Janus DeShane



  • ACCOUNT: HIRYUKENTO
    CHARACTER: JANUS DESHANE

    I remembered heat, and choking on the acrid air. That's all. I was barely old enough to toddle around; what was I supposed to do? Save them? How?

    Father Persimmons had that odd look in his gaze again; he was mildly annoyed that I had drifted away from attention. The man had a pinched look to his forehead that seemed to say he was always annoyed. I was only twelve years old at the time, but Persimmons was ever a patient man. And he always spoke to me as an equal, if a slightly exasperating equal. "Janus, pay attention. This is important."

    I nodded to him. He continued. "It has been over a decade now since your parents were murdered, and it's time to speak of your … moving on."

    At least he named it for what it was: murder. Banites, it turned out to have been. They fired the house, in the middle of daylight, in the temple district of Waterdeep, and not one guard showed his slimy face until the entire dwelling was decimated. It was Persimmons who pulled me out. I was grateful for that.

    "Janus, we've tried to train you in the ways of the Painbearer. And your heart is good, your body is strong, but ... Janus, your mind, your will, is just not strong enough to make you a healer. Ever."

    Persimmons exhaled, relieved to have gotten it out. I just nodded, hard as it was to hear. I would not let even Persimmons see me weep. Ilmater, the Bound God, was life and breath to me; but even I could admit that I was not cut out to be a healer. It was what I always wanted to be. I had worn the red cords at my wrists since I was five. As if, somehow, I could avenge my family's death by healing others.

    I was so abosorbed with my disappointment that I missed part of what Persimmons said next. "... other things you can do for the Temple, Janus. Things you're better suited to."

    The sound of salvation, perhaps ... "Like what, Father Persimmons?"

    "Even so young, Janus ... you could be a Seeker."

    I was awed to silence. A Seeker. The dirty little secret of the Temple of Ilmater. A religious spy, an infiltrator, a picker of locks, breaker of traps, retriever of holy relics.

    And sometimes, a killer of men. I gasped. "A Seeker, Father? But ... I know nothing of violence, of danger!

    Persimmons made a chopping gesture with his hand, a sad look in his eyes. "You can learn, my son." Under his breath, to himself--though I heard it just as well; my ears were keen then--he said, "It breaks my heart to know that you have it in you to learn better than any I've seen in twenty years."

    I was sixteen years old when the trainers cut me loose from the Seekers Academy. I had not seen the sun in four years. I did not see the sun for another four years after that, either--I became a denizen of the night. I stole. I bluffed, I outright lied. And yes, sometimes I killed. The first time, unlike stories I had heard, was not hard at all.

    No, as I looked from the mangled corpse of a young girl to the dark-eyed man grinning over her, it was not difficult at all to sink the blade in him. I exulted in it. Ilmater would not suffer such a man to live. Nor would I.

    I was pulled away from the Seeking by the War, which I think pulled every man from his normal profession. It was ugly. I hate to remember it. The Amnians poured over the hills in legion upon legion, and I counted them from my position on the westernmost hill, the one we had code-named Hill 513. I was a platoon leader, hastily trained to fight from the front, after eight years of fighting from darkness.

    The Amnians came in two infantry regiments, and a full battalion of cavalry, with two slow batteries of catapult artillery chugging up the rear, towed by overburdened horses to their assigned places where they would attempt to bring down the walls of Waterdeep.

    I sent my semaphore signal down the battle line, back to the Waterdeep wall, as my platoon sergeant--a gray-haired veteran by the name of Graggins--whispered in my ear, "Leiutenant DeShane; we have been passed by the lines--we are now officially behind enemy lines. Shall I give the order?"

    I shook my head. The order of which he spoke was the one to stealthily withdraw, by the coastward route, back into the protection of the Walls. "Hold the line, sergeant."

    He looked grim as he nodded, but he didn't see what I saw--the Amnian division commander, his banner fluttering in the spring breeze, was on a course which would bring him within fifty feet of my hidden platoon. I pointed. "Graggins, tell the men to ready crossbows. Before we retreat, the man with the silly banners will die, for daring to bring death and destruction to my home."

    Sergeant Graggins disappeared immediately to pass the order. When the Amnian general came near, we began the assault.

    The City of Waterdeep awarded me the Order of the Radiant Heart, and the Medal of Valor at Arms. I laid them both on the grave of Sergeant Graggins as I left the city. Too much that I had loved had been killed in Waterdeep. I had drunk my fill of blood. I would rest.

    Three months later, I found myself in Beregost, with my own cottage, and a menial job which kept my muscles hard though it dulled the senses. My pension from Waterdeep supplemented my meager income so that I lived a comfortable life, if not a rich one. My warrior skills faded into memory, as did much of the things I once could do. No call for the sword in Beregost, nor for the jimmying of locks or the recovery of ... well, of anything.

    All that was thirteen years ago. I'm an old man now, by human standards. A retired soldier, retired Seeker, and failed Painbearer of Ilmater. Why, then, do I walk this dusty trail? Why am I strolling blithely into Norwick, leagues and leagues from home, old as I am, having impoverished myself with the journey?

    I would like to claim some noble cause, some world-defining corner which I turned on my life's road, bringing me out of Beregost. But I can claim no such cause. No, the truth is simple.

    I sat in my cottage one afternoon, mending yet another pair of boots for the local smith, when I looked up at my fireplace and saw my old sword hanging there. Why hadn't I thrown it away? I couldn't say. But I stared at it for a long time. And realized I was ... bored.

    Simple boredom. That's all. No great quest, no noble cause. Just a desire to leave, to seek my life or my death elsewhere, elsewhen. I stared at that sword for an hour before I crossed the room to sieze it from its place on the mantle. And what I said, as I grabbed it, was no prayer, so supplication to Ilmater--though He still owns my heart--but merely, "Ah, fark it all."

    And so I march.



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