[PK] MARTYRDOM

[ProcaPro 557]

"... I think the metal man got him." A 10 year old, young Fynn Al-Jabir Aldor, mutters at hearing the news, leaned against the window of his home in Petra and staring out at the streets below. Unaware that the man with the metal mask he's feared all these years, that represented death to him, was the very man who had died. That Caius was the one he'd seen those years ago executing another. "He gets everyone."

 

His eyes wander to the Borzoi on the nearby couch, sleeping. Unmoving for a day or two now. "Is he gonna come for us too?" He asks the dog, to no answer or acknowledgement. "... Yeah. Probably." Fynn mutters to himself after the silence

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

 

A dark elven woman recieves the news with a frown, her eyes wandering to the side. Overhearing it in the streets of Celia'nor, she had felt little, as always. Never feeling like she wished to. Perhaps, she had thought inwardly, perhaps a normal person would be upset.

 

But she was not a normal person. She had whispered to her companion, in somewhat rickety glee, "Caius is dead? Caius, the Oijin... The Lich." She had smiled just a little, she had considered the future. And when she got home, she stopped caring enough to think about it any further. "Good Riddance."

[DancingZebra267 1626]

Dressed in robes of vibrant red and white, adorned with the symbol of the Lorraine at its forefront, Blessed Gerard walked forward, his heart brimming with anticipation as he approached the gates. The light ahead shimmered with a divine presence, and as he crossed himself in reverence, his eyes fell upon the radiant figure of the Aengul of Justice.

 

Yet, what stirred within him were tears—not of sorrow, but of profound joy—as he beheld the sight that awaited him beyond. There, standing before him, was none other than his brother in arms, Brandt, now reunited in the splendor of paradise.

 

"Bienvenue, Brandt," Gerard's voice carried a mix of relief and elation, his eyes reflecting the purest of emotions. "Bienvenue to paradise."

[Sarven 2619]

A faraway knight lowered his head solemnly as he heard the gossip, signing the cross across his battered breastplate.

”Rest easy father… GOTT Mit Uns…”

[WhatASithuation 210]

Athri looked at the letter, a brow raised, surprised. "He hated us enough to pre-write a letter and curse us on his death bed?" A hefty sigh took place, muttering to himself. "Maybe I'll frame this along with his 'you eat babies' business card. Absolutely ridiculous. But.. I suppose he did what we could not despite our lengths."

Athri in the company of the scarce friends that he did retain have raised a drink, and celebrated the death of Gashadokuro while honoring the fallen who made such a defeat possible. He was one who despised the gods, but that night he made a single prayer. That the seven skies embraced the grumpy old man with wide welcoming arms, despite the wrongs he had inflicted on his wife and threats he had made towards his child. For even if Caius was paranoid, delusional, misguided, and ruthless. Athri knew his heart was in the right place.

[Samler 1564]

The elderly elf considered his letter, a footnote person of which Seth had left a strong impression turned to be the cultural beacon of the humanity, calling specificly upon his aid at times and now he was dead. He let a light frown form upon his head as his conjured animal sat idly, staring upon the elf. "Was he a good one?" He thought before shrugging. "He did better than the average human." He answered to himself before he slowly went back to his home from the aviary, the letter was to be preserved, the next Pontiff was to be visited.

[Xarkly 17299]

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

Atop his destrier, Villorik cantered through the Aaunish lowlands.

 

 

The warpriest had also been contented with loneliness, and it was a lonely evening. The autumn sun ebbed low, casting burnt orange light and long, reaching shadows across the rolling plains of the Heartlands. The wind carried faint snatches of noise from the scattering of hamlets and farmsteads in the region – song from a tavern here, children playing there – but it all felt a world away to Villorik.

 

 

Content to be alone … It had always been a logical deduction; he knew that was the fate that awaited one who sought to be an inquisitor, a blade of purity for mankind; the fate that awaited someone of his solitary, stoic disposition; and even the fate that awaited a lastborn child of the troubled House Ruthern. Yes, Villorik had always told him that – that he was content to be alone.

