@Noxious It's great to be back! Thanks for the warm welcome.
AmongHeroes
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S A M M A E L K ö N I G
The rasp of metal sliding across metal fell dully against the thick technical-canvas of Samm’s tent. Outside the breathing winds of the tundra hissed, howled, and sighed, adding an ethereal quality to the sound of the sword gliding over the sharpening stone. Sitting cross legged, his elbows perched upon the hinge of his knees, Samm aimed a keen ice-blue eye down the length of the sword’s edge. Even in the relatively low light of the tent, the blade seemed sharp enough to make the air around it somehow more crisp and hard.
Or perhaps that was just the cold?
Samm smirked silently at the thought. The camp was indeed a cold and harsh place. Yet, since arriving two days previous, Samm had found it to remind him of home more than he had anticipated. The state of Aster was not such a barren place as Zalera—or at least it was not so in the coastal lowland areas of Samm’s youth. But the cold was the same, and the brisk fragility that came with it brought aromas that kept his mind whimsically aware of his past.
The unmistakable sounds of Shyps on final approach brought Samm back from far away, and once more into the space of the now. Enveloping the blade of his sword in a soft cloth, he gave the honed metal a final cleansing swipe. In one fluid motion, Samm came to his knees, and brought the sword across his body before gently diving the weapon into its sheath. The glide of the blade into the scabbard felt as smooth as silk, and as the hilt came to stop against the machined cusp, a faint and satisfying snick punctuated the movement. Taking the stowed sword, Samm brought the weapon to his left hip. Small, automatic servos took hold of the scabbard, and affixed it securely to his armor’s load-bearing belt.
Standing halfway up inside of the low tent, Samm turned to grab a large carafe that had been heating over a small jet stove. As he lifted the vacuum insulated container, a waft of fresh coffee lifted upon a wisp of steam, and into Samm’s nose. His satisfied smile was automatic. This brew was no regulation SOLDIER insta-shit drivel, but a blend from Samm’s own private stash. Tasteless food, days without sleep, and grueling conditions Samm could tolerate, but bad coffee? A man could only abide so much.
Encased in the dark matte-black layers of his armor, Samm pulled aside the tent’s entry flap, and made his way into the pulling winds. He forwent the dehumanizing cover of his integrated helmet and face piece, instead wanting to greet the arrival of his new comrades with the courtesy of a smile and a genuine look in the eyes. With the carafe and a stack of cups in his right hand, Samm allowed his left to rest easily upon the hilt of his sword.
As his booted feet crunched over the hardened ground, making his way to where the other members of the “unit” were gathering, Samm tried his best to take stock of the new arrivals. He had already met a couple of the other SOLDIERS that had arrived at the encampment early, and in a general sense he gathered that they were formidable individuals. This was perhaps an obvious assumption, given that every one of the company was honed to be a living weapon. Nonetheless, from the little interaction he had had with them, Samm had little doubt in their martial prowess. From the looks of things, his first impressions of the newest arrivals did nothing to change his assumptions—save for perhaps the man who looked as if motion sickness had gotten the better of him.
Arriving within the loose cluster of SOLDIERS, Samm offered a nod and a smile to each when the moment allowed. One of the men spoke to Corr regarding a wish for quality food, and Samm made a look of knowing agreement.
“I hear that,” Samm said. “The Govern must not put a lot of stock in increased moral, because the chow situation could bring even the happiest sonofabitch into a bout of depression.”
Lifting up the carafe and the cups, Samm spoke not only to the man who had addressed Corr, but the entire group. “I can’t help with chow, but I can offer some genuine and fresh coffee if anyone’s interested?”
As if to punctuate his offering, Samm poured a cup of the steaming, aromatic liquid, and lifted his eyebrows expectantly.
The rasp of metal sliding across metal fell dully against the thick technical-canvas of Samm’s tent. Outside the breathing winds of the tundra hissed, howled, and sighed, adding an ethereal quality to the sound of the sword gliding over the sharpening stone. Sitting cross legged, his elbows perched upon the hinge of his knees, Samm aimed a keen ice-blue eye down the length of the sword’s edge. Even in the relatively low light of the tent, the blade seemed sharp enough to make the air around it somehow more crisp and hard.
Or perhaps that was just the cold?
Samm smirked silently at the thought. The camp was indeed a cold and harsh place. Yet, since arriving two days previous, Samm had found it to remind him of home more than he had anticipated. The state of Aster was not such a barren place as Zalera—or at least it was not so in the coastal lowland areas of Samm’s youth. But the cold was the same, and the brisk fragility that came with it brought aromas that kept his mind whimsically aware of his past.
The unmistakable sounds of Shyps on final approach brought Samm back from far away, and once more into the space of the now. Enveloping the blade of his sword in a soft cloth, he gave the honed metal a final cleansing swipe. In one fluid motion, Samm came to his knees, and brought the sword across his body before gently diving the weapon into its sheath. The glide of the blade into the scabbard felt as smooth as silk, and as the hilt came to stop against the machined cusp, a faint and satisfying snick punctuated the movement. Taking the stowed sword, Samm brought the weapon to his left hip. Small, automatic servos took hold of the scabbard, and affixed it securely to his armor’s load-bearing belt.
Standing halfway up inside of the low tent, Samm turned to grab a large carafe that had been heating over a small jet stove. As he lifted the vacuum insulated container, a waft of fresh coffee lifted upon a wisp of steam, and into Samm’s nose. His satisfied smile was automatic. This brew was no regulation SOLDIER insta-shit drivel, but a blend from Samm’s own private stash. Tasteless food, days without sleep, and grueling conditions Samm could tolerate, but bad coffee? A man could only abide so much.
