The war cleric, no more...

[CosmicWhaleShark 2488]

Areon stands, staring at the banner that represents the beacon of the clerical order. Areon stands alone, in the fort, as he has for years now. Whenever he comes this way, that is. His mind twisted with the flury of thoughts, knowledge, is not always a blessing. He stands there alone, for nearly an hour, before heading to the fire pit. Sitting in his familiar bench, off to the side. The rest are layered with dust and weathered filth, leaves and stains of rain against what has settled upon the wood. He stares towards each bench, there are six of them, including his. He has learned recently, that he is truly not alone in the order. A disciple had returned. A pupil, Kyral, his own. Finally his mentor, Braxis, the prophet. Areon truly despised Braxis. For hiding, for not standing with Areon, for not aiding him in the decisions he had to take upon himself, the fights he had to face... Alone. As far as Areon was concerned, he was the order, and the order was failing.

Areon stands slowly, dismantling the armor of the war cleric, and leaving it in a heap of mail and plate near the bench. The mark of the clerics held no solace for him any longer, only the burden of being known as... The cleric. It was in most cases, not a term of benevolence. He had become notorious because of it. The cleric... He chuckled at the term, it only assured his assumptions, that he was the only cleric still fighting. The cleric, not A cleric, THE. It made him nauseous at the same time, it meant that he had no one to fall back on, no one to call to arms, that shared his burdens.

Areon stands, only in undergarments now, his undershirt stained by the metal and sweat. He takes an amulet, with the beacon of the clerical order engraved upon it. One used to remind initiates of their bond. A keepsake. Now used to remind Areon of his past, of the life, he now leaves behind... He extends his hand to the fire, speaking in a whisper, that travels with the winds. A gust quickly comes up behind him, snuffing out the fire, and he lowers his hand once more. The winds die down, leaving only the slight pressure that silence brings. Areon traces the amulet with his thumb, staring at the stifled embers of the pit. Always thinking of deeper meanings, he smiles with a tart snarl, thinking of a bitter metaphor. He reaches down into his pack, donning the cloak and robes gifted to him. He shrouds his whitened hair, his scarred face, just another hooded stranger. Hiding from the hounds of the past that chase him.

He entered the fort, as the war cleric, the slayer of liches, dread knights and frost witches. Healer of the broken, blind and bleeding. Heretic, heathen and traitor through the eyes of Oren. Now he leaves, in plain robes, the amulet resting against his chest. A new man, an unmarked man, a simple healer and apprentice of the wind.

The war cleric, no more...

[Braxis 813]

The Clerical Prophet stands in his Chambers meditating patiently as he always does unless he is summoned. Hearing someone entering he dismisses the thought as he grips his Silver War-staff tighter practicing the Blade of light from the Orbs keeping the spell fresh in his mind and body. He Hears several "Thuds" he grunts as he slams his staff once. Creating a small echo in his room no more nor less. He takes a few steps out of his rooms to see disciple Arien Practicing. He slowly walks up to the center of the Clerical Fort. Seeing Baldwins War Clerics armor slowly following his gaze outside muttering.

"It seems as if one can not take the Path of the War Cleric... Am I one of the few who could? Or is the path damned by the Light and its Patrons?....Non the less, a Powerful member, and a good student...and my to be successor gone... Light give me strength To face the Evils to come, pity one can not stand idle and do minor deeds until the Darkness shows itself again so we may keep order."

He walks over taking the armor storeing it in the Small armory. walking ot Aerins room tapping the door "Get ready disciple your training just go tougher"

He walks into his room preping himself as well, and Ponder when to seek Areon's pupils if he had any.

[mr.gerp 21]

Aerin continues to carve the crude wooden idol of Aeriel in his room when he hears a knocking on his door:

"Get ready disciple your training just got tougher"

Aerin put down his knife and turned towards the door and asked:

"For what reason prophet?"

[dandan1350 479]

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