Sinners Make a Saint

[Sam Rasvima]

3rd of Ymiden, 722

Sam awoke awash in flame.

His eyes shot open in a panic, quick to stare down at the small waves of heat which had began to lick his skin and burn through his sheets. Acrid smoke kissed his senses, flooding his lungs and sending stinging tears streaming down his face. The beginnings of a burn had already started to spread across the center of his chest, where the liquid fire had first sprang to life. The Aukari moved off of instinct, one which had been beat into the bodies, minds, and souls of every red-headed child within the walls of Sirothelle.

First he stood and stripped bare, tossing his burning clothes and sheets onto the stone ground of his bedroom. Embers had already begun to eat away at the edges of the cloth, and Sam begrudged that he had lost another shirt to his own carelessness. Grabbing a nearby bucket of earth, something any sensible citizen of Sirothelle had in these difficult trials, Sam was quick to toss a handful of the stuff on his clothes before dumping the remaining over him. A shower of sand, soot, and dirt was quick to quench the eager inferno which lapped across the surface of his skin.

Skin still sizzling, Sam dropped to his knees in a motion that was all-too familiar to him. Hands resting over the center of his chest, the man took long, slow breaths. His blood was still singing with adrenaline, which the man knew meant he was still at risk for ignition. With an almost annoyed sigh, Sam continued to weather the emotional unrest. His breath was his anchor, the rock in the storm that held his frayed nerves together.

Slowly, Sam could feel the panic leave his veins. The sparks which threatened his skin dimmed, before finally vanishing from sight. A fresh sigh of relief eclipsed the ragged urge to fill his lungs with clean air instead of choking smoke. With slightly shaking hands, he rubbed the sleep, sand, and soot from his eyes.

"Must've been a hell of a nightmare," he grumbled, voice dark from sleep and smoke. He yawned, scratching his now dusty and dirt-caked scruff. Even in sleep, he wasn't safe from his own mind. He couldn't even remember the dream that sent him sparking. Though, he supposed, that was forgivable. Sam had a lot on his mind as of late. After all, their god was still dead.

Made his job as a priest a trifle tougher than usual.

Standing and stretching, he shook his short locks loose of any remaining sand. It wouldn't do to look shabby, especially this trial. For some reason, sinners expected their pastor to look somewhat presentable when speaking on spiritual matters.

He dragged his feet over to his meager wardrobe, donning a set of black and grey vestments that didn't have any noticeable burn marks seared into them. He didn't have time to head to the springs and wash the rest of the dirt clean, instead accepting that his face would be stained by soot this trial. His congregants would just have to accept that their priest barely had it held together.

Who knows? Maybe they'd find it relatable.

Shoving his feet into a pair of well-worn leather boots, swinging by his small kitchen to shove a scrap of bread in his mouth, and snatching his holy book from the table he left it on, Sam rushed out of his home and into the listless streets of Sirothelle.

[Sam Rasvima]

A low mist clung to the stonewrought ground of Sirothelle; the late morn's sun burning off the leftover rainwater from last trial's summer storms. Sam couldn't help but notice how the vapor mirrored smoke; how it made the emberstone shimmer like dying embers. He thought it fitting. The City of Flame barely burned any more. The streets he stalked through were once filled with light, with life. The morning air used to be crowded with noise; with the din of merchants hawking their wares and children at play.

Now, these streets were a battleground for the soul of their city. Bare but for the footsoldiers of factions desperate to fill the void of their fallen creator.

They were easy enough for Sam to pick out, even in the morning mists. Radicals rattling spears in the streets, calling for war against anyone that wasn't them. They were popular; for fear was the only constant left in Sirothelle and fearmongers found easy prey amidst the Aukari. After all, they were a people raised to believe that only the strong could keep them safe from enemies within and without. Sam imagined life was easier to cope with when you always had a target for your anger.

But Sam knew his kin was not built to live an easy life. Faldrun's taught them that through turmoil they gained strength. Anger was easy balm to a wounded race, but they would not grow from it.

Then, there were the moderates. Sam spotted them marching through in full uniform, bearing the crest of Falkia Brennen and presenting some sense of stability in an otherwise broken world. They would have Sirothelle lock itself away. Lick their wounds and build walls so high that their kind could never be hurt again. Again, an appealing choice. Sam himself would love nothing other than to close his door and blot out the light of the day. But that path would not challenge him, and it would not challenge the Aukari. It might as well have been an admission of defeat.

