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A Pale Knight

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There it sat, half-sunken into the lake. He did not recall a lake every being there, only a small, meandering river. Yet, time had eroded away both its banks, and the manor that once stood upon them. All that was left, now, was a single turret and a part of the wall. The rest had long since crumbled away into the waters, now only pieces of the rocky shoreline. All that had once been, was now reclaimed by the land. There was no grandeur of the noble house that once stood there, nothing to remember it by. Save distant memories held by the only remaining piece on the board. A pale, and lonely knight who now sat upon a tree stump at the lake’s edge. He looked as if the very colour had been drained from him entirely. Not just by the emptiness before him, but in a manner that seemed as a permanent scar. His dull, greying-upon-black hair tousled by his own hands, and wind. Held tightly now between his fingers, head bowed as his elbows rested upon his knees. Dangling from the fingers of his left hand, glinting in the sunlight, was a small and elegantly simple silver amulet of Mara, and a letter. Even in his silent grief, and even as his shoulders shook, he held it gently. As if, with the lightest pressure of touch, it would crumple into dust. For it was yellowed with time, the edges of the vellum brittle.

If there were such a thing as Fate, it was naught but a cruel design. For if he had met his end, and sorely did he wish he had, their wait would have been but a brief passing of time. Now, he wondered just how long it had been.

It was finally the undeniable necessity to sleep that drove him from that tree stump. In the shadows of another day fading away, he slowly turned his path toward the nearest road. For there was none that ventured here, now. He did, however, recall the merchants he had passed some days prior mentioning a wayfarer’s rest not far from here. Perhaps, it would be busy.


***

Who in their right mind would build a town that far north, the pale knight questioned in his mind.

For a moment, Matthew wondered if he had read the sign wrong. It was not entirely impossible, he was still getting through the translation book the Conclave librarian had “lent” him; or, perhaps he had not entirely sobered up yet. While both were true, so too was the sign. It pointed further northward: Gondryck's Nest. He recalled, in another time, venturing that far north to patrol the small swath of farmland under the House. Surely, no sane person would think to build a settlement so close to the Reach. Then again, it had been so long. Maybe they were no longer the threat they once were. And so, in the growing light of dawn, the pale knight made his way down the northern road. If only for the sake of finding a familiar path.

But it became increasingly clear, the further the road took him the less likely he was to find such a path. For a time the woodland surrounding the merchant road was calm, verdant even in the summer sun. Certainly it was a wild place, but that was how he remembered Bangkorai. A wild land, still untamed by the hands of men. While perilous at times, it had been a life of tightly-knit kin seeking to root themselves. In a way, he felt more at home walking through the looming boughs of the forest. It was a sense that could, almost, allow him to breath. A mild, fleeting pleasantry that allowed the still-sobering knight a quiet relief. Yet, as the day waned so too did the light in the forest. It was subtle at first, merely the passing shadow of a cloud perhaps. But the feeling grew as the forest began to lose its vibrancy, and the boughs above gave off more shadow than greenly-filtered light. It was as Matthew approached a series of rising rocks along the road, covered in thick moss with small, white flowers, that he truly felt the lingering sense of dread brought on by this place. It was there, on that dusty road that the knight paused. His armour catching brief glints of sunlight that managed to filter through the swaying branches that shook in the stale wind.

I know this feeling, Matthew thought grimly. Slowly turning to look at the area around himself, one hand reached to wrap around the hilt of his sword. A drawn, and bitter look on his face as he sank further into thought. It is as if … the Host passed by here.
He knew that it had not, no. That had been one of the first things he had taken to library for. Styriche and his Host were long dead. So what then was this? Before the dusty, memory-stolen, and dishevelled knight could sink any further into his memories a piercing cry for help broke the stillness over him.

Bandits, a notorious problem in these parts. Today was no exception.

Around the bend of the rock outcropping, further down the road was a rutted merchant cart. The rut that had trapped the cart’s wheel suspiciously deeper than the others. Bundles of wheat, and crates of peaches had spilled out onto the road from the kiltered cart. Wood and reins creaked as the horse pulling the load thrashed and kept trying to bolt the cart out of the rut, but by now the beast was heaving for breath against the strain. Another cry carried up over it, a boy calling out for help in desperation. Only to be cut off by the loud clamor of steel, again and again. A middle-aged man, barely covered in leather armor was desperately fighting off two bandits with a tarnished short sword. The bandits did not look much better off, in mismatched hides and leathers with weapons just as tarnished. But their ferocity was outmatching the man's desperation.

