The Winding Stream

[roguethree]

Wrath, Prideful

Greater men than I have failed.

My Order's history is not one wrought only of mercy and heroism. Its past is a long tale of virtue, of sacrifice, of mighty foes defeated...of corruption, of uncertainty, of failure. A story of sacrifice, of treachery, of good souls rising to lofty heights, only to fall farther from the higher vantage. What will be told of me when I'm done?

Baragorn D'Locke, a man I never knew. A Tormtar, a leader of men, who held steadfast to his principles, refused to align himself with our enemies to stop a cataclysm that never came. Destroyed by the fallen Balthazar, one of three Noble Adjudicators, equal to Caspar and Melchior. I'm told the fallen paladin presented Baragorn's head to the Triad, his mouth twisted into a pained grimace, his eyes frozen in the stoic determination that defines those that walk the most righteous path.

Hano Fetten, another stranger. So loved by Torm that he was gifted with a piece of the Loyal Fury's own sword. He misjudged, let an artifact of tremendous evil fall into the wrong hands, and uncountable innocents lost their lives. Shar's Abaddon is a raped landscape, an eternal reminder of my Order's failing, of the great champions that came before me and could not equal the tasks before them.

And I'm to duel there.

As I grow in strength, in influence, a prideful noble wants to prove himself at my expense, to win his chance at taking on the mantle of Warden. A foolish endeavor that will gain him nothing, other than perhaps boasts of the exploit. He doesn't understand the sacrifices made, the enormity of the task, and yet I must entertain him. My vows demand it of me, that I accept a fair challenge, that I allow him this opportunity.

The Abaddon is desolate, the only life - if it can be called such - the corrupted essences of those that lost themselves in my temple's greatest failing. Perhaps the Centurio chose it for that reason. Perhaps he finds humor in surrounding me in my Order's failure before he hopes to make me fail again in the eyes of my peers and his admirers. I wonder if he seeks to shame me, or whether he is only motivated by his own hubris, by the glory of achievement.

Hano, I've been told, lessened his standing in the Temple to preserve his love for another. He sacrificed for his heart's pursuit, and I sacrifice my heart's pursuit for my Temple, for the State and her people. When I consider the gravity of what's set before me, the seemingly impossible needs I'm to satisfy, I wonder if I'm choosing wisely.

There is a burning in the pit of my stomach, a loathing for evil and its agents, that fuels my righteous fury and guides my hand. It has been useful...but I wonder if I need it. I do not want it. Mercy has ever driven my blade. I have resented the undead, the Black Hand, sought the destruction of those individual embodiments of wretchedness, and yet...

...who am I supposed to be? This was once a merciful man, with a merciful sword. Wrath has driven my blade...does he need only direct it? Surely, these enemies need dispatched, but do I dishonor my purpose by greeting them all with this blade?

She is yet with me. Foolish of me to pretend I could rid myself of that governor by discarding a bauble. I thought...wished...that she was my weakness, and I believed with such fervent hope that I would be strong in falling off that pursuit. There is an emptiness, there, and I know that she filled it. She would yet be there, if I let her. I wonder.

Evil to destroy. Hearts to mend. A dead god to prevent from returning. A mysterious new foe that claims dominance over the vampires.

And a duel tomorrow.

[roguethree]

Wrath, Indomitable

"Gods, Sir Tornbrook! How long do they keep coming?!"

The Lionheart shouted ahead, and she wondered if he could even hear her over the abominable screams of the undead. The Adjudicator was tens of yards ahead of her, and she only occasionally caught glimpses of him as the fell things swarmed around him, others charging passed into the line of the Triad's warriors that waited behind.

It seemed as though hundreds of the things were pouring forth from the depths of the night, and they ran with abandon into the shield wall of the Triumvirate, some trying to leap over that first line, others throwing themselves recklessly against the sturdy front.

The knights, clad mostly in the gleaming steel armor of the Tormtar, held rank, dutifully remaining rooted as glimpses of the besieged Adjudicator grew fewer and briefer. Ilmatari clerics chanted from behind that wall, sending forth divine energies that ripped through the undead and sent them cowering in fear of utter destruction.

The battle stopped, suddenly. The ghouls and lesser vampires that were charging the ranks of the Triad's soldiers skidded to abrupt halts, turning and staring hungrily back at their swarming brethren, who had likewise ceased the chaotic dance around the Adjudicator. The night fell deathly silent, save for the clanking mail of a Tormtar who had broken rank for a moment, thinking to rush ahead into that throng and discover the fate of Sir Tornbrook, but he was yanked back into line by one with more discipline. Moonlight gleamed off the helmets of the twenty or so knights, and the clerics levered for a better vantage, using the pauldrons of the Tormtar for support.

They stared into the corrupt throng, the undead and the Triad, waiting.

A head flew out of the throng, and dust rose from the earth each of the three or four times it skipped. It rolled for a few yards, coming to rest face up. Its mouth was opened wide in a snarl, one of its fangs conspicuously chipped...

A blue brilliance suddenly emanated from that throng, an azure sphere of wavering light that flickered like fire. The undead suddenly parted, revealing the figure within. The Adjudicator stood, gleaming blue and gold mail dripping with the foul ichor of the undead. His head was bowed, his eyes lifted, glaring dangerously at the unnatural denizens that even then slowly backed away, terror all but paralyzing the limbs that would grant them flight. In his right hand, he carried the holy blade with the shorn pommel, its tip angled toward the ground, just kissing the trampled grass. His left hung at his side, clutching the throat of one of the intelligent vampires that hung all but parallel to the ground, its feet desperately kicking against the earth, trying to find a foothold.

He turned that baleful gaze over the damned warband, his eyes unblinking before he looked down to consider the vampire in his grasp. It feebly clawed at his mailed hand and arm. The paladin considered it awhile longer, mere moments that felt an eternity to the audience of good and evil. The creature's eyes shot wide as it recognized the yellow brilliance that began to form in the Adjudicator's grasp, and it kicked all the more violently at the ground, vainly trying to run out of the hold, to escape the inevitable.

