The Black Canary: Triptych One
"Love and hatred are a matter of the will, which is rooted in the soul; therefore they cannot by any cunning be caused by the devil. " -The Malleus Maleficarum
Neverwinter's power extended far beyond the walls of its city, spilled onto the surrounding landscape and coated the city-state's kingdom with a transparent veil of order. Citizens of the city living honestly outside the metropolis upheld that law, believed religiously in its invisible existence. But for the lawless brigands that roamed the countryside of the City of Skilled Hands, those atheists to the belief in Neverwinter's authority outside its castles and courts, law was invisible and nonexistent.
Until Nasher's knights thundered across their territory, and order manifested as soldiers in silvery armor and cobalt heraldry. Then, no villainy was safe in the shadows of Neverwinter's walls.
At the head of the knights' brigade, Casavir pressed his heels into his bay stallion's sides, cantering to the peak of another summit. Reining his horse to a halt, the paladin gazed from his new vantage point at the flat patch of farmland situated against the mountains. Farmers tilled the field under the gaze of Greycloaks stationed at the weathered keep. Casavir turned his eyes further down the trail. Crossroad Keep. It had been sixteen years since the murder of the Knight Captain. The paladin's memory of the incident was sharper than ever as he stood in the presence of his Knight Captain's stronghold. His emotional response, however, had been dulled considerably since last he'd visited there. He was at peace, and for once, felt happiness despite the place.
His wife rode up alongside him, breathless. Her black hair had tangled at the nape of her armor's neck, but her peridot eyes smiled with relentless energy. Thirteen years his junior, her vigor seemed endless, her youthful beauty constant. She was Sisserou Dianarca, his love. Her cynical expression highlighted the smirk upon her carmine lips and matched the sarcasm in her voice that noted, "Rare is the day you best me in horsemanship."
"My lady, there is a stark difference between good horsemanship and choosing the swifter steed in the stable," Casavir replied with a grin, "But if you'd like a finer display of my horsemanship, perhaps I'd challenge you to a joust?"
Sisserou snorted, her laughter concealed with an unyieldingly unhappy façade, "My lord, there is a stark difference between good horsemanship and handling a lance. Jousting tests the latter ability."
"In handling a lance, I could think of more than just jousting that test one's ability." Casavir murmured playfully to her.
"I'd not share those activities if I were you, my lord." She replied, nodding over her shoulder. Echoed hoof beats grew louder, and a cloud of trail dust gave way to a palomino stallion mounted by an equally blonde knight. Halting his steed in a flurry of hooves behind Sisserou, the knight lifted his chin and brushed dirt from his chain mail greaves, a quiet disdain tainting the honey-brown of his eyes.
To be sure, more than his eyes were tainted. Time tarnished the knight Nevalle more than it had his comrade Casavir. Sentenced by Tyr to a decade of battling demons in the perilous Abyss as a Knight of the Chalice, Nevalle was scarred, gnarled, aged, and drained of faith. Serving Neverwinter was no longer his duty and joy, but merely his employment, a means to afford potent wines and lavish courtesans. He was but a ghost of the man Casavir remembered, a shade of the Knight Captain's advisor and tireless defender of Nasher and his throne, all for consorting with demon kind. As staunchly opposed to fiends as Casavir was, part of him pitied the knight that had been utterly lost for loving Axarthys sin Saintrowe.
But demons trailed chaos and destruction in their wakes, and perhaps Nevalle should have known the outcome of his adoration for the tanar'ri emissary. The paladin turned his steed to face Nevalle's, nodding curtly towards the keep, "The Greycloaks have likely prepared our prisoner for transport to Neverwinter. We should make haste to the courtyard and retrieve him."
"Naturally the Greycloaks are too incompetent to escort a single prisoner to Neverwinter's dungeons." Nevalle huffed, pressing his heels into his horse's sides and riding between Sisserou and Casavir. Ahead of them, the knight jeered into the warm breeze, "Of course, I'm sure you were thrilled when Nasher assigned us this menial task. In his dying months, the old sovereign figured this mission appropriate- a reminder of our humble origins as adventurers and soldiers of Neverwinter. What memories were had here!"
"And few of them happy." Sisserou uttered under her breath with a pang of bitterness.
Casavir sighed, growling lowly, "You mock me, Nevalle, but in meeting this prisoner I think you'll suffer a far greater misery in being here than I."
