[PK] Forged in Duty, Haunted by Blood

[IrradiatedGoose 305]

 

 

 

Spoiler

Unshaken - D’Angelo

 

[!] News of Kieran's death would eventually spread, be it by word of mouth or through letters. [!]
 

What is honor when the world demands that you trade it for obedience? What oath can be considered sacred when those who require it wield it like a chain? Should we bend our knees to crowns forged in deceit, to kings who preach virtue while thriving on bloodshed?

 

Kieran witnessed rulers speak of peace yet lend their strength to empires built on blood. He heard Owyn’s flame praised, yet observed men preaching without holiness in their hearts. If a God was watching, he wondered why He allowed His faithful to slaughter in His name. They claimed to protect the flock, yet it was always the flock that bled.

 

Kieran was a man in search of redemption, a ghost trying to wash the blood from his hands, even though it never truly left. “For the greater good,” he told himself repeatedly, but what good is it if others must bleed so that the rest can live? Perhaps it was never good at all, merely a lesser evil that he had chosen to endure. His childhood lacked boundaries and warmth. As a boy, he slept in forests, fields, gutters, and always felt cold. At just ten years old, he was already a phantom haunting the alleys of cities that now lay in ruin. The only family he trusted was the one that urged him to follow, so he did, and he never stopped.

---

-[☘︎]-

“What are you doing sitting alone there?” A girl just younger than him asked.

“I don’t know… Sitting I guess?” the young Kieran responded.

“Hm. Come along then.”

“Uh… okay… What’s your name?”

“Sissel.”

-[☘︎]-

---

In the first few years, he wandered through Numendil, where one word resonated in the streets: Honor. He read about fallen knights and righteous swords, sifting through libraries for fragments of virtue as he rose through the ranks of Tir-Glas. Yet when he looked down at his hands, he could never tell if they bore honor or blood.

Blood spilled in the name of causes he didn’t believe in, lives taken for matters that held no significance for him. Did blood really need to be shed over such trivial concerns?

---

-[☘︎]-

Kieran was patrolling the road between Tir-Glas and Numenost one day, following behind a man dressed in cactus-green priestly garbs. Until the man suddenly turned around to face him.

“You! You believe in Him, surely!” The green-robed man cried out.

Kieran was taken aback, not expecting the man to turn around so suddenly “Who?”

“He! And all His blessings!” 

The man began to come forwards, his hands waving around like a madman. Kieran stood his ground still, his mind was always curious, even if a bit slow.

“Him! His blessings! His people!”

Before Kieran could speak, the man’s fist lashed out. Pain seared across Kieran’s visage as his nose cracked, warm blood spilling down his face.

Kieran stabbed him, dark maroon spread across the steel and spilling into the dirt as the man fell silent at his feet.

-[☘︎]-

---

 

The mistakes came first. “Necessary,” he would whisper to himself, though the word lost its meaning over time. Then came the wars, where duty was proclaimed and banners bled red. Conversations were held through gritted teeth, as the lines between duty and “sin” began to blur. A marriage tainted by the scent of blood was hidden from all who could see.

 

Letters exchanged in the dark traded lives for lives, sparing cities but staining his soul.

 

He would carry many secrets to his grave. Often, he allowed one creature to live, hoping that others might be discovered and destroyed, but those that survived usually brought further harm. Each choice came with a toll, and the world always demanded its payment.

 

---

-[☘︎]-

“I need to travel north and into the Ailmere, and I can’t go alone,” the Norland Master of Gold spoke.

“I’ll go with you.” Kieran replied as he readied his weapons and armor. “Where are you going?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s a state secret.” 

“It’s Vansk isn’t it?”

The man was silent.

Not many days passed after, and the Northern camp burned, fire and ash blotting the night sky for the sake of someone he could not bear to lose.

 

-[☘︎]-

 

---

 

And yet… There were moments—fleeting and fragile ones—that served as proof, perhaps, that he could still do good in his own eyes, even if it cost him.   The Hyspian Royal Family was saved from the damp, dark caves of a man long lost to time. Hungry strangers were offered fire and bread in his halls; no questions were ever asked, even when they should have been. He threw himself in the path of a volley to save a mage who would not have survived otherwise. Corrupted generals were slain to ensure their stench could never rise again.