The brilliance suddenly flared to a blinding brightness, then dimmed and dissipated as quickly as it had illuminated. The vampire's head was gone...just gone...and the paladin held the neckline of fine chainmail. The legs stopped kicking, the clawing hands went limp, and the whole of the thing turned to ash.

Silence still reigned as the paladin lifted his chin to consider the disciplined ranks of the Triad's warriors - his warriors - and he opened his hand, letting the ash in his hand scatter to the faint breeze.

"Rout them."

The triumphant shouts of the knights of virtue drowned out the terrified screams of the undead even as thunderous steps threatened to squelch their own war cry. The abominations stood trembling in the presence of the Adjudicator, their monstrous, horrified visages turning rapidly between the paladin and the oncoming Triad, unable to take a step away from their doom.

[roguethree]

Wrath, Educated, Part III

The youth sat in the familiar chamber, his legs wide and feet on the sticky floor, his arms folded defiantly over his chest as he stared at the chamber's lone door, visible only because of the torch light that streamed through the head-level bars that allowed in that meager luminescence and breathable air, untainted by the rusty taste of the atmosphere within the dungeon.

He stared at the door, and the sound of measured, booted steps reached his ears even as the shadow of a man appeared at the top of the stairs that led down to that grim room. His right eye twitched at every hollow echo, and he swallowed hard as the footsteps grew louder, grew nearer. He kept his gaze on that door, not daring to look elsewhere.

The latch of the door gave way, and the door swung in, revealing the familiar dark finery of the patriarch of House Blackmantle, favored of the Tyrant, father of the young man that still glared at the portal.

"Early for your devotions," the man's voice spoke of cold nobility, and he half-smiled cruelly as he pulled off his gloves and cast them aside, his unempathic gaze settled on his son. He didn't seem bothered that his gloves made no sound when they hit the ground.

The room was poorly lit, with only a pair of torches ensconced in the wall over the crude seat the youth had taken for himself. Eerie shadows crawled along the walls, and the younger Blackmantle's eyes seemed to burn with a fickleness similar to the meager light cast by the burning brands. The elder Blackmantle matched the youth's posture, folding his arms over the well-oiled leather of his black vest, and fixed his cold expression more completely on his spawn.

"Have you chosen today's implement of persuasion?" the elder spoke, his eyes listing to the wall at his left, where hung the various elements he used to persuade his son toward obedience, toward true faith in Darkness.

"Sword," came the flat reply. The youth kept his azure gaze determinedly on his father, unflinching, unwilling to look away.

"Sword," Lord Blackmantle repeated, a wicked grin twisting his lips, "...is not your option, boy. Has the persuasion robbed you of your senses?" The man moved to the wall, taking each of the tools in hand and scrutinizing them with feigned discernment.

"This?" he asked, presenting a thick rope, knotted at one end. "No, you outgrew that one years ago...these?" He unhooked a pair of gloves, the palms of them laced with a number of tiny spikes. He turned to regard the youth, a brow raised in appraisal as he looked for the tell-tale wince that would define the proper implement for the day's lesson. The boy stared back, his face a steely mask of defiance. The young man's eyes glistened in the darkness.

"Sword," the younger Blackmantle demanded.

"Boy, this is no game. Choose your penance and-..."

"Sword," a voice echoed from the darkness, and the elder Blackmantle whirled. A man of salt and pepper hair and hardened, gray eyes stepped from a dark corner of the chamber, clutching the other man's gloves. His dark leathers moved soundlessly as he stepped into the dim torch light, and he cast the gloves to the other man's feet.

"Tristan!" the other hissed. "Who led-" he turned again, eyeing the seated youth with evident hatred. "You!" he spat. "You would ruin this house! You would sacrifice everything for your stupid sense of morality!"

Blackmantle the younger shrugged, his stern expression yet fixed on his father.

The lord of the house turned again, pointing an accusing finger at the other figure. "You can prove nothing! Guards! Guards!"

"They won't come, Mikhail. It's been seen to." The dark-clad figure moved further from the corner, and the torch light glinted off of the exposed steel of the two swords that hung from his belt.

The elder Blackmantle whirled again, but the chair that had held his son was empty. He quickly turned, and the youth was by the door. The portal was half open, and he seemed ready to step out.

"You are accused of conspiracy to corrupt the Cormyrian government, assassination of state officials, torture of goodly folk, and the murder of Sir Robert Britewater," Tristan began, and even as he spoke, he tossed one of the two swords to the elder Blackmantle's feet. "It is my preference that you submit yourself to Cormyrian court, to be judged by the public, but if you wish, you may take that sword in hand, and let the Just God decide your guilt here, in this moment." The black-clad knight drew the other sword, then. His expression showed no malice, no anger, but a deadly cool, one of promise and certainty.

He heard the door latch, and his eyes crept to the sealed portal. The youth was gone, and the sound of his footsteps grew fainter and fainter as he climbed the stairs, out into the late afternoon, where a gentle breeze stirred early autumn grasses and carried the sweet scent of woods and pollens. He stooped and picked up the sword. It was a fine weapon, well weighted; Tristan would not cheat him, of course. He was a Hammer, foremost of the hated Tyr's paladins, fair to a fault.

"Let's see what your pathetic god decides, then."

[roguethree]

Wrath, Educated, Part IV

Tristan emerged out into the daylight, wiping the blade of his sword on a long, crimson cloth that hung from his belt. The sun hung just over the horizon, its orange brilliance washing out the knight's vision in a fiery haze. He brought up a gloved hand to shield his eyes from the glow, and his sword tip skipped off the top stair, the metallic echo scattering to the early evening breeze.

He regained his sight and saw the younger Blackmantle leaning against a nearby tree, its leaves yet green in defiance of the turning season. He had his arms folded over his chest, staring expectantly at the opening to the family's cellar. The boy had his father's blond hair and a potent blue gaze that varied in hue and intensity in accordance with his mood. He was growing up strong and possessed of the pleasing physical traits of the nobility. His brow was high, his cheekbones defined and without blemish. He began walking toward the young man, sliding his cleaned blade into his belt and letting the blood-stained cloth flutter behind him in the breeze as it clung to his waist.

"It's done, young Blackmantle."

"Don't call me that."

The knight shrugged in return, folding his arms over his chest to match the youth's posture. "The Even-Handed weighed the scales, and your father was wanting."

