Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on Aug 9, 2019 13:02:25 GMT
On a hill overlooking the city, a small group of men and women stand solemnly around a small fire, the dancing flames casting shadows over scarred and serious faces. Below them, the lights of Daring twinkle, darkness making the gulf seem vast as the raucous sound of Shieldmeet revels floats up in to the clear night sky like sparks from a bonfire. The watchers form a rough circle, each armed but clad only in simple black tunic and breeches. Nearby, his pelt glowing in the light of the waning moon, a huge silver stag stands almost unnaturally still, moss green eyes looking on from just beyond the ring of soldiers.
The grim conclave ripples like leaves in a gentle breeze, and one of their number steps forward. The man stands just shy of six feet, sandy blonde hair held out of his face by a braided leather cord. His eyes glint in the firelight, the thin, crescent scar on his left cheek throwing the faintest of shadows.
“Brothers and sisters. Friends and comrades. Knights of the Crimson Fist. We gather this night to remember the fallen, to reaffirm the purpose that guides our hands, and to reswear the oaths that bind us together. It was upon this hill, two years past, that the free folk of Kantas stood against the Green Tide, and were washed before it. All here lost friends that day, and many lost more than that, more than can ever be replaced. But from the ashes of defeat, we rose, to stand between the people of Daring and the darkness of this world.”
He gestures to the lights of the city, glittering below them.
“Look upon this city, upon the lights that throw themselves out into the darkness of the night. Each represents a person, a family, from all corners of Toril and the Planes, from every race and creed, from every walk of life. Here, in this place, seeking peace, and a new life in this strange and beautiful land we have found. On us depends that peace, the safety and happiness these people - our people - hope for. We must not fail.”
Bowing his head, he’s silent for a long moment, then he draws from his belt a small knife, gripping the naked blade in his right hand till blood wells up between his fingers, making his knuckles look black in the firelight. Releasing the blade, he holds his palm up to the assembled circle, showing the wound before clenching it again into a fist around the small black iron pendant at his throat. When he speaks, his voice cuts through the night with the clarity of prayer or prophesy.
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 soul.”
Lowering his hand, he steps back out to join the circle of warriors waiting in the darkness, his place taken by a stout, blunt-faced dwarven woman. She draws a blade from her belt and clenches it in her right hand, letting the blood drip onto the head of a long-hafted war hammer. In a deep, lilting brogue she begins to speak again the words.
“Here, in the sight of Gods…”
