Birth
**** me, has it really gotten this cold?
For a man of a people long-accustomed to frigid environments and the wastes of lands of always-winter, there was something particularly nasty about these northern gales. Darcassan was no stranger to a harsh environment, nor did he shy from a chance to prove his survival skills, but the wind!- the damned frigid wind! It did not just bite, no, it burned. This was even coming from someone who quite enjoyed the icy temperatures his people dwelled in, though was it his blood? No, it couldn’t be, for there was something beyond just the feel of winter’s gentle touch that appealed to him. Maybe it was the aesthetic of it: the landscape, far and wide, covered in a blanket that coated everything in its fluffy clumps. Or perhaps it was because snow actually had some usefulness. Darcassan couldn’t take a bite of sand when he was thirsty, couldn’t cover a wound with dirt, but with snow and ice he could do a number of things.
His thoughts spiraled out of control for some good time as he trekked across the seemingly-endless expanse. Normally, he would have the restraint to keep his mind focused on the task at hand, but his wanderings had stretched from days into weeks now, and idle trudging left nothing better to do than explore the mind. It would soon be at an end, though, as he had rounded south some time ago and had already begun to see sparse scatterings of trees dotting the land. It went on like this for some while longer- the instinct to buy an animal in some shop and present it back home grew even more tempting to Darcassan. Not that he’d actually do it, but if it wasn’t tempting…
His fortunes turned for the better as he reached the taigas of the far east, where wildlife was in abundance. Not only would he be able to find some sort of young creature to kidnap, er, rescue, but he would also find a number of grown animals to eat. Far better than subsisting off of snow and the occasional cluster of berries, or even some grass that had broken through the thick layer of white hiding the ground beneath. It would only be a few days before he came upon a young snowy owlet, laying on the ground, nigh-crippled. The tall pine tree above it, and the bits of nesting and twigs scattered about its body, made it clear what had happened. The creature was young, but large for its age, and strong too. Nature, however, had little care for the promise this owlet showed and had condemned the bird to death before it could truly live.
This did not rest easy with Darcassan. What was just in robbing something of the opportunity to prove itself? Even if the owlet was all brawn and glamor, and possessed none of the needed traits to survive, it ought to at least be given the chance. Balancing this arbitrary act of nature, the ‘fenn took the young owlet into his care, nursing it to health to ensure it would at least survive. The road to recovery would be a long one for the owlet, but within it Darcassan saw a fighter’s spirit. How long had it withered in pain on the ground, at the mercy of the elements and whatever predators circled about, all without a hope of survival? Any weaker creature would have resigned itself to fate and expired soon after, but not this one. It may have been bent and broken, but the ‘fenn would sooner take a chance on it than anything else. Thus, as he returned to Fenn and delivered the bird to Archvigilant Kindrel, the mali’ did not sleep until the owlet was returned to form and rendered able to fly again.
Peace
It was a great, wide world, but after his great excursion across the northern wastes, Darcassan figured that something less intense would suit him just fine, especially where more scholarly matters were concerned. Traveling down to Elvenesse, home of a far-distant kin of the snow elves, the young ‘fenn sought to learn about the Aspectist faith he had heard a great deal about, but never cared to pursue in length. The hospitality of the ‘ame was suitable, even if the climate was anything but, and there was plenty enough to do and see in the country for Darcassan to enjoy his first week there. The man was in no rush, for he sought an audience with the Prince of Elvenesse himself. A high order, certainly, and one that would force him to wait for a good while until the monarch found himself at a moment of leisure, but it was no great demand to linger in the dominion of the ‘ame for a time.
Darcassan was finally afforded a few minutes to speak with Prince Evar’tir- time that he used efficiently. The pair had a fruitful discussion about their differing faiths and how they drove them each, respectively, to pursue their own ambitions. In the prince, Darcassan saw little in the way of pompous regality, definitely a good thing from him, but instead an ordinary man whose talents had ascended him to the highest office of his country. Their conversation did not drag for long, but it sufficed, and the ‘fenn returned to his homeland with a better grasp on the faith of his ‘ame kin.
War
Another benefit of visiting the wood elves had been to learn some of their own hunting practices. Although the Fennic people were by no means unfamiliar with hunting, the sport, or livelihood, depending on who you spoke to, was an integral component of the culture of the wood elves. Knowing that at some point he would be required to hunt an animal, Darcassan carefully examined the practices, techniques, and weaponry of the ‘ame. He also bought a bow for himself from a kindly elder in the town square, for his own was far past its days of glory. Though not a hunter by trade, nor by hobby, Darcassan figured that his learning in Elvenesse would make up for his lack of ability. With that, the moment he returned to Fenn, he received his third trial (a hunt, of course).