"Please, spare me that, Tristan."

"You sought the Grimjaws, lad. I am his Hammer, the deliverer of justice. You must own what's been done, this day."

"Own it?" The young boy smiled oddly at that and ran his tongue inside his lower lip, making it jut out as he shook his head. "Own it. I can't stay here."

"No, you can't," the paladin agreed, his head tilting to his right. "Your father's enemies will seize this opportunity, his allies will prove less than beneficial."

"What am I supposed to do? Grab a bag of money and sit in Neverwinter until they find me?"

"Sundren."

"Sundren?"

"Sundren. It's a new land. You can decide your life there, I imagine."

"Sundren," the young man repeated again, turning his gaze to the side and welcoming the sting of the setting sun.

"There are agents of the Hand, there, but they shouldn't know you, and warriors of our faith have migrated there to squelch the threat. You'd be safe. I could send word to the temple to let them kn-"

"No, thanks. Your holy warrior deal isn't for me." The youth scoffed and looked back to the knight, his brow flat.

"As you say, young Blackmantle." It was the paladin's turn to smile oddly, but the young noble dismissed the foretelling gesture with a turn of his chin.

"Don't call me that. That's my father's name."

"And what should you be called?"

"Tornbrook."

[roguethree]

Wrath, Revelation, Part I

I lay out my arms and armor on the floor of my room and kneel before them. Warmth fills the chamber, emanating from the crackling hearth set into the wall opposite the door. Simple benches that I've dressed in blankets and pillows rest just beyond the licking flames of the small fire, ever undisturbed. We would pass whole nights there, she and I, our cheeks pressed together as our eyes reflected the flickering dance of orange and red tongues that leaped up from the burning logs. I miss those moments dearly, and a merciless hand grips my heart, burning it...crushing it...

I breathe out the notion with a heavy exhale, my bare chest deflating as I expel my wants, my concerns in favor of duty. I breathe in the rustic air that filters into my room, scented with the living identity of the wood that slowly turns to ash in the fire's embrace. It brings with it my honor, my oaths...

...and wrath.

I shut my eyes, forcing back tears that would illustrate my sorrow, and my lids lift to reveal the Judicator's gaze: the unblinking stare, the purpose and judgment. I pull on my gambeson - a clean, white shirt padded against the weight of my armor. The legs are next, boots and greaves fitting into place as...

...as I remember nights she would spend here. When I yet had to hunt, she would tend my armor. Gentle hands and tender caresses of the not-yet-covered flesh that asked without insistence that I forget my duty for an evening, always knowing that I would not, but still making me feel...

I swallow the memory, casting it down into the pit of my stomach where it burns even more fiercely, but where I can keep it from my mind, further from my eyes that would tell this unfortunate tale. I am armored, covered in formidable black and gold. The armor's ebon glint threatens to swallow my room's meager torchlight even as the gold reflects it gloriously. I kneel only before my sword belts, now. Four blades rest dutifully in front of me, and I will wear them all. I draw forth the silvered blade and hold it in my lap. The Even-Handed's blessings flow from my lips and descend upon the sword's gleaming edge.

Let the Just God judge His enemies through this blade. Let them feel His wrath as an extension of my hand. I bless this blade that it might persuade the unliving to true death, that they might know the mercy of justice in taking their rightful place. Righteousness guide this sword to the depths of evil, and let it cast its light.

I return the sword to its rightful scabbard and set it aside, reaching for a different blade...the blade. I release an airy sigh as I grasp Wrath's hilt, and it slides easily from its case, as though it were relieved to be free of its sheath. Its power yet surprises me, and my sword arm tingles as it always does when I take this weapon in hand. There is no blessing I can offer it, but I commune with it.

Blade with whom I live, serve righteousness, serve justice. Seek the heart of evil, still lives of pain. Cut well, that enemies of truth come to know Wrath.

I clasp on the sword belts that hold blades at either of my hips and over either of my shoulders, and I wrap my cloak about my shoulders. Wrath yet protests at its place in its scabbard as I pull up my hood, concealing my eyes, eyes that burn, now, with righteous intent. My gaze promises pain for the unjust, I know, and Wrath quiets as I grip its hilt, my thumb resting where its pommel ought to be. It quiets, and the memories and regret that tug at my consciousness do in kind. It is time to hunt, and my soul demands silence for this task.

I bless myself with a ward that reveals the undead, and I step out into the night. I immediately feel the intrusion, the aura of the unliving. It is familiar and offends me. I spy her, holding court in the commons as though she belongs there. I step through the gathering to face her, and I feel her gaze as I do. It threatens to ruin me, to compromise my resolve. I grit my teeth and force back the remembrances that struggle for my attention. I am Wrath, and there is one here that needs to understand.
-------------------------------------------
"What are you doing here?" His even tone issued forth from the depths of his hood.

"Just enjoying the night, fella. No need to..." The mercenary who wouldn't trust another with his name began, but he quickly silenced as the dark-armored man shot out an upraised hand, demanding his silence. The hooded figure kept his gaze on the red-haired woman, who smiled with wicked amusement at the man's question.

"Nothing, sir," the vampiress replied with feigned sweetness, her voice lilting musically even as she bent slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of the man's features.

"You don't belong here. Leave." He demanded, his voice cold with purpose.

"I was here first!" She nearly growled as she reached for her sword, recognizing the armored man's demand if not his voice.

His lips twisted into a dark half-grin. He wanted this, to punish her wickedness for an audience. Let them see the fragility of the undead, let them witness the diligence of Sundren's Wrath. He reached for the silvered sword that rested quietly over his right shoulder and drew it forth, its blade still dancing with the holy energies he had poured into it. He set his guard as she set hers, her massive weapon warding the space between them.

"Don't make a fucking move, Judicator!"

She was caught; the woman whose gaze he'd shied from, the woman who could undo him, was frozen, a sword to her neck. Her dark, lustrous gaze dulled as she recognized the hooded man for who he was, and an unfeeling despair washed over her features.

"Not a move, or she dies."

The paladin's chest heaved with deep breaths as he looked to the threatened woman from beneath his hooded gaze. He thanked the gods for the shadow the mantle offered, else they would see his eyes, and they would tell his story...

