NewSun — Roleplayer Guild

B e t w i x t

–t h e–
E t e r n a l

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L i g h t

C H A P T E R   I

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–U n t o  T h e  D a r k n e s s–

A lonely knight trailed the lands of ashen mist and bone. His path; endless, silent, reaching far to the shaded horizon and further still. A thin mist had befallen the days of pale light, the starless sky offering no respite from the nights of bitter cold. Yet still he walked through those empty valleys and crypts thick with darkness, crossing the paths of all manner of horrors of the darkest kind from the deepest recesses of one’s mind. Persistent was his gait, unfailing in the face of adversity most severe; a wall of immovable steel in the tide of unstoppable hells and worse. Many had seen him pass by, a figure in the distance, his unblemished armour glittering faintly in the eternal twilight; over so many years he had become a spectacle to spectators from afar. Weary souls had chosen to follow the Turncloak Blade in vain, only to be torn from their very bones by the foul demons lurking within every shadowed corner. Some had chosen to cross his path, and those very same beings had suffered a fate that some would consider worse. The mornings following such fruitless encounters were marked by the knight dragging his freshly bloodied halberd behind him, leaving a trail of deep crimson in the dirt for miles upon miles. 

His heading was unknown, but seemed to be always toward the static star glowing faintly in the dull amber sky. Obscuring the haggard source of light was an eternal mountain, utterly unreachable, towering within an illogical scale that seemed impossible yet starkly beautiful all at the same time. No doubt many souls had tried their hand at the impossible journey, but none as mighty as he. Perhaps his maddeningly dilapidated mind saw fit to carry him along the dark pilgrim’s path that so many before him had attempted… 

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He had emerged from a blackened forest not two nights prior, a place where the twisted quagmire of fear and panic permeated the very canopy, yet coupled with a contrasting ghostly quiet that seemed to resonate with the vastness of the place. Few survived their senseless treks through the fevered verdancy, many strung from the dying branches by a force entirely unseen. The sun had not once moved since he could once again see it sitting on the horizon, but this gave him a reliable heading — not that he needed one: the mountain was visible during the darkest nights as if it were the moon itself. Amazingly, he had been unmolested for the last thirteen turns of the light, but he knew that it would not last. 
He came to rest at a small rocky outcrop at the side of the valley, half-hidden behind a bizarre growth that resembled a thorny bush. It swayed as if it were wracked with a slight, erratic breeze, despite the eerie lack of winds in that cruel land. He did not need to rest his feet, nor drink from a half-full pigskin that sloshed from side to side with a questionably coloured liquid;  he simply stopped so the sound of his own footsteps would not fill his aural faculty. He needed to listen, his progress depended on such; he could no longer afford to cast his memories to the night, they were no longer expendable. He could only remember a single aspect of who he was once, a thought that gnawed at his remaining conscience by the day. 

A cloak flapping in the wind of some highland plain…

He knocked on his head twice in some vain attempt to push the poison memory back; or perhaps in a gambit to recall any other details. It was there, just on the tip of his mind, like a half remembered dream. 

”I give myself to you…”

“Until the end of time.” 

Who was the face he could see in blurs and flashes of light? Whose voice soothed him so? Even now when all was lost? 

“Are you sure,” she asked. “T-t-“ 

"͏̲͎͎̗T̨̮͇̹̣͚h̨̙͓̦ḙ̩͚r̬̤̖e͖̬͔͓͠ i̠̳̦̪̙̲̦s̹̖͉ ̺̲̩͉̤̯̫n̻̗͍o̶͎̤͔̠͈ ͉͍̱̯́ǵ̠̮o̹̰̠̠i̪͖n̲̯̹̺͝g̴̯̠ ̱̳̀b̰̙̺͙͖̹͔a̹͙c̳͇̬̥k̭͖͇̦"̪ ̤̘̠̺̣͕͓