Encased in the dark matte-black layers of his armor, Samm pulled aside the tent’s entry flap, and made his way into the pulling winds. He forwent the dehumanizing cover of his integrated helmet and face piece, instead wanting to greet the arrival of his new comrades with the courtesy of a smile and a genuine look in the eyes. With the carafe and a stack of cups in his right hand, Samm allowed his left to rest easily upon the hilt of his sword.
As his booted feet crunched over the hardened ground, making his way to where the other members of the “unit” were gathering, Samm tried his best to take stock of the new arrivals. He had already met a couple of the other SOLDIERS that had arrived at the encampment early, and in a general sense he gathered that they were formidable individuals. This was perhaps an obvious assumption, given that every one of the company was honed to be a living weapon. Nonetheless, from the little interaction he had had with them, Samm had little doubt in their martial prowess. From the looks of things, his first impressions of the newest arrivals did nothing to change his assumptions—save for perhaps the man who looked as if motion sickness had gotten the better of him.
Arriving within the loose cluster of SOLDIERS, Samm offered a nod and a smile to each when the moment allowed. One of the men spoke to Corr regarding a wish for quality food, and Samm made a look of knowing agreement.
“I hear that,” Samm said. “The Govern must not put a lot of stock in increased moral, because the chow situation could bring even the happiest sonofabitch into a bout of depression.”
Lifting up the carafe and the cups, Samm spoke not only to the man who had addressed Corr, but the entire group. “I can’t help with chow, but I can offer some genuine and fresh coffee if anyone’s interested?”
As if to punctuate his offering, Samm poured a cup of the steaming, aromatic liquid, and lifted his eyebrows expectantly.
S A M M A E L K ö N I G
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
"Fall not from Heaven, but rise from Hell"
Age. 26 | Date of Birth. November 26th | Height. 6'-2"|
[First Class]
A P P E A R A N C E.
Samm is built on a tall frame, supported by lengths of lithe, athletic muscle. His complexion is pale and even, harkening to a lineage within Galbadia’s northern reaches. Piercing eyes of ice-blue punctuate a handsome, weathered face, which sports a well-trimmed beard and the lines born from a quick smile. His countenance is one of approachability and honesty, tinted with a constant bent towards optimism, and a healthy inclination towards mirth.
P S Y C H E.
It is not a vague or insightful fact that the world is not equal. The creatures that exist upon the globe are subjected to a litany of factors and circumstances for which they have no control, and their lives are profoundly influenced by these winds of fate before they even draw their first breath. Some face the world with a smooth, clear, and effortless path, while others are subjected to the cruel crucible of a harsh and malevolent reality. Sammael is not one to refute this truth.
While he accepts these natural laws, Samm is not one to take such aspects as absolutes—fates can be changed, and light can be brought to even the dark corners of the world. One only has to be brave enough to carry the torch. This notion is at the core of Samm’s being. As a son of a fortunate side of fate’s coin, Samm feels strongly that he was given a mandate to pay his privilege forward, and bring as many of humanity’s downtrodden out of the shadow of a punitive destiny. He is a man of conviction, determination, and staunch hope. Yet—perhaps antithetically—he is an atheist with a true belief in man’s own claim to morality.
Tempering these hard edges of Samm’s being, is his very real penchant for optimism, joy, and the pursuit of happiness. His desire to help others bleeds heavily into a love of making people smile, and improving the disposition of those in his company. Samm’s humor is ranging, from soft and subtle, to off-color and brash—he is comfortable amongst any crowd.
The relationship Samm holds with his Aeon is a precious one. Fortune was good to Samm once again when he came to be bonded with a being that seemed to so exemplify his nature to do the greatest good. In his Aeon’s power, Samm finds an invigorated purpose, and the embodied justification that he is to banish darkness wherever he finds it.
While he accepts these natural laws, Samm is not one to take such aspects as absolutes—fates can be changed, and light can be brought to even the dark corners of the world. One only has to be brave enough to carry the torch. This notion is at the core of Samm’s being. As a son of a fortunate side of fate’s coin, Samm feels strongly that he was given a mandate to pay his privilege forward, and bring as many of humanity’s downtrodden out of the shadow of a punitive destiny. He is a man of conviction, determination, and staunch hope. Yet—perhaps antithetically—he is an atheist with a true belief in man’s own claim to morality.
Tempering these hard edges of Samm’s being, is his very real penchant for optimism, joy, and the pursuit of happiness. His desire to help others bleeds heavily into a love of making people smile, and improving the disposition of those in his company. Samm’s humor is ranging, from soft and subtle, to off-color and brash—he is comfortable amongst any crowd.
The relationship Samm holds with his Aeon is a precious one. Fortune was good to Samm once again when he came to be bonded with a being that seemed to so exemplify his nature to do the greatest good. In his Aeon’s power, Samm finds an invigorated purpose, and the embodied justification that he is to banish darkness wherever he finds it.
B A C K G R O U N D.
Sammael Aaron König was born on cold winter’s night in the Galbadian state of Aster. As his father and mother both worked as prominent engineers within Aster’s climate encouragement facility, Samm enjoyed the comfort of an upper middle-class lifestyle from his conception. An only child to preoccupied parents of means, the stage was set for Samm to be a detached, spoiled, and selfish individual. In stark contrast to the conventional wisdom of many, Samm somehow bucked the odds, and grew into a young man who was empathetic, humble, and forthright.
