Blood of the Baleful Knight.
“The flowing waters call out to thee. They speak of dark days. Aeras lay waste in their passing, as thy kind has lost their memory. The throne, broken and shattered, as I sat witness to a crumbling kingdom and our lands in ash.
She was radiant and magnificent, the Queen, as was she malevolent, spiteful, and wicked, but the knees of men bend easy. Her blood yet survives for the line of Gods is not so simply broken. Those who still remain, wish to rebuild the throne and reclaim its legacy, whatever the cost.
Ser Aldric Shaed-born, The Consort.
Lyaria Dawnwhisper, Lady of Spear’s Edge.
Magus Aeriandor, The Erudite.
And one other of no known repute, lost to the vestiges of time. A bastard wanderer, who knows not the prophecy of Fates. Unknown and hidden to those that crave the throne above all else. Thus far…
It is Thee.
The Black One shall incumber thy path soon…and valour alone shalt scarce be enough.”
-Beholder of the crescent moon.
You’re still some ways from your homestead, the horse’s heavy footsteps are masked by the violent deluge. Not that you can hear any of it. Your body sways uncontrollably on the horse. You’re humming songs in muddled tones; the words are barely cognizable in your state. Unbeknownst to you, the abandoned path is blocked by a large fallen tree, in the dark of the night, your horse sees it too late and you crash. Mud and filth cover your skin, and the stench of decay fills your nose. You feel the rain on your face like needles pricking through the skin, like some barbarous torture method you’d witnessed all those years ago. You sit up and look around. Dense thickets and brushes around and trees that touch the sky.
As you manage to pull yourself to your feet, trying to grab anything you could for assistance, falling once or twice, you feel a deep rumble within the earth. The ground shakes violently and the sky lights up. A ball of fire cuts through at incredible speeds, night turns to day, and the heat turns rain into steam. You can see it explode like a sunrise on the horizon, birds fly out of the trees, bats fall dead, burning as they are consumed by the fire.
You gather your bearings and with the light settling, you can see the environment around and you notice your horse has fled the scene. You walk into the dense forest, cutting and trimming the bushes and branches along the way to make an easier path; “Balthazar! Here!”, there is no reply. You scream louder; “Balthazar! Come!” Nothing. Even spooked, you don’t ever remember the horse being out of earshot.
“Balth…”
A deafening cry reverberates against the jungle canopy. It’s not the call of a horse, nor any sound you recognise. Your spine shivers uncontrollably, your instinct warns you of imminent danger lurking treacherously close. You notice the rain has ceased its relentless assault, the clouds have parted, revealing a full moon. Its rays pierce through the lingering mist, casting long shadows that dance across the dampened ground, illuminating your path with light. If it were any other night, this could be beautiful. The fire and rain cause smoke to rise, the smell of wet ash hits you as you walk, against fair judgement, towards the direction of the fireball, the scream and whatever ungodly creature made it…
As you approach the clearing, you see a shape at the heart of the crater. Hunched over, engulfed in a glowing white light. What is clearly a hand is extended towards a gigantic great sword lying a few feet away from the figure. There is a steady, uneasy hum resonating from the sword. You approach the lying figure cautiously, one step at a time, trying to be as quite as you can be. Amidst your cat like prowl, you step on a lowly twig. Dried thoroughly by the raging heat around it as is the ground it rests on. It gives an echoing crack in the silent still of the night, and everything stops. The sparse drops of rain that still fell, hang mid-air, the trees pushed by the violent wind, stop, and stay bent against it. Leaves blown by the wind stand motionless. They seem to show traits of movement as a response to the wind but stay unmoved in time and space. The sight around makes you willingly immobile in the midst of a world eager to move but forced still by an unknown, unseen force.
You bring your gaze back to the momentarily forgotten figure on the ground, almost as if remembering the keys you’ve been looking for were in your hand all along. The giant sword zips through the air toward his hand and engulfs itself, firmly in place. A giant of man gets on his feet, his body still crouched forward, sword in hand, its tip on the ground. He floats in the air, and as he rises, his shape becomes more pronounced. He is at least twelve feet tall and built to colossal proportion. All those Fiends you’ve fought, those Drakes, Grootslangs, Tazleworms, Manticores and even the Brosno Dragon and yet, the man before you is the most terrifying sight you’ve witnessed. Something that is in a manner it should not be, beyond nature.
He has on light but elegant armour as black as night. On his shoulder rests his giant sword, he holds the hilt in one hand, the other has a long black, steel chain, unmade and let loose to hang beside him. An odd choice for a weapon. It spends most of its time after an attack, uncontrollable and swinging to the accord of nature, not the warrior. The armour is opulent beyond utility. It has detailed engravings in white gold, almost the colour of the moon, contrasting its mostly void like black. His face is covered in a black hood. He has on a large flowing cape in the back, the moonlight shines through it and you notice needlework on it, although it is difficult to see details.
