To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens.
The warrior unloads the last of the burlap sacks, filled with charcoal, black as sin. Samed stands by, back straight, always a little nervous around the big man with the shaved head,
save for that strange, braided ponytail! He hands over the wage that was promised, and nods, “see you next week then, Avalan?”
Those unnerving dark eyes narrow further than usual as they stare back at him from below bushy eyebrows, the giant’s words’ coming slowly and with that accent Samed can't quite place:
“You will not.”
The warrior hefts his greatsword, the blade glinting silver as it reflects the last rays of the dying sun. He turns to go, leaving Master Samed in equal parts confused and relieved.
A time to reap, and a time to sow…
He packs his belongings - such as they are - carefully, methodically, and without rush.
Everything has its proper place, as the Good Book says. He makes his bed and brushes out what dirt and dust has accumulated in the corners of the room, behind the wardrobe, and from under the carpet.
Leave every place in a better state than you found it in. Downstairs in the tap room, the new owner of the establishment formerly known as the Three-Headed Ettin (
kobold, greedy - no threat) counts the coins he received from Samed for the week’s labour; then, once satisfied with the sums, attempts a smile by baring his rows of sharp teeth, but quickly thinks better of it when Avalan’s hand twitches toward his sword.
“Ahem, you’ll be leaving then? How come? Not enough adventure for you here?” The hacking laughter turns into a stuttering cough under the warrior’s withering stare.
“I never sought adventure. Glory and riches are for the conceited and rapacious. Justice is it’s own reward.” He touches two fingers to his forehead and turns to leave.
“Don't pay the bills though…” the innkeep grumbles, as the guest steps away, who stops and throws another half-long glance over his massive shoulders.
“The butcher’s bill is never fully paid. The Long War goes on and on, and I am needed elsewhere. Good day to you, citizen.”
A time of peace, and a time for war…
Armoured boots clank through the empty corridors of the Daring Heights townhall, burdened with righteous purpose. Avalan of Narfell, armoured in steel and faith, strides for the heavy oaken doors of the council chamber, a lone secretary desperately trying (and failing) to halt the warrior’s relentless advance. The doors fly open, and Councillor Aurelia Archeson looks up with a frown from the letters strewn across her stately desk. Avalan takes a few steps toward the centre of her office, draws his greatsword and kneels, hands clasped on the crosspiece, as if in prayer.
“It’s alright Phillip, please excuse us.”
Once the young secretary has left, she sighs, rises, and leans over the desk. “Well? What can I do for you, master Avalan? Have you found the demons you were looking for?”
Dark eyes, black as coals, stare at her over the crosspiece.
“I have. My work here is done. For now, at least.” The warrior blinks; and for a moment, Aurelia sees not the man of war and bloody vengeance before her, but a forlorn soul tired of the endless conflict he has sworn to pursue. But the moment passes, and Avalan of Narfell, the chosen sword of Torm, rises once more.
“This land remains uniquely vulnerable to extraplanar invasion. I have no doubt that the Enemy will make another assault upon your walls sooner rather than later. But I must attend to other fronts. The Long War never wanes; and a demon hunter’s work is never done. Keep these people safe, Councillor.” He touches two fingers to his forehead in salute; and hesitates.
“You have done well here. Despite the inherent dangers, the many unbelievers, heathens and blackguards… you have made this place a sanctuary. May it stand long, and in the light of the gods. I pray there will be no need for me to return. But the end comes for us all, eventually…”
For a brief moment his lip curls up in a slight smile, and once more, Aurelia sees a glimpse of the man who once was, could have been, and never will be.
“May Torm, the Iron Fist of Judgement, turn to you
last, Councillor Archeson.”
A time to fight, and a time to die.
It is a nice day when Avalan steps onto the raised platform of the Daring Heights portal, marred only by unnatural light emanating from teleportation circle as magic tendrils swirl, the vortex beckoning him forward. He takes a deep breath (One more time. Only in death does duty end.) and steps through...
... to reappear in another land, far away, yet plagued by the very same assailants he has hunted and killed all his adult life. He can feel it; smell it; sense the taint of corruption all around him. The sentry at the foot of the portal gives him a curious look as he steps down from the dais.
"Howdy, traveller. Who might you be?"
The massive warrior, greatsword slung over his shoulder, hardly looks at the guardsman as he takes in the scene.
"I am Avalan of Narfell, and I have come to cleanse this land."
