The Himmelsberg Monastery, home to the noble Holy Guards, stood on a steep-faced mountain, overlooking the countryside with a watchful yet calming air. This legendary monastery was unconquered and defended by the most noble and holy men that could be found, a band of brothers united by sacred trust and an iron resolve to protect those weaker than themselves. The monastery was obviously built to last, and glistened as a beacon of safety and indomitable security to weary travelers and holy knights alike who traveled in the icy and dangerous land it watched over. The massive wooden gates, with their overarching parapet and the intricate etchings of illuminated and holy scenes graven into the wood yet surrounded by scuffs, dents, and scratches of a gate that had obviously withstood the turmoils of war, were awe-inspiring and magnificent in the early morning light. The Guardsmen watching over the gate were relaxed yet still poised with a deadly efficiency and grace on the parapet above the gate and bridge across the chasm that separated the Monastery from the surrounding mountains. Their crossbows, master-crafted and lethal yet still elegant and beautiful, were strung and ready at their waists as they cautiously watched the man they saw coming towards their gates. As he drew nearer, their hails and calls for him to halt died on their lips, they found their mouths had a will of their own, dropping slightly open, and their eyes widened as they were drawn to a certain deadly adornment attached to the waist of the traveler.
The morning sun shone brightly over the gloriously shining snowy hills as a weary and sad-faced traveler approached the Himmelsberg gates. He was young, perhaps not yet seeing his twenty-fifth winter, but his eyes had the depth of a much older man. His travel-stained cloak swirled in the wind that drew up eddies of snow from the mountainside as he strode onward. There was a natural grace to his movements and yet a tension similar to a coiled spring. His armor was battered but still shone in the sun, his face was haggard with the growth of a beard several weeks in the making but still maintained an air of dignity, his equipment jingled as he walked but somehow he seemed as silent as a shadow thrown across a sunny floor. Strapped across his back was a monstrous sword, obviously well-made and in good condition, he wore it well and looked as if he knew how to use it. This was, however, not what drew the attention and surprise of the guards. Hanging from the young man's waist, though seeming more like an extension of his heart and soul rather than a tool, was a magnificent blade that glistened and shone with a light of its own as he drew it from its heavy, lacquered, and engraved sheath. The etchings gleamed with an inner fire as he gracefully twirled it out into a flawless salute to where it sang and hummed in the air before him.
“I am Guiscard, son of Oda Nobunaga, warrior of the far Eastern shores.” His voice resounded in the hills, harmonizing with the deep and resonant ring of his elegant blade. He continued, “My father has fallen to the wiles and machinations of the Shinobu sent west to hunt him down by the treacherous dogs responsible for the collapse of our land. He lives yet as a prisoner to those distant adversaries. He spoke well of the Holy Guard to me throughout our time together, and he was a man to whom compliments did not come easily.” The young man's face seems to darken slightly and take on a bitter aspect for just a moment as he finishes, his voice faltering ever so slightly, almost as if reliving a sharp pain or a grim memory. The look passes in a flash fast enough that anyone watching would have had a hard time believing that it had ever been there. Stoic and dignified posture resumed, he raised his voice in a tone designed to carry his voice to any ears within the Monastery, once again perfectly accompanying the persistent and melodic ring of his Katana, “I am here to pledge my allegiance to your cause, and by so doing remind you of the brotherhood you and my father once shared. To request, nay demand, that you follow your honor to come to his aide in his time of troubles.” As the ringing of the sword reluctantly drew to an end, he twirled it once more and slammed it into the icy ground at his feet and knelt, both hands on the hilt, peering up into the parapet now full of onlookers. The Archon stepped forward from the crowd and looked down upon him. The silence was broken as the young man spoke quietly, just loud enough to be heard from the ramparts but increasing slowly in volume with each word, “I pledge myself to your cause. Let your enemies be my enemies, let your friends be my allies, let you be my brothers whom I would die to protect,” his voice rose to a crescendo, “Let us serve God together, Let us combat the enemies of peace, justice, and freedom, Let us present to them a united front, Let us fight, let us live, let us protect the weak and uphold right!” In the ensuing silence his voice spoke, barely more than a whisper but audible to all, “With this oath, I pledge my sword, my father's sword, to God and His servants the Holy Guard. We will serve you until the end, with every drop of blood.”
The figure rose, the wind's woeful moaning began in earnest, sending the snow and ice encrusted on his knees swirling off into the distance. He sheathed his sword. Guiscard, son of Oda Nobunaga, servant of God, trained by his father in the ways of nobility and swordcraft, stood and walked into the now open gates of Himmelsberg Monastery. He felt a sensation that was new, something that he had never felt in his long years of travel both alone and with his father. He felt peace. He felt comfort. He was home.
