What simple lies could he tell himself?
Was he a good person?
Sable himself was uncertain, he lived regardless of anyone person’s certainty however otherwise.
At leisure, Sable is watched, surveying the day to day lives of nobler folk then he.
He came to the conclusion that he was no more diligent than honest, in comparison the divide between noble and commoner distinctively was both as apparent as it was looming.
It was a drab and dreary day for commoners as well as the royalty, the only real obvious distinction between the two people was the arbitrary social oligarchical structures and notions that divided them.
Establishing an imperial notion of garish nobility.
”Royalty May sympathise with you, regality has the flank.”
Meat and potatoes were the lifeblood of the commoner community, the farmer’s selling the proverbial shirt off their back, quite literally in some cases.
Sable was not a proud individual, he was by no means pure of life and he was your ordinary, average every day citizen.
He was not heralded by the ubiquitous praise of being a magic knight, and the infamy of being a rogue did not show any real appeal to him.
Being happy that he lived well was enough in most cases.
His shirt was made of cotton and his pants were jeans, both had splotches of paint on them, which he had to date been unable to get rid of.
“Atavistic notions have led to reformative motions, proceeding to favourable tendencies in the populace.”
The priest waved his hand as the nun spoke to him, dismissing her and the information with a subtle nonchalance that rivalled a cardinal’s exuberance.
Sable’s patience was not infinite but it was far from wearing thin, this part of his life was exodus, and he realised it.
Emancipation from the lower class of being common, a short trip from absolute obscurity.
Free from ridicule as he was a humble man.
Sable approached the church, looking around him to assess the situation of the folk who lived here.
Few of them whispered, some of them meekly ignored him, most of them were resigned to going about their lives as they always had.
Forbearing the weight of his choices, some of them had led him away from this day, some had sped him towards the process.
Sable had no notion of what to prepare for.
Patience wears thin eventually, and diligence being a virtue, one thing led to another.

The cathedral doors of the church opened slowly, the church’s priest was administering sacrament.
Bell’s were chiming melodically, the great brass objects a symbol of hope and providence.
Sacrament was sort of like having lunch for some commoner’s, it was a much more formal affair than the church goings of the forsaken region, a sanctimonious ambience ever present in the church.
A nun approached Sable, who was none the wiser and very appreciative of her going out of her way.
Her blonde hair and rosy cheeks were a fair contrast to the pallid demeanour of the people outside the church.
She was tall and loomed over him with a falcon keen expression of interest in the young man that was before them.
The first thing she said was, “Welcome to the church of Kikka, May I provide assistance with anything?”
Sable considered it for a time but shook his head and politely declined, proffering a hand and wishing to provide his own services to the church.
He unrolled a roll of parchment he had been carrying, tucked under his arm was a piece of art that depicted an angel holding a flower.
Sable made it clear that he was a painter and that he wished to expressively design a mural or painting to donate to the church.
The nun said, “Something of the like would be appreciated.”
He smiled and observed his surroundings for the first time, fully appreciating the splintering pews organised in the church’s midst.
The smell of rosemary was strong as was the aroma of incense, which they burned in the censures above them.
Candles spilt wax in their holders, littering the inside of the church, no part of the structure was not illuminated.
It was the time for The Litany.

The priest had finished distributing the sacrament to the flock, and began impugning upon them, preaching His holy word.
”-excerpt from the litany… Here followeth the litany, or general supplication, to be sung or said after Morning Prayer upon Sundays, Wednesday’ s and fridays.”
The crowd murmured confirmation amongst themselves, it sounded like this part was sung or spoken rather frequently, a part of their near constant daily life.
O God the father of heaven: have mercy upon us miserable sinners… O God the Son, Redeemer of the world: Have mercy upon us miserable sinners…”
Sable mumbled along while others; like the sisters of the church, sung in high tenor and soprano voices.
The dirge was a long and sad intonation of resignation and asking for the greater good to show them the way.
No small amount of divination, only embellishing the base emotions and the holier path as a sentiment.
Opting to instead adopt a favouring standpoint on the constitution of living a good life.
For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” The priest spoke with steady condemnation of a man who lived his life the way he did.
“For everyone who calls on the name of the lord will be saved.”
Pressing anger produces strife, and other sermons had Sable’s interests piqued.
He wondered mostly how people could subject themselves to this monotony daily, but held his composure respectfully.
After the dissertation and sharing of stories, Sable was invited to confessional.
Before he could speak, the door opened to a smaller walled off room.
He was ushered in, “How do you plead?”
Sable pondered on the words before answering quietly, “I have impugned upon many, elected to do right by few, and once again I have absconded from following the law.”
He pressed on despite feeling like he was being introspective and unfaithful, but the priest merely spoke with the haphazard nature of a man who had heard many impious things and he resigned to wave off the comment. “I am insufficient in many ways, but I will serve a purpose.”
“Do you confess your sins?” The priest seemed insistent but warily so, following a script more or less in a pensive sort of manner that resembled pious rigmarole.
Sable’s reply was short, We would be here too long.”
Laughing ensued, ”The most recent, or the most grievous?”
”They would be the same.”
a short pause followed by the obligatory question, “And what is that, my son?”
”Not being strong enough.”
The priest himself paused, time for reflection Sable figured, feeling self conscious but trying his utmost to appear contrite and earnest.
The priest spoke with the weight of wisdom and approached the subject tenderly, “We are each in our own ways.”
Sable not having overall consumed this as palpable pressed on and reiterated, “I could have worked harder.”
The priest thanked him; Sable, for his time and anticipating the look that would be given, invited Sable to the baptismal font.

