Hello my dear readers.
First, Happy New year to all of you! 2023, well now I am impressed. Anyone remembers when we were told the world was ending on 2012? Wild times, those. Nor that these are any saner. I hope you all had a merry Christmas and great beginning of the new year!
I have finished chapter two! And this time I did it in the promised time lapse! Miracles of life, I gather. Hope you like it! Now, to answering comments:
The Advocate7: Thank you for the review. And do not sweat it; you haven't offended me in the slightest. You are not wrong, I was trying to do It like that because that was the way I had been reading it on my eBooks, but in my other stories I use the form you have mentioned. I have changed it for this chapter. Hope it's clearer for this one! It just felt easier and more natural to write myself.
asokolovn2015: Balancing the situation for the first chapters seemed important to me. Yep, it does include a nerf, but to our MC, not to Grail Knights as a whole. You will see, it not lore-breaking nor out of place.
doesthiscountasausername: There will be dwarves, there will be Grudges to settle, but it will take a bit to reach that point. Hope I can keep you till that point. I promise to make it good.
Well folks, enjoy, and may the Lady watch over you.
IMPORTANT! The quotation has changed, you can review it here:
"Normal speaking"
"Non-mortal speaking"
'Thoughts of mortals'
'Thought of non-mortals'
{DRAGON OF STARFALL}
The Royach advanced, first into the fray, the Lion Shield raised, as the two-handed blade fell with bone-shattering strength. The King of Bretonnia stood, unbreakable, like a mountain. And the blade was a falling star. Smashing against each other, both warriors fought like maddened lions, shield against sword, sword against sword. Both superlative warriors engaged each other with unbridled fury. The Knight of the Dawning Dragon advanced, but before he could reach his lord father, the Royarch was thrown back, chest bleeding golden. Abhorash advanced forth, leaping at them, blade falling down like a black omen, cutting and slashing in equal measures of skill, predatory fury, and suicidal deathwish. He was among them in seconds.
The Slayer King released a maddening laugh, and leaped at the fray, meeting the vampire lord blow for blow, as Tyrion joined, dancing through the onslaught, Sunfang biting with the power of a sun dragon. Walach leaped at Teclis, determined to stop the mage´s efforts, and the third vampire was on the Emperor and the two other Grail Knights. Beuboront and Amaranth took a moment to assess the situation,
"You deal with the Lord of Blood," Guillome du Beuboront said, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I go kill that bastard son of a slanneshi whore"
"May the Lady guide you, my friend."
"May she guide us all."
And they attacked. Amaranth lost track of the other two fights in a moment. He ran toward where the most brutal confrontation was taking place. Louen Leoncouer, Ungrim Ironfist, and Tyrion were all superlative warriors, legends among their kin. And they were losing horribly.
There was nothing but mere myths and tales to measure just how powerful Abhorash really was. He had slayed from demons to dragons, kings to generals, everything that was worthy of his blade, he had killed for millennia, and now, there were thousands of souls fueling him forth, with enchantments laid by Neferata herself. He was, much to his fury, at the peak of his power. And he could match all three warriors, who had spent days fighting nonstop to reach that accursed summit on that decrepit castle. But that was not all, for even now, the knight of the Dawning Dragon could feel the Winds of Death seeping the life, strength, and energy from his body. And it was fueling the three vampires beyond their normal capabilities. Maybe not much, but in such a battle, it mattered everything.
The Lionhearted´s jaw was broken with a pommel strike, even as he kept blocking and parrying strikes, giving the Prince of Cothique the opening required to lunge forth with Sunfang. Abhorash saw through the diversion, blocking the strike and grabbing the elf by the throat, fast as a sea drake. Ironfist attacked then, going for the chest and heart of the Lord of Blood, but the vampire merely sidestep the attack and smashed Tyrion into the dwarf with enough strength to throw them both back. The King of Bretonnia blocked the next strike directed at his throat and engaged in a frantic exchange of blows with the Blood Dragon. The Sword of Corunne and Abhorash´s black weapon clashed with the sound of a cracking city, blessed and haunted steel finding each other in a shower of sparks and unleashed magic.
The Lionhearted feinted a strike to the left, but the vampire didn't fall for it, counterattacking with exceptional precision and speed. The Lion pushed the blade to the side with the edge of his shield and pivoted out of the path of the following blow. He was a blur of speed and fury. Using a fraction of a second, he pounced for the opening. The vampire was more than happy to exchange blood for blood, death for death. He didn't want to fight, even if such a battle was making his blood sing. The black two-handed fell toward the bretonnian king´s shoulder, prepared to rend him in half. It would have succeeded.
