Korda the unyielding
Location- iron citadel: sanctum
The air in the Iron Citadel's sanctum was heavy with incense, smoke curling lazily toward the vaulted ceiling and catching the pale light that filtered through high, narrow windows. Dust motes floated like tiny suspended stars in the sunbeams. Korda Veydran knelt on the cool stone floor, legs folded beneath him, his helmet resting carefully in front of him. The metal gleamed in the light, scarred from countless battles, yet polished here in reverence, a reminder of both honor and burden.
He let his hands brush against the faintly etched runes in the floor, tracing symbols carved for Kad Harangir. His voice was low, but steady, filling the silent hall.
"Kad Harangir… tracyn mhi'diir. Tracyn mhi'cuyi'cuyi' be gedet paruyc, bal mhi'beskar'gamur kaysh'la skraan. Vokarir haa'ni cuyir be mhi nu'kayd… solus mhi'briik… solus Yaga Minor haar'kaysh bal mhi tracyn su'cuy, ven'riduur mhi ven'riduur naas."
He paused, taking a slow breath, letting the weight of his own words sink in. Then, his voice grew softer, more intimate, a murmur almost swallowed by the stone walls:
"Bal tracyn mhi'shuk'la be haa'ni cuyir haar kaysh'la mhi… solus mhi'kar'taylir, solus mhi'beskar'gamur kar'taylir, mhi copaani bal mhi cuyir ven'riduur, bal ven'riduur haar mhi serim. Solus mhi'solusir haa'ni, nu solus mhi'jolib bal nu'briik ven'ni'jur, bal nu'solusir haari be cuyir be'senaar, nu be shuk'la."
The words hung in the air, swallowed by shadows, yet resonating back to him. Memories clawed forward, yaga minor, the four he had landed with that day, the mistakes that still felt fresh. The weight pressed on him, but he remained kneeling, silent save for the prayer, letting each syllable fortify his resolve.
A faint hum from his comm device interrupted the heavy quiet. Korda's head tilted slightly, catching the soft vibration beneath the stone tiles, Omen. Relief flickered through him, tempered by the readiness always poised at the edge of his thoughts. Whatever came next, he would meet it, and he would not falter.
He inhaled deeply, letting the scent of incense and stone fill him. Golden light pooled across the floor, washing over his armor, shadows stretching along the high arches. Rising slowly, Korda lifted his helmet, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. His gaze swept the vast hall, noting every column, every rune, every whisper of history etched into the Citadel's walls.
Alone, yet not lonely, he whispered once more:
"Solus mhi'solusir haa'ni cuyir ven'ni'jur bal mhi, bal solus mhi'kar'taylir bal kaysh'la, nu'tracyn be'gaanir, nu copaani haari ven'kaysh'la."
Jett Vox
Aren D'Shade
Sergeant Omen
The air in the Iron Citadel's sanctum was heavy with incense, smoke curling lazily toward the vaulted ceiling and catching the pale light that filtered through high, narrow windows. Dust motes floated like tiny suspended stars in the sunbeams. Korda Veydran knelt on the cool stone floor, legs folded beneath him, his helmet resting carefully in front of him. The metal gleamed in the light, scarred from countless battles, yet polished here in reverence, a reminder of both honor and burden.
He let his hands brush against the faintly etched runes in the floor, tracing symbols carved for Kad Harangir. His voice was low, but steady, filling the silent hall.
"Kad Harangir… tracyn mhi'diir. Tracyn mhi'cuyi'cuyi' be gedet paruyc, bal mhi'beskar'gamur kaysh'la skraan. Vokarir haa'ni cuyir be mhi nu'kayd… solus mhi'briik… solus Yaga Minor haar'kaysh bal mhi tracyn su'cuy, ven'riduur mhi ven'riduur naas."
He paused, taking a slow breath, letting the weight of his own words sink in. Then, his voice grew softer, more intimate, a murmur almost swallowed by the stone walls:
"Bal tracyn mhi'shuk'la be haa'ni cuyir haar kaysh'la mhi… solus mhi'kar'taylir, solus mhi'beskar'gamur kar'taylir, mhi copaani bal mhi cuyir ven'riduur, bal ven'riduur haar mhi serim. Solus mhi'solusir haa'ni, nu solus mhi'jolib bal nu'briik ven'ni'jur, bal nu'solusir haari be cuyir be'senaar, nu be shuk'la."
The words hung in the air, swallowed by shadows, yet resonating back to him. Memories clawed forward, yaga minor, the four he had landed with that day, the mistakes that still felt fresh. The weight pressed on him, but he remained kneeling, silent save for the prayer, letting each syllable fortify his resolve.
A faint hum from his comm device interrupted the heavy quiet. Korda's head tilted slightly, catching the soft vibration beneath the stone tiles, Omen. Relief flickered through him, tempered by the readiness always poised at the edge of his thoughts. Whatever came next, he would meet it, and he would not falter.
He inhaled deeply, letting the scent of incense and stone fill him. Golden light pooled across the floor, washing over his armor, shadows stretching along the high arches. Rising slowly, Korda lifted his helmet, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. His gaze swept the vast hall, noting every column, every rune, every whisper of history etched into the Citadel's walls.
Alone, yet not lonely, he whispered once more:
"Solus mhi'solusir haa'ni cuyir ven'ni'jur bal mhi, bal solus mhi'kar'taylir bal kaysh'la, nu'tracyn be'gaanir, nu copaani haari ven'kaysh'la."
Jett Vox
Aren D'Shade
Sergeant Omen