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Areas of Influence: Hope and Perseverance |
Silence. Cold and foreboding, it
lent its pallor upon the forest near the city of R'handron. Nothing
stirred save for the slight breeze that snaked its way through the tree-tops.
At this time of day, most often various varieties of birds could be
heard singing, and animals could be seen feeding throughout the forest.
However it seemed as though death hung in the air.
Bow strung with an arrow nocked, Morrbway placed one foot in front of
the other, a quiet stalker in a sea of stillness. Step by step he closed
in on R'handron, worry and doubt clouding his every thought. Soon the
silence was pervaded by a far off ringing and clashing of weapons.
Trepidation grew in the young elf's heart. He had spotted tracks leading
towards the village earlier that day and had discerned that they were
of goblin-kind. With that in mind he stalked in closer until cries filled
the mid-morning air. As he neared a small building skirting the edge
of town, Morrbway began to fully understand what was going on around
him. A band of about 200 goblins had come to sack R'handron this day.
An arrow leapt from his bow, tearing into
the nearest goblin's chest. Quickly retrieving another from his quiver,
he sent that one careening into another goblin. Anger seethed in his
very being, fueling his rage towards the dark creatures. Blood covered
the ground in a red matte, every step caking Morrbway's boots with the
stink of death. The bodies of young elven children littered the street,
their eyes open with looks of pure dread and horror filling their visage.
Unstringing and placing his bow on his back, he stopped in his tracks
as something called to him. Something stirred deep within his soul,
a longing, a sweet desire that almost burned like fire. Moving as if
in a trance, he spotted a scimitar which lay cast aside upon the dirty
street. It lulled him, pulled him forth unto its own. Upon the blade
of that scimitar, written in elvish script, was this phrase, "Hope
breathes perseverance, and perseverance is hope." Morrbway lifted
the blade, testing its balance. Something magical could be felt within
it, locked away and hidden from mortal eyes. His own lit up briefly,
an attachment of some kind, now formed with the blade. At that moment,
a high pitched scream reverberated in his ears. Looking over his shoulder,
he saw a goblin towering over his helpless mother, sword driven hilt
deep into her chest. Righteous rage consumed his every thought, his
every desire. One foot in front of the other, he moved in towards the
cowardly goblin. He struck high, raising the goblin's sword up with
his own. With a vicious downward chop, a red line bloomed on the goblin's
throat. It went down, life blood flowing from it. Morrbway then realized
that this had to end, as death should have no part in the life of this
form, lest it come naturally. Perhaps it must come for a time, but only
to alleviate the pain and suffering of others. There is another way,
through love and compassion. Only hope and perseverance hold the answers.
Rules of Worship
Holy Days