You’re transfixed as this abnormally large warrior descends slowly and menacingly through the air. You can feel your chest, rhythmically pounding, faster than it was before. Intrigued, perhaps fearful. The warrior never breaks his gaze from you, purple eyes shine through looking straight at you…into you.
His feet gently touch the ground, he takes a moment’s pause, and a gruff deep voice resonates through the air; “Long and far didst thou journey, wanderer.” It feels like you can hear it with more than just ears. “Pillaging as needed pillaging. Killing as needed killing. Too far hast thee run.” Run? Perhaps you would have, had you known you were being chased. “No more. It is time.” It’s an odd inflection. A strange manner of speaking for this part of the world.
You remember the letter you were handed. It seems like ages ago now. You can feel it crumpled in your inner chest pocket. The beautiful insignia and the sign-off; ‘Beholder of the crescent moon’. He is the one you were warned about.
You jump, thought to thought to thought, the letter, the recurring dream of a woman’s call. Her words muffled and fleeting, a lonesome distant light shining amidst absolute darkness, and a hand outstretched towards the light…Your journey to the middle of nowhere in search of answers to questions you’re not entirely sure you know.
“She hath summoned for thee, has she not? Wouldst thou find for her?” How did he know? You just made up your mind yourself to find this Beholder of the Crescent Moon; “I cannot let thee sanction her call. If final words hast thou, I proffer they be spoken, now.” Your eyes scan every granular detail of the sight around you, you must be aware of your surroundings. You can feel it within you, building up in a crescendo. The inevitability of an oncoming battle. Everything thus far has brought you to this time and place, the swansong, there seems to be a finality to a journey.
You close your eyes briefly, and take a long, deep breath to calm your speeding heart and bring back your years of training to the fore and you respond; “Death is absolute. Whatever awaits me upon its coming, I will consider penance for the life I’ve lived.” your voice is steady with the weight of your experiences; “As such, I fear you shall not have the honour of my death today. Nor I, its merciful embrace.”
“Hmph. Honour, thou sayeth. No, not honour. A trifling, encumbered duty. One I shall see complete, soon enough.”
He sounded amused as he spoke; “Thou’rt of great courage woe-filled wanderer. Waste not words so wilfully, lest thou cometh to considerable repentance of them.”
You hold your ground, your feet twist to find the perfect balance, and you strengthen the grip on your sword. He looks at you keenly, as if marking every twitch and movement, and readies his stance; “Very well…”
The battle lasts only minutes. He’s too strong, and for one of that size, too fast. However much you’ve trained in your time, you are, evidently, ill-equipped for this battle. You hold your shoulder tightly. The blood slows down its flow. The end, it seems, is near. You can sense the world pulsating and getting duller around you. You let your hand go and slump to the floor, first on your knees, then on to your back. He stands, towering over you, blocking the moon. It was a nice view, one worth dying with, but all you see in your final moments is the tip of a gargantuan sword being thrust downward, somewhere below your eyeline.
You seem to be asleep, or in a dream. Your life lived too long, comes to you as a memory, in flashes of images seen and unseen, within the dream. The pain, the anguish and the brief moments of joy you felt are all there but they all feel part of a story coming to its end. Like reading the epilogue of a book that has overstayed its welcome. It’s finally coming to an end. There were hopes you had, left unfulfilled. Faith that peace would eventually find you, of a quiet day in the sun, conviction of serving greater purpose. But it is all at an end with a troubled, unsatisfactory conclusion…In the distance, a shimmering bright light, beckons you towards it. They always say; “reach for the light…” The door to the other side. You unconsciously extend your hands towards it. It gets closer, slowly, taking its time, almost as if to say you ought to make peace with what you’ve lived, before the other side finds you. This will be a while. The images you see are so vivid, you may as well have been part of them in that very moment. As it gets closer, the light seems to emit a dense calm. The closer you get, the more at peace you feel. Like an elephant being slowly lifted off your shoulders. All those gruesome, painful days, and solitary nights in the shadows of hope, with a blind, silly, and by the end, minute belief that there would eventually be peace. Alas, life didn’t oblige. Death seems to have. You are muddled, in pain and unable to stop the noise ringing in your head but you get close enough and you see it clearly. It’s not a light…A moon lies amidst a canvas of the universe behind it. The most beautiful crescent moon, emanating an energy that feels unnatural but brilliantly soothing. And then it speaks…
“Kindred.” The voice of a woman. Airy, deep. As if coming from within you; “Arise now. Thy service is yet not done.” The elephant is gone. The shoulders are light, you are lying, floating through boundless space listening to the voice of a moon; “Woulds’t thou truly give in to death’s embrace so meekly?” Clearly the dying rattles of a delusional mind finding its path towards the end, but the voice refuses to relent; “You are mine blood. You shall not journey the endless river today. Lend me thy hand.” You extend your hand, out of your control; “Awaken kindred, and find me. There is much that ought be done.” A bright flash of light engulfs you, the warmth resonates through every muscle and nerve within and your eyes open…
The Knight has his back to you. His head is pointed up at the full moon and you hear him mumbling under his breath. The markings on his ostentatious cape, clearly visible now; It has Intricately stitched needlework in the shape of large tree, barren and wasted, with a scar on its trunk. The scar is oozing a thick red liquid that flows through the entire bottom half of the trunk. A seal or sigil of some kind, perhaps of his house or kingdom.
