08-09-2013, 07:40 PM
Chances are the ceremony isn't very grand. There aren't many mourners. You can hardly blame anyone: the Sept is in chaos, in tatters, and Champion of Honor is to blame. At least, that's what some people think. That he was turned. That he became the worst sort of traitor. That he was rescued at great peril, and turned on his own kind at first opportunity.
That sort of betrayer deserves no honor in death. That sort of traitor deserves a posthumous loss of rank. A smear of shame on his grave. That sort of turncoat deserves worse than that, deserves to be forgotten, deserves to be spit up, deserves to have his name struck from the records and annals of history.
There are those that think like that. And you can't blame them.
He was Fianna, though. And the Fianna talk. God, do they talk, and god, do they love a story. Some say good things and some say bad, but word goes around and around and far and wide, and in the end words gets to one Stagsman living all the way at the northern border of the state. By then the story's mutated, blown out of proportion, turned into something fantastical and even more horrific than reality was. By then, the story turns Calden's stomach.
Still. He comes by the graves. He lays white roses over the headstones.
And over Champion's, one more tribute: the shed antler of some great stag, seven points branching from the shaft; the eight snapped off and left under the arch.
That sort of betrayer deserves no honor in death. That sort of traitor deserves a posthumous loss of rank. A smear of shame on his grave. That sort of turncoat deserves worse than that, deserves to be forgotten, deserves to be spit up, deserves to have his name struck from the records and annals of history.
There are those that think like that. And you can't blame them.
He was Fianna, though. And the Fianna talk. God, do they talk, and god, do they love a story. Some say good things and some say bad, but word goes around and around and far and wide, and in the end words gets to one Stagsman living all the way at the northern border of the state. By then the story's mutated, blown out of proportion, turned into something fantastical and even more horrific than reality was. By then, the story turns Calden's stomach.
Still. He comes by the graves. He lays white roses over the headstones.
And over Champion's, one more tribute: the shed antler of some great stag, seven points branching from the shaft; the eight snapped off and left under the arch.
BECAUSE OF LIGHT AND DUTY AND REASONS.