As a morning hunt turned into an afternoon hunt, then from an afternoon hunt into a dusk hunt, Darcassan took a brief moment to reflect on his prior confidence that it certainly would not take this long. He came to the conclusion that never again would he believe a word that he told himself, leading him to recall older days when Ryunthur took him on hunting trips and always coached him throughout the trek. No matter how many deer Darcassan spooked by accident, no matter how many animals or potential prizes he chased off, Ryunthur always took him with. In a testament to Darcassan in these matters, along with many others, Ryunthur always took to explaining to him, sometimes arduously, what he needed to do. Even still, with some things, such as how to spot a creature cloaked in the snow, his brother had to explain it multiple times before he finally understood. It wasn’t for a lack of wits on Darcassan’s part, nor a repulsion to hunting, but there were some things that Ryunthur did better than him. It was the natural order of things for there to be one above the other. At least that was what Darcassan told himself, for as grateful as he was for his brother’s assistance, he would have preferred that he not need it at all.
And there, he spotted a slight shift in the distant snow — he practically heard his brother telling him to shoot. It was in the same tone, every single time.
“You see it there? You can take your shot.”
Darcassan bit his lip, drew back his bowstring, and let the arrow fly. To his credit, he was able to hit the thing, even though he could hardly see what exactly it was. To his folly, he only nicked the thing in the ear. As it bounded off at a heavy sprint, the ‘fenn could tell that it was a winter fox. Darcassan pursued it for some great time until, not wishing to take a step further, he fired a second shot, praying that it would at least wound the thing. This one struck a more vital area than the first, entering the fox’s abdomen and causing it to roll down a slope. The ‘fenn followed it and gave it the mercy of a quick death. By no means a clean kill, but still earned all the same.
Death
“How are you holding up? Still feeling okay?” Such kind words came from Kindrel, no doubt laced with a disgusting pity for his predicament. He wasn’t certain, nor had he evidence to go off of, but he felt it all the same. Partially submerged in a frozen pond, it seemed that getting cold was a prominent theme of these damned trials, Darcassan merely responded with a grunt, as he had all other times she tried to speak. Let her babble on. His mind was drawn to the numbness in his legs, the pain growing around his abdomen, not whatever idle chatter she was making at the moment.
Time continued to pass, and Kindrel’s attempts to make some sort of conversation dwindled until the two sat in utter silence. Only the soft rush of a nearby stream kept their surroundings free of an eerie quiet.
Finally.
His mind clear of thought, Darcassan could finally sit. He sat. And sat. And sat. He then moved forward and swam closer to the center. Closer. Closer. His arms were screaming, yet his mind cared little, as if they were just bickering at him too over some nonsense he had little time for. Beneath him, in the shallow depths, was a root of some tree nearby. There were a good few, so he couldn’t tell. Perhaps he could if he grabbed a hold of it, he figured, so he plunged himself into the freeze and made way to the bottom, where he grabbed the tree’s appendage. Something begged him to return to the surface- to escape! It was just his body, he could ignore it as much as he cared to do, which was indefin-
No.
It’s her.
Get the hell off of me.
He thrashed and flailed, trying to shake off the attacker. However, his blurred vision began to darken and fade, and his strength became sapped in mere seconds. Then, as if falling into a slumber after a long day, he shut his eyes for good, the pain he was enduring finally abating.
Why won’t you let me choose my death? Penance
The muggy atmosphere of the crypts always brought unease to Darcassan. He hated being underground. That unlikely probability of something terrible happening being too strong for him to shake, that perpetual anxiety that he’d be buried alive constantly scratching the back of his mind. It was even worse knowing that Ryunthur was present, but Darcassan wouldn’t mind dying a horrible death with his brother. Even though such a thought was never expressed out loud, it didn’t need to be. Not much ever needed to be communicated between the two, because somehow, they both knew what the other was thinking.
Darcassan’s train of thought was broken as he laid eyes upon the wayshrine of death. That imposing, glorious statue of Wyvrun staring down at him with expectation, encapsulated by the Archvigilant who stood before him, preaching his next trial. His last trial, in fact. Once she presented an intricate dagger of abstract patternry, Ryunthur protested, his at-the-time distaste for the woman crystallizing into a desire to protect his brother. The two bickered, and bickered, and bickered… Finally, Ryunthur acquiesced after reassurance from Darcassan. He offered his bare forearms out to the woman, who looked down upon them nearly as sharp as the blade she pressed into his skin at that moment. The sting elicited a pained warble from the young ‘fenn, who clenched his fists as he watched that red blood pour from his right arm, then the left in profuse droplets to the ground.
The Archvigilant stepped aside, allowing Darcassan full access to let his essence drop into the brazier before him. And so he did, and with every moment that passed, he felt himself becoming weaker, weaker, and weaker, the vertical slits lining his arms becoming the only thing he could focus on, if he managed to focus at all, as blood poured from them. It didn’t take long for his skin to grow clammy with cold sweat, causing his hair to stick in locks, nor for his knees to buckle. He dropped, both of his own volition and lack of strength to continue standing. He heard Ryunthur say something to Kindrel, but the words didn’t register. At that moment, nothing did. Things simply happened, but it didn’t click. He fell onto his back, and soon felt a painful pressure on both arms before there was nothing.
Vigilance
In blinding light, in his presence,
Once sin is made before heavens,
With heavy heart I take sentence
To save my soul; I am penance.
Thus rises the Vigilant of Penance.