"We shall see, paladin." Nevalle challenged. As he cantered ahead, Sisserou threw back her head with a bitter sneer painted upon her plump lips, allowing her horse to straggle behind alongside Casavir's.
"You should have told him outright," she said, "That the prisoner is a baatezu."
Casavir shook his head, unable to suppress a smirk at his wife's relentless mockery. He responded, "My lady, you hardly have a paladin's mercy."
-
Neverwinter's plagues had always been physical. The city suffered the Wailing Death and the King of Shadows, and while certainly the consequences of sociopolitical strife had been vast and reconstruction of the city taxing, the Neverwintan people rebounded seamlessly. Their faith solidly placed in Tyr, there was little that could hinder Neverwinter's hopes, and even less that could arouse their fears. Reports of Luskan military advancements and uprisings of magical forces within Neverwinter's borders failed to frighten the people, and did only to test their extraordinary resolve; the largest of threats was received by Neverwinter with a hardened stare and a wary, yet unmoved, audience.
But Neverwinter was by no means a foolish kingdom, and while twelve years of peace and successful rebuilding of the city since the defeat of the King of Shadows had consoled concerns and silenced conspiracies, vigilance persisted. None knew what lurked in the shadows of Neverwinter, and it was that reality that tucked daggers in the belts of those who walked the city streets at night. The true threat that loomed, however, could be slaughtered with no blade, and at that time, crept through no alley of Neverwinter's quarters. Unseen, unheard, unknown, the threat was distant then. But the twisted depths of the demonic Abyss, it stirred.
Zelatar, the capital city of the demon prince Graz'zt's three-planed realm of Azzagrat, contained it. Nasher Alagondar, lord of Neverwinter, was dying, and Zelatar braced for the opportune moment to claim the city's throne. This time, there would be no plague or shadowy legions to face. This time, the enemy would manifest in diaphanous gowns and silken slippers. The Argent Palace, Graz'zt's citadel, buzzed with whispered rumors of the plot. From its tallest towers, the Dark Prince himself smiled in grim pleasure at the events prepared to unfold. At his side, gazing from behind the glass of the tower's windows, the Lamb stood poised.
"Loathe the Material Plane as you will, little Lamb," Graz'zt uttered to his emissary, "But if you can successfully secure the Neverwintan throne for the Abyss, I doubt any devil will best your diplomatic capacity. The Nine Hells will envy and vie for your gift."
The Lamb, quietly displeased with her assignment, traversed the chamber and lifted her thin jaw, leering down at the city of Zelatar beneath her. Her snowy ringlets doused her shoulders in a soft, white froth, and her sleek ebony gown trailed like a fabric serpent behind her. She glanced behind herself momentarily, drawing her pink eyes away when her lord's acidic green orbs met her gaze. She whispered poisonously, "You waste my talents on an effortless assignment and helpless mortals."
"And you are dangerously bold for criticizing where I assign my talents to." Graz'zt snapped, walking up behind her and setting his black hands across her shoulders. The Lamb was motionless.
"You mistake me for the feeble slave of Waterdeep I once was, commanding me as if a witch demanding of her petty familiars. That is an oversight. I am the diplomat of the entire Abyss to Baator, and belong not to you alone." She demanded.
"If only your ambition could be slaked." Graz'zt whispered.
"Ambition? I've obtained what I coveted. My name is sung in the halls of demons and devils alike." The Lamb hissed. Graz'zt smiled dismally, lifting a single curl of his underling's hair in his fingers.
"You are prideful, little Lamb, and not without cause; there are devils smitten with your charms. Surely no demon boasts that accomplishment." Graz'zt admitted with a quiet snort, "Perhaps you have been too successful."
She scoffed, "Devils pawing at my heels hardly bolster my renown amongst demons."
"That is an unfortunate outlook, as all of the Abyss is enamored with your celebrity and vie for your infamy. In fact, if anything tempers your success, it is not your devilish allies, but that final… object binding you to mortal kind," Graz'zt remarked, purring in her ear, "And that, little Lamb, is Rialnah."
The Lamb turned from the demon lord's grasp, gliding towards the staircase that spiraled to the depths of the Argent Palace. She paused at the entry to the stairwell, the stormy skin of her cheek being all that was visible of her angered face. She swore, "After I have completed this assignment, you shall have a challenge in subduing my clout in the Lower Planes."
