Faerdin
Rune Knight
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As anyone who follows me on Twitter or who has seen my feedback for the Death Knight revamp may know, I have fallen in love with the Class in DragonFable now that its artwork and skills have been reworked. This branched out and brought a newfound respect for two of DragonFable's foremost examples of the Class: Sir Malifact, he who taught us the art to begin with, and Sir Zeclem, whose wonderful story in the description of the Death Knight equipment is half the reason why I used Dragon Coins to get my set instead of good old fashioned hard work.
By extension, this also lent me a new appreciation for another example of the Death Knight in gaming: the Lich King of World of Warcraft. All of these characters have such wonderful stories that I thought an attempt at my own could remove the writer's block afflicting my current rewrite of Rune Knight, He Who Stands Between.
I hope you all enjoy this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
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Rune Knight, He Who Stands Between
Book Three
I. Twenty-Five Years
II. Why Do You Fight, Rune Knight?
III. Nightingale
IV. Twenty-Five Eternities
V. Whispers in the Night
VI. Why Do You Fight, Doom Knight?
 By Faerdin
Vice awoke with a start.
A heavy pounding in his head commanded his senses as he surveyed the dead. The gold of dusk descended from a black and starless night so the field on which his comrades fought was now wrought with a thousand shadows. The untouched of his home town -- Solgarde -- lay among the fallen hordes of undead in equal number, the stench of rotting flesh crawling through the young man's nose and leaving death upon his tongue. His brothers in blood were reclaimed by his ancestors -- all slain. There was nothing left. Nothing left but him.
He wanted to cry, but he could not. He could not cry.
Father was right, Vice thought with a sinking heart. I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have... His heart seized as he raised a hand to pull himself up and felt the bare skin sink into the muddy, crimson earth. Where is my armor? Where is my sword? Where's-? Something metallic glinted and shone not five feet from where he lay, and as he clambered over to the object, relief flooded his trembling limbs from the tips to his core.
The helm. The priceless antique was perfectly intact. It was this helm that his great grandfather had worn when he leaped in the path of a malevolent spell seconds before his fellow paladin lopped off the head of its caster: a powerful Lich Lord. He could see the dent from the dark power that struck him even in the blackest night.
He remembered his ancestor's bravery and swelled with pride. He remembered how perfectly the helm fit upon his head before he rode into battle against the wishes of his father. He remembered the warnings and the pleas and once again placed the sacred artifact upon his head. My father was wrong. This helm was my salvation. All others perished, but I lived, just as our honored ancestors had.
Whispers wound across the dust-swept crossroads of his mind. It was warm, and it felt wonderful.
Get the armor. Grab your sword. Go home.
A jolt ran again through his body, rejuvenating and heart-stopping. Are you...?
Go home. Go home...
The young knight grasped the earth and heaved himself onto his feet so he could see through the wishes of the whisper. Countless hours passed with every step, the sun and the moon locked in the throes of death above a lifeless sea of dark red and yellow-brown. Yet never did he tire in his search. Never did hunger or thirst deter him from grabbing the plates, the chainmail, the blood-stained greaves -- all in the clutches of his fallen comrades.
In life, they were his allies. In death, they proved his greatest adversaries.
Ancestors sustain me, Vice cursed. We must tell them the day is won. We must go home.
Then he found it. The blade. It was thrust into the earth in the middle of a retribution cross -- a sigil of righteous fury among his people, a symbol of the Light and bane of the undead -- and strewn across the hallowed ground was mangled flesh and sun-bleached bone. He wasted no time. Yet his fingers had scarcely wrapped around the hilt when-
"Father, I want to fight! The undead pound at our gates and we need every capable man!"
"My son," murmured the elder Vice, lines deep along his day-weathered face, "You will fight at my side one day. It will be by your sword and my shield that the legions of darkness will fall at our feet, and none will dare to challenge the Light-blessed wholeness of our might. But you do not yet understand what we fight for. Celeritas looks not upon-"
"But father, this is no time for lessons! The undead must be put back in their tombs. We need to fight and reclaim our dignity. We need to give all of ourselves and win this day, even if it kills us! Even if-"
"That," murmured the elder Vice, "is precisely why you are not to join us, nor to touch your great grandfather's helm, nor yet to become a knight of Solgarde."
So Vice watched his father leave, tears streaming down his face as his stormed the ancient chamber, as he hooked his hands around the forgotten metals of his forefathers-
The vision was swept away with little more than a whisper. Vice grasped the hilt until his knuckles turned bone-white and tore it from the earth with a snarl. He was a child no longer. He was now Sir Vice, a greater knight than his father had ever hoped to imagine. It was Sir Vice who survived the slaughter of his people, and he could not cry.
He could not cry.
Then the whisper sounded again, and it was his honor to oblige:
Home. Go home.
***
The portcullis was lowered like a thousand black iron teeth over the maw of the castle's entrance. A calm had fallen over the city of Solgarde, oppressive and with the sense of calamity on the horizon -- the calm before the storm. None walked the streets as the sun fell to the new moon, bathing the sky in the telltale violets and blues of an approaching starless night. None went to investigate as Sir Vice raised his blade and brought it to the gates with a deafening clang.
Then the guards appeared, pale as ghosts. They seemed to tremble in their boots. They clutched to their weapons as though the death knell tolled for their lives, and they flinched as though in disbelief as the young knight raised his voice. "I require entry."
"W-what? What did you say?"
Impatience bid Vice's blood to boil as he growled, "I demand entry."
One of the guards went slack for a heartbeat before straightening his posture and walking like he abandoned the fear that ruled him moments before. His fellow was wide-eyed with awe or horror -- Sir Vice was not able to discern it -- but he followed the guard without another word. The portcullis lifted, and the rusted screech of the gears paraded his return to home.
No sooner than when he stepped past the portal to the main hall had he encountered an elder man with many lines along his face, pulled taught with terror. Sir Vice softened at the sight of a familiar face -- though he could not identify the owner, like those in nebulous dreams -- and did not hesitate for a moment. Vice fell forward to embrace him.
Instead, he plunged the sword through his chest. Scarlet splashed across the floor of the hall, and time was naught as he slipped off the blade and onto the floor.
He walked over the desecrated body with a wet crunch beneath his boots. His sight tunneled nearly to blackness as he felt an inexorable force leading him, pulling him to the end of the hall. He pried open the doors and clawed his way into the audience chamber, where he was met with a chorus of screams. A writhing mass of bodies collided with the doors to his left -- so frantic to escape his presence that they pounded pain and blood from one another. Only once they escaped did he shift his gaze to the other who stood on his right.
A man in unhallowed armor stood tall among the cowering, mortal men. His visage was stained red by the unspeakable evils he had witnessed, his plates blackened by the oceans of innocent blood he waded through, his sword encrusted with rust borne of a thousand lifeless bodies. This was the embodiment of evil.
The young knight grasped his blade and charged to meet the evil he was born to slay.
The mirror shattered with a violent retort. And he could not cry.
He could not cry.
< Message edited by Faerdin -- 10/23/2017 20:54:04 >
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