---

-[☘︎]-

Kieran carried Sissel from Alba to Vjardengrad, her weight slumped against his shoulder as though she were made of lead. Blood streaked down her temple where a barfight had left its mark, and though she needed stitches, she would not set foot in the house of healing, not tonight, not ever if she had her way. 

 

So he brought her to the river instead.

 

“At least you won,” Kieran said, stitching the gash that continued to flow on her head.

 

“She was a poor fighter,” Sissel slurred, her words between half-laugh and half-growl. Then she started to hum a small tune, off-key but soft.

 

“I’ve never heard you sing before.” He said, tying off the last knot of stitches.
 

“I’m not singing, I’m humming,” she shot back, “But I can.”

 

And she did, beginning to sing as the snow fell around them and Kieran putting away the excess supplies. He didn’t know the words, but he didn’t need to, hearing her voice was enough to know she’d be alright. 

 

By the time her song faded, Sissel had fallen asleep, her head resting against his arm. He lifted her again, careful not to wake her, and carried her back through the snowy streets. When he set her down in the bed, he stayed for a moment longer, making sure she was safe. Only then did he slip out into the cold night, silent as the falling snow.

-[☘︎]-

---

 

He had many friends who spoke of a flame, not the one preached in holy scripture, but a fire that represented fate, conviction, and purpose rather than hypocrisy and judgment. His patron, Malchediael, whom he had helped rid of his madness and restore clarity to his mind, was perhaps also a means for him to continue his own path of redemption.

 

---

-[☘︎]-

Kieran’s horse came to a slow stop as he and Ismeria neared a field, her eyes held shut until he had called for her to open them.

“Alright, you can open your eyes now.” Kieran said, helping her down from their horse.

 

Ismeria opened her eyes as a sea of red glistened in the sunlight. Hundreds of roses stood on the hillside, their petals shining and absorbing the light to later be used for their own survival. She turned around for a moment to face him, a smile creeping to her face as she faced the roses again, before darting into the flora with laughter.

Kieran smiled as he tied his horse off to the side, his attention held to Ismeria as she happily frolicked her way through the field… 

-[☘︎]-

---

Though at the journey’s end… At the mountain’s peak… Did it really matter? Did any of it matter at all when the weapon cut into him?   The axe had cut deep, deep enough to sever his femoral artery. Blood gushed from his leg and stained against the ground. A pained grunt came from him as he looked at the wound that leaked like a garden hose. “That’ll do it…” he said.   Kieran sat there, slumped against the hillside, looking to Sissel who bled next to him. “You will take care of yourself, you hear? You must.” The rising sun began to bask over him, its golden glow illuminating the hillside. “The voices… the nightmares… they dwindle… they’re finally over.” It was then that Kieran took one last breath, drifting into the grasp of death until his chest no longer rose… no longer fell… His body slowly grew limp as he leaned upon his sister, all those years of pain began to fade, until he could no longer see, and he drifted into Malchediael’s realm.   A weary smile crossed his face one last time and one last feeling… Rest.

Spoiler

That’s it, mister brain damage has finally kicked the bucket. What a character he’s been for the past… year-ish? He may be a bit of an idiot but he’s my idiot and I’m glad he could be part of other people’s stories and push them along or even be in the background. While I had initially planned to kill him a long time ago (lol hi Pepto :3), it didn’t quite feel right until now. Initially he wasn’t even entirely planned and kind of half-baked, more or less not supposed to play him past like a week given my normal trends but alas, he went a bit longer than a week I guess.

 

 

 

I want to give a special thanks to everyone who made his journey and chaos a little more interesting and fun when I would burn out on him, especially to the folks in Tir-Glas and Garenbrig for being welcoming and letting me find his little niche.