Intelligent, athletic, and connected through both his parents and his own friendly magnetism, Samm had the desire and means to pursue a degree in engineering at one of the prestigious technical institutes in the shadow of Dalmasca. This aspiration was one that fulfilled Samm’s wishes to be an engine for something ‘better’ within the world—the idea that he could become some lauded engineer that brought warmth, food, and comfort to the less fortunate by way of his fantastic technological creations.
While Samm felt he possessed the wherewithal to achieve great success in the field of engineering, reality managed to drive a wedge into his mind as he grew closer to adulthood. Intelligent as he was, there was a key element missing in his plan to become the angelic savant he dreamed he could be: passion. There was no passion for Samm within this dream. Making the world a better place was his ultimate goal, and the path of an engineer doing righteous work had simply come too easily to him; something automatic and expected. He would find no fulfillment in such a life.
As this realization, Samm for the first time felt the chains of uncertainty pulling from around his neck. As he became a man, he found himself listless and depressed. The search for a vehicle to carry out what he considered to be his purpose became a near obsession, and his days were filled with half-starts and only glimmers of hope as opportunities to find lasting fulfillment in his life waned. It was during this trough that he was found by the recruiters. Vague and mysterious, Samm was confronted by a pair of self-proclaimed scientists who enticed that they could provide a means for him to truly excel, aid, and uplift humanity in a way that only a handful of people could.
It was as if a veil had been withdrawn for Samm, and his true purpose lie in the growing light afforded by such a promise of profound meaning. After passing a battery of physical, psychological, and genetic tests, Samm found himself in the cadre of SOLDIER. Bound to his Aeon, and trained to the very pinnacle of his physical and mental potential, Samm transformed from simply a man, to something he never had even dreamed he could or should become: a living weapon, forged atop an anvil of trained perfection, and tempered with the blood of stars.
Intelligent, athletic, and connected through both his parents and his own friendly magnetism, Samm had the desire and means to pursue a degree in engineering at one of the prestigious technical institutes in the shadow of Dalmasca. This aspiration was one that fulfilled Samm’s wishes to be an engine for something ‘better’ within the world—the idea that he could become some lauded engineer that brought warmth, food, and comfort to the less fortunate by way of his fantastic technological creations.
While Samm felt he possessed the wherewithal to achieve great success in the field of engineering, reality managed to drive a wedge into his mind as he grew closer to adulthood. Intelligent as he was, there was a key element missing in his plan to become the angelic savant he dreamed he could be: passion. There was no passion for Samm within this dream. Making the world a better place was his ultimate goal, and the path of an engineer doing righteous work had simply come too easily to him; something automatic and expected. He would find no fulfillment in such a life.
As this realization, Samm for the first time felt the chains of uncertainty pulling from around his neck. As he became a man, he found himself listless and depressed. The search for a vehicle to carry out what he considered to be his purpose became a near obsession, and his days were filled with half-starts and only glimmers of hope as opportunities to find lasting fulfillment in his life waned. It was during this trough that he was found by the recruiters. Vague and mysterious, Samm was confronted by a pair of self-proclaimed scientists who enticed that they could provide a means for him to truly excel, aid, and uplift humanity in a way that only a handful of people could.
It was as if a veil had been withdrawn for Samm, and his true purpose lie in the growing light afforded by such a promise of profound meaning. After passing a battery of physical, psychological, and genetic tests, Samm found himself in the cadre of SOLDIER. Bound to his Aeon, and trained to the very pinnacle of his physical and mental potential, Samm transformed from simply a man, to something he never had even dreamed he could or should become: a living weapon, forged atop an anvil of trained perfection, and tempered with the blood of stars.
R E G A I L I A.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Sammael meets his enemies head-on upon the field. Relying upon keen strategy, agility, and honed skill, Samm engages foes with single-minded purpose. He wields a long katana-like sword, with a unique energy-laden blade. White-hot at the apex of the katana’s cutting edge, this sword imbues highly volatile bursts of energy when cutting or slicing through the flesh of a target.
Though reliant primarily upon his athleticism and agility for survival on the battlefield, Samm is also encased in a full-body suit of armor. Made for mobility, the armor is primarily focused upon absorbing ranged ballistic attacks, as well as increasing Samm’s spatial acuity of the battlespace. The helmet that encloses his entire head is covered with sensors that give him instantaneous threat updates, locations of comrades, and other pertinent information.
Now linked inimitably with the Aeon known as Ither, Samm possesses processes that allow his mind to take in and respond to stimuli on an almost precognitive level. In combat he misses almost nothing, quickly gaining a true sense of his adversary in the breadth of a heartbeat, and allowing him to dodge strikes—and even rifle shots—that would otherwise decimate a lesser being. This battle focus comes at a price however, as with continued and sustained use, Samm’s cognition of his surroundings become more and more clouded with cosmic static. Lost to the powerful hum of Ither’s soul within him, Samm can over utilize his power, and become completely oblivious to the world around him to the point of delusion, insanity, and death.
Sammael meets his enemies head-on upon the field. Relying upon keen strategy, agility, and honed skill, Samm engages foes with single-minded purpose. He wields a long katana-like sword, with a unique energy-laden blade. White-hot at the apex of the katana’s cutting edge, this sword imbues highly volatile bursts of energy when cutting or slicing through the flesh of a target.