As her heels clicked against the marble of the staircase, Graz'zt could not suppress the amused laughter that escaped his depraved smile. Few of his wayward servants lived to serve him for long, but he never denied himself that Axarthys sin Saintrowe, a princess amongst demons, was worth every hindrance she saddled him with.
-
"I can't see why Nasher would chance it."
"The Lord's Alliance."
"You mean to say, Waterdeep. Anytime it's the Lord's Alliance-"
"-It's a euphemism for Neverwinter serving the Masked Lords on hand, foot, and bended knee. Yes, that's the reason. And chancing it? Risk is never a factor in missions concerning Waterdeep."
"But this-"
"We've handled Waterdeep's demons before. Calm down."
"Fools."
The two Greycloak guards jumped, spinning round with their lances clutched to their chests. Deep in the cavernous dungeons of Crossroad Keep, their prisoner's brooding voice echoed through the labyrinth of stone cells and corridors like steel clanking against iron cell bars. Seated on a stone at the back of his cage, he hunched over with his elbows positioned over his knees. His orange eyes shone like dim candles from beneath his black brows.
"I haven't decided what disgusts me more," he uttered lowly, "Mortal ignorance of the Lower Planes and its denizens or delusions that Neverwinter could seriously contain a devil of my station."
"It speaks," one guard quipped. The other tapped his lance on the cell bars.
"It can speak all it wants," He warned, "but it's not escaping, not on my shift, and so it can talk all it pleases. Neverwinter is well equipped to deal with fiends."
The devil didn't laugh, and no delight with human naivety plastered a grin on his devilish face. He scoffed bitterly, "Surely if Waterdeep cannot bind me, Neverwinter will."
"Neverwinter is a perfectly capable state, demon!" a guard snapped, "We have battled your ilk before, and we've gambled our own lives and safety in conflicts with the Hells. If we all but repeat history, we're going to succeed again."
"That is hardly the impression you shared with your colleague moments ago. Yes, I overheard. You are aware that I have ears, don't you?" The devil inquired sourly. Both guards glanced at one another, and the fearful of the two winced as his associate smashed the flat base of his lance into the stone floor, rebuking him for sharing Neverwinter's iniquities with a devil.
"Can't you ever pipe down?!"
"Well, you answered me, didn't you?"
"I tried to shut you up and told you to stop worrying, but no!"
As they chattered on, the devil sighed despairingly and sunk back into his seat, leaning the back of his head against the damp, cold walls of his cell. His horns curved back and over his head, and their pointed grey tips rapped against a wall's surface when he settled deeper into his seat. Absanoch Shaddonhale had faithfully served his lord Asmodeus since the inception of the Nine Hells itself, and never in all those eons had he been assigned to such a ridiculous task as a political mission. He'd led devils into the Blood War against demons, slain thousands of the fiends themselves; surely his duty was war! Absanoch was an assassin and captain by trade, not a diplomat.
And if murdering Waterdhavians in broad daylight of the most populated port cities and fleeing to Neverwinter was Asmodeus's definition of a diplomatic rendezvous, Absanoch hoped politics were left to politicians, or better, to demons. Senseless killing was more in the demonic style. But Absanoch admitted his task was not entirely without purpose, and understood his meaningless atrocities as part of his lord's intricate plan. He realized how the lowliest of his actions- or inactions inside his cell, as it were- led to a much grander scheme. Not that his guards needed to know that- they believed him merely a criminal to be deported to Waterdeep from Neverwinter. Besides, even if Absanoch revealed a sliver of his plan, it would take excessive explanation.
Mortals. Everything had to be simplified for them.
The squabbling guards were obvious examples of the trend. Absanoch groaned as they carried on, snapping and wailing at one another long enough for the devil to drown out the noise in his own mind. He began to lull into a bored slumber, but was soon awakened by a platoon of men rattling down into the dungeons, their armor clanging. His eyes tenuously closed, he listened intently. The guards stopped bickering, and a few words were exchanged between them. Commonplace enough, until the devil overheard, "Three of the Nine were sent, including the captain. It is but a matter of transporting the prisoner to his horse."
"None of the Greycloaks from Neverwinter were sent?" One guard asked.
"Nay, and with good reason- Nevalle and his knights are capable, and a small party draws less unwanted attention from the superstitious."
