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“Is that really it?” Lucian said to himself as he looked at his arms. He was under the wrong impression it seems. His thoughts on what the Men-At-Arms were was something supposibly Anathema to what he was previously. Instead it was something that he might have done during his times as a villager.
His thoughts came and he walked out into the parade grounds of the castle.
At one end of the grounds was the gates that led out into the other part of the fortress-city. Bordeleaux sported from what many of their people claimed to be the biggest harbor of Bretonnia. Lucian could not deny him through inexperience, but such claims had been spoken by both the natives and those who sailed into their ports from high waters. As the castle itself sat upon a cliffside overlooking the docks, the gates paradoxically were pointed in a direction opposite to harbor that they led to.
Across from these mighty gates was a large chapel that was far larger than the Grail Chapel within Aquitaine. When he had seen it for the first time the beauty of the pale stones and golden ornamentations demostrated than a simple chapel that was within the walls of Aquitaine. This one, Lucian had heard, was called The First Chapel. One of the most important places to the worshiping Nobles of the Lady herself.
What happens in such a place Lucian did not know. It was only that looking upon the place always seemed to put his mind at ease. He gave a short wordless prayer to her lest his thoughts be seen as impretious, and then raised his scythe.
He remembered for a moment the first kill that he scored with the scythe. A simple swing into a direwolf’s neck. The weight of taking the life of such a dangerous beast inking into his muscle’s memories. They were dreadful memories yet he tried his best to remember them.
He knew for a moment that what happened there was not suppose to happen normally. That his skill with the scythe was too great for someone of his station. When he wielded the spear or axe he felt that very thing, the lack of skill wrecking his aim and strength. Yet the Scythe was the opposite and carried with it a familiarity that he could not rid himself of.
He envisioned, for that moment, one of those dreadful beasts in front of him charging at him. And in the next moment he mimicked the same action he committed himself to that very night.