Though reliant primarily upon his athleticism and agility for survival on the battlefield, Samm is also encased in a full-body suit of armor. Made for mobility, the armor is primarily focused upon absorbing ranged ballistic attacks, as well as increasing Samm’s spatial acuity of the battlespace. The helmet that encloses his entire head is covered with sensors that give him instantaneous threat updates, locations of comrades, and other pertinent information.
Now linked inimitably with the Aeon known as Ither, Samm possesses processes that allow his mind to take in and respond to stimuli on an almost precognitive level. In combat he misses almost nothing, quickly gaining a true sense of his adversary in the breadth of a heartbeat, and allowing him to dodge strikes—and even rifle shots—that would otherwise decimate a lesser being. This battle focus comes at a price however, as with continued and sustained use, Samm’s cognition of his surroundings become more and more clouded with cosmic static. Lost to the powerful hum of Ither’s soul within him, Samm can over utilize his power, and become completely oblivious to the world around him to the point of delusion, insanity, and death.
[Aphelion] With a flurry of staccato light, Sammael’s living image is split into six perfect avatars. The avatars move and react like sentient beings, distracting the foe until struck down like the straw-men that they truly are.
[Perihelion] A fiery white aura ensconces Sammael, coalescing into a crown like beacon around his forehead. Lances of this light erupt from this beacon, shooting out with deadly effect to wherever Sammeal’s eyes have alighted.
[Analemma] Bursts of bright hot light envelope an area surrounding the impact location of an enemy’s strike, or in the path of an incoming ballistic projectile. For normal attacks, this light-energy deflects the incoming strike so no harm comes to the intended target. This power is best utilized in the protection of others, but can in rare cases be employed in times of self-preservation.
[Perihelion] A fiery white aura ensconces Sammael, coalescing into a crown like beacon around his forehead. Lances of this light erupt from this beacon, shooting out with deadly effect to wherever Sammeal’s eyes have alighted.
[Analemma] Bursts of bright hot light envelope an area surrounding the impact location of an enemy’s strike, or in the path of an incoming ballistic projectile. For normal attacks, this light-energy deflects the incoming strike so no harm comes to the intended target. This power is best utilized in the protection of others, but can in rare cases be employed in times of self-preservation.
A E O N.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Ither--white
Bathed in the purity of moral judgement, Ither shines like a beacon in a sea of dark, undulating ebony. Possessing a multitude of heavenly arms, regaled in white, and trimmed with gold, this Aeon is a pillar of justice, truth, protection, and the living embodiment of the greater good. Darkness is banished before it, like sand before the crashing waves of an approaching tsunami. Strong in will, and resolute in purpose, Ither is a being of conviction, white hot purpose, and an infallible will to reorient all life to it’s true and rightful place—no matter the cost.
Ither--white
Bathed in the purity of moral judgement, Ither shines like a beacon in a sea of dark, undulating ebony. Possessing a multitude of heavenly arms, regaled in white, and trimmed with gold, this Aeon is a pillar of justice, truth, protection, and the living embodiment of the greater good. Darkness is banished before it, like sand before the crashing waves of an approaching tsunami. Strong in will, and resolute in purpose, Ither is a being of conviction, white hot purpose, and an infallible will to reorient all life to it’s true and rightful place—no matter the cost.
C O R E.
SABER: Agility increase by 100%
O V E R D R I V E.
[Tears of Icarus] In a fiery corona, living light strikes from the heavens. Sammael is wrapped in folds of a conflagration of white, so bright that it blinds those who gaze upon it. From this blinding flare comes a flurry of successive fire bursts. These bursts possess the power of the living Sun, and cascade in roiling tendrils from the caster, to the intended foes like a flood of righteous destruction. This near holy fire strips its target of flesh, bone, and soul, rending those before it to a husk of scorched and pure nothingness.
Hey there, everybody *waves*. It's great to be joining such a distinguished group.
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.
-Emily Dickinson
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.
-Emily Dickinson
♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛
In a world that mirrors our own, good and evil vie for control of human souls through the tangible existence of angels and demons. These powerful beings, imbued with the power of Heaven or Hell, battle in a ceaseless dance of seduction and redemption; fallen and risen.
Of all the individual stories to be told of this eternal struggle, there is but one that stands above the rest as truly inimitable. Divine even.
It is a tale forged at the core of conquering the soul, and a romance that bridged the chasm between angels and demons…
♛ ♛ ♛ ♛ ♛
Hello, and thank you for reading my humble plot hook. I am AmongHeroes, and I am searching for a wonderful lady who wishes to write an epically awesome tale. As you may have gleaned, this RP would be a story of romance between an angel and a demon. However, beyond this general concept, I truly desire to build a world together with my partner that we both take equal part and ownership in.
I am fairly active on RPG, and I have been doing play-by-post roleplaying for quite some time. I consider myself an advanced-level writer, but I am certainly not perfect. As such, I don’t expect my partner to be either. Enjoying the story is my main goal, so all other concerns are secondary.
If you’ve gotten this far, send me a PM! I don’t bite. I’d love to hear from you, and I’d love to work on getting something going.
Cheers!
I'd be interested in coming up with a plot together.
inb4 Morgana has taken the form of Lancelot and I'm just an idiot.
But even then, I still feel pretty uncertain here and I need to think this is something I can pursue with Ignatius as I have built him. I'll give it a few days of thought.
You do you. We're going to move on.
@Gowi There is so much yet to be discovered by our characters. They know only the truth Lancelot gave to them, same with the players that write for them. I'm not going to say any more about what I have intended. But just know that we've only begun, and things are not always what they seem.
If you want to leave, that's up to you.
