The Significance of Prayer

What is a prayer?

To some, it is nothing more than the convoluted ramblings of the desperate. A way to find some semblance of peace in an unforgiving and callous world; a chance to gain the attention of the otherwise silent and unmoved celestials.

This may all be true, but there is more to a prayer. It goes beyond the words uttered in spiritual devotion. Its very nature rests within the divine soul, and its mere presence can bring joy to a tired spirit.

Without it, we are mere shreds of our former selves. Shadows entrench themselves in the human spirit, creating bitterness and despair in their wake. Darkness invades, and with it comes cynicism and desolation. A once bright soul becomes nothing more than a withered phantom.

It is hope.

Liam took another sip of his ale. It was dwarven in origin, he could tell by the strength of the alcohol. He sat alone, in Keldorn's dimly lit private study. The others had already found their beds, and were preparing their spells for the day that lay ahead. The once paladin drank another mouthful of the bitter ale.

By some sardonic jest of his former god, he was still able to wield Carsomyr. Liam smiled grimly. Perhaps Torm intended to have the blade fail him the moment he needed it the most. He laughed at the image of trying to fend of a hoard of vampires with his bare hands. At least they wouldn't be able to enslave his soul.

Liam drank another large mouthful of ale, willing the vision to be banished. An inheritance from his sire, it took a great deal of alcohol to get him intoxicated, but feasibly, the amount he had drank would dim the pain. That, or enhance it. It didn't matter which, not anymore. He sat the emptied flask on the desk, where it landed with a soft thud.

Looking for a distraction, Liam leaned over in his chair to study the portraits of Vesper and Leona that graced Keldorn's desk.

Children. She had always wanted children...

He blinked several times before his eyes wandered to where his empty tankard lay. Best that he stop now, anyway. From newly acquired experience, he had found that the solace alcohol gave was diminutive at best. He glided his fingers over its smooth rim before picking it up and depositing it in the kitchen.

Tomorrow. He could live through tomorrow. He would have to. Perhaps not by much, but he would see things to their proper end. Imoen's soul was at stake, and he would be damned if he would let himself fail her again.