Name: Sir Gale Hawthorne

Age: 35

Race: Human

Appearance: Those that can actually remember seeing Ser Hawthorne would describe the man as unremarkable. Simply describing him as a tall man of strong build, a handful of scars, fair skin, light hair, a roughly shaven beard, and green eyes.

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Background: Orphaned from a young age, Sir Hawthorne grew up under the tutelage of The Order of her Eternal Shield; an order of holy knights that drew their recruitment from orphaned children. Unlike most, this particular sect of holy warriors was directly overseen by high ranking clergy of the Church rather than having true autonomy; as they were initially created by the Church for the purpose of propaganda and warfare.

Any taken in by The Order of her Eternal Shield were destined to be molded, indoctrinated, and forged into the finest of warriors; a balance between noble heart, holy purpose, and peerless ability to kill in the Goddess' name. Ideal posterboys to keep the Church's good image whilst still having practical military applications. Sir Hawthorne would spend his youth enduring years of grueling training of mind, body and soul-- these countless trials claimed the lives of many an aspiring knight, as these young boys were expected to become faithful warriors second only to the Heroes themselves. Yet even as a child, the young Sir Hawthorne surpassed even the highest of expectation, surpassing the sacred tests of the Church with flying colors. By his nineteenth birthday the boy was granted the title of Holy Knight. By his twenty-first he was made a Knight-Captain, and given his own company of Knights to command within the Order. By his twenty-fifth, the noble Knight's name was known throughout the land as a something of an unofficial hero of the people; renowned for his deeds of going all across the kingdom, saving lives, healing the sick, hunting terrible monsters, leading countless assaults against demonic forces, and all manner of good deeds.

Though as with all things, such was not to last.

As with all men loyal to the Church and to the Goddess, Sir Hawthorne was naught but a pawn; a piece to be sacrificed and discarded in an eternal game between the armies of heaven and hell.

The fateful day came to pass in the thirtieth year of Sir Hawthorne's life. It was a battle like any other, the Knights were to aid a newly summoned Hero in the siege of a Demonic foothold. The duty of the Holy Knights was to aid the Hero's retinue in the storming of the keep, then to prevent enemy reinforcements from moving in while the Hero and his Companions would face the General of the Demonic force. The storming of the fortifications went off without a single casualty, and the Knights found enemy resistance to be lacking at best-- and though he should've been pleased with such an outcome, Sir Hawthorne felt a sense of unease building in his chest.

It was too damned easy.

Before he could protest, the Hero's retinue breached into the compound's innermost sanctum.

A blinding light.

A deafening boom.

The troops that had been victorious mere seconds before suddenly found themselves scattered like leaves upon the wind by a massive explosion.

A seemingly endless tide of demonic soldiers surged across crumbling stone and smoldering wood to kill any they could find, and the retinue of the Hero would suddenly find themselves face-to-face with the General they had sought... However the explosion had broken one of the Hero's arms, and his legendary blade required two hands to wield.

Slaughter ensued.

Were it not for the sacrifice of the Holy Knights under Sir Hawthorne, the entirety of the wreckage would've been overrun in mere moments. But the valiant Knights of The Order of her Eternal Shield know not defeat, and rebuked the hellish onslaught with rabid zeal. While more than half his men held back the growing onslaught, Sir Hawthorne led the rest of his brothers in arms to aid the Hero in hopes of saving one of the Goddess' champions from certain death.

Only fifteen knights remained by the time Sir Hawthorne reached the Hero, witnessing the final member of the champion's cohort be cut down as the Hero himself cowered in fear, his legendary blade lay shattered on the ground before him. Without hesitation, the remaining Knights threw themselves at the crimson-skinned monster before them-- and one by one, each would fall.

Eventually Sir Hawthorne; though grievously wounded, was the only man left standing against the demon. All of his accompanying brothers lay dead or dying around him. But in the distance beyond the battlefield, salvation drew near. The thundering of hooves and chanted prayers was a welcome sound to Sir Hawthorne's ears. A group of powerful healers and battle-mages had been sent to reinforce the remaining forces. Even as the Demonic General stood before Sir Hawthorne, ready to deal a killing blow... There was yet hope to save his brothers that had not yet perished, but only if the Demon died here.

With all his will the Knight weathered a strike that would've felled lesser men, and burned what little of his magic remained into a single thrust, casting the demon back to the pit it crawled out of. Sir Hawthorne finally succumbed to his injuries as he completed his duty, his broken body crumpling to the ground as the last of his strength left his body.

A valiant sacrifice. An honorable death.

Or at least, that's what he thought it would be.

When the blood-crusted eyes of Sir Hawthorne next opened, he found himself still on that same battlefield; face down with a gentle hand placed on his back. Struggling to his feet, he would find it was no priest or mage that had healed his injuries just enough for to survive, but one of his own dying brethren. The Knight he owed his life to had crawled an entire fifty yards to spend the last of their strength healing him, before unceremoniously drowning in an ever-growing pool of his own blood. Sir Hawthorne surveyed the land around him in abject horror, the ravaged bodies of his brothers lay strewn across the rubble; left to rot in the sun as food for the vultures. The Hero was nowhere to be seen. Nor were the reinforcements.

