Herod

A week had passed since the lifeless body of his wife had been found in the terrible woods of Norland. A grieving soul stood with lifeless eyes in his backyard, vivid memories of a happier, warmer season did not come to his manic mind. His hands quickened the rope to tie a noose as soon as it began to rain. He dragged a chair without any willpower across the grounds he took a sharp look at the empty garden, places of happiness now felt like nothing. Elegantly the man raised himself upwards to the rope and simply stood. His pathetic life, he considered, would be a parable of a misery turned to triumph and a quick relapse to a long and slow misery. He could not abide it again. He closed his eyes and raised his chin above the rope and then, hesitation struck. The first sign of life, and with it, memories of Philippa's eyes. His hands tightened and shook around the rope, as if struck by madness. A child's sob was heard from afar in his household and the Kovachev knew that for now, he had to endure. Be it to avenge the soul of what was the love of his life, or the betterment of his what was ever left of his family. "Odi et Amo, Excrucior."

His hand brushing through the invitation list, The Lord of Kovgrad had a very vague and rare smile plastered upon his lips.

"Interesting revelations. Though I suppose whomever decides if the crimes are true or false are the nations which succeed killing more of the other." The desolate Lord of Kovgrad noted in his dimly lit Keep. His demeanor did not improve with things finally happening.

A long dead soul of a holy warrior illuminates with light in whatever cosmos it found itself in. Torn between supporting Canon Supreme Authority and alleviating the nation from which it hailed from. Dwelling upon actions it had done in the past for the former, it prays for a clearer path ahead.

The desolate Lord of Kovgrad viewed the proclamation with a solemn expression. Usually indifferent of feelings to others, it hurt him to see another man struggle in such a way with his birthright and let it consume him. For once in his life, he mourned.

The Reclusive Baron of Kovgrad prepared himself to be less than a usual dour mood for the special occasion.

A desolated tawny haired Lord received all the missives of the hour. Many thoughts ran through his head at the moment, but for all it mattered, he laughed.

The newly made Baron Kovachev wondered what circumstances and timing could proponent such a calamity to his home. He quickly gave up. The otherworldly acts of malice cannot be explained by earthly reasoning, but by pure vengeful rage.

A prodigal young man laments his shortcomings. A tree aged a thousand years now beholds two frail leaves where all others had already fallen for the winter. ”I cannot fail.”

A bygone soul consumed by the realm of the Courageous Angel persevered its lamentations of the struggles of man and dragon. It could only watch. The assembled hazel branches were fresh and well placed, but it knew it made no difference when combat supersedes poetry and becomes a mad struggle for death. The soul watched in a stark and shadowy silence as the man it saw as a son embattle with destiny and revenge for the life of old. Light flickered from a place of worship in the lands of the Holy Regency, darkening thereafter.

Amongst a silent valley of honourable and grizzly souls one proved older in death than most, it's dim light was present and visible throughout that dead realm of warriors of fallen eras. For amongst its greatest woes, was bitterness overcome by mistrust and hatred of the shadow. It crept the darkness closer as the soul transcended in careful watch over the mortal plane. The soul lived and died as creed commanded yet failed to foresee the pain of those persisting in woven tapestries of destiny, glory and fate. Within the realm of the Templars of Malchediael did this lost soul of combat lamented in grief, and used all of it's paralytic powers to pray for a better tomorrow. "Light everlasting, light everlasting, protect those who stand against an ocean of darkness..." A light in the high halls at the Basilica of Whitespire grew brighter for a moment, then dimmed. Wishful blessing.