If a young bretonnian armored fist hadn't found his face first. The vampire barely registered the blow, but the surprise strike threw his blade off course, and the King moved out of the way. With a leap, the Vampire put some distance from the two bretonnians, father and son.
"Not the reunion I was expecting." Chuckled the King of Bretonnia, his eyes never leaving Abhorash, but edged on to shield his son with his body ever so lightly.
"Father, at this point, I don't expect to see you without almost dying in the process," Answered the son, smiling under the closed helm, entire body tense, guard changing to assist his sire´s next attack. "How do we beat… him? He matched Gilles himself."
The king smiled, eyes shining with a special light.
"He might have matched Gilles. But can we match him, together?" Now, it was time for the son to smile from ear to ear.
"I have no idea, honestly." He knew what the Royarch was about to ask him, but he wanted to hear it nonetheless.
"Well, my boy. Can we afford not to?"
"No, we bloody can´t."
"Then, why are we even pondering this?"
With all the wrath of a furious son, Lord Amaranth joined the assault, his bladework a contrast to his father´s own. Where the king was the epitome of a bretonnian knight style, sword and shield, dauntless defense and quick offense, a wall upon which all foes broke, the knight of the Dawning Dragon fought like a man not afraid of injury or death. His assault was dauntless, blows mixing and chained in combination used to push a foe to the brink, seeking a weak point. Finesse mixed with pure wrath in endless blows, dotted with parries and counterstrikes, all directed to the heart, neck and head of his opponent, bretonnian style mixed with the arts of Ulthuan and those of far-off lands. Where the king struck low, he went high, where his father searched a flank, he aimed for the other, a terrible duet that knew the other's strengths and weakness better than their own.
Still, they were barely holding the vampire back. Every attack, Abhorash read, every movement, he was closer to understanding their styles and movements. This could not be reduced to a war of attrition. They needed an edge. As it happens, that edge joined the fight in the way of two furious royal warriors.
Prince Tyrion joined the side of the Dragonheart, more used to fighting with the son than the father, their attacks combined in a fiery barrage that the Lord of Blood was hard pressed against. The Axe of Dargo attacked by itself, and King Ironfist engaged with berserker fury, equal sides of searching for his doom and protecting his people. Thankfully, like a red and blue miracle, the Lion´s Shield was always there to protect the dwarven king.
Little by little, they pushed the empowered Lord of Blood back, little by little; they began to land small and glancing blows that increased in severity and power. Amaranth parried a strike and grabbed the arm of the vampire lord, as the Lionhearted smashed his shield into its face with its full might. The Axe of Dargo carved a chunk of the vampire's side, and Sunfang left a biting mark close to the neck plate. The amber-clad knight smiled to himself. They had a chance, an actual chance to win this. The Lord of Blood staggered back, breathing heavily. He wasn't used to this, to be outmatched. It was anathema to him. It made the bretonnian smile. They had a chance. A slim one, but a chance nonetheless.
And then all went to hell.
He didn't know what had exactly happened. He hadn't felt anything, in hindsight, mostly because his senses were being drowned in the Winds of Shyish, he heard nothing, because of the cacophony of their duel, and he could not react.
The Wind of Death spell wasn't at full power, but it hit right in the middle of them. The red hurricane of flesh-tearing magic struck them all like a meteor fall. In a moment, all the other three fighters on his side were gone. He saw his father hit a brick wall, which crumble and half buried him in rubble, but he saw no indication of either the Heir of Aenarion or the Slayer King. They were alive, he could barely feel their souls through all the magic in the air, but he could feel them nonetheless. Abhorash stood to his full might, growling, displeased that his wounds were closing quickly.
"You force me into this bonded servitude, and you don't have the basic decency of letting me win my fights?!" The Lord of Blood sounded even more frustrated than before.
"You were going to lose, you bloodless fool! She assured me you wouldn't be able to resist her spell!" Wallach roared, as his summoned Grave Guard began to swamp Beuboront, and only Teclis´s might kept them both from being overwhelmed.
"She is a lying whore, and you a fool for believing her." Abhorash spat, wounds closing, energy rejuvenating him. 'I am one of the Firstborn. You are going to need much more than poultry spells to keep me chained!'
"It does not matter. Kill the bretonnian boy and come here help me kill this elven wretch!" Wallach ordered as he turned to block an empowered Beuboront, the Lady´s name on his lips. The Lord of Blood eyed him warily and sorrowfully.
"I am sorry, lad. You seem like a worthy one. Tell me, what do they call you?" He said, walking towards him, blade at the ready. The Knight od the Dawning Dragon let out a low chuckle, before rolling his shoulder back.
