Atin Vendet
Journeyman Protector
Many years in the future,
a snow filled valley,
an unmarked ditch, where no forestry grows...
Appropriate Song
Howling Wind Sound Effect
Funeral Pyre
The body had been burning for several hours, the flames licking the night sky, and illuminating the lazily falling snow in a harsh glow. A fierce wind kicked the flames back and forth, as a lone figure stood on the apposing side of the flames. Placed in the ditch, lay the weathered forms of duraplast armor, mixed with the occasional bit of beskar, a tradition aging back for nearly two decades now. The wind slowly howled, through the thick trees, the cry of some nocturnal animal deep in the distance.
The figures face was illuminated, as a bit of tobac was lit up from the wild flames, the cinders scattering due west. Atin Vendet ran a hand through his hair, inhaling deeply, and letting the smoke drift lazily from his nostrils. "I'm sorry, alright.", he managed. "Stories aren't supposed to end like this...", he adds. The man begins to pace back and forth, thinking, and if only to get brief respite from the biting cold, which colored his cheeks a deep shade of red.
In the flames lay the woman who birthed him, raised him, and taught him the ways of the world. How was he to know that she'd pass so soon? If she could escape a civil war, raise a child alone, and survive labor in the mines, what universal force could take her from him so early? Damaged lungs had claimed her life. She'd always sounded so well, until she wasn't. Of course, who knows how bad things had gotten in the several years since they talked.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way. I was supposed to have sent you those credits. How was I supposed to know that the stuff you were breathing every day was lethal? I was a kid, yknow? Time got ahead of me. Bills did too. I didn't mean for it to be this long...", he says sternly, walking back and forth, clearly attempting to justify himself. He knows better, and he turns to face the flames, hands in his pockets to protect against the searing cold.
"I know I've not been the kind of person you wanted to raise. I've not followed those beliefs you held so close to heart. I hope you'll forgive me, and I hope I'm at least half the son you wanted.", he says, flicking his tobbac into the blowing wind. "Wasn't your choice, but you bore it all the same. You had conviction, and determination. A well deserved word every once in a while reminded me when I was treading the wrong path, and you prepared me for a hostile world... Thank you.", he says, softly. No doubt his words drowned out by the breaking of branches, and the howling wind.
The man would place on his helmet, adorned with a toothy gaze and open maw. Sometimes people never accomplished what they imagined themselves to, and not all stories had a happy ending. When the winds carried the ashes of Ciryc Vendet's to the wind, it'd be a staunch reminder of the old memorial. Upon this hollowed ground lay the ashen remains many a family member, resolute to kill each other over some beliefs from hundreds of years ago.
As he placed her armor in the mass grave, he couldn't help but think how things might have been different. He'd said many words, and one word can make a difference. Regardless of the argument years passed, and the words unspoken, time didn't give you a second chance.
By morning, he'd take this lesson with him.
a snow filled valley,
an unmarked ditch, where no forestry grows...
Appropriate Song
Howling Wind Sound Effect
Funeral Pyre
The body had been burning for several hours, the flames licking the night sky, and illuminating the lazily falling snow in a harsh glow. A fierce wind kicked the flames back and forth, as a lone figure stood on the apposing side of the flames. Placed in the ditch, lay the weathered forms of duraplast armor, mixed with the occasional bit of beskar, a tradition aging back for nearly two decades now. The wind slowly howled, through the thick trees, the cry of some nocturnal animal deep in the distance.
The figures face was illuminated, as a bit of tobac was lit up from the wild flames, the cinders scattering due west. Atin Vendet ran a hand through his hair, inhaling deeply, and letting the smoke drift lazily from his nostrils. "I'm sorry, alright.", he managed. "Stories aren't supposed to end like this...", he adds. The man begins to pace back and forth, thinking, and if only to get brief respite from the biting cold, which colored his cheeks a deep shade of red.
In the flames lay the woman who birthed him, raised him, and taught him the ways of the world. How was he to know that she'd pass so soon? If she could escape a civil war, raise a child alone, and survive labor in the mines, what universal force could take her from him so early? Damaged lungs had claimed her life. She'd always sounded so well, until she wasn't. Of course, who knows how bad things had gotten in the several years since they talked.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way. I was supposed to have sent you those credits. How was I supposed to know that the stuff you were breathing every day was lethal? I was a kid, yknow? Time got ahead of me. Bills did too. I didn't mean for it to be this long...", he says sternly, walking back and forth, clearly attempting to justify himself. He knows better, and he turns to face the flames, hands in his pockets to protect against the searing cold.
"I know I've not been the kind of person you wanted to raise. I've not followed those beliefs you held so close to heart. I hope you'll forgive me, and I hope I'm at least half the son you wanted.", he says, flicking his tobbac into the blowing wind. "Wasn't your choice, but you bore it all the same. You had conviction, and determination. A well deserved word every once in a while reminded me when I was treading the wrong path, and you prepared me for a hostile world... Thank you.", he says, softly. No doubt his words drowned out by the breaking of branches, and the howling wind.
The man would place on his helmet, adorned with a toothy gaze and open maw. Sometimes people never accomplished what they imagined themselves to, and not all stories had a happy ending. When the winds carried the ashes of Ciryc Vendet's to the wind, it'd be a staunch reminder of the old memorial. Upon this hollowed ground lay the ashen remains many a family member, resolute to kill each other over some beliefs from hundreds of years ago.
As he placed her armor in the mass grave, he couldn't help but think how things might have been different. He'd said many words, and one word can make a difference. Regardless of the argument years passed, and the words unspoken, time didn't give you a second chance.
By morning, he'd take this lesson with him.