Sam heard the last of the factions before he saw them; filling the air with hymns that would have otherwise lifted the man's dour soul. The fundamentalists. Those that thought their Lord, He to Which We are All Slaves, The Great Fire, Faldrun, had not died in truth. That on the 35th of Saun of last arc a great deception had been played on their whole kind. That Faldrun had given the city a test of faith, and that we had failed. That we were still sinners in the hands of Faldrun, and to waver in that conviction would be to invite disaster.

Normalcy at the cost of honesty. Sam couldn't help but narrow his eyes at them as he passed. He had been in the Slums and the Ashen Alleys on the 35th. He would never forget what he saw that trial. The scorched screamed of the burning would never leave his ears. Despite his robes and his books, he could not trade his monstrous truth for a faithful bliss.

No matter how badly he wanted to.

His feet carried him the rest of the way, his mind distraught and distracted by echoes of events passed. Soon enough, he arrived back at the Ashen Alley. He had taken to preaching under the archway which led to the dread passage ever since the 35th. He found the history of the spot, his history with the spot, sobering. He meant what he said a year ago, holding the charred corpse of an Aukari succumb to despair and self-spawned flame. He would not have another of his race burn. So, at the site of his own despair, he would peddle hope until the roaring flames in their hearts were quieted. Calm. At peace.

A small gathering of his congregants were already standing idly at the front of the alley. He was late. They were used to it. Thankfully, they stuck around anyway.

"Ashfather," a few of them chimed with smiling voices when he came into view. He frowned at them. It was a name some had given him after the 35th of last year. After he baptised the burning in ash and earth.

He had told them to stop calling him that. Some listened, but most did not.

With an annoyed sigh, Sam raised a hand at the group. He could hear their amused smirks from at the front of the alley, so loud was their bemusement. Were he not in his holy vestments, Sam would've made a serious of rude, explicit, and downright deplorable hand gestures at them. Alas, he was cloaked head to toe with black, grey, and red. He was here to be the voice of the Flame's will.

To this, his congregants would at least listen to. Though, with Faldrun dead, it was more and more often Sam's own will rather than the Flame's they would listen to. He would was not keen on recognizing that, but it was true nonetheless.

"Morning folks," he started.

"Afternoon," they corrected with a jeering, smug sound. Sam raised his hands in defeat.

"Yes, yes, you all keep time well and I do not. Congratulations," Sam admitted with an annoyed sigh. Then, with a smug smile of his own, Sam raised and waggled the holy book at his side. "But I've got this, which means you have a religious obligation to wipe those pleased looks off your faces until I'm done. We're in church folks, smiling while I'm preaching is a sin."

His people were generous with their laughter, and Sam was glad for it. The sound washed over him, drowning his anxiety and shaking a laugh loose from his lungs. It was short, wheezing thing, but it was honest.

"Well, I guess that means we're all sinners here, eh?" Sam shrugged, taking a moment to regain his composure. He looked out at the small crowd, neighbor's all. A lingering smile curled the edges of his mouth, and he cracked the book open a bit. " Which is something I'm sure you've never thought about me. But it's not too late to change. Not for me. Not for you. Not for Sirothelle.

Sam drew himself up tall before them. "That's what I'd like to talk to you all about today. Change. Specifically, I'd like to talk about Turmoil."

[Sam Rasvima]

Sam let the chittering of jittered responses linger for a moment. Long enough to let them express what they needed, but not long enough that it swelled and swayed the emotion of the crowd. They were all a bit of a battered lot after this last arc, and he had found it best to let his followers express themselves in a sermon as long as he could maintain the course of the conversation.

"Yeah, I know. Not a fun subject. Not nearly as fun as fear, or security, or blind faith, or whatever else anybody is selling you these days. Turmoil, change, it's rarely fun. Never easy. But always necessary," Sam began, acknowledging and sympathizing with his congregants worries. He knew their fears because he shared them. He heard them every trial as he walked through the streets. Saw them made manifest in the factions dragging innocent, scared souls onto this side or that side of belief. Felt the temptation just to bow his head and let someone else do his thinking for him.