"They call me the Dragonhearted, Dragonheart, Blade of Unity, Lion´s Wrath, Amaranth. Many names, too many some times. None as grand as your, of course, but a man tries. But don't be sorry." Amaranth answered simply with a slight shrug. The vampire chuckled at that.
"I understand the sentiment with void platitudes. Still…"
"I mean, don´t be so sure you can beat me." Amaranth answered back, smiling to himself. That, actually made the vampire stop for a moment, a slight and strange light in his features.
"Oh? I just bested three of your best! Three warrior-kings of legend! Are you saying you are better than them?" He asked, between incredulous and hopeful. Either the boy was prideful beyond words, or there was something else at play.
"Oh, by the Deserts, no. But they cannot match you in anything.' Amaranth explained, blade dancing in his hand.
"And you can?"
"Why, yes."
"And, pray tell, what is that?" Asked the vampire hungrily.
"Will…" And in a flash they clashed, blade meeting blade, a lock of weapons, strength against strength, both beings trying to push above the other. "And sheer. Fucking. Ferocity."
They opened a space among them for a brief instant, a single second in which Amaranth closed his eyes and breathed, and he let all go. All his anger, all his pain, all his fury, all his sorrow and feeling of having failed at everything, was gone for a moment. Not because it had faded or left his soul, but because it burned. It burned, and like dry timber against the hellfire, it burned and fueled forth a raging inferno of even greater and hotter flames. In his chest, his heartbeat carried unnatural strength. Liquid fire roared into his veins. He took all of it, and made it might, made it energy. With the beating of a heart that was not human, in that brief instant, he let go of all his control, and his hesitation and fought for all he had lost and all that he still had to lose.
And he let loose.
With a roar that wasn't human either, and yet held a level of humanity few other things managed to convey, the Lord of Avalon attacked. No defense, no protection, no step back. He became aggression, he became death. He threw everything he had on an unyielding assault. He couldn´t defend against the vampire, and he couldn´t simply match him blow for blow, so he discarded those possibilities, and employed the full might of his power on the offense, forcing the Lord of Blood on the defensive, even for a few seconds, even for a few counted moments. He could not buy much more, but it would be enough, it had to be.
He knew he could not win, so he didn't try to win. He had been bluffing. But now the vampire was taking him seriously. He was focused on him and him alone. And that meant three things.
First, he would not join the other two fights.
Secondly, he would not search and slay the three downed warriors.
Third, he wasn't aware of the twin arrows that had been aimed at Amaranth.
Using every scrap of skill, he stood his ground, parry after parry, block after block. He could not stop and defend, such was the brutal offensive of the vampire, so he didn't give him the chance to. All he could do to survive, to hold the line, was to keep the Lord of Blood on the defensive. He struck up and moved from the possible counterstrike to strike at the legs, he aimed for the throat once, and then he went for the lower torso, always adapting and changing. But that was all he needed to do. When the arrows were fired, he felt it, for he was very familiar with the magic engraved and bound to the weapon. Blades locked in a shower of sparks, as the weapons became flashes of slaying light, as if two stars fought for dominance in the void, smashing again each other, speed and strength in one motion, in one action. Amaranth's assault was focused, pushing Abhorash into specific defenses. Even then, the vampire found ways to outmaneuver the bretonnian and not give him what the vampire presumed was an opening for a killing blow. He was building that opening, but not for a blow. And he used it well.
He danced under the next strike, pivoting as he moved, dropping his blade, as he grabbed at the Lord of Blood. This took Abhorash by surprise. That alone made it work. Pulling the vampire along his movement, exploiting the undead´s inertia, he spun him to right where he had been standing. The blade of the vampire turned around expertly and fast as lighting in the last second, a black snake that flashed in a fraction of a second, and cut him open in the belly, the weapon eating through armor and flesh like nothing. It was not a killing blow, but it was close enough. It hurt; it hurt like having a white-hot rod of metal shoved into his belly. It made him fall to his knees, pain, exhaustion and the many damages and wounds suffered amounted to too much. Abhorash raised his blade two-handed over his head, ready for the killing blow. He heard steps behind him he heard cries of dismay and anger and laughter; he saw the flash of two emerald eyes in his obscuring world.
But everything vanished to the sound of two arrows piercing armor. Amaranth snapped his eyes open and looked up only to watch in amazement how two bodkin arrows came out of the red chest plate of the vampire lord, dark blood flowing freely from the wound, glowing faintly green from the magic that now poisoned it. But it was not enough to stop the dragon-slaying monster. With a roar, it bought his blade down on the Knight of the Dawning Dragon. It would have landed. But vampires lack something that Bretonnia has in ample supply.
