The Legacy of Caius Artorius Seneca

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The Broken Sword
Posts: 120
Character: Alaric

The Legacy of Caius Artorius Seneca

Post by The Broken Sword » June 1st, 2021, 2:54 pm

[Biography] - [Journal] - [Intro] - [Screenshots]


"The Chapter might lose us and the Imperium might never know we existed, but the Enemy — the Enemy will know. The Enemy will remember...”
- Justicar Alaric, The Grey Knights


Caius Artorius Seneca
"Arthur"

Image


Background



Born, Caius Artorius, the only (surviving) son of the once distinguished Seneca family, who for hundreds of years, bore the honors of serving in the Holy Church in almost every capacity imaginable -- it was through this tradition that Caius would find himself promised to a live of service. And, with this, came an education, a love for poetry and music, an interest in history, and of course, martial training under the best sword-bearers that his family could afford (which was not much by the time Caius was born.) That tutelage fell primarily to his (deceased) uncle Titus, from whom he learned much of the skills that served him in his early adult life.


Description



In the best of times, Caius appears well-groomed, his dark hair trimmed neatly to reveal stunningly blue eyes. From time to time, a pleasant smelling oil clings to him like a cloak, warding off the earthy smells that surely follow anyone that spends time in the damp forests. A keen eye may place the man’s age at somewhere in his mid-thirties, and of Eastern descent -- Caius is tall, but not quite towering, and generally prefers loose-fitting robes or jackets to fend off the unpredictable climate. And, while he is pleasant to look upon, few would ever admit to noticing.


Governing Virtue

Spirituality.



Governing Vice


Enlightenment.

The Broken Sword
Posts: 120
Character: Alaric

Re: The Legacy of Caius Artorius Seneca

Post by The Broken Sword » June 3rd, 2021, 5:12 am

Reflections
Caius Artorius Seneca





Defeat

A bitter wind,
Borne upon the breath,
What carrion existence,
Deep within the heart.

It trembles...
Unhindered by desire,
Seeking as a flame to fuel,
Throwing back what comfortable silence.

Does it see me?



Candlelight

It consumes,
Twisting and turning,
Unyielding and burning,
The flame within.

Her authority,
Indomitable by nature,
Bequeathed of the forewarning,
It bends,
An awakening.

What tale is woven?




Change

Coin...
What changes hand...
So swiftly, so complete...
Ever keeping the good Doc from Dytryk's sheet.







Last edited by The Broken Sword on June 15th, 2021, 12:39 am, edited 3 times in total.

The Broken Sword
Posts: 120
Character: Alaric

Re: The Legacy of Caius Artorius Seneca

Post by The Broken Sword » June 6th, 2021, 4:45 pm

**After extensive research, one might be able to ascertain a means for coming across files pertaining to this man's service in the Republic. The file, however, appears quite brief. Implying that further reports will follow, but take some time to arrive.**

Summary of Military Record
Prepared by the Office of the 92nd Chapter - Sol Invictus





Name: Seneca, Caius Artorius
Birthplace: Kedian, Eastern Baronies
Age: Thirty-Three at time of record.
Height: Six-Foot-Two
Weight: Approximately Two-Hundred and Seventeen Pounds
Eye Color: Blue
Hair Color: Black

Aliases: "Cay", "Arthur", "Bishop"
Status: Unknown

Service Record:

In 1315 AS, Caius Artorius Seneca, aged eight, is first recognized by the Castellan of the 92nd Chapter - Sol Invictus, permitted to attend the 313th class, with the status of postulant. Commandant Titus Quintus Seneca, the boy's uncle, personally oversees his tutelage. During this time, it is typical for postulants to attend an education in history, religion, literacy, and other such common areas of study. Little of significant value follows until the graduation ceremony in 1319, which involves a pilgrimage to the Monastery of Divine Enlightenment at the summit of Prelate's Peak. At this time, often referred to as "The Crucible", Postulants of the Order are sorted by category for specialized training within the Holy Decusian Church. Postulant Seneca is transferred away from the 92nd Chapter at the behest of the Commandant.



The Broken Sword
Posts: 120
Character: Alaric

Re: The Legacy of Caius Artorius Seneca

Post by The Broken Sword » June 12th, 2021, 5:40 pm

A warm orangish-red light illuminates the small room, revealing cramped quarters, overrun with bits of clothing and discarded armor. It was barely large enough to stretch without touching both sides. It reminded him of the penitent cell that he had inhabited in his youth. The bed, though uncomfortable, was an improvement from the straw mat that postulants must endure. Further, his new room had a large window from which natural light could spill across the apartment to chase away the cold shadows which clung all too well to his memory.

