The library. Oh his precious library. For almost twenty years Wolfram had practically lived amongst its shelves when not managing the affairs of the temple. Two decades worth of care, research, and devotion. And in less than an afternoon, two of his fellow brothers had almost destroyed it, put multiple people at great risk, somehow managed to escalate a petty grievance between the two of them to attempted murder, and almost destroyed his library. Needless to say as Wolfram saw to Brother Ernestus instructing the dedicates in how to handle the toxins Brother Valetni had unleashed, this had clearly gone too far.
But who, precisely, was to blame? Brother Valetni was doubtless the instigator of any disputes between the two nine times out of ten. The man was too clever for his own good, and knew it. Worse, while he was not the only brother with knowledge of mixtures, poisons, and all things alchemical, he was certainly the sharpest mind in the last several centuries to put his thoughts to such matters. A pity Brother Ernestus would always be second best -and even then by a sadly wide margin- but the man made good poultices for the hospice and at least had the common sense his academic superior so clearly lacked. Still, Valetni was practically indispensable when it came to matters of toxins; if only the man was not so...corrosive.
Brother Vernasus however was if anything just a prideful as Valetni. For too long had he let his sacred position as Beekeeper -and the honors that came with it- go to his head. The man had no humility, and would not bow his head or bend his spine for anything short of Mary's well-being. Such a mixture of the two men, even in a place as large as the Temple, was as volatile as anything Valetni might whip up, and as quick to come to a boil as Vernasus' anger over his immutable seriousness. So perhaps if anything it was his own fault for not having done something far sooner to prevent things escalating to this level in the first place. But no, they were full Brothers, and as recent matters had proven, Wolfram had much bigger fish to fry.
Or so he had thought beforehand, as he now made his way across the broad open courtyard in the direction of the hospice, his usually calm face a storm of anger that sent other brothers and guards scurrying away in panic... Wait, no, they were in a panic over something else entirely. Feeling himself slip into his icy calmness, Wolfram looked about for the source of such alarm, until eventually he spotted it. A figure moving through the sky quite rapidly in his general direction, the guards on this section of the great wall that encircled the Temple least here, though they valiantly moved into positions to try and get a clear shot on the figure, even with the sun at its back making it an unlikely shot.
It seemed the mundane would have to wait. Calmly, Wolfram unbound his arm as his gaze grew even colder, if at all possible. Flashes of memory passed through his head, the screams of men, of horses, and of nightmarish creatures that should not have been. And most prominently, of a single dagger of a dark metal, and the burning, unimaginable pain as it struck his arm. Beneath it all his lips moved silently in the same mantra he had screamed, cried, and whispered through so much bloodshed before hand. The same mantra taught to all young men of the Guard. The same mantra that had faltered so long ago, when he became part of the nightmare.
The Shield in the Night,
The Sword in the Sun.
Hold the Line
Till All is Done.
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