A snippet from an idea I had
Jan 18, 2021 18:41:16 GMT -5
Post by headlessvulture on Jan 18, 2021 18:41:16 GMT -5
What if Arus, the priest of Mitra who tried to convert the Picts, had kept a journal? So far, I just have this short entry. I've been working on stories about my own swords-and-sandals hero: Hjaral Gunder's Son of Norskahaim. I'll post snippets of those after I make some more progress.
For now, here's Arus' first journal entry.
I have spent several months here, learning the local language, which is spoken after a fashion beyond these Marches. I have learned what I can of the heathen customs I will encounter from villagers who have had regular, if hostile contact with the unbelievers I hope to convert.
The Bossonians have treated me with the courtesy and reverence they would accord any man of my calling. They are a rough-hewn breed, hardened as they are centuries of constant warfare with the heathen Picts. Even my brother priest of Mitra in this village is of their ilk, a stocky, weather-beaten man whose hands are roughened with the bowstring, the plow, and the woodsman’s axe where my own are soft and ink-stained, as befits a man of letters. I believe Arcturus is sincere in his devotion to Mitra, but when he is not wearing his priestly robes, he is indistinguishable from the hardy villagers around him. He acquits himself well in their frequent archery competitions and spends more of his evenings in the alehouses than in the temple. The priests of Belverus would certainly not approve of Brother Arcturus, but when I admonish him, he merely shrugs and tells me Mitra will surely understand that he is a Bossonian by birth, and a priest only by training. Would it not be an abomination to act against his nature? I consider myself skilled in theological debate, but for this, I have no answer.
Although the Bossonians venerate me as one of Mitra’s earthly emissaries, they believe me somewhat mad. Perhaps I am. I am not the first of my kind to pass through their Marches on this errand. They have seen none of my brothers return, and they are certain I will not return from the wilderness. But if I die, it will be a martyr’s death. My soul will dwell in paradise and adherents of the true faith will hail my memory on earth. May Mitra forgive me for the sin of vanity, but I cannot pretend that this last thought does not please me. And if I should succeed where my brethren have failed? I am an intelligent man, and, I think, an imaginative one. But my mortal mind cannot conceive of the grandeur that would be mine if I were remembered hereafter as Arus, the Apostle of the Picts!
Tomorrow, I cross into the Westermarck, the last outpost of the True Faith, which is to say, the last outpost of civilization. Beyond the Thunder River, there shall be only savages, as feral and deadly as the wild beasts they hunt. I will come among them alone and empty-handed. Mitra calls me inexorably to them, and it would be impious to deny his summons. Whether the god calls me to martyrdom of glory, I cannot say. For a mortal man to seek to divine a god’s purpose strikes me as impious.
The Bossonians have treated me with the courtesy and reverence they would accord any man of my calling. They are a rough-hewn breed, hardened as they are centuries of constant warfare with the heathen Picts. Even my brother priest of Mitra in this village is of their ilk, a stocky, weather-beaten man whose hands are roughened with the bowstring, the plow, and the woodsman’s axe where my own are soft and ink-stained, as befits a man of letters. I believe Arcturus is sincere in his devotion to Mitra, but when he is not wearing his priestly robes, he is indistinguishable from the hardy villagers around him. He acquits himself well in their frequent archery competitions and spends more of his evenings in the alehouses than in the temple. The priests of Belverus would certainly not approve of Brother Arcturus, but when I admonish him, he merely shrugs and tells me Mitra will surely understand that he is a Bossonian by birth, and a priest only by training. Would it not be an abomination to act against his nature? I consider myself skilled in theological debate, but for this, I have no answer.
Although the Bossonians venerate me as one of Mitra’s earthly emissaries, they believe me somewhat mad. Perhaps I am. I am not the first of my kind to pass through their Marches on this errand. They have seen none of my brothers return, and they are certain I will not return from the wilderness. But if I die, it will be a martyr’s death. My soul will dwell in paradise and adherents of the true faith will hail my memory on earth. May Mitra forgive me for the sin of vanity, but I cannot pretend that this last thought does not please me. And if I should succeed where my brethren have failed? I am an intelligent man, and, I think, an imaginative one. But my mortal mind cannot conceive of the grandeur that would be mine if I were remembered hereafter as Arus, the Apostle of the Picts!
Tomorrow, I cross into the Westermarck, the last outpost of the True Faith, which is to say, the last outpost of civilization. Beyond the Thunder River, there shall be only savages, as feral and deadly as the wild beasts they hunt. I will come among them alone and empty-handed. Mitra calls me inexorably to them, and it would be impious to deny his summons. Whether the god calls me to martyrdom of glory, I cannot say. For a mortal man to seek to divine a god’s purpose strikes me as impious.