“I told you to run, Orin!” the accosted merchant yelled, barely holding his footing against the heaving blow dealt into his sword. “Get!”

“B-but, Pa!” the young man protested between chattering teeth. In fairness to the poor boy, he had tried to make a run for it. He had made it just as far as the further peach crate. Now, he was curled up behind it, listening to the rhythmic ‘thunk’ of arrows sinking into the wood and peaches. He wasn’t sure if it really was an attempt to hit him, or some cruel game as the fifth, then sixth arrow sank into the crate.

But there was no seventh arrow. A sudden commotion of rustling trees, and breaking branches could be heard from the treeline. Then, it went still. It was enough to make the young man peek just over the edge of the crate, and to make both of the assailing bandits pause. A fleeting moment to catch breath, and tighten the grip upon hilts. Until, the scrawny figure of a slapdash hide clad bandit came flying out of the brushline, and slammed into the side of the wagon. With a groan the ruffian crumpled into the dirt road, and remained there, perfectly still.

“The fu--” one of the bandits started, cut off by his own companions axe sinking into the panel of the cart next to him: a warning shot.

“I’ll have to ask you fellows to cease in your…” Matthew stepped out of the brush as he spoke, a few stray leaves in his flat, greying hair. His full-plate dusty, and having a stray branch caught in the underlayer of chainmail by his shoulder. He held his sword at the ready in one hand, and his shield in the other. Yet, the tip of his blade dipped low, and wavered even as he lost his wording. “Well, if you would cease.”

The candid, plate-armoured knight drew looks of bewilderment from the two bandits, as well as the merchant and his son. Now, the odds did not seem so enticing to the bandits. They were kitted more for hunting, not dealing with a knight, or a guard, or whomever this was. This merchant cart had been easy pickings, and its load seemed just enticing enough to make them hesitate in leaving it. It was the unspoken desperation that lead to one of the bandits taking the chance, in the midst of gawking confusion, to slam the hilt of his sword into the side of the merchants head. It dropped the man in a black-out groan, even odds are never prefered by bandits. It was an act obviously distasteful to the knight, for he gave them both a flat glower. They had their warning, and as Matthew suddenly began approaching them he adjusted the grip on his shield.

“Oi, who t’fuck ya think yeh are --” one of the bandits started, a sun-tawny man with a few too few teeth and a long sword. Before he could finish his whistle of an insult, he found the knight almost in his face.

There had been a brief shimmer of silver come over the knight’s form, and just as suddenly he moved all the quicker. For every pace the bandits took to ready themselves, Matthew took two. Before the longsword-wielding bandit could bring the weapon to meet the knight’s own sword, he found the knight but a pace from him. Then, he found the patinated metal and wood of a green shield in front of him, then abruptly in his face. There was a sharp ‘crack’ as the shield slammed into the bandit's face and torso. With a shrieked cuss of blind pain, he stumbled back. Having dropped his sword to clutch at his face, blood pouring from his broken nose. In the course of the bandit stumbling away, holding his broken face, the gap was closed by another sword being brought down against Matthew. A swing that barely glanced off the knight’s shield, before he locked the crossguard of his sword over top of the bandits. He moved just quickly enough, that the remaining uninjured bandit barely had time to disengage. Looking at the knight with a wide-eyed stare, he moved to yank himself and his weapon away. But the knight moved with his every jolting step, holding the lock tightly with his shield on his outside arm. With another jolt, the bandit tried to take the opportunity to yank out of the lock once more, only to find the rut right behind his own footing. With an ungracious yelp, the bandit lost his balance and found himself wedged in the rut.

“Wait, wait!” the bandit, held up his hands, having lost his weapon. Sure enough, the point of Matthew’s blade waited, just a hair’s breadth from his neck. With a flat, focused expression the knight stared at him with eyes a near-colourless silver-blue.
“On my knight as an honour, I cannot allow you to … hurt these people,” the knight said clearly, but he seemed to have a hard time choosing his words. Quite a hard time, for he was not quite sober. His words making the bandit stare at him in bewilderment. But the look faded, and Matthew barely caught the glint in his eye. Then, another glint. This one of steel, at the corner of his eye. The archer had, evidently, awoken and taken the axe from the cart. Before the pale knight could fully turn with his shield, there was a cracking of wood as one of the peach crates was dropped on top of the archers head. With the promise of a long, long headache the archer dropped once more. The young lad staring at the body before him, and then the knight. He almost looked apologetic, but just a bit proud of himself.