Nevalle. Absanoch parted his eyes, their orange sparkling ferociously. Fiends knew the Knight of the Chalice well, and not purely for his ten years' spent in the order's service. For Axarthys sin Saintrowe was adored of all demons, and even amongst devils, her name had been whispered in numerous diabolical courts. The knight's dalliance with her Ladyship Emissary was legendary amongst upper fiends. That hardly pleased Absanoch.
"Is he bound, then?" one soldier inquired, and nodded towards the cell for the guard to retrieve his prisoner. The lock on the devil's cage clicked, and the door creaked. Absanoch stood, arms extended towards his captors. His irons were still in place.
"Well behaved, eh? That's the lawfulness in you. Devils." The guard snorted, clipping a chain to the cuffs and drawing Absanoch from the cell's depths into the dungeon hallway. Packed between the halved platoon, with his prison guards at his sides, Absanoch grunted discontentedly at the spectacle. Guided out of the spiraling corridors with human and lizardfolk prisoners clawing at the passerby, the devil was hurried out into the grey afternoon. Squinting as the transition from indoor light to outdoor sunshine softened his vision, Absanoch saw three knights, cloaked in blue and plated in armor, awaiting him with a spare horse beside them.
"You are blessed to have been given a horse by the Keep. Now must we hoist you atop your steed, fiend, or shall you retain whatever dignity the Hells have spared you and mount unguarded?" a knight shouted. It was a woman, with emerald eyes and hair black as coal. She would have been quite beautiful, if it were not for the halo of her paladin's holy aura. It was invisible to all but Absanoch, who saw the divinity shedding light over her brow. The devil refused to honor the paladin with a response. He instead brushed his guards aside and ventured beyond the second paladin towards the blonde knight. Absanoch cast his eyes to the man, locking him in a lasting stare.
"There is much I would tell a Knight of the Chalice, famed Nevalle of the Nine. But I hold my tongue, aside from this," the devil coldly announced, "Her Ladyship Emissary does not mourn the loss of you at her side."
Absanoch turned to mount his horse, but felt the frosty steel of a longsword settled on the base of his neck. Nevalle snapped from behind him, clear astonishment and rage and contradictory enthusiasm, "And what would a devil know of a demon's sentiments?"
The devil walked from the knight silent, swinging his bound hands about the pommel of his saddle and lifting himself into the seat. Sisserou, who held the reins of his steed, tugged and cantered with Absanoch in tow. There was no exchange of goodbyes between the knights and the Greycloaks stationed at Crossroad Keep, and all that was shared between them in that departure was the fear that, once more, Neverwinter could feel the wrath of the Lower Planes.
-
When Casavir found Nevalle crouched behind a tree, far from the warmth of the fire and the bedrolls of the camp, he sighed disappointedly. The road to Neverwinter was noticeably long, and Casavir hadn't wanted to stop for the night, but the falling sun dictated otherwise. The paladin feared that any more time spent from the city with a devil in tow would heighten the risk of the assignment, or worse, wear on Nevalle's parchment-thin redemption. The paladin's fear was realized. His captain was carving a succubus from a fallen branch, digging his dagger crookedly into the wood. The pointed wings expanded about the figure like a dragon's, menacingly shading the womanly face half-covered in loose shavings.
"It is a cold night, even for the Neverwinter Woods." Casavir said. Nevalle continued to carve, head bowed towards the statuette.
"Then perhaps it is best you bed Sisserou, lest your beloved wife freeze to death." The knight spat. Casavir approached Nevalle and sat beside his confidant, arms casually slung over his knees. He feared this conversation, and the moment fell so quickly upon him that the paladin was at a loss for speech for a few moments. The scraping of metal against wood was all that was audible, until Casavir at last gathered his argument.
He refused to allow Nevalle to slip back into evil's talons.
"You've redeemed yourself entirely, Nevalle. To turn from Neverwinter simply because one fiend crossed your path would be to damn yourself all over again." Casavir advised, shaking his head, "I know you wish to hear none of this. Yet if anyone is fit to tell you, it is I. I know what a second chance means. I betrayed Neverwinter, and believed that I'd never serve the city for the rest of my days. I thought the whole political system wrong, and when Lord Nasher extended the mantle of the Nine to me, I thought him a fool. I was a servant to the people, not the state, and certainly not a subordinate to Nasher. But his offer forced me to recognize that denying my regret for betraying Neverwinter, and stubbornly insisting that Neverwinter was a flawed institution, was merely a refusal to accept the truth. I would have never served Neverwinter at all had I not loved her, and so I joined the Nine, and found peace."