"What do you want?" He growled, his throat seized by the lump that had suddenly formed there. He swallowed back his own despair, fighting for poise.

"Leave. When I'm satisfied you won't come back, I'll release her."

He slid his hooded gaze to the masked vampire, the same masked vampire who possessed a piece of the crucible. He'd bested that creature before, but this time, the bastard had leverage. The held woman stared at the armored man, her eyes offering an unspoken, desperate apology. The vampire delighted in the silent agony and slid his mask up, revealing vicious fangs. He bent toward the woman's neck...and kissed it gently.

"Make your choice, Judicator. Walk, or she dies."

His sword arm shook. Wrath screamed for its release, demanded justice against the unliving. He ignored them both and slid the silvered blade back into its sheath. He cast a baleful glance back at the red-haired woman, her greatsword still bared, but her posture relaxed. She wore a wide smile that showed her white fangs.

"Crossroads, wretch. Don't disappoint."

She laughed in reply, a short, mocking chortle. "When have I ever disappointed, lover?"

The paladin turned from them, his hooded gaze turning to keep the captive woman in his frame until he could no longer tilt his head, and he walked off into the night, his heart held against him.

(Continued...)

[roguethree]

Wrath, Revelation, Part II

(Continued from previous page. Did you read it?)

"Evening." The mercenary had followed him.

"Go away, Shield."

"Come on. That any way to greet an old friend?"

"There's nothing friendly about you."

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" A blue-clad gnome darted through the Crossroads, his hands waving frantically over his head, his eyes wide in abject terror.

The paladin turned to watch the gnome go, his horrified scream gradually dimming as the gnome put more and more distance between himself and whence he came.

"Oh. Yeah. Forgot to mention that after you left, the vampires turned on everyone. It's a real bloodbath. Well played, paladin. Well played."

"Astinus!" the paladin cried, and the air around them bent and warped, giving way to a magnificent white steed. It galloped past, and the dark-armored man grabbed its bridle and swung himself into its saddle, tearing back toward the Second Wind.

"...huh," Shield mused, shrugging as he began his own casual jaunt back to the fray.
-------------------------------
The inn came in sight, and the paladin leaped from the saddle, hitting the ground and rolling to his feet at a dead run as the majestic beast faded back to its home plane. He touched a crest on his breastplate and faded into the ethereal, his rapid steps striking soundlessly against the hard earth as he closed on the vampires. Bodies strewed the ground, twisted in various agonizing poses. He paid them no heed, flying in on the vampires.

"Let's get out of here with our new servant before the Judicator comes back and does something stupid," the masked vampire's voice echoed from within his face covering. On cue, the paladin materialized before them, driving his sword through the red-haired vampire. Her unholy scream rent the air as the sword burst through her back, its tip resting inches from the masked creature's breast. The Judicator withdrew his sword and grabbed the vampiress' shoulder, channeling a holy brilliance into her arm that reduced the limb to nothingness. She sunk to her knees and listed helplessly to the side, barely clinging to her physical form.

The paladin turned for the masked vampire...and stopped. His wards faded, and he couldn't move, his strength utterly leaving him. The world seemed to slow; voices sounded muted and distant. The vampire clutched an amulet, and an eerie green glow spewed between the cracks of his gloved fingers. He felt it, then: pain. A massive axe slammed into his side. His armor held, but he had no breath, and he fell to his knees, his sword falling from his hand. The vampiress was on her feet, rage twisting her dangerous smile into a crazed grimace, and she and a rather large, rather uninterested-looking man beat him to the earth. His sense left him as axe handle after boot after axe handle pummeled him into unconsciousness, and he lay motionless at the feet of the captive woman, blood trickling out from beneath his hood.

"Enough!" the masked vampire demanded as the sun began to crest the horizon. Its earliest rays kissed their cloaks, and thin plumes of smoke rose from the illumination. "Let's begone."
----------------------------------
He awoke, bouncing from side to side, the ground a curious six feet below him. He wasn't dead, surprisingly, and he wriggled, losing his perch and falling limply to the ground in a dull, dust-raising thud.

"Oh, you're not dead," Shield quipped. "Pity."

"...aye, alive, so leave off your thought of stripping me of me armor."

"Stripping you of your...? Dear friend, I was only taking you to a no-questions-asked temple to rejoin body with soul. I feared the worst!"

"Right." The paladin rolled over on to his stomach and pushed himself to his feet, turning back toward the Second Wind.

"Hey, you owe me!" the mercenary called.

The paladin dismissed him with a gesture over his shoulder.
----------------------------------
It hurt to walk. It hurt to breathe. He had no healing energies left in him; he'd poured them all into the vampiress. He staggered lamely into the commons, holding his side in a feeble attempt to still the pain in his doubtless broken ribs. She was there, sitting numbly on a bench, and without thinking, without knowing, he made his way, falling to his knees before her. He buried his face into her shoulder, and she reached up into the shadowed depths of his hood, tenderly caressing his face with her gentle touch.

He exhaled, pushing out his thoughts of duty, his yearning to punish the wicked as the morning sun found its height, and he breathed her in. Her sweet scent extinguished the burning at his core.

At least for that morning.

[roguethree]

I'm unpleasant.

I smile less, my brow is firmly set...I can't remember the last time I looked someone in the eye when I wasn't searching for a tainted heart. When I took these vows, I promised myself they wouldn't change me, that I'd ever be the man I'd been, that I wouldn't be as the other grim-faced paladins that had seen too much to yet bear the countenance of hope.

They bow their heads in reverence, in appreciation of deeds, of battles fought and won, fought and lost. There was a time when I'd have blushed at the notion, would have lifted their chins for them that they might look me in the eye. Now, I nod even as I look past them.

I look past them, torch-lit, stone corridors falling away to crypts and fields full of evil and blackness. Even as I move among my brothers and sisters in faith, I see tomorrow's next struggle, forget yesterday's victory. Melchior seeks me often, to discuss this path. He would guide me as the Broken shepherds the Maimed. I've seldom the time.

