"It's a lot, but it's worth it."
Reblogged
-- a testament to shadow
wc: 787
In light of the past has it been known - come to be known by outsider and foreigner alike - that through the flames of the day of deviants, the records of old of our order, the Fist of Rhalgr, have been rendered ash. Left to the decades of denial beneath the three-eyed hammer, it falls to us now, the still-flickering flame, to tread old ground anew, that those to follow must not repeat our failures, our mistakes.
So it is now that I, Master Caelrin Morra, Fist of Rhalgr, put ink to scroll with righteous purpose to carve this legacy anew; divine testament, explanation to outsider and foreigner alike, what it means now to be of Shadow, freed from its bloody shackles. A guidance for the new - a declaration to the old.
The sect of Shadow. What is at war is healthy; what is at peace is sick. So it was. So it is.
Reblogged
A portrait for @berrodarmstrong of the eponymous Highlander, Berrod Armstrong!
It brings me so much joy to see you going forth and living your BEST LIFE, making your character look the way you always wanted him to be. Watching you go through this journey has been an honor, and I appreciate your friendship very much.
I had just done a bunch of keyboard mashing in response to this but I decided to backspace it and actually say something coherent -- thank you so much for this, and for your support regarding the changes I’ve made! The feeling is mutual, I appreciate your friendship massively!
That said -- this art is so amazing! The skin, the hair, the fur -- the life and light in his eyes. Your art remains unique and striking! I’m absolutely honoured to have Berrod drawn by you and I will treasure this!
The Paladin of Rhalgr - Rhalgr’s Will.
“With this blade, with this shield, with my flesh, blood, bone and soul, I will protect my friends, my loved ones, and the people of Gyr Abania who cannot protect themselves. I do so in the name of the Destroyer, as a Paladin of Rhalgr.”
So goes the oath of a Paladin of Rhalgr. This oath becomes the conduit of the Paladin’s power, the focal point through which many of their abilities are amplified and exercised. Many of these abilities require a strong body, a sound mind and a steady soul. At the same time, the Paladin must be able to endure the relentless onslaught of foes if needed. The demand placed upon them is by no means a small one.
This is where the Paladin’s faith proves to be the connection between oath and action. The belief in the Destroyer and His will is declared in word, deed, or both. It can be a spoken prayer, a gesture, or simply a presentation of sigils or geometry upon one’s garments and attire -- though the first two tend to be more effective in conveying faith. The Paladin acknowledges that everything they do through their oath, they do in accordance with Rhalgr’s will. This belief interacts with both the crystal and the oath itself and provides a holy strength and fervor that prepares them to push past their physical and spiritual limits.
Such holy resolve, however, is often noticed by many who would harm those under a Paladin’s charge. It may mean that every swing of the sword and bash of the shield will incur more ire, more violence. This is a favourable result, for if a foe wishes to do harm to Rhalgr’s faithful, it is the Paladin they must answer to. Naturally this is not something anyone can simply pick up and do. It requires a great deal of physical and spiritual training -- as well as the faith to see it through.
So writes Berrod Armstrong, Paladin of Rhalgr.
((Please understand that these writings are extrapolations upon existing lore, and based on my own character’s studies and experience. If lore is released that forces adjustments, I’ll be more than happy to do so, but in the meantime, I’ll play in the sandbox that was provided. That being said, if you feel the need to…attack me or my writing over this – please reconsider. I assure you, that time and energy will be better spent leaving me the hell alone. Thanks for understanding! For those who enjoy this, thanks for reading!))
Reblogged
POC WoL Week Prompt 6: Trusty Steed
Characters Featured: Berrod Armstrong and his chocobo, Thunder.
Berrod acquired Thunder as a…company chocobo at first, to help him travel to the places he needed to go for work. Their relationship got off to a rocky start. They kicked each other a lot. Over the years, however, they have formed a bond of trust though their experiences and growing respect for one another.
That said – ramble time.
