Post by ashcrafted on Jul 13, 2015 7:45:41 GMT -7
In the corner of the Golden Plow, a young man kneels, tuning out the rabble around him for his prayer. Slowly, the noise of the bar, the laughter, sadness, joy, and anger fade away to him, leaving him in a world of silence. He closes his eyes, removing the people around him from his mind just as easily as they forget about him. He is nobody, the ultimate face in the crowd. This is not to say that he sees nothing, however. In his mind's eye, he sees his home, a small farm in Ellora. He sees his happy life from before the fighting, working next to his father and his grandfather. Sometimes they would talk, sometimes the men would work for hours in utter silence.
He sees his mother working away at dinner along with his sister, Sophia. His grandmother laying in the next room of the small house. Her illness was the first sadness he had ever known. It was unsaid but clear that she was slowly dying.
He sees the men who came for him. They were the Knights of Vallonde, even in his little hamlet they were renowned. The defenders of the Imperial Realms. He did not want to leave, but he put on a brave face and marched with them to basic training. The long hours and hard work of military life was nothing strange to the son of a farmer, and slowly but steadily his life became routine. He sees the priests of great Iomedae, the goddess. Instinctively, his hand closes around the holy symbol he wears as a necklace. Though he knows it's no special metal, it feels warm to him, as if just beneath the surface of the dull iron was radiant light waiting to burst forth. But he was not brave like them. He was weak, and everyone around him knew it. He knew it. That was the real reason he was trained to become a cleric, to ensure someone would protect him. He hears the snickering laughter of his peers, but strangely, not the disappointment of his superiors, though he was adamant they spoke poorly of him in secret. He knew he was not cut out for that life, but he was given a duty and would do it no matter the fear that flowed through him as naturally as his own blood.
The last thing he sees before he begins his prayer is the fire raging through the hamlet. Greenskin barbarians carving up everyone he knew from that life. It was sad, but his training had steeled him against despair. For a while he channeled that sadness into cold, cruel anger, but this improvement in the eyes of his peers didn't last past a week or two. Soon he was back to his cowardly self, for he knew that somewhere there must have been an orc child who had lost just as much. He sees this imaginary orc as everything he isn't. A champion of his people, brave and strong. He is not a nameless soldier to die en masse, he is the hero.
Now, just like the world around him, all this fades from his mind. All he sees is a light shining far away, carving through the darkness of his mind and protecting him. He begins.
"Goddess. Lady of Valor and Light of the Sword, please watch over me as I do my duty this day. Aid me as I protect those who cannot protect themselves, that I may in turn be protected by them. Let those who would do them harm know mercy, or let them know Your justice. Let me be vigilant against the evils, great and small, that all acts of cruelty be brought to the light.
In Your grace, I go."
He sits in silence for a moment, then opens his eyes, stands, and walks out. If anyone noticed him they do not mention it, and he does not care either way. He knows who did notice, as he smiles softly to himself and wraps his hand around the small iron sword worn around his neck.
He sees his mother working away at dinner along with his sister, Sophia. His grandmother laying in the next room of the small house. Her illness was the first sadness he had ever known. It was unsaid but clear that she was slowly dying.
He sees the men who came for him. They were the Knights of Vallonde, even in his little hamlet they were renowned. The defenders of the Imperial Realms. He did not want to leave, but he put on a brave face and marched with them to basic training. The long hours and hard work of military life was nothing strange to the son of a farmer, and slowly but steadily his life became routine. He sees the priests of great Iomedae, the goddess. Instinctively, his hand closes around the holy symbol he wears as a necklace. Though he knows it's no special metal, it feels warm to him, as if just beneath the surface of the dull iron was radiant light waiting to burst forth. But he was not brave like them. He was weak, and everyone around him knew it. He knew it. That was the real reason he was trained to become a cleric, to ensure someone would protect him. He hears the snickering laughter of his peers, but strangely, not the disappointment of his superiors, though he was adamant they spoke poorly of him in secret. He knew he was not cut out for that life, but he was given a duty and would do it no matter the fear that flowed through him as naturally as his own blood.
The last thing he sees before he begins his prayer is the fire raging through the hamlet. Greenskin barbarians carving up everyone he knew from that life. It was sad, but his training had steeled him against despair. For a while he channeled that sadness into cold, cruel anger, but this improvement in the eyes of his peers didn't last past a week or two. Soon he was back to his cowardly self, for he knew that somewhere there must have been an orc child who had lost just as much. He sees this imaginary orc as everything he isn't. A champion of his people, brave and strong. He is not a nameless soldier to die en masse, he is the hero.
Now, just like the world around him, all this fades from his mind. All he sees is a light shining far away, carving through the darkness of his mind and protecting him. He begins.
"Goddess. Lady of Valor and Light of the Sword, please watch over me as I do my duty this day. Aid me as I protect those who cannot protect themselves, that I may in turn be protected by them. Let those who would do them harm know mercy, or let them know Your justice. Let me be vigilant against the evils, great and small, that all acts of cruelty be brought to the light.
In Your grace, I go."
He sits in silence for a moment, then opens his eyes, stands, and walks out. If anyone noticed him they do not mention it, and he does not care either way. He knows who did notice, as he smiles softly to himself and wraps his hand around the small iron sword worn around his neck.