It would be easy, just to let someone else take the reigns. Faith, however, like change, should never be easy. And as much as he hated the feeling of all their eyes watching him, placing hope in him, Sam would rather lead them than let them be led astray.

"When Faldrun first came to us, we, as a people, rejected him. For that sin, we burned," Sam continued, pointing down to the passage in their holy text which spoke of their first meeting of the Immortal. "Then, the Great Fire, in his wisdom, saw our potential and gave us life from ash and smoke. We faced death, and through Him, we changed."

Sam paused for a moment, looking out into his congregants and connecting with them as he did saw. He saw a variety of emotions flicker across a tapestry of faces. Confusion in some. The beginnings of understanding in others. Pockets of disagreement. None of that particularly mattered at the moment. What mattered is that Sam was holding their attention. For now, at least.

"I want you to think about that for a moment. Our entire race was wiped from existence, and then through Faldrun's strength we conquered that First Turmoil. And for our faith, those first Aukari were given the embers of a flame that roars in each of us to this very day. A reminder. A constant reminder of that, through change, we defeat even death."

He saw a few more vigorous nods jolt to life the crowd as he spoke further. Not wasting a beat, Sam pushed his advantage while he had them on his side.

"To be Aukari is to be mired in Turmoil. It's in our nature. It is a fire that we keep in our very souls, one that can consume us if we do not master it. Look around you, look to your neighbors, to your city. Sirothelle is thick with Turmoil. We are turning on each other, burning from the inside out. And instead of facing that fire, that turmoil, that change, we run from it," Sam stopped for a moment, picking a familiar face out of the crowd and looking directly at her. "Kyrie, what will save you if you ignite? Will war save you from the fire?"

"No," she responded immediately. Sam shot her a thankful smile, before picking another congregant out from the group?

"Loreey, will hiding save you from the fire?"

"No," sang out a voice, strong and proud.

"Vanar, will false faith save you from the fire?"

"No," rumbled the older, wiser man.

"What saves us from the fire?!" Sam demanded, snapping his holy text shut with an alarming thud. His passion rose and his blood sang. Sam could feel his chest start to spark, his skin smoking as his words rang out in the Ymiden air. He saw dozens of hands snap out to nearby sandbags and a few followers rush towards him. He closed his eyes as ash and sand washed over him, snuffing out the flame before it could consume him. Startled gasps and shouts of alarm pierced the Ymided air, followed soon after by Sam's own sputtering, manic laughter. He shook the loose detritus off his clothes and wiped his mouth and eyes clean; laughter still bubbling out of him as he did so. His congregation looked at him with equal parts confusion and concern, but Sam just smiled at them.

"Community. Community saves us from the fire. And it is only by rushing to face it, can we ever hope to extinguish it. Sirothelle is alight with Turmoil my friends. It is burning from the inside out. But we can still save it! Not by declaring war, or by wishing it away, or hiding from the world. No, all of those are old ways. To save Sirothelle, we as Aukari must conquer this Turmoil and change to overcome it."

Sam took one final breath and steeled himself. He knew where he needed to take his congregation. He just hoped they would go there with him.

"Community saves us from the fire. But Sirothelle, our city, stands alone. To save Sirothelle from burning, we must build a better community. To save Sirothelle, to save ourselves, we can no longer hide from the world and all the Turmoil it brings. It is as Faldrun said, 'through Turmoil we gain strength'. And there is no greater Turmoil to conquer than looking to our neighbors, both within and without our city's walls, and asking for help. We need to support each other, support Sirothelle, by building community with our neighbors. May the Great Fire burn within you."

Sam finished his sermon panting, passion robbing his lungs of breath. Covered in ash and sand, still smoking slightly from his ignition, Sam knew he must have looked mad. Must have sounded mad. But deep in his soul, he knew he was right.

He could only hope that his congregation, and Sirothelle at large, would agree.

[Fate]

Your Review

Sam

Overview

Hello Sam I loved reading this thread. I am so glad someone is addressing and playing off of the death of Faldrun. I enjoyed reading his approach. thank you for the read. Fate

Points

XP: 10
Renown: 5

Loot

IC:

Knowledge

Appropriate to Skill Level

Leadership x4
Socialization x2

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