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Some said that white flowers were the best for a mourner. Others said black. Still others (those Castillians, typical of them) claimed it was red. Alden Southerland, however, knew that he needed no flowers to mourn today. Gregory had always hated them, a strange thing to hate Alden had always thought, but Gregory claimed they did nothing but look pretty. “Just like you,” he would always add with a wink. Alden would laugh, slap him on the back, and the two of them would both take great amusement in the fact that everyone in their company thought they were a pair of fruits.

Alden smiled at the memory, kneeling down at the grave of his friend. Gregory Miles Paxton, Sergeant of the Hawk, it read. It amused Alden that in spite of his seniority, Gregory had never bothered to go any higher in the ranks. “Too much work,” he claimed. “I like being sergeant. I do work and I get paid.” Alden had never really understood, but it made him happy, so who was he to argue?

Quietly unpinning a badge from his lapel, Alden placed the small insignia, a bronze shield with a hawk in the center, on Gregory’s headstone. I guess I wasn’t much of a lieutenant at all, was I? You always said I needed to pay more attention. He had been teary before, but now he had broken down. He was glad he was alone. He didn’t need anyone seeing him in such a sad state.

He stayed there for hours, lamenting the loss of his first and greatest friend. I’m sorry. I’ll learn. I swear it. He stood, then drew the large axe from his back and laid it against the headstone as well. Its time had come. That axe had been the tool of his failing. He would study tactics, battlefield strategy, and teamwork until he passed out every night. He would learn to use the shield for the good of his allies, even if it killed him. He would become the a guardian to his men.

Years passed, and Alden became one of the most renowned mercenary tacticians in Avalon and beyond. His strategies were incredible, and his martial prowess was near-magical. It was said he seemed to be anywhere he needed, always on guard with a mighty shield to protect his men. The Iron Bulwark, they called him. It was a fitting name, many thought, but Alden never much cared for it. He needed to improve, always. His tactics, his maneuvers. All of it needed to be better. He would die for his men if he had to.

He would do anything to honor the memory of the one person he had failed.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Some said that white flowers were the best for a mourner. Others said black. Still others (those Castillians, typical of them) claimed it was red. Alden Southerland, however, knew that he needed no flowers to mourn today. Gregory had always hated them, a strange thing to hate Alden had always thought, but Gregory claimed they did nothing but look pretty. “Just like you,” he would always add with a wink. Alden would laugh, slap him on the back, and the two of them would both take great amusement in the fact that everyone in their company thought they were a pair of fruits.

Alden smiled at the memory, kneeling down at the grave of his friend. Gregory Miles Paxton, Sergeant of the Hawk, it read. It amused Alden that in spite of his seniority, Gregory had never bothered to go any higher in the ranks. “Too much work,” he claimed. “I like being sergeant. I do work and I get paid.” Alden had never really understood, but it made him happy, so who was he to argue?

Quietly unpinning a badge from his lapel, Alden placed the small insignia, a bronze shield with a hawk in the center, on Gregory’s headstone. I guess I wasn’t much of a lieutenant at all, was I? You always said I needed to pay more attention. He had been teary before, but now he had broken down. He was glad he was alone. He didn’t need anyone seeing him in such a sad state.

He stayed there for hours, lamenting the loss of his first and greatest friend. I’m sorry. I’ll learn. I swear it. He stood, then drew the large axe from his back and laid it against the headstone as well. Its time had come. That axe had been the tool of his failing. He would study tactics, battlefield strategy, and teamwork until he passed out every night. He would learn to use the shield for the good of his allies, even if it killed him. He would become the a guardian to his men.

Years passed, and Alden became one of the most renowned mercenary tacticians in Avalon and beyond. His strategies were incredible, and his martial prowess was near-magical. It was said he seemed to be anywhere he needed, always on guard with a mighty shield to protect his men. The Iron Bulwark, they called him. It was a fitting name, many thought, but Alden never much cared for it. He needed to improve, always. His tactics, his maneuvers. All of it needed to be better. He would die for his men if he had to.

He would do anything to honor the memory of the one person he had failed.