A Sariant's Day

[The Lion 736]

 

 

I awake and begin to pray with God. Stretching ready for this day. Walking the stone carven caverns of Hanseti craftsmanship, I arrive at the Hochmeister’s Redoubt. A traditionally ancient feature of all Teutonic places; a place to remain stoic and reminisce on fallen times and those ahead. A place to think, and order one’s head, yet ultimately a place to stare out over the vista that's of Ves before getting on to my daily toil; A Sariant’s Duty.

 

 

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Beyond the Redoubt are halls leading to the Shrine of the Holy Place Dedicated to Prophet Horen, Long Live His Being. Kneeling upon its hassocks, I pray beneath the Shrine of Saint Maria Celestia, the Mother of the Hanseti people. This time for blessing before equipping my miner’s helmet. Using the lift to plunge into the dark below. Earning my wages, I return to the surface and fill my cask with the riches mined. I wash my arm, leg, leg, arm, and head before kneeling to pray again. Hanging my miner’s helmet up for a helmet forged for war when I stand this time. I saddle my horse, and patrol below the mountain to face the darkness of human sin that is sown on the King’s Road.

 

Today, escorting a young and reluctant human soldier, a Heartlander. With my security, we travelled along until the Haense Farmlands. I left him to his business and continued back the way I came. Arriving in Rubern where all was good. From here, I went, and headed for whence I came. Driving my horse into a call for help, a cultist afoot that needed stopping. Our small party travelled with the Crier, but my comrades left camp early without my trained teutonic eye to protect them. I looked for them, but could not find where they had gone. Thinking hope lost, I sought Our Shrine of the Rising Cross to pray.

 

Coming to the shrine, I prayed, and lo, I saw the party struggling with two antagonists on the mountain above. Carefully, I, Hanseti, crafted up the stone face on horse. Dismounting my steed to draw arms against the belligerents before me; a cultist wielding steel and madness, and a bear bewitched by black magic wielding its heavy-frame and claws. Tearing my good companions to bits, for which, I can stand no-longer, I make my practiced moves. Letting the longsword meets its honed-in mark of death. Tearing the cultist asunder for her soul to be judged. The wild bear, upon its death by remaining companions, begins to bubble and froth at the mouth as only black magic creatures would. Calling me to evacuate the area from the foreseen explosion. The Owynist among us ignores Teutonic calls to get away from the bear, and gives his body away freely to God’s plan. Saved just from the flames by the Crier Himself.

 

 

 

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I patch up a wounded man attacked by the cultist’s weapon, and get him upon the horse to ride back into the Golden City’s Gates in-search of hospital. My stark white tunic is stained with the blood of comrades, and the enemies that once were. The local Canonists heed the call for hospice, and collect my good companion to heal. I leave him in their practiced care, and stop to pray before returning above to my mountain home. Taking off my helmet to clean my body with the purifying waters of the Fountainous Bath. I pray again before bed. Doing it all again tomorrow as my Holy commands; Work, Pray, Patrol.

 

 

 

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=O=

 

[Hanseti Hip-Hop Radio Song]