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Post by Amaryl on Mon Nov 12, 2012 4:17 pm

I was bored so I decided to write a piece, as nihilistic as possible as fitting with the character.

With the distinct thud of metal on stone, the sword was dropped on the floor. The metal cross-guard skittered a step, as the further leather-bound object, slid over floor. The light of a single candle got lit in the corner of the room, filling the small dilapidated hall with shadows, rotten and broken apart wood lined the walls between stone pillars. A deep sigh echoed through the small room, followed by the crashing of plating on a bench that was far past its prime. Dark Mud dripped from a leather overcoat onto the floor. An exhausted grunt as the figure leaned back into the chair staring at the familiar shape of the sheathed weapon on the other side of the tiles.
The figure's head turned to the corner of the room, as the footsteps approached, a small light pouring through a hole in the wall - door. The hinges creaked as more light filled the room. A tall thin man stood in the doorway, wearing well-worn white and black robes, marred with patches, loose stitching and small holes. His brow furrowed deeply as he met the cold eyes of the figure sprawled out in the chair. The candle in the man's hand was placed on a pedestal, previously obscured by the shadows, giving his farmer's cut fair hair a soft glow.

'So you're back, I thought you would.'

The corners of the figure's mouth almost twitched into a scowl, but remained steady. As always, in control.

'It appears I cannot stay away from your Wisdom, Father.

The man frowned, the age lines around his eyes deepening, his eyes revealing harshness, strangely soothing, Familiar. His hand folded itself on the sickle at his belt, a dirty instrument, mud, and herb leaves caked to it, before pulling out a book, a thick book, a heavy book, reminiscent of a Libram,

'Hmm, that's an interesting choice of words Captain. Have you come to terms with my position, or have you found a new way to mock an old man, while accepting his aid?'

That oh so familiar shrug followed.

'Loquacious as ever, shall I start then? Shall I need to disassemble your walls for the umpteenth time in these two months, so that we can cut to the heart of the matter? If so let us at the very least observe the pleasantries of Respect on this continuation of your confession?"

After a long hard and cold stare, the hood was removed, and the blonde haired woman stared silently at the priest, the leather coat hiding the heavy armour underneath.

'Do not give me that look Knight-Lieutenant. I am not the naive boyish priest that you admire so much; you can scare with the longest stare, out of sense or through the hint of violence. Neither am I your much beloved bald bushwhack, that ridicules you for it. You come to me, and you shall abide.'

A snort, oh yes a snort, always with the familiar imagery, let the ocean metaphors come.

'Father, do not presume you can be coy with my friends.'

'Friends, that's the word? Interesting. Tell me Knight of the Silver Hand why are you here?'

'Why I'm always here. Why i'm always there. Duty.'

'And yet, that's so far from those friends. Tell me, Insolent one, about your Oath on your Hallowed sand. '

Her eyes flashed again with anger and something else, the hands clasping the arm rests of the chair.

'I am where I need to be, I can't be anywhere else right now. I'm needed here.'

'You never tell lies. Oh, I've come to know you enough that I believe that statement you wicked, wicked Dancer. The problem, you skirt so much of the truth, that I doubt you none-the less, you're ripe for politics.'

'I'm a Soldier.'

'But of course you are my dear. Of course you are. And soldiering is honest business. It makes an honest woman out of you. Unlike the foul play and the dirty backstabbing of politics, you wouldn't want that.'

The man sat opposed to her, his hands clasping her sword, laying it in his lap. Mud splashed on the robes. The priest stared slowly at the weapon. A finger tracing the silver-tread across the leather wrapped handle.

'You forget Tavern Wench; I know you. In your fights against cultism, Bait is your primary weapon. Setting traps and moving any piece you can into the middle. Make it as alluring as possible, from your main charges, to your friends, to innocents, to the vilest of crooks. The list of failed missions and deceased and wounded friends is innumerable. Politicking. Pfah. I haven't even discussed the manner in which you formed and lead your armies. Politics I would hazard would become thrice as murderous with you in the game. So do not skirt the truth from me Girl.'

'Perhaps you're right.'

'Undoubtedly, so why push everyone away?'

Her gaze was steady on him now, the anger dissipated. A hint of sadness rested a touch of desperation. Almost human one would call it. Her sigh came as strange awakening. So soon? Walls tend to be made stronger than this. Certainly from a woman that holds competence in such high regard. Crumbling towers of defense, only to have a naked woman laid bare. delightfully painful.


'Ah yes, Duty. Oath bound, or better yet, Avowed. Tell me Street mongrel. A woman that has in your own words, stuck her feet into indomitable depths to take a stand against darkness, as wave after wave of cold dark water tries to breach through the surf and swallow the beach. How come you still stand? Was no wave high enough to push you of your perch? No trench deep enough to throw you in and bury you, until you drown in the deeps of the abyss?'

'I had friends backing me. '

'And now, Amaryl, you are pushing them away.'

'There is no need for them to drown for my duty, for my oaths, for my sins.'

'And so you push them away. Try to make them renounce you. Have them break your heart, willingly. Because: you have your duty.'

She stared silently up into him, as the light of the candle had filled the room, her sad eyes piercing into the priest's, for just a moment, that started to linger on.


