[AW] true champions cannot be eclipsed

[Renwick]

renwick

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W

atching the new Sovereign is an interesting affair, if he's honest. The one's he's seen often stand tall and proud, statuesque — as if Atlas somehow plucked the globe from his shoulders and set it firmly on their withers without thought to leaving a manual. If they stumble now, then the impression is set. The globe inelegantly rolls off of them and splinters onto the ancient cobblestone floor.

But Ira paces, and paces, and paces some more and Renwick's features twist into pleasant surprise. There's a stark difference between a man who paces to offset nerves, and a man who knows he thinks best when he's on his hooves.

Young Kings have left a sour impression in his mouth, but that is not a cross Ira should rightfully have to bear — he's done nothing to warrant scepticism right out of the gate, and Renwick's gripes are old wounds that have healed wrong. Scarred ugly. So he attempts to keep an open mind, one ear quirked forward to better hear his first decree.

He chooses the people, instead of himself, and the Knight's surprise grows into a grin. He chooses action, growth, and accountability. Admirable.

Knight Commander's have no place being Champion's, in truth, Direstone still heaves and wheezes to the north-west of here. Gripped in the icy embrace of the Arma Mountains, where her men huddle beneath thick cloaks and grouse of better yesteryears. They've began repairs on the Weyr's, though for what reason he'll never know, when he decreed it so. Roc's are fickle birds, and their eggs rarer still — but it gives them something to do. It sows hope in the stonemason whose gruff, silvery face lights up as he talks, and talks, and talks about how he remembers when their raven faced companions would spread their wings.

Their lorekeeper's eyes twinkle as they retrieve the yellow scrolls from the tower, written long before any of them.

Perhaps the reason is hope. For once they're coming out of the shadows and turning their eyes skyward to see the great blue expanse for the first time in an age.

Champion's should come from the people, so they may take Atlas' weight without prior engagement. Renwick's calling makes him a hybrid of sorts, to King and People. He must look to Denocte's borders, he must answer to the crown, even if he loves his people fiercely than a wolf to the pack. He keeps to himself, mostly, enjoys Cica & Luvena's words as one of the people, for a change.

"Congratulations, your highness." He says, wolf-like and fox-sly. The lad from the markets who asked him why he became a soldier, now a king in front of him. One day, he might ask him why, turn the question around on him. Doubtful, but fun to think about. "I'm but a humble soldier, but if you require anything at all, you need only ask."

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