User blog:Alador1666/Ancient Legends: The Masked-Eye's epilogue

((This is a small story article, giving a bit of a detailed look on what was going on in the last part of the RP with Jack.))

I'm not going to include or mention Ancient Legends : Whispers of Ashes here, since that RP is inactive.))

He remembered the girls anger and hate, when they had only met recently. He had clutched the mask of a priest tight to him, donned a hood, and was berating her and willingly trying to lure out a response. He remembered why she was embroiled in this doomed quest, this repulsive hunt for treasure.

Everyone had a reason to acquire a mask. He wanted a world of peace, and he had hoped - hoped - that the blood he spilled for the masks would be the last man and elfkind would ever spill.

Then there was an apathetic warrior - he remembered telling her, or perhaps asking her why she was here, and she had had a vague reply in store. She was utterly disgusted with the way treasure hunters behaved, and to what ends people would go for power, or anything else that granted survivability in this cold and lonely world.

Survivability made him recall Claire's reason for fighting. She had a family, cold and starving, counting on her. Yet, these people would most likely be dead by now, which was extremely unfortunate. His family had plenty of money to give them a home, warm food and ale, but alas, it would never have come to that.

A second woman who suffered under an incurable disease - upon the first time they met, Jack pointed his bow and arrow at her, fearful that she would take what was supposably his. He regretted doing that. He could barely face her now.

He had threatened many people - hurt many people - angered a lot of people. He had killed a few priests, fought quite a few battles. He hoped that it would have ended nicely. A reward for everything that he had done, a climax to his tale, sympathy, and love. But he fell right in their trap.

In his attempt to bring an end to war, he and the others had inevitably started one between the Cultists and the common folk. His province was nearly taken over, just like Skyrim and most likely the whole of Dawn's Beauty.

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"Jack, the dagger." A voice whispered in his ear. When he returned to reality, he noticed the owl, Deest, sitting on his shoulder as he made him wake up and recall what he was doing in present time. He stood infront of a grave, in Shearpoint. He had an ebony dagger in his hand, which was ornamented with swirly streaks of gold and silver. It was a good blade in battle, but it was common practice in his family that a grave of someone close would be decorated with some sort of token or artifact.

He briefly looked to the left and right of him from the corners of his eyes, which was all that was visible of his face since he had once again donned his trusty hood and brought up the bandana to the bridge of his nose. It was a bad habit, but he didn't like looking at himself, or other people looking at him. It was complicated, regardless.

The Masked-Eyes - that is, the soldiers donned in lightweight ebony who all bended the knee for the funeral of Claire, looked at him curiously, wondering why one of their leaders hesitated. The silence in the air was rather awkward, as he could feel the stares of his siblings behind him pierce his back.

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A war. People died, obviously. He had always talked about how the results were more important than the means, although looking back now he had regretted both the means and the outcome.

The cultists were stopped, but at the cost of so many lives. He once again recalled that he would spill as much blood as possible, hoping that that would be the last, although it was horribly naive of him to think that it would all turn out like that. He spilled much more blood than he had hoped for, and for the first time in his life, he stood silently as he thought about what the future had in store for him and the people that had lost loved ones in this conflict.

He needed to forge alliances with the Ghost Wolves - Hannibal, Caius after all this funeral business had passed, although it seemed to take forever if he would continue reminiscing about the past and what had happened. What's done is done, that's what they say.

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"Jack. Don't make this any longer than it has to be." Deest said, pecking Jack on his forehead, once again bringing him back to the matter at hand.

This time, Jack said little, as he knelt down and planted the dagger in the snow right in front of the small pile of stones that marked the grave. He sighed as he did so, finally putting all this behind him. The memories, at least. Although he knew it was impossible to outrun them. He had people to lead and the organization needed to be reformed. The old ideology had to leave and people had to be more accepting of others' viewpoints on controversial subjects such as honor - if any time he spent with the Ghost-Wolves had meant something, it was probably this.

He rose to his feet simultaneously with everyone else. He wasn't sure what happened after that, as his mind boggled at the feelings that overwhelmed him, and it had taken him a while to recover.

He did not say goodbye to the Ghost-Wolves, Hannibal, or Caius, but when he was about to leave, he did say farewell to them in his own way.

Before he trudged down the snowy slopes of Shearpoint on his horse, he shook some of the bystanders' hands, including his own men, and thanked them for being present at the funeral. He looked at Valkyrie Ghost-Wolf for a moment, giving her a curt nod as a final goodbye. He did not utter any other words - he doubted that they were needed in a situation such as this. He did the same with Caius and Hannibal.

That was the last they would see of him in a long while.