͔͍̤"̘͕͚͈͠D̴͖o̷̯͓̺̱̠ ̴͔̘͕͖̭͍̰y̬̹̩̰͘o̥̻̮u̧͖͔̺͈̝̺̜ ̹̩̹̭̬̝r̘̗̹͍͡ͅe̱͔̻̟̖ͅn̨̦̪̙̘ou͚̭͝n̟͖͇̝̞̮c͢e̲̘͓ ̛̪̗̳̥͔̬y̦͎̝̜̝͟o̢͇͚̬̹u̘͚̮r ̖̹͖̖͉͓͢ͅK̴̮̤̟i̝͇̰͕͇̝͞ņģ͍̦̹̳̖ ̞̰̖̥̲̻̺f̜̞o̺̳̖͜r͓͟ ͔͙͚͇m͓̞̥̹͉͈̻e̟͜?̮͓"̺̳ ̨

”I do” he had said, and then… nothing.  

He clenched his eyes in frustration. He did all he could to remember any remaining detail in any amount of clarity, but there was no respite in this land. He embedded his halberd in the sand, retrieved it and repeated once more. His mind bounced back and forth in patterns of erratic madness and fear; internally there was chaos, externally there was silence. He knelt toward the dusty sun with his head bowed as though he were praying. Perhaps to some observers, he would have been seen to be crying, perhaps praying? Maybe his time was nigh and he desired answers above all else? Why had he been refused to this land of countless sorrows; what foul deeds had he committed in his life from before to warrant this destruction of a human soul? Why– 

His thought process was halted abruptly, and he lifted his head, the weight of his helm growing heavier by the day. Footsteps. The sound of a man kicking the befouled sand. Tap. Tap. Tap.
He pushed himself to his feet, raising tall, his shadow long in the eternal twilight. 

“Stop,” He started without ever looking back to catch sight of his unwelcome guest. 

The footsteps did not stop. They grew louder, closer. 

“Stop,” he repeated.

There was a moment of silence, where there was not even a wind to distract from the moment. 

“W-why” a maddened voice asked. “Why! Why! Why! Tell me why!”

The Turncloak Blade slowly pivoted so he could sum up the potential assailant. The man was short, standing no taller than five and a half feet at a push, a shattered short sword clumsily pointed toward the Turncloak’s mass, tattered leather barely covering his bony frame. He must have frozen on the coldest nights, he had likely been killed many a time before simply by the icy wrath of the world.  

“Why! Why!” He cried again, tiny specks of almost dried spittle shooting from his cracked lips with the enunciation of every syllable, no matter how mad. 

“Which King do you serve?” The Turncloak asked seemingly without consideration. The directness of his query silenced the madman unexpectedly and they shared yet another moment of quiet before it was once again broken. 

“I- I- I don’t serve! No King! No King!” the madman screamed without any sense of restraint. 

Such a statement was all the Turncloak needed to hear, and with one foul motion he brandished his demonically sharp halberd and twisted while extending his arm, a slight flick of the wrist drove the steel between the eyes of the Kingless Madman, causing the halberd to grind to a halt within his flesh with a sickening thud. The body went limp, the shattered short sword clanged against the sand, and for a foul moment, the body was suspended only by its marriage with the Turncloak’s weapon. The gaping wound spread, and the body gently slid to the ground, collapsing into a lifeless pile; blood pouring from the devastating gash. He wiped the weapon upon the leathers of the slain man, fastened the haft upon his backplate, and turned his eyes to the looming valley’s sweeping sides and countless concealing details. Who else was lurking, awaiting their chance? 

Let them try, he thought. Let them come. 

He righted himself and continued his quest to the mountain.
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ᛏᚨᚲᛖ ᛗᛖ ᛏᛟ ᚦᛖ ᛋᚢᚾ ᚨᚾᛞ ᚠᚨᚱ ᛒᛖᛃᛟᚾᛞ ᚦᛖ ᚲᛚᛟᚢᛞᛋ

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