The crystalline waters were fresh and cold, they poured down his neck over the top of his head and crept down his t-shirt, soaking him in a small trickle of water, many things were intoned.
Not all of them Sable listened to, some things like the dedication to the benefit of all mankind were prevalent themes in their words, the administering of the sacrament was a wafer of stale tasteless bread.
He could taste the fibrous material sweetening in his mouth as they administered the wine after woulds, swearing not to drink to excess and accepting that we all had our vices.
But they too would be few, vices invited speculations as to the piety of one’s life, they blessed him by saying that these times may be far and few.
The nuns were preparing a purple and golden thread cloth that they tied around his hands, sanctifying him in the name of the light and the many.
The many people in need, the few people in service to the greater good, and a moments reflection on the sentiment of joining the collective fold of an earnest life.
Times would be hard, he would have to prove himself, in the eyes of his peers and of God as a whole.
Should his wrath kindle, he should practise kindness, abstinence in the face of gluttony and moral ambiguity, that sort of thing.
Patience was a fine line between sloth and diligence, there were times to be complacent and to rest a weary head, there were times to act; out of integrity, hopefully Sable would have the wisdom to discern between the two circumstances and would serve the lord well and in good earnest faith.
The priest gave him, with no reservations, his full undivided attention.
While the first tasks seemed menial, they were important to the upkeep of the church.
Sweeping and mopping the floor was a chore that Sable was well versed in, he made a masterpiece of the church’s floor and painted the dust out of the corners of the rooms.
Transforming the wind into a driving force that herded the dust bunnies with a paltry show of his prowess and prodigious skill.
Being baptised had reinvigorated his senses, brought his focus to the forefront of his mind.
It had been the remission of sins, he fully put faith in the man not to drown him.
He had come no where near close to doing so, and the whole affair was comfortable and free of condescensions.
Sable fully believed that he could be a part of a greater whole, a greater being, and this had been the first step to accepting that he could do better in the future.
With the church’s backing, he would be able to take missions that directly helped the impoverished and he would be able to ask the crown for assistance where assistance was due.
He would be able to, through hard work and trials of conviction, to be a driving force for good where the magic knights could not.
Being a chaplain, a priest; someone who could help with spiritual matters, pertaining to the faith of the people.
This was something that seemed like a good idea to Sable.
He wasn’t completely certain as to how he would help, but he was sure that he would help where me may, how he may.
The sigils that the priests carried were unique in the way that they were expected to be on a priest’s person at all times.
Special in the way that each deacon was assigned one, though there were limited positions for such opportunities in the Kingdom, Sable was fortunate enough to be one of few candidates.

The next day Sable was painting a wall, the elegance of a squall through a verdant field, sweeping the leaves of autumn through a myriad of yellows, burgundy oranges and greens splashed across the wall.
He himself was not exempt from the splashes of colour, he was assured new clothes would be supplied after his work would be finished.
The deluge gave much needed reprieve; from work, from
travel and the greatest rests afforded were the crickets, the slightly itchy material; wool, Sable thought.
It had trapped the smell of the dying embers of the fire within its fibre, Sable was wearing it when he sipped tepid water provided to him.
The material, rustic qualities stained the room, the varnished wood, an aspect of depth to the shadows of the room after a service.
The delicate tender strips of mutton floating in broth-like gravy; inflections of pungent aromatic herbs, his hands like silk - supple yet strong, in undisturbed dust that had settled which non invasively provided a quality of his own home, like a texture.
A tangible inertia; in practise, an idleness cultivating a certain productivity.
Alluding to the omnipresence of ignorance blended with innocence and filled with prismatic arrogance, Sable doubted ; with no great sincerity, that the blindfolded dance of youth was unlike the well practised foxtrot of the forsaken region.
The conservative nature of this room, how after a long day the seconds started to look as if Sable could have counted the specks of dust within this room.
It was now more unto him the recesses of a tomb, but still he bid his time no longer having a place to assume one way or another.
Temperance and courtesy was ever present, he was shown a room that would be his.
The sheets were crisp and uniformly folded, lightly woven, thinly threaded and altogether perfect for the weather.
A thin sheet of insulation; a layer between he and the sweetness of Autumn, guarding Sable’s warmth from the fleeting strokes of a humid day being caressed by the rain.
The sound was like the constant chatter beneath the floorboards and the stumbling resistance which life embodies in contrast to the abyss; simply by existing, forever struggled to break the silence rather than abide the times.
People below his room talk of the roads to and from; here, a blessing to find shelter from this tempest, a dry bed and a hot; if not, warm meal.
A fortune to find company, a blessing to fill one’s belly and eat as well as drinking one’s fill.
“I can hardly remember a time when I have savoured honey more, it seems sweeter on my tongue when thinned by heat.”
Any other time Sable may have filled his mouth with the congealed viscousness of a sole pleasure offered; given, after a cleansing bath but the walls around him prior confined and reverberated the aching warmth he found.
Sable could hardly remember the cold touch of the rain and the unbidden frostbite of the shivering wind soaking in to his bones.
He found even in the intemperate climate that bespoke him that finding now that the random brush strokes of heaven falling down on the canvas of the roof were more embracing of his fractured nature of what then was what he had found below.
Sable resigned his sight to darkness and retired his mind to listen.
The dark and alluring scent arose between the floor boards, it was like vinegar, burnt sugar and red meat.
Sable was humbled to say that as alluring as the temptation was, it was hardly an invitation.
As his senses wandered, the sweet spices swept up his earnest desires of wonder; his palate salivating due to experience not partaken, shallowly discerning an interpretation of events.
Had he need for concern?
No doubt.
Could he alter his fate by forgoing sleep?
If he were stuck in the medium of extremes defying renditions of the cruel unchangeable past and the foreboding continuum of the future, he would still surrender, willingly to the onset of the otherwise currently meaningless misadventure that would herald his future and forever define Sable’s past.

