Padre, Era Buena Vida

[Heff 2460]

 

 

 

 

The forces of humanity marched forth, their boots sending shocks of pain to the young zealot’s troubled head. He moved with them, two monks at his side, shuffling with the army as his mind fluttered elsewhere. The bright sun, the bright beacon of God, shone upon the immaculate armor of the legions. The light reflected from these pious soldiers, intensifying the zealot’s headache. He stared up at the sun, basking in its divine all-knowing light. The pain began to feel good, the pain began to fill his head. All thoughts, of his father and his mother, of his Church and his war, left him. He was filled only with this sweet, dreadful pain.

 

His wits were about him once more, the fierce pain left him and the sadness of his losses filled him. He had never been one to mourn, he had been a faithful man and the only thing he found himself focusing on was God. But he had failed God. Saint Julia had told him, One God, One Nation, One World. Had he done this? No. His reach was strong but short, he did not hold dominion over the heathens of the south, of the heretics in the desert.

 

As these thoughts bombarded him, the zealot took note of his surroundings. The army had left him, or he the army, but it made no matter. He was alone, the sounds of fighting echoed in his ears. His crown felt heavy upon his head, the grass supporting his weighted steps. The faint whisper of swords was overcome with a brutish noise, a noise of the devil. Before him stood lumbered a hulking green figure, its tusks dripping with the blood of Man. An Azog, Urik. The beast launched forth, thinking to take advantage of the dazed man.

 

 

 

 

The sound of steel rang, the blade of Saint Wilfriche guided itself to meet the beast’s. The lax of the zealot left him, once more he was filled with Fear of God and wroth for this heathen. Their steel clashed, the blade of Saint Wilfriche whirring loudly with every step. The heathen and the zealot met. And they danced the dance of death. The zealot’s blade claimed a finger, the heathen’s axe claimed a blow on his stomach. The zealot’s shield claimed the axe, the heathen’s fist claimed his head. The two danced the dance of death, but neither finished.

 

The hulking beast lumbered off, slashed away by the zealot. The zealot collapsed, the wet sand giving comfort to his mutilated stomach, his slashed face. The monks who had come with him found him once more, laying face down in the wet sand on the shores of the river. His head bore no prize, his head bore no crown, no laurel. It had been stolen, robbed, looted from him by the heathen. As did his pride, his honor.

 

 

 

The zealot lay in his bed, his cousin and his soldiers, his friend and his clergy all gathered about. He uttered his goodbyes, his prayers. He felt naked, he had donned this crown since the age of nineteen. Now, at the age of twenty seven it did not hold onto his head. It had given a burden to him, but when it was gone he felt lost, without a purpose. Perhaps it was a good thing, he did not have his crown or his purpose. For if he had either, he would not accept his fate. The zealot’s body was overcome by a seizure, which had plagued him for three years now, and soon the life drained from him like the wine from a chalice. He would meet his father once more, claimed by a headsman’s axe. He would meet his mother once more, claimed by a passing plague. “Padre, Era Buena Vida.” It was a good life.  

[LPT 771]

Archbishop Oliver Blackwell kisses the Pontiffs ring one last time after finishing his last rites.  "Rest well in the seven skies friend... Rest well" Oliver goes to grab his brown robes as he begins his fast, he has a lot of prayer to do.

[Haribo 385]

Monsignor Clemens August von Pondt frowns upon hearing the death of the High Pontiff.

 

"Requiescat in Pace."

[Reckless Banzai Screamer 15456]

From the grand hall in Ard Ghorrock, the Lord Protector sits quietly on the throne. Just a saint's hour before the battle he had spoken to the pious man in preparation for a wedding that would come just after the battle. He had hoped after being baptized by the same man, he too could have his own wedding.

 

"Things never go as we plan them." Nafis bows his head solemnly. The sheer disappointment he felt upon hearing the news forced him to his quarters early today.

[Eddywilson2 2117]

Petyr Barbanov and his companions look over the fallen Pontiff with sadness. A small tear forms at the edge of his eye as he mutters "A saint has died on this day. I will enact the revenge of GOD." With that, he and his men head back out to the battlefront.

[Pav33 101]

Father Ferdinand (Gualtier) rests his hand on the dead pontiff's. He cries before setting a single white rose on the pontiff's chest.

"Deus Vult, your holiness, Dues vult!"

[VL 298]

"God Bless Pope Lucien. DEUS VULT!"

 

 

[GloriaPreussens 798]

Godfrey grunts at the news "Damn."

[Ark 2835]

Karl Barbanov waves to him as he enters the Seven Skies.

[CheekyNolan 5420]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.