Quillian True grew up in such a time, an orphan in the lifelong care of the local parish. As a toddler he was found on the doorstep, wrapped in a soft blanket along with a scribbled note saying simply that his mother wanted the best yet was unable to give it to him. So he was raised in the sign of his God, which encompassed most of his days. Marriage never tempted him, though he did find love once in a girl, Cris, from a nearby church. Days, when not delving into their studies, encompassed flirtatious conversation and staring deep into each other’s eyes. Evenings, when all tasks and chores completed, were spent gazing at sunsets and holding hands. Many of Quillian’s friends pushed him to propose marriage to Cris, but he had no lure to such things. It had crossed his mind a few times but nothing came of it. Or did it? Quillian kept his sincerest thoughts to himself. One day he would have his own farm, his own crop, and Cris as his wife…

Until one day, a lone pilgrim, bloody and beaten, staggered forth bearing news of a militia from overseas tearing across the mainland, plundering cities and causing all degrees of mayhem. The local priests gathered by consensus in the town square in an attempt to fathom such an act arising among such passive times. This nation of theirs could not stand against such a mighty force, and violence was not their nature, so expectations where grim. A few evenings later, as Quillian was fading to sleep in his chamber, a loud knock was heard at the door. He arose and made his way across the room to meet the worried brow of his township’s minister. The conversation that followed was simply put that Quillian was to leave in the morning to request support from a nearby city. Quillian was troubled as he had never been farther away than the local outskirts, yet he had faith in both his God and his minister, and complied.

The next morning he left his room with only his robe, a day-sack with rations, his journal book, and quarterstaff. His fellow cleric’s met him at the steps of the church, saying their goodbyes and best wishes. They all knew Quillian’s travels would be long and arduous, and the possibility that they would never see his face again. Such thoughts were kept hidden as expectations hinged on good hopes and positive feelings.

Cris knew she had no say in the matter and watched him leave with tears in her eyes. She so ached to tell him her sincerest feelings and those heartfelt words she needed to say to him before he left. But she just watched him walk into the distance before the morning sun.

Quillian made well on his first day of his travels. By the afternoon of that first day, he had made it through the borders of his realm and into the farmlands of an adjacent land. The sun was warm and there was a gentle breeze, making this trip pleasant although the situation was dismal. Quillian’s feet began to hurt from such a voyage, so he took camp underneath a nearby tree. Although he had no intentions to do so, he slipped into a slumber, only to awake a few hours later to the setting sun.

There was no time for basking now, and even though it would dark soon, Quillian had the inspiration of his fellow cleric’s to motivate and guide him. He climbed to his feet – his back hurt from that tree – and continued on his way. His hike was long and lonesome; Quillian passed no one on his nighttime excursion. The only sound, save his footsteps, was the chirp of nocturnal creatures hiding behind the cover of the forest and overgrown weeds. It was almost eerie. The moon – full in all its glory – bathed the land in a pale blue, making sight just less than a chore with squinting eyes.

With only one stop for a speedy morning breakfast of a roll and tea, Quillan continued into the late of morning. He had made it into the farmland, and passed workers harvesting their crop with sickles and sacks in hand. Quillian simply waved to them in his passing, they did the same. It was overcast, and with the occasional clap of thunder, the day was cool. By the afternoon, Quillian had been rather careless and eaten the rest of his prepared provisions. He told himself that he would inquire at the next farmhouse for a meal and possibly shelter from the oncoming storm.

And at that farm, the master of the house welcomed Quillian in, recognizing his robes as one of the clergy. Lodging and a meal were given, and in the morning Quillian thanked his host, bowed to the lady of the house, and went on his way. Before leaving, Quillian queried to the nearest city, and the farmer gave him some welcome information – the city was just a day’s travel from this farm.

Quillan found his destination, but he found no relief there for the Lord and his generals had sent their warriors to the North to intercept hostile armies rampaging the countryside. Quillian lodged there for a forthnight, each night he wrote in his journal about his travels and how he missed Cris, and was eager to see her face and hear her laugh again.

When he was ready he made the trek back to his hometown to find a horrible sight. The city was in ruins. Anything and everything that could burn was. His family, friends, and neighbors were strewn through the streets, some crudely decapitated and some just beaten and left there to die in agony. At the front steps of his parish he found Cris’s lifeless body. As he cradled her in his arms, a great hatred welled up within him—a feeling he had never felt before. That day he made a pact with his God, Cris, and himself – a pact that he would help those less fortunate and in need, never permit what he has gone through to happen again, and would not rest until justice is served.