If you want to leave, that's up to you.
I'm confused.
Ok. About what?
As he looked about the shuffling mob, it was the figure of Sir Arian that first caught his attention. The man had just dismounted from the back of a horse, and most assuredly been in the saddle for some time, judging from his appearance. Yet, to Delwin it mattered not. It was a pleasant sight to see a friendly face from bygone years.
Taking Arian’s arm, and returning his smile, Delwin chuckled. “It is wonderful to see you as well, Sir Arian. And if your appearance displeases anyone here, I have little doubt their tongue will hold; there are far more important matters to weigh upon the mind.”
Delwin moved alongside Arian, his thumbs tucked into his sword belt, as the crowd continued to shuffle inside. It was not but a stride or two further when Delwin heard a call from over his shoulder.
Turning about, Delwin saw a slight arm raised above the heads behind him. The voice that had called his name was feminine and vibrant, and one he would never forget.
“Ah yes,” Delwin said, gesturing for Arian to join in him in greeting. “I dared to hope that the venerable Kettle Knight would be among this fine group.”
As the young knight approached, Delwin smiled to her, his eyes crinkling with genuine joy. When she drew near enough, his hand clapped warmly upon her shoulder.
“It’s wonderful to see you hearty and hale, Dame Ysobel. I pray you remember Sir Arian Hydd?”
Delwin opened his stance wider so the two could exchange greetings.
“…And Sir Gruffydd! My goodness, this is more good fortune than could be hoped for. Perhaps even more so given the portended news that has called us together.”
Delwin greeted the knight with a handshake, his expression somewhat more serious than it had been a moment before. “If the rumors surrounding our arrival are only half as true as the reality, than I should be happy for it, to be honest. I daresay that the Sir Ronan would agree…?”
With another pleasant smile, Delwin met the gaze of Ronan as the knight joined them, and welcomed him to the small gathering. There was a welling of pride, and something akin to ease that came with this unexpected reunion that Delwin found solace in.
Yet, even this slight measure of comfort could not delay the coming meeting. The press of the knights behind them gave the assembled friends only the barest moment of reprieve before they were inexorably forced to move along, and take their places within the Great Keep.
The buzz of conversation filled the stone hall. Hundreds of knights pressed themselves inside, shuffling their booted feet until the large gates could at last be closed by waiting guards. At the front of the large room, standing atop a raised portion of the floor, was the knight-regent himself.
Regaled in a tunic of sky blue, gold, and trimmed with fine lace, Lancelot appeared every bit the second to the great king. His friendship with Arthur was a legendary one, and even now, Delwin could see the weight that seemed to hang around the man’s neck like an anchor.
At this sight, the brief glimmer of reassurance Delwin had gleaned from the chance meeting with his friends wholly vanished.
“Lord, be kind to us in this hour.” Delwin whispered, as much to himself, as anyone else.
Lancelot looked down from his place at the stonework dais, and regarded the gathered knights with an expression of heavy pride. His emerald eyes moved from person to person, reading their faces and collective thoughts. There was much to see in the visages of his peers. A sea of concern, uneasiness, haunting memory, and the anxiety of fate to be soon revealed.
For his part, the Knight-Regent’s heart thundered in his chest. His mouth was dry, and the air slipping into his nostrils seemed insufficient to sate his breath. The thrill of this nervous tension was more intense than any precursor to battle he had yet felt. It made Lancelot marvel further at the grace and poise of Arthur. How many times had the king faced such a crowd? Had garnered their favor and loyalty in the face of approaching doom?
“My brothers and sisters,” Lancelot began. His voice was loud, and the words coming from between his lips seemed to surprise even him.
He cleared his throat, and started anew. This time his voice was more poised and confident.
“My brothers and sisters, thank you for answering this call. It is with a heavy heart that I summon you hear today, and I shall not delay in the delivery of my news any further…”
Lancelot paused, his voice catching in his throat. He looked down upon his booted feet, and only the rush of his own heart could he hear within in ears. When at last he cast his eyes upward, they were as cold and hard as any granite. The bottom of his lip trembled.
“…Our king has been slain.”
Delwin knew he cried out. He perceived that from within his chest he exhaled a low wail of despair, yet he did not hear it. The ringing in his ears grew to a piercing, all consuming roar that forced away the notice of all sound save the echo of Lancelot’s words.
”Our king has been slain.”
”Our king has been slain.”
”Our king has been slain.”
The Great Hall was filled with all manner of exultations of disbelief and desolation. Some knights fell to their knees, clasping their crying eyes in their hands. Others merely stood, dumbfounded and frozen. A growing crescendo of voices called out for answers, demanding with balled fists for the names of their king’s murderer, for justice, and for vengeance.
Delwin yet stood, his head gradually clearing with the voices of his brethren. He looked about, his eyes unable to focus sharply upon the faces around him, as if they were covered with fine cloth. Already, a growing chant of, “Raise the army! Raise the army!” was catching wing.
Justice? Delwin thought. Who will be at the tip of our spiteful and righteous swords?
Looking up, his own thoughts clearing away the lingering haze of disbelief and shocked misery, Delwin noticed Lancelot holding up his hands for quiet. The Knight-Regent looked as if tears were welling in his eyes.
“Silence, damn it!” Delwin yelled, his own voice powered with emotion. “Let the Knight-Regent speak!”
The din having been pierced by Sir Delwin’s call, an uneasy quiet settled upon the crowd.
“I hear your anguish, and I feel it also.” Lancelot said once silence took hold within the Great Hall.