goofy shower thoughts

THE PATH OF THE WARRIOR Ailred, in his last moments consumed by the Angel of Justice, Raguel. “All Despair does is fuel determination for right a wrong.” A black sheep, a troublesome runt and a vicious fiend, all of these were words to describe Ailred, bastard of Druzstra castle, as he was flung out of Vidaus, forced to live the remainder of his life as a bastard and an urchin. There came a strength to his lips, whether he braved thoughts of the first days outside the warmth of a Keep. To fight others for a gob of bread, to flee the watchman during the cover of darkness, to steal wealth, to lavish the few seconds of a fire. “Families serve like a stream in a riverbank, the trueborn must follow the flow of bygone generations, we bastards are free.” Pursuing strength through pain and determination did the bastard of Druzstra begin to make his mark upon the world, a hermit to the countryside, a traveling warrior that strides across from the adventurer’s path. His teachers were a curious, irregular bunch, but they gave him confidence and the excellence to defeat what evils wrestled the innocent world around. A crazed cousin, a righteous Knight and a fallen twin, they had all shaped him to the path of the warrior which he braved to take. “Fate is inexorable and destiny is all, everything. This life was a god given gift, but gifts come with obligations from above.” Luck had come to the Knight with twisted humor, for those he had hunted for much of his life, became his wife. A flaxen haired woman, marred by a previous life without a soul and a thirst for blood, comforted him. Ser Ailred had felt at home, during those brief moments in life, but duty called still, when the world twisted itself into chaos and war and thus, he resumed his learnings by the ever Righteous Knight. “You may always fall, as many as possible, but never collapse.” Upon the completion of his trials and tribulations a tragedy struck and his wife, sickly and withered from childbirth, died in his arms. The fabled Knight, overtaken by it all, chose to head to the hills, becoming a hermit, living by a cave and with little to no food. He was content yet tired, full of defeated foes yet ridden of his friends. It was hard, yet it only made him a better man when he had chosen to adopt a tawny haired girl, benighted and scared. Despite his tribulations and everlasting grief, it was what shaped his last years to be sweeter. “Age only hardens the heart.” The last years of his life were a blur of combat, lectures and trials of sinners. It was not he who had chosen to be a Cardinal, but rather a twist of fate that commanded him to step in an hour of need for dear friends and allies of bygone times. It was starting to get painful for him to stand and walk, let alone fight, but for a final grasp of life. He would only give his best. “A light cannot go out Rezalisa, it can only dim and be extinguished by a blazing inferno.” Church bells sounded loudly, a cacophony of prayers and a rumble of blades were followed when a spawn of Dragonkin had entered the Church for a trial by the Aengul of Justice. An execution took place, followed by a baptismal of fire and death. His weapon drawn, the Knight-Cardinal dashed forward to fight first but was struck critically in his face, on the eve of death. Staggering backwards in a daze did his life begin to drain out, he stared at the heavens on the eve of death and muttered. “Archangel, give me one final battle, one final trial. Let the fires of your fury wash my hands. MALCHEDIAEL, AENGUL OF COURAGE!” The Knight of yore raised himself from sure darkness by the shadow and stood taller than most in a blinded rage, to the sight of stunned onlookers he raised his arm and cried for the Angel of Justice, Raguel, to join his brother in giving him one final push. He was taken over by the Angel and given a contract of his final moments, to wash away the scourge of light that came within the Basilica of God. “Let the fires of righteousness waste theirs of corruption and stone.” The possessed Knight-Aengul used his newfound strength to combat the Dragonkin and their heralds, with roars of fury and desperation did he kill some and push the rest out of the Basilica before an ulterior power inside of him forced their doors to collapse onto themselves, shielding the innocent and wounded that remained within the blessed Church. At the face of a dying child did the Aengul finally leave the brazen Knight to save her life. He could only walk a couple steps forward before he fell to his knees. “Archangel sent from above, I feel you course through my blood.” Tears welled from his face for the first time in a hundred years. He craned his head down and accepted his fate, he had done his duty and now his judgement was due. A blazing inferno with a cross as large as a house came down from above to take him to his greatest teacher, the Archangel Michael. A light, dim yet unwavering remained to speak a final tone before it became mist. “I walk the path of a warrior, to my children, I weep for forgiveness, to Canondom, reap the fire of God, justice and courage.” The inferno waned, and then, passed back to the heavens, taking the warrior to anew to a hall of brothers and warriors of old. Peace of mind. AILRED CARDINAL DRUZSTRA, MORTUUS EST IN NOMINE DEI.

The Knight-Cardinal Druzstra takes his boomsteel warhammer south intent on protecting Mount Lemon from future incursions, but before that, he kneels down to prayer on his ride on the fate of the An-Gho.

he is making me cry out of joy again +1