Enderal:Tales of the Wanderer: The Seraph

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Tales of the Wanderer:
The Seraph

I'm sitting here, old and gray. My feet once carried me through all times and countries. Yet I've slowly come to realize that my body, my magical senses grow weak. My peregrination is coming to an end. I'm sitting here, gazing into the flickering fire with which I'm warming my hands in this cold and naked parlour of an inn, the likes of which I visited hundreds of times. Eventually the seem as alike as two peas in a pod. My quill scrapes across the parchment as a storm is approaching outside. I sense it coming for a long time now, the dark clouds it brings along in its wake. Everything will change, you'll see. The flow of this world is turning. Perhaps this is also the reason why my time to perish draws near. This legend about extraordinary fighters was once passed on to me by a wise man. It reminds us that no matter how dark the night might seem, a new dawn is always waiting for us. And it's one of my final tales.

A long time ago there lived a man, a Keeper of the Order, an ambassador of Malphas. For this man the worst thing to experience was to see sorrow, no matter if it was in humans or animals. This trait arose from his childhood, which he never talked about, with no soul. It's not that this man, which we will call “Seraph” for now, rallied a whole lot of trusted people around him. In fact he actually was very lonely and sad human. Nearly every being puts a protective layer around its heart over the course of its lifetime, to shield it from inner anguish. The Seraph however left his heart open and unprotected. He gave everything he was capable to give to others.

In his numerous battles for the Order he never killed an enemy. As a Keeper, trained in fighting one-on-one, this is most extraordinary. He concentrated on leading his comrades out of battle unharmed and in one piece. He strengthened them with spells, put up magic wards through Mentalism to intercept the rain of arrows. If necessary, he protected the injured with his own body. The light of his magic healed their wounds, no matter how terrible they were, and if they were too grave, he cradled them into their death, remaining on their side to the last breath. With his heavy plating he stood as firm as a rock, a ray of light in the midst of the battle. Friends and foes alike thanked him for it and bowed before his mercy.

In times of peace he provided the beggars and orphan children of the Undercity with food which he secretly stole from the pantries of the Order. He treated the injuries of the whores abused by their brutal masters. If they wanted to express their gratitude for his service afterwards he abstinently withdrew. He would have never accepted a reward. Everything he did, he did to make the the world a better place. For he saw what pain can cause, how cities were set ablaze. — He saw all the anguish, let it pass into his heart. He wanted that no one else had to feel the same grief as he did.

However, his generous deeds were not welcomed by everyone. There were several high-ranking members of the Order who disliked his actions. Their malicious tongues spoke ill of him, said that he does not stand behind their cause if he could not destroy the enemies of Malphas, but instead keeping them alive. They convinced the Grandmaster and threatened him to revoke his permissions and his title as Keeper of the Order. He was given a choice: He had to either execute a prisoner of war or he had to leave the Order.

This devious plan finally broke him. The sheer sight of the pleading man to his feet overpowered him with pitifulness. The sword sank out of his fingers and fell rattling down to the ground. He decided to turn his back on the Order. The ineffable misery that filled him after that, he fought the way he was used to: with light. He gave away all his belongings, even his home, to the poor, until he had nothing left but the clothing on his body. A tremendous sacrifice, though it did not cause him the slightest bit of trouble.

Before long the severe winter came. He had no shelter, no warm clothes to protect him from the cold. One night it was that bad that he, leaning against the exterior wall of a house, could already feel the comforting embrace of death around his shoulders. One of the children he helped saw him sitting there. Swiftly it ran off and brought his friends. The word spread like wildfire. Soon they gathered around him, those which he helped making their life easier. The orphan children, the elderly, the beggars, the whores. They surrounded and hugged the Seraph, warmed him like a large blanket until the sun rose above the roofs of the city.