Siegfried Varodir

[firespirit44 1279]

Chapter 1: Siegfreid Varodir

 

White. The colour of purity and life. Weddings always insist on using white for the bridal gown to ensure the bride is pure and unblemished. Snow too, is of the same colour. So pure and white, til it hits the surface and turns colour, the purity blemished. Stained.

 

And if there ever was a stained town among humanity, it would be this.

 

Looking outside of the wooden frame, the town stretches before him. A blanket of snow almost burrying the entire town, save the occasional grey columns of smoke. Humanity's lifeline in this place. Silence hanged deeply in the air, save for the distant tremors coming from the keep. Large black and grey, with 4 tall spires and a dome in the middle. A strange piece of architecture in this god-forsaken land.

 

The snow falls relentlessly, showering the town as the blanket slowly grows in depth. Soon, it might overrun the town, barricading the exits, killing all its inhabitant.

 

Strange how people associate life with white, when we're about to be murdered by it.

 

 And maybe it was for the best. The town was really god-forsaken, filled to the brim with lack-wits, second-class races, murderers, prostitutes, sluts, heretics, and the only thing the lord cares about is whether his third born **** will marry into a even better noble house, improving its prestige. 'King' of the North, they call him. Artorous Elendil. Hell, the town doesn't even have a chapel.

 

Absolutely disgusting. Maybe we should all die by the snow. White means purity, he must want to cleanse the town.

 

Grim thoughts circled the youth's mind, his bole brows creasing in thought, lips frowning as he contemplates the Creator's will. He leaves the misty window, turning his head inwards towards the hearth. Glancing into the living room, he sees his family before him, kneeling upon a woolly carpet, hands clasped in prayer towards a altar. His mother, father, and two brothers, praying in front of the simple white and blue altar, with seven tallow candle alit. As his steps creak upon the wooden floor announcing his presence, a small murmur is heard from the  smaller of the two brothers.

 

"You're late, Siegfried."

 

Chestnut hair and with a light blue topaz for his eyes, the smaller brother regarded him in contempt. Yet his hands never parted, nor did he rise from prayer. There was another besides him, with fallow hair, but he ignored the disturbance behind him, head kept straight towards the altar.

 

"Keep talking and you might find your face submerged into a puddle, Roy."

 

Siegfried let the threat hang in the air, meeting Roy's gaze with cold steely eyes. Roy flinched, muttering a small curse as he turns his head back towards the altar. Roy might be the eldest, but Siegfried enjoyed a sprut in the bones, towering a inch over Roy. Meditation requires a peace of mind, now is not the time for petty squabbles. A voice rang in his head, chiding him slightly at the small scene earlier. He still hasn't made up his mind if this voice is the Creator's will, or is it him going mad and talking to himself.

 

Well a pastor once said, Ignorance is a bliss.

 

Chapter 2: One in Many

 

There comes a time in a family where one must continue down the down trodden journey known as life. To become something you've always strived for, carrying hopes and dreams of yourself, your family, and maybe your lover. Thats what a childhood was for, to prepare the body and mind when confronted the fork road of maturity. Many would choose to continue their father's trade, and inherit whatever they had after he died. But the Creator had plans for Siegfried, he knew one day he would understand the mutterings of his mind. And in that he prepared himself. 

 

The sounds of wars were called, the drums of rebellion shaking the earth as the Wildlings have risen up from the West, endangering the Duke of Westfall. Desperate for aid, the Duke Zibaen Vivyaen petitioned to the council to lead a crusade upon the West, in order to put down all of the Wildlings threatening the County of Sommerset. Emperor Godfrey answered the call, leading the Grandmarshal Mirtok Denurem, various Dukes and their bannermen to the west. And in this call for war, Siegfried did not hesitate and answered with a iron will. At the age of 22, he set forth under the yellow sun blue banner, the Duke Westfall's colours. 

 

Leaving behind his brothers George and Roy, his parents and his home in Ildon, Siegfried marched grimly towards the inviting prospect of death and decay.

 

For the greater good.

 

Chapter 3: Cross Hand

From the Excerpt of the Templars Codex

 

The title Cross Hand was not always so. It was because Siegfried 'Cross' Varodiir was appointed to this prestigious position. 10 years ago, he fought in the  War of the West, riding under the banner the Vivyaen's to suppress the Wildlings. All was not well for Siegfried, for whilst escorting a convey to the Horen encampment, they were sieged. Guerrilla Wildlings, bursting forth from the forest up ahead, slaughtered the convoy and its guards, only 30 men strong. 

 

Crouched behind a overturned carriage alongside a pile of dead comrades, he foot tooth and nail for 2 hours, before finally being subdued by 2 crossbows bolts to the back. For it would be more merciful should Siegfried have died from these terrible wounds, but the Wildlings would not give him the satisfaction. Stopping the blood flow from the wounds to a trickle with their barbaric and inhuman medicine of rat heart and everbloom, in their mean little eyes they took out their skinning knife, joyful with glee. For every question they asked in that guttural tongue, they scarred Siegfried's naked body. Despite the pain; despite the option to enter the Void, Siegfried was a man of the Empire, and a man of God. And God knows, his time was not up yet.

