The man slouching on the barrel looks like a good-for-nothing rascal, if an unusually clean one. The faded and worn leathers and homespun of his clothing mark it as clearly second hand, while his battered and pitted armor looks more like third or fourth hand equipment. Still, the cloths are free of the food stains, and the armor free of the blood stains and rust that one would expect to find on a typical layabout or bandit. At his belt hangs a sword like the rest of his gear: hard used, but cared for well. His face, like his outfit, shows signs of long wear and combat damage. His nose is at an odd angle, and his Adam’s apple looks misshapen. There is an obvious bald strip of scar tissue near the top of his head, and his pox-pitted face bears a vivid scar across one eye. Though the wound has long healed, the eye under the scarred lid is reddish and clearly too moist, though it still moves about with his gaze. And it is his gaze that truly catches your attention. Beneath the perpetual scowl, there is a smoldering, haunted, intensity to that gaze that never relents. His gaze captures your attention and holds it. When he speaks, his voice is gravely and course.
“The Shalyar sect priests teach that in Hell, the damned are given the wisdom and compassion to understand the harm done by their sins. Thus they spend eternity regretting their evil deeds. Years ago I met a Shalyar priest,” he says, fingering the only ornamentation on his sparse outfit. It is a small golden symbol of the Shalyar sect hanging from a worn strip of cloth to form a necklace. “I sent him to Heaven that day, and found myself in Hell, and I have been there since.” He looks away, releasing you from the intensity of his gaze. He stares into the unseen distance and when he speaks again it is almost a whisper.
“Do you believe in redemption?”
He is silent for a time, before adding, “I can only hope for it. Every act of penance is only a temporary reprieve.” He turns the intensity of his gaze back at you. “Because there is no Heaven for a man who has done the things that I have done.”
Down the street there is a commotion, and a woman screams. People look away and hurry about their own business. It is a bad section of town, and these things happen. The battered man, however, is immediately on his feet, notched sword in hand. His movements are suddenly those of a killer.
“And there’s no rest for the Wicked,” he growls as he strides quickly towards the conflict.
This story was the result of thinking about a discussion on the role of Paladins in fantasy RPGs I had with a friend, before attending Ash Wednesday mass. Another story that once started, seemed to write itself.
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