"Bleak, very bleak.

"That is how most people describe the once flourishing kingdom of Lerufna. At one point in time, it was the jewel of the whole empire, its finest city, Rednalwen, larger than the capital of the entire empire.

"But now, things are different.

"The once fine city, its high peaks, terraces, and walls, all constructed from red marble, were viewable from all but the very lowest of valleys. Now, it is red tinted with black, and two of the four watch towers have crumbled. None have dared rebuild them, for fear of the Black Knight."

"Who's the Black Knight?" a youngster, no older than twelve, interrupted.

"You mean you've never heard of the Black Knight, the scourge of the Cerapiri Empire?" the old man continued, the empty ale mug still clenched tightly in his frail hand. "He's been pillaging everywhere in the Empire for almost five years. But he has a special place in his heart for Rednalwen. And he had to have it for his own. So slowly, very slowly, mind you, he frightened people away. He keeps the kingdom for himself now, the blighter. He always works alone, and always keeps to himself. No one has ever bested him in a sword fight, or even come close enough to make a dent in his black armor, crafted from the strongest of formulas that no one else has ever learned. He walks here and there they say, dressed as a simple commoner. But it's his red eyes that give him away."

"That can't be true," a drunk nearby scoffed.

"Can too," piped up another, stepping closer to the one who made the claim. "Me eyes be red."

"Ye eyes be not red, they be orange," the man replied.

"And ye be drunk."

"Ye too."

"Some, very few, direct descendants of the masons who crafted the great Red city itself, actually have crimson eyes. He may be one of them," yet another man interjected, his face hidden by a deep blue hood. He was not drunk, or at least not nearly as much as the other men about him.

The story-teller nodded. "Aye. That's right. But anybody foolish enough to check the Black Knight's eyes would probably find himself dead before they could actually tell."

The man in the blue hood nodded, and with that, left the tavern to emerge in the dark, foggy night. He had heard the tale several times before. It was spread everywhere in the Cerapiri Empire, across all four of the still highly populated kingdoms, Jevarci, Kadamierna, Auslonuea, and the central (and main) kingdom, Cuernio.

The man walked to his horse, a magnificent black stallion. He untied the reins, and climbed onto his steed easily. He prodded the horse with his heels, and the horse started to gallop, heading north west, away from the main road. Diagio, the town he was leaving, was a small town on the far east edge of Kadamierna, the eastern empire. It was a gathering place for thieves, bandits, and all kindred of those hiding from justice. It was the perfect place to begin the hunt for the Black Knight.

The man rode swiftly, his purple eyes not leaving his desired path. It would be quite the hunt for the man. But he was no ordinary man. He was the Prince of Lerufna, Damaro, and was destined to take it back somehow. He rode alone, as he always did, preferring to fight the Black Knight one on one instead of in a group like a common coward. He wasn't frightened at all, though he believed that the Black Knight should be. Damaro was a man that none other had ever bested at swordplay, and his intelligence was also rarely matched. He was tall, towering over all but the tallest of elves from Jevarci, the western wood. He was handsome, as most princes were, but even more so than usual. He was human, but his strength rivaled that of the gigantic Caboras, creatures stronger and larger than horses with large tusks and a spiked tail, from the South Western Wasteland. He was determined to hunt down this evil, and take Lerufna for himself. It was his birthright as Prince.

He was only 13 when the Black Knight started scaring people away from Rednalwen. He was now 20, and he swore to his parents that he would put an end to the fiend.

Damaro sighed softly, and continued riding. After this was over, the Empire would be safe again. Well, safer. He was going to be betrothed to one of the four princesses of Auslonuea, and forced to marry for title rather than for love, like all other royalty in the Empire. He, however, actually wanted to find his one true love. He knew that love was out of his reach, and that, perhaps, was why he still wanted love more than anything.

After three weeks of riding, the crumbling watch towers of Rednalwen were in sight. It was nearly dusk; the sun had almost disappeared beneath the horizon. Damaro smiled. Finally, he thought, a chance to restore my family's honor by besting the tyrant.

He urged his horse to gallop faster, steering his stallion, Fibyon, towards the now broken gates. As his horse galloped, he examined the parts of the city he could see. A lot of the once bright red marble was now covered in black plaque, moss, and other plants. Two of the four huge towers had collapsed, and probably a lot of the other buildings had, too.

He passed through the gates, and into the streets. The once white marble streets were now yellowing. Several fine stores and taverns were empty. No lights shone from any of the windows that had once been alight. He looked around the dismal city, wondering what kind of villain could possibly do this to a place. He looked upwards, to where the castle still stood. There was a light in the highest tower. Smirking, he urged his horse through the streets to the palace.

The palace was the crown jewel of the city, even after years of neglect. Damaro hopped off of his horse, and tied the reins to a nearby post. Bravely, he walked alone through the palace gates.

The courtyard was gloomy, the weeds and vines all overgrown. The hedges needed clipping, and the only flowers were weeds. He ventured through the overgrown paths. There was a miniscule amount of color, hidden behind a bush. He walked over, only to find a huge patch of roses. There were several different colors on several different bushes. Maroon, lavender, white, yellow, pink, orange, and even red roses were scattered about. One rose caught his eye. It was in the very center of the entire patch. The rose was larger than any of the others, and pure black. He bent over slightly and reached forward, stretching his fingers towards it so he could feel the soft petals.

