What the dead crave. (open)

[Gratus Stormbearer]

For the character Gratus Stormbearer: https://wiki.ffxiv-roleplayers.com/pages/Gratus_Stormbearer

 

a continuation of http://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/showthread.php?tid=8105&highlight=Gratus

and

http://ffxiv-roleplayers.com/showthread.php?tid=10630&highlight=Gratus

 

****

 

 A tall, well tanned and muscular highlander mounted the stairs of the Vylbrand academy, his weary eyes scanning the first room he stepped into. He knew it well, the forge room of the school had been his domain for awhile now. Every day staff and students would pile arms, armor and anything else that needed a Smith's touch in one of his barrels, and every few days, he'd stop in to repair what he was able.

 

 The school didn't pay him for his time, or at least, he always refused when they would try. This was about something more for him, about helping to make sure these students didn't meet a bad end. There was no class he could teach, no 'wise words' from a washed out old Sultansworn that would be worth anything to them, so this was how he helped.

 

 A glance in the barrels brought a frown to his otherwise exhausted expression. One of the items was a great-sword he recognized from hanging in the hall. It wasn't uncommon for students to damage the decor by accident, but this time, there was blood on the edge of the blade. Perhaps it cut some poor kid when it fell. It was probably nothing.

 

 

  He nods to himself and sets about his task, taking the nicked blade to the grindstone. A little water poured over the stone to minimize sparks and he was off to work, sharpening and straightening the once damaged blade. When he was finished, he carried it to a treatment table along the wall, pouring a healthy dose of Gyshal oil over the blade and polishing it slowly till it shined.

 

  Gratus continued his work in the same way with the rest of the damaged items, each one receiving the love and care that he dedicated to any item that fell into his hands.

 

  Hours later, tired and sore, the old knight found his way back to his room, laying down to close his eyes in a bid to get as much rest as he could, though it never seemed enough.

 

****

 

  Blue eyes snapped open and glanced around. It was time. The dark of night filled the entire room, but that didn't seem to bother him. He was used to the darkness now. The powerful frame of a large man rose from bed, quiet but quick in his movements. Let the old knight sleep. That broken fool has little use where we are going.

 

 

  No, there was no use bringing along a knight who refused to kill tonight. The City of Ul'dah was a den of rats and snakes, and tonight called for men who wouldn't hesitate to cut them down. The entire city seemed to be crying out for help, every night, some poor innocent was made to suffer from the wrong doings of those who put money and power before people.

 

  The highlander opened the bottom drawer on his dressed and pulled out a mask made of ashe and painted black. He slips it on and reaches up to take the sword off the dresser. His hand stops. Pure white sheathe and hilt sit there, just beyond his fingers, waiting to be taken and used again, yet he couldn't seem to force himself to grab it. No, Not that one. Even I can't break an oath that strong.

 

 

 Besides, that is a sword of justice. Heh. Justice. As if the dead care about justice. The dead don't need such noble concepts as Justice. The dead only crave one thing. Vengeance.

 

 

  He cracks open the door and spots the familiar great-sword hanging on the wall and takes it up in both hands. 'You and me again, it seems.' The door starts to close behind him, just enough light shining into the old smith's room to show the empty bed left behind.

 

****

 

   Gratus jerks awake with the sound of the morning bells, groaning to himself as always. He just could not seem to get ahead, no matter how much he slept the day always came to early. Still, obligations called, and the old smith dragged himself up and out to his forge room.

 

  His eyes spot a bent and nicked great-sword in one of his barrels, his brow arching at the sight, 'How the hell are you dinged up again?'