“Our king was taken from us too early. How can such injustice befall a man so noble and worthy of Grace?”
Lancelot balled his fists, and lifted them to the heavens, punctuating his question. His body quaked, the fabric of his tunic trembling like a leaf against the wind.
The hard green of his eyes shone through slits of rage and purpose now, his gaze piercing into the knights before him. In that instance, a shift in his manner could be seem. Lancelot could feel it also, as if he were shedding an unwanted skin, and finding freedom in the new.
“But,” he spat, his words a hissing whisper. “Who are we to say Arthur was stolen from us without cause?”
The use of Arthur’s name, instead of his royal title could not be lost upon the knights.
“Who are we to challenge in the wisdom and will of God? For it is he who is the master of heaven and earth. How dare we question his plan…”
Lancelot’s arm withdrew behind him, clasping at the small of his back. He paced along the dais, his gaze not faltering from the watching faces.
“We are all instruments of the Almighty, and when we are presented with the opportunity to fulfill our destinies, we must seize that chance. Only heretics defy such fate…”
His words poured forth like fire now, the confidence and fervor building within his chest. Lancelot’s eyes grew somehow wild, like a verdant asp was writhing at the backs of each iris.
“…And we must all do our duty to accept God’s purpose. No matter the cost.”
At that, there was a heavy thud from without. Large timber boards fell into place across the Great Hall’s gates. In the rafters high above, movement could be seen. Men in dark cloaks heaved at barrels of pitch that had been hidden in the shadows of the ceiling, until the black, vile contents spilled forth.
Like a waterfall of obsidian, the pitch rained down onto the thick crowd of knights in the Great Keep. The stinking, sticky substance fell in haphazard sheets that soaked some, and merely splattered others. The stone floor of the keep became coated with the stuff in moments.
From the wall nearest him, Lancelot plucked a lit torch. Holding it high for a moment, he gazed into the dancing flame. To those who looked upon him then, his face would seem a mask of holy resolution, righteous in intent and conviction. There was no doubt, no remorse, and no hesitation.
Looking down one final time, Lancelot threw the torch into the crush of knights. In an instant the flame caught, roaring like a living beast, and consuming several unfortunate souls in a flash of hell. The fire spread quickly, creating a blaze that would soon come to engulf the whole of the keep.
The traitor knight, safe upon his raised platform of stone, disappeared behind the growing, impenetrable wall of flame.
Horror came in an instant.
It descended upon Delwin and his comrades as swift as the beat of a bat’s wing. And just as dark.
With pitch stinging his eyes, Delwin recoiled from the thrown torch. The first rows of knights were engulfed instantly, their bodies becoming moving statues of orange, yellow, and red tongues of flame. Screams and cries of pain melding with the roar of the growing fire, adding chaos to the rising black smoke. Lancelot had already disappeared behind this fire, and escape was impossible beyond the stone dais.
Many of those near the gates of the Great Keep turned and rushed in panic, slamming themselves against the iron-banded timbers. Several knights withdrew their swords and began hacking away at the wood—a futile gesture as the flames advanced through the crowd.
Fear clutched at Delwin’s heart. It rippled across his flesh as the primal fear of the fire came to him with every new breath of choking smoke. From his position near the center-right of the crowd, he was not yet being threatened by the flames, but it would not be long now.
Delwin swung his head to a fro, searching desperately for some means of escape. Around him, panic stricken knights flailed and pushed, vying for space that would not come.
The windows of the Great Keep were small, and placed high into the walls. There was no way to reach them without ladders, and even still, the fall on the other side would prove just as deadly. At this realization, Delwin found himself descending closer and closer to hysteria.
Stumbling, he caught himself on the arms of another knight. His eyes cast upward, and through the smoke, he could barely make out the heavy timbers of the Great Keeps rafters. The very rafters where the agents of the Traitor Knight had lain in wait. Strangely, amidst all the chaos and death, as if viewing the scene for the first time, a realization came to Delwin.
The men that pushed over the barrels…they’re gone? How…?
Hope flooded his consciousness, desperate and primal. Gaining his feet, Delwin began to shove his way towards where the dais met the exterior walls. The bulk of flame was in the center, but its head still radiated dangerously across the room; the pitch soaking Delwin’s tunic could ignite at any moment.
Fighting his way forward, Delwin managed to reach one of the massive stone columns that rose upward to support the rafter beams. The smoke was thick and noxious, making every breath harder and harder to take. His vision swam, and Delwin could feel his limbs weakening from exertion and lack of clean air. Only purpose and hope spurned him onward.
Reaching the far side of the protruding stone, Delwin’s heart leapt at what he found. A thin ladder, affixed to the stone with iron bolts, rose upward to the rafters. He thought he had remembered these being here the last time he visited the Great Keep, and his memory had served him well. They had been built for access to inspect the giant keep’s roofing structure, and as such, there had to be passages that led all the way along the upper portion of the walls. There had to be a way to escape beyond the far wall behind the dais.
Turning about, Delwin began to climb the ladder. Looking out, he could see only smoke, and the writhing outlines of knights as they burned, died, and fought for survival.
“Over here!” He cried in choking desperation. “Climb to the ceiling! We must get to the rafters!”
Delwin continued to climb up, pausing to periodically scream into the jet-black mass of smoke. The heat was almost unbearable, and it was surely a miracle that the pitch that covered him had not burst into flame.
“Come on, brothers and sisters, please…please, climb…”
Delwin’s last cry was as much a plea to God as it was for any of his fellow knights. They could not all die here. This could not be the end of Arthur’s legacy, and the final measure of devotion for his loyal subjects.