"What do you want, Casavir? Praise?" Nevalle hissed.
"No. I only wish to tell you that you have a similar choice as I did. You may either allow meeting this devil to inspire your duty to Neverwinter, or continue to believe in your damnation. Don't be as stubborn as I was. Old Owl Well could have easily been my grave." Casavir replied, "You cannot deny that you love your city."
Nevalle groaned and tossed the carving into the forest, wringing the hilt of his dagger in frustration.
"Leave me. You wouldn't want Sissy to die from the cold," he growled as he stood from his seat, spitting, "That's how she suffers still. It's a horrible affliction. Your skin runs blue, your words slur, and your thoughts lose their clarity. But unlike your cherished wife, I can't ever soothe away the cold for her, and instead of dying from it, she endures it every passing day."
"Axarthys's curse is-"
"What? Deserved?" Nevalle shouted.
"No," Casavir sternly responded, "You have far more pressing matters to concern over, including your loyalty to your order. Axarthys is a thing of the past, and she is none of your concern."
"Then whose concern is she, Casavir? Tyr's? Or is she the concern of whatever god that would condone her misery, purely because she is a demon?"
"Nevalle, the fiend prisoner himself said she no longer cared for you." Casavir rejoined.
"And who is a devil to speak of demons he does not know?" Nevalle retorted. He marched off towards the camp before Casavir could utter a reply, and the paladin released a long breath from his lungs reserved for his absent response. Casavir worried for Nevalle; he'd been in the same position years before, and hoped his captain would not falter as he almost had. Nasher had granted Nevalle his former position as Captain of the Nine back when he returned from fulfilled Tyr's penance, but Casavir doubted Nasher's leniency if Nevalle fell a second time. The knight's world was dangerously close to unraveling yet again.
Sadly there was little the paladin could say to sway the knight's decision to ignore her Ladyship Emissary. If a devil had to all but whisper Axarthys's name for Nevalle to doubt his loyalty to Neverwinter, Casavir knew that his words were entirely empty. Twelve years of waiting for his love had only intensified Nevalle's response to any sign of Axarthys's presence. It was a disquieting notion. How far would the knight fall for her?
Casavir arose to his feet and walked towards the firelight, its heat barely able to stave off the chill of his dread.
-
Blacklake swarmed with life, its sweeping stone pathways buzzing like a flourishing hive. From the Neverwinter wood into the city, the journey lasted a half-day. The afternoon sun sparkled on the waters coursing through the city, highlighting the pulsating veins of what fed the city's trade routes and merchants. As three of the Nine galloped into town, the nobles of Blacklake and the businessmen lining the plazas hardly noticed the devilish prisoner. They cheered emphatically for the return of their beloved knights. Casavir and Nevalle, accustomed to the spectacle, nodding infrequently to the passerby. Fame hadn't tainted their focus on the mission at hand.
Sisserou, however, never tired of her people's enthusiasm. Her veneer of cynicism faded as she grinned radiantly, waving excitedly and laughing as noble and urchin children alike ran alongside her horse. Though the prisoner followed her closely in tow, not even a fiend's evil aura could have taken from her the happiness of serving Neverwintans. As the band of knights ascended the hill towards Castle Never, Casavir turned his chin over his shoulder to capture a glance of his wife. She embodied all that he meant to be as a paladin. He considered, Save for the sarcasm.
The knights dismounted with their captive, leading him by the irons into the castle. He'd acted disturbingly well for the passage to Neverwinter, and while it seemed Nevalle and Sisserou were blasé about the devil's placidity, Casavir knew they shared his sentiment; no devil would submit to enemy authorities easily without a cause. Noting this silently, Casavir trailed behind his wife and Nevalle as the knights lit their torches and escorted the fiend into the damp pits of the city's dungeons. The paladin's hand strayed over his mace, cautious as the devil was led to the farthest reaches of the cells and deposited into his iron cage. Unequivocally silent, the devil allowed his manacles to be removed, entering the cell of his own violation. As the bars locked into place, Casavir released his grasp on his mace, eased. Under the watch of the Royal Guard, the devil's odds of escape were small.