All was quiet.

Fear overtook Sir Hawthorne's heart as he began to question if he'd failed in his task. He'd failed to protect his brothers, he'd failed to save the hero; who was likely captured, and worst of all-- he was completely alone. Fearing the worst, the lone Knight pushed his broken body to it's utmost limits in a two day trek toward the nearest town, to warn the Church of the impending threat. However upon arrival at the town he found not a hint of dismay, worry or panic.

Instead he found celebration.

They were celebrating the Hero's 'courageous' victory at against the demonic forces. There was no mention of his brothers' sacrifice. Not a candle lit to their name-- not a tear shed nor prayer whispered. Sir Hawthorne's blood boiled as he watched the boy take the stage; in prefect health and entirely uninjured. The guards were quick to respond to the man that rushed the stage, bellowing accusations and curses at the clergy and Hero alike. How dare they hold such a celebration when his brothers hadn't even been given a proper burial? How dare they celebrate an achievement that the sniveling coward they held as a 'Hero' hadn't even been responsible for?

It was easy enough for the Clergy onstage to dismiss the Knight's claims as injury induced delusion, claiming that the guards were to take him to recieve 'medical attention'. Instead, they dragged him to a nearby alleyway, and beat him to unconsciousness. To kill off a Knight of his reputation would draw far too obvious an assassination; especially after what he'd done. To excommunicate him would've invited an unhealthy amount of questions. Instead, Sir Hawthorne was afflicted with an insidious curse-- one that would doom any memory of the man to fade, as well as prevent him from interaction.

Left crippled and forgotten, the Knight would spend the following years a drifter. Left without any means to properly take action against the wrongs of the Church, the man's life lacked both direction and purpose... Eventually he'd come to meet someone, a powerful sorceress living a quiet life on the outskirts of a far flung village. For a time he settled down with the sorceress; who managed to uncripple the aging knight.

Once again, he was happy.

Once again, this did not last.

Blood spilled. A shrine desecrated. The ravenous hunger of an ancient evil.

As the village burned, the Black Knight strode forth from the ashes; hell-bent on his new crusade.

Though he refuses to share what occurred in that peaceful little village-- if asked, he will say one thing...



Skills and Abilities:
When not in the form of the Black knight-- the nature of Sir Hawthorne's curse makes it quite hard to notice his presence, even when looking straight at him. Even when noticed, anything he says or does is quickly disregarded as something of little importance, and quickly forgotten or treated as mere happenstance. However, individuals that are particularly familiar with certain types of magic (such as curses or high grade detection spells) don't seem to suffer this problem.

Though his physical and martial abilities have degraded terribly since his tenure as a Holy Knight, Sir Hawthorne is still in something of decent shape. Should he even get into a situation where he might need to defend himself, his skill with a blade and sheer amount of experience allow him to at least hold his own in most fights.

Though incredibly strenuous on his body, Sir Hawthorne can also take the form of the Black Knight. This armored form; seemingly woven from numerous hexes and dark energies, gains incredible strength and durability at the cost of speed, agility, and subtlety. Fortunately, this transformation does not seem to inhibit his ability for rational nor tactical thinking and as of yet has no discovered downside to it's extended use.

Quips:

• Though no longer a Holy Knight, Sir Hawthorne is still rather prejudiced against nonhumans.
• Sir Hawthorne's curse does NOT effect him when donning the guise of the Black Knight, everyone can VERY much see the Black Knight.
• Curiously, Sir Hawthorne no longer seems to have any magical ability.
• Though rare, there are individuals who are seemingly unaffected by Sir Hawthorne's Curse for unknown reasons.

Medai’s amnesia is not the product of the intervention of the goddess - at least, not the direct product of it.

The shard of a sword embedded in her chest is that of a holy blade blessed with a shard of the Goddess’ energy, intended to destroy the Demons who were killed by it. Dubbed “The Divine Blade of the Goddess' Holy Wrath Against All Daemonkind” by its creators, the sword was carried by a Chosen Hero of the Goddess, known to the people of the world as the Hero of Veradan from the village he had awoken in. The sword was imbued with Her power, and cannot be wielded by Demonkind - just to touch its handle is agony. Thrust through her heart, the blade almost entirely cut her off from magic - leaving only her raw demonic physical ability and a tiny trickle of energy remaining for her to use. Shockingly, she did not die from the sword. However, unbeknownst to Medai, the other parts of the sword were gathered up and reforged into another - significantly smaller - sword. Unlike the two handed greatsword of the original, the current incarnation is kept in the possession of the Knights of the Valance. Dubbed “Sundered Justice” it is still used by Chosen Heroes to defeat prominent, threatening demons - and with each such use, the shard within Medai resonates with it, clearing her mind and dispersing whatever magical energies she might have accrued since the last use. What would happen were the shard to be removed is presently unknown - and mostly a moot point,. It can scarcely be touched by demonkind, and mortals who could remove it are few and far between, and of that limited pool, the number willing to do so is even smaller.

Sundered Justice, the sword kept by the Valances, is likewise at a fraction of its power without the whole blade. The Valances are keen to retrieve this shard, as such.