 

 

[KidKrinkles 2043]

 

The man’s hand went to his sporran, unclasping the latch with an ease born of repetition. He’d done this a thousand times — reach, flick, draw. The ritual of calm. The quiet between breaths. He brought out a cigarette, thin and perfectly rolled, a Smokin’ Bowie.

A good smoke. The best of cigarettes. Acrid, sharp, alive. The scent of green herbs and fire, bright enough to trick the dying into feeling awake one last time.

 

“‘Ere, lad,” Victor murmured. “Smoke it when yer ready te’ go.”

 

It looked like mercy. It was mercy. It was poison.

Belladonna and hemlock — the quiet death of old men and tired soldiers. A last drag that eased the soul loose, like smoke through a cracked window. As he had told Sissel: he's a man, not a monster. A man outta choose his own death, if he can.

 

“Whenever yer ready, just take a drag. It’ll ease you off.”

 

Kieran looked to him,ivory-haired, pale in the candlelight, eyes still steady. A lord now, a knight twice over, and yet Victor still saw the boy in him — the boy who’d asked once how to pray.

 

“I don’t smoke,” he said softly. 

Then, with a ghost of a grin, “... might as well, though.”

 

Victor smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He wanted to say that he admired him — that Kieran had kept his white flame, the blessing of Malchadiel, the faith that Victor had bartered away long ago to something that wore righteousness like a mask and played him a fool.
 

He wanted to say that Kieran was the last of what was good in him. His best student, who took his words to heart, and lived by them. Who put them into practice, and acted when others would not to save lives, and make the world a bit less grim. Even if he beat himself for his shortcomings, he went so much further than he could've known.

 

But he couldn’t.
He just lied.

“Easier t’smoke, when yer passin. Always said it meself; when ma’ cigarette goes out, that how ye’ll know ah’m gone.”

 

His hand idly struck a match, and in the light, Victor thought he saw the shape of a tower with a flame atop it.

 

---

The forest above the tent was all sound and sparks — axes clashing, steel biting steel, bark splitting from the force.
Autumn never ended here. The leaves burned gold. The air stung of sap and smoke.

Victor crept low through the brush, his stuffed wolf bounding beside him in stilted mimicry of life. He was meant to stay hidden — just to watch, to make sure it was fair. But every step closer felt heavier.

Kieran’s axe struck like thunder, but Sissel parried each swing with ease. They’d fought before — for pride, for practice — but this wasn’t the same. Kieran’s guard was slow. His footing wrong. There was no fight in his strikes, only farewell.

Victor’s breath caught. He knew it, even before she did.

He reached out, instinctively, to Him. To Orsathiael. The Chainbinder.
His old god. His old chain.
The Father of the Mountain.

His hand twisted in the air, calling a blessing he had no right to use. The world answered in kind — cruelly.

“AGH!”

The scream ripped out of him before he knew it was his own. His skull felt aflame; his hands clutched his temples as if to hold his mind together. Static flooded his vision, white and strobing. Somewhere in the pain, he heard laughter. That laughter.

And then a voice —
“Victor!”

Iulius.

Through the blur, the great Thegn’s shape took form, blade drawn, armor half-laced, concern painted over his face. A good man, confused by the sight of his friend on his knees.

He grabbed Victor under the arm, hauling him up by instinct, speaking soft.
“Come, brother.”

He didn’t know. How could he?

He thought it mercy — to bring him near, to let him see the boy one last time.

Victor stumbled with him through the trees, half-conscious, half-awake, the sound of the duel growing louder until it was right there.

He saw it then.
Sissel — daughter in all but blood — her axe buried deep.
Kieran — son of his heart — falling slow.

And Victor’s mouth opened to scream, but nothing came.
 

He just watched, held upright by a friend who didn’t understand what kindness could do.

 

---

It wasn’t long before. Victor, and Kieran, before the fire at his keep: not far from his own tent. They’d spoken of old adventures, and old loves, and the torments of guilt, and of war.

 

Of all of Victor’s students, Kieran had understood it best: what it was to be a Swordsman. What it meant, to bear the weight of steel, and feel flesh beneath it, and retain one’s humanity.

 

Kieran was, above all, human.

