Champion of a Lost Cause

Effruin lies beside High Marshal’s corpse on the cracked darkness, one hand slack against the cold surface. His battered body barely moves beyond the slow labor of breathing.

No command, plea, or battlefield oath remains between them. The dead paladin’s silver jaw is still, and the silence around him feels heavier than the armor he wore.

The first urge is to surrender to exhaustion, an endless rest beside the man Effruin killed. The second urge is that of escape, but it's cost demands strength his body scarcely possesses.

His left arm trembles when he tries to shift, and pain drags through his ribs. The liquor has gone dull in his blood, leaving fatigue and battered weakness behind.

Grahamin's sword pulses with dying energy, the holy powers that Grahamin once blessed it with. It waits beside High Marshal’s body, offering Effruin one last choice without naming what lies beyond.

Effruin plants his left hand against the cracked darkness and forces his battered body upright. His knees shake beneath him, but Endures Long Roads carries him through the slow, painful rise.

He stands alone beside High Marshal’s body, swaying until his balance settles. The effort leaves his ribs burning and his remaining arm trembling under the strain.

Effruin begins the walk to the fallen sword. Each step is measured and painful, his wounded body demanding rest while his endurance keeps him moving across the silent surface.

He lowers himself beside the weapon with deliberate care. One arm makes the descent awkward, forcing him to brace against the ground before his hand can close around the hilt.

His fingers close around High Marshal’s sword. The dying holy energy pulses faintly through the grip, and Effruin lifts the weapon from the cracked darkness, claiming it despite the trembling left arm that bears its weight.

Effruin raises High Marshal’s sword overhead with his single trembling arm. He offers a silent prayer to any god listening, bartering freedom for retribution against High Marshal’s enemies, and anything else the power demands.

The prayer brushes against memories of his time with Grahamin, and the righteous power he wielded against his foes. Effruin’s breath catches, but he has a new motive, and the will to make this bargain.

His senses remain dulled by spent liquor, and his poor health makes the sword sag in his grasp. Growing fatigue strains his shoulder as he lowers the blade, while his wrath gives the weapon a final, merciless purpose.

Effruin drives High Marshal’s sword into the unseen ground. The impact runs through his arm and ribs, forcing him to one knee, but the holy blade bites deep into the cracked darkness.

Violet fractures race outward from the sword. The sealed darkness buckles around Effruin and the High Marshal’s corpse, splitting open into a windless gray dawn and the muddy verge of a distant road.

The shadow realm releases Effruin and the dead paladin. He collapses onto wet grass beside the sword’s hilt, free beneath an unfamiliar sky, while the broken darkness folds shut behind him.

Effruin plants his left hand beside the sword and forces himself upright. With no right arm to balance him, each movement taxes his shoulder and ribs, but he reaches his feet.

He sways over the High Marshal’s body, breath catching as old commands echo through the gray dawn. Regret and sorrow unsettles his composure, but the silence offers no order to obey.

The words pass into the open morning. The High Marshal gives no answer, but his stillness no longer demands one; Effruin has offered the farewell he came to give.

Effruin looks to the sword, planted deep in the mud and remaining standing beside the dead paladin. As he looks, Effruin's knees shake and threaten to buckle, but Effruin refuses to collapse.

Effruin turns from Grahamin’s body and leaves the sword planted in the mud. The motion pulls hard through his ribs, and his knees threaten to fold beneath him.

With only his left arm to steady himself, he takes each step in careful stages. Bruises and wounds suffered makes the walk punishing, overtaxing the legs that must carry his balance and weight.

A faint command seems to echo from the gray morning, and Effruin’s breath hitches. Post-Traumatic Stress disrupts his composure, but no collar, master, or order waits ahead to claim him.

Behind him, the dead paladin remains beside the abandoned blade, untouched beneath the widening dawn. Effruin’s footprints lead away across the wet grass and vanish toward the empty road.

His body is hurt, exhausted, and barely obedient, yet he continues alone. The years shared with Grahamin end behind him, while the road ahead remains open and unanswered.