After a great deal of encouragement from my friends today I finally decided to make Berrod look the way I’ve always wanted him to. I always hesitated or minimized the changes because I had so much art, story, and screenshots, but I can make new stuff from now on. I’ve got a lot to change and update, but it’s worth it. I’m so, so pleased with this! Thank you for the encouragement, folks!
Prompt # 10 - Avail
Berrod was no stranger to fear, but there was a particular brand of fear that always threatened to pull the ground from under his feet. It was a fear rooted in seeing someone he cared about injured beyond hope, beyond saving. A familiar figure marred by wounds that none could heal. That very fear gripped him when he saw the young monk’s collapsed chest. He knew that wound. He had dealt such wounds himself, and was very much aware that she was not long for the world.
Berrod had prepared himself to go after the one who had done this to her, to at least bring them to justice. Already his mind raced with appropriate funeral rites for an ascetic. It was then that the conjurer swept past him in a blur to kneel near the young monk and call for assistance. The young monk’s companion stomped through the mud to do so without hesitation, his eyes wide, his lips thin. Yes, there was fear, but he had clearly clung to hope.
It was then, with a healthy helping of shame, Berrod remembered himself, and the role he chose -- to protect them. Justice was all good and fine, but he was in a position to help the young monk see justice done. When he thought about it, the forest knight had only just earlier taught him the key to utilizing his healing prayers effectively. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. It had to be the work of that burning star, guiding him from above.
Those thoughts opened the floodgates of hope, purpose, determination and belief -- late though it was, for the conjurer was already giving her all. With sword and shield in hand, he got down on his knees in the mud next to the conjurer. His blade sank deep into the muck and he clutched the leather grip with both hands to begin fervent prayer.
"Though it was a star of fire, earth and lightning that saw us to salvation, know that soothing winds and churning waters were what brought us home. May the waters replenish your blood, may the winds ease your pain. May His clemency see you home. In the Destroyer's name I pray."
"In one are Twelve, and man cannot live by one alone. Strike ye the tower, Lord Rhalgr and spur Builder to assist. May twin levin mend, restore and fortify, and flash in a great flame so that Sister Fate and Brother Time know that we beg for her time on this land to extend."
He would give the conjurer all he could and more, give what little push he could to support her in her battle. Hope was alive in the three gathered around the young monk, and Berrod intended to see it not only preserved, but realised.
Prompt #9- Lush
The vines grew at a speed Berrod’s eyes could see -- hells, his eyes could barely keep up with them. Thin sproutlings thickened to thick, sturdy and heavy tendrils from which leaves sprouted. He heard the rustle and the crack of the thin bark along the main strands. They wound around the bodies of his assailants, binding them fast to the lush ground below. It was all he could do to scramble out of the way, for Berrod was sure that the vines would claim him indiscriminately as well. He had heard the stories of what the forest could do. It was when he stumbled backward awkwardly and almost lost his footing he had registered the words that the knight in green had said. He saw the man’s outstretched hand, clearly commanding the growth. It was magic that he had never expected to come from a fighter bearing a sword and shield, and it puzzled him to no end. Who was this man, this forest knight?
Prompt #7 - Nonagenarian
The day had been anything but uneventful.
Berrod shifted in his bed roll and was met with a slight bump back from his chocobo. To beat the chill of the night air in Oriens he had laid close to the feathery beast -- not that he would have had much choice otherwise. There were a dozen other refugees and four pack chocobos piled into the small clearing of the former Castrum -- the only space the Alliance could afford them. Having endured the journey from Thanalan however, Berrod could say with confidence that none of them were weak, or lacking. They made their camp, set up their bed rolls -- even a wary perimeter, even though Berrod knew it wasn’t necessary here. It made no sense telling them. They’d learn in time.
