[centre][h3][color=ed1c24][i]Horath Evren Al'Montsar[/i][/color][/h3]

[img]http://i.imgur.com/tOl4DaW.png[/img]

[color=ed1c24][i]'Come, I know you are tired, but this is the way.'[/i][/color][/centre]

[i]Earlier, Rot Donar[/i]

Horath spurred his tired horse past the guards at the entrance, the rain pelting down upon them both and the white mare's hooves sinking into the mud with each step. He stroked her lowered head and whispered a few words of comfort.
[color=ed1c24][i]'Not too long now, we're here,'[/i][/color] at which the mare raised her head slightly and whinnied. He knew she was tired, it could not be easy being a mare, he imagined, but for each creature upon the earth was a dictated mission and purpose, and it was the fate and purpose of the mare, the horse, the cow, the bull, the donkey and other such beasts of burden, to carry Man and serve him. It was as the Monarch willed.

The sounds of the camp had reached him long before he passed through the entrance, the shouts and the hammering and the laughing. Even in the purifying rain, the smell of food brewing pervaded the air. Back home there was very little rain, but when there was, Horath had always liked it. There was something about the rain, he did not quite know what. Perhaps the rain was the Monarch's own tears, shed when he looked down upon the world He had created and saw what had become of it. Bringing the mare to a halt, he sat there for a while and let it pelt him for a while.
'Whatcha doin' yer idiot!' a shout reached him, and he looked around himself to find a half-drunk peasant under a tree, surrounded by his friends, laughing at him.

[color=ed1c24][i]Some people feel the rain,[/i][/color] Horath thought to himself, [color=ed1c24][i]while others just get wet.[/i][/color]

Dismounting, he led the mare further down where a few horses and donkeys were tied beneath a make-shift canopy and hay had been provided. Tying the reins there, he relieved her of the saddle and packs, before carrying them off and finding some space to set-up his small tent. As he walked, he came across a tent with a cross in front of it and decided that there was no better place to set-up his tent than beside the camp's shrine-tent. Leaving his things in the empty tent - no one seemed to be giving it much notice - he began setting up two metres to the right. It took a while, the rain and muddy ground not helping in any way (and the taunts of the same drunk man reaching him, having chosen to follow Horath for reasons unknown) but eventually, he managed to set it up. The rain caused it to droop slightly, but it would hold.

Returning to the shrine-tent, he got his packs and saddle and placed them within his own tent, laying out a small leather sheet in the middle which would suffice as his bed. Removing his leather breastplate, Horath then set-off for the huge tent with the line of men and women extending from it. By the time he got in the line it was already late afternoon and people were clearly getting tired of waiting. It took a good long while, the sun was beginning to set by the time Horath finally entered the tent. Inside was a table with a chair behind it. On the table was an oil lamp, a book and a quill and some inkpots. The chair was empty, though there stood beside it an armoured man. Horath assumed whoever had been sitting had grown tired and left the rest of the registering to his guardsman.

Horath approached the table and the guard spoke in a dry voice.
'Introduce yerself, credenshols if ya have any, an' sign yer name in the book,' Horath nodded and spoke.
[color=ed1c24][i]'I am Horath Evren Al'Montsar, former Knight of the Most Holy Order of the Servants, a member for eight years and in active service for six,'[/i][/color] with that, he proceeded to scrawl his name in the space provided. His handwriting was barely legible, even he had difficulty reading it, but he saw from the many crosses layering the above spaces, that it did not really matter. One signature caught his eye, written so beautifully he almost thought it to be calligraphy or some other art-form. Surely a woman had crafted something so delicate. 

[i]Saewine Era Bloodworth[/i] it read. It certainly did not seem like a woman's name...but it could have been. Horath had certainly never come across that name before, though Bloodworth sounded very familiar. He could not quite put his finger on it.
'Whatcha standin' around for, eh? Stop starin' at the bloody book an' get outta here ya twat!'
Horath frowned slightly, not helping the thought that the guard's words had been rather uncalled for. He could have just asked him to leave. However, Horath had come across people whose whose obscenities were far worse, he thought he could stomach the man's rudeness. He would call him forth for judgment when they all stood before the Monarch one day. Nodding respectfully, he left the tent. As he did, he could hear the guard muttering something about a, 'bloody prick.' Just one more sin he would be punished for by the Monarch, it was sad how lightly this fool called eternal torture upon himself.

Feeling hungry, but not having said his prayer yet, Horath briefly considered whether he should eat or pray first. After a second of hesitation, he made his way to the mess. He doubted the Monarch would appreciate it if his slaves grew weak and sickly due to valuing prayer over keeping their bodies healthy enough to pray. Indeed, keeping one's body - which was in itself a gift from the divine - healthy and well-fed was in itself a form of worship. For with that, one sustained themselves and made it so that all other actions done for the sake of the Monarch were possible. It took him a while, but a sudden roar - which turned out to be the commander giving orders - led him right to the place.