His duty complete, Casavir's vigilance and concerns numbed with visions of what dinner awaited him at home, and with images of his son racing into the estate house eager to greet his parents. He and Sisserou parted the castle to their horses outside, Nevalle departing to report to Lord Nasher. For them, the devil's case pended until the next day's summons to court.
But fiends did not rest, and elaborate plots long devised by hellish overlords began to unravel. As the knights of Neverwinter returned to the temporary safety of their homes, the Abyss opened its ravenous jaws to the Material Plane.
-
The docks brimmed with chestnut-colored ships emblazoned with a myriad of sails, boasting an incredible variety of nations harbored at the city's port. From his dockside tavern, Duncan Farlong watched the magnificent vessels unloading crates of worldly goods. He buffed the bar top hastily, anticipating new patrons as they flooded in from the recently anchored ships. Usually, an influx of new vessels meant a flurry of customers seeking fresh ales and cold beer. And yet as the boats were secured to the docks and their sailors discharged from the decks, the tavern door hardly rattled in its hinges. Curious, Duncan slung his rag over the counter and stomped over to the entry, stepping out into the early evening air.
His eyes immediately focused on a grey craft with its scarlet sails unfurled. In his many years as a barkeep in the Docks District, he'd never once gazed upon such a horrifyingly beautiful vessel. Its unmarked sails bore no indication of its country of origin, and its deck seemed barren of sailors. Greycloaks descended on the ship in a thick cluster, their swords drawn. Intrigue drew Duncan from his tavern, and he approached the ship. Immediately, he witnessed the disturbance on the docks.
From the ship's underbelly, a massive black stallion charged onto the deck, rearing at the guards. His front hooves clipped the helmets of the first men in the squadron, and the Greycloaks recoiled back a number of steps. When the horse's feet all met the ground, the deafening stomp alerted the guards- and Duncan- to a woman entirely swathed in ebony gossamer, perched atop the beast. Ethereal and shadowy, her robe was like smoke draped over her fragile form. She cast back her hood, and her snowy locks instantly illuminated her grey face amongst the black sea of her garb. Terrifying eyes, their pink irises slit with reptilian pupils, piercingly centered on the guards.
"I am the ambassador of Zelatar, capital of the Abyssal kingdom of Azzagrat," she announced. Her melodic voice dripped with bitter sweetness, and echoed the cruelty of her home plane. She declared, "But though I serve the dark prince Graz'zt, I arrive here of personal volition. I am her Ladyship Emissary Axarthys sin Saintrowe, and I demand escort to the palace of Lord Nasher Alagondar, so that the future ruler of Neverwinter is properly secured as Rialnah sin Saintrowe, my child and daughter of Captain Nevalle of the Nine."
From behind her mother, a demoness with blonde ringlets encircling her rosy horns peered. Her childish smile reflected the same scheming brutality as her mother's stern frown embodied.
Duncan shook his head, eyes wide with panic. He uttered, "No, Tyr, no."
Neverwinter suffered the Lamb once before. That time, it had been crippling to Neverwinter's sense of security, and the demonic armies abrasive to the walls that had long sheltered the city's people from all brands of outsiders. Now the very crown of the city was at the claws of demon kind. If what her Ladyship spoke was true, if there was a child they shared- no. He could not believe. Those old enough to recall the Lamb knew the reality of what transpired there, in that moment. Duncan dashed to his tavern. He could not bear to watch the Greycloaks lead her to Nasher's throne.
-
Rodric imagined that his blade was merely an extension of his arm, and with eyes dutifully closed, sensed the weight of its hilt in his hand. It was heavier than he had originally thought, as if holding the blade motionless had burdened it with excess weight not apparent when the weapon was in mid-strike, soaring through the air. Rodric slashed the air in a semicircle around his torso, satisfied with the whoosh of the weapon's tip as it sliced through the oncoming breeze. The waist-high field grasses rustled around him as he copied the maneuvers his father practiced with his own sword. Rodric's sword swung upwards, then down, and shaped into the pattern of an invisible X as it returned to its original horizontal position.
Smiling with incredible approval of his swordsmanship, Rodric leapt forward at an imaginary enemy. He lifted his right foot high, arching it so he could land in a perfect lunge formation. Instead, he faltered halfway and stumbled to the ground ungracefully. Crumpled in the field grass, Rodric squealed with amusement at his folly. He was six years old and determined to fight like his father, but lying there hidden in the grass alongside his wooden sword, watching the clouds pass over the cerulean sky, was sometimes more gratifying than swordplay and growing up to fill a paladin's boots.