All that remained for Delwin, as the flames and smoke all but overtook him, was to climb and to hope.
Taking Arian’s arm, and returning his smile, Delwin chuckled. “It is wonderful to see you as well, Sir Arian. And if your appearance displeases anyone here, I have little doubt their tongue will hold; there are far more important matters to weigh upon the mind.”
Delwin moved alongside Arian, his thumbs tucked into his sword belt, as the crowd continued to shuffle inside. It was not but a stride or two further when Delwin heard a call from over his shoulder.
Turning about, Delwin saw a slight arm raised above the heads behind him. The voice that had called his name was feminine and vibrant, and one he would never forget.
“Ah yes,” Delwin said, gesturing for Arian to join in him in greeting. “I dared to hope that the venerable Kettle Knight would be among this fine group.”
As the young knight approached, Delwin smiled to her, his eyes crinkling with genuine joy. When she drew near enough, his hand clapped warmly upon her shoulder.
“It’s wonderful to see you hearty and hale, Dame Ysobel. I pray you remember Sir Arian Hydd?”
Delwin opened his stance wider so the two could exchange greetings.
“…And Sir Gruffydd! My goodness, this is more good fortune than could be hoped for. Perhaps even more so given the portended news that has called us together.”
Delwin greeted the knight with a handshake, his expression somewhat more serious than it had been a moment before. “If the rumors surrounding our arrival are only half as true as the reality, than I should be happy for it, to be honest. I daresay that the Sir Ronan would agree…?”
With another pleasant smile, Delwin met the gaze of Ronan as the knight joined them, and welcomed him to the small gathering. There was a welling of pride, and something akin to ease that came with this unexpected reunion that Delwin found solace in.
Yet, even this slight measure of comfort could not delay the coming meeting. The press of the knights behind them gave the assembled friends only the barest moment of reprieve before they were inexorably forced to move along, and take their places within the Great Keep.
The buzz of conversation filled the stone hall. Hundreds of knights pressed themselves inside, shuffling their booted feet until the large gates could at last be closed by waiting guards. At the front of the large room, standing atop a raised portion of the floor, was the knight-regent himself.
Regaled in a tunic of sky blue, gold, and trimmed with fine lace, Lancelot appeared every bit the second to the great king. His friendship with Arthur was a legendary one, and even now, Delwin could see the weight that seemed to hang around the man’s neck like an anchor.
At this sight, the brief glimmer of reassurance Delwin had gleaned from the chance meeting with his friends wholly vanished.
“Lord, be kind to us in this hour.” Delwin whispered, as much to himself, as anyone else.
Lancelot looked down from his place at the stonework dais, and regarded the gathered knights with an expression of heavy pride. His emerald eyes moved from person to person, reading their faces and collective thoughts. There was much to see in the visages of his peers. A sea of concern, uneasiness, haunting memory, and the anxiety of fate to be soon revealed.
For his part, the Knight-Regent’s heart thundered in his chest. His mouth was dry, and the air slipping into his nostrils seemed insufficient to sate his breath. The thrill of this nervous tension was more intense than any precursor to battle he had yet felt. It made Lancelot marvel further at the grace and poise of Arthur. How many times had the king faced such a crowd? Had garnered their favor and loyalty in the face of approaching doom?
“My brothers and sisters,” Lancelot began. His voice was loud, and the words coming from between his lips seemed to surprise even him.
He cleared his throat, and started anew. This time his voice was more poised and confident.
“My brothers and sisters, thank you for answering this call. It is with a heavy heart that I summon you hear today, and I shall not delay in the delivery of my news any further…”
Lancelot paused, his voice catching in his throat. He looked down upon his booted feet, and only the rush of his own heart could he hear within in ears. When at last he cast his eyes upward, they were as cold and hard as any granite. The bottom of his lip trembled.
“…Our king has been slain.”
Delwin knew he cried out. He perceived that from within his chest he exhaled a low wail of despair, yet he did not hear it. The ringing in his ears grew to a piercing, all consuming roar that forced away the notice of all sound save the echo of Lancelot’s words.
”Our king has been slain.”
”Our king has been slain.”
”Our king has been slain.”
The Great Hall was filled with all manner of exultations of disbelief and desolation. Some knights fell to their knees, clasping their crying eyes in their hands. Others merely stood, dumbfounded and frozen. A growing crescendo of voices called out for answers, demanding with balled fists for the names of their king’s murderer, for justice, and for vengeance.
Delwin yet stood, his head gradually clearing with the voices of his brethren. He looked about, his eyes unable to focus sharply upon the faces around him, as if they were covered with fine cloth. Already, a growing chant of, “Raise the army! Raise the army!” was catching wing.
Justice? Delwin thought. Who will be at the tip of our spiteful and righteous swords?
Looking up, his own thoughts clearing away the lingering haze of disbelief and shocked misery, Delwin noticed Lancelot holding up his hands for quiet. The Knight-Regent looked as if tears were welling in his eyes.
“Silence, damn it!” Delwin yelled, his own voice powered with emotion. “Let the Knight-Regent speak!”
The din having been pierced by Sir Delwin’s call, an uneasy quiet settled upon the crowd.
“I hear your anguish, and I feel it also.” Lancelot said once silence took hold within the Great Hall.
“Our king was taken from us too early. How can such injustice befall a man so noble and worthy of Grace?”
Lancelot balled his fists, and lifted them to the heavens, punctuating his question. His body quaked, the fabric of his tunic trembling like a leaf against the wind.
