Silvershield Paladin and the defense of his order --- Splinterlands Fantasy Story and Music Contest // Week 18

Hello, good morning everyone from @steemmonsters, @battlegames and @steem-ace.

This is my short story to participate in the SteemMonsters Story Contest. Hope you like it!!

The breeze that blew between the great old, worn doors was chilly and carried tiny, almost imperceptible flakes of ice that would touch anyone with chills. The light was dim: in the background a few inefficient candles made of some animal fat - their smell was disgusting - hung on a single copper chandelier, now darkened and blackened by a pin of flame from many other candles. Beneath the chandelier was a wooden table covered by a large white cloth that touched the floor, with golden crucifixes embroidered there, perfect details made by skillful hands.

The place was a small monastery, though it had no divine image except the table crosses. It smelled of dust and moisture, mixed with sin and blood. Yes, the silence was noticeable, something pleasant, worthy of tasting, one of the few moments of purity within that place. In addition to embroidery, on the table were some dark red blots, as well as on the floor and some walls. Blood of my blood, some say, but I prefer blood to blood. Six were the men standing in the puddles and spurts of scarlet, wearing what was once called the white robe, which once matched the once white table. They were scattered throughout the monastery.

A few minutes earlier, the six of them sat in filthy straw chairs around the table, with hoods hiding faces and voices hiding identities.

A hoarse voice, lost in age, full of flaws and spitting leaps out of its hood, came out of a hood. "The city is no longer suspicious, we are all in our hands, soon we will be more powerful than the Lord himself."

"Yes," said a second voice, graver and less hoarse, "I can't understand how these dumb people believe so many lies and keep paying their damn tithes." during the third laugh.

In the darker corner of the table a younger boy, who spoke nothing amid the noise of the other five, was trembling, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on a table seam.

• What's that, kid? Are you cold? This time it was the first man, who paused to wipe his saliva from his mouth with his sleeve. "For the love of the Lord, this youth is becoming more and more effeminate!" I can not stand little girls who are shaking in front of me, go close the door and stop it.

With a low look, he nodded and slowly rose to the boy, taking short steps to the door, while everyone at the table laughed at the speech of the old man who covered the table with his saliva while speaking. The boy's hand touched the open door and closed with the same speed as his footsteps, as the cold wind hit his face, making his eyes half open and his nose freeze. At that moment, he felt cold and I felt the heat.

It was a fitting blow, matching the occasion: cold and silent, straight to the heart, slowly piercing through tissue, skin, flesh, scraping bones, piercing the heart and repeating until it came out the back of the robe again, the blade covered with blood. The sensation of blood seeping into the armor glove through the openings of the steel plates was incredible, a mixture of warmth and texture of blood running through my fingers until lost in my hand and clotting made me feel purified.

The others at the table did not immediately see what had happened, did not notice the plate-clad knight covered in sacred inscriptions with a gleaming cross-type helmet, leaving only eyes and a nose-to-chin band visible. brandishing a blood-soaked amount, heading for the table. The distraction lasted only a few moments, then they noticed me, and the reactions still startle me: some prayed, both hands clasped in front of their hearts and endless signs of cross in the air, in hypocrisy for their false god. Another sought hiding, one ran toward me to attempt a futile blow and was obviously killed as easily as the boy at the door. But what puzzled me the most was the elder, who, while everyone else died, one by one, sat in his seat, just watching me seriously, showing no sign of sadness or anger or any emotion. When I finished my work, I turned to him, wiping the blood of the sword on the cloth that covered the table, then the old man lowered his hood, telling me with blue eyes, a gray beard and no hair on his scalp covered with black spots. and signs:

"Damn you, Paladin!" You and your order will rot in the seven hells for your transgressions! With a sticky blackened spit shot through my armor, he finished his sentence, followed by a smile with little teeth, yellowed and full of black spots like his head.

"I don't follow the false light, Father." I am not deluded by seven hells or a paradise where good people are led away and simply forgiven of their earthly sins. I said, taking the tip of the mullion around his neck, pushing gently and slowly, making him feel the warmth of his companions' blood mingled with the cold steel across his throat. "I no longer call that name Paladin, sinner." That was an exaggeration on my part, which I am not proud of at all, since the gurgles irritated me and some blood splattered between the openings of the helmet, disrupting my vision with profane blood.

When it was over, I admired the silence for a moment, my eyes closed, just feeling the freezing breeze coming from the ajar door. I removed the helmet, carefully placing it over the old man's body. Then I wiped the blood from my eyes and, with my fist pressed to my forehead, thanked him for the successful Mission. The hilt of the sword was light, as if I had my soul in my hands, as if I was relieving the world of unbearable weight, as if everything were more… clean.