Tweet
Kindra walked slowly down the steps. Though the stone was smooth, her bare feet were nearly numb from the cold. Normally it was not difficult to force her mind away from such small discomforts, but today. Today, every little distraction seemed grate across her nerves. Her left hand ached, the scar over her shoulder throbbed. Even the sound of her white robes as they rustled around her ankles seemed overly loud. She simply could not focus properly. Her mind kept chasing around even the most asinine of worries. When she caught herself thinking, for what seemed like the hundredth time, about how much hated wearing white. How it made her skin look pale and her hair...
She wiggled her toes subtly as she stepped into a pool of light from the beautiful stain glass windows that lined the hallway. Now was not the time to be distracted she chided herself. Her inner voice sounded like Duncan. She could imagine his disapproving frown at her failure to concentrate, the edge of disapproval in his tone. The way he... She growled a low voiced curse as she caught herself rambling again. Quickly she cast a guilty look at one of the armored figures as he marched past. By Torm, now she was cursing in church.
Kindra clenched her hands, bowing her head against her rising emotions. Slowly, she drew in a long deep breath and began the first verse of the stricture of duty. The familiar, lilting rhythm of chant soothed her frazzled nerves and the warmth of the sun, as it blazed around her, eased the chill. It took time but her thoughts became free of all distractions. As her focus sharpened, her voice gained in volume.
Her feet seemed to move of their own accord. And when she at last opened her eyes, the great broadsword was in front of her. It was a massive blade, the stylized symbol of the gauntleted hand set within the hilt, nearly level with her eyes. She reached out her right hand towards the weapon, tracing a finger reverently over the edges of the crosspiece. Then she drew back and took a slow breath, blinking in surprise as the light flared. She had not meant to start the ritual so soon, had thought to prepare more.
But the sword was rising now. And the strictures drilled into her from years of service rang out, echoing off the stone walls around her. She fell to her knees under the massive blade and stared up at the still rising weapon. Her purpose always seemed so clear in these moments. The litany of the resurrection of Torm falling from her lips as she settled onto her back. The morning would show her deserving of the title Crusader and proclaim Torm's favor. Or, it would announce to all of the Church that doubt had taken the young woman's mind and she was no longer worthy to wield the might of the True.
She wiggled her toes subtly as she stepped into a pool of light from the beautiful stain glass windows that lined the hallway. Now was not the time to be distracted she chided herself. Her inner voice sounded like Duncan. She could imagine his disapproving frown at her failure to concentrate, the edge of disapproval in his tone. The way he... She growled a low voiced curse as she caught herself rambling again. Quickly she cast a guilty look at one of the armored figures as he marched past. By Torm, now she was cursing in church.
Kindra clenched her hands, bowing her head against her rising emotions. Slowly, she drew in a long deep breath and began the first verse of the stricture of duty. The familiar, lilting rhythm of chant soothed her frazzled nerves and the warmth of the sun, as it blazed around her, eased the chill. It took time but her thoughts became free of all distractions. As her focus sharpened, her voice gained in volume.
Her feet seemed to move of their own accord. And when she at last opened her eyes, the great broadsword was in front of her. It was a massive blade, the stylized symbol of the gauntleted hand set within the hilt, nearly level with her eyes. She reached out her right hand towards the weapon, tracing a finger reverently over the edges of the crosspiece. Then she drew back and took a slow breath, blinking in surprise as the light flared. She had not meant to start the ritual so soon, had thought to prepare more.
But the sword was rising now. And the strictures drilled into her from years of service rang out, echoing off the stone walls around her. She fell to her knees under the massive blade and stared up at the still rising weapon. Her purpose always seemed so clear in these moments. The litany of the resurrection of Torm falling from her lips as she settled onto her back. The morning would show her deserving of the title Crusader and proclaim Torm's favor. Or, it would announce to all of the Church that doubt had taken the young woman's mind and she was no longer worthy to wield the might of the True.