...Moriendum Est - a Crimson Fist narrative writeup

The crunch of snow beneath armoured boots is the only sound as the Order process through the pale moonlit landscape, breath smoking in the winter air. Splashes of orange torchlight stain the pristine white of the three funeral shrouds, the green boughs of the woven biers filling the air with the sharp scent of pine. At the crown of the hill, a circle of earth has been cleared around three wooden pyres, and as the Order crests the rise, Sweet, Cob and Danton are set down upon them. As the soldiers encircle the hilltop, Varis steps forward, face smeared with mourning ash, one hand upon the hilt of his sword.

He stops, looking down at his hands for a moment, at the frozen earth between his boots.

“Hal-siffi!”

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. When he looks up again they are clear and hard, like slivers of jade, his voice softer, reflective.

“Would that my hands were meant to build. I would know what to say. What to do. Perhaps in another life I could have been that man. A builder, a teacher. A father. But that is not my path. I am a child of war, and war is a mother who eats her young. The friends we honour here this night need no words from one such as me. Their truth, their virtue, is self evident. In defence of the innocent, of justice, of peace, they gave their lives. For people they knew not, they left their homes and crossed the sea, holding fast against a terrible foe so that others had the chance to live.

At times such as these, it can be tempting to fall to sorrow, to despondency, and to fear. But these things do not honour the dead. Grief is natural. Grief is the price we pay for love. But justice is not about fixing the past, it is about fixing the future, and the future does not belong to those who are content with today. To those who are apathetic or fearful. No. Neither fate nor nature, nor the irresistible tides of history will determine our destiny. It will be the work of our own hands, matched with honour and reason that shapes the future of our world.

Sweet, Cob and Danton gave their lives to that struggle. We honour them here, and remember them simply for what they were; ordinary people who chose to do an extraordinary thing. Who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to end it.”

He takes a torch from Red and walks forward, stooping to whisper a few words to each shrouded figure.

“Viaren akh quor'she nha reverie, akhrua.”