A Moment of Silence. By choice? By destiny?

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Joined: 2012-01-16
Location: Temple of Khorne

A Moment of Silence. By choice? By destiny?

Post by PadreCaedes » 2015-05-24

Castle Northhold stood tall within the ice wastes of the northern lands of Ched Nasad, it's gates shut tight for nearly a year. The priest that called the great keep home had seemingly gone mad, practicing heathen magics even more despised by the blood god than the healing art he already utilized. Most of the guardians of the hold had abandoned their stations, preferring to take up stations around less fanatical commanders. A lone monk remained to watch the gate. As all the proper weapons had been taken by the other fighters he took what remained from the armory. An old rusty scythe. A tool he was all too familiar with, but it needed to be altered. Time was taken to scour the blade and hammer it into a straight edge. The words "reap" and "sew" were etched clumsily into the metal, an amusing play on words. Fitting that he would harvest lives as he had crops.

The Monk had ventured inside the castle only once in his years under the command of the mad priest. For his trespass he had been the victim of the Caedes's rage, his throat torn out for asking too many questions. In later days some would question if it had healed sometime later, his ability to speak intact, but the monk would never tell. The gates were his duty, the only place he belonged presently. As there was no one else who truly knew, there was no one else for whom to cultivate a response.

Then again, he hadn't always been a merciless killer for the frontier army of Ched Nasad. He'd been a wheat farmer with a wife, and a pair of strong sons who helped him plant and take in the harvest...but that was a lifetime ago. Seasons beyond measure had passed between this night and that. That life was gone. All that remained was service to the horde.

Years after the monk had last entered the keep, the priest requested his assistance in one of his mad rituals. The Monk, clad in drab robes and heavy furs to fight off the cold of the chaos wastes, agreed immediately. Up, up, up, into the highest spires of the frozen castle they ventured. Far and away from the throne of skulls and bone where the demon knight praised his lord Khorne. At the highest point a great eight pointed star sat upon a plinth of stone built upon a new outcropping. The monk was handed a bowl full of eyes which gave him pause, an eyebrow may even have raised, but he showed no immediate protest.

When the profane ritual began, the Monk did his best not to pay it heed, understanding little but recognizing the names of the gods that were not his own. Only Khorne knew his soul. He heard blasphemy pass through the lips of the priest over and over. His grip on the bowl faltered and he gasped as he watched it fall away from the pinnacle of the spire down into the courtyard below.

Caedes's head twisted unnaturally toward the startled monk and the unnatural scream of "What have you done" was cut short as a bolt of the purest red lightning cracked free of the sky and vaporized the demon before the monk's own eyes. The body was gone, but he darted forward grasping at the falling vestments and holy relic that the priest ever carried with him. The weapon fell away to the earth below, but the vestments caught within his clutching fingers.

The sky shook and roared as if a god was bellowing his joy over successful vengeance. The Monk stole away down the stairs into the modest safety of the keep, discarding his clothes as he did so. The dusted priest was not worthy of such fine vestments, but the monk would wear it with pride and do great service to the god to which it was dedicated.

After some searching down below in the courtyard he found the fallen holy weapon. The monk Fastened it to his hip much as the priest had done, shamelessly, reverently, it was his ward now. As were the spirits in the empty halls around him. There was only one commander in Northhold. He spoke no words. Gave no orders, but guarded it just the same. With a glowing blade at his hip and a rusty glaive in his hand, he would Harvest as many souls as would come, all behind his stolen title, rank, and clothes.

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