If they tell my story
I am either gonna die on the battlefield in glory
So much had happened in the last weeks.
First their gate had fallen and the Citadel had almost been ruined; her guards had been wiped out, Neron had been deposed, Weaver had risen to power then mysteriously fallen overnight, she had become the Warden against someone in a vote she had thought she had no chance in...Morgan was finding herself reeling from it all in the quieter moments, the ones where she wasn't busy making plans, helping rebuilding or talking to her new council.
In those times, when suddenly she became aware of every sound around her, she felt intense guilt for the families of her guards: some of which she had not even known beyond their last names.
She knew there had already been a party around to talk to each family: she herself had been a part of some of the visits. Sometimes the wives and children and husbands and parents were understanding, kind, a hand on the shoulder and 'well, I'm sure you did all you could'; sometimes they were angry, sometimes they were just silent. She wasn't sure which was worse.
One thing she did know that without the income of a guard, a lot of the households would struggle, especially over the Deepfrost when travel was limited. With that in mind, she'd thought to bestow some fortune to those families her own incompetence had bereaved. Buying bundles of meat and crops, some cider and biscuits, packing them into individual baskets, she had gone out in the dead of the night.
The Warden delivering such things would draw attention and she had not wanted to be performative about this, declaring what a good thing she had done to the Citadel. Instead she wore a heavy cloak and stood slightly behind each house, using her telekinesis to lift the baskets from her hand and place them on the doorstep, throwing a pebble at the door to gather the attention of the family within. Sometimes she stayed to hear the reaction, sometimes she did not: the important thing was that she knew they were safe and looked after for the Longnight.
First their gate had fallen and the Citadel had almost been ruined; her guards had been wiped out, Neron had been deposed, Weaver had risen to power then mysteriously fallen overnight, she had become the Warden against someone in a vote she had thought she had no chance in...Morgan was finding herself reeling from it all in the quieter moments, the ones where she wasn't busy making plans, helping rebuilding or talking to her new council.
In those times, when suddenly she became aware of every sound around her, she felt intense guilt for the families of her guards: some of which she had not even known beyond their last names.
She knew there had already been a party around to talk to each family: she herself had been a part of some of the visits. Sometimes the wives and children and husbands and parents were understanding, kind, a hand on the shoulder and 'well, I'm sure you did all you could'; sometimes they were angry, sometimes they were just silent. She wasn't sure which was worse.
One thing she did know that without the income of a guard, a lot of the households would struggle, especially over the Deepfrost when travel was limited. With that in mind, she'd thought to bestow some fortune to those families her own incompetence had bereaved. Buying bundles of meat and crops, some cider and biscuits, packing them into individual baskets, she had gone out in the dead of the night.
The Warden delivering such things would draw attention and she had not wanted to be performative about this, declaring what a good thing she had done to the Citadel. Instead she wore a heavy cloak and stood slightly behind each house, using her telekinesis to lift the baskets from her hand and place them on the doorstep, throwing a pebble at the door to gather the attention of the family within. Sometimes she stayed to hear the reaction, sometimes she did not: the important thing was that she knew they were safe and looked after for the Longnight.
Or Rise Up
MORGAN
Base Code by Sky!
