, first I must know: Who are you?"

As she asks the question, her eyes scan the derelict gravestone that appears to belong to the woman, to see if her question may be answered whether the woman volunteers it or not.

(To see the name on the grave: 2009-02-24 18:33:41 Melina Petrova rolls 6 dice to Perception + alertness 9,1,8,9,4, 8 (3 successes))

 The grave reveals the name of  Mrs. Sheila Alexander born - May 16, 1832  Died - November 12, 1864. There is no accompanying grave for a husband nor another that might suggest a child.

"I am Mrs. Sheila Alexander, wife of Private Lyndon Alexander. I can only remember the burning, everything was on fire. I remember going into labor when the fires lit the skies, after that I became lost. Who took my child? Why would they?" as she begins to sob, lost in thought about that horrible night wherein everything she knew was destroyed.

"Can you find the my colored handmaid, she was my midwife, she must know. I called her Mama Gada, but I think that her christian name was Gladys. She must know where my child is, what became of her..." The shadows surrounding the tree seem to be agitated, swirling around it, deepening. They begin reaching out around it, seeming intent upon reaching you and her.

Melina stands in respectful silence as pieces fall into place. The soldier, the fires, and the year. Another victim (or possibly 2 or 3?) of that old devil Sherman. If the child had died with the mother, wouldn't it have been buried beside her? This puzzle seems to be just a piece in a much larger one.

She notices the shadows out of the corner of her eye. It doesn't take a creature of shadows to know that those do not look friendly. She looks at the ghostly woman sympathetically, "I will do what I can to find you answers, but I will also warn you that all I find may be more questions. It is a pleasure to have met you, Mrs. Alexander." She turns to leave, heading back to where she was sitting to collect her bag.

 "and to you as well, my dear. I do thank you kindly," as she gives a courtesy in a southern ladies style that seems to have been long forgotten in this modern era.

As you depart you can see the tendrils retreat from you and wrap themselves around the woman, her eyes darkening visibly with their touch. She continues to stare at you while you depart.  

Melina grabs her bag and leaves behind the shadowy graveyard, stepping out onto the sidewalk as a slight drizzle starts to fall. She'll be pretty damp by the time she gets home, but her concentration is on a series of plans. Library, hopefully finding information on where Mrs. Alexander lived. Then maybe a field trip there, if possible. Perhaps the child has a grave there, or some part of Miss Gladys remains and can answer questions.

But that will wait until tomorrow. It's getting late in the afternoon, and more rain is called for after dark.