Out of no where, there was a sword tip at his neck. "Stand," a gruff voice ordered.

Damaro had no choice but to obey. His right hand strayed to the now empty sheath, and he gasped slightly. He turned to face the man, his eyes dark. "The Black Knight," he growled angrily. "Return to me my sword and face me like a man."

Behind the helm of his armor, the Black Knight laughed darkly, and twirled Damaro's sword in his left hand, his right still holding his own sword to Damaro's neck. "You shouldn't have intruded. This is my land, my city, my castle." The Black Knight moved closer to him, taking in his scent. "You're royalty," he said. "Good. The more spoilt the better. I'll get quite the ransom for you."

Damaro glared at him. "Is that all you do now? Wait for someone to come after you, and capture them?"

The Black Knight shook his head. "No. I pillage and plunder the nearby towns, never leaving my treasures for long." He smirked, and then continued. "Would you like to meet the last man who tried to kill me?" he asked cruelly. He put Damaro's sword to his neck, sheathing his own sword. From a spot on his own belt, he pulled a pair of manacles, and quickly fastened Damaro's wrists inside them. He then proceeded to take Damaro's sheath, strapping it to his own belt. He pulled a dagger from a small sheath, and put that to Damaro's back. Damaro's sword, now in his sheath, was around the Black Knight's waist. "This way," he said darkly, directing him with the point of his dagger.

Angrily, Damaro walked, going only where the dagger directed him. There was nothing he could do. The Black Knight was smart, surprisingly so.

The Black Knight steered him inside the palace, and into the main entry. Damaro looked around in awe. The inside of the palace was just as he remembered it, not a tiny thing out of place. The Black Knight removed the dagger for a second, and Damaro took his chance. He slipped his manacled arms around the Black Knight, pinning his arms. "Now we're both in a predicament, aren't we, Knight?" he hissed dangerously. "Free me, give me my sword, and I will release you. We'll settle this like men."

The Black Knight nodded, and he pulled his manacles off of the dark one. The Black Knight put his dagger in the sheath, and removed the Damaro's sheath and sword. He handed it back, and pulled a key from his belt. He undid the manacles, and reattached them to his belt.

Damaro rubbed his wrists for a moment, and then drew his sword. "We fight, Black Knight. Should I win, you come back with me to Byalito."

"And should I win, you become my captive, only to be ransomed. And you will swear never to come after me again."

"Deal," he replied, then slashed at the Black Knight's thigh. The Black Knight parried, and started slicing at Damaro. Damaro parried quickly, admiring the skill of the Knight.

The fight was long and tiring, taking a toll on both of the fighters. Damaro was losing his strength, and it seemed as if the Black Knight wasn't losing any energy. Desperately, he flicked his sword downward, hoping to trap the Black Knight's sword under his foot, which he did. He raised his sword to right beneath the Black Knight's helm. "You lose, villain," he said, smirking. "Remove your helm." The Black Knight sighed heavily, and pulled it off with his right hand. Black hair tumbled out, and crimson eyes stared back at him. Damaro gasped, his mouth agape, his sword still at the Black Knight's neck. "You… you're… you're a… a woman?" he stuttered.

"Oh well spotted," she retorted coldly. Her crimson eyes sparkled dangerously, and pointed ears poked out from behind her long black hair.

"Remove the armor, witch, and tell me where the real Black Knight is," Damaro ordered, his sword piercing her skin a bit, forcing a red droplet of blood to appear on her otherwise fair neck.

She glared at him coldly. "I'm sorry. You said witch, not wench, so excuse me for not agreeing to stripping myself of my armor in front of you."

He realized that she had a point, and sighed, exasperated. "Fine. Where are your belongings, witch?"

"Keep calling me witch, prick, and you won't get anything from me."

He breathed heavily, and looked her over. "Fine. Pick up your sword, and lead the way to the place you can change, elf." She nodded, retrieved her sword, and led the way up the large flight of stairs, Damaro's sword still at her neck. "Do you have a name, elf?" he asked as he peered about.

"Eniarron," she replied softly. "And yours, Prince?"

"Damaro," he answered.

She stopped at a door, and looked to him. "This is it. I swear by my sword that I will return," she said, and he nodded. She entered her room, and shut the door tightly.

Damaro leaned against the wall. The roses made sense now. But her sword-fighting skills. She can't possibly be the real Black Knight, he thought. She's an elf, for the sake of the Gods, an elf!

The door opened, and Eniarron emerged. She was taller than average, even for an elf, and her body was slender. She was clothed in a long black riding dress, her sword in its sheath around her waist. She held out the manacles and keys she had trapped him with earlier. Damaro took them, and she held out her wrists. She was cold and commanding, but a prisoner none-the-less. He clapped her in irons, and his eyes locked with hers for the first time. Her eyes were like fire, and they completely startled him. He blinked, and grabbed the chain between the manacles. "Come along, Eniarron. You have a dark appointment with destiny."