Brother Summit

Half-Orc Monk/4

Character Sheet

The background of "Brother" Summit before his arrival at Branderscar Prison:

“Blessed is he who can help others; for it is the sweat of service that quenches the thirst of nations, of great peoples.” – St. Macarius the Medicant

He grunted as he lifted up the stone slab. His breath filled the air. It finally slid aside, inch by inch. Heavy. Very heavy, but not too heavy.

The tombs had grown simpler as he made his way through time. What was the teaching? “All men are milestones.” Yes. We are but markers in time, an idea only half-realized. Release the need to become more. Realize that there is no more. There is only this, now, and to give yourself to it is to give yourself to others, so that they may follow the same path.

He peered into the grave. A small chamber, no tunnels, no twists and turns this time. Just a stone coffin and a few urns and pots. Ashes…perhaps burnt parchment. He cracked his neck and jumped down, landing easily and agilely, cat-like.

Dead markers. What’s the point for a tomb to a milestone? Such a petty thing, revering the dead. Even the The Blessed Order can’t let it go. Not even the esoteric little temple he had grown up in.

The stone coffin had a face on it. Old, this one, so the face was well-worn and barely recognizable. Still, it stared at him. He stared back, his black eyes looking just as dead. He stared for a good long while, and then punched the coffin square in the nose. A crack appeared, and his fist beaded with blood. He punched again. A larger crack, snaking its way up and down.

To give oneself to another power. To let go of need. That is why I failed, they told me. We are taught that there is only Mitra, and our service to her, and others. To seek out more is to seek failure. There are no secrets, only truths that you will never, ever hold.

He punched once more and a large chunk cracked away. That’s all he needed. Grasping it by the hole, he tore off the lid. It protested but fell away, not as heavy or strong as the one above his head. The loud thump resonated through the chamber.

Snickers behind my back. Veiled threats. Jealousy. Always jealousy. Yet even the heads of the temple regarded me as less than others. Equality, but on their terms. “You are not meant for this,” they said. Not kindly. They wanted rid of me.

Nothing. Another skeleton, grinning at him, its jaw broken by a piece of stone that fell through where he had punched. He flung it aside. The rest of the coffin was empty. He allowed himself a growl and kicked the clay pots. Also empty. The Blessed Order does not waste. Why put things in pots to be buried? Let the symbols carry their meaning.

The night I left. I found Brother Redeemed in his bed, frail hands clutched around his prayer beads, white-knuckled as I snuck into his chamber. He didn’t shout. Curious, that. But oh, he did give up whatever secrets he had, after I threatened to squeeze the life out of him. Where were the others buried? The old ones.  Surely they have the means to teach me, if he and the others won’t.

He lied.

His ears perk. Swift, silent sounds up above. He glances upwards, and sees the shadows fall over the entrance in the ground. Trapped. A net falls over the hole he jumped down, and is pulled taut. Trapped, like an animal. The irony.

Follow the trail. Graves, each older than the last. Pop them open. Find what I want. No…what I need. More. Always more. If they won’t tell me…if they won’t give me what I want…I’ll just take it.

He paces. There’s a whispered conversation above him, three men. They’re not fools.

Every man is a milestone. What is my purpose? Dropped wet from my mother’s arms on the doorstep of men who were taught to care for all. Dissatisfied. They say that’s the symptom of ambition.

An agreement’s made. Slowly, with loud grunts and curses, the stone slab is put back in place. The dull gray and black tones of his vision take over as darkness overwhelms the tomb. He sits down and lets his breathing slow.

This is my breath. It is drawn into me. They told me it was Mitra I breathed…but those ways are no longer mine. It is merely an  act of need. We are, by our very nature, creatures of need.

This is MY breath. It is drawn into me. It becomes mine, and will never be anyone else’s. This is MY breath…it…is…drawn into…me. It…deserves…to be mine.

This…is MY…

This…

He wakes up, bound in chains. He does not struggle; there’s no need. He knows now that his secrets aren’t bound in tombs or in the minds of frail old men.

He will make his own secrets. He will find his own way. And he will show The Blessed Order and all of Talingarde that the world is not built on service and help…but on the blood of those who took what they needed.