Don't Ask
Alicja Krzyzska
I've been at this camp a while now. We've finally begun our first march, and I must admit having a tent is a relief compared to bunking.
While I was bunking, men considered me inferior for being a woman in combat. That I just wasn't physically able to do the same jobs that they could. I am a halberdier for a reason. I have muscle, and Saradomin willing I am going to use it. When they realized I wasn't someone that was easily forced to drink ale and pork grease from a helmet as initiation, they all began to ignore me. This is for the better.
As weird as looks from men have been, the looks from women are worse. They stare at my chest when I change, and see my scars. They stare at my body in general, with weird looks. Some of confusion, some of disgust, and some with thoughts ill-befitting a Knight of Saradomin.
I however, feel I bonded with some of my fellow soldiers this past day. A piece of my life was laid bare in front of us, the Order of the Crown Archival's tactics, used by Zarosians. A Priest was crucified, a church ravaged by a ferocious ripper demon. Apparently, they not only exist, but stand in the ranks alongside my distant cousins father claimed we had.
Regardless, concerning crucifixion: My brother had a love for it. He felt it was a holy position, a humbling one, at that for someone to be crucified. I ran from that, but even then I saw it as an adult when I was forced to return by his clutches. I have my brother to thank for the brands and scars on my body. To see this done to an innocent has filled me with a rage, but a controlled one. I am not my brother, and I will not snap under pressure.
Heavenly father... It is you, Saradomin, that keeps me moving. I am what I am, and what I am is a Saradominist. Nothing more, nothing less. May the Lord's light guide my path,
Amen.