Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on Mar 23, 2020 13:29:53 GMT
An uncommon silence has settled over the Crimson Fist compound. The forge is still, the yard filled with mute soldiers, afraid almost to breathe. Even the horses are quiet in their stalls. All eyes are on the open door to the Grandmaster’s chamber, and on the backs of the small group who entered it only moments before.
Inside, they wait with baited breath, hope and fear warring for control of the room. Baine’s jaw is tight as he whispers a prayer to the Morning Lord.
Silence reigns.
With a gasp, Varis sits up, clawing at his chest. Sunday steps back, catching herself on the edge of the bed as she almost trips.
Sucking air through his teeth in ragged breaths, Varis raises his hands to his face, pulling off the blindfold, then vomits on the floor. Two small copper coins clink quietly against the stone.
Climbing unsteadily to his feet, he lurches toward the door. As he walks, he fumbles at the buckles and catches of his armour, discarding it piece by piece as he crosses the room.
The spell broken, his friends surge after him as he staggers out into the pale afternoon sunlight. Blinking against the sudden glare, he drops the last piece of platemail with a muted clang. The wound across his face has begun to ooze blood. He ignores it, unlacing his gambeson and pulling it over his head. Clad only in shirt and breeches he stumbles forward, toward the centre of the yard. As soldiers scramble to clear a space, he falls to the hard-packed earth of the training yard and begins to sob.
From where she watches by the door to the barracks, Red’s face goes white as milk. Conrad and Grits stand outside the mess, mouths slightly open, the latter still in his apron and clutching a raw beef steak in one hand.
Behind them, the recruit who had been guarding the Grandmaster’s door looks around him.
“That’s him?” he asks with a smirk. “I thought he’d be taller.”
There’s a dull thump as Conrad’s fist connects with his eye, and the recruit slumps unconscious to the ground. Without taking his eyes from Varis, Grits hands the Master Scout the cut of beef he was holding. Conrad places it over his swelling knuckles with a nod of thanks.
Varis’ sobs turns to an ugly, hacking cough, and he wheezes as he pushes himself up. Baine and Sunday kneel silently at his side, each with a hand on his shoulder. Gradually, his breathing slows and the shaking stops. Sunday takes his head in her hands, tutting in mock disapproval. For the second time, her lilac form glows, and the wound across his face knits itself closed.
Gently, he takes her hands from his face, kissing each one in turn, and rises to his feet, waving away her protests and Baine’s offered arm. Shuffling forward with the gait of a man four times his age, he takes in the yard for the first time, meeting the eye of every soldier there.
“Assaw” he rasps. The recruit nearest him frowns in confusion. Red gives a disgusted growl.
“A sword, you witless shite - give him a sword!”
The recruit fumbles at his belt, throwing the whole thing, scabbard and all to the broken figure at the centre of the yard. Without looking, Varis catches it in one hand, flashing Red a lopsided smile. She snorts.
“Cocky bastard” she mutters.
The Grandmaster turns to regard Baine, pulling himself up. The effort looks like it costs him, but he straightens his back, green eyes locking with grey. With one smooth motion he draws the sword, the gentle ring of the blade filling the silent yard.
“Kneel.”
Baine frowns, then his eyes go wide and he sinks to one knee. The Grandmaster’s voice rings out in the spring sunshine.
“Baine Ciderwood. You come before us as a man of proven worth - strong of arm and true of heart. Will you speak the oath?”
Baine nods mutely.
“Do you know the words?”
Baine swallows, wracking his brain for the oath Sweet taught him all those months ago.
“I do.”
“Then grasp the blade, and speak them now.”
The half orc reaches out with his left hand and grips the cool steel, blood welling gently between his fingers.
“Here, in the sight of Gods and mortal peers I pledge my life to the Crimson Fist. To protect to my last breath the values of justice, truth and righteousness, to place the common good above my own, to make my life a shield against tyranny and evil, and to destroy without mercy those who would harm or corrupt the innocent. This I do swear, by my Gods, my life, my ancestors and my soul.”
Varis nods, green eyes glittering. He steps forward, laying the sword on each of Baine’s shoulders in turn.
“In the name of Helm, I charge you to be vigilant. In the name of Tyr, I charge you to be just. In the name of Torm, I charge you to be valiant. In the name of Lathander, I charge you to be merciful. And in the name of the Crimson Fist, I charge you to protect the innocent.”
