Knightfall - An Origin Story

[KennairAldshayn]

[OOC: Changed the title, as I decided to change direction. This story serves as Raemonn's "origin" story.]

The sun begins to set as the ocean-sloop The Sturdy Turkey makes haven in Britain. On deck stands a person of indeterminable age. Young, for sure; but not quite a man and certainly no boy. His skin an ebony glow, his long beard and mohawk remarkably blonde. He has come from overseas, from faraway lands, to continue the legacy his father never quite made.

His name is Raemonn Aldshayn, son of Kennair Aldshayn.

And he's going to become a famous knight.

[KennairAldshayn]

"Whudyawant?" the barkeep growled. It was a good question. Raemonn was unsure as to what he wanted. To be a knight, obviously. The greatest one to ever be, or something like that. To be honest, Raemonn had no clue what it meant to be a knight. His father had told him little of the strange, brave new world Raemonn had just set foot on. He knew that his father had left Britain in disgust many years before, heart-broken and defeated. Famed Wayfarer Kennair had taken sail for new lands, where bravely started a beach-inn; drinking rum and impregnating native women. A combination of the latter had eventually resulted in Raemonn.

"Gosh dang heck it," the barkeep growled even growlier. "What the fruit you want?"
Fruit. Fruit sounded good.

"I'll have a... fruit salad, please."

His father, more famed for his mastery of the rum bottle than the sword battle, had once remarked that no great story ever began with someone saying 'we were eating a salad, when ...' and then something memorable would happen. Raemonn would do things different. His great saga would begin with a salad. A fruity, gay little salad.

[KennairAldshayn]

"Welcome..." the Knight Guildmaster of Britain said as solemn as is possible for a drunkard to be. "...and rise as Knight Aldshayn," he hiccupped. Raemonn had wanted to tell the guildmaster of his gratitude, but the good man had already sunk into a drunken coma. The young knight sighed, and left the premises; walking past the Temple of Winchester and Law as he did. The sparkly white disgusted him. During his time as an apprentice fighter, he had seen some knights and priests of Law in the distance; sparkling in their sparkly ...things. Nodding a greeting to Harry the Handyman, Raemonn lost himself in thought.

He remembered how he had worked the fields as a farmhand, raising money.
He remembered his... somewhat embarrassing "epic battle" with a wild boar, a fight which had lasted four hours.
He remembered how he had died and died again in Despise, the swamps and the Orc Fortress.
He remembered how monsters had ravaged, pillaged and otherwise "desecrated" certain orifices of his soulless body.
But most of all, he remembered how he enjoyed the experience of death; both inflicting death and dying himself.

"Death," he whispered, as he gathered his meagre possessions in his room in the Britain Inn. "Death is when we know we are alive."

Pondering his future, Raemonn made a choice. His weakling father had feared death, and had never become a warrior of great renown. Never feared, not even loved. A nobody. But he, he was Raemonn Aldshayn.

He would serve Dennac, eventually.

[Raemonn]

Hours, days - no, weeks had fizzled away watching Winchester's Emissaries in the Temple of Law. Raemonn had closely observed their gracious movements, their powerful physique. He now knew almost everything there was to know about humanoid anatomy.

It was a dreary evening when he last walked out of the Temple of Law. His stomach grumbled in annoyance, in his hand only a few golden coin. The anatomical studies had prevented him from hunting Orcs and Lizard Men and now the innkeeper had thrown the young knight out. Wandering the abandoned streets of Britain, Raemonn spotted an old crone attending a rickety stall at the riverside. Despite the darkness, despite the distance between them, coffee-and-cream skinned and fair haired Raemonn knew the old crone was watching him, smiling.

"Oh deary," the old crone shrieked as Raemonn got closer. "The young man must be soaking wet and hungry! Poor old Cannde can help relieve the hunger, but sadly not the cold wetness," she now - somehow - purred, handing him an apple. "Please, have a bite."

He took a bite. The apple was juicy and sweet and comforting. It ignited a flame within.

[Raemonn]

By the time Raemonn had reached the Hall of Virtues, the world was spinning and twisting, glowing in and out of every colour imaginable. Whispers crawled underneath his skin; bouncing off his temples straight through the brain.

Cannde. Dennac.

The Lord of Death had come to him.

"You shall not covet, you shall not steal," the whispers screamed in every inch of his skin.
"You shall not kill the young, for they are yet to become sacrifices for the flames," another, yet the same, whispers purred.
"I am the Lord of Death, and you will be my Disciple."

Raemonn rolled over the floor of the Hall of Virtues; laughing. Tears of joy rolled down his coffee-and-cream cheeks.

"The greatest, most destructive Plague is the one that lives within, unseen. Play your part, gain their trust. I will call you. I will call you, and you will come to me."

He was still laughing, crying, soaking wet when morning came.

[Raemonn]

A few weeks later

"I shall give the Chieftain his relic. You go down and make sure the door stays open. I have had the door slam shut in my face before. Understood?" Raemonn nodded as he gazed up at this servant of Dennac. They had met by chance, and now he was running a hunt alongside the archer. "Good," the black archer continued. "You can keep whatever gold we find, but any feathers are mine. Off with you, now."

And off Raemonn was, spurring his horse Deathdoomer onwards through the second level of Despise dungeon; striking down Lizardmen all around him. The young knight knew he was still weak, but he was becoming stronger, smarter, superior. Challenges which had initially demanded all of his skill and loads of luck were now slowly becoming mundane.

He reached the massive door leading to the lowest level of Despise just as it swung open. One level above him, the Tekstone had just handed the Ratman Chieftain his relic. Raemonn unmounted Deathdoomer and leaned against the enchanted gate. After a short while, the archer; all draped in black, arrived. The young knight was spellbound by the Cultist's attire. The man's clothes were so black, it somehow appeared to radiate darkness.

"Good," he said. "Let's go down."

And so they did.

[Raemonn]

"It's a myth, y'know," Kennair Alryc said, sipping a glass of rum. Young Raemonn nodded, although he visibly failed to miss the referent. They were sitting at the beach, palm trees gently swaying in the everlasting summer breeze; the sun was setting in front of them. His father smiled. "No one dies alone," he continued. "You enter this world out of someone else, and you die carrying the memories of others with you. Perhaps you stand alone when the end comes, but in your shadow stand the enemies, the friends, the loved ones, the missed opportunities. In that final moment, that moment when your spirit fades from this world, you become whole."

~~~

When his father had said these words all those years ago, he had not been talking about Dennac or Raemonn's personal philosophy, but perhaps Dennac had spoken through the former Wayfarer knight. Young Raemonn now donned the black, he was a cultist now. He was ready to further the end, to bring the inevitable, but the Wayfarer spirit Kennair Alryc had never really lost had somehow fused with his own thinking.

The previous weeks had been full of death, usually his own, and exciting adventure. Killing Nature's creatures gave him joy, watching the Law and Nature gave him the opposite. Normal citizens, he now knew, were not guilty of any real crime. Failing to see the truth was no crime, only a mistake. If they were to die in sacrifice, victims to the purging Plague, this would be unfortunate. Law, Nature, robbers; they had willfully chosen the wrong path. They were the true enemy.

Sitting in his small home, Raemonn thought back to his initiation into the Cult. He smiled, touching the black leather of his own personal tome. He grinned.

"Unlike the Law," he whispered; "Death will come for all."