Twenty-Eight
Male
"The Hedge Knight"
Mael is a curiosity, if not an outright oddity, within the circle of knights. Nonconforming to the idealised picture of Camelot's knights, beautiful men in glistening armour under a clear day's sun as they ride; Mael is considered dishevelled individual in comparison. A tussle of curls that matches his life in some respects, of average height and build, curious looking blue eyes, bare whiskers that make for facial hair. A man of no real beauty yet of no real unseemliness. Mael the man earns no real scorn, it is, in fact, his knightly image that is the disharmonious sight to some. Wearing what seems to be a crudely put together sortie of protection, jerkin leather of once black dye faded to time and the elements resting over mail, gauntlets wrapped in rags, leather boots covered in mud and iron-knee cap protectors, a conical helmet that never seems to sit easy on his head and a warp and weft scarf ever present around his neck. As such, his raggedy appearance has earned him a certain moniker from his fellow knights; for when one speaks of the Hedge Knight - the horseless, landless, ever wandering knight of dirt and muck, who rests beneath the stars, a roof of leaves and branches to shield him from the elements, they are almost always speaking of Mael.
Which, begs to question, as to where Mael acquired such an exceptional sword. A dark blade that is both beautiful and grotesque patterned with designs thought to herald from the Norse lands westwards. How Mael managed to obtain such a weapon, with no riches to speak of, a family with no noble heritage for it to pass into his hands from. It is both a curiosity to many, and an affront to others that such a prize should be wielded by a man who spends his time picking around old ruins and wandering the countryside.
Of course, the wiser of these dissents keep their idealisation of the blade to their own company. For despite their mockery of the Hedge Knight, it is not a weapon unearned.
Mael o Glynn Duwy, son of Iach. Is a man of no real heritage, of no real greatness. His early history is interesting for someone to come from so little. What is known - that is, of what Mael has spoken of - he was an only child. He remembers little of his mother, having passed at a young age giving birth to his sister, who also passed onto the next world. He and his father left his native Kernow at a young age, taking with him only his name, both son and child travelling the island of Briton, resting their heads in one place before disappearing to the next. His father, however, was a doting figure, a rarity of sorts, if not a little odd. A young Mael remembering his father as a man who always appeared to be forever watching the horizon, as if the white son of Nud would come riding upon the world should he ever falter in his watch. Despite the soft-spoken and kind nature of his father, a man who asked only after he had given as much in return, was an accomplished and terrifying swordsman, whilst Mael never witnessed his father kill a man, he never sought to question it, enough time with his father training was enough validation. It did not take Mael long to decipher that his father's income was supplemented by his killing of men. For what reason his father was driven to do so, he never questioned, but he saw how his father was treated as both hero and demon by the townsfolk who had called to him. A slayer to their problems. He knew the job was done when they would leave early in the morning, before the dawn of the sun. They would pack up and depart for the nameless village and homestead and slay whatever plagued the people. To dirty his hands where no other man would. His father's habit of leaving him with the local abbey aided in Mael's education, where he learned to read, write and recite history such luxuries no other adolescent of his age could afford - there was, also some irony to enjoy, as neither son nor father worshipped the new Roman god, though he listened to the tales of Jesus Christ, Mael was swayed little, clinging to the old, if not dying, ways.
Upon his seventeenth name-day, father and son separated, not by choice but by unfortunate fate. The first time Mael had killed, the first time he witnessed his father kill. His father's method was perplexing, to say the least, his father first gave the men a choice to abandon their endeavour, once they ignored this, he delivered a warning, when they ignored this, his father stated with a coolness and naturally that there would be no further requests following his last one. When they ignored this, the men died. It did not last long, it was not so much of a battle than more of a culling of wild animals. However, in the panic, a stray arrow had found rest in his father's shoulder, shattering one of his bones. Despite safely removing the arrowhead and cleaning the wound, it began to fester, the pain of a broken bone growing worse with each day. On the final day, his father left, before the sun rose - as was their custom - with the simple explanation that he would head north, and slay the last giant.
Mael never followed.
Having been left everything they had gathered in their time, Mael could have afforded a small farmstead, found a wife and settled, siring children. Maybe serve some nobility as he could read and write. His past life was at an end, with no father to guide him, yet, despite that, Mael sold most of his possessions and like his father, disappeared. Falling off the face of the world.
Mael reappeared when the Saxon's invaded. The series of bloody conflicts around Snodengaham had stalled the Britons, the risk of a Saxon victory would give them near control of the middle of England. Strolling into the Briton's camp, a dowdy man covered in mud and blood, with him, a sword far too great for him spoke softly, humbly, his words clear and dialect clean. Sir Gawain listened as the man spoke of the caves of the land, how far they ran and how blind the Saxons were to their potential. This ramshackle man provided a valuable prize and though it was Gawain who won the battle, he did not forget the man who offered so much and asked for nothing in return.
Mael since has lived most of his time as a knight away from Camelot, his visits to Camelot sporadic following his knighthood. Many would argue that the Hedge Knight is more of a scholar or, a monk, than he is a warrior. However, those that know him or have witnessed him know otherwise. It's not only wanderlust or knowledge that propels the Hedge Knight forward, but a certain justice. A duty he commits himself to dutifully.
∞-The Wolf’s Teeth: "I've heard the common folk refer to the Hedge Knight by another name - ah, so you've heard it too? - Well, be sure to remember it next time you insult his name. There is a wild animal beyond that civility."
∞-The Stag’s Eyes: "Have you ever seen the way he looks at things? I caught him once watching the melee, he had no interest getting involved, that's sort of his way. But it was the way he watching, his eyes were breaking down everything and putting them back together in his own way. I'd say that he predicted everything everyone was about to do.