With a huff, Matthew gave the young man an approving, thankful, nod. Already, the sprawled out merchant was starting to groan, and the bandit with his broken face had sank to his knees. He was trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose and mouth, coughing hoarsely.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any rope, would you?” the knight asked the young man.
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anhaga mid hrimcealde sæ

Anna Caiohme - The Wandering Wyress
Matthew Dumont - The Pale Knight
Guide on Wyrd Lore | Ethical Necromancy

Posted Feb 12, 18 · OP · Last edited Feb 20, 18
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Several Weeks Later

The taste of must lingered in his mouth. Stale, and bitter with age and decay. He would never be rid of the scent, it forever scarred his lungs.

In dimly lit shadows of flickering torchlight he could see their forms. Two, it was always. Yet, he knew, that around the shallow corner of crumbling carved stone waited a third. A creak of ancient leather and mail. Rattling breath that left no hint of warm wisps in this chill and hallow place. He took two steps, measured in stealthy approach. His left hand clenched around the worn, familiar strapping of his shield. Another step, and Matthew carefully raised his blade to a guarded point. Their rattling breaths came again, and again. He could hear the thrum of cursed verses echoing deeply in these halls, calling him to what awaited. He would not yield to their call, but it was irrefutable. And still, he took that quick step to meet his foe.

But Matthew suddenly found his legs knocking against a stool. With a wild scramble, the pale man failed to grab the edge of the table. Thus, the knight came crashing down onto the floor of the inn room. His jaw set tightly in a clench as he heard himself, and the furniture give a low thud in the dawn's growing light. A rattling clinking of a bottle or two striking the floor, and rolling under the bed. His only redeeming grace was managing to catch the flower vase, just before it smashed to pieces across the floor.

"Matthew? You alright?" Mrs. Clearwater's voice called. Of course she was awake. She would be making breakfast for the morning throng of workers, before they made off for the day.

"Yes, Mrs. Clearwater. I'm..." there was a lingering pause. What was he? Such was a thought he tried very hard not to address.
"I'm awake, Mrs. Clearwater. My apologies for the noise," the pale knight said, and he spoke with truthful apology.
"Do you need anything, dear? I can bring you up some breakfast!" the offer brought a quieted sigh from the man, as he stared up at the low-lit lantern that swung from the ceiling.
"No need, Mrs. Clearwater, I'll be down shortly," Matthew replied, sitting up with a stifled groan. He pulled out a stool leg from beneath himself. The sight of it made his shoulders fall, and head bow.
The innkeeper's wife carried on about the promise of fresh fruit as she hurried down the hall. Her boisterous voice carrying through the halls, and doing a sight more work at waking the rest of the inn up than Matthew's fall ever would.

It was strange, how this place had come to feel as his own pocket of eternal relief. Many days, he half-expected to wake up and turn to ash. That, perhaps, time would finally claim him. Yet, it had not happened. Not under the dawn's light, nor the pouring rains, nor shafts of silver moonlight. Now, in the snows of deepening winter he still found himself present. It was, slowly, growing to be a reality for the pale man. For the first time, in a rather long time, he had begun to feel a sense of mundane brought about by routine. It was all he could have asked for.

Breakfast was always at the same time, unless Aurora - the innkeep's daughter - had forgotten to put on the coffee. Then it was ten past, by the time the young Clearwater girl and her mother had ceased going back and forth over who had forgotten the kettle, and who had forgotten the coffee, and who had forgotten the cups - and how many. It was also, almost always, the same thing. Eggs, meat, some cheese. If lucky, and a caravan has passed through, perhaps some fruit preserves. It was a rarity though, and Matthew found the taste of it far too sweet now. He had no qualms leaving his share to the person next to him. Only once he had forced himself to stomach it. The rare time they had strawberry preserves. It reminded him of spring, and golden locks.

But such things were luxuries - sweet fruit, and memories. He was a man determined to merely make motions and routines with his own two hands, unarmed and productive. A task readily needed in this strange, frontier town. It's main source of trade was lumber. It was only sense, then, that Matthew put his sword and shield beneath the bed and take up a woodsman's axe. Gondryck's Nest was always in need of a few more hands, a shortness of such was merely the way of frontier towns - no questions asked. A bargain he was more than willing to take. Yet, this place seemed to face the problem all the more. The long shadows, and pervasive sense of dread that came from the woods surrounding the town was undeniable. Not even just the wood. It was easy to blame the reaching shadows of gnarled trees. It was the land itself, and Matthew could not help but notice it day after day. Something felt strange here, old and strange.