 

 

As the sky turned a rosy purple above, just about dark enough for the first of the night’s stars to appear, Villorik neared the colossal twin status that flanked the arch into Aaun proper. Villorik did not pass beneath the bannered stone, though; instead, his destrier skirted along its edge, where an earthen path sloped up the jagged cliff of the arch.

 

 

A blade of the Church will brook little allies, and no friends. That was what he had believed, long ago when he had set off on his path. There was no love to be won from slaying those who fell afoul of humanity, and he had steeled himself for the pariah that would make him. Tsch. What a rotten fool you are, Villorik. As his destrier climbed the path, and farmsteads became dots of torchlight in the sunset fields below, he felt his eyes grew tight, and his jaw set.

 

 

Amaya. Malna. Ilaria. Rhys. Deia. Ailred. Tatiyana. For all his efforts, for all his intents, fate had obliged him with bonds he thought he would die without. Caius.

 

 

By the time he reached the top of the arch, the sun had been reduced to a bright line of orange on the western horizon, leaving the rest of the world beneath a blue-purple sky, studded with emerging stars and constellations. High above the ground, now, the wind gusted, billowing Villorik’s white cloak behind him. He felt his breath catch in his throat as Villorik shushed his destrier to a slow trot. They left the road – a lonely path for goatherders – and took to the patches of wildflowers abloom atop the plateau.

 

 

“Well, what do you really think, Villorik?”

 

Caius had been the first to ask him something like that – his superior he might have been, and yet Caius did not just expect Villorik to follow like a lapdog, despite the fact Villorik thought that role was all he aspired to.

 

 

He closed his eyes, and felt his shoulders sag, as his horse carried him towards a rocky outcrop situate in the centre of the hilltop plateau.

 

 

“Then it’s decided. Mercy it is.”

 

When Villorik had first thought the desire in him to spare those touched by the Shadow – to, despite all naivety, try to help – was a weakness, Caius had surprised him to his very soul when he had mirrored his intentions, and his belief, through his Mercyflame.

 

 

As the wind kept his cloak swaying, the destrier came to a stop at the peak of the outcrop. Villorik’s eyes remained closed, but his horse needed no directions; they had been to this spot many times.

 

 

“We’ll ensure their ilk never hurt anyone again.”

 

 

At last, he opened his eyes once more. Above him, the stars spread like an array of silvery thread-like constellations and studded stars, like a net of pearls in dark hair. Crowning all of it was a waxing moon, almost full, and its celestial light shone down atop the plateau. The wildflowers tossed their heads in the wind, as Villorik’s white cloak billowed.

 

 

With a shaky sigh, he reached up, and slowly lifted his winged helmet off his head for what felt like the first time in an aeon. His iron-grey hair whipped around his face in breeze, and he gently cushioned the helmet in his lap. For all Villorik’s foolish notions about solitude, he had found those who touched his life – he had found those he cared for, those who made the hardship bearable.

 

 

There was no greater proof of that than Caius, for he was the man who had taught Villorik the meaning of fraternity after fifty long years of that solitude.

 

 

Caius might have been his Pontiff, but, by the end, he had been his elder brother.

 

 

Villorik closed his eyes once more, despite the gleaming display of stars, and let warm tears roll down his face.

 

 

“Rest easy, my lord,” he whisperered, “my brother.”

 

Art by @ivery

 

[MunaZaldrizoti 8037]

"Foolish girl...." Caius I said to that tired child of House Ruthern.
 

Milena Anastasya could never seem to let go of that moment between herself and the late holy vicar, how he had spoken ill of her visions of dragons and destruction wrought upon humanity within the confines of Valdev's basilica. All had come to pass, with this Age of Dragons looming over them like a death shroud. When the news of his demise reached her now, it seemed entirely ironic...and predictable.

 

First Ivo Radovanic, then Pontiff Caius. Both who had seen fit to question her mind--now both dead.

[HazelWazel 463]

A particular Druidess was only told of the death months letter, casually folding up her joke wedding invite that she had planned to mail out that day and tossing it away.

 

“Hm.. I quite liked this one.  Far better than the one who baptized me in Santegia. A shame..  I hope the next one will not be like him.”

 

She then proceeds to frame the vaguely threatening letters that the pontiff had given to her. He had told her they would be worth something, some day!