Eldried the dark; messenger of the High Marshal
The warrior stood still in the battlefield, blood dripping from his cloak and blade alike he gazed blindly into the distance ignoring even the crows that perched upon him as they ate their fill of the fallen. Bodies surrounded him – soldiers of the Wyld, guardians of Mhoried, even some goblins likely scavenging the battlefield that must have come to close to the warrior's blades. From the carnage about the battle must have been ferocious thought Robhan, yet now this warrior simply stood devoid of purpose – he made no move to bind his wounds, to clean his blade, or even shelter from the rain that grew fiercer by the moment.
Acolyte Paeghan, unnerved by the sight, stammered some excuse and left to search for wounded that might need aid elsewhere on the battlefield; so the High Marshal approached the warrior alone. ‘Child of Haelyn’ spoke the Marshal. ‘How came you here? As friend or foe to Mhoried? Your body bleeds – the wounded, aye even mercenaries of the Wyld should they swear peace – are tended in the camp over yonder by my brethren – there is no need to stand and die here as so many have already this bloody day’. The man made no response nor gave sign he had heard the High Marshal’s words; the High Marshal narrowed his gaze and when he spoke again the blood of Anduiras was in his voice and none of mortal blood could hear and ignore ‘turn and face me child of Haelyn, stand before Haelyn’s voice and speak of your honour or beg repentance for your sins’. The dark man stirred finally at the sound and turned to face the High Marshal, the hollowness of death heavy in his eyes.
‘Who am I? I was rage, I was vengeance, I was purpose forged at birth and honed through childhood to singularity. Now? I am hollow, I am empty, I am done – and there is no longer purpose.’ He sighed slowly, as if finally recognizing the wounds that covered him and drowned any sign of which side he had fought for or lord he might have followed. ‘Your care is for the living priest and there is no living left in me – there is no redemption for those such as me and bleak nothingness alone can be my fate’.
The High Marshal frowned, ‘redemption is Haelyn’s to give, and His the decision to whom it shall be given - judge not for Him nor consider your life over ‘til it ends. Your wounds are serious – but will heal cleanly given treatment. My care is for all those souls that yet wander Cerilia – aye and any beyond that have yet to face His judgment. I see before me a man – a sinner as so many are most likely, but few are so depraved that they cannot seek some measure of redemption before they pass this life. To stand yet in this field of dead you must have skill and courage – Haelyn ever has use for such man will they but serve a greater purpose than their own greed. So know this, should you indeed die this day, lost and abandoned by whatever demons have driven you to this place, you die with salvation but a step before you, have you but the courage to lift your head and follow the path of light from this day forth.
And without words the dark haired man followed the golden priest from that moment forth and tended to the wounded and dying without pause or complaint until the field was cleared and was named Eldried by the acolytes in memory of the hound of that name that had long followed the High Marshal in battle.