 

“Was I a good man, Victor?”

 

Victor looked at him, quietly, eye peeling from the flame. There were many questions Kieran had asked, before his death; before going to meet it. But this answer laid deep in his chest, and he had always known it.

“Perhaps one of the best.”

 

It was hard to say if it brought the Templar peace. But it was the answer.

 

---

 

The man sat quietly, with Sissel, and Iulius, above the keep nested below in the autumnal valley.

 

A deep, smoldering wrath within his chest, blooming.

 

And the absence of one of the best men he had ever had the pleasure of raising.

 

Victor took the cigarette he rolled for him, and set it upon Kieran’s paling lips, and struck the sparks upon his mouth.

[Calise11 841]

Spoiler

It has been a blast getting to know Kierans character and its skygod. Breadnugget. I will forever have a special place for both. Fk you for making me cry two days straight. But he went out in glory. A warriors death. Cant be mad at that. I hope we get to play characters again that interacted the way Sissel and Kieran did. 

❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂
 

Hot streams of tears left Sissel’s eyes. And yet her face oddly never changed. Her lips did not quiver, and her voice did not bend under the weight of ***ht. The sky grew progressively inky, and the stars above watched in tentative silence. She—she, the moon—too blessed them with her alabaster glow. Her hands grew shaky, as if the stone were shedding from her statue’s body. And for the last time, she embraced Kieran in a full-body cocoon. She knew that the moment she let go, the cycle would be complete.

Kieran turned to embrace her, arms wrapping around her. A small, sombre smile crept across his face. After all those years, fights, laughs, and wars, what had started in Numendil decades ago would finally come to a close.

❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂


“Sissel—your girlfriend, right?” The two of them looked at each other, unsure whether to burst out laughing or force their fingers down their throats to feign a gag.

“THA’S MA SISTER!” Kieran bellowed. It wasn’t a lie—well, sort of. Not by blood, certainly. Kieran had been born of the Numendian folk, while Sissel was born of noble blood: Rurikidd. The teens had been inserpable from the moment they had met. She saw something in the Farmer boy. Something that none of the other nobles, or peers of Numendeil, did. Kieran was captured by heart and never let go.

❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂
 

“At least it’s ye…” he said, holding her a moment longer before preparing to pull away.

The pain flowed freely; the floodgates, long kept pinned shut, broke. A cascade of gut-wrenching ache spread through every part of her being. The stony facade finally crumbled. Her body shook like a leaf, and despite it all, she pressed a woefully beautiful smile onto chapped lips.

❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂

“…Are you SURE? You can walk…?” questioned Freysson as the Templar knight limped toward the staircase, a hand extended outward as she slowly made her way down, ready to grab the 370-pound man. Oh, what a stupid idea it was.

“I am fine! Look, I can wa—"

||CLANG—CLANG—CLANG—CLANG—CLANG!||

The woman was bulldozed by Kieran and his bulk. A broken arm and a leg later, his sister was a pancake on the first flight of stairs, even though they had started at the top
❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂

 

“We still never managed to fight side by side. Truly. Perhaps such was the case… I would have shown you up.” Her tone shattered as the ache only grew further.

And for once, the hallmarks of their bond—their friendship—bled through, from Draugmaer to Sissel.

“Mm… ye were the better fighter… Ay just took the hits,” he said amidst their embrace. His tone lifted slightly, perhaps a chuckle escaping. Though he was sad—sad it had to be this way, sad it would go this way—it was as it was. Their bond had always been strange in its own ways, but one that was theirs to hold until the end.


❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂


“WE are going to make you stronger!” the teen proclaimed, handing him a large rock to hold. Kieran, much skinnier, fumbled it.

“…BY DROWNING ME?!”
The woman nodded, and like a pirate, he walked the plank, forced by her and a pointy stick. All he needed was a singular flick to the forehead.

|| SPLOOOOOOOSH ||

“Hold on! The longer you’re down there, the more you expand your lung capacity! It’s Norlandic tradition!” she yelled words of encouragement as bubbles bobbed up and down.


❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂

She was kneed in the side, where he had once split the muscle of her hip. What drove Sissel to fight was a will to survive—but the difference this time was clear: this was not a battle she wanted. Her vigor was deflated, her movements lacked the friction of her usual strength. She slid to his side, his airway recovering, hissing in muted pain. Nonetheless, the man had made his choice. He wanted this, and with that came her respect for his will. The axe tightened in her grip, and she aimed at the nearest limb—his thigh.

Sissel’s axe cut into the man’s thigh, severing the femoral artery as dark maroon spread across the ground.

❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂

“You—FELL OFF A BUILDING?! AGAIN!?” proclaimed his sister.

“Aye…” Kieran responded.

“Okay—uh… what’s… two plus two?” Because, anyway, to figure out whether someone had brain damage, you… give them math equations… right? …right?

“Ay don’t need testin… Eighteen!” Kieran sang proudly with a hearty confidence. Sissel’s palm met her forehead with a wet slap. It was wet, because, of course, Kieran was bleeding. But in their youth, they were always bleeding.

❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂


“Tha’ll do it…” he wheezed, looking back at her, likely with only moments left as the wound bled like a garden hose.

❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂

“GET OWUF MAAWH TOWNGUWE!” Kieran proclaimed as Sissel had seized it. Victor looked between his two ‘children’—most certainly not fortunate enough to come from his loins—but they were his nonetheless.

“AH!” Sissel screeched as her own tongue was caught. The two were locked in a stalemate within the Flaming Tankard of Vjardengrad. They were easily in their fifties, yet the moment they graced each other’s presence, they were fourteen all over again.


“Ow about ye both let go a’ the same time…” Victor, one hand pressed against his cheek, watching on. Chiming is a mediator

“HEWH WAWNT DWO IIWT-”

“AWH WILL -”

“AWRIGHT OWH THA COWUNT OF THRWEE- 

WON - TWHO - THWREEE”

❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂

Sissel’s axe fell with a muted thud. Her breath came in rapid, ragged rasps. Her shoulder bled, her hip worse, and other wounds marked her body. She had no time to tend to them. Instead, she lay next to him. Enough was enough—there was no need to continue. Her cinereous hair mingled with his silver locks, brushes of red staining strands of both. Grey Tundras looked upward. Her chest continued to flex under the strain of the fight, equally torn apart.

❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂
 

Sissel had lost count of the number of times she had carried Kieran back from a battle, stranded somewhere on the road, or kidnapped him from Numendil to Vjardengrad so she could tend to him. She always wanted the best for him. After all, he was her brother.

Years could pass without them seeing each other. War. Diplomacy. Norland vs. the world. Life got busy. But somehow, at some point, they would crop up in each other’s lives.

“I wanna see Auntie Sissel!” a little one sang at Kieran’s side, and suddenly, the woman who despised children started to thaw to her niece.

“I’ll cook you a BIG mammoth stake, little bairn,” Sissel hummed.

“What’s a mammoth?” her niece, no older than six, asked.

“A big fluffy creature! You should ask your Fadir for one. Certainly perfect house pets,” her aunt insisted. And lo and behold:

“DAAAADD—I WANT A MAMMOTH!”

You could hear Kieran burying himself in his hands as Sissel tormented him through his own daughter.

 

❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂
 

“I did not want this,” she rasped. “But I know it was better than you descending into—” She coughed, hacking up blood, spitting out the spew. “Madness… such a fate would be far too cruel.” She had not been prepared when Kieran had asked her for a Holmgang. A duel and one to the death. She bled her shoulders, hips. It was hard to tell what blood was Kieran's and what blood was hers. Battered and maimed. A mistake to have come without armour or a weapon. Luckily, Iulius provided.

“Ay know…” Kieran shoved his hand to her shoulder, keeping a weak grasp despite his effort. “Ay love ye…” he said weakly, a croak escaping as he looked to the rising sun. “Ye’ll take care o’ yerself… ye hear? Ye must…” His grip faltered.

