Three hours had passed since Abe heard the news, of what they had done at the gate; the punching bag hadn't seen so much action since his first night in the city. Nerves were not the source of Abe's frustration this time. Three sharp alternating jabs cracked against the middle of the object, his fist slamming midway through the word 'heresy' that was stitched vertically into the bag by Abe's Mother, decades ago now. The usually kind hearted man pummeled the bag with rage. Then they started.
Crackling into view came visions of a blurry battle, flashes of maps and war-room conferences, all mingled in a haze that obscured his view. He saw men; aberrant, non-Ailor and Ailor alike, fighting side by side, their images burnt into his mind; their faces filtered out, a swathe of colour distorting any discernible features that may have distinguished them as people he knew. He saw their open wounds, the weapons that lay limp in their hands, the twitching bodies of their half-dead steeds that had fallen by their riders. He saw men, women and children stabbed and thrown from fortifications.
He bends over, huffing and puffing, chest heaving with heavy breath. He pulls his palm to his forehead to try and push out the pain. He fails. Swaying on the spot, body like a lead metronome; head throbbing. Beads of sweat trickle down from the top of his hairless skull, resting on his eyebrows before passing down either side of his face, rolling their way down to drip from his chin. They were soon joined by tears. He staggers forward, arms fumbling for what little support the punch-bag can provide, hugging its swaying form as if it would provide some stability. He rocked as the second wave came.
Sounds followed the glimpses of war: the thunder of hooves clopping their way across the sod marked the beat of war-cacophony. Cannon fire and the light thwacking of crossbow and bow strings, clanks of plate meeting pointed steel joined the hooves in the percussion section, clattering like symbals or beating like drums to provide depth to the sound. Howls of men and women filled his ears, the choir not-quite-living choir singing a higher harmony to the voices that chattered away military commands and orders in his ears; generals and marshals in their high chairs, muttering; heroes on the front lines barking to rally their men; mentors giving instructions to their students in tactics and techniques; they all joined in his mind to tell him of strategy.
Tears were now streaming down the face of the strongman, his form physically trembling, from pain or from feeling, he was not himself sure. He was forced to his knees by the experience, sliding slowly down the bag till he hits the ground with a soft thud. A single sob escapes his mouth. He tries to think of family: Theodosia, Gisela, his newly found cousin. It didn't work. He tried to think of friends: Eleanore, Ana, Ernesta, Lazaruz, Vulmar, Bjornolf, and the many other faces that would have come to thought if it weren't for the Spirit's intervention. The visions his aspect granted him took precedent over kin or companion.
Finally came the smell and sensations, enough to make his hairs stand on end and nostrils twitch as the putrid odour of blood, faeces, sweat, and black-powder punctured their way into his mind. Flushes of cold air seemed to brush against his skin, followed by smatterings of blistering heat, reaching temperatures that would've left severe burns at best, and charred black flesh at worst. Prickling agonising pain writhes its way across his skin, sharp jabs of hurt stabbing his way deep into his flesh, leaving no marks or wounds but giving sensations just the same.
He places a foot to rise, cracking either side of his neck as he does so, rolling his shoulders. His face blank and expressionless, only the trails of tears painting his face with any form of emotion he begins to see what he was meant to be shown: Crossbows, shields and prayer beads. Yes, they would be the solution. He hung his gloves back up, steadied the back to stop its sway. Calm had returned to Abe, for now. After a long bath in his small copper tub, he sat down to write the first draft of his plans, as well as a few letters.
Abelhard Konstantin Nikolas Ottmar Rote, Inquisitor of Holy Leomar, Bear of Jarrow, had plans to smite some heretics.
Have never seen someone actually portray how their character deals with the aspect of Talent, the sheer emotional and mental tax that would have on a character. I'd like to think the instability of Abe's emotions during a lot of the time he works or moves around fulfils some of this, but I really wanted to use a Lore Story to portray how severely the episodical visions the Spirit grants can be. I have always wanted to make a character that cared, an emotional wreck within a formidable exterior was a juxtaposition I couldn't miss out on. I really wish everyone took the decision of this Unionist Aspect seriously, rather than the flat buff it gives, I hope I portrayed how the visions of the Order of Talent would affect someone correctly.