Continuing, he was a disciple of a greater good now.
A self fulfilling prophecy.
Sable awoke to fried tomatoes; even if he didn’t like the acidic sweetness, he welcomed the smell, sausages; of the kind which are fiery even when cold, seared bacon filled with a smokey quality that shares the pan with the meal from before.
Two golden yolks placated his hunger, smooth beans resting in a grounded mixture of peppercorns were floating in a purée of all of these things.
The nun who served him these things smiled warmly and bid him to eat his fill, and offered a glass of pale sunshine; the juice of a fruit called the orange, which was sweet and hurt his jaw.
She was fair of complexion, her eyes mantled like deep waters running beneath glaciers, and fear to his heart in countenance, though as to Sable alone this day was particularly special.
Her luminous, spiritedly grace and appearance entered his unprepared mellow heart, stirring the still waters of his affections from calm to uncertainly to humble questioning in the stability of a maelstrom.
His courtesy subsided and Sable was left to accept or rather suspect his graciousness becoming unbeknownst, unexpected and unfounded.
Bewildered by his new station, he was impressed by the overall welcome with which they proffered.
Their hospitality was legendary.
In respect, Sable displayed only a smouldering of the intense blaze that heavily held him.
To a stranger, that he was, in a foreign land, it would stir his heart to anger so he quietened the beatings of his heart against the perfume of her idleness.
Lest he deceive and utterly beguile himself to the promises of misfortune and reveal himself to be a pauper in princely slippers; or an emperor invisibly dressed.
With melting snow in his hands, he stepped outside wondering where the weather had come from
and where it had gone.
He prayed that it would kiss the land but not venture further into the forsaken region, the cold would be devastating to the crops and the people.
If Sable could have but held her until the Winter, they may have yet made it until the Spring.
All through out the Summer’s lusty splinter, with all the things that Autumn’s blessing’s bring.
Golden now where once he was turning to the ground, naively he had bravely been searching all around.
Gladly smiling, about what he did not now know, accepting the things he had done that he could allow and the winds that blow.
Rubies then where now flows blood, no longer tempest where once was flood.
Providence now save us from my heart which has calmed and burned anew, from the ashes of fallen to the golden light of loving them as you.
The litany subsided to general seasonal hymns.
That day came unlike many others in the way unfamiliar faces gladly treated him, all with thirst for knowledge, silently depicting the rising dawn.
Just as the nocturnal host of stars disappeared from the sky, they soon awoke and they soon saw to their business.
Sable was writing poetry on the back of a canvas of leaves when he drifted off into an aloof temperament.
We danced amongst the canopy; you and I, we sang, we danced, we faltered and fell; yet we still joined in constellation.
I could sense in my elation, a foreboding, dividing calm in between, this unrequited love unforeseen.”
Jovial was his time, as one departs from the sea.
Regaining solid ground in lieu of the shaky circumstances that were tumultuous waves, his life purpose found the shore and revealed itself completely unto him.

Resolute yet indecisive, inconclusive inclusion.
Not quite sure what to do but having a sense of zeal to do good work, and good things.
If only to transcribe the deeds of greater men, Sable developed a rigid arthritic sense of what was good rather quickly.
These things could be done in many myriads of ways, why then do good men persist?
Self gratification can be more fun; less vain perhaps, but impressionably; less profoundly reflective, being a misinterpretation of conscription’s dialect.
Superfluous contradictions aside, no revelatory alliterative was going to reveal any; or all, of what he could now incite with the word of God at his beck and call.
Poor time management skills, non-existent abilities and a concerning emotional depth perception, these things maligned a normal person, as Sable was.
He was uniquely common in the way that he was imperfect.
And now he knew why.
However polite, a grain of salt contrasts starkly when compared to sugar.

Word Count: 3295