"In the holy and righteous name of Rhon the Lifegiver and her Holy Majesty the Queen Erzabeth duMorthe the First, I Jocelyn Valentine, Reaper of Blackguard, the swift sword-hand of Rhon's merciless judgment, do hereby decree with oath that by my blade, all evil shall be vanquished, all wretchedness shall be drawn and quartered, and all who bear the mark of heathens and sinners alike shall be slain and cast forth into the eternal flames of Hell. Praise be to the Church, Heavens bless the Holy Queen, Strength be to Blackguard, and Glory in the Highest to Rhon the Lifegiver......amen."

Lifting her head, a woman with dark, auburn hair and a white streak through her bangs unclasped her hands clad in tight fitting black leather gloves, opening her amber shaded eyes to look upon the neatly erected altar that stood before her in her living quarters, a fairly sized [url=http://images.fineartamerica.com/images-medium-large/huguenot-golden-cross-anne-norskog.jpg]golden emblem[/url] that represented not just the banner of her homeland but the very faith she was born into, the Church of Rhon the Lifegiver. At the foot of the golden cross were a few candles and some freshly cut branches of Brassenburge Olives. How quaint to find them growing here, but the rest of the land unlike Hieledran wasn't defiled with smog and toxic air pollution, so plants of all sort could flourish abundantly. Such a joy it was for Jocelyn to finally breathe clean air into her lungs, which by now were used to the dust and soot that once clung so ill-fully to them. Lucky her Jocelyn didn't develop the dying cough like most who lived in Hieledran, especially in the densely packed areas like Graychapel or Rhonshire. Maybe that was why Reapers wore those bandanas, such as the one currently wrapped around her face, painted to resemble the very face of death, the ultimate penance for all the wretched creatures of Hell, those tainted with sin and with evil and who would soon fall to her blade, or rather the blade of her beloved Erdrick, may he rest peacefully and may his honor carry on through the gleaming silver rapier at Jocelyn's side.

She unsheathed the blade once more as if to check it for minor imperfections such as scratches or knicks. There were none thankfully, but that wasn't the intention for which Jocelyn drew the sword. She wanted to admire it again, just as she admired and pined for the very man who once held this blade in his heroic grip. A stray tear fell from her cheek and soaked into the thick fabric of her bandanna, a quiet whisper escaping her quivering lips and permeating the mournful silence, "Erdrick....how I wish it were you and not I that carried this sword into battle. My beloved, rest peacefully with the angels, for in your name and that of Rhon, I will slay those who had taken you from me. A promise to the Heavens I shall make and I shall carry forth." Jocelyn returned the blade to its polished black scabbard that hung upon her left hip and rose to her feet, retrieving from her bed her wide brimmed hat and setting it atop her head, the brim now obscuring most, if not all of Jocelyn's face along with the bandana. Only her eyes were to be seen, fierce, animalistic eyes that only craved to be out there again, out on another hunt, out to vanquish.....the embodiments of evil.

The journey to Fort Raven's Peek was long, arduous, and not without its drawbacks. Though it had been two years since their departure from the port of Mandrale all the way through the Dead Lands, Jocelyn could still recall the damned and accursed pilgrimage as though it were merely yesterday. It had seemed yesterday anyways that she had lost Erdrick to that ginormous, horned fiend, a beast she had the pleasure of killing herself to exact her own vengeance....rather than the justice of Rhon. A rather grim sigh worked its way through her smog dusted lungs, along with a bit of a short cough, her nerves frazzling as she wondered if she did indeed catch the Dying cough of Hieledran. No, of course not. Maybe when she was but a lass in that dull orphanage she caught a taste of it, but as for the full brunt, she had to have been immune to it by now. Merely, Jocelyn shrugged it off, making her way out the door of her quarters and through the crumbling stone hallway of the old fortress. By Rhon, what were these heathens thinking taking refuge in a withered and ancient garrison such as Raven's Peek. The timbers were near rotted and there were rats scuttling all about the dust covered and cracked granite floors. But to complain Jocelyn shouldn't, for she was never to expect such lavish accommodations as say the living quarters for the Blackguard under the Church.

She stepped out into the sunlight, her black clothes already absorbing the heat emanating off its harsh rays and the intense light of the morning star rising coercing her to squint her eyes until fully they were adjusted to the sudden change in brightness, narrowing once more as a bitter scowl crossed her lips under her bandanna, all while she made her way across the fortress rampart and down into the main atrium of the derelict infrastructure of a military long passed. These men, what were they doing just lazying about in the wee hours of morn? By Rhon, some of these heathens were already heavily intoxicated upon mead, their breath reeking of fermented honey and alcohol. [i]And to think our Holy Majesty requested these buffoons. It is not my place to speak against her, but is she mad? Honestly, what the bloody hell were we thinking coming here? Risking our lives for the assistance of a bunch of heathens.[/i] Her disapproving glare resumed upon the drunken men, her arms crossing to further display such disappointment she held. The new captain was to arrive soon, and if he were to see this, then certainly he would be having words. If not, then Jocelyn would certainly be having words, the new captain included.