Post by brayden on Jul 21, 2006 1:46:39 GMT -5
((I figured with all the "what's gonna happen with the elves" threads going, I'd start one about a human.))
Brayden watched the sun fall over the Great Sea, the sunset painting the Stranglethorn sky with brilliant red, oranges, and purples. "She would have loved that one," he said aloud to no one in particular. His hand absently played with the empty chain around his neck, the ring that once occupied it resting on his fourth ring finger of his left hand. The aged paladin turned slowly and hobbled into the small house they had built on the island where they professed their love.
The island on which they had wed.
Four years had passed since old age had taken her away from him, and after she died he had retired from his post as Bishop of the city that had grown from Morgan's Vigil in the Steppes. The church had begged him to stay on, but he had simply refused. "Time has passed me by, my children," he told them with a sad smile. He slowly rode out to Stranglethorn after that, and hadn't left since.
He sat slowly at his little table and ate a small dinner. Living on the island forced him to learn to fish and cook, and he was actually decent at it now. He chuckled to himself as he mused that it only took him eighty-two years to be a decent cook. Placing the dishes away, Brayden walked over to the dresser that she had created for them and ran his fingers over the painting they had commissioned for their wedding.
"I love you, my heart," the old warrior said softly, tears touching his face as they did every night when he did this. "I miss you, love," he said as he turned for bed. As he laid down, an urge he had never had before took him, and he looked back at the painting on the dresser. "See you soon, my love," he said, and laid down to sleep, where Brayden Vansen breathed his last.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A strange feeling caused him to wake, apparently in the middle of the night since everything was dark. He lifted his hand, to find it floating through some odd fluid. He felt pressure, as if something was squeezing him from every direction. Thought and memory began to flee from him as he was pulled against his will towards a blinding light. His last cognizant thought was "Soon, my love," and then there was crying.
"It's a boy! It's a boy!"
And the cycle begins anew...
Brayden watched the sun fall over the Great Sea, the sunset painting the Stranglethorn sky with brilliant red, oranges, and purples. "She would have loved that one," he said aloud to no one in particular. His hand absently played with the empty chain around his neck, the ring that once occupied it resting on his fourth ring finger of his left hand. The aged paladin turned slowly and hobbled into the small house they had built on the island where they professed their love.
The island on which they had wed.
Four years had passed since old age had taken her away from him, and after she died he had retired from his post as Bishop of the city that had grown from Morgan's Vigil in the Steppes. The church had begged him to stay on, but he had simply refused. "Time has passed me by, my children," he told them with a sad smile. He slowly rode out to Stranglethorn after that, and hadn't left since.
He sat slowly at his little table and ate a small dinner. Living on the island forced him to learn to fish and cook, and he was actually decent at it now. He chuckled to himself as he mused that it only took him eighty-two years to be a decent cook. Placing the dishes away, Brayden walked over to the dresser that she had created for them and ran his fingers over the painting they had commissioned for their wedding.
"I love you, my heart," the old warrior said softly, tears touching his face as they did every night when he did this. "I miss you, love," he said as he turned for bed. As he laid down, an urge he had never had before took him, and he looked back at the painting on the dresser. "See you soon, my love," he said, and laid down to sleep, where Brayden Vansen breathed his last.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A strange feeling caused him to wake, apparently in the middle of the night since everything was dark. He lifted his hand, to find it floating through some odd fluid. He felt pressure, as if something was squeezing him from every direction. Thought and memory began to flee from him as he was pulled against his will towards a blinding light. His last cognizant thought was "Soon, my love," and then there was crying.
"It's a boy! It's a boy!"
And the cycle begins anew...
