Sunrise, 4th of Winter, 515 AV
Tall carved oak doors swung wide to herald Endir's arrival in the temple, a squall of wind spiralling in after him until the wide entrance thudded closed. His eyes roamed the magnificent hall, crossing between the sorrow-oak pews that had their outsides worked into striking impressions then to unlit brass candle-holders that stood opposite the indoor colonnade which worked the flanks of the chamber. The pale ceiling was woven with gilt and friezes of Men and Gods, stone etchings that were as thick with shadow as they were light where shafts criss-crossed the room to make motes of dust glitter in the air. Myriad colours swarmed before him, a dizzying array of violet and scarlet and cerulean that streaked the floor. The churning skies were hardly visible through the ornate glasswork, though the striating clouds were washed over in dazzling tinctures too.
His clipping heels echoed up towards the vaulted ceilings as he went, the squire's eyes still shifting with wonder, between great murals and masterpieces all, the odd wall frescoed with portrayals of heroism and divine acts. Endir was without his weapon, he didn't dare bring it into a place of worship, despite the fact he didn’t pray to any specific deity. Nor was he his usual unkempt self, the pale ivory tunic was laced to the chest, rising collar brushing the nape of his neck where combed chestnut hair ended. Breeches were tucked and rolled over the lip of knee-high boots, boots that had been recently repaired after events best left unmentioned. His gait was somewhat unsteady, side still aching from bruises earned through training, perhaps a cracked rib here or there, his breathing laboured alongside all of it. The penance of Squirehood, of course.
Passing the tiered pews, Endir sat on the foremost, settling in for silent reflection, brown eyes glimmering thoughtfully as he cast his attentions to the Gods. Who could he worship? Should he worship? Endir you woollen-headed fool, get a grip and get back to training. Silence loomed, washing over him and all present, not that there was anyone there at sunrise, the cocks were only just beginning their morning cries and people sluggishly boiled kettles and roused their families. Heaving a sigh, Endir propped his head in his hands, rubbing gingerly at a battered face.
Tall carved oak doors swung wide to herald Endir's arrival in the temple, a squall of wind spiralling in after him until the wide entrance thudded closed. His eyes roamed the magnificent hall, crossing between the sorrow-oak pews that had their outsides worked into striking impressions then to unlit brass candle-holders that stood opposite the indoor colonnade which worked the flanks of the chamber. The pale ceiling was woven with gilt and friezes of Men and Gods, stone etchings that were as thick with shadow as they were light where shafts criss-crossed the room to make motes of dust glitter in the air. Myriad colours swarmed before him, a dizzying array of violet and scarlet and cerulean that streaked the floor. The churning skies were hardly visible through the ornate glasswork, though the striating clouds were washed over in dazzling tinctures too.
His clipping heels echoed up towards the vaulted ceilings as he went, the squire's eyes still shifting with wonder, between great murals and masterpieces all, the odd wall frescoed with portrayals of heroism and divine acts. Endir was without his weapon, he didn't dare bring it into a place of worship, despite the fact he didn’t pray to any specific deity. Nor was he his usual unkempt self, the pale ivory tunic was laced to the chest, rising collar brushing the nape of his neck where combed chestnut hair ended. Breeches were tucked and rolled over the lip of knee-high boots, boots that had been recently repaired after events best left unmentioned. His gait was somewhat unsteady, side still aching from bruises earned through training, perhaps a cracked rib here or there, his breathing laboured alongside all of it. The penance of Squirehood, of course.
Passing the tiered pews, Endir sat on the foremost, settling in for silent reflection, brown eyes glimmering thoughtfully as he cast his attentions to the Gods. Who could he worship? Should he worship? Endir you woollen-headed fool, get a grip and get back to training. Silence loomed, washing over him and all present, not that there was anyone there at sunrise, the cocks were only just beginning their morning cries and people sluggishly boiled kettles and roused their families. Heaving a sigh, Endir propped his head in his hands, rubbing gingerly at a battered face.