Thread: A certain kind of sadness Who: Declan Gallagher and Emil Asmundr Where: Vigil's Keep armoury When: Morning, 5 Matrinalis Rating: T Summary: While it might seem as if Emil Asmundr is all alone in the armoury - a ripe target for anyone wanting advice or conversation - the armoury is actually full of memories...
The chain mail was a reassuring weight over his knee, gleaming faintly with oil. Some Wardens coloured theirs a burned black, but Emil had never especially wanted to appear like an avenging spirit, wrought out of shadows and anger. In the absence of light, shadows thrive. There were enough shadows in his soul to battle without inviting any more. Running his hands over the polished metal rings, he once more searched for dirt or inconsistencies. One bad metal ring made the whole difference when a spear or arrow-tip found the weakness in your armour. One bad ring in a chain mail was enough to leave a hole that might help kill you.
Lifting the heavy metal shirt, Emil shook it slightly, taking pleasure in hearing it jingle. Fritha always complained when he embraced her while still wearing it, and he knew she'd prefer if he had the strength of will to take it off first and greet her second. He never had, but it wasn't a lapse of character that he had ever prayed for absolution for. It was a pleasant thing to look at, now that it was well-polished and clean, wearing it was another thing. He was used to the constant pressure on his chest by now, he only noticed when taking it off, how his body would suddenly by feather-light, as if it was striving upwards towards the heavens.
With a slight sigh Emil draped the chain mail over an armour stand next to him and took up his sword, laying it over his knees. It was an unsightly thing, hardly a weapon that invoked fairy-tales or legendary heroism. But then it was no such thing, it was a tool, one that was well used through many years. Often Emil had been offered loot from bandits or even darkspawn, swords gleaming in silver or gold, scabbards detailed works of art. He wasn't sure what it said about him that he hadn't ever been tempted to accept, preferring his own sword, it's grip wound with raw leather. It wasn't a pretty sword, but it was the only sword he'd would ever wield.
From the pouch at his belt, Emil took out an oiled cloth. He removed the leather scabbard from the sword, noting as he did so that it needed oiling as well. Angling one knee so that he could put the sword over his lap at an angle, he got to work.