Such long hours of work... Days, spent in the darkness of the crypts, laying to rest those who rise and taking but the tiniest piece for the good of others. Weeks, spent grinding the bones, infusing their dust with the healing light of Aeridin. Months, gathering and creating, slowly building stocks that always seem to trickle away under the pressure of local needs... Years spent preparing for the pilgrimage.
And now, Ceviren Lightstaff, thirty-five and still young thanks to his strong elvish blood, looks up through the driving snow at the Temple of Aeridin at the northernmost tip of Dregar. Sixteen years since his parents' deaths, and still he has not yet spoken with the High Priest. Still he has not yet been granted the official ordainment he has striven for.
That ordainment that he might, now, receive. Might.
Or might not.
His long years of work had, after the cleansing and closing of Hlint's crypts, been aimed to amassing a huge stock of healing supplies, saving the Church time and trouble, and perhaps earning him a place in the clergy. Aeridin's blessings were with him, yes, but the desire for mortal recognition, for some real home in this bleak world... That drove him onward, spending many thousands of hours in his pursuit of a "noteworthy" stock. And yet...
Always, in Fort Vehl, there were those that needed healing. Those whose lives had brought them to terrible turns, and whose only real hope for aid lay in the unsure healer in their midst. The Rofireinites, to be commended endlessly for their tireless efforts to enforce law and order, provided not the succor that was so desperately needed by some. Their resources were spent elsewhere, and could not tend to each broken-legged beggar boy that sobbed in the streets.
But Ceviren... Constantly revisited with memories of the Plague which swept Krandor, he could not in good conscience and good faith turn away from any whom he could aid. Potions were given to taverns, inns, shops... Injuries were common, and aid, freely given, was a blessing.
So he struggled endlessly to replenish his stocks, and build the great mass of the Lifegiver's healing to even the point where he could fill a standard box. It took him many years, the potions coming and going, before he finally decided that it had been long enough.
The half-elf gathered what he had, along with those relics and valuables he had collected over the years, and bought passage to Seacove, on the western coast of Dregar. He did not know how far it truly was to North Point.
It took him three months to make the journey, and a long, grueling one it was. And yet...
In his travels, he came across so much pain. Dregar, this war-torn continent, saw so much more blood than he had imagined. Each village and township he passed through had many who needed healing, and each night, he would nearly collapse from weariness, the effort of chanelling the Lifegiver's light draining him greatly. And when he moved on, he left the blessings of the Lifegiver, and one or two potions, should the very worst happen.
By the time he reached North Point, his fingers calloused like a seamstress' from stitching up wounds after his blessings had drawn too deeply, his body weary and worn from the constant strain... His case of potions, blessed water, and specially-treated bandages... Was empty.
And there he stands before the temple with not a single token of what he'd worked so hard on, but only the comparable pittance in more material treasures. There is nothing to do, however, but present what he still has.
The splendor of the temple widens Ceviren's eyes, and he pauses to look about. Before him, in the middle of the temple, the central altar lies open, and he is drawn to it. Overwhelmed with a sudden feeling of contentment and well-being, he kneels before the altar, and prays, wordlessly, to this great god who has given his substance meaning. To the one whose light he has followed since he first saw it shine.
An instant, an eternity... He doesn't know how long he spends his head bowed, but when he comes back to himself, he feels a gentle touch on his shoulder. A priest, a man who seems to radiate generosity and goodwill, looks to Ceviren, and asks, "What do you seek, my son?"
Touching his father's silver oak leaf that hangs from his neck, he replies, "You.
"I set out, three months ago, for this place. I had with me hundreds, literally hundreds, of potions; the strongest blessings I can infuse them with within. I've wanted acceptance among Aeridin's clergy for years... Though He grants me his blessings and healing, I've wanted to be part of His church... I thought the potions would help the church, somehow. I have other things, things of worth but no value to me. But... It was the potions, the stored healing grace of Aeridin, that I meant to bring with me. On my trip here, though... So many were hurt. Some were dieing. I healed them, where I could, and I left potions for those who would need them...
"I only realized when I got here that I had given them all away. They help not the church, but the people of Dregar... I was sorry, but not anymore. 'Aid those in need.' I've done that, and... Maybe what I still have will help the church."
The priest looks at him for a moment, considering. "What's your name?" he asks.
"Ceviren Lightstaff."