On this morning, with his back sore in just the right spot and the sound of late breakfast rising from the kitchen, Matthew sat down at his usual stool at the end of the bar. He barely had a moment to ease his hand from the knot he attempted to warm away, when Mr. Clearwater was placing a letter before.

"Has your name," the innkeep merely replied to the pale man's baffled look. Mr. Clearwater raised both hands, and was off already to at least place some food down before the growing crowd rumbled with hunger any longer.

Matthew looked at the letter. Sure enough, his name was cleanly written across the folded front. He reasoned, in his own thoughts, that it must be from Master Asgautr. Who else would send a letter? Who else would even know his name? With a crinkling of parchment, he opened it. A frown marred his otherwise expressionless features. It took him several minutes to work his way through the letter, even if its contents were written with brevity.

It was a call for help. His jaw tightened for a moment as he stared at the word: necromancers.

Surely, these were strange circumstances. An unsigned letter, with a call for help. In some way, it was inherently undeniable in his heart to ignore such a plea. In another, Matthew could not deny the double-edged relief that pierced his heart as he pulled his armor out from under the bed. In due fairness, he paid the Clearwater's what he owed with a promise to return, but a polite admission he did not know when. As such, he hardly expected the room to be waiting for him. Mr. Clearwater assured otherwise.

Such were the strange circumstance of which the pale knight met a steely Imperial merchant.
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Anna Caiohme - The Wandering Wyress
Matthew Dumont - The Pale Knight
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Posted Feb 12, 18 · OP · Last edited Feb 15, 18
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"You cannot kill him! He's unarmed!"
"This is not your business knight! He kidnapped our friend, almost had him killed!"

The woman was fading fast, damning hues of crimson seeping between her fingers and his. While that vengeful fire still burned brightly in her eyes, Matthew knew how they would darken if the wound was left to fester, to turn. The mark of the bloodfiends bite still clear on her flesh. It sent a piercing chill through his gut, and yet - of all times - he had a choice. Looking up at the rage-filled man of the wild, who held the unarmed accomplice by the throat, Matthew cursed the very nature of such a choice. It was damning either way.

The pale knight did not bother to stay, to be party to the vengeance. Righteous, or not. In his mind, he knew, he would much rather dig one grave, than two.


* * *


In the amber light of another fading day stood the steely, Imperial merchant. In appearance, he looked older than the tired knight who sat against a nearby rock. Sandy hair fading to grey at his temples. Yet, the strange merchant still had all the fire of pride and youth in his shrewd gaze. Here, in the desert sun, those lines of age upon his face were softened by the bronzed glow. Yet, even as Matthew sat in the same warm sun he still looked as a man paled by the freezing snows - the color drained away, even here.

"So, this was not your letter then?" Matthew said quietly. He held the crisp parchment of the letter that had pleaded for his help. Now, he questioned the sincerity and motive behind the inked words.

"No," the Imperial replied grimly, his response crisp and short. "While I thank you for aiding my companions, no. I did not write that letter."

Matthew stared at the letter in his hand. His features hardened, as too did his thoughts. His eagerness had won out, the idea of finding a cause. To find some... purpose. Yet, here he found only bloodfiends, frustration, and regret. With a drawn out sigh, he held the bridge of his nose. A slight trace of blood from his bracers leaving a streak upon his cheek; but, he was too deep in thought. The questions whirled about him as he sat there, like a statue lost to the time around him.

"I fear there is a reason we both found ourselves here, knight," the Imperial said as he mused his own thoughts. There was, at once, a sense of pondering and annoyance in the man's tone. "I know mine. It would seem that yours are the unknown piece. Crossed the ire of anyone lately, knight?"

"I have not crossed many at all, as of --" Matthew paused, he raised one brow as he listlessly looked to the fading horizon light. "As of late."

"Then, perhaps it would be wise of you to join with us?" the Imperial merchant propositioned. It was a guarded offer that made Matthew smirk silently to himself. He could hear the reservation in the man's tone, but he could also hear the sell in the words. Matthew was not so sure he was being sold on the idea, or collected. The strange nature of merchants was always foreign to one who mended their own socks.

