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It is said that some clerics of Albion’s great church live in such fear that they cannot bring themselves to venture out of the heavily guarded fortresses that sit on the edge of the frontier. These clerics serve their realm by granting God’s enhancements and nothing more. They sway as if they were the living dead, shrouded by walls of safety, while their countrymen wage war.
Kaidric never understood these clerics. They were his brothers in the church, but he shared no common bond with them beyond title. He could not relate to them in any way, and yet there he stood, swaying from side to side, nearly still, nearly paralyzed, just like them.
He stood and stared at her. She was his prize and his undoing. Even as she slept the tears continued to run down her cold cheeks. He had taken from her everything that he wanted, and yet he was empty.
Kaidric, son of a servant and a noble, as a baby was hidden in a monastery to hide the shame of his family. His mother, murdered before he had ever known her. His father, dead before acknowledging his existence. He left that monastery after too many years, seeking vengeance for the wrongs done to him. Instead he found himself with two brothers and one was dying. Life had always been out of Kaidric’s control, whether he felt pain, sorrow, rage or joy, was always at the whim of others. He failed in helping his friend Rhalm. He failed in saving or avenging his mother’s death. He failed to have the childhood a boy was intended to. Everything: beyond his control. His rage and frustration had manifested in God’s power of smite, manifested into a power he enjoyed. He took pleasure in controlling life and death, but that power had consumed him. Controlling others became his passion. He had controlled Thrennaodae’s dreams, her fears and now her body. And in his hands also rested his half-brother’s life. A brother that had only shown him love and friendship.
And yet Kaidric stood still, empty. He had taken no pleasure from his horrendous act, and felt no remorse for it. Kaidric had found all the control he ever sought and he wanted no part of it.
His leg rose and moved forward, landing on the ground in front of him; a step. He took another with great difficulty, and more followed. The movements became easier as he crossed the wooded floor from the bed over to a nearby dresser. He slid open the top drawer of the ornate marble dresser and rummaged through its contents. He removed a shiny silver blade, about three inches in length and held it in his hand. He raised the blade into the air, letting the light from a nearby window reflect from it and shine into the cleric’s eyes.
He closed his other hand around the blade and squeezed tightly. With his first hand, he pulled the blade out from his clenched fist. He slowly opened that hand and watched for a moment as the blood trickled from it. He quietly chanted a spell, and watched as the wound closed. Still, he felt nothing.
He brought the knife with him to the far corner of the room, a shadowy place not touched by the light creeping through the windows. He sat down in that corner. “I do not wish to control my brother’s life†he said quietly to himself.
And as the sun took its place dominating the morning sky, a cleric awoke to the dampness of her own tears. A paladin buckled on his plate glove and set out to continue his quest. A cabalist shuffled tirelessly through papers and books. Kaidric sat in his dark corner, watching his own blood flow from his wrists……
And a friar lay perfectly still, with visions in his head of a little girl, calling to him, beckoning him to the light. A daughter calling for her father and it was time for him to join her….
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