I am to choose, the Harbinger has decided. My successor, who will sacrifice as I did, picked by my hand, and so the guilt is entirely mine. Strange that a decision I made for myself so easily comes so slowly when I choose for another. Part of me thinks it strange that I should dread this task; is it not the mark of truest character for one to give so nobly of oneself? I should rejoice at the opportunity to find one of such value, and yet I fear for them...as much as a man impervious to fear can, anyway.

Most of those in this Order were trained for their tasks from their childhoods; they never knew the temptations, the fear that tormented my youth. I'm not so sure that I miss those impulses, but...there's a certain temperance to be had in all of it, and I think we come to lack it. It's easy to forget that not all are capable of walking the path I walk. Ours is a narrow road - narrower yet for the duty I hold - a narrow road that could never hope to hold us all.

I come to the door that will usher me out to the city, and from there, the countryside, where I will yet hunt again. I pause and tug my gauntlets free from my belt. Black and gold, as the rest of this armor. It's suffocating; I feel as though I escape when the wind kisses my bare skin, my truer essence allowed to bare itself.

My truer essence? I wonder which is. I did not come to this by accident; I chose duty for myself, and I've given myself over to it, as I must. It has cost dearly. It has severed friendships, other things more dear. I am reminded each day that not all can walk this path...and it's just as well.

I am not here to make paladins of men.

I am here to make a world that does not need paladins.

[roguethree]

"Do you have friends, Shepard?"

The two men stood at the meager camp at the Crossroads, their gazes trained to the southwest as the night quietly wore on. A gentle breeze rustled the tall grasses, and distantly, the farmer's wheat field swayed and bent with the subtle gusts. Selune shown full and brilliant, casting her somber light over the humble farmstead and glinting off the black and gold, ornamental mail of the paladin and the well-used red and silver plate of the Legionnaire.

"Hm?

"Friends, Shepard."

The Legionnaire stayed silent a moment, his chin lifting as his brow flattened, and he took a long draw from his cigarette. His lips smacked just audibly as he retracted the burning weed, and he inhaled shallowly afterward, his throat catching as he retained the caustic vapor.

"Yeah," he exhaled, the smoke spilling forth from his lungs and through his mouth, quickly dissipating into the calm breeze. He held the cigarette down at his side, a thin wisp of smoke snaking a narrow line into the air between them before being caught by the winds. "A few."

"I'd wondered. You spend a lot of nights in my company at this spot. I thought you'd take your leave with them."

Shepard shrugged impassively, again bringing the cigarette to his lips...or he would have, but he noted with small annoyance that it had burned beyond use. He pitched the nub into the nearby campfire and deftly undid the clasp of a pouch at his side. From within it, he produced a small package stuffed with the things. He slid one from the others and fitted it between his lips, then extended the bundle toward the paladin, one eyebrow raised in skeptical appraisal.

The paladin pressed his lips into a thin line, glancing aside at the Legionnaire. "Seriously?"

The Legionnaire shrugged again, as was his way, and slid the package back into the pouch, sealing it as deftly as he'd first opened it. He found a tinder twig tucked behind his ear and struck it off a line of flint cleverly worked into his sword belt, and he brought the burning wood to the cigarette that suspended from his mouth, shielding the flame from the wind with a cupped hand. He puffed at the burning tobacco a few times, then extinguished the twig with a careless shake before casting it into the fire.

"You just..."

The Legionnaire waved off the paladin's logic and pulled the cigarette from its perch, then inhaling deeply of the crisp, Sundarian evening. "You do this every night, Sir Tornbrook?"

An amused half-smile crept into the paladin's features, and he turned his gaze back to the southwest. "Not every. Enough to make sure that they know I know. What's your excuse? Aren't you stationed at Schild?"

"No. No deployment right now, held off for something of a promotion, maybe."

"Something of a promotion."

"Yeah."

The paladin's hand fell to the sword resting at his left hip, his thumb capping where the sword's pommel ought to have been, but wasn't. "That sounds secretive."

"Yeah."

"Fair enough." The paladin again glanced aside at the Legionnaire, his own azure gaze well shadowed deeply within the folds of his hood. He noted the talley marks crudely scrawled into the man's pauldrons, and he stayed silent a few moments longer, considering them. He turned back to his vigil, and then the east, where the sun was just beginning to spill over the horizon. "Dawn's soon."

"Yeah." The Legionnaire sucked at the tobacco again, blowing out a thin stream of smoke that disappeared several inches from his mouth.

"Some of the Ilmatari have mentioned that they think those things are harmful. Truth to that?"

"Probably. Want one?"

"Not at all."

"Didn't think so."

The sun climbed a bit higher, casting long shadows that stretched and threatened to consume the land, shadows that eventually gave way to light and luminance. The paladin's eyes didn't mind the intrusion, his eyes set within the darkened confines of his cowl. The Legionnaire chanced one glance to the east, to the sun, and one more to the southwest. He flicked his cigarette into the dying embers with a careless ease and turned from the camp.

"Good morning, Sir Tornbrook."

"Good morning, Shepard."

[roguethree]

This armor is black and gold...their colors.

It is exquisitely crafted, powerfully enchanted. Aye, it's the finest case I've ever seen, let alone worn. It withstands blows other suits have broken beneath. With a thought it transcends to the ethereal, where my enemies try to hide when faced with justice.

But it's black and gold.

My old armor rests upon a stand, its blue and gold somewhat dulled with use. It is still whole, still...inspiring. It feels almost like a relic, now, a reminder of days not-so-far-gone when I judged less than guided. I see more battle now than I ever have, yet my sword does not dull with the use. It is ever perfect, unmarred and ready, as my new armor is.

I notice the poetry. As that worn armor encased a more proud example of paladinhood, so do these new, gleaming arms encase a worn man that had shined more brilliantly, not so long ago.

This armor is black and gold...his colors. Much finer, aye, and with the crest of Wrath and no baleful gauntlet, but I'd be arrogant to pretend I don't remember. His shined brightly through lack of true use, but it still shined, as mine does. I wonder if his weighed against his soul as mine does mine. These artifacts - this sword, this armor - daily ask me to embrace the more wrathful parts of my vows, to forsake compassion and to punish the wicked with prejudice. The Even-Hand sees no greater good than the destruction of evil; I please him even as I am displeased with myself.

