Iron
Posted: Sat Oct 31, 2009 11:28 am
Barid Mosinel walked the stone corridors of Templar's Hold with a rage that would burn the world if he did not contain it. His fury sharpened his features, turning his normally handsome face into a diabolic caricature of a man. One of his Squires stepped up to approach the Priest, but quickly stepped aside and looked away upon seeing the emotion play across a face that was normally controlled with the strictest of discipline, the gauntlets on his hands clenched together so tightly, the metal must be cutting into the skin.
Iron, I am Iron. This can not be changed, and so I move past it. He repeated a mantra within his mind, trying to bring the inferno of emotion back under it's carefully kept lock and key. But his thoughts wandered away, his discipline escaping him for the moment. That fool! What does he know of my loss?! What does he know of my family and what they would want?! I have made these sacrifices for them!
His feet rounded the corridor and the Priest made his way down the corridor to his room, the heavy footsteps echoing in time with the thoughts of his mind. Selfish? I have sacrificed everything to ensure no one suffers what I did. What does a foolish boy, so blinded by the Light of his own god know of sacrifice! That pompous face and expression, the pity! HE DARED TO PITY ME! HE DARED TO SPEAK FOR THE WISHES OF MY WIFE! MY SON! Barid approached the door to his quarters and opened it with a slam, quickly closing it with another and locked it.
The Priest forcibly unclenches his fists, and removes his gauntlets throwing them across the room with a shout of rage. All is still for a moment as his thoughts coalesce for a new storm of fury and hate for the Lathandarite that had made him revisit such pain. Yet, in the quiet before that storm, a sound of dripping is heard. He looks down and notices blood dripping from his hands onto the stone floor, slowly pooling in the cracks. He had never noticed the pain. And with that, the Priest shoves his fury back under control through the strength of his will. Iron feels no pain. I am Iron. The white hot rage begins to simmer and cool, draining away from the surface, not extinguishing, but quieting down, waiting to be stoked once more and released from it's confines.
I am as hard as Iron, yet the fool nearly made me lose control. I must be harder still. Harder then Iron.
Barid Mosinel began to calmly wrap his hands in bandages and carefully began to order his thoughts, resolving to make himself harder then Iron.
Iron, I am Iron. This can not be changed, and so I move past it. He repeated a mantra within his mind, trying to bring the inferno of emotion back under it's carefully kept lock and key. But his thoughts wandered away, his discipline escaping him for the moment. That fool! What does he know of my loss?! What does he know of my family and what they would want?! I have made these sacrifices for them!
His feet rounded the corridor and the Priest made his way down the corridor to his room, the heavy footsteps echoing in time with the thoughts of his mind. Selfish? I have sacrificed everything to ensure no one suffers what I did. What does a foolish boy, so blinded by the Light of his own god know of sacrifice! That pompous face and expression, the pity! HE DARED TO PITY ME! HE DARED TO SPEAK FOR THE WISHES OF MY WIFE! MY SON! Barid approached the door to his quarters and opened it with a slam, quickly closing it with another and locked it.
The Priest forcibly unclenches his fists, and removes his gauntlets throwing them across the room with a shout of rage. All is still for a moment as his thoughts coalesce for a new storm of fury and hate for the Lathandarite that had made him revisit such pain. Yet, in the quiet before that storm, a sound of dripping is heard. He looks down and notices blood dripping from his hands onto the stone floor, slowly pooling in the cracks. He had never noticed the pain. And with that, the Priest shoves his fury back under control through the strength of his will. Iron feels no pain. I am Iron. The white hot rage begins to simmer and cool, draining away from the surface, not extinguishing, but quieting down, waiting to be stoked once more and released from it's confines.
I am as hard as Iron, yet the fool nearly made me lose control. I must be harder still. Harder then Iron.
Barid Mosinel began to calmly wrap his hands in bandages and carefully began to order his thoughts, resolving to make himself harder then Iron.