Hero, Survivor, Coward

Hero, they called him.
For carrying a wounded man through tunnels deep and vast, having fled from a losing battle into the darkness unknown. Hours went by, the light on his hip fading just as the light in his comrade’s eyes slowly did the same. The man—who’s name would never trouble him—told him to abandon; to flee unburdened, to not waste energy on a soul departing. Was it heroism that caused him to carry the added weight? Was it the last, quaint sense of valor remaining within him? Or was it because he knew, deep down, he would sooner feast on his own compeer than fall to hunger in the shadow-laden halls God had forsaken? Yet his allies never had to know, for before he could resort to a deed so vile, they concluded in their trial; a light sparked off in the distance, headed by the Nation who came to meet them. Both men would live, the latter deemed no longer able to serve. And of the mortician? His misdeeds would go unlearned.

Survivor, they called him.
For being the one left standing ere an Empire ambush. Shot three of the enemy, he told them, but was forced to leave his men to die. In the end, they could not be saved. Or such was what he said. Yet suspicions would quell as he made it to camp, falling back to his old practice of medicine. After all, who would question a man who’s only fault was running, and who saved as many men as he had abandoned? His name, this time, would not be sung; but nor would any spit it as a curse. He was then a man like any other, just one looking to live through the war.

Coward, they called him.
As his nature became clear: mortician Izador Wilk held none dear. Finally was he in the wrong, fleeing a front yet to be won. He left men to die, lives which should’ve been spared. But he cared not, taking one too many bullets too close to the head. Yes the battle was won, yet the Nation was short an important man. Watching as he fled from the danger, his face a mask of coldness, no more would any speak of his boldness. He returned to the back, content to provide aid, stating quite plainly that such was his name. Still he was better than the rest, holding all the talent in the world: as the men could attest. A sharper shot, a steadier hand, one who worked miracles with the stab of a syringe. Yet it mattered not, for he held not the will to continue on, and thus a coward he was called. One officer told him such, lying in a stretcher:

“You are a man pathetic, mister Izador. I would have you executed if I could.”

Strange some could say, how injuries seemingly so mild nevertheless left a man defiled. That officer would never leave his bed, dying in a medic’s tent instead.

Izador remains at the Nation’s front, keeping true to his profession. His name is whispered, rumors slowly spread. Still he enters battle, far after the rest. But even from missions failed and doomed, he always returns. The Nation cannot dismiss a doctor who’s saved so many lives, nor can they admit him unable to fight with fourteen kills to his title. Yet speak of his name, and one will soon find—that no man speaks highly of him, no matter to whom they are aligned.



Likely gonna be my last forum post for a while, screw this place and AO; I have a new obsession.

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hope your obsession leads to better people than most forumers

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Well it’s a gravedigger post so 50/50