Post by Cillian on Oct 19, 2020 23:09:15 GMT -5
Grizzly. Unkempt. The scruff on his face had grown into a thick beard and his usually short hair has creeped past his eyes. He sat sullen and dejected outside the cathedral, occasionally glancing at passersby. Boredom was likely the largest contributor to his absent, yet annoyed state of mind... even the temporary distraction of a good ale fell on numbed taste buds and a strongly built tolerance. The clanking of a few coins caught his attention, as man in an eloquent attire pulled the strings of his coin pouch shut.
He had dropped a few coppers at Cillian's feet.
"The riff raff... poor bastard..." mumbled out from the man's lips as he tipped his hat and continued on his stroll.
Cillian shook his head as he scooped the few coppers from the ground. It was ironic, he thought to himself, as he jingled around the coins in his hand. Ironic as he was actually doing pretty well for himself--not that his current look, or demeanor showed it. Many had sought out one of his expertise with the rumors of stirrings in Icecrown again. And they offered top coin to boot.
But what good is coin, with nothing to spend it on? He had paid most off his debts, stocked a bit away in the bank, and even rounded out a new set of armor for himself. A set to show off his accomplishments as it had become adorned with various trophies from his work. Had he become too proud? Had he pushed the tenants of his faith, by spending, boozing, and boasting? Was this the cause of his lethargy?
He had come to the Cathedral District with a purpose, and it wasn't to beg for charity. Slowly, he pushed himself up from his resting place and started up the stairs of the impressive building, coins lightly sliding in his hand. Passing through the threshold of the main entrance room, he turned his eyes away from some of the looks being cast at him. Brothers and sisters of the cloth, seemingly much more loyal than he. Their looks be damned as they had not experienced what the young paladin had, nor will most of then ever share similar experiences. He strode a different path than most in his order and that was that.
As he entered the main chamber, he paused and let his eyes follow the carpets up to the magnificent altar, there really is a beauty to the ornateness of its stylings. He rustled the coins in his hand and tilted his palm, allowing the coins to fall into the donation basket near the door. He noted how low its coffers seemed for this late in the day.
A small, nagging part of him hoped that this meager donation--which it itself came from a mistaken citizen--would help add a bit of spice to his prayers, maybe grant him a bit of what he had been missing. It was a foolish notion, but one the back of his mind seemingly clung to nonetheless.
He found a spot to kneel and hung his head once he rested on his knees. The sweet sounds of the choir helped him as his mind began repeating the familiar verses and phrases which even most uninitiated of the lay people used to pray. It wasn't long before the soft sounds, and repetition lulled him to sleep.
Moments later he was pulled back by gentle tapping on his shoulder and a sweet woman's voice.
"Dear..." The old priestess repeated as she poked him.
"Huh... the f*ck...?" Cillian mumbled out as he worked out of his daze.
He was started the rest of the way awake by the smack of the old woman's bony hand across his face. Her gentle voice gone, replaced by something much more scathing. She was now going on and on about the sanctity of the place he was in and that he should know better.
Cillian merely sighed and forced his large frame to stand and begin moving towards the exit. He should've known this wasn't the way to try to reconnect. Even as a squire he was at odds with the traditional sides of his faith. It is what led him down his specialized path, after all. No, he didn't need elaborate temples, and the sounds of singing to feel the warmth of the Light. He only need something to be passionate about, something to guide his young mind. More primal emotions had always been when he felt his faith the strongest, his resolve the most absolute. He was not one of the common ilk, of the common men and women who took the same oath as he. He was devout, he was refined, but in his own way. There was a lacking component to his life, a void begging to be filled. But this stone temple, the sweet voices, and the bony hand of that priest could never fill that void.
He had dropped a few coppers at Cillian's feet.
"The riff raff... poor bastard..." mumbled out from the man's lips as he tipped his hat and continued on his stroll.
Cillian shook his head as he scooped the few coppers from the ground. It was ironic, he thought to himself, as he jingled around the coins in his hand. Ironic as he was actually doing pretty well for himself--not that his current look, or demeanor showed it. Many had sought out one of his expertise with the rumors of stirrings in Icecrown again. And they offered top coin to boot.
But what good is coin, with nothing to spend it on? He had paid most off his debts, stocked a bit away in the bank, and even rounded out a new set of armor for himself. A set to show off his accomplishments as it had become adorned with various trophies from his work. Had he become too proud? Had he pushed the tenants of his faith, by spending, boozing, and boasting? Was this the cause of his lethargy?
He had come to the Cathedral District with a purpose, and it wasn't to beg for charity. Slowly, he pushed himself up from his resting place and started up the stairs of the impressive building, coins lightly sliding in his hand. Passing through the threshold of the main entrance room, he turned his eyes away from some of the looks being cast at him. Brothers and sisters of the cloth, seemingly much more loyal than he. Their looks be damned as they had not experienced what the young paladin had, nor will most of then ever share similar experiences. He strode a different path than most in his order and that was that.
As he entered the main chamber, he paused and let his eyes follow the carpets up to the magnificent altar, there really is a beauty to the ornateness of its stylings. He rustled the coins in his hand and tilted his palm, allowing the coins to fall into the donation basket near the door. He noted how low its coffers seemed for this late in the day.
A small, nagging part of him hoped that this meager donation--which it itself came from a mistaken citizen--would help add a bit of spice to his prayers, maybe grant him a bit of what he had been missing. It was a foolish notion, but one the back of his mind seemingly clung to nonetheless.
He found a spot to kneel and hung his head once he rested on his knees. The sweet sounds of the choir helped him as his mind began repeating the familiar verses and phrases which even most uninitiated of the lay people used to pray. It wasn't long before the soft sounds, and repetition lulled him to sleep.
Moments later he was pulled back by gentle tapping on his shoulder and a sweet woman's voice.
"Dear..." The old priestess repeated as she poked him.
"Huh... the f*ck...?" Cillian mumbled out as he worked out of his daze.
He was started the rest of the way awake by the smack of the old woman's bony hand across his face. Her gentle voice gone, replaced by something much more scathing. She was now going on and on about the sanctity of the place he was in and that he should know better.
Cillian merely sighed and forced his large frame to stand and begin moving towards the exit. He should've known this wasn't the way to try to reconnect. Even as a squire he was at odds with the traditional sides of his faith. It is what led him down his specialized path, after all. No, he didn't need elaborate temples, and the sounds of singing to feel the warmth of the Light. He only need something to be passionate about, something to guide his young mind. More primal emotions had always been when he felt his faith the strongest, his resolve the most absolute. He was not one of the common ilk, of the common men and women who took the same oath as he. He was devout, he was refined, but in his own way. There was a lacking component to his life, a void begging to be filled. But this stone temple, the sweet voices, and the bony hand of that priest could never fill that void.
)) 
Founded April 26, 2005