'Said that we'll be marchin' at the morrow, 'e did,' a man who sat to Horath's right told him. Another to Horath's left disagreed.
'Naah, mate, he said in the afternoon. Said it 'as best we get proper drunk tonight. Said e'll be draggin' our arses behind in the mud whether we likes it or not,' as Horath ate, he could not help but feel that the commander said not such thing, perhaps the former was right after all. The former then spoke up.
'Said not to get a tent up tonight, better be sleepin' under a tree, bush, or some lucky fella's bed, 'e said,' Horath looked from one drunk man to his right, to the other on his left and decided that perhaps both were wrong and it would be best to find a more reliable source of information.
'Said 'e's taken a real fancy to me, 'e did,' the one on the left giggled into his bottle, 'though mind'ja, wouldn' catch meself half a mile round 'im if it came to 'at, eh?' he guffawed, layering the side of Horath's face with a mixture of drink and alcohol. Being a teetotal, Horath could not say he appreciated the gesture. The rain would wash it all off when he walked back to the shrine-tent.
The two kept up their chatter, getting ever more daring with the minute, and before long the topic had turned to what it eventually, ultimately turns to. Women. Horath took this as his cue to leave and left the pair to their perverted fantasies.

The rain washed over him as he walked back, and the spittle and drink was washed away. As he walked, Horath allowed himself to observe the camp. Night had fallen and there were not too many people out and about. A few lamps betrayed a guard here or there, but other than that, it appeared everyone had taken to their tents to get out of the rain and cold. Entering the shrine-tent, a single dim lamp illuminated the place. Horath could not see too well inside it, but he had the odd feeling that there may have been someone sleeping to the right. It might have been his imagination though. Stepping forward gingerly - if there was anyone there, he did not wish to disturb them after all - he got to his knees before the lamp, where a cross much like the one outside had been planted into the ground, and intertwined his fingers together, muttering a few generic prayers before making his usual requests of the divine.

[color=ed1c24][i]'Oh Lord, who art most Mighty and most Wise,
Protect us this night as we sleep,
And protect us in the morning when we rise.
Protect us poor and helpless sheep,
Oh Lord. Oh Lord. Oh Lord.

Oh You who art most blessed and most true,
Aid us to honour you as is your rightful due,
Protect our weak and decadent souls,
From he who in the darkness calls,
Raise us up on the glorious day,
Redeemed and honoured, and not astray.

My Lord, I come to you calling on this night of your nights, asking that you, in your magnificence and glory, strengthen my heart on your path and strengthen my arm in your cause. Make my strike just and my words true, and let not the seeds of hypocrisy and corruption taint my weak and dependent heart. And Oh Lord, do not lead me astray after you have guided me, you are indeed the most merciful and forgiving.
My Lord, aid me against those who have wronged me, and bring them low by my hand in this world, and bring them low eternally in the next. By your grace, Oh Lord.'[/i][/color]

With his prayer done, Horath was silent for a few seconds, enjoying the moment of peace wherein all things melted away and all that existed was his Lord and him. That night, in his tent, despite the cold and spartan bedding, Horath slept peacefully.

The next morning was abuzz with energy and activity. After his morning prayers, Horath was accosted by two guards who checked his equipment before carrying him off to some sort of armoury-cart. His heater shield was mercilessly painted black, it's beautiful colours marred. His helmet was deemed unworthy and was taken to be melted down at some later point, in its place, Horath was given [url=http://www.outfit4events.com/runtime/cache/images/productFull/pef_5015.jpg]a kettle helm with a noseguard[/url], while his chainmail was deemed good enough. The men took some time to admire Horath's strange gambeson, praising the additional protection it provided.
'Does mean it's heavier though,' one of them noted, 'might not be too great if we're battlin' in the swamps,' Horath considered this but shrugged it off. He doubted it would make much difference really.

With that, he returned to his tent and set about packing up, deciding that donning his armour - even though they would be traveling, was for the best. He was a Black Shield and had to look the part so long as he was on duty, and as far as he was concerned, he was on duty.

[i]Present; In the Proximity of the Hoffburgt; Black Shield 'Barracks'[/i]

Orders had been given the night before and the company was busying itself with repairing a run-down building which was to become the Black Shield barracks. While most 'soldier types' had been given the order to polish and care for weapons and armour, Horath had leapt at the opportunity of building the shrine with gusto. While he was no builder and was mostly a hindrance to those who knew what they were doing, his excitement to be serving the Monarch in such a way and his constant words of motivation were rather nice.

[color=ed1c24][i]'C'mon men! For each brick we lay, there awaits us pleasure and great reward from the Lord!'[/i][/color] while not everyone was quite as religious as Horath (indeed, rare were those who were) nobody complained about promises of reward for duties they had to do anyway, and the men he was working with seemed to get to their duties with greater inspiration. The speed at which they worked was rather stunning, so stunning in fact, that Horath found himself polishing armour and weapons by late afternoon, much to his disappointment. He hoped there would be more shrine-building in the future...

Horath had heard word of some kind of feast happening tonight, but he doubted a measly lowborn like himself would be welcome. Perhaps he could spend the night in that beautiful shrine they had built instead...