 

Having sustained weeks of captivity and humiliation, a band of Uthor's Lances discovered the fate of the caravan, and tracked the Wildlings back to their lair. After massacring all of the Wildlings, they discovered a solitary body, dangling haplessly a feet above ground. And what they saw shocked them to the bone. For it was Siegfried, bloodied, and his entire body criss-crossed in a systematic fashion, to get as many cuts on the body as possible. His face, his body, his limbs. All covered in a intricate pattern of new scars, in a eerily neat checker pattern.  Either the Wildlings were too effective on their cruel treatment, or Divine Will of the Creator that got Siegfried through this hellfire trial. 

 

Haunted eyes stared forward as the men rescued him, bringing him back to the Red Lances camp. The distrusting yet awed glances from soldiers eventually came up with the nickname 'Siegfried Cross Hands'.

 

 

 

Chapter 4: The Self Exile

 

Jolly songs were heard from the stage, comely wenches coming and going, titillating the soldiers with their assets and drinks. The oaken tavern was lit by a warm hearth, the bartender a fat and jolly man, generous with the flow of drinks as long as the pockets were not empty. The soldiers were enjoying their rewards, away from the blood and death of the fields. Finally after a good 6 year campaign and clean up afterwards, the war was heralded towards a end. Pockets of resistance still flared upon the map once every now and then, but Siegfried choose to be among those discharged. 

 

Sitting alone by the quietest table, he sought solitude in the most unlikely of place. It was the voice's urging Only in a crowded place, can one feel solitude. To be solitude in a forest is not true solitude. Echoes of the advice still ripples throughout his mind, taking upon a harsher tone since his forced captivity. Nobody paid him any heed, and his mutilated face probably accentuated his presence of wanting to be left alone.

 

As the soldiers boasts about their exploits on the field, Siegfried is filled with cold dread as he recalls painfully what happened. 

 

Scouts reported small movements in the bush, I paid them no mind. A armoured soldier may easily take down 4 wildling by himself, and after Emperor Godfrey routed the main force, what else is there to be scared off? Never was I more wrong in my life.....

 

Screams of death replay in his mind, as they were shot from all angles. The Wildlings were smart, they learned from their foe the weapons they used, and adapted them accordingly. The bolts were rusty old bolts, from previous battlefields, but made of iron. It was their turn to feel defeat.

 

Guilt rose unbidden in his heart. The what ifs, if only I had, there should have been another way plagued his thoughts unrelentingly for the past few weeks, ever since he was recovered from the depths of hell. So close to breaking he was in that cave, taunted jeered and tortured. His unshakable faith being slapped around thoroughly like a dead pig ready for the butcher. 

 

While he was lost in reverie, a man quietly sat beside him, pouring himself a glass of wine. Wine? This is a tavern, where did that come from? Wine is a expensive commodity, and only the higher ups were allowed to consume it. It was ale for everyone else. He laid his gaze upon the new uninvited guest.

 

 

Sporting red and white robes with a outline of gold, the man lounged. Placing both feet unseemly on the table as he drank from the glass. He had luscious dark hair and sharp slit eyes, giving him a alluring look. One might even mistake him for female, if not for his male garb and the lack of a protruding chest. He did however, have a necklace of the cross, a symbol of the clergy. So a clergymen, eh? Probably another *****, looking to ask for the story again.

 

The two made no motions of acknowledging one another, until finally a look of irritation crossed the man's face. He said in a clear haughty voice, finally breaking the silence.

 

"So you are Siegfried Cross hands? You dont certainly look like much."

 

And that was a standard insult to anyone who disbelieved his accounts. That was alright, he had no desire to argue anyways. Head down, he bear the man's mocking as he continued sipping from his goblet. If the Wildlings could not break him, what could a snotty clergyman do?

 

Seeing no reaction, the man's reaction changed to a sneer. "So this is what the Creator gave his protection to? A man who just sits alone like a vegetable, socially inept and probably mentally unstable? I lament the day he ever choose to save you instead of the others!"

 

 Choose to save you instead of the others. That particular phrase struck him like a blow, his entire body turning rigid. After all I endure, all that blood I had to spill, my sacrifice was not enough?! "I'm sorry you feel that way, 'Father', but I dont plan to know His plans, I held true to faith and He let me live despite the odds." A curt answer, barely able to escape his clenched lips. 

 

The clergyman leaned forward, eyes slitting in displeasure. "You know what, 'Cross'? I think you made a pact with the devil. I think you defied his Holiness and prayed to the Baphomet for freedom, in return for your soul. I have met with stronger men, smarter men, more capable men in that caravan of yours, and you're telling me only you, a lowly soldier, survived? Heresy I say." The tone of his voice was now dripping with malice, venom seeping out of his every word. 

 

"Mark my words Siegfried, I will come and exorcise you one day by the trial of fire, should I be proven correct." And with that, he left the table, striding away as if he was never there. He didn't even know the priest's name.

 

And that really disturbed Siegfried. Was the voice within him all along Baphomets? That cant be right, it advocated studying, praying. But then again....it did advocate killing of people. Could it be- No. Stop it. You've set yourself on the path of the Creator, and what this clergyman says proves nothing.

 

So disturbed Siegfried was, he spent the next few days in the barracks contemplating the meaning of the meeting. Finally on the 3rd day's dawn, he set forth from the barracks with his bedroll, and nothing else. He traveled to the end of the gates, where the guards challenged him to cross the border. He replied simply.

 

"I'm looking for the Creator."

 

Chapter 5: The Wandering Wastes

 

[OOC Note: This is my character Siegfried Varodir, a man who has seen much in his life. I shall attempt to record his past, and edit it accordingly. I do not think a app is useful for describing my character, and this is mainly for me to refer to.]