“The voices… the nightmares… they dwindle… they’re… they’re finally over…” he whispered, taking a last breath as if relieved, drifting into death’s grasp. His chest no longer rose or fell. His body gave out, becoming limp upon her. After all that time—all those years of pain—finally, he could rest. There he lay, basking in the sun. The blood that had flown gently ceased.

❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂
 

 

[Iulius 206]

 

 

“Hail, Kieran! How’re you?”

 

“Alive”

 

“Hop on! We go hunting darkspawn together!”

 

The Thegn couldn’t sleep that night. He tried, to no avail. After all, he had just lost a brother. He stood up from his bed, careful to not wake up his wife. He made his way downstairs, and then into the Kingswood. The moon shone over Verðrgrad, stars decorating the skies. The warrior began his training then. The cold bit his skin, sweat ran down his muscles and scars. He didn’t care. He continued even after he could no more. Until his muscles were screaming at him to stop, and yet he was unable to. 

 

“Look after her, won’t ye? An Ay don’t mean Agariel”

 

“I will”

 

|| Thuck Snap Crack ||

 

The sound of bone hitting wood echoed across the capital’s forest, the slumber of the birds upon the trees disturbed, fleeing. 

 

|| Thuck Snap Crack ||

 

The man kept going. Hitting the thick stick he used to condition his limbs, stronger and stronger, the weight of his perceived failures was discharged on the object. Despite the pain, a thought dominated his mind:

 

  “I failed”

 

The Thegn of Vjardengrad, protector of the Nords. First of his kin. And yet, he failed to see the weight upon his friend’s shoulder. He couldn’t protect his brother from himself.

 

|| Thuck Snap Crack ||

 

Loud grunts began accompanying his hits on the wood. Each one increased in intensity. Memories of the deceased flooded his mind; each battle they fought, each drink they shared. No new memories will be made.

 

|| CRASH ||

 

The peak of his emotions channeled into a strike, the wood cracked. His knuckle bled. The man fell to his knees, the dam now shattered, tears streaming across his cheek. The sun arose, the first lights of the morning cutting like blades through the darkness of the night. His vision blurred, and then, he passed out.

 

“Farewell, Kieran”

 

 

 

Edited October 26, 2025 by Iulius

[ChainedDragons 1374]

Spoiler

 

 

"The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not 'get over' the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it."

- Irl Quote

----------------------------------------------------------------

Death. One would think he would be used to it by now... He had seen so much blood shed in such a short span of his still on going life. Yet the list of those who he lost grew longer than the tapestries that adorned his walls. 

"Ea had just talked to vy this morning..." 
Bron's voice quivered as he sat in the lonely confines of his shop attic within Tir'glas. A raven had came, bearing news from his siblings. The stag has fallen. Kieran, his adopted grandpapej, was gone. The letter drifts to the floor as he sank in his chair, burying his face deep into his clawed fingers whilst his horns scrapped against the wood of the wall. And yet no tears fell despite quiet whimpers leaving his heaving chest. 

"why did vy have to go so soon..."
The devil wept in the dark of the attic, feeling the shadow of death lingering over him yet never reaching. Why must these dark clouds keep following him?

Edited October 25, 2025 by ChainedDragons

[jihsoo 746]

 

"Du must be mein brother from another mother, because dur ginger too."

 

"Perhaps."

 

The two then went in for a bump! And unfortunately, not only did their hands miss each other completely, but they also collided into each other's faces with a THUMP, resulting in bloodied knuckles and noses.

 

---

 

Kieran was a common face amongst the crowds that the Princess-Consort had gotten used to. Ever-present he was, ever loyal he was, but even then, did Safiyaa not delve past the surface or depths of how truly complicated a character the Callaghan was. So, too did the habitual greetings come, the occasional conversation, the jovial laughter ebb and flow - the man was simply a good friend, a brother-in-arms, a constant battling between the change that chased after time like a beast in the night. It was a comfort knowing he was there, present at every courtroom, with a nod toward her, as if such actions spoke beyond knowing the depths of one's soul.

