“M’lord, are you quite alright?”
Joffrey turned, nearly jumping at the voice of the young crusader. The boy was hardly an imposing sight. Short and gangly, with hair the color of dirty straw. Though his faceguard covered it, the Grand Crusader smiled. “Yes, perfectly fine. Dismissed.” Nodding curtly, he returned his attention to the stain glass windows of the Basilica, his plate greaves scratching along the stone floor.
He found himself returning to his thoughts, the smile tugging at his scarred features only increasing. Under his command, the Crusade had found itself restored to former prestige. It was mere months ago the Crusade found itself groveling at the feet of Noblemen, in need of soldiers to fortify their holds in Lordaeron. Mere months ago, that they were branded openly as heretics, and spat on in the streets. Mere months ago, that he had found himself presiding over a near dead Order.
No longer. Though the reformation of the Crusade was a long and arduous process, it was ultimately what had saved it from an untimely demise. Now, the Crusade represented what it did many years ago. A crimson flame, bringing light where there was only darkness. An eternal brightness, lifting the veil from the unseeing. But more than anything, it was a symbol of hope for the people of Lordaeron.
“The First to Charge, and the Last to Retreat.” He said aloud, his voice echoing throughout the Basilica.
Smirking, he turned on his heel, exiting the holy ground with as much reverence as possible. The Dawning he had waited for had arrived. And he knew, that no matter what tasks the Crusade would endure in the days ahead, that the Scarlet Flame would never be snuffed.