The sunlight wrapped around him like a warm cloak, teasing his bare flesh with its glowing embrace. It found him, sitting upon the foot of the bed, hunched forward so that his back could enjoy the thawing of the night's chill. A ring swayed gently from his neck, anchored by a chain necklace, a constant reminder. The movement was enough to draw Caius from his silent reverie, breaking whatever hold those memories had upon his psyche. At least, for the time.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, further breaking his trance by lifting a hand to his dark hair and messing it a bit as he stretched the muscles in his neck.

" Enough, brothers, I am awake.. cease your vociferous lamentations. "

He spoke to no one, for no one shared this room with him. Still, it was almost as if he was addressing some nearby companion as he climbed to his feet and stepped across the room to where his day's attire hung neatly from a peg upon the door. A short robe, cut in a way so as to not interfere with the layers of cloth, leather, and armor beneathe. It was simple, and efficient, just the way he liked it. Caius had no tolerace for gilding himself with adornments or decoration. Afterall, he had never known an enemy to be defeated with ostentation. The true enemy cared little for such trivialities. It did not yield to narcissim or bravado. It devoured callously and without hesitation.


"This land is teeming with chaos. Each passing day, we strike down the bearers of this scourge, and each night they rise ansew."


Depths of brilliant blue drifted across the surface of his shield, salvaged from a dead brother, its paint faded by time and disfigured by deep scars where the forsaken souls had sought purchase. Each of the unnatural burrows, carved by bone, blade, or fang, told of his crusade to rid this world of their true enemy -- monsters born of the Thirteenth's hatred for Man.


"Yet, we press on, brothers -- in your memory. To bring to the light what is done in the dark."


An undyed linen shirt was pulled over his head, covering the ring and pressing it safely to his chest. This was soon followed by the quiltted gambeson which still held some faint vestiges of his previous life. Threaded iconography of the Holy Decusian Church formed by silver filament. Yet, much of it was worn, or broken away entirely. Soon after, a hauberk of chain followed, leather points painstakingly threaded through leather attachments at the shoulders, elbows, and waist. Next, articulated pieces of heavy plate were anchored by these point, only to be hidden by the loose-fitting robes. The only thing missing were the purification seals, but having been without Church resources for so long, he no longer had any to spare in a place that one might argue required them most.


"Once more, to battle, my brothers. Do not call for me to join you too soon."

The Broken Sword
Posts: 120
Character: Alaric

Re: The Legacy of Caius Artorius Seneca

Post by The Broken Sword » July 3rd, 2021, 10:20 pm

He settled upon the floor of his small room. A dark curtain drawn shut over the large window that ordinarily bathed it in natural light. Spread out in a semi-circle before him was a collection of papers, strange powders, a few metal trinkets, and an array of crystals. The only light in the room was a handful of candles arranged in such a way as to illuminate his work.

The usual flowing robes and heavy armor had been discarded for a much lighter attire. A pair of gray pants tucked into leather boots, and a short-sleeved shirt. His dark hair was damp, slicked back with a pleasant smelling oil. His eyes were cast down upon the work before him, a collection of strange runes, old Decusian script, various depictions of a strange beast, and a number of similarly detailed papers.


" What drew you out of Tor, and bound you to this place? "


His voice was little more than a whisper, barely audible above the guttering wicks of the room's candlelight. It was a tone dipped in intrigue, in wonder. A question asked, as though the papers before him would somehow manifest an answer. His hands, wrapped in cloth, shuffled through the various notes and illustrations, searching for something that he may have overlooked before.


" What are you hiding from me? "


Suddenly, there was a rapping at the door. It startled the young man, causing his hands to lift defensively. Drawing from him a shout of surprise. And, in that moment, the candles around him flared brilliantly, and a wayward gust caused the papers to scatter in a small whirlwind. Instinctively, he reached out, snatching a paper from the air, and turning toward the window where the wind must certainly have come from. But, he did not have time, as the quick knocking came again. He pushed past the mess upon his floor, and cracked the door open, only to find an empty hallway. And, as his eyes dropped to the page in his hand, he peered upon the strange illustration, a union of man and dae, twisted and malformed.



" I see... "

The Broken Sword
Posts: 120
Character: Alaric

Re: The Legacy of Caius Artorius Seneca

Post by The Broken Sword » July 22nd, 2021, 1:48 am

Arthur's eyes were cast down upon the back of his hands. Observing the pair of blackened steel gauntlets which adorned them. He reflected upon the strange distortion of light across the articulated joints, like some great abyssal expanse devouring what little light remained in the world. It brought a short, incredulous laugh from somewhere deep within. As though the thought were some unwelcomed truth to be cast out. He could hear their voices again, at the edge of his senses. Like so many waves gently rolling across his psyche, barely noticeable but for the water's tepid caress. They whispered, as they always do, in the dark of his room, when no company could be found -- a torment of the men and women lost under his command, under his direction, for a war that meant nothing to the people in the East.