The hard green of his eyes shone through slits of rage and purpose now, his gaze piercing into the knights before him. In that instance, a shift in his manner could be seem. Lancelot could feel it also, as if he were shedding an unwanted skin, and finding freedom in the new.
“But,” he spat, his words a hissing whisper. “Who are we to say Arthur was stolen from us without cause?”
The use of Arthur’s name, instead of his royal title could not be lost upon the knights.
“Who are we to challenge in the wisdom and will of God? For it is he who is the master of heaven and earth. How dare we question his plan…”
Lancelot’s arm withdrew behind him, clasping at the small of his back. He paced along the dais, his gaze not faltering from the watching faces.
“We are all instruments of the Almighty, and when we are presented with the opportunity to fulfill our destinies, we must seize that chance. Only heretics defy such fate…”
His words poured forth like fire now, the confidence and fervor building within his chest. Lancelot’s eyes grew somehow wild, like a verdant asp was writhing at the backs of each iris.
“…And we must all do our duty to accept God’s purpose. No matter the cost.”
At that, there was a heavy thud from without. Large timber boards fell into place across the Great Hall’s gates. In the rafters high above, movement could be seen. Men in dark cloaks heaved at barrels of pitch that had been hidden in the shadows of the ceiling, until the black, vile contents spilled forth.
Like a waterfall of obsidian, the pitch rained down onto the thick crowd of knights in the Great Keep. The stinking, sticky substance fell in haphazard sheets that soaked some, and merely splattered others. The stone floor of the keep became coated with the stuff in moments.
From the wall nearest him, Lancelot plucked a lit torch. Holding it high for a moment, he gazed into the dancing flame. To those who looked upon him then, his face would seem a mask of holy resolution, righteous in intent and conviction. There was no doubt, no remorse, and no hesitation.
Looking down one final time, Lancelot threw the torch into the crush of knights. In an instant the flame caught, roaring like a living beast, and consuming several unfortunate souls in a flash of hell. The fire spread quickly, creating a blaze that would soon come to engulf the whole of the keep.
The traitor knight, safe upon his raised platform of stone, disappeared behind the growing, impenetrable wall of flame.
Horror came in an instant.
It descended upon Delwin and his comrades as swift as the beat of a bat’s wing. And just as dark.
With pitch stinging his eyes, Delwin recoiled from the thrown torch. The first rows of knights were engulfed instantly, their bodies becoming moving statues of orange, yellow, and red tongues of flame. Screams and cries of pain melding with the roar of the growing fire, adding chaos to the rising black smoke. Lancelot had already disappeared behind this fire, and escape was impossible beyond the stone dais.
Many of those near the gates of the Great Keep turned and rushed in panic, slamming themselves against the iron-banded timbers. Several knights withdrew their swords and began hacking away at the wood—a futile gesture as the flames advanced through the crowd.
Fear clutched at Delwin’s heart. It rippled across his flesh as the primal fear of the fire came to him with every new breath of choking smoke. From his position near the center-right of the crowd, he was not yet being threatened by the flames, but it would not be long now.
Delwin swung his head to a fro, searching desperately for some means of escape. Around him, panic stricken knights flailed and pushed, vying for space that would not come.
The windows of the Great Keep were small, and placed high into the walls. There was no way to reach them without ladders, and even still, the fall on the other side would prove just as deadly. At this realization, Delwin found himself descending closer and closer to hysteria.
Stumbling, he caught himself on the arms of another knight. His eyes cast upward, and through the smoke, he could barely make out the heavy timbers of the Great Keeps rafters. The very rafters where the agents of the Traitor Knight had lain in wait. Strangely, amidst all the chaos and death, as if viewing the scene for the first time, a realization came to Delwin.
The men that pushed over the barrels…they’re gone? How…?
Hope flooded his consciousness, desperate and primal. Gaining his feet, Delwin began to shove his way towards where the dais met the exterior walls. The bulk of flame was in the center, but its head still radiated dangerously across the room; the pitch soaking Delwin’s tunic could ignite at any moment.
Fighting his way forward, Delwin managed to reach one of the massive stone columns that rose upward to support the rafter beams. The smoke was thick and noxious, making every breath harder and harder to take. His vision swam, and Delwin could feel his limbs weakening from exertion and lack of clean air. Only purpose and hope spurned him onward.
Reaching the far side of the protruding stone, Delwin’s heart leapt at what he found. A thin ladder, affixed to the stone with iron bolts, rose upward to the rafters. He thought he had remembered these being here the last time he visited the Great Keep, and his memory had served him well. They had been built for access to inspect the giant keep’s roofing structure, and as such, there had to be passages that led all the way along the upper portion of the walls. There had to be a way to escape beyond the far wall behind the dais.
Turning about, Delwin began to climb the ladder. Looking out, he could see only smoke, and the writhing outlines of knights as they burned, died, and fought for survival.
“Over here!” He cried in choking desperation. “Climb to the ceiling! We must get to the rafters!”
Delwin continued to climb up, pausing to periodically scream into the jet-black mass of smoke. The heat was almost unbearable, and it was surely a miracle that the pitch that covered him had not burst into flame.
“Come on, brothers and sisters, please…please, climb…”
Delwin’s last cry was as much a plea to God as it was for any of his fellow knights. They could not all die here. This could not be the end of Arthur’s legacy, and the final measure of devotion for his loyal subjects.
All that remained for Delwin, as the flames and smoke all but overtook him, was to climb and to hope.
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