After Goldleaf [Narrative]

[DarkvWalker 277]

 

Sternfell had not been kind enough yet to feel like rest.

Had he first lingered there after the ambush in the Valley, he would have not expected a little more than wooden walls, cold winds, and yet another lonely post from which to watch the roads. The place proved honest enough—offering no comfort, no gentle welcome, and no illusion of a ceased battle merely because of a modest victory claimed by the Crusade. Alas, it was mostly a hollow reprieve, doing nothing to quieten the ache that settled beneath his plating.

The battle had followed him in subtler ways than the stench of blood. It lingered in the rasp of his breath after exertion, in the traumatic reflex that made his hand seek the scabbard even when no foe stood before him, yet in the silence that settled once a pyre was lit ablaze. Decades had passed—whereas men lived who should have foreseen death, and men fell who ought to have stood longer. None of it grew easier; the sought did not bring him to ease. The wicked had fled, yet a man still waited for the next ambush.

He remained useful at large. Sternfell had a need for watchers, supply-runners, and a stubborn few who refused to rest. The first supply run showed promise—until the Darkspawn returned upon the horizon, mounted and waiting for a wound that had yet to be stitched closed. He fought there as he had fought before, though not without cost. Strength was expelled, breath was stolen. Whatever goodwill had lingered was long gone.

It was also where courage ceased to be a simple matter. Once, courage meant to lead the charge, to hold the line, to meet the enemy when it came unbidden. Afterward, it turned into something slower, lesser in glory. It was the endurance that followed battle, the acceptance of pain without mistaking it for weakness, the willingness to let others stand without driving them for the sake of pride.

Alas, it was not merely the fighting that marked his time there, but the hours after, when only the living remained. In Sternfell, even the simplest conversations carried more weight than deserved. A question of health, a jest about age, the familiar clattering of camaraderie, or the sight of old companions still breathing. Each was reason enough for him to stay. Sir Leoni's presence, above all, reminded him that the living grew dearer once death had failed to claim them.

There had even been, absurdly enough, the matter of a rock.

It was only a place to sit—then all that remained were pebbles. Still, he mourned it with a strange seriousness, perhaps because it was easier to grieve a stone than to speak plainly of anything else. Leoni and Yelizaveta, nevertheless, tried to make light of it, as friends often do when they see a sorrowful spirit, and he accepted their comfort in his own reluctant way.

“I think I’m going ******* insane.” spoke the Adrian within his Sternfell den.

Alas, he would leave its walls eventually, as all men leave such places, yet not untouched by it. Such matters proved that the living must learn what to do with the breath left after such a scandalous life.

For Stekvark, the answer remained much the same as ever.

Stand. Complain. Continue.

[Lbunz120 43]

Alongst the ever-so perilous venture back towards the mainland, did he have much time to ponder amongst his own memories and experiences upon the forsaken land called Sternfell.

Whilst it wrought many grievances, warriors alike lost, he chose to find the positives to hold onto, and only wished to bring that onto others, even if he truly was losing hope.

"Worry not Stekvark, I won't forget about those Adrian delicacies, I'll say hello to Milos for you old friend." He spoke aloud, whether it was to himself or merely just a thought brought into speech would he cast a faint smile as the sky was littered with beautiful stars dancing in the moonlight, constellations far and wide, all shapes and sizes.

It brought him to a more peaceful mindset, one where he was only yearning more for home.