Cedwin
Mallory
Accolon
Edric
Sigmunt
Maric
Sansloy
Vasya
Kallas
The names continue down the scroll, but I stop reading there.
I wind the small scroll back into the cylinder into which it fits neatly, and place it on the table before me.
Tonight the names are hard to read. Vasya and Kallas most of all. I still remember Vasya's easy arrogance, the sneer he'd bequeath upon me if he caught me poring over the names of the fallen, maudlin and brooding. He died better than most of us could hope to, encircled by a ring of shattered shields and broken men he'd laid low before finally succumbing to over a dozen gaping wounds.
Kallas too. Kallas I will remember until my own death-day comes upon me, though I will always try to forget. Kallas, my brother, I'm sorry I couldn't make it faster for you. Torn apart by hounds and feral beasts is no death for a knight.
I lose myself in rememberance for some time. When I stir from my reverie, it is to the sound of horns sounding and sergeants shouting. The last of the banners have been assembled, and the new brothers of our Order have been sworn in, their bone-and-black surcoats freshly marked with the cross from which the Black Order takes its name.
Another night I'll complete my ritual of reading the names of the fallen and remembering their deeds. For now, as Vasya might have said, the dead can wait - the living have oaths to fulfil. There are beasts to hunt and fallen brothers to avenge.
I place the cylinder bearing the scroll in a pouch on my belt, and as I reach for my armour I silently promise that I will come back alive to finish remembering the dead.
-from the journal of Ludovic Tyr, Knight-Captain of the Black Order
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