Thread: Godless (RaidenTheRipper & Chariot)

Once... Once he was a good man. Once, Black Morgause had been able to hold his head high, and state that he was a good man. Virtuous and just, skilled in society and word. Once. Until the day he... offended Cyron Damaskus. Sitting, when he should have been standing, when the man's cat came into the room where he had been speaking with other members of the court. He had been on visitation, from another kingdom, trying to make a name for himself, perhaps to earn a wife amongst the nobility. Instead, the madking ordered him imprisoned, and his fellow nobles executed... on the grounds that the cat had been sitting in his lap, and so he had at least shown some respect. Prison was... informative. Titles were nothing, all that mattered was the strength of one's arm and the ability to keep oneself safe. And then, the sale to the Temple. His time with Jaemie in her training, and then his bonding to her. The realization that he did, in fact, still have some soul in himself, that he did still have something that made him human. And then the sheer dread as he heard of their summons, hiding himself inside the armor the Temple granted him, to serve as a guard to her. Hiding behind the anonymity and the facelessness... except, the King had asked to see his face, hear his name... and then had completely been without words. No recognition. Nothing. And then the war. The war, the endless war. Death and killing and laying waste. The politics were... interesting. Seeing how the Temple allowed their power to be abused in this way, wondering how they could do so... except he was simply too busy. Assassination attempts, on the 'demon witch'. Taking the pain from her wounds as his own, and knowing that it isn't in reverse... knowing that he can feel the grating of an arrow in her flesh atop that of the cuts, the wounds, the burns and broken bones... but that she can not feel the same. Keeping her alive, keeping her safe. Ten years, since he was sold into the bowels of the Temple. Ten years since that smiling young man had been pressed into shackles. Twenty-seven now, six feet tall and an inch, muscle and scars across his entire form, a massive broadsword hanging at his side. A general in his own right, if he'd served in any other army. Leading charge after charge, cutting men down as they tried to rip Jaemie apart. And rarely even uttering a sound, a word. The armor he was given shattering from a lance taking him in the chest, and a new suit replacing it, covering over the scars and bandages that never quite have time to heal. He can feel the awe that surrounds them both, the admiration from the soldiers who she commands... many of them younger, many older. All of them revering the young mage and her servant. Whispers of lust toward her, and then words refuting it, that she must be attached to her... knight. Hah. As if he has such a title. Little more than a living shield for her to channel her magic through. As he marches through the camp, wiping off blood from his gauntlets-a captured deserter had needed execution, and there was no reason to appoint a new one, after the old had taken a spear through the chest a week ago, when a raid hit their camp. So he did it himself. He lifts the tentflap, reaching up and pulling his helmet free as he does, and bows his head to Jaemie. Ma'am. he says quietly, eyes flicking downward in respect. His face is broad, but not ugly, square-jawed and strong, with a quintet of scars across it, from some odd war-beast one of the nations had sicced upon them, its claws catching him clear across the face... what, four years ago, now? An x-shape across his throat, from an attacker, the slashed neck barely slowing him as he killed the man with his bare hands, sword broken, and then headed back to Jaemie, being healed... and then trudging back out into the fray, ignoring the pain in his body. Scarred as much as she is, on every part of him. Where her nose is crooked, his is straight, with a divot taken out of the center, from the claw-marks across his face, and his jaw hangs slightly lower on the left side... a war-hammer to the face, if memory serves, knocking him sideways and keeping him even more mute until it mended. I heard there are new orders. Does the king wish us to move on from here, then? he asks, eyes still downcast... and then gradually sweeping up, fixing on her face. You know the men are ill. Sick and wounded. We need reinforcements and medicines if we are to continue, and men to carry the wounded home. he reports, voice low, almost robotic, and exhausted as he sinks into a chair, starting to slowly unbuckle his armor, hissing quietly as the armor scrapes over one of his newer wounds, unhealed as of yet. But no reason to waste magic on it, when there are so many others wounded worse.