Most of all, Matthew's mind turned to the other two companions held in this man's company. Thought of their presence brought a twitch to Matthew's countenance, his features pulled in a minute frown. It was not just them that left a fleeting mark of distrust on the knight's features. No, there were many things of days gone past that held the knight safely at bay of such offers. Godrich had not faded from his mind. Neither had the truth of the Conclave and Master Asgautr, it was still fresh. He had left on tenuous terms, after learning of why those mages ever found him in the first place; of why they never let him out in the first place. It was that knowledge, and the memory of one who had showed him compassion - Tirana - suffering a punishment at the hands of a trusted teacher that sealed Matthew's determined notions.

"I think, perhaps, I am best alone," Matthew replied evenly as he stood up from the rock he had sat upon. "For now, that is."

"Have it your way, knight," the Imperial replied without a second thought. There was only the slightest hint of disappointment, and Matthew did not fool himself to assume it was personal in nature. "When you change your mind, you can come looking."

The pale knight strapped his shield to his back, his sword already secured in its sheath. As he picked up the patinated helm from the rock, shaking it of dust, he glanced to the merchant. It was obvious, in the flat look the knight gave the steely merchant, that Matthew did not know where to 'come looking'. That look in the knight's face made the Imperial flash a brief grin.

"Just look for Cassius Caravans, and you'll find me," Cassius Antony replied.

* * *


He had not truly picked a direction. For the first time ever, Matthew simply followed a direction. With no prompting, no order, no purpose waiting at the end of the cobbled road he walked upon. In the distance, he could hear gulls calling out their hungry love-song to the sea. Beneath his arm, he tucked his helm. It was far hotter here than he had ever known in High Rock. Save that one summer, when it rarely rained, and the crops turned brittle in the scorched dirt. He had never known such relief as falling into a mountain lake, until then. She had been all the more incredulous and frustrated with him that he had thanked her for pushing him, but he knew she hardly meant it.

"Hey! You! You with the swordhire?"

Matthew looked over his shoulder. In his absent thoughts, the pale knight had not heard the clipping of horse hooves on the cobbled road. He shook his head once to the question, his gaze attentive on the fine horses. A small cart with varying valuables, and its two drivers peered around their cart-horses to the strange, armor-clad man on the road.

"Why? Are you in need of a guard?" Matthew asked, turning to them as the cart pulled to a stop next to him. Both beasts whinnied nervously, their muscles rippling and flexing as they pulled at the load-bindings.

"Ahh," the men looked to one another, and then the odd one. "Well, we lost our .. ahm.. escort a ways back."
"The prices people ask these days. We ain't goin' through Cyrodiil," the other man grumbled.
"It's not quite a scenic ride through the Gold Coast these days, ya know?" the former admitted with a shrug. "If you're heading that way, we can offer ya board?"

Matthew blinked. He gave no immediate response to the men. In truth, he did not know how to respond to the men; or, this strangely timed meeting. He frowned briefly, and while he knew what duty dictated him to say he still hesitated. At least, until the older merchant of the two began to snap the reigns once more.
"Alright," Matthew said quickly, raising one hand in signal to them. "I'd be glad to see you to your destination."

"Ever been? To the Gold Coast, I mean," the younger of the two merchants asked the pale knight, as the knight climbed onto the back of the cart.
"No, can't say I have," Matthew admitted as he pulled his helm off, his shoulders heaving in a silent sigh of relief at feeling the evening breeze on his face. He wondered, for a moment, just where this place was.
"Ah, you'll love it! Home of the Empire it is! Well, these days. Well, dependin' who ya ask."

Matthew glanced over his shoulder, giving the merchant a curious look as to what he meant by that; but the young man had already turned away. Was the Homeland not..? Perhaps, it was. He was not so certain of these matters anymore. As the cobblestones fled beneath the cart, and Matthew stared out over the rolling hills he felt a feeling rise in his chest. It was a sensation he had not known, nor thought on in a long, long time. He felt unmoored.

In the cool breeze of evening, with the salt of the sea breeze in his lungs, the pale knight wandered.
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Anna Caiohme - The Wandering Wyress
Matthew Dumont - The Pale Knight
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Posted Feb 23, 18 · OP · Last edited Feb 23, 18
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Evening set in hues of dappled purple and gold. Upon the drifting breeze of salt and sea could be heard the gulls. Here, the seaside felt so very different from High Rock. There was always an oppressive dampness to the air, the hint of a chill in the morn and eve. Yet, here, upon the Gold Coast, the sea breeze was always warm. It was intoxicating, as if the wind somehow carried the very feeling of warm sand in its scent. It was on this evening of fading sunlight, and clear skies that the pale knight rode a cart as it rumbled through the gates of Kvatch.