" Quiet... "


He urged the voices, turning his hands over so that he could look to his palms. Dark blood, like thick tendrils of glistening oil flashed before his eyes, staining his hands. The vision shocked him so thoroughly that he tore the armor from his hands and threw them to the ground with a heavy clatter. Of course, the phantasm was gone, and he looked to his large, calloused, hands which bore no remnant of the unwanted visions that plagued him from time to time. They were like flashes of memories coming to the surface, superimposed upon his reality. The whispering continued.




" Quiet... I said! "


He shouted this time, anger boiling just beneath the surface -- but, it was not the sort of pure emotion that burned brightly. Instead, it intermingled with immediate guilt and sorrow as he shrunk back into the chair. His eyes, dual worlds of brilliant blue, whose skies now grew cloudy with unshed anguish. His hands came up in fists, pawing at his eyes in shame, as if to remove any sign that such tears could have ever existed. But the phantoms did not listen, as the distant waves continued to carry away more and more of the man's heart.

Until, suddenly... suddenly... his had took up a pen, dipped in an inkwell, and he began to write. And it was as though some great roaring fire was ignited to push back the dark. It's crackling embers, and dancing fingers of flame hungrily devouring the ghosts of his past. Leaving him alone with his thoughts.



The depths of his regret,

what cold, and chiding wind,

rising from within,

unchained by worth or whim.


It is not by duty,

nor by virtue,

but by the grace,

of vice most grim.



Borne of this,

a winter's heart,

where ought be,

a redemption's start.


His eyes look over the words written, without thought, and he grimaces slightly at the result. The small bit of poetry is labeled simply; Winterborn -- and it shut away in the small journal.


The Broken Sword
Posts: 120
Character: Alaric

Re: The Legacy of Caius Artorius Seneca

Post by The Broken Sword » July 29th, 2021, 3:25 am

He stood quietly, brilliant blue eyes scanning the lush green canopy of the surrounding forest. His hands, bare of the darkened steel that normally encased them, set upon the weather grey stone of Fort Praesidium's battlements. A summer breeze stirred the dark blue robes about his long frame. He knew it to be warm, but he could feel nothing but a chill all the way to his bones. "Dytryk, you're a damn fool." The memory was not an old one. Dytryk and Caius had been the first of The Sons to make it through the Rumbling Pass, and had spent that time getting a feel for the population of Fort Praesidium and the surrounding countryside. In classic Dytryk fashion, this involved convincing everyone he met to buy him a drink, and share a story. Of course, he couldn't abandon his friend, lest he do something insanely stupid.

"You're going to make me go bald, like Rok." He chided, as was his way, when Dytryk fell too deep into the drink. Afterall, when that happened, trouble was sure to follow. But, he did not see how the drink was the man's escape. An escape that worked all to well for the old Teramerian. One where he could forget the horrors of their war, of the family they had lost, and of the Republic that had turned its back upon them. He knew how deeply this wounded the man's sense of honor, even if the old Templar never talked of it.

He should have seen it. He should have stopped it. He failed. In a brief moment of weakness, Arthur slammed his fists down into the stone of the battlement and screamed at the top of his longs. A scream that echoed across the valley, causing birds to take flight, and a passing guard to glare in disapproval. But, he didn't care. This wasn't the battlefield, and he couldn't reason the man's death away. In truth, he knew, that while Dytryk's drinking contributed to his death, the man had been dead long before. Long before in the wastes of Prodai, where the Dawn had been lost.

Dytryk was gone. Given to the flame, as any Teramerian would desire -- returned to the Flame. And, only five remained.

What given flames,
Bound by blood and steel,
Here his light remains,
Until his brethren heal.

A memory lost to the world,
A templar and his oath,
On this day unfurled,
His honor and duty, both.

And, so it is written,
And, so it comes to pass,
That Dytryk, Our Brother,
Has found peace at last.


He uttered the words over the small, quiet pyre -- and, again, on the battlements which stretched over the world below. And, finally, his head hung in shame. Dytryk's voice had been lost to the world, only to join those that would haunt him until the end of his days. But, this he would carry quietly, as he always did. He would be strong, because the other Sons would need him to be.

The Broken Sword
Posts: 120
Character: Alaric

Re: The Legacy of Caius Artorius Seneca

Post by The Broken Sword » August 3rd, 2021, 11:40 pm

"The Sun Rises..."


A gloved hand lifted to guide the heavy wooden door shut. Caius often used those words in parting as a reminder. It was nearly a mantra, with how often the former Chaplain spoke the words. Often, the young man had sat at the bedside of an ailing brother, to offer what comfort he could, and failing that, to ensure no man or woman need face their final moments alone. This was his sacred duty, a last vigil, to honor their sacrifice.