He lets the tip of the sword drop to the ground, beads of scarlett falling to seep into the dust.
“Arise, Ser Baine of the Cinderwood, Champion of the Morning Lord, Knight of the Crimson Fist.”
Inside, they wait with baited breath, hope and fear warring for control of the room. Baine’s jaw is tight as he whispers a prayer to the Morning Lord.
Silence reigns.
With a gasp, Varis sits up, clawing at his chest. Sunday steps back, catching herself on the edge of the bed as she almost trips.
Sucking air through his teeth in ragged breaths, Varis raises his hands to his face, pulling off the blindfold, then vomits on the floor. Two small copper coins clink quietly against the stone.
Climbing unsteadily to his feet, he lurches toward the door. As he walks, he fumbles at the buckles and catches of his armour, discarding it piece by piece as he crosses the room.
The spell broken, his friends surge after him as he staggers out into the pale afternoon sunlight. Blinking against the sudden glare, he drops the last piece of platemail with a muted clang. The wound across his face has begun to ooze blood. He ignores it, unlacing his gambeson and pulling it over his head. Clad only in shirt and breeches he stumbles forward, toward the centre of the yard. As soldiers scramble to clear a space, he falls to the hard-packed earth of the training yard and begins to sob.
From where she watches by the door to the barracks, Red’s face goes white as milk. Conrad and Grits stand outside the mess, mouths slightly open, the latter still in his apron and clutching a raw beef steak in one hand.
Behind them, the recruit who had been guarding the Grandmaster’s door looks around him.
“That’s him?” he asks with a smirk. “I thought he’d be taller.”
There’s a dull thump as Conrad’s fist connects with his eye, and the recruit slumps unconscious to the ground. Without taking his eyes from Varis, Grits hands the Master Scout the cut of beef he was holding. Conrad places it over his swelling knuckles with a nod of thanks.
Varis’ sobs turns to an ugly, hacking cough, and he wheezes as he pushes himself up. Baine and Sunday kneel silently at his side, each with a hand on his shoulder. Gradually, his breathing slows and the shaking stops. Sunday takes his head in her hands, tutting in mock disapproval. For the second time, her lilac form glows, and the wound across his face knits itself closed.
Gently, he takes her hands from his face, kissing each one in turn, and rises to his feet, waving away her protests and Baine’s offered arm. Shuffling forward with the gait of a man four times his age, he takes in the yard for the first time, meeting the eye of every soldier there.
“Assaw” he rasps. The recruit nearest him frowns in confusion. Red gives a disgusted growl.
“A sword, you witless shite - give him a sword!”
The recruit fumbles at his belt, throwing the whole thing, scabbard and all to the broken figure at the centre of the yard. Without looking, Varis catches it in one hand, flashing Red a lopsided smile. She snorts.
“Cocky bastard” she mutters.
The Grandmaster turns to regard Baine, pulling himself up. The effort looks like it costs him, but he straightens his back, green eyes locking with grey. With one smooth motion he draws the sword, the gentle ring of the blade filling the silent yard.
“Kneel.”
Baine frowns, then his eyes go wide and he sinks to one knee. The Grandmaster’s voice rings out in the spring sunshine.
“Baine Ciderwood. You come before us as a man of proven worth - strong of arm and true of heart. Will you speak the oath?”
Baine nods mutely.
“Do you know the words?”
Baine swallows, wracking his brain for the oath Sweet taught him all those months ago.
“I do.”
“Then grasp the blade, and speak them now.”
The half orc reaches out with his left hand and grips the cool steel, blood welling gently between his fingers.
“Here, in the sight of Gods and mortal peers I pledge my life to the Crimson Fist. To protect to my last breath the values of justice, truth and righteousness, to place the common good above my own, to make my life a shield against tyranny and evil, and to destroy without mercy those who would harm or corrupt the innocent. This I do swear, by my Gods, my life, my ancestors and my soul.”
Varis nods, green eyes glittering. He steps forward, laying the sword on each of Baine’s shoulders in turn.
“In the name of Helm, I charge you to be vigilant. In the name of Tyr, I charge you to be just. In the name of Torm, I charge you to be valiant. In the name of Lathander, I charge you to be merciful. And in the name of the Crimson Fist, I charge you to protect the innocent.”
He lets the tip of the sword drop to the ground, beads of scarlett falling to seep into the dust.
“Arise, Ser Baine of the Cinderwood, Champion of the Morning Lord, Knight of the Crimson Fist.”