The clouds were darkening into night, and Rodric watched as the brightest clouds coalesced over the city of Neverwinter, a fair distance from his family's estate. He'd only traveled there on a handful of occasions, but simply seeing the city walls perched on the horizon was enough to evoke memories of the bustling streets, the merchant ships at dock, and the blue stone corridors of Nasher's palace. Rodric's most potent memory was the knights, in their glittery chain mail and sparkling full plate suits. As two horses trotted towards the boy's home, Rodric grinned. His own knights had returned.
Springing to his feet, toy sword clutched in his palm, he sprinted towards the red stone manor at the far end of the field. Skipping up the veranda that overlooked the estate property and hopping through the opened, double doors into the foyer, Rodric dropped his weapon on the tiled floors and lunged into his mother's arms. Still half-equipped in her knightly regalia, she sunk as the extra weight clung to her neck. Exhausted from her journey, she nevertheless embraced her son with utter joy, swinging him in her arms and setting his feet upon the floor, kneeling in front of him.
"I have an exciting tale to tell tonight, Rodric," she announced.
"But first, someone needs to wash the grass and dirt from under their fingers." His father instructed, "For though they are warriors and face the elements in their work, no fine knight appears at dinner with grime under their nails."
"Ay!" Rodric yelped in agreement, bounding up the foyer stairs and into the keeping of his maid. As his footsteps pattered across the wooden halls above, the boy's mother tossed a mischievously cruel glare at her husband.
"Casavir, I think the boy may confuse you for his mother." She noted.
"Perhaps that is a sign that you are slacking in your duties." He joked lightly, piling the last pieces of his plate mail on the ground before he took Sisserou in his arms, pecking her nose. She returned his affection with a tender sweeping of her lips against his, lowering her forehead under his chin with a lengthy, worn sigh.
"Time spent in the company of devils is draining for a paladin!" she exclaimed. She expected a chuckle from her husband, and when he could only sadly grin at her, Sisserou frowned.
Casavir uttered, "I think Nevalle's company is far more draining than that of devils."
"What do you mean?"
"That devil, he spoke of her Ladyship Emissary, Axarthys sin Saintrowe. It upset him, obviously, and he acts as if he'd pursue her all over again." Casavir explained. Sisserou shrugged nonchalantly.
"I lived in Luskan when Axarthys overran Neverwinter with her demonic legions, and I was but a child then. There is little I have to offer in condolence, my darling, except the words of a fellow paladin. Devils are deceivers, and speak of many things that could lead to the damnation of souls. Perhaps these things are lies, perhaps they are true. But they are words, and only words. Nevalle will know this in time." Sisserou assured.
A shuffling of towels and clothes upstairs meant the knights' son would soon stampede down the staircase, eager for an account of his parents' journey. Surely enough, the boy charged into the foyer, his maid chasing him with a towel and calling to dry the boy's scruffy, damp locks.
"Our worries shall have to wait, my love. Rodric will like to know of your tales." Casavir gently smiled. Sisserou agreed, if only in the closure apparent in her emerald eyes, and she caught her son in her arms as he thundered down the steps. Carting him to the dining hall, her husband followed, courteously seating his wife before he sat across from her and his son.
The family uttered dedicated thanks to Tyr before they hungrily lifted their utensils to their platters of duck meat. Casavir's manners faded; he certainly wasn't concerned with his posture or what fork to employ when he had a grown man's appetite to satiate. Sisserou, a mouthful of meat between her teeth, had difficulty not choking as her husband and son gorged their food. Forcibly swallowing, she chuckled mutedly. Rodric was a mirror of his father, gobbling his dinner as if it would disappear on him.
"He eats like you do, Casavir." She observed.
Casavir raised a brow, "He eats like a man, which is what he's growing up to be."
"He eats rudely," Sisserou smirked, nodding to her son as he giggled between bites, "Look at him. You insist he scrubs his nails before he eats, but not that he eats with some semblance of etiquette? For shame! What sort of knight shall he make?"
"A hungry one!" Rodric victoriously announced. Sisserou tilted her head back, releasing a irrepressible laugh.