'What is the most important lesson about respect you wish to impart on your students again? The ones you fail to push away from following in your sordid footsteps? Ah, right. all the things about how easy it is to respect your friends, your country, the world, the land, the animals, even the enemy is easy to respect. In the end, there's only a small lie that's needed to convince you that something or someone is respectful. Oh right. There's something missing. The only person that you can never lie to is yourself. The hardest task for anyone, for any man or woman, but most desperately for those who dare to call themselves Paladins, is to respect yourself. You have no shields, no walls, no armour to hide from the ruthless gaze of your own eyes, adjudicating every single decision and all its effects. Is that about right?'

'That's the gist of it...'

'Then, let me ask you this simple question, in lieu of your own convictions, in lieu of your oaths, in lieu of your duty Amy. Do you respect yourself?

'Hmpf, my walls aren't that brittle father. '

'Your face tells me otherwise, answer the question.'

'You call me avowed, it is true, by two fucking bloody threads that are my oaths. That is my duty. What am I if I break those, if I forsake that? Yes my heart fucking shatters into a thousand pieces of self reflecting razor-sharp mirror's edge. Each piece accuses me, but I stand. Each piece pleads, but I stand, each nether damned piece cuts me, deeper and deeper until all I can do is but shatter again, but I stand, for I must stand. I cannot allow legs to waver, to have my knees buckle, so I stand upright against my bloody sins, my bloody oaths, my Light cursed decisions that left me with nothing but hands caked with leagues of blood and A chain of souls clutching at my neck. I stand, for I can do nothing else. '

The Girl shuddered, for here in this instant she was a girl, the one her mother had called Amy. Shed from the armour that embraces the body of this warrior, this coarse creature, that would fight the wind if she thought need or cause. The priest's thumb softly caressed the silver thread of the sword hilt, before uttering a hushed word. his large hands cradling the sword rested so callously on top of his knees. the soft azure glow from the pommel, lighting his pained expression as he regarded the woman.


'I promised him.'

'I know you did. So you break. So you push people away; everyone that cares. Until they need you. So I ask you again Amy. Why?'

'Do you know what I promised?'

The words came out in a whimper. The girl looked up at the broad-shouldered priest, trying to temper the tears forming, trying to apprehend the meaning behind the down-turned corners of the priest's mouth. He looked down at her towards the mud that kept dripping on the tiles. The thumb caressing the word threaded in the hilt of the gift.

'You told me once Amy, you told me once.'

Her lips parted for an instant, thinking, pondering for a single second. The realisation, taking hold, as her hesitation formed the blade with which she could hold to, while hanging over the edge. the blade cutting deep into her palm, reverberated back straight into the priest's saddening, compassionate... loving look.

'Then you know.'

She shuddered again, shivering as she tugged the greatcoat firmer around her. flaked mud, pooled at the bottom of the chair, making the floor more slippery by the second. She regarded him, tears staining her cheeks. She wanted to stay silent, but his gaze caught her. Like so often before. Like in her one redeeming dream.

'Then you know, I can do naught but fail, naught but fail. Every choice I make to uphold them. Every decision I take, I forsake it. If I try I'm an Oathbreaker If I don't I am too, and I do not want to break. With every Breath, Lot, every single inhalation, I lose. I forsake, I fail. Lot, you know that. You bloody well know that.'

'I know Amy... I know...'

'I shatter Lot. I bloody shatter. '

'I know Amy, I know...'

'I want to go home...'

'Not until you find an answer Amy, not until you find an answer.'

her shoulders were hunged now, but she righted herself, the coat shaken away from her shoulders, the deep white lines of light across her chest, marred with dirt and filth. A soft understanding smile, would be what he wanted to see. What she wanted to give but, sadness, was all there was. Longing. she longed. but she couldn't, for she had her duty.

'Can I hold her?'

The priest looked down at the word written in the hilt of the sword, Amber. He slowly stood up, his dark long hair draped over his shoulders and handed over the sword delicately, one hand under the hilt, one hand arched under the hilt. The girl took the sword cradling it in the same manner and pressed her head softly against the silver-threaded leather. He looked on her in the darkness, by the fading light. Wind howling outside and in. shaking the very shabby walls of the northern temple. the wind shrieking through the cracks, filling the space with echoing howls.

'Good night Amaryl, we'll see each other again.'

'Indeed we will.'

The door crashed open. The hinges shattered as the heavy rotten wood thundered to the ground, dust rose, as specks of red flew across the walls. Heavy boots raced in. A few privates rushed in. imperial plate adorned their backs as they took in the scene. Two forsaken sprawled out in the small farmhouse of gore. One sitting slack-jawed against the side-wall, organs displayed on the ground before him, as the gaping holes in his stomach and face made him the prime guest for a death-knight tea party. The second stood impaled with a lamp post against the far wall. He was wailing slightly trying to wiggle free, before a mace to the skull helped both the decorating canvas and the annoying sound.
'Worse than a bloody horny dog' the Brain-basher uttered.
'She's still breathing.' The second Private uttered hunched over a third figure clad in plate adorned with different colours of red lying in a pool of it.
'Good, we don't want the LT to become captain now do we? Let's get her out to the medic quickly!'


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Join date : 2010-08-25
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