Anointed
Every day spent on Kestri felt as if discovering something new. Even with the fact he supposedly held a position that placed him in such a role, Carduul could not help but feel a sense of enthusiasm that was altogether different from the fervor of combat. ‘Mythkeeper,’ he was dubbed amidst those of the Covenant. So, he found it fitting to stalk a torch-lit hall in Tor Valum, one that led towards archives of which, technically, was his domain. Others came and went, but most Mandalorians were busy training for their next trials, or preparing for the next inevitable conflict. Those that did arrive, however, had mixed reactions when sighting the once-Mand’alor. Some veered off, thinking it better to spend their time elsewhere with poorly-hid disdain. Others gave passing, respectful acknowledgements. Though, he could observe,…the former may have been a touch less than usual. Or perhaps that was just a hopeful imagination.
It was the simplistic desire fostered since before his verd’goten, being the simple pursuit of Mandalorian knowledge. Their history. Their triumphs, and failures, all. No matter what went his way, nothing could replace his excitement towards this, as a gauntleted hand trailed delicately across stone. Shadows danced across murals both carved, painted, and others written. Each told different stories—some small, some grand...but most curiously of all, it abruptly ended near the end of the hall, being utterly blank.
With the tell-tale, though kept quiet ‘taps’ of his polearm, the crusader had intently- a touch eagerly, he could internally add- scoured over the many tales from behind the mask. The clatter of those training outside could be heard, spars taking place not far from this hallowed place—but that was all for another time, for him.