My old armor rests silently on its stand, vigilant as a restless sentinel, my old sword belted around it. It's there, worn...and waiting.

[roguethree]

A slight, salty breeze swept through the high climes of the lighthouse as the sun cast the burnt reds and oranges of dusk through the sky. The paladin in black and gold mail looked down upon the quieting village, his eyes flitting from distant window to distant window as candles lit their depths. Far below, the cries of merchants closing their shops echoed and died within the twisting allies of the port city. From the center of the town, a number of sturdy men and women in the gleaming red and silver of the legion dispersed in small, orderly columns, filtering through the streets like water through cracks in stone.

His hood was pulled back, his shaven, blemishless visage bared for none to see. His eyes were icy-blue, at that moment, the sunburst around his pupils more resembling the thin halo around a warmthless winter sun. He was thinking, judging himself, and he wasn't liking his verdicts.

Shuffling steps and ragged breathing broke his reverie, and he turned to her, his...standing, bent at her waist and struggling to find wind. Her dark, lustrous gaze found his, and her mouth twisted into an agonized grimace. She looked dismayed, her eyes creasing with an unspoken despair. She stood upright and hesitated, turned on a heel and managed a few steps back down the path, away from the lighthouse, from him. She almost left.

She stepped to the cliff's edge instead and sunk to the earth, her hands moving to conceal her gaze from the sun that slowly eased beneath the horizon, its light disappearing into the sea. Behind her, the paladin turned, uncertainty written across his features, and before he could form thought, his feet were bending blades of grass beneath their tentative steps. Hands' breadths behind her, he sunk to his knees and sat on his heels, his eyes turning a deeper blue that must have been the color of the waters that quenched the fire at his core as he looked upon the Sunite, his...

He winced as she sniffled, and her hand drew across her eyes. A droplet escaped vigilance and eased down her cheek, drawing a darkened line down her flawless features. It disappeared beneath her jawline, and so he grabbed the hem of his cloak, reaching forward to present it to the woman. The paladin's cloak in hand, she dabbed at her reddened eyes, murmuring a watery thanks.

He tugged at his gauntlets for some time, painstakingly freeing his hands. The clanking of the metal was lost to the breeze as the armor struck the ground. He laid his naked hands upon her shoulders, and his right snaked around to caress her throat. His left weaved into her curls, and he would have taken her closer, but beneath him, the crest of his armor teased the lower reaches of his vision. His gaze fell to it. His armor. Again.

"I...I don't like myself, Priya."

Hours passed, and neither could tell how much was said. As the murky blackness gave way to the fiery hues of the morning sun, they rose, and he clung to her fingertips. His eyes poured into hers, trying to find answers to questions only he could resolve.

"Goodnight, Priya," he must have whispered, for his lips moved, and she replied.

"Goodnight, Dain." The silks of her gown rustled softly as she turned, a few steps taken toward the Port and its gate before she turned, her eyes lingering over the paladin as he yet looked after her. Her eyes shone with something. Hope? Regret? He couldn't tell, and then she was gone, her soft footfalls carrying her swiftly from the refuge.

As she faded from view, he turned his attentions to the mounting sun, across the waters to the distant landmass that marked Sestra.

Smoke.

(To be continued...)

[roguethree]

He rode hard along the road to Sestra, he and his horse a black-and-white blur, kicking up clouds of dust that lingered and drifted lazily before finally dispersing into the breeze. His cloak billowed behind him as he stood up in his saddle, turning his shoulders down to better pierce the breeze that tried to buffet him from his perch.

The village soon came into view, its immediate sky choked with black smog and the orange glow of burning buildings. He dismounted as he approached the gates and sent the horse away. He strode through the portal, the iron of his sword hissing as he brought it forth from its sheath. Just within, a Corps guardsman sat slumped against the walls, his eyes wide and lifeless. Blood covered his hands that clutched at a sword buried deep within his chest, his lips just parted and stained red. The paladin moved on toward the village proper, his hood now concealing his features as the flames that engulfed some of the battlements cast eerie lights over his dark armor. A woman in mail of the Red Blades was in the road ahead, an arrow buried into her neck.

She choked, spitting up crimson fluid as she struggled to breathe. Her left hand held the shaft of the arrow where it entered her neck; her right was dug into the earth, her wrist bent and taut as she tried to overcome her dread.

The paladin knelt before her. His azure gaze found hers, and as she froze in his attention, he pulled her hand away from the wound. With a calm that stood arrogantly against the chaos engulfing the village, he tore the arrow free of her flesh and placed his other hand there. A soft, yellow luminescence flowed into the Blade's flesh, and she sucked in a gasp, her right hand loosing the earth as she sat upright, her arms snaking around the man's neck as she supported herself, her chest heaving with every deep breath that now came easily.

He made to stand, and as he began to drift away, her shoulders listed toward him until her clasped hands finally broke. She fell back on her elbows, her eyes fixed on the black cloak that wafted behind her dark-mailed savior.

There were no further sounds of battle. Able-bodied men and women rushed around the village, carrying bandages, pails of water, other men and women. Near the docks, a gathering of Corpsmen and adventurers watched the last of Luskan's black sails disappear on the watery horizon. The paladin looked down at his naked blade pensively, sparing a few moments' thought before sliding it back into its home at his left hip. Despite the crackling flames, despite the anxious shouts for healers and water, despite the anguished cries of the wounded, the town felt silent.

Already, the fires were falling to embers, the casualties were being counted, and healers enough were in place to tend them all. He turned back for the gate. As he neared it, the familiar Red Blade spied him and ran to pace alongside him. She leaned ahead of him, trying to peer into the depths of his cowl. The paladin turned his head to regard the woman, the sunburst in his irises shining with purpose from within the shadowed depths of his hood. As she caught his gaze, her pursuit faltered, and her feet rooted to the earth.

He offered her the smallest of smiles, his lips barely turning upward, and he returned his attention to the road before him. As he passed through the gate, the air at his right wavered and bent, soon giving way to a flawless white steed. He took the horse's bridle in hand, but he did not mount. He walked alongside the dutiful warhorse, their journey silent save for the regular, slow cadence of boots and hooves making their way along the earth.

