Within the swirling Mist (IC) > Biographies
Litany of Light and Shadow - Vandryn Carro
Famous Seamus:
Litany of Light and Shadow: Prayers and Paths in the Mists (775 - )
Vandryn Carro, depicted as Prelate of Christ's Church of Barovia, c. Mars 777(Art by Theresa Klokkeblomst.)
--- Quote ---“Walk in the Light, Vanny.”- Edea to her son, Vandryn Carro
--- End quote ---
Famous Seamus:
CHAPTER ONE: AWAKENING
--- Quote ---FEELING: The garden unchanged, the silence unbroken:
None may wake there but One who shall be woken.
THE ANGEL GABRIEL: Wake.
- W. H. Auden, For the Time Being: A Christmas Oratorio
--- End quote ---
AVRIL 775
Ta-thump.
Vandryn Carro sat in the candlelight of the foreign chapel, his heartbeat quickening in his chest. Thomas and Lorick, seated on either side of him, took turns explaining the faith and doctrine. Compassion. Love. Atonement. Mercy. Righteousness. Service. It was all he’d sought since the bloodied night in the warehouses and the day after, when the garda had denied him execution—self-martyrdom—and the Tormite elder had said penance was unnecessary: arrogance was armor against evil.
The three corpses, among them two folk he’d offered to protect, would disagree.
Ta-thump. Was it fear or anticipation?
The half-elf’s thoughts raced as he listened. It had been weeks since he arrived here, yet the mistakes had already accumulated. Could it be true that atonement and forgiveness could be his? What of his guilt? And if he failed here too? Was failure possible? What was he doing? Back home, praying to Ao—much less his son, as Hypatia said this patron was—was anathema. Certainly, Thomas and Lorick were friends and allies, but…
Ta-thump.
In the breadth of a moment, his mind quieted. He straightened at the table, resolute.
I have sinned greatly and acknowledge my flaws. I beg forgiveness and seek your love. Be merciful to me, if you’re willing. I acknowledge your power and wish to serve you with all of my being and for all of my days.
No voice answered him. No light suddenly burst in to illuminate the chapel. No winged messenger split the clouds pouring the seemingly endless Barovian rain outside. But there was something, perhaps imaginary, perhaps a mistake: a faint feeling in his chest, a strange warmth.
Ta-thump.
Vandryn Carro sensed the beat of his heart.
Famous Seamus:
CHAPTER TWO: A DIVINE VIRTUE
--- Quote ---“Let no one despise you for your youth, but set the believers an example in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, in purity.”
- 1 Timothy 4:12
--- End quote ---
JUIN 775
Vandryn tugged at the hem of his tabard. The white cloth, a brilliant red cross emblazoned on the front, had gone crooked again. It was common for knights to fight in these, but by the heavens, how did they do it?
The soft whisk of footsteps in the grass drew his attention from the garment. Through the visor of the winged helmet, the half-elf’s eyes picked out the hooded halfling approaching him in the dark of the Barovian night. In short order, the small figure joined him at the edge of the cobbled road across from the Lady’s Resting Place.
“Oi, paladin.” The halfling, terse as ever, gave a slight nod. Beneath the folds of his hooded cloak, he sported a tabard identical to Vandryn’s in all but size.
“Squire Ander.” Vandryn dipped his head to his friend. “Would it kill you to call me ‘squire’?”
Ander grunted. “Yuh got news?”
“I’m told the piss ale is terrible as ever.” The reply came without hesitation, a grin forming inside the helmet. “What of yourself?”
“Nuh.”
Vandryn let out a soft sigh. This was squirehood? It was an honor, certainly—and the path he would have walked, albeit in a different faith, if he’d been able to finish his acolyte training in Toril—yet devilishly difficult. His mind kept returning to the idea that something was missing. He and Ander had spent the few weeks since their baptism and admission as squires training together, learning to be knights and standing watch on behalf of the Templars.
But it felt like things should be happening. There were night-creatures about that needed opposing. By the heavens, calamity had befallen his own mentor. Ser Lorick, despite being five year’s Vandryn’s junior, was already proving himself to be the knight the young half-elf yearned to be himself. He of all folk deserved action and justice. Yet how could a squire act with nothing to act on? Where would one begin when they’ve only just begun?
The silence stretched between the half-elf and halfling at the roadside, both watching, considering. Thomas’ words seized the opportunity to echo inside Vandryn’s head.
Keep out of trouble. Set an example.
Ser Lorick’s own exhortations toward patience and piety followed on the admonition’s heels. Vandryn scrambled to recall a scripture he’d read in his budding studies. What was it…?
Be still, and know that I am the Creator.
He shifted on his feet, fighting the urge to move, yet his boots remained rooted to the ground. He would be patient and train under his knight. Action would come in the Lord’s own time.
But this was a hard path, indeed.
Famous Seamus:
CHAPTER THREE: THE WHITE KNIGHT
--- Quote ---“Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil.”
- Ephesians 6:10–11
--- End quote ---
JUIN 28, 775
Rise, knights of Christ!
Vandryn opened his eyes at the knight commander’s bellow. Slowly, almost uncertain, he turned his face from the floor, up toward Ser Wold and Ser Lorick. The two white-clad figures, knight commander and knight-mentor, stood before the cross above him, smiling.
Biting back a smile of his own, half in disbelief, the auburn-haired half-elf spared a furtive glance to the halfling kneeling beside him. Ander—Ser Ander—met his gaze. In unison, the pair drew themselves up from their knees and stood.
