A prayer in the night
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And then one night, a prayer goes out from Toril. One of hundreds, one of thousands, one of millions. One more voice in a sea of voices; pleading, begging, promising. Some desperate, some duplicitous, some adamant. This voice, however, is akin to a man first stepping into a lake. Already resolved to jump into the deep, but taking the time to feel the water on his skin regardless.
He has prayed before, and to many gods, if Helm has been the one he prays to the most these past years. The one he talks to. In the quiet hours of the day, ever wondering if the choices he makes were the right ones to keep those he cares for safe.
Such an uncertain young man, despite that he can be so decisive.
Never duplicitous, but never quite having faith he would be heard. Never quite believing that a god would care enough. Never quite trusting that he did not have to do it alone.He sits there in silence, eyes closed and downcast, forming the words in his mind. As he always does.
But this time is different.
It isn't just need. He does not feel desperate. It is not lip service, every word feeling true. Adamance? Certainly, though it is not exactly tied to the prayer. This man will carry on, with or without an answer. He simply trusts, now.
Trust that, just as there are countless otherworldly threats that would destroy his world given the chance, there are greater powers that would protect it at all costs, they just need mortal hands to work through.
Trust that, through all the harrowing things the lands of Narfell have thrown at him, he is not alone. He never was. And as long as he remains true, he never will be."Great Helm. I have known my duty since Jessica Whyte openly raised her hand against this city. Casting off the folly of youth, I have taken up the mantle my father raised me for. And I have walked this path, I hope, unerringly since.
Yet now... I waver.
It is not the war. Though it pains me to send good men and women to their deaths, ours is not a war out of greed or spite, the likes of which I fought in my mercenary days. Keeping the Zhentarim at bay, keeping Banites at bay, should be any free demihuman's calling.It is in the way I have been fighting it. People fear me, Lord. The wrong people. My own people. And yes, while I'm a Peltarch man, I am beginning to see that my duty is not just to the city. It is the whole of Narfell.
And it seems I now inspire dread across the whole of Narfell.
While I would have hoped it was the Zhentarim for my skill at arms and the reputation as an implacable defender, it is not.
They fear me because of the fire. Heretic... Apostate... Abomination... And more plainly, monster.
My friends do not fear me, but they do fear for me.Yet, I do my duty, as we all must. I simply worry that they may be right. That the tools at my disposal will turn me into exactly that. A monster.
Great Helm, what do You see? What is Your will?
In my heart, I am wary. My instinct tells me nothing good will come of it. Yet, I would become just one more soldier, one more sword, when there are so many inhuman battles ahead.
Do I wield the fire? Or do I rely on steel?
Should I trust in the star, or does the Moon speak true?
I am Your sword, Lord, as I am Narfell's shield. Can You give me a sign?"((Reply courtesy of DM Xanatos))
The room is silent. For a long while. That is, until the hearth, torches, and candles erupt in a blaze - and fires begin to spread in the room. George must put them out in a panic and fast, and he does. Thereafter he thinks he can hear something carried in the wind - the sound of his own laughter, and in the sky, a familiar, blazing, orange star.
And across from it, in the other corner of the night sky, a defiant and pale white moon, i.e. the much more familiar Selune. But for Helm? He sees no such thing in the sky, tonight.George looks at the night sky in confused silence, then a soul crushing dread as he realizes how wrong he has been. Throwing his cloak over his shoulders, he leaves the smoke marred room and hurries into the street
