Doubting

[Banard 116]

 

There the Redshroud sat forlorn before the steps leading to the obliterated altar, collapsed in the white snow. He was given birth here once in the deceptive wishes of might, granted the ‘reward’ he sought in exchange to exude pandemonium and abandon his old vows. Deathly ambitious he was then, even prone to gifting his very soul to his inherent adversaries only to join their band. It was only after he embraced the ash he regained the weight of an oath and recuperated his duty, even though his entire company had abandoned the dreamlike cause to better themselves in mourning of their stolen rest. He was the only one bearing the tattered sanguine now, but he tried to fend the chaos that riddles  this earth as valiantly he could so that mankind could inherit it even so. Yet, now he was harrowed by another doubt, to pursue a goal he had long desired in selfish despair.

The Draught.

The curse always echoed through his wailing mind, and when assessed that regaining the ember of life, no matter how tiny it was, to fade away his torment just a little, he cried. He had been told that the sombre potion existed by feasibly its  very inventor, and that a new age would beckon with its existance. One that schorched all he had given up to protect in purging flame, which obliterated his entire purpose. Torn by the price he saw dear to rejuvinate and genuinely breath again for allegiance with this foretold doom, the shroud had exiled himself into the chilly wilds to contemplate upon his dilemma. Should he betray all those he stood as vanguard for to only succumb into  his own gain once more, or would he pursue this perilous path to anew his doings another time?

In his frail slumber, he mused upon the reminiscences of his family. He remembered the dear wife he threw over the balcony fence, the offspring he had left to grow forlorn without fatherhood or care. Guilt began to swell his doubt, until a line he had branded into his thoughts but surprisingly forgot echoed out.

“A sacrifice is only worth as much as the lives it spares.”

The  noise of torn bones and joints crackle and pop exuded the petrified husk as it began to move, slowly arising from his knees to stand. His torn armour had been tinted by the deathly cold, glistening particles layered over the garments.  He stood still and peered over the altar in silence, before swiveling away from the structure in a firm turn, and begin meandering away into the snowy plains.

 

He had been reminded by the very thing that fueled him to keep on with his dreadful task. His sacrifice. He would not condemn the benevolent cause why he put himself through all this torment and abandon his resolve, but instead imbibe the duties further.

To shoulder mankind’s burden. The dark had settled into the commonwealth in chaotic intent, the old reasoning the dead held had seemingly faded.


“Forgive me, kin....
 

..Verily, I submit myself to the dead."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i apologise for any flaw that this contains, just felt like writing something 

[trinn 5146]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

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