Rites of the True

[Silver Snow]

Serace, Faithblade to Torm, had begun to settle back into the ebb and flow of Sarshel life and the duties the priesthood entailed. While often performing her job armed and armored, the more recent weeks had shown her to be a frequent visitor to the city's less well-to-do sections. While the Temple to the Triad was surrounded with apartments and manors, Serace spent much of her time in the city nearer to the docks and the slums that melded so easily into them. Sometimes, it was to aid in the newly-opened clinic, lending her own knowledge of healing and Torm's mercy to those in need. Other times, she mingled with the homeless, the struggling, and the bereft. She came and went in clean robes trimmed in rose-red, though she always carried the sheathed great blade at her back, a symbol of her service as much as it was for her own protection.

Her work with one destitute family seemed to be something of a personal focus for her, the unfortunate result of a father injured at work, an arm fractured, and thus being unable to continue his honest job at the docks and the family that suffered for it. Serace tended to the injury over time with mundane means, slowly working towards putting the man back on the path to provide for his family. She helped with smaller ailments and provisions, little kindnesses that had aided the family through the worst of winter. Then, for nearly a full day, she had vanished, only to appear to the family in the evening with an invitation to dinner. At a nearby tavern, the dining table in a spacious side room was set with a grand meal, prepared with the priestess's own hands over the day in the tavern's kitchens, an allowance for which the establishment certainly received a donation. It was a spread of honest foods, combining local recipes attempted and executed with some success with more traditional Cormyrian fare, where Serace would have learned to cook in her youth.

The meal was paired with purchased drink, and ranged over multiple courses to be far too large for the man, his wife, and his young son to eat in one sitting. Serace did not join the family at the table, instead waiting on them with patient grace. She did not touch the food herself despite the insistence to join, explaining that it was prepared for them and her duty was to fast and serve, this night. That which couldn't be finished was either taken by the family or donated to others in need, rather than be wasted. Serace had promised to keep checking in and making sure that the arm was to heal well, and that the family would need for nothing through the rest of Sarshel's cold winter.

Serace herself returned that night to the temple to seek out a fellow priest, an Anduran new to the order, to continue the ceremony of Torm's Table. To him she would confess her failures, her flaws, her regrets, and any matter in which she felt she had sinned.

[Silver Snow]

The distance was well over a single day's hard ride even if the roads were good, which they certainly were not, but even still Serace had the intent to travel. The Hall of Loyalty was a site she had meant to visit since her arrival to Impiltur, but the circumstances never allowed it and opportunity never presented itself. Until now. A sacred summons to attend the Investiture of a new priestess had come from the Hall, and any whose duties could permit it were invited to attend. True, she was beyond the standard day's call that would make her attendance a mandate, but instead it became opportunity. It was not so long since she herself had knelt at the Holy Vigil, in the Temple of Torm's Coming in Tantras itself. The memory of it, more than fresh enough, warmed her. Had she ever been as close to Torm as she was that night? Had she ever had her loyalty tested so, since?
The snows had fallen light for a few days, and the cold had ensured that the ground stay hard and near immutable to horse hooves and wagon ruts. She had rented out a pair of horses and all the gear needed for their upkeep, ready to make her departure north and west from Outentown. Serace was reassured that there would be outposts between here and the Hall, an easy enough journey for one horse along to make. The second mare, she informed the stablemaster, would not be for her.