 

The Callaghans themselves had become, in extension, a prominent force in the woman's life. From Ismeria, to Elise, to Bronadron, to the likes of his grandkids themselves, they were no longer strangers nor just the faces of the Princedom, but the faces of those she had come to call family.

 

"Dur son hast a gutte head on his shoulders," Safiyaa told Elise, as she settled on the crook of an apple tree's branch, the knight leaning on the lower part of the fence, a crutch in tow. 

 

"I have many hopes for him. . . He didn't have an easy start, but he's a good kid." The Callaghan answered.

 

Such a heart-warming conversation was easily put to a stop as the scent of iron pierced the air, eyes following before then laying upon Victor, who arrived with three other figures, though one on the man's back, whom she couldn't peel her eyes from. 

 

Bloodied. Caked in such from head to toe. No sort of light in his eyes. No sort of nod in greeting nor recognition. Not even a motion from the face she had grown accustomed to. 

 

Now, standing on the ground as the crippled Elise reached for her father, kneeling, checking for any sign to wake him from what time stopped, the Princess stood there idly, looking upon the dead man. Her husband wandered into the scene, a sudden commotion to try and bring his comrade back.

 

How blissful it must be to finally rest.

 

Spoiler

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spoiler

@rose6614 @KidKrinkles @Pepto

 

[Sonybut7 530]

 

 

ᚢᛁᛅᛉᛚᛅ ᚠᛁᚱᛁᚱ ᛏᛅᚢᛏᛅ

❖────》✵ ᚨ ⧫ ᛞ ⧫ ᚨ ✵《────❖

❖────》✵ ᚨ ⧫ ᛞ ⧫ ᚨ ✵《────❖

 

FEAST FOR THE DEAD

You, who moved to the Halls of the Dead,

where gold is plenty and the mead runs plenty.

Where the songs of steel ring loud,

and old oaths whisper in the dark.

 

Few now feast in the land I roam,

the warmth fades, and the benches thin.

Thus I drink with the gone before,

for the living lessen year by year.

 

 

Spoiler

Thank you for allowing me to be part of Kieran's story. I will miss him, gone too soon :(

 

[Cally 1080]

r

[retro 277]

"Your job is not to fix. Your job is to guide."
 

Yelizaveta sat slouched upon a surgical bed, weeping incessantly for the hours to come. When she had been placed there was uncertain, but one could have assumed it during her time of unconsciousness. She grasped upon pools of braids, tugging feverishly as she repeated utterances beneath her breath. How could she let this happen? This wasn’t supposed to happen. It had never happened before, so why now?

Her head shook in vehement denial of all which was said, rejecting and refusing any attempts of soothing. She could only lash out in choked hurt, horrified by not only the actions of her own, but of the situation itself.

 

It just didn't make sense. How could he thank her?

"You put him out of his suffering."

[confusedjester 809]

r

[DahStalker 3692]

Ismeria gripped her chest upon finding out that her beloved had died. After years of non-stop working and grueling unyielding work meetings her heart finally gave out. “Flame gu-“ A sharp wheeze, then collapse. 

[Spellblades 749]

Ser Leif Ąžuolas sat quietly in the Scholarium of Idunia; it seemed to be the only place he could focus nowadays, but he wasn't reading; he was recollecting memories of the past from when he was a page under Ser Nathannenel.  Kieran had given him a mace on his very first patrol mission, one he still carried to this day. "Rest well, Ser Kieran." The Knight muttered as he looked upon the rising sun in the distance, "You deserve it."

[Fluffy Horror 496]

Reserved

[Morigung-oog 5697]

Valindra felt a shift in the veil between the Elysian. Once word reached the death-touched elf, many hours were spent in the sanctified grounds of the Numendil Cathedral, knelt in silent prayer for the safe voyage of her battle buddy's soul with a golden lorraine clutched between her hands. As an elf with a fondness for humanity, death frequently claimed her allies, though each death carried with it a different meaning- and all were mourned. The fallen sohaer recalled the brief time spent with Kieran, the battled shared and smiled.

 

Ultimately, she grieved, but gave thanks to the fact she'd known Kieran in the first place.

[ReverseNebula 373]

R