daredreemer:

undertakertalbot:

It was looking to be a fine morning indeed, the undertaker thought to himself as he made his way toward the back end of the graveyard, shovel slung over his shoulder as he sniffed the brisk air. Catching movement from the corner of his vision, he recognized the outlines of the cemetery cat that approached him from its favourite stone, twining figure eights around his ankles, regarding him as an old friend. Crouching with a smile, he gave the feline a few well-placed scritches under the chin with his talons before reaching into his sleeve, pulling out a small treat for the cat. Tobias - for that was the cat’s name, as told to him by none other than said feline himself - waited expectantly for the proffered morsel, eating it delicately before looking up at the mortician, golden eyes glinting with the question of ‘more?’. In response to that expression, the mortician laughed softly, giving the feline a gentle caress to the head. “No more this morning, old chap, but do get your fellows and come by my shop a bit after dark, will you? Mrs. Lennox brought a large pot of fish soup as payment, and it’s more than I will be able to eat in several meals. It would be quite the favour if you could help me out with that.”

Tobias, by all accounts, seemed to be more or less listening, -as much as cats listen anyway - washing a soot-black paw idly as the end of his tail twitched. When the undertaker was finished speaking, the cat regarded him for a moment, unblinking, before giving a single ‘merrow’ and bounding off through the chaos of headstones, hopefully to find his friends. The mortician smiled to himself and stood, looking forward to the upcoming visit, whether it be one feline or a dozen; no doubt all that came would eat more than their fill before bedding down in his stable, amid hay, horses, and his beloved Bess - and woe be to any rats that should make their presences known!

He watched Tobias for as long as could before he turned his attention to the ground before him, touching the headstones of old friends, humming to himself as he took his time making his way to where his newest guest would soon rest.

(A starter for a roleplay that never came to fruition, but I was always pleased by this piece, so it is out there, should anyone care to join an old man in a graveyard.)

Clank!

The sound of a shovel hitting dirt, caught  the attention of the passing redhead as he skipped through the old cemetry, humming merrily to himself. He often traversed through the graveyard after reaps, enjoying the peace and admiring the lovely flowers left upon the many tombstones by loved ones. But on this fine spring morning he had never dreamed of stumbling upon anyone gracing the cemetery with their presence. Slowly he crept to the old oak, peeking ever so carefully around its majestic trunk. His eyes landing on a figure clad in black robes, that hung down past his knees, to his booted feet. He cocked his head as he watched the man dig the grave of the lonely corpse, fast asleep in the wooden casket, laying upon the freshly trimmed grass, waiting for its final rest.

He became mesmerized by the way the grave digger worked, the way he held the shovel in his hands, his movements graceful and precise. He stood for a time, just watching, then the time came for the man to place the casket in the newly dug ground, where it would lay, slowly rotting away back into the earth. Slowly and delicately the casket was lowered.

The mortician was, of course, aware of the other shinigami’s presence; he had not lived this long without not being able to recognize such things. However, he kept all signs that he knew he was being observed while he continued to dig, setting the shovel aside as he pulls the cart that holds the coffin in place; such was the lot of a burial in the pauper’s area, he had become accustomed to being the only attendant in this type of service.

Once the coffin is settled, he moves the ropes away and sets them back on his handcart before moving to stand by the grave, reaching into a voluminous sleeve and pulling from within a small book. Opening it, he starts to read aloud, voice able to be heard but inaudible in the actual words themselves, old words of burial, of remembering the dead, of prayer. He may not necessarily agree with what he says, but he does his best to find out the beliefs of the ones he buries - both from their cinematic records and otherwise - and give them, at the very least, the words that would please them, the words they were familiar with in life. It is a simple, final gesture of respect to one who had their time ended, a salute to the life that had been.

Once the makeshift service was over, he nodded once to the hole in the ground before him then silently turned to his shovel and the mound of dirt that it rose from, silently beginning to fill the grave. He had long ago lost count of how many he had buried, how many graves he had dug or filled back in.