![[Orlan.Pray.png]] When the Hand of Vecna slipped into darkness, Orlan’s spirit faltered. The weight of failure pressed heavy upon him,not just his own, but the sense that he had failed Mystra, failed to guard her weave from corruption. With bowed head, he stepped into a teleport circle and vanished from the world of politics and ruins, returning instead to the only place where he might begin to heal: his monastery. **Return to the Monastery** The stone halls were as cold and silent as he remembered, the scent of incense mingling with the sharp tang of steel. His mentors did not greet him with warmth. They saw the burden in his eyes, the slip of his resolve, and they judged him not with anger, but with the heavy silence of disappointment. Orlan fell to his knees and asked for their guidance, their correction, their help to rise again. **Trials of the Body and Will** What followed was not gentle. Days bled into nights of ceaseless trial. His body was honed as though it had grown soft, driven through endless katas, sparring, and endurance rituals until his muscles trembled and his breath came ragged. His mind was tested with riddles, meditations, and long silences in the void of candlelight. At times he thought his mentors sought to break him entirely,but in truth, they sought to strip away doubt, leaving only discipline. **Penance to Mystra** Yet physical strength was not enough. Orlan knew the wound that mattered most lay between himself and Mystra. The goddess of magic had turned her gaze from him, not in wrath, but in quiet mistrust. If he was to stand as her vessel again, he would have to prove himself worthy. Thus began his penance: tasks of humility, trials of restraint, and meditations on the weave itself. Each test reminded him that power was never his to claim, only hers to grant. He prayed until his voice was hoarse. He studied her sigils until his vision blurred. In dreams, he reached for her presence, and at first found only silence. But slowly, faintly, threads of her light touched him again,fleeting sparks, as if to say: _continue, and you may yet be mine once more._ **The Path of the Champion** By the end of the year, Orlan had remade himself. His body was stronger, his mind sharper, his will tempered like a blade drawn a thousand times. He had not regained all he had lost, but he had earned back something vital: a path forward. His mentors spoke of him no longer as a fallen student, but as one preparing for something greater. Mystra’s trust was not yet whole, but it stirred again within him, like a fire rekindling in ash. The trials had not been in vain,they had prepared him to take the first steps toward becoming her champion, should he remain steadfast. **A New Resolve** When Orlan left the monastery at last, it was with the quiet strength of a man reborn. He had not forgotten the failure of the Hand, nor the shadows of Zargathax’s growing power. But now, instead of despair, he carried resolve. Where once he stumbled, he now walked with steady feet. The road ahead promised danger, doubt, and sacrifice. But Orlan had embraced all three. For Mystra. For the weave. For redemption. ![[Orlan.Armour.png]]