[roguethree]

Wrath, Reviled

"How could you?!"
---------------------------
"You can relinquish the artifact and warn them off their cause, or I can strip the flesh from their bones, twisting and pulverizing their souls into a plague that will ravage this valley you so desperately want to protect for a century. I'm losing patience, paladin."

The masked vampire, Sebastian, leaned easily against the bar, the Aquorian tavern nearly empty, save for the terrified barkeep and a few patrons who hid in corners and beneath tables. His robes and armored glowed green, taking on the luminescence of the nearly complete artifact that hung from his neck.

He sensed the man's hesitation, and the vampires lips curled into a fiendish smile behind the mask. "With this, I can keep the sun from rising. Do you really doubt me?"

The Judicator was without his armor, a rare day he had taken for himself. His swords still hung from his hips, but there were five of them. At best, he could remove one before the others overcame him, ruined him, and then ruined everyone outside...and then the townsfolk, and then...

"The woman goes free," he barely spoke, the desperation of the situation catching his breath in his throat.

The vampire behind him, Grann, chuckled as he released the woman. She howled and wailed as she sped for the door, nearly tripping on her dress as she hastily fled from the place with all abandon.

"I can miss a meal to see this."

"Yes, my love," the red-haired vampiress purred. She was dressed in a revealing red gown, cut to reveal pale, appealing flesh that did not age, that was cold to the touch. "Your blood for hers, as we agreed." She sauntered up to him, her hips swaying as though she might entice him. Red lips parted, she ran her tongue along her teeth, taking care to trace the two fangs that jutted lower than the rest. When she neared, she took his hand and pulled him close, wrapping an arm around his waist and pressing him to her.

"Such warmth," she cooed, a dark chuckle escaping her, "I miss it, sometimes."

He growled, a low, guttural challenge that threatened vengeance he knew he could not take, not now. He turned his head aside, exposing his bare neck.

"Come on, then."

She brushed her lips along his neck and bent up to his ear. "I've waited so long for this...I wonder if you'll taste as sweetly as she did."

He felt the sharp pain of the white fangs sinking into his flesh. At first, he tensed, his every impulse screaming for retribution, to summon his divine energy to put a hole in her face. The notion gave way, and soon he was lightheaded, dizzy, as she drained his lifeblood.

Only moments passed before she was finished. The paladin leaned against her, sapped of his strength. She kissed the wound she'd left, again lifting her mouth to his ear where she nipped at his earlobe, whispering, "Sweeter." She dropped him. Without her support, he fell to his knees, his head awash.

To his right, a large pool of blood took shape and animated. Sounds were muffled, echoing, his vision a narrow tunnel of light in a corridor of darkness. As he fought to regain his senses, the blood flew at him and streamed into the wound Ruby had left, the liquid vanishing as it splashed against his neck. He suddenly had his senses back, and it hurt.

His veins bulged and pulsed, every muscle in his body straining against the intrusion. His sight faded to whiteness, washed out against this burning, this agony that was as though his blood were on fire. He passed minutes like this, writhing on the floor, while the vampires looked on, amused.

The masked vampire pushed himself off the bar, laughing a dark chortle that echoed within the face covering. He casually stepped over the would-be hero who still fought to gain his feet, his skin laced with sweat as the pain subsided.

"We're going to leave now. Go out and tell your friends to stay away, or I'll destroy their souls."
-------------------------------------
"Because I'm a paladin. I'm sworn to protect people, not thrones."

[roguethree]

Written days after the placement of High Adjudicator Dain Tornbrook:

Better men than I have failed.

I wrote those words not so long ago. As I lamented the loss of Sundren's past paragons - men I was told I should aspire to be like, men with the strength and conviction I should envy - I strove to do better, to be better.

Better than what?

Truth has a way of revealing itself. Men of virtue I was supposed to emulate made sport of their vows, not just tolerating the presence of a renegade, murderous elf, but quietly accepting his wickedness because it was something that had to be done that they couldn't do. He was a valuable advisor to them, he said, going into shadows with cloak and dagger to commit the sins they wouldn't.

They sinned through him, I say. What ideals are we fighting for if we're not upholding them when we lift our swords? What makes us better than what we're striving against when we willingly turn blind eyes toward murderers on the off chance that their hateful impulses kill the right one? Ours is not a fight against evil; it is a fight for righteousness, and we must be righteous or else lose our place. If we should win through tyranny and fear, what victory?

I set my sword against evil, and never alongside it. There is no place among the righteous for the dishonorable, no matter the strategic advantage lost. So long as I am High Adjudicator of this temple, there will never be another Balthazar, there will be no murderous elves whispering in the ears of my paladins; there will be no tolerance of wickedness.

Better men than I have failed. A refrain to drive the righteous.

[roguethree]

Wrath, Deception, Part I

"I needed you . . . and you came."
-----------------------------
The paladin sat, armor and all, in the temple's mess hall. Several torches and fonts of light kept the room always well-lit, chasing shadows into nooks and corners beneath furniture and behind tapestries. The mess saw use at all hours of the day, and right now, newcomer Trevor Lecarde was its master, cooking furiously to feed fifty men on an almost daily basis.

The man was rough of speech, like so many of the peasants that had visited his parents' land in Cormyr, asking for work or shelter. He blinked away the thought; the food was actually good, subtly seasoned. The knights and priests wouldn't be sure what to make of it.

"Y' know, ne'er seein' you smile, 'er, 'igh Adjudicator. Kids loo' up at ya. Ya ough' a take time t' live."

Dain was silent for a few moments, digesting the man's speech as he slowly chewed a morsel of chicken.

"I doubt I have many years left, and they'll be spent in duty."

"Duty," the makeshift chef replied, "ain' all marchin' an' killin'. Ya got a duty wit' all those folk 'at admire ya.' Ya gotta show 'em 'ow t' live. 'Ow ol' are ya?"

"I'm twenty-six."

"Twenty-six," the man echoed, "I coul' tell by the look in yer eye ya' seen things men ain' shoul' be seein'. 'Sa hard lo'." The man took a few moments of quiet to tend one of his many pans of simmering food; the smell of actual spice slipped through the cracks under doors and in stone and breezed through the temple; knights were breaking off prayer and trickling into the mess hall. "If ya' 'ad one month, jus' one month, what'd ya do wit' it?"

