A life cut from the Pattern.

[Jael]

The sound of metal on metal echoes in the silence.

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A young man surveys Tarwin's Gap, his youthful appearance belied by the visage of fresh scars covering old on every inch of exposed flesh. A foul breeze carries the stench of the Blight to his nostrils as the man adjusts his gauntlets and grips his weapon anew. He senses another's presence.

Slow hoofstops confirm the suspicion as a lone mounted Myrrdraal emerges from the boundary of the Blight. Dressed in what must have been forged in the Dark One's blackest armouries, the fade lifts the ancient sword of Kirukan to point in his direction.

"You meet your death again, human. For the final time." The fade's eyeless face sneers as he speaks.

"Maybe so, Rig. But you will bleed in the attempt."

Booting his horse into motion, Jaedran rides to meet the shadowspawn's own charge in a confrontation he already knows the result of. Oddly, he feels no grip of fear as a sudden wild sense of elation rises in his chest. Release. Freedom. Jaedran laughs wildly as he matches the fade swing for swing.

Rig the Myrrdraal snickers to himself as his sword finally drives through the human's tunic and the waiting, soft flesh beneath. Slumping forward, the light fades from Jaedran eyes as he slips from his horse. As his lifeless body falls to the ground, his armour clangs heavily on the hard earth, the sound of metal on metal echoing across the now empty valley.

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A hastily erected command Tent nestles in between spires in the Spine of the World. Somehow, despite the sand and dust, it's canvass walls seem to almost shine white in contrast to the environment around it. The sunburst banner hung from its peak dances in the wind.

Lord Lieutenant Lucore Ventris marches the last distance between the latrine line back to the command tent. Having given up active command some years prior, the tediousness of administration is a breakfast he can no longer stomach.

Casting back the entry flap, he greets the room of Lord-Captains with a curt salute, the view almost warranting a return visit to the latrines.
A wizened old Lord-Captain greets his salute with a brief smile. "Child Lucore" he says, lifting a piece of parchment from the table before him. "You have served with the Children for almost twenty years. I have received your application for retirement with little surprise. A privilege well earned."
Child Lucore afford the Lord-Captain a rare smile, already beginning to adjust the loosening straps of his breastplate. "Thank you Lord-Captain Daal. Your promotion is also well earned. I have full faith the Children will see themselves to further victories under your guidance."

Lord-Captain Daal el'Drien returns the smile, reaching forward to clasp Lucore's arm in a soldier's handshake "And what will become of you now, old friend" Daal asks.

Lucore's reply is muffled as he drags the breastplate over his head, "Baking I think my friend, I always wanted to be a baker."

Child Lucore casts his breastplate to the floor, throwing up motes of dust. Unfastening the clip of his sunburst cloak, he throws it atop the breastplate and salutes a final time before taking his leave. The hanging finality of the soft sound of his cloak landing on his breastplate ringing his ears long after he leaves the campsite.
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Hooded faces surround a rich mahogany table, blackened and etched in the centre with a large Talon. The meeting at an end, the group of figures rise from their chairs, each nodding in turn as they disappear into the shadows. Foreboding hangs heavily in the air, the silence deafening even as the room empties of souls.

Jael pushes back his hood and drops his dark cloak to the floor, revealing his dancing hazel eyes. Smiling as he navigates his ways through the hallways and corridors, he pauses as he comes to apparent an dead end in the stone hallway. Feeling his way along the wall, he presses on a loose stone, the rest of the wall giving way to a lightly furnished foyer.

He relaxes visibly as he throws his oilskin bag and cloak to the floor, breathing in the rich smells of his home. He immediately starts for his lounge, where he knows his bartender will await with a cold glass of the new bourbon imported from some far off land or another. This latest being a curiously spherical bottle corked with a cork adorned with a tiny brass horse.

"Blantons" he mutters himself in vague recollection, as he for some reason diverts his path from the bar to his other secret pleasure, his Trophy Room.

As he steps inside he looks around as if seeing it for the first time. Hung from the walls are cloaks representing every nation and organisation in the known world, some torn and some bloodied. Some both. Affixed to the rear wall lies a very old wooden table scarred and marked at almost every inch, odd by nature of its worn and battered state in contrast to the rest of the house. Across the table lays a tattered silver-lined duster, torn as though it was ripped from the shoulders of the wearer. Holding the duster in place is a silver belt buckle in the shape of a clenched fist.

He approaches the old table, and traces his fingers across the scratches and marks littering it, they spell names almost faded from view. Isaah, Sindor, Garwin, Alivia and Gregar all appear in its weathered timber, some fresher than others.

He touches the duster briefly, the symbol of the Thiefbane which once adorned his shoulders. Almost by rote it gives way to the belt bearing an Iron Fist. An interesting life, and Jael smiles and shakes his head ruefully as he considers the twisting paths it followed.

Jael laughs quietly to himself at the absurdity of it all, his mirth cut abruptly short as the dagger enters the side of his throat.

An abnormally tall man stands over Jael's bleeding corpse, thin drops of crimson falling from the tip of the dagger clutched in his hand. The Lord Thiefbane Rico smiles as he watches the signs of life exiting Jael's body. "It would always be my judgement, that would find you in the end, traitor." Rico murmurs, although no sound of malice enters the statement. "Rest now friend, in peace" he adds, before slipping from the room. Rico pauses at the exit, fishing a heavy pouch of gold and tossing it to the bartender, before disappearing completely.

His rooms now empty, Jael lies unmoving in the pool of his life's blood. Not dead yet with his eyes staring at his outstretched hand, he experiences a strange sense of vertigo. His body present in the Trophy Room, but his mind's eye sees an unknown warrior dying in the Gap, an old warrior kneading dough, and the smiling corpse of an Accepted.

He feels contentment rinse through his body, of lives lived and lost, of friends and memories made. In a single moment, recognition takes hold of him, and all his lives fold into one single experience. He remembers lives as a Child of the Light, of a Red Eagle and a Valon Guard. He remembers serving with the Civil Watch, the Saldaean Cavalry and the Wall Guard. Even the jumbled and foreign memories of a Dha'vol trolloc enters his brain.
Jael separates his own memories from these others, and relives his brief time as a Thiefbane, his long years as an Iron Fist, and his tenure as a Black Talon.

His reflection finally done, his eyes fading to a blackness long since abandoned, he breathes his last breath. His last memory, his last experience, the sound of metal on metal echoing in his ears.

Goodbye Everyone, and thank you. It's been a great time. I would write down people for specific goodbyes but I don't think there's a need to, I am sure on one alt or another, I've played with all of you and i'm sure we've had a cracking time. Take care of eachother, and yourselves. Nobody ever really quits, and I will be around on Discord and the forums, as I still have responsibilities to my clan. But for now this is goodbye. All the best.

Zac
Jael/Jaedran/Lucore

[Ragyn]

all the best amigo, been fun playing with you over the years, pop in every now and again.

[Surtain]

See you around, bud!

[Lea]

Good read, and always fun playing with you!

[Dolens]

Shame to see you go, but you know where to find me.

All the best!

D.

[Whelk]

Big love Zac, don't be a stranger on disco!

[Zyonel]

Been really fun pking with and against you, bud. Take care and come back again!

[Kryyg]

There is an inverse correlation with the effort of your goodbye post and the duration of how long you last quitting. See you next week, friend.

[Adael]

<3 Take care bud!!! I'll miss seeing you around

[Florry]