"...and, so shall we."


The final words, a response to the first -- fitting that the deceased could not offer them. So, it fell upon him, and the Chosen Eight that would bear their fallen brothers and sisters to the pyre. Returning them to the Eternal Flame so that their soul could ascend in honor of their faith.

Twice, since arriving in Fort Praesidium, would he stand vigil for a fallen brother. Twice that he failed to share their last moments. His heart was breaking, and he could feel a cold dread overtaking him.


"...and, so shall we."


He repeated the words, moving away from the door, to stare out the large windows that presented a cramped view of Fort Praesidium's market square. Dozens of people moved about their business, unaware of their silent watcher. His hands folded behind his back, brilliant blues dancing from one shape to the next, as if hunting for someone in particular. And, in truth, he was -- a dear brother and friend that had gone missing weeks ago. Their search across the countryside had turned up nothing, and the local populace offered no help. In truth, it was likely that Lambert Renatus had succumbed to his demons, and took his own life. Just as Dytryk had. After a moment, he turned away from the window and sat at the small desk in the corner of his room.

He began to write a number of missives, which were sealed by wax and delivered to the designated individuals by discreet courier.



Sons of Solurien,

All search and rescue operations of our brother, Lambert Renatus, are to cease at once.

We muster at dawn for his Vigil.

- Arthur



His heart ached, and he wondered if it was the right choice, but it was one that he would need to bear for the sake of his companions. Their mission in the First Province could wait no longer.

The Broken Sword
Posts: 120
Character: Alaric

Re: The Legacy of Caius Artorius Seneca

Post by The Broken Sword » October 29th, 2022, 1:31 pm

"Your vigil ends..."


Caius leaned forward, his eyes upon the crackling embers contained within the shallow cast-iron bowl. The blackened wood was fractured in places, exposing small glowing segments to the darkness of the cave.

He was, perhaps, the last surviving member of the Chapter now. And, he had sealed himself away in the natural sanctuary provided by the deep caverns of the First Province. Here, he subsisted on prayer, water, and gruel. A penitence for failing his brethren. But, his vigil was at an end.

Slowly, he reached forward with a cloth and leather wrapped hand. He took a hold of the branch turned coal, feeling the intensity of the heat against his calloused hand -- fingers curled tightly crushing the ruined fibers of wood, and releasing a few motes of burning light into the air before him.

The residual aura highlighted his long black hair. Another testament of just how long the Templar Librarian had been sealed away fromthe world.

Slowly, he turned toward the exit, pressing his hands into the heavy stone that marked his would-be tomb, and shouldered it free.

His vigil had ended.

The Broken Sword
Posts: 120
Character: Alaric

Re: The Legacy of Caius Artorius Seneca

Post by The Broken Sword » November 10th, 2022, 1:13 pm



”Adherent… you will comply.”

The voice, a distant memory, seemed as real as the whispering prayers of nearby parishioners. It was a day like any other – where the aging Decusian had sought sanctuary within the Cathedral. His head remained bowed, brilliant blues fixated upon some space just above the interwoven knuckles of his clasped hands. And, though the Flame’s light painted the main hall in contrasting beauty to its somber gray stonework, the man was lost within the theater of his own mind.

The very sound of splintering wood, clattering metal and muffled sobs reverberated within the vault of his mind. It sought intrusion into his sanctum, and with it the memories that stained his hands red with the blood of the Prodean people. He could almost feel the words striking against the seal as though it were some disembodied demon shrieking and straining against its bonds.

”Adherent!”

The gruff voice came again, rattling within the well-constructed bastion of his mind, threatening to spill out from behind the warded doors it had been sealed behind. The presence of an unwanted memory – of the slaughter at Red River. His fingers, wrapped in lengths of cloth and leather from the second knuckle down, tightened their grip, and suddenly Cay’s own prayers spilled out from between parting lips.

It was enough to banish the nightmare back to the abyss, for now.




"Brothers.. "




He whispered, releasing his vice-like grip, and touching two fingers to his forehead in reverence before escaping the pew; and, turning back to the small library where a desk awaited his work. The plain wooden door sealed away the brilliant colors streaming down from stained glass -- the room within was dimly lit in contrast. Candles flickered behind protective screens cast a near golden light that brought dancing shadows across the deep alcoves and long aisles of manuscripts and tomes. Nearby, an incense burner filled the air with the scent of herbs meant to purify and ward against the corrupting miasma of a broken world.



"We are not alone… there are others here that seek the truth. We.. we have forgotten. But, the banners of ascendency are beginning to unfurl before us. If only we could understand… "



Heavily, he fell into the chair, and set to writing – a simple numeral at the top of the page. It read:



XVII.



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