The feel of constriction, as if he had been running his head into a wall for the longest of ti. As if he was circling the sa drain, but never falling in. The feeling as if he was running along the edge of the clouds, and never getting anywhere that he truly wished to be.
Hollow was what the man would describe himself as. There was sowhere he had to get to. There always had been. He had a feeling that, when he heard the call heralded, that such a place was where he ought to go to.
Nothing, however, played itself to the results of his imagination. Never did the Gods see fit to reward him.
A cause that he had fought for over a decade. That he had lost n to. So many good n, good friends. A suffering that he had built up.
He looked at the letter in his pocket that had been written to him. That fading hand of his friend, with the ink growing lighter every ti he pulled it out to expose it to the light – and he had done that so many tis.
"Brother," it had said. "We have need of you. Our power in the city weakens. A Lord they have nad now, but what is a Lord without allies? Who am I without my brother? We gave our word, and bond, all that ti ago. I ask you, in the mory of it, to join with once more, for the sake of our cause."
He had co, trembling with anticipation.
Experience was what he had gathered, if nothing else. His lack of progress in strength, frankly, embarrassed him. When he had set out, he had dread of returning as sothing far more – as a man of the Third or even Fourth Boundary. Still he was stagnant in that realm of the Second.
He had dread too of acquiring wealth, and gathering up coin to support their cause. They who believed in it so firmly.
Distant lands he had dwelled in, without touching Stormfront politics for the longest ti. A quiet battle, fought apparently without reason. A battle without borders, for they were above borders. As far as they were concerned, it was not a question of man against man. It was a question of good against evil. No human drawn line could solve that. They made it their duty, to hunt down those creatures of Pandora. The monsters scattered across the continent. Through Yarmdon lands, through Syndran lands, they had battled in service of the people there, of humanity as a common good. As part of Claudia’s order.
Tattered surcoat was all he had left to demonstrate his place. One could not even make out the wings that were Claudia’s sigil from it. The villagers looked upon him with the suspicion that they would look upon any dirty and ragged outside. There was no welco in their looks. Nothing of the sort.
Begrudgingly, did he endure them. He ran a hand along his chin. He likely ought to have shaved, he thought. His beard was ragged, and did him no favours. His hair too had grown long, and dirty. He ought to have washed in one of the cold mountain streams, but it was far too cold for that.
He asked them for no directions, for he already knew where it was that he needed to go. In through the door of an apparently abandoned hut, on the outskirts of a village, sitting within the shadow of the Black Mountains, deep into Erson territory, and close enough to the sea that one could sll the salt in the air.
Theirs was a watch done quietly. A cause carried out without the expectation of reward. To do as Claudia had demanded of them, and to govern themselves with the incredible will of self sacrifice. Even if his brother was now a Lord, after winning favour for himself from the Erson King, their quarters were still the sa.
He looked around the hut. A fire roaring in the centre of it, a pot hanging on a tripod over it, with a soup quietly bubbling inside it. He humd to himself, feeling his stomach growl. He consoled himself with the fact that he would soon enough be eating – properly now, within the halls of his brothers, if only he could find an entrance.
A sudden sharp poke in his back, clinking off his chain mail.
"Move anymore and I’ll skewer ya straight through," ca the warning. "State your na and purpose, stranger."
The man smiled to himself. He did not reach for the sword on his hip. "You know of already, brother. You guard the entrance, do you? Then great as a comrade, in Claudia’s na."
"...A religious man, are ya? You’ll get no reception here."
"...Brother, surely you see it? The wings of Claudia may be half-faded on my surcoat, but surely you can still make them out if you look properly enough."
"I ain’t care what wings you’ve got painted on you, on your back, on your neck, or on your hands. Yer in my house, and you’d better piss off before I kill you for it."
"...Your house?"
"That’s right."
"Surely there’s so mistake."
"Aye, that’s what I’m thinking. Yer mistaking for a pushover. Ain’t the first ti I’ve seen your like. You looking to rob us, ain’t you?"
"I would never indulge in sothing so lowly," the man said, with so degree of pride. And it was true, he had always held to his morals and the tenets of his order, no matter how bad things had got. "Mayhaps you don’t know where you stand, my good man. This here is the entrance to our outpost. If you would allow leeway to look, I’ll find my doorway, and be away from here."
"Not a chance," his aggressor shot back. "Yer mad, ain’t ya? You think I’ll let you look around my house? You, a stranger? You piss off, before I kill you."
A flash of sothing, and the man’s sword was out of his scabbard. The spear was swept cleanly out of the way, crude thing it was, and well rusted. It was hardly sharp enough to skewer a bale of hay, never mind a man in chain mail.
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