The paladin pushed his plate away and rose from his chair. "Your advice is noted. Gratitude for the meal."

He left the table, the mess hall, passing a dozen or so meal-bound knights in the Triad's usually sparse corridors. They looked excited, eager, and their boots lent a feeling of activity to solemn chambers. He passed them all, his right hand clenched over his heart; they hastily saluted in return, hardly slowing on the pressing errand of the stomach.

He found his way outside. Moments after he inhaled the unseasoned air, the bland texture of the city's breath offending a tongue that still thought of food, someone's voice found his mind.

"Dain . . . Emiliana. Ruby's outside my room. Please come if you can."

Emiliana's room was literally a stone's throw away. He didn't run to the Sundren Comfort; he walked, purposefully, with the same eagerness that had driven his knights toward dinner, with the same expectation of fulfillment that well-cared for food offered a grieving stomach. He stepped easily into the inn, offering the attending clerk a quiet smile as he turned for the steps upstairs. He mounted them without haste.

He arrived upstairs, his armored boots sending hollow echoes through the empty hallway that bore the entrances into the private lives of notable Sundarians. He stepped onto fine carpet, its soft texture muffling his footsteps as the steely hiss of a sword leaving its scabbard slithered into the air and faded. She was there, speaking something toward Emiliana's doorjamb.

"Evening," the paladin's smoldering tone greeted.

The crimson-haired vampiress, in full armor and wicked in her decadent smile, turned to face the paladin. She gently stroked the surface of Emiliana's door with gloved fingertips. "We'll talk later; it looks like I need to leave."

She clutched the holy symbol - the homage to the Blood God - that hung over her breast, and red light glowed between the cracks in her fingers. She smiled playfully at the paladin, one brow twitching in a sensual taunt as the magic in her amulet took shape to spirit her away.

Two steps and he was upon her, his sword arcing in with wrath and purpose. For her part, she looked surprised, betrayed, and as the searing of righteous divinity marred her flesh and made her cry out, she ran. She brushed past the paladin that wouldn't allow peaceful escape; she sprinted for the stairs, for the door, for the moon out over city streets.

Her cloak billowed out behind her, and he caught it in hand. He planted his feet and threw his hips back, jerking the vampiress off her feet. Two more steps again had him upon her, and stood on her throat when he drove his blade through her breast. Her unholy flesh gave way to mist, and she glided out of the inn, into Sundren's darkness, bound for home.

He sheathed his sword and found Emiliana's door, striking the wood three times with a single knuckle in the same cadence he always used for this particular portal. She eased open the wooden barrier and looked upon him, her features comely and soft in the evening's torchlight.
-----------------------------
"I needed you . . . and you came."

She stepped out into the hallway and set her hand upon her door.

"I did." His gold-flecked eyes fell upon her hand, and a tempest swelled in his breast. Her eyes were upon him, he knew, and he closed his own, rolling them aside so that they'd miss her when he opened them again.

"Goodnight, Emiliana." Long strides bore him with desperate haste from the inn, out into the Sundarian night. He breathed its bitter air deeply, using its blandness to subdue the storm driving against his breast. He looked up behind him, to the high windows that overlooked the street. Demure luminance in her chamber cast her silhouette over the drawn curtains, and he clutched at the neck of his armor, as if breath might come more steadily if only he had a bit more room.

He tore himself from the inn, from the city, to the long road toward Aquor, and further north.

[roguethree]

Wrath, Deception, Part II

"I wish to meet you to discuss Ruby Heartstone's health. Jimmy's, nothing funny, just talk."
Jace Blackwell

Dain crumpled the note and pitched it into the hearth of his quarters in the same span of time it took him to cross the threshold of the well-accommodating room to pick up the note that had been slid under his door. The Tyrant's assassin, inept as he'd been, was back, and playing games. Dain remembered well the stuttering man with the impressive mustache and matted red hair. He was faithful to the Tyrant, not one of the power-drunk sycophants that usually populated that cult. He was dangerous and zealous . . . and he wanted to talk.

"Will you go?" she asked, the liquid gold of her eyes catching and scattering firelight with a sweet, soft innocence. How someone of two hundred years who'd seen as much betrayal as she had could still view the world with such wonderment dumbfounded him, but that ever-present curiosity and the fondness that so often flowed from those eyes . . . they enchanted him.

"No. He knows I wouldn't abandon the law to talk to some agent of the Black Hand when I could put him in irons; it's a ruse."

"What will you do?"

"Talk with you, until we're finished," he returned, the gravity of the letter lifting as he again found her eyes, a hint of a smile curving his lips.

They talked, and she left - invisibly, a compromise so she could depart without escort. She left, and he buckled on his sword belts and threw his cloak about his shoulders. The black folds of sturdy, enchanted cloth draped armor recently darkened, armor that now more prominently emphasized his allegiance to Wrath, though the right arm and breast plate still boldly presented the Tyrran faith, his true heart. He left his room minutes after the elf, to tend to the night and take the road from whatever ought not be on it. He locked his door behind him and hazarded a glance at the door across the hall, as he always did - that symbolic door, that gateway to so much confusion, to so many questions, to passion and apprehension and misgivings and hope and regret. His gold-flecked eyes alighted on that door, and he froze in his steps.

You will regret being with him, the wood read, the message crudely etched into its surface with what must have been a large knife, perhaps a dagger. Wood shavings still curled up at the base of the closed portal, undisturbed by anyone's passing. He took a step toward the words, but his armored boot struck something, something that skidded into view as it mingled with the shredded oak.

A symbol of the Tyrant.

His heart seized in his chest, his breath stuck in his lungs, as he thought back to times not so far gone. He wasn't afraid; he couldn't have been if he'd wanted to, but he knew angst, he knew foreboding, and the heavy weight of pride and promise was as a stone in his breast, sinking hopes into his gut where acids licked at them, threatened to dissolve them.

The paladin curled his left hand around the handle of the sword that had no pommel, and he left.


Awarding in game exp for ongoing, long and well made roleplay posts. -Not Kasso