By Autumn's Dawn

[Garak Nightchill]

The first faint flickers of dawn filtered through the eastern window, illuminating the the upper chamber of the Church.  Still obscured in shadow, Roland stirred to wakefulness, discarding the threadbare blanket that covered him.  Rubbing his chilled limbs in an bid to warm them, Roland slowly rose from the second worn blanket that lay across the cold stone floor.  There was still time yet before winter's icy touch had Cove fully in it's grip, but Roland knew some things were inevitable and the passing of the seasons was one of them.

Still, such things were to be endured without comment or complaint.  Cupping his hands together, he scooped up some water from a pail and splashed it over his face, the shock of the cold water washing away the last vestiges of sleep.  There was much of Avatar's work to be done this day and the weaknesses of the flesh no excuse for failure.  Picking up a small battered mirror and a razor-sharp blade, Roland carefully shaved himself.  A small iron ankh hung around his neck.

His bathing complete, Roland knelt on the floor and bowed his head, dutifully carrying out his morning prayers.  That done, he rose to his feet and opened a chest.  Impassively he studied it's contents.  An immaculately white surcoat lay atop his meticulously cared for armour.  Roland's critical eye noted that some of the chain links were missing, the armour in need of minor repairs.  But for all that, it was faultlessly polished and protected from the damp. 

Having pulled the chainmail tunic over a padded undertunic, Roland then carefully secured the ringmail sleeves.  Having donned his armour, the tendrils of sunlight reflecting off it in a dazzling sheen, the squire studied his surcoat.  Feeling the soft cotten material in callused fingers for a moment, he pullied it over his head and smoothed it over the armour.  Armoured in Faith as strong as steel and immovable as stone, the surcoat was a proclamation of his service to the Avatar and His church.

At the bottom of the chest lay his sword, Wytchbane.  With that sword he had fought orcs, undead, demons and the ophidians.  The surcoat may herald his service to Avatar, but that sword was the instrument with which he did Avatar's work.  Oiled nightly with a regularity born of habit and prudence, the blade was kept scabbarded and even that was wrapped in a blanket to keep it safe from rust.  He himself may sleep fitfully, shivering in the cold and damp, but the sword was coddled as a mother would a newborn child.

Slowly removing the blade from it's scabbard, relishing the rasp of steel brushing against toughened leather, he studied the blade with a practiced eye, looking for notches in the blade or the blemish of rust on it's flat.  Satisfied, he pulled a whetstone from the chest and with slow measured strokes he sharpened the blade, honing it razor-sharp.  For a moment fresh sunlight played off the mirrored steel as he raised it aloft, then faded into shadow as he resheathed it.  He then removed a cloth and a container of liquid and began rubbing oil into the sword belt, scabbard and his boots, keeping the leather well-fed and supple. 

His chores done, swordbelt tied around his waist, the squire strode down the steps into the back section of the Church where he found a jug of fresh water and a loaf of bread.  Allowing himself the luxury of a few minutes, Roland broke his fast before exiting the Church.

Taking a deep breath of the brisk morning air, Roland pulled on his ringmail gloves and slid his coif over his head.  Already the night watch were heading towards the barracks, fatigue making their movements erratic.  Torchlight shone from the Barracks as the day watch traded jests and friendly insults with those who now headed off to their beds in exhaustion.  Roland paid this little heed as he fastened his shield onto his left arm.  For the Templi of the Church, life was one of unceasing vigilence and unending work.  With this in mind, Roland's cold blue eyes stared unwaveringly ahead and he went forth into the newly dawned day.

 

[Conan Darkmoon]

My stories lack detail, for this I gain much respect for ye as a writer.  Good Job!