WRITING SAMPLE FOR HUMANITY'S REQUIEM RP
[ Word Requirement: 300 or more ]

Total Word Count: 696

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Fickle, fickle, man is far too fickle.

From the way a husband never finds himself saying no to the allure of a female, to the way land upon land is discovered - and conquered - because of the shining prospect of trade and industry, man is far too easily swayed by whatever is placed in front of him. No different from the grass swaying to the gentle song of the breeze, or the ground eventually making way for the emergence of a river, loyalty is never truly existent in a person's heart. And why is that? Why is man far too weak to maintain a singular choice?

Perhaps to question such a matter is to question the existence of man itself - even the existence of God, the creator of the beings that presumably have the power over all other creation… or so some scriptures say. To ask why man is fallible is to ask why the world is flat or round, why the sky is blue or stone strong - and perhaps one might never know the answer even after a hundred lifetimes.

Yet even with the one she had, much as it had spanned forever and a day, she could not help but ponder over the question.

The coldness of the small, steel flask is almost as cold as the night air - perhaps even colder for a moment, as it laid on the palm of her hand. The intricate engravings seemingly were vines that threaded not just along the metal but through the cracks and corners of her mind. 

'You are one of them', the embossed embellishments speak to her in a firm voice - a reminder of time and its extremely slow passing through her physical body, a reminder of the almost non-distinguishable destruction of the corporeal for her, and the price that time asks of her. 

'You are for them', the coldness of the night repeats - a reminder of an oath she had sworn and the burden that came with it, a reminder of the ears that had borne witness to the words that left her lips because the same had slipped out from theirs. It was a reminder of the one thing that bound them together, and the one thing they fought for.

Loyalty, and liberty.

Liberty, she can fight for - she will fight for, because is that not the thing that even the father of her mother's mother had given blood, tears, and sweat for back in the battles of the Americas, despite his French heritage? Is that not the very thing that multitudes all over the world as she knew it cry out in the face of their despair? Is that not the prayer on the lips of the oppressed, the pained, the dying, and the yearning? 

Liberty, she treasures. She values. She protects.

But loyalty?

She scoffs.

What is loyalty in the face of necessity? What is a bond built up on mere words and trust - oh, trust, so elusive and rare - in the face of life or death? Perhaps - no, definitely - not much.

And in the face of hate? Oh, non-existent.

"Igraine, you're needed. More half-breed attacks. Report as soon as possible." The communicator on her shoulder barks, a stark contrast to the dead silence of the night, and instead of being affected and brought to seriousness, a slight smirk began lining her lips instead.

A look to her other palm, held just beside the metal vial, is a photograph of a woman, with features very much like her own - the words 'La liberté, La fidélité, L'Ordre. Notre devoir est leur vie. Your choice has been made. Now, serve The Order, my daughter.' written in elegant script. She chuckles, but without humor - as the mere image screamed another reminder to her.

You are also against them.

"My choice truly is made, esteemed Mother," she spoke to the photograph, "mais je n'est pas votre fille. No longer."

It is about time she reported for the Anarchists again, and she will - perhaps just after this latest assignment...

With fingers moving towards the communicator, Velia responds.

"D'accord. I'll be there."