"Ah, I see. The Starved Knight. What an unfortunate and well-deserved title that shall be!" Sisserou suddenly lowered her voice, a playful glitter in her eye, "So be it. Bear your knightly title proudly, my dear. But I advise you, my Rodric, not to eat like a pig should Sir Nevalle every pay us a visit. Or else, whack! He'll lop off your head! And that shall be the end of things for you."
"Sisserou!" Casavir rebuked. His wife pursued her tale nonetheless.
"Sir Nevalle fancies his manners over his swordplay, Rodric. That is because he's not very good with swords. But if you have poor manners, oh, he'll get you! He doesn't need a sword to knock your head off your neck!"
"You're going to give him nightmares." Casavir warned.
"Is Sir Nevalle the boogie man?" Rodric quivered. Sisserou nodded.
"Oh, yes. Yes, he's terrifying."
"Sisserou!" Casavir pleaded. She pursed her lips, shuffling Rodric from the table with a sweep of her hands.
"Now, now, Rodric," she cooed, "You've finished your meal, and I have quite the tale to share before you go to sleep. Get along upstairs and into bed, and I'll tell you the whole story, beginning to end, and every adventure in between. How does that sound?"
Rodric bobbed his head in agreement, cheering as he skipped into the hall, proclaiming, "Hungry Knight, Hungry Knight, slaying the Nevalle boogie! Dead, dead, dead!"
When Sisserou returned to her seat at the table, Casavir muttered, "Regardless of the number of years spent married to you, I can never completely accept that you are the most horribly behaved paladin I've known."
"What ever do you mean?" She batted her eyelashes mischievously.
"Nevalle as the monster-under-the-bed? Was that a creative way to ostracize our dear captain for his recent inequities?" Casavir asked. Sisserou momentarily glanced over her shoulder, her cocked chin permitting the light of the room to underscore her most flirtatious, attractive features.
"Aren't all men who dally with demons monsters, my darling?" She murmured.
"Perhaps I am best suited to answer that, Sisserou."
Sisserou shuddered, knocking her chair aside as she stood quickly to attention, "Sir Nevalle. We surely weren't expecting you."
Unarmored and draped in the crimson folds of a velvet cloak, Nevalle leaned in the door frame of the dining hall. His austerely chiseled features and dimly blonde hair, weathered with dank frosty highlights, glowed with unnerving emotional emptiness. He gradually and inaudibly slipped into the room, sitting against the tabletop with his back to Casavir.
"Why have you come, captain?" Casavir hardheartedly asked.
Nevalle scoffed softly, "You must not have heard me enter. I knocked on your door for quite some time before one of the servants greeted me. Should Neverwinter ever be in dire need of you, and I come to inform you of the city's desperation, you should be considerably swifter to permit me entry to your home."
"Then that had best be exactly the reason for your visit, Nevalle." Sisserou spat. When the room grew utterly soundless with response, Casavir leapt to his feet, pounding his fists against the table. The wood rattled, causing Nevalle to shift his weight from it and into a seat across from Sisserou.
"If Neverwinter is in danger, out with it, Nevalle! Do not delay our aid simply for your acrimony!" Casavir reprimanded. The blonde knight's cheeks rose with a twisted, haunted smile.
"Axarthys sin Saintrowe has returned to Neverwinter," he lowly whispered, "And she has laid claim on Nasher Alagondar's throne."
"That is wholly ridiculous." Casavir bluntly replied.
"Lord Nasher is wasting away, Casavir. We all know this to be true." Sisserou murmured.
"And who shall succeed him?" Casavir snapped.
"Why, Rialnah sin Saintrowe," Nevalle mumbled, "My daughter."
"Nevalle…" Casavir breathed. The paladin rested his palms over his forehead. He collapsed back into his chair, descending into the plush tapestry of its cushions in shocked, sudden defeat. He clamored for words, but he knew that Nasher had secretly contracted his order of succession, and that it stated, in its frankness, that the eldest child of Nasher's knights of the Nine would be heir to the crown. All along, the knights had accepted this child to be Rodric, and his viziers as Casavir and Sisserou. And now, by very virtue of its simplicity, Nasher's will assured the throne to a half-fiend, the daughter of Neverwinter's greatest single demonic adversary and the child of one its questionable knights. Casavir, crushed, freed his forehead of his grip. His arms fell limp at his sides.
The paladin cried out, "Nevalle, what have you done?"