As he settled into comfort, Berrod felt energy seep from his limbs. It was his body’s way of committing to the rest he had set himself up for. Yet, his mind burned as bright as a torch. Much had happened, from the odd armoured knight in the woods, to the elder’s visit and the resulting fiasco in the Dimwold. The matter of the knight -- the ‘forest knight’ Berrod had dubbed him, when speaking of it to his companion -- was a mostly straightforward thing; a strange armoured man with a blade and odd magics that seemed based on the earth and life there. He had been outnumbered, caught on the wayside of the Spire road by a gang of poachers. Berrod chanced to be scouting the way to the wall and gave himself no choice but to assist, even if he wasn’t sure that the knight was even a mortal man until he saw him bleed. The knight fought so fervently in defense of the wood that Berrod had begun to wonder if his own presence had been necessary at all. Nevertheless, after the battle the pair had exchanged short words, and Berrod was rewarded with the key to unlocking the effectiveness of one of his prayers...as exhausting as the prayer itself was. It was half the reason he could barely move in the bed roll.
With the battle done, the forest knight aided Berrod in escorting the refugees to the border, where they left him behind with thanks and passed through the wall into Oriens. Once Berrod had been sure of the man’s...mortality via seeing him bleed, he had gauged his stature (and tail-lessness) to judge him as hyur. Further to that, when tending to the knight’s wounds, he had seen dark skin. A highlander -- likely from over the wall, by his own judgement, and the way the fellow had seemed to wax wistful over the mention of returning home. It was in that spirit that Berrod unsubtly provided an offer for the knight to come with them...though it was smoothly and politely glossed over. It didn’t matter too much, he had the feeling that they would meet again in time.
His day had not ended there -- once he had made sure that the refugees were comfortably settled in Oriens, he excused himself to attend a regular gathering of monks and other like minds at a cabin in the Dimwold. There, he was introduced to the guest speaker for the evening, an elder who had spent the past three decades in hermitage in the mountains -- if her age had been mentioned, it eluded him. As a result, he simply just assumed she was in her nineties. The accuracy of that mattered little to him. They say around the fire as she spoke of her life -- a life of parallels to his that bothered and incensed him. Berrod knew the difference between a time to speak and a time to listen, however, and remained without comment for most of what she shared.
His frustrations compounded when they were spurred into action -- somehow Flora had found herself...no, not somehow. She had left the sanctuary he had assured her and ended up assaulted as a result. Anger aside, there was nothing more important than aiding in saving her life, and so he recalled the forest knight’s brief lesson in clemency to provide support to his companion’s healing. The effort was a success, but cost him the energy that would be needed to aid the others in fighting -- and so, he stayed on the sidelines and waited. From there, he was able to observe much and more...including patterns in the behaviour of his peers that displeased him deeply. For a while he debated whether it was his place anymore to even address such things with them...but he remembered how the idea of withdrawal and inaction infuriated him. No, he would say his piece to them, and from there the torch would be passed for them to do with it what they would. More than once he did wonder if leaving the monkhood was a mistake -- but those doubts were quickly smothered by his sense of purpose. He was still there among them, the only thing that had changed was how he served.
One piece of advice Berrod had always given to people was never to go to bed angry. That night, in his bedroll, next to his chocobo from which he leeched warmth, he failed himself.
Prompt #4 - Clinch
Berrod’s vision swam. Air had been denied to him and the pressure on his neck was becoming too much to bear. Thick and strong as it was, the arm that had hooked around it was thicker and stronger. He tried his best to hold on to his sword to get a slash in, but it went wild. Finally it clattered to the floor next to his feet. Ordinarily it would be a difficult, but more or less straightforward affair to break out of a hold like this, but only one of his arms was of any use. His shield arm had been dislocated from an earlier blow, the pain blasting from his shoulder with every slight shift...not that there were any -slight- shifts. The woman who held onto him jerked him about like a side of ham. It was no different from the way she had absolutely trounced him during their fight, there was hardly a moment that she didn’t have the upper hand. Her experience and strength overshadowed his by a great deal.
The agony was probably the only reason he’d been able to stay awake as long as he had. His good leg began to buckle. The other one was already limp, bearing a nasty slash along the thigh through the thick, blood-slicked leather. It hadn’t been on the inside of it -- nowhere vital, mostly superficial, but the combination of injuries he had sustained made it difficult to move -anything-.