“Turn around and let everyone see how different you look.” Still grinning, Lorick nudged Vandryn and Ander, the youth’s spirit emerging in the moment of jubilation. “This is a good jest, yes?”
Taking places between Wold and Lorick, Vandryn and his closest friend—and fellow squire until moments ago—turned to face the small crowd gathered in the chapel. The room erupted into cheers.
Knighthood. Ser Vandryn’s smile finally broke through, a hand going to the small golden crucifix Wold had hung about his neck.
With a few more words of congratulations, the celebration began in earnest. Friends and “family” filled every chair at the chapel’s table, where bowls filled with the Templars’ signature garlic soup sat arrayed at each place. The horrors of Barovia and cares of the world momentarily ceased to be.
Yet as was the way of the Core, the peace was short-lived. There was business.
Knights and dames, are you prepared to test the aspiring squires?
Ser Ander rose from the table and drew aside the first supplicant from the gathering: a lively half-elf with black hair that fell neatly past his shoulders. Vandryn kept his distance from the privacy of the test, occasionally studying his own assigned supplicant. He’d known the young Scotsman for some weeks now and, alongside the others administering the test tonight, would be a deciding voice in the man’s future with the Order.
As he waited in the now-familiar candlelight of the chapel, Vandryn reached for the belt pouch where he kept the ivory chessman that Mishandra had given him. She hadn’t been able to attend tonight, but the token and her words were more than enough.
This is you: the white knight…
At a mere twenty-three winters old, his dream had come to be. The half-elf closed his eyes.
Father, grant me wisdom tonight. Guide my path ahead.
And don’t let me fail.
Famous Seamus:
CHAPTER FOUR: DARKER THAN MIDNIGHT
--- Quote ---“What shall we say about were-wolves? for there are were-wolves which run about the villages devouring men and children. As men say about them, they run about full gallop, injuring men, and are called ber-wölff, or wer-wölff.”
- Dr. Johann Geiler von Keysersperg, Die Emeis, trans. by the Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould in The Book of Were-Wolves: Being an Account of Terrible Superstition
--- End quote ---
JULIET 775
Ta-THUMP.
Ser Vandryn’s heart hammered in his chest as the battle raged in the Barovian night. Sweat streamed down his forehead and stung his eyes within his helmet, while his body ached from the blows he’d taken. Ser Ander was somewhere in the fray, but Vandryn was afforded no time to look.
All about him and his comrades—perhaps a dozen in total—packs of beasts continued to pour from the darkened woodlands.
Vandryn swung his silvered greatsword wide, swatting aside a claw with the flat of his blade. The divine fire burning along its length did little against his lupine opponent, but the illumination was of some aid in the gloom.
His costly maneuver spared him only one blow. The heavy weapon was too slow in returning to its central position, the were-beast’s other claw driving home between the armor plates on Vandryn’s exposed torso.
Foolish! The half-elf gasped for breath as blood spurted from the wound. He’d been training diligently with his new weapon for weeks, but his form remained inelegant and untidy.
Ta-THUMP.
Swaying on his feet now, Vandryn swung the blade downward to bite deep into his opponent’s hirsute shoulder. The beast snarled and raked a claw across the knight’s arm. His vision beginning to cloud, Vandryn struggled to free his sword. His foe seized the opportunity to slash into the gap between helmet and platemail.
Vandryn surrendered to the blackness and toppled to the ground.
Ta-thump.
A familiar warmth flooded his body. An astounding amount of pain gone, the knight began to pick himself up.
“On your feet, Templar!”
Vandryn drew in a deep breath and spared Kelira a swift, grateful nod as he retrieved his greatsword from where it had fallen. Another swing brought it crashing back into the werewolf. He drove his boot into the crumpling figure and kicked off to pry the weapon free, using the momentum from the maneuver to spin and strike at another beast to his left. His comrades were doing splendid work: the creatures’ ranks had begun to thin, and someone was calling for the company to regroup on higher ground.
Ta-THUMP.
The half-elf awoke on his bedroll in the Morninglordians’ church. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead. His back ached from where the chipped and broken flagstones pressed him while he slept.
He sat up and rubbed his face. It wasn’t a nightmare. It wasn’t a nightmare.
The company had stood in battle merely a few nights past. The retreat to higher ground. The regrouping as the faithful muttered hasty prayers and the magicians refocused their energies. The wave after wave of werewolves that had come—and the agony of the felled defenders. The rescue by the elves of Degannwy and the scramble to collect the fallen and reach the safety of the gates of the Grove.
The massive werewolf, darker than the shadows, that had tried to open the gate and withstood the volleys of arrows his comrades and the sentries fired into it.
It had laughed at their attempt, departing with a soul-ripping howl.
Miraculously, the fallen had all been restored to life. The Lord truly was merciful beyond understanding.
The company had dispersed after dawn arrived. Ser Ander returned to Vallaki. Vandryn had tarried to speak with the kin of his kin and sit with Squire Feanor and Giles. The three rested on the soft leaves carpeting the Grove, chatting long into the day.
“Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul,” Vandryn had reminded them in the tradition of his new faith.
Ta-thump.
And yet now, sitting on sanctified ground, why was he sweating? The beast was concerning—but terrifying? Barovia was a land of terrors that required swift acclimation.
His friends and comrades laying lifeless on the ground, however…
Ta-thump.
The novice knight shifted forward onto his knees and clasped his hands before him.
Fortify my heart, Father. What can I do?
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