[sub][h3]Nikolai von Krähenvald:[/h3]
[indent] T H E  C A R D I N A L S  C A M P[/indent][/sub]
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The sound of rain tapping its fingers lavishly against Nikolai von Krähenvald’s tent reminded him of those dreary days in his childhood when his mother would sit quietly and patiently during her worrisome wait ponder the return of Roch von Krähenvald, her husband and Nikolai’s father.  The solemn look on her face was never pleasant during these idle hours when nothing but a stark and dying hope of clouded thoughts spread its silent breath into the atmosphere of their household.  She was a strong woman, but she was not strong all the time.  There was something about the flashes of lightning and the crackles of thunder accompanied by gray skies of rain that made her boldness pause for long, noticeable moments.  At one point in time, Nikolai had pondered this repetitious thing about his mother, but as the hourglass continued trickling sand, the curiosity of his mother’s behavior became distant and eventually abandoned upon his father’s return.  However, as memories sometimes do, the long forgotten thought resurfaced, but in this instance, it appeared merely as a fact of a situation with an explanation that needn’t bother with coherent words of articulation.  There was now a mutual understanding in what his mind could vaguely conjure in mental visualization of his mother peering wistfully into the reality of the War of Perseverance, and it was comforting.

Nikolai did not consider rashness to be a strong motivator when deciding to partake in the Crusade.  He was aware of his immaturity, though, but his actual cause for deciding to march in the war procession for reclamation of the three kingdoms was a much more honorable and noble one.  It was an undying thought, which believed if he was to surpass this opportunity, his surname would have no means of resurrecting itself from the peasantry to which it had been slain by the cursed gift of his father’s embarrassing death. The Kingdom of Operath was the Holy House of the Queen of the Mountain, Belias.  Cowardly laboring on a farm in order to escape the horrors of war was far from being an option to consider.  In fact, he was actually quite aroused by the opportunity and devoted a pious gift and spirit to Belias.  His thoughts of her maintained in a solid foundation of iron that not even the agonizing rain could disrupt. It was because of Belias that he was finding comfort in the watery sound.

And so, upon awaking in the muskiness of the tent propped almost randomly amongst the Cardinals Call, his body flexed and pushed itself forward, pushing the cloth for nightly cover from his body.  A strong hand wiped his facial features, dragging a finger through the inner corners of his eyes to dispel any sleep lingering in physical form.  His body, again, flexed and shifted into a kneeling position, and while he had no iconography to venerate or use as intercessions for the Queen of the Mountain, he had the blessed necklace his sister had gifted him. His hands cupped the purple gem hung around his neck as his head bowed in reverence to the most high Belias. His back inclined humbly, and his eyelids closed.  Thoughts cleared the way for a procession of gallant vernacular that pressed formidably from his serious lips in a low tone.  It was better to die in battle than to not have fought at all, and a part of him was dying to start the battle.  

As the last of the prayers breathed from him, Nikolai opened his eyes and focused on the ground of the tent and tuned his ears for more precision and accuracy. The rummaging of other camp dwellers began to make more notice to him. His mind shifted gears, and his head twisted to the side, allowing his eyes to fall on his belongings.  He was not entirely dressed in prospective gear for the occasion of leaving his tent to procure something edible to consume for breakfast.  His body reached, arm stretched out, grabbing a dark cloth shirt to pull over his bare chest, tanned and freckled from many days of sun exposure. The garment was pulled over his head, and the rest of his gear methodically made its wear onto his body. The last detail was the brush of masculine fingers combed through his hair for composure and the retying of his braid.  

Upon exiting his tent, the muskiness in the air quickly filled his nostrils with unpleasantry that reminded him of the horses’ stables and the shit that mounted and needed cleaning daily.  Such a thankful thought as to how well the tent had shielded him from the now exposed stench.  However, despite the foulness curling its fingers under the humidity rising from the rain’s persistency, his hunger was not dissuaded. The journey to The Greater Cardinal Camp was not the easiest of travels, and his appetite was plentifully awake.  His body stretched itself upwards with booted feet planted into the muddied ground.  The rain paraded further onto him, dampening his high-cheek bones and caressing into his neck and collar underneath his armor. The conditions were not ideal, but his imagination had not permitted him to fantasize with expectations of anything better.  He knew not to believe the war as some fort of fairytale, and this, the camp, was only the polite prologue of what was to come. His eyes shifted around, squinting as the water fell, and the movement of the camp was re-advised into his mind. 

Before Nikolai could make a definite walk towards any such area that would allow him the opportunity to rummage for food with what little coins he had, the horns sounded valiantly.  His body paused as his attention turned towards the location from which they had been blared.  A loud voice pierced through the rain and murk, echoing authority and commencement forewarning the need for salute presence to attentively hear the Duchess’s words.  Nikolai’s jaw clenched with tightening of his lips before hastily making his way for some poor man’s soup. It was watered down, but the coolness from exposure to the air was oddly refreshing enough against the summer heat. His mouth and throat quickly drank the salted potion before any more rainfall could dilute its taste even more.  He could not make any claim that his stomach was satisfied, but if he was honest—a trait recognized as honorable and pious—would tell him his hunger had not been fully satisfied since the death of his father.  With the will of Belias, however, Nikolai was certain he could change that problem and even more, free the three kingdoms from the onslaught of the Undead.

His grip tightened around the staff of [i]Kursiv[/i], his beloved all-steel morning star, and with the light hit of his helmet thumping in attachment to his waist as a carry, he boldly proceeded towards the front of the camp.  The slightest of a smirk pressed upwards on the side of his lip alongside a silent excitement contracted and restricted within his body, brightening his dark eyes.  Nikolai focused forward as he tracked through the camp field and the many various temporary sleeping set-ups.  His mind was more concentrated on the visionary commands to be spoken by the Duchess than his actual surroundings.  He would let the blind eye see once in battle, but for now, the acute perception was hibernating in wait.  There was no reason in his thoughts to be concerned for self-defense at this precise moment, and the entertainment of heard rumors about the Duchess had much cause to believe this. Even if these rumors were true or not, they were spread for a fair good reason.  Whatever the case may be, Nikolai was truly only concerned for one thing: the honor from massacring the enemy.