Name/Pseudonym: {raulonastool}
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I am a warrior. War is all I’ve known. I’ve come to this place to rid myself of the memories of battle and free myself from these unabating nightmares. The monks chant in ancient tongues, and the grand priest washes my hair with blessed water. His assistant slaps my arms and legs with the branches of a willow tree. The grand priest begins his ritual.
“Close your eyes. Imagine a ball of purifying light floating above the crown of your head. Enjoy the feeling as the light enters your body. Filling your skull like a glass of wine, relaxing all of the muscles of your face and jaw.”
I am a warrior. War is all I’ve known. The air feels cold on my face. A different kind of cold than the steel of my helm, an openness to the elements. Without my visor, the sun’s glare seems overwhelming. I can’t shrug off the faces of my dying comrades. Or the once-faces of my victims when I retrieve my mace.
“Now imagine the light moving down into your chest. Pumping your heart and heaving your lungs with kindness and love.”
I am a warrior. War is all I’ve known. “Tempest Shout,” they called us. Our demon husk armor and hard leather belts are recognized everywhere we go. When they hear our battle cry, they know a storm is coming—leaving a trail of destruction in our wake.
“The light flows into your arms and legs, making you feel lighter. As if you were floating in an endless sea.”
I am a warrior. War is all I’ve known. My hands and feet feel light, but only because they are unburdened by studded leather boots and heavy gloves. However, deeply entrenched in my bones is the weight of the lives I’ve squeezed out with these very fingertips. My calloused feet, numb from constant marching to orders of kings I’ve never met.
“The light dissipates into the air around you, leaving you an empty vessel. And with that, my brother, you are free.”
The chanting stops…
What is this place? What am I doing here?
Who am I?
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