Overhead loomed the pristine stones of the cathedral. Its stained glass caught the last rays of day, and reflected their light in an array of colours one could ever behold. Specks of coloured light drifted across the cathedral walls, and flagstones of the church steps. Matthew could not help but stare up at the great building with a sense of awe. It was not unlike the ones he had seen in High Rock. Yet, there was a sense of grandeur to its design that arrested his attention for that moment. With his helm long since tucked away into the cart, his view was unobstructed in its admiration. The breeze drifting through locks of dark and graying hair.

"Ah, here we go," the merchant's voice broke the stillness over the knight.

With a blink, Matthew half-turned to look over his shoulder at the two merchant's. The elder of the two regarded the knight with a friendly look, as he nodded toward the inn they had stopped in front of. Offering a polite nod in return, Matthew set himself down from the cart. The sound of steel brushing against leather as he sheathed his sword. It had been sitting across his lap for much of the journey, but managed to remain unstained, for now. Subtlety, and quieted horses made for better strategy in dealing with brigands, and those bullish beasts than any blade would. With his helm, and small satchel of belongings tucked under one arm Matthew thanked the two men. Who, in turn, were already interrupting the knight as they inquired if he would come on the return trip? How much was his hire? They offered a price that Matthew did know if it was fair, or a swindle. But, he had no reason to distrust these men. He assured them, he would think on it.

And while the knight pined to think he would not need to take their gold now, it was simply not wise to the reality of his situation. He had little gold on him now. With a somber thanks, he took the coin they offered him. He wished them safety in the light of day, and shadows of night. They assured him, they would all need it in a place such as this.

The pale knight stood on the lamplit street before The Eight Blessings, left to wonder what they had meant by that.

If there were any surprises waiting within that inn, none stood out to Matthew. It was a tavern room akin to any other he had passed through in his travels. A fine tender behind the bar, the drunken talk, and the accompanying laughter, a figure or two sitting within the nooks of the room, and an empty seat by the bar. It was there that Matthew made quick to settle himself. There were important matters to address. Matters of food, and for Mara's sake some water. He could not quite believe just how hot it was here. Yet, it was. He hoped dearly there was somewhere to bath. Plate armour made for a wonderful conductor of heat, and sweat.

It was late, then, by the time the pale man sat down in his inn room. Half-wrapped, and with wet hair hanging freely. In the candlelight, his hair almost appeared to have some luster of colour when wet. Perhaps, that was only by virtue of the reflecting water. Sitting there, upon the edge of a humbly made bed, Matthew let the absent drip of water against floorboard lull him into thought. For these many miles, the pale knight had been locked in a fierce wrestle with his own mind. A fight to ward off his own demise. For he would be undone at the very realization, the very admittance to himself of how far he had wandered. The truth that, in fact, he wandered at all.

Now, in the dim light of the long night, and the quiet of an unknown place the thought finally surfaced. This was the farthest he had ever managed to tread. For a brief, breath seizing moment he wondered if any of what he recalled to be real. Was any of this real? Or was he damned to wake up from sunken, cursed dreams once more? But the battered shield, and patina-marked sword leaning against the wall spoke otherwise. They were quite real. The marks and scars of each embattled step, the faded House crest still etched upon the green-stained steel of the shield. All of it, was still quite real.

He was not stuck in that barrow. He had not awoken there in many, many weeks. The rattling breath, and creaking steps of the unhallowed wraiths in that hellish tomb had not haunted his shadow in some time. Now, he found himself in a place he could never even have hoped to dream up. It was real, all of it. For once, the pale knight dared admit that aloud. In a low, and quiet breath only heard by the long shadows, and flickering candle of the inn room. Perhaps, oh perhaps this meant he could get some sleep. Instinctively, his hand tightly clasped the small, silver amulet of Mara that hung around his neck.

Yes, sleep. Perhaps, he could dare hope for a dreamless sleep; for just a few, merciful hours.

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Anna Caiohme - The Wandering Wyress
Matthew Dumont - The Pale Knight
Guide on Wyrd Lore | Ethical Necromancy

Posted Mar 9, 18 · OP · Last edited Mar 9, 18
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