He made a desperate bid to elbow her with the disarmed sword arm, but she used her own free arm to capture it, -wrench it- and pop it out of the socket with a horrible grinding report. There was no air for Berrod to scream as he wished, the pain was excruciating. All he could manage in his purple-faced captivity was a pitiful groan. Every last muscle on his body tensed, which only triggered more pain. It was too much for him to bear. She had him.
The last thing he saw before the darkness were his two companions rushing desperately to him. In that moment he offered a prayer to Rhalgr; an offering of thanks for the life he lived, and a plea for forgiveness that his possibly final thoughts rested on his friends prevailing, rather than a montage of his loved ones.
Prompt #1: Crux
“Strength in Rhalgr,” The visiting monk had said as she departed through the office door.
Berrod offered her a slight, though pleasant smile as a gesture of reassurance. It was a rare thing for his smiles to last any longer than a moment. Dust on windswept stone. When the brief twitch of his lips abated, however, his features became fury etched in granite.
The sun sagged low in the Thanalan sky above the Goblet, filtered through a haze of dust near the horizon to cast a sharp red light through his office windows. It lit the Ala Mhigan furnishings he had painstakingly acquired ablaze; the blooming reflection of it cast upon the walls and his sigiled armour to provide his anger with validating crimson incandescence.
Someone threatened what he had sworn to protect. Someone had stepped within the bounds of his oath, and within a circle of it that spoke little of mercy. There were motivations for such action -- that much he understood when his visitor had explained the situation to him, but the actions so carelessly and violently taken were inexcusable. Bands of fools toying with the stability of a nation still struggling to adapt to its new reality, one side of which endangered members of a legacy that he intended to become a part of that nation. Members of his faith. His friends, his family.
A sudden rattle from his weapon stand pulled his attention. His blade shook violently in its holdings, aglow with the influence of his holy fury. It did surprise him; it was the first time his oath had resonated so powerfully since the decisive battle with his teacher. The blade was a scimitar, though in grand fashion. It was like brass in appearance, though the specially smelted metal he had painstakingly acquired held very few of the actual properties of brass itself. A red gem was embedded at the base of the blade near the guard, and from it were traced channels along the length of it to conduct aether. It was a magnificent, masterfully crafted piece that he dearly hoped to prove himself worthy of.
The red gem was bright and blazing, and the channels alight with scintillating purple. The entire length of the blade threatened to topple the stand with how vigorously it shook, and so Berrod stepped closer to take it up into his hand. Metal scraped as he lifted it from the rack and held it aloft. For a moment the light from it was blinding, like a bolt from the sky. Berrod expected thunder, but it never came. The glow simply faded, having been an affirmation of his drive and his purpose. It left him standing there as the sun set and the red blaze around him simmered into lamp-lit embers.
No source of light left burned brighter than the green of his eyes. If someone threatened his fellowship and refused to back down, they would die by his sword as an offering to the Destroyer.
“In His name I smite our foes.”
An Oath in Crystal
The sun bore down on the salty shores of the Lochs. It was a dry, still day that the imposing fortress city of Ala Mhigo framed along the mountain lake’s edge. A pair of Highlanders stood upon the white-crusted dirt, not ten yalms from the deceivingly gentle lapping water.
“You’re giving this to me, just like that?”
Berrod stared at the small, light blue crystal in the palm of his hand. The etched markings on it seemed to catch the light in a way that made him think it glowed. Did it? Did it not? It was hard to tell. He lifted an incredulous gaze to the woman who had just handed it over to him. She stood, tall and proud, her skin a rich brown, her curly black hair braided in intricate patterns along the side of her head that gave way to weighty locks on her shoulders. Her armour was a stunning combination of dark blue and golden coloured chain and plate that only served to accentuate the blazing amber of her eyes. Slowly, and with a knowing smile, she shook her head. “No, not just like that. You know what you have to do. We’ve trained for it. Now it’s time for you to stand and show me that it wasn’t in vain.”