“Impossible!” You hear him say as he turns his gaze away from the skies; “Heresy!!!” Rising, unquestionable rage. His whole body seems to be letting off smoke; “You dare defy death its due?!!”
A sight and sound that should have shrivelled your courage, seems to have no effect. This is the most confident you’ve ever felt. It is the utmost control you’ve ever had, and yet it feels as though there is something else controlling you from the outside, directing your every movement.
In one swift motion you hold your sword in the air and bring it down, the slash creates a shockwave of moonlight that makes its way towards the giant knight with incredible speed. He tries to hold it back. The air around him blows him back on his feet. He slides through the ground, doing his best to stay in place, but it’s too strong, it shatters his sword and tears through his armour and hood, throwing him into the air away from you.
As he gets himself back up you see the visage of an older man. About sixty, you guess, flowing ebony hair, and a gruff thick beard pointed long at the chin and braided, dripping with blood from his mouth, he takes a long breath and manages to get one knee up; “Thou shalt witness true misery, forsaken one, for I am done amusing thy foolish, misguided valour.” He gets back on his feet, there is heat resonating from him; “With my name as Aldric Shaed-Born, I avow this: Death shall befall thee twice…in one day!”
He breaks off whatever armour was still attached to his torso, tossing it afar and lunges at you with his bare hands. He punches the ground using the momentum of his landing, the shockwave hits you, throwing you into the air. Before you can gather your bearings, he is on you, swinging his heavy hands, punching the air creating powerful, focused waves. You block some with your sword, but the vicious onslaught was relentless and fast. As soon as you were pushed away, he was immediately at you, fists in the air, hands over his head ready to bring them down on yours, lifting one foot up he stomps the ground, pushing you back once more.
He seems to be growing angrier with every hit, and you sense his breath getting faster. This unfiltered rage that he seems to have found, must come at a price. You dance through his blows but constantly being pushed away from him means you cannot strike back immediately. But, that’s okay, you need to play the long game, as long as you are not directly hit by one of his attacks, you may be able to wear him out. So the dance of death continues.
He pulls back his hand, ways behind his shoulder, this one will come at you with great force, and speed, but there it is, an opening, it will take longer coming your way. You wait for the punch to come straight at you, he has to believe it will land, the inertia of the blow must have him, it is an equal exchange. His fist is inches away and you step aside with great speed, land right beside his feet, and swing your blade across the knee, cutting his leg right off. The scream was no longer wrath…
He lies flat on the ground, face skyward, trying with great difficulty to lift his head. Broken, bleeding, at death’s door he manages to lift his head and look you straight in the eyes, barely able to speak; “So…this is her sorcery? Necromancy…To have bequeathed unto thee, life once more…” Words between painful grunts and rattled breaths; “Life, whence there must be death. Discarding natural order. I knew not her capable of such vicissitude.” The wheezing grows louder and heavier, but as he speaks there is a smile on his face. One that seems satisfied and content; “Remember this child, the others shalt show not thee, mercy of a quick death, nor the honour of fighting for it.” The others, you recollect their names from the letter; Lyaria…Magus…
He looks straight at you, just as you are above him, the blood around his eyes is a shade lighter, and not as thick as it should be; “Do it now. Have there be no need for a second swing.” His voice is shaky, sounds like pain…not caused by the battle or his wounds, but sadness and grief. Why though? You cannot take your chances with compassion for a dying man, not one who until minutes ago tried to kill you, and briefly, succeeded. You have killed those who’ve done far less, with little to no consideration. So, this will be easier.
You raise your sword high; its weight familiar and true, there will be but one swing… “Tis only fair it be thee…” there’s tears flowing as he speaks his final words, but a smile still remains. You bring down the sword with great force… “mine last heir…” before his words stop echoing in the cold empty night, your sword is dripping with blood.
