Godwyn Der Rædwulf
The Lineholder
TAGS: Iria de Germania
The Commissar stood by his lonesome in the outlook of one of the outer wall's towers. He looked out onto what was soon to become a battlefield - Tartaros, the site where a century earlier the forces of the Imperium held against the destructive might of the blood legions of Khorne.
Godwyn was a patient man, and yet, he hated it - the waiting. He hated the waiting, the wondering, and the tiny seeds of doubt in the back of his mind. He dismissed his doubts as mere instinctual cowardice, focusing his attentions on implementing his drawn up battle stratagem, ideally in tandem with the space marines responsible for handling the defense of the city.
With a sigh, he sat down.
Reaching into his coat, he retrieved a small copy of the Catheric Bible. The holy book had seen as much destruction as he had, its corners were charred and melted, its pages worn and yellowed, yet... it had never been destroyed. He'd lost it once or twice, only to find it in the debris - still as 'pristine' as ever. He hoped he would have the same luck this day - that the almighty God would protect him from the army of heathens - bound for the sole purpose of destruction.
Opening the book, he flipped through its pages, he found himself reading through a passage he frequented for comfort.
Wisdom 3:1 "The souls of the just are in the hands of God."
The words left his lips like honey. He closed the book, and sat it in his lap. Delving into his pocket once more, he retrieved a string, around it were small items - tiny bits of metal, shirt buttons, fashioned into a rosary. His fingers fanned each 'bead', praying for his own sins, the safety of both he and his men, and that those he had shared the Lord's truth with might be saved this day - should they not survive the battle to come.
After finishing his prayers, he stowed away his rosary and holy book, and with an inhale and exhale, he stood.
He'd be lying if he said he'd felt instant relief, but... A weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He imagined it now: That he hadn't been the only one praying this day. That was enough to reassure him.
Besides... He'd lived this long. The Rædwulf was too stubborn to die now.
The Commissar stood by his lonesome in the outlook of one of the outer wall's towers. He looked out onto what was soon to become a battlefield - Tartaros, the site where a century earlier the forces of the Imperium held against the destructive might of the blood legions of Khorne.
Godwyn was a patient man, and yet, he hated it - the waiting. He hated the waiting, the wondering, and the tiny seeds of doubt in the back of his mind. He dismissed his doubts as mere instinctual cowardice, focusing his attentions on implementing his drawn up battle stratagem, ideally in tandem with the space marines responsible for handling the defense of the city.
With a sigh, he sat down.
Reaching into his coat, he retrieved a small copy of the Catheric Bible. The holy book had seen as much destruction as he had, its corners were charred and melted, its pages worn and yellowed, yet... it had never been destroyed. He'd lost it once or twice, only to find it in the debris - still as 'pristine' as ever. He hoped he would have the same luck this day - that the almighty God would protect him from the army of heathens - bound for the sole purpose of destruction.
Opening the book, he flipped through its pages, he found himself reading through a passage he frequented for comfort.
Wisdom 3:1 "The souls of the just are in the hands of God."
The words left his lips like honey. He closed the book, and sat it in his lap. Delving into his pocket once more, he retrieved a string, around it were small items - tiny bits of metal, shirt buttons, fashioned into a rosary. His fingers fanned each 'bead', praying for his own sins, the safety of both he and his men, and that those he had shared the Lord's truth with might be saved this day - should they not survive the battle to come.
After finishing his prayers, he stowed away his rosary and holy book, and with an inhale and exhale, he stood.
He'd be lying if he said he'd felt instant relief, but... A weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He imagined it now: That he hadn't been the only one praying this day. That was enough to reassure him.
Besides... He'd lived this long. The Rædwulf was too stubborn to die now.