Watcher

[dergon darkhelm]

Rathalan strode toward the Moorgate of Silverymoon, face drawn to a low scowl, his hands both tightly balled in their metal gauntlets.

“This is what they do to the old dotards they consider unfit to lead!” he muttered under his breath loudly enough to startle the old woman in front of him on the lane, who he passed by quickly with long purposeful strides.

“Rank without command. Title without authority. The right to proceed without the resources to do so. This is how a man is set aside!.”

The Helmite had been waiting nearly twenty years, since before the time of troubles, for this command posting, a long time for a Watcher even given the deliberate nature of promotion within the ranks of the Guardian’s Church. He had seen the critical need for his leadership in the village of Rivermoot as soon as he had disembarked. He had had successfully created a posting for himself there and made it his own. Now the order from above was to leave him separate of any true chain of command during a time of dire importance to the Marches.

“Rathalan Whitsword will not be set aside.” He spoke aloud as he approached the silver clad guard at the west gate.

“What’s that sir?” The flush faced youthful knight asked, thinking he was being addressed by the older man wearing the burninshed armor and vestments of Helm.

But, there was no response coming from Rathalan Whitsword. His mind was focused on how he would prove to the Battle Priests and Reverend Watchers that he was ready to lead……that he was needed to lead. He would gather the best men he could find and pay them from his own pocket if need be. Rivermoot would remain free under his vigilant direction.

He was nearly on top of Amus before he saw the distressed and teary-eyed dwarven warrior who stood crying at the road's edge. Had one of his mentor elder priest Watchers been present he would have scolded Rathalan for allowing his amibition to blind his eyes to true vigilance and duty ………and it would not have been the first time he had been so warned.

[dergon darkhelm]

It was a low, gray sky that spit a light rain upon the soldiers, commonfolk and sellswords that gathered on a grassy patch of land not far from the Rivermoot bridge. It was only 3 Marpenoth, but the chill of winter felt to already be in the air.

The attendance of militiamen, legionaires, and commonfolk was not as great as Rathalan Whitsword would have hoped or expected. It was after all one of their own, young Kilin Masonir who had fallen in the goblin raid on the village crypts. At age of ten and seven he had no kin, he had not yet taken a bride, and both of his parents had died in the burning rot fever breakout of '73. Still, the priest would have hoped for a greater communal turnout for the memorial sevvice.

His armor and shield polished and waxed to bead the rain, and wearing a silver-lined fine blue vestement adorned with his all of his previous commendation, the Helmite priest begant the service.

"Outside many a country cottage over the land, and for many generations of men, families have gathered in this way to show the respect they give for those who have fallen in service to the realm. Whether the orchard branches hung with pink spray blossoms or icicles of sleet, whether the outside news was seedtime or harvest, rain or drouth, births or deaths, the gathering is much the same.

And they gather upon the patch of land where the fallen are commerated. We can not more greatly consecrate, we can not further hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who have struggled here in recent years and years beyond our momory, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract with our words and prayers. It is from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion.

When collected here to pause and reflect upon a life given in service to these Blessed Silver Marches, we can not help to give consideration to our own sense of service. The questions ring in our ears and burn inside our very souls. What do we live for? What will we die for, if given the chance? It may be that those we leave behind may linger in bitterness and sorrow. It may even be that some would plead with Helm, and bargain at the end, if offered, and trade their fate with some other poor soul.

But not young Kilin Masonir. He stood and gave the greatest sacrifice when the time came to him. And through seeing his example, and in knowing of his passing to Celestia to sit always and eternal with the Everwatcher, we ourselves hear the answer to the questions.

For there is an enemy abroad, a wolf, he circles the pallisades seeking the defenseless and those already defeated in their cravenness, or fear, or selfish disinterest as evil walks the world. We can pretend it is not there. We can wish a champion – someone else.... not us... against it. We can just try to get along with it, we can even seek out terms of surrender or accommodation. But someday, we will be caught abed. And wake, if we do, to the wolf not just at the door, but devouring our gentle ones.

We live to defend those that cannot defend themselves. We live to keep free and righteous these Marches so that men may live peacefully and take their bounty.

Will we die if called upon? ....We will. And we will know in that last extremis the greatest blessing of Helm. We will know that the Great Guardian indeed watches and cares for us and those that we leave behind.

We leave this hallowed place, consecrated with the blood spilled by Dutiful and righteous men, renwed in our Vigilance against the evil that walks. We are buoyed by the selfless actions of the fallen, and know that we have the strength within ourselves to act as Hilin Masonir acted, should the time come that we are called upon to act.

Go this day, all of you, and know the blessings of Helm, The Great Guardian, The Everwatcher."



Rathalan Whitsword remained at the site of the service for a long while after all others had departed. His gray hair was sodden and his cloak so soaked that it dragged on the ground, becoming muddied with his steps around the grounds. His face seemed more deeply lined, rings around his eyes openly showed his fatigue. The priest then offered is own personal prayer for strength....a prayer for the strength to carry his Duty forward in increasingly dark times.

