Difference between revisions of "Enderal: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 and magical senses are growing weak. My peregrination is nearing its end. I'm sitting here, gazing into the flickering fire by which I warm my hands in this cold and naked parlor of an inn, the likes of which I have visited hundreds of times. Eventually they appear as similar as two peas in a pod. My quill scrapes across the parchment while a storm approaches outside. I have sensed it coming for a long time now, noticed the dark clouds looming. Everything is about to change, you see. The flow of this world is turning. Perhaps this is also the reason why my time is almost past. I have a few final tales left to tell. 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 awaiting.

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 witness sorrow, be it in humans or animals. This trait stemmed from his childhood, of which he never spoke, not with a single soul. Despite his kind nature, this man - whom I will refer to as "Seraph" from hereon - could count few people among his trusted circle. In fact, he was actually a very lonely and sad person. Nearly every being forms a protective layer around their heart over the course of their lifetime to shield it from anguish, to prevent it from breaking too easily. The Seraph, however, left his heart open and unprotected. He gave everything he was able 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 focused on leading his comrades out of battle unharmed, providing them with additional strength through spells and using Mentalism to create magic wards which could intercept volleys of arrows. When needed, he shielded 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 by their side till the last breath. With his heavy plating he stood firm as a rock, a ray of light in the midst of battle. Friends and foes alike thanked him for it and bowed before his mercy.

In times of peace he provided the beggars and orphaned children of the Undercity with food acquired in secret from the pantries of the Order. He treated the injuries of the prostitutes abused by their brutal masters. If they attempted to express their gratitude for his service afterwards he withdrew. He would never accept a reward. Everything he did, he did in order to make the world a better place. For he saw what pain could cause, how cities were set ablaze when hopelessness reigned, spreading even more suffering in an ever-deepening spiral. He saw all the anguish, let it pierce his heart over and over again. He wished no one else would have to endure the same grief as he.

However, his generous deeds were not welcomed by everyone. His actions were disliked by several high-ranking members of the Order. Their malicious tongues spoke ill of him, claimed that he did not stand behind their holy cause if he could not destroy the enemies of Malphas and opted to keep them alive instead. They convinced the Grandmaster of posing an ultimatum to the Seraph: either he executed a prisoner of war or his title as a Keeper would be revoked and he had to leave the Order.

This devious plan finally broke the Seraph. At the sight of the pleading man at his feet he was overcome with pity. The sword slipped from his fingers and fell clattering to the ground. In that moment the Seraph decided to turn his back on the Order. He fought the ineffable misery which filled him after that the way he was used to: with light. All his belongings he gave to the poor, even his home, until he had nothing left but the clothing on his back. 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 the weather became so bitterly cold that he, huddled against the exterior wall of a house, could already feel the comforting embrace of death around his shoulders. One of the children he had given food in the past saw him sitting there. Swiftly he ran off and brought his friends. The word spread like wildfire. Soon they gathered around the Seraph, those he had helped make their life easier. The orphans, the elderly, the beggars, the prostitutes. They surrounded and hugged the Seraph, warmed him like a large blanket until the sun rose above the rooftops of the city once more.