For the sake of the horse, a beast bred for riding and distance and not the weight of mailed warriors, she spread most of her gear out among the saddlebags. Serace herself wore her robes, engraved gauntlets, and the breastplate from her armor. On her feet were a comfortable pair of leather riding boots, and within easy reach hung the flail she so often found a use for. It would be a road of two nights and several days, and she knew very well that she would regret her lack of practice in riding at the end of it all. The last adornments to the horse's gear were two great blades. The first had a hilt well-worn, a blade clean and bright but showing the effects of hard use even still, despite a Tormtar's best maintenance. Her blade, as of yet unnamed. The second was different, showing age in a a more regal way than her own. This one was forged and forgotten, left somewhere and seemed to have been never blooded. It was not adorned much, the sigil of no particular craftsman could be found, but the make of it was masterful. It was a blade that did not belong coated in dust, but rather in the service of the Loyal Fury. Each sword was sheathed in leather and firmly attached, peacebound, upon the mare's flanks. She knew her duties were well handled before leaving, and she left with the blessing of her superiors . It would not do after all to have the Tormtar in Sarshel unrepresented at an event like this, and not without a gift worthy for the occasion.

[Vogelens]

Not quite at home on horseback, Gwendolynn nonetheless knows how to ride at least. The spellsword having decided to accompany her sister on the trip, for the sake of company those days on the road at least, even if she herself would not attend the ceremony. Travelling fairly lightly herself, with her own riding outfit worn, most of her belongings are within saddlebags on the second mare. Tomes and books, for the most part, rather than weaponry. The one weapon carried being her own sword, sheated in it's ornate scabbard, attached to one of the saddlebags while on the road.

The time on the road is taken to catch up with Serace, the Faithblade's duties and Gwendolynn's own work and research not having left much time for the sisters to talk much as of late. Reminiscing about Serace's own Investiture ceremony, one Gwen had attended as family, as well as other nostalgic tales being told. They had time after all, several days of it on the trip. Current and recent events and news likewise shared as well, amongst the talk.

In some ways, the spellsword did miss those moments. A reminder of simpler times, times of more carefree youth. At least there would be a few days of no shedding blood, or risking death. Unless they would encounter highwaymen on the road there, if these brigands would be so unlucky to waylay the sisters Highblade, that is...

[Silver Snow]

The journey was untroubled and, due to careful planning, none too hurried. The roads were passable and the nights were mostly held in the comfort of inns with fed and rested mounts the next day. The Highblade sisters arrived a day early at the Hall of Loyalty, Torm's daunting keep. It stood on a hill with a narrow, guarded passage to its thick gates. The battlements dutifully overlooked the river Icehilt from the west, with a distant view of the joining of three waters at the Three Horns. As all such structures to the glory of the True, it was beautiful in its utilitarian simplicity, awe-inspiring to friends and dauntingly solid to foes.

Serace and her sister were expected and welcomed, though with a polite respect to guests rather than any undue cheer. This was the precursor to a sacred ceremony, and while there would be cause to celebrate, the enthusiasm for the event manifesting in a quiet, fervent energy in the people. The robes and armors of many ranks and positions passed through the halls, and the young Faithblade and her guest were given quarters. Simple, spartan guest rooms only mildly more comfortable than the locals' own. Though she was not quite allowed to be at the ceremony of Investiture itself, Gwendolynn was offered as much respect and courtesy as any guest. To occupy her own time and interests, and perhaps to use a keen mind, the Hall's aged librarian had sent a scholarly Anduran down to request Gwendolynn's help at the library for the day. Serace, presumably, had made it well known that while her sister was no active servant of the True, she was a devout and loyal woman nonetheless.

Serace's own first visit was to the Hall's smithy. With her, she carried the wrapped greatsword, coddled in leather and already polished and cleaned. She bid another request, though, to the resident smith, and left the blade in his care for the day. The rest of the day for Serace was spent touring the Hall and joining in silent, reverant prayer. Here, she wore her rose-red robes with her gleaming breastplate fastened over them to signify her most active role in the church. She preached and stood as example to the faith, where she went, but her true duty was due to her finer talents. She was to face the foes of the Loyal Fury with armor and sword in hand, living by the Code and perhaps dying by it.

Serace knew only the name of the Unproven, Marissee Holm. In the morning, the ceremony of Investiture would begin. Torm willing, by the morning after that, Marissee would stand in Torm's service as an Anduran.