[Riotnrrd]

Can almost like him... for an instant.

Great stuff! Keep it coming!

[johnlewismcleod]

Please, sir...may I have another?

[dergon darkhelm]

Single file the priests of Helm descended the marble stairs into the crypts below The House Invincible. The clergy, ranging in age from a new acolyte having seen not 20 years to the venerable Overblade Grikonor, frail with age, steadying his gate with a cane, passed through a gantlet of Watch Knights their mail poished to gleam in the torchlight of the basements.

The procession finally came upon a stone sarcohagus, lying near to cutout in the wall where the casket would be entombed. Awaiting them in his formal Vestements was Guardian Rathalan Whitsword. Though still fit, his advancing had begun to show ever more in the recent months. The lines about his eyes were deep, his hair now fully grayed. In his left hand he held a decorated large sword, in his right the Tome of Duty, Helm's sacred text.

Silence came to the crypt as the last of the priests entered the room. Whitsword lightly cleared his throat and began to speak.

WE are here today, my brothers in faith, before the highest authority of our land, to unite with the others of our worship in the memorial services of our late lamented and endeared Lemuel Ogdenstorm. The mysterious events of a wise Providence have taken from us a stalwart defender of these blessed Silver Marches, and a bereaved Confederation mourns. A cruel and ruthless hand has smitten him down, and bathed us all in tears. We have come to mingle our sorrows; to dwell upon his virtues, and to learn such lessons as his untimely death is calculated to teach.

Rarely, since time began, has the departure of one man filled so many hearts with sadness, and rarely have so many gathered in this House Invincible, on one occasion of mourning, as will be gathered this day. The cruel manner of our comrade's death; the loss of so much experience, talent, and honest purpose, and the sundering of so many cords of personal love, all conspire to make the event one of the most mournful interest. All the aligned goodly faiths of the realm tender us their sympathy, and unite with us in sorrowing over our sad bereavement.

Though at first unknown, hailing from the farm village of Daggerford afar, Lemuel Ogdenstorm's signal ability and devotion soon secured our confidence and respect. He had neither pomp nor aristocracy in his veins. He was born and always lived among the common people. All his associations were with that class who obtained a livelihood by honest toil, and who cherish the domestic virtues. Believing these virtues to be the underlying elements of all elevated humanity, whether in high life or in low, he took them to himself. He had no sympathy with that so-called high, chivalrous life, which ignores purity, affection and love. We saw his holy faith; his cheerful disposition; his persistency in the right; his reliance on divine support; his integrity, and his firmness, and our hearts went out toward him. In the realms which he protected men clustered around him as the magnetic gnomish sands around the needle, or as a family of children around a father, when a beast of prey howls around the dwelling. They felt a great security while he was guiding their destinies, and worked on in cheerfulness and in hope.

We should have been sad, indeed, had he fallen by disease. Yet, had Talona sent some messenger of sickness or accident to cut him off we should have had the grief, without the indignation; but when cruelty and atrocity are added, our cup is more than full. Our grief, our sense of justice, our holy and unholy cravings for revenge, are all aroused, and our collective righteous heart cries out for redress from the depths of her sorrow.

But Knightblade Lemuel Ogdenstorm and his cruel murderer are both gone to their reward, and we will not pause to scrutinize further this mysterious Providence. Justice has been defrauded of her dues. Millions of curses roll over those dark doers and corrupt and profane, the likes of which brough Lemuel low. The execrations of posterity will sink them deeper and deeper in infamy.

Lemuel Ogdenstorm’s name will stand upon the pages of history as a great martyr, and will be honored and admired to the end of time. Many men have lived for Faerun. Lemuel Ogdenstorm died for it; and so long as a monument of Silver Marches greatness and virtue shall stand, this tomb will be visited and revered.

So know this now, all you gathered here and proclaim it through the whole of these Blessed Silver Marches, the Knightblade Lemuel Ogdenstorm is a fallen hero of Helm. Let us think of his sacrifice as we go forth to do Duty in the name Everwatcher and Great Guardian.

Go now in Duty and Vigilance, faithful of Helm.

*the clergy all then leave the crypts, except for Rathalan Whitsword and a few acolytes who remain and place the sarcophagus into its final place. A sealing stone of marble, inscribed in silver is tapped into place with a large, soft mallet. The inscription reads simply:

Knightblade Lemuel Ogdenstorm
DR 1358-1376
Hero of Helm

[Brokenbone]

Aw, eulogies are always a good part of ALFA IC camaraderie.

True even when lifted from memorials to Abe Lincoln, but hey! I had to plagiarize some Hitler oath of loyalty for a Sembian thieves' guild swearing in before, there is nothing new under the sun as they say.