theminionage (theminionage) wrote in thebattleage, @ 2013-02-18 16:41:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! unfinished, (thread), black matthew, lucressia peron |
Thread: Seat Me by Your Side in Death
Who: Ser Oliver, Black Matthew, Lucressia Peron
Where: Amaranthine
When: Funalis
Summary: Someone is paying quite a lot to have this man killed. Why ever would that be?
Rating: T for violence
Ser Oliver lived near the Chantry in a small home with a couple other Templars. He slept there and even ate there at times. But for the most part, he hardly spent time there. It was a place with a bed. A place to store the few belongings he kept. It was a roof on rainy nights. It was something he was grateful for, and lucky to have. But it was not his home.
If one were to ask, he might say that the Chantry was his home. That he felt most at place when he walked beside the Maker, and so he felt at home wherever he was. Ser Oliver believed that the Maker was always with him. And he also knew that the place he was most needed was out in the world. He spent his time in Amaranthine. He’d patrol with the others, or go on mage-hunting trips. Those were his least favorite parts of the job. He preferred to bring them in unharmed, but he knew not all of his fellow Templars agreed on that.
In his free time Ser Oliver could be found helping the people of Amaranthine. He would donate his time to the local orphanages, teaching and playing with the children. He would take trips into the alienage to bring medicine and hand out food to the elves. He would serve soup and hard bread at the local poor-house and give reading lessons to the city’s children in front of the Chantry every morning, his voice carrying the verses of the Chant clearly across the square.
This day found him in the poorer section of town, a collection of herbal medicines in a sack he carried. He had gone earlier that morning to purchase them (at a discount) from a local herbalist. After all, the man needed to make a living. He sat on the steps of one of the houses, children clustered around to listen to his stories. Their dirty faces were upturned, rapt with attention. Ser Oliver always had the best stories, after all. And he often brought snacks. Those with ailments and need would stop by, receiving a vial of medicine, no questions asked. Some would bring small treats or handmade toys for the little orphans and street rats, the only payment they could afford, and the only thing Ser Oliver had ever asked for.
Today felt different though. There were less children to listen to his stories, and more people in need of medicine, and there was a sort of strange stillness over the neighborhood. Eventually, the last little orphan drifted off, heading back to some pile of rags in an alleyway, or the drafty rooms of the poorly-kept orphanage. Ser Oliver stood, feeling a slight ache in his joints. Oh, he knew he had more than a dozen years of service left in him. His sword arm was still strong, his faith unshakable, and his mind sharp. Still, that did not mean that every once in awhile he did not feel the effects of carrying around all that armor, or the harsh Ferelden winters. He nodded goodbye to the widow that let him use her front porch to entertain the children and offer his poultices. Turning he slipped away from the poorer part of town, navigating towards the narrow streets and alleyways that would lead him back to the Chantry.