Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-27550231-20160726000337/@comment-28358106-20161022061225

Jorge finds himself in a part of the capital that he had never been to before.

It's mid morning, and the sun shines down brightly on white spires, in the shadows of which he now stands. The glint of gilt silver and stained glass windows rain colors upon the ground, while the deep tolling of bells marks the sun's halfway point to its zenith for the day. He doesn't know the melody they play, but their song is universal, and gently they pulled one of the singular puppet strings of his soul, tugging him along until he found himself here, in the green yards of the Cathedral Ward. 

The Ward is vast. Almost a miniature city within the capital, its sides are walled off, but all are welcome. It has quaters for the poor, for the sick, for the dying, for the desperate. He knew of the Cathars that dwelt within it, but he never got to know any of them. The Cathars, that persecuted ex-branch of the Order, the descendants of its original survivors, who were themselves hunted nearly to extinction when they dared preach mercy, dwell here.

By the hundreds, he's seen them. Collecting for the poor, ministering to the destitute, teaching the poorest of the children. He's seen them go where Thomas can't, when he is too busy, to heal the sick and feed the starving. Sometimes, it seems as if there are too many, but always Jorge sees the red robes of their priests among them.

He's also seen their monks. Armored in chainmail, with broad shields and gleaming maces, their red, white-trimmed tunics ablaze in the fields of snow when the White Horns guide the refugees through the mountain passes and into blessed safety, there are the Cathars. Peaceful, vigilant. Selfless.

He recalled hearing a story from Thomas about one monk who, having no horse, arrived to help the refugees and was given only one, a boy, who was sick with fever from the cold. The monk had shed his armor and had run for three days through the snow with the boy on his back, until he collapsed just outside of the clinic. The boy was saved, but the Cathar was not; his heart had finally given out.

These thoughts pass through Jorge's mind as he watches a group of monks walk together in prayer. He hears their liturgy ringing through the Cathedral, in harmony with the bells as they pray together...