Restitution

[Coldren]

As the sun rose slowly over the horizon, fighting back the night and the stars, illuminating the mountains in a reddish-orange hue, a single sound echoed throughout the structure with constant rhythm. Sunlight only breached the murkiness through a hole in the east wall, large enough for a man to fit through. The waves crashed against the bluff, rising and swelling in a concerto composed by nature. The sound of passing birds and seagulls reverberated off the stonewalls, contributing to the symphony present in the small room...

A pity no one could hear.

For in this room, only the dead can be found. Warriors past who fought valiantly for the Guardians were laid to rest, memorialized by their brethren in a sarcophagus of granite, with a challis chiseled in the center, and the name of the fallen Guardian stenciled in gold in the language of the ancients across the middle.

Daishee, the guardian and caretaker of the tomb, weaved in between the narrow paths between each sarcophagus, proceeding along his practiced route. Dressed in full plate and wielding a halberd twice the size of a normal man, Daishee was more then well-equipped and trained to handle the occasional grave-robber or bandit.

As a former member of the Legion, he had been given this task as a chance to recuperate from his wounds received in during the siege of Trinsic by Jun'nor a few years go. After time, when no one else had been assigned the duty, he was resolved that this would be the way he would serve the Empire for the rest of his natural days. Although he found the assignment quite dull on most days, his sense of honor to his fallen brethren motivated him to wake each morning and resume his daily doldrums.

The day gave no indication that it would be different from any other. The reports from fellow Guardian scouts reveled no unusual folk in the surrounding woods, and the Orcs, who were notorious for vandalizing the tombs of their enemies, had not been seen in some time.  No, today would be another dull, humid day of patrol and mead.

As he continued his route among the dead, a misplaced shadow, that to the untrained eye would remain undetected, caught his attention. He walked over to that tomb, and noticed a small opening. The space was not large enough for even a hand to fit through, but still, stones this heavy do not move of their own accord.

Using his halberd as a level, he forced the hilt of it in the opening between the cover and the base, and with a mild pull down near the blade, slid the cover of the tomb half way open...

No training in the legion, no foe he had faced, prepared him for what he saw.

==============================================

A lone figure walked up to the massive iron gates. Exhausted from his long walk, he glanced up to the edge of the castle walls, lowered his head, turned, and collapsed with his back against the gate. This was indeed the place he had been looking for.

His once regal clothing was in tatters. His feet were sore and blistered, and his joints ached. His belly grumbled from lack of food and this throat cried out for liquid to aleve the dryness. His eyes burned from the countless days of wandering beneath the scorching sun, and his bones chilled from the coolness of the sea air at night.

Yet, in that divine moment, all his trials and travels were forgotten. He took a deep breath, savoring the salty air, lightly perfumed with the fragrance of nearby orchids, lilacs, and roses. The sound of men approaching on horseback echoed in the distance.

Once again he would see his friends, those who may have thought him lost forever, or forgotten completely. He would once again fight beside them in battles, celebrate their victories, and suffer with them in their defeats. One again, he would ponder with them greater things, and find their answers. Finally, he had reached the place, in all his travels; he longed most to be...

Home.

[Lord Ser Brightblade]

Always good to see a brother or sister make their way home!