Heroes Of Grey

A little Disclaimer:
If you're sensitive to anything that touches on prejudice, assault or any of those darker themes, please steer clear of this story. Everyone has their own tastes, and that's wonderful! If this is more to your style, then do read on, but excuse the poor writing! This is my first attempt at a Lore Story, feedback is always wonderful too!​

People will often find themselves relishing in the storybooks of fiction, aggrandising a hero for saving a chaste maiden from the clutches of forces less than savoury or divine, conquering all that stood in his path and wielding with him a blade of holy light. Children are taught to seek out the light. To bathe themselves in opinions of black and white, light and dark, questions of morality become multiple choice, and they find themselves becoming those who are morally upright. These children are taught the ideal that if they are good, good things shall be bestowed upon them for their efforts, they study, they pray, they do their chores all in the name of satiating this ideal of being 'good', and they profit from their actions. Actions of goodwill become second nature, and this reward becomes expectation, encouragement of goodwill becomes encouragement of conceit.

But all that glitters is not gold, all too often are the rays of riches the malignant moonlit maces of malicious intent and misdeed. I was raised in a warm home, with loving parents and a frequently filled stomach with plenty of opportunity to excel, but I sought more. I sought more than what I was given, I displayed no appreciation and acted with greed, and wrath at the expense of my parents. I wasn't given what I wanted, and opted for force to take what I desired. Petty wants satiated through whining incessantly and throwing tantrums, followed by displays of disgust when presented with something similar, but not exactly as desired. I can never forget their disappointment.

As I advanced in age and maturity, I had began to see the intrinsic value of effort, gritting your teeth and getting your hands dirty proved to be the finest way of getting things done honestly and properly, without need for retrying. I came under the tutelage of a respectable man who showed me much of the usage of a sword, and taught me of what it felt like for one's heart to flutter. We shared many hours together upon the plains, tending to small crops and swinging our weapons haphazardly, staggering into one another in mock excuses to display some kind of affection, with time, we grew close enough that when asked for my hand, I practically threw myself at him. We spent few peaceful years together, we were drafted into the militia that stationed itself about Optikios, with my husband commanding their men, and myself being sent about to patrol wider lands, this was, before the birth of my three children; Alexandria, Rhodos and Nicosie, a beautiful triad that showed few traits of their mother, and many of their father, a blessing, of course.

However, this happiness was due to not last forever, an assaulting force of undead was rumoured to be making their way for a small settlement on the borders, we were dispatched, blindsided, and dispatched of, I survived the assault through the bravery of my husband, he threw me upon his steed and bound me haphazardly to the saddle I watched in silent awe as I was carried away, my dearest Lyonidas fought bravely to the bitter end. I awoke at home, injured beyond belief, with my three teenaged children by my side, not a word was spoken, there was nothing to be said that we didn't already know.

With the passing of my husband, I turned my eye to powers beyond my own two hands for guidance, and found my solace in my interactions with the Deacon of Optikios. My survival deemed a blessing for my faith in the Spirit; but this gift had come at the cost of service, ever-faithful to he who had saved my life many times before, I stood with no quarter granted to me, I accepted my lifelong devotion to Faith. I took up arms, and was sent about doing a dog's work, tracking down those who were the accused, of retiring from their fellowship of Faith, or succumbing to afflictions deemed most unholy. I granted no mercy, and offered nought but an ear to hear the final words of the irredeemable, I burned the bodies as my final display of respect for who they were, and my display of disgust for whom they sought to be. The stench stained my hands, my body, my mind, burning flesh and the screams of those left weary by the blaze, the ravenous cries of audiences hungry for a sense of morbid 'justice' to be put on display, and the tears shed by the loved ones of the accused. An environment I wouldn't soon forget, plaguing my every step was the wishes and desires of those I had deemed irrefutable enough to lose their lives, their final words plague my memory, loudly enough to drown out my own thoughts but I feared not, I needed not to think, but to act upon the orders granted to me from powers beyond what I could grasp with my own hands.

In my moment of uncertainty, I found my resolutions, the intention for my actions became clear to me upon discovering the results of my experimentation. I released an uncured sanguine into the dark of night, as an act of mercy for the lost soul, the results of which lead to a small coven of Sanguine laying assault to a rather small, insignificant outskirts village.

I had all the confirmation I'd sought after, these beings were beyond saving, no more than the cattle we feast upon, no less than the dirt below our feet. I arrived at dawn with my acolytes, we offered shelter to the afflicted, and made examples of those sanguine that led them, those that were further on in their afflictions acted in horror of their 'kin' being purified of their sin, and were offered no quarter. This was only the first of many incidents.

And after so many years spent, bathed in the blood of victims of circumstance, that could have been prevented with but an ounce of compassion, the hunt becomes recreation. A job becomes a frequented hobby, and with time, a hobby becomes an obsession. In the eyes of the individual that benefits from one's obsessive actions, you are a hero, but the world is a sorry shade of grey.