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In the far reaches of the Triumvirate building there is a room with a large table in it. Several chairs are situated around this table. In one such chair, a young man with messy black hair and wearing heavy armor sits. He adjusts his glasses again for the third time in the last minute as he stares down at an perfectly blank crisp sheet of vellum. A quill hovers motionless above the surface of the paper, poised and ready for inscribing, yet in does not descend. It's holder's hand remains motionless, frozen.
The young man frowns, thinking. Where to begin? How to begin? So much had happened to him since he had arrived in the Sundered Valley. So much he had learned. So much yet remained to learn. Here and now, he feels compelled to write something down. Put something to paper. A reminder, or perhaps, a story. Something with which he could immortalize his dearest friend, somehow preserve his words and his wisdom. He deserved no less, and yet the quill did not move.
So very much had happened to him over the past several months. His entire outlook had changed. Where once was a stuttering, self-absorbed, and even callous individual, there was now a young man filled with compassion, respect, and charity. He did not take the credit for any of these new qualities in him. He had gained all of this, all of who he was now, from one man. One friend. A friend who was now, no longer there to guide him and, more importantly, care about him.
The young man's hand trembles for a moment as memories come. Of a man standing beneath the awning of a wagon outside the city gates, where he was first introduced to so many that would soon become friends of his own. Of a man standing, looking out over the waters of Sestra, the most beautiful place in the valley. Of a man, standing by the pond in the military quarter, telling him the things that mattered most in this life.
Honor. Duty. Compassion. So many things that seemed so noble, so above himself, impossible to fathom. And yet here he was, carrying such things inside of him. Eager to bring light to a darkening world.
It seemed that so many were disappearing. Perhaps temporarily, perhaps forever. So many that were his friends, friends gained by the virtue of the character that he had developed. The young man feels alone, and lost. The failure of such a dark event had taken more than just his best friend and mentor, and there seemed no way to bring balance back to his soul.
He lays the quill down again and stares at it for a long time. Eventually, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small and made of metal. A holy symbol. A holy symbol of Torm. He brings his hand up and lets it dangle before his face, the coin-shaped object twisting and turning before his eyes. He knows that he could never live up to such standards. Such ideals. He could never take the vows, the oaths. His own mind was too different perhaps. But then again, he ponders, perhaps that is okay. He was not meant to walk the path of his friend. His path was his alone to follow. To discover.
The young man pulls out another object, a holy symbol of Oghma, and he stares at that too for a time. He remembers his initial bitterness. How he was so angry about his past. But slowly too, he realizes that does not matter either. He has long suspected now that he walks in Oghma's shadow. His desire to teach, to know and discover. To spread that knowledge to others, so that they might know and understand more of a confusing and dangerous world.
He looks upon these two holy symbols for a time. He then slides the holy symbol of Torm over his head so that the object dangles over his heart. He then slides the second, smaller, symbol of Oghma over his head, so that it eclipses, but does not quite cover, the first symbol. He stares down at this juxtaposition of holy symbols for a moment and smiles slightly. He will combine who was, with who he has become. The teaching and wisdom of his friend, mingling with everything that has come before. He will live on, and pass on his friend's words to others who need to hear them. He will take up the cause, to bring the people hope, bring them out of this darkness that seems evident everywhere now, in both minds and bodies. As his friend had said, "The people deserve no less."
Finally, his mind clear of all doubt and despair, Aerick picks up the quill again, pauses for but a moment to adjust his glasses, and then begins to write.
"Baragorn d'Locke, my dearest friend and mentor......."
The young man frowns, thinking. Where to begin? How to begin? So much had happened to him since he had arrived in the Sundered Valley. So much he had learned. So much yet remained to learn. Here and now, he feels compelled to write something down. Put something to paper. A reminder, or perhaps, a story. Something with which he could immortalize his dearest friend, somehow preserve his words and his wisdom. He deserved no less, and yet the quill did not move.
So very much had happened to him over the past several months. His entire outlook had changed. Where once was a stuttering, self-absorbed, and even callous individual, there was now a young man filled with compassion, respect, and charity. He did not take the credit for any of these new qualities in him. He had gained all of this, all of who he was now, from one man. One friend. A friend who was now, no longer there to guide him and, more importantly, care about him.
The young man's hand trembles for a moment as memories come. Of a man standing beneath the awning of a wagon outside the city gates, where he was first introduced to so many that would soon become friends of his own. Of a man standing, looking out over the waters of Sestra, the most beautiful place in the valley. Of a man, standing by the pond in the military quarter, telling him the things that mattered most in this life.
Honor. Duty. Compassion. So many things that seemed so noble, so above himself, impossible to fathom. And yet here he was, carrying such things inside of him. Eager to bring light to a darkening world.
It seemed that so many were disappearing. Perhaps temporarily, perhaps forever. So many that were his friends, friends gained by the virtue of the character that he had developed. The young man feels alone, and lost. The failure of such a dark event had taken more than just his best friend and mentor, and there seemed no way to bring balance back to his soul.
He lays the quill down again and stares at it for a long time. Eventually, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small and made of metal. A holy symbol. A holy symbol of Torm. He brings his hand up and lets it dangle before his face, the coin-shaped object twisting and turning before his eyes. He knows that he could never live up to such standards. Such ideals. He could never take the vows, the oaths. His own mind was too different perhaps. But then again, he ponders, perhaps that is okay. He was not meant to walk the path of his friend. His path was his alone to follow. To discover.
The young man pulls out another object, a holy symbol of Oghma, and he stares at that too for a time. He remembers his initial bitterness. How he was so angry about his past. But slowly too, he realizes that does not matter either. He has long suspected now that he walks in Oghma's shadow. His desire to teach, to know and discover. To spread that knowledge to others, so that they might know and understand more of a confusing and dangerous world.
He looks upon these two holy symbols for a time. He then slides the holy symbol of Torm over his head so that the object dangles over his heart. He then slides the second, smaller, symbol of Oghma over his head, so that it eclipses, but does not quite cover, the first symbol. He stares down at this juxtaposition of holy symbols for a moment and smiles slightly. He will combine who was, with who he has become. The teaching and wisdom of his friend, mingling with everything that has come before. He will live on, and pass on his friend's words to others who need to hear them. He will take up the cause, to bring the people hope, bring them out of this darkness that seems evident everywhere now, in both minds and bodies. As his friend had said, "The people deserve no less."
Finally, his mind clear of all doubt and despair, Aerick picks up the quill again, pauses for but a moment to adjust his glasses, and then begins to write.
"Baragorn d'Locke, my dearest friend and mentor......."