Loyalty.
Guillaume Beuboront, Knight of the Grail, Count of Pavarron, friend to Dukes and foreign Kings, parried the blow with a roar of his own. He was losing golden blood from a dozen wounds, and he was missing his left eye, his helmet gone, his blonde hair flowing like the mane of the golden and white lion of his sigil, some of it gone, along with part of his scalp. And yet, he looked as regal as any king as he exchanged blows with the Lord of Blood, while Dragonheart tried desperately to stand up and join his friend.
Lilliane and Loui joined him faster, swords dancing. Either, Wallach and the other whoreson were gone, or the elven Prince and dwarven King had switched targets and bought them so reprieve. It mattered little. What mattered now was the fight in front of him. Abhorash was injured, bleeding, and assaulted by three different, worthy opponents. But this was not his will. It was not his choice, and thus, the defense carried every bit of power and skill he was capable of. Even as the three knights began to push him back towards the edge of the summit, the First among the Blood Dragons remained tall and as deadly as a wild summer storm. There was a slim chance that they would manage to rescue defeat from the undead bastard. A slim, shining hope.
And then Lilliane died.
Abhorash didn't even kill her. He just pushed back the other two, and with a masterful show of swordsmanship and sheer brutality, he slashed Lelliane´s thin blade from her wrist, hand still gripping the handle, and pulled the knight in the way of the two next arrows that would have impaled him. The bodkin arrowheads pierced her in the throat and among the breasts shattering the armor, twin edges of death, one white as starlight, the other black, like rotten wood, projectiles of both the Talon of Dawn and the Talon of Dusk respectively. But it mattered little to Lilliane. With the last of her dwindling strength, she tried to draw her dagger and stab the Lord of Blood in the arm, but Abhorash simply threw her off the summit, golden blood flowing brightly into the night, falling to gravity´s embrace with almost laziness. Lilliane did not scream, did not rage. Even as her helmet hid her features of most divine beauty, she managed to look as graceful as an angel. She simply threw the dagger, and managed to strike the right leg of the vampire, blessed silverine stabbing at the space in between two red-blood plates, sinking to the golden handle.
She did not see it, she did not hear the roar of pain and frustration from the vampire. She was well passed the summit´s edge, poison numbing her senses, eyes closing. She would still be alive before hitting an old alcove some fifty meters below her. And she would still be alive when the crypt ghouls found her. They would never reach her. Her last sight would be two slender figures, one of white hair, the other of black hair, dancing blade and spear, like phantoms to her defense. With that last sight of her unwilling killers, the Knight of White Lilies, Countess of Aquitane, friend to the Blessed Daughter of Aquitaine, Slayer of Mzrmuzar, Greater Daemon of Slannesh, died, smiling softly, the voice of her mother sounding in her ears as the last memory.
In the summit, even as the saintly woman fell, the other two Grail Knights fought with ferocious abandon, anger, pain and loss fueling their onslaught forth to even new brackets of fury. Amaranth observed the blood fall, and his friend disappear as she died. A new surge of wrath roared into his very soul, as a new face joined the many dreams of loss and pain. Another failure to his name, another he could not save, that died saving him. With a roar or vengeful anger, he managed to get up.
Loui died next. Not by any fault of his own, not by lack of skill and righteous fury.
And not by Abhorash´s hand. A projectile of glowing, boiling, cursed blood struck him in the back while he parried a blow from the Lord of Blood, and his already weakened defenses failed to protect him, the baleful magic seeping under his skin, mixing with his own blessed blood. Even as his blood boiled, his inside melted and his body betrayed him, he kept attacking and defending, unrelenting, whispering prayers to the Lady of the Lake. The knight fought on as his body attacked itself, half of it healing the damage, the other half doing the damage, as if it was some malign tumor that sook to ravage his body and soul. It would have to make do with the body. The soul could not be touched. When Abhorash took his head, the man had been dead for a few seconds, but by sheer willpower, he had refused to yield and betray his oaths. Abhorash blow didn't kill him but spared him from more pain and suffering, the only mercy the controlled warrior could give to the Grail Knight of Cascassone, Blessed Champion of Lady Adramal, Vanquisher of Clan Skyre.
With a scream of anger and loss, Guillaume kicked the vampire, before bringing his blade down from above, in a skull-splitting strike. Abhorash was faster, much faster. In a single movement, he dogged the strike, the blow sundering the ground where he had been standing. With impossible speed and finesse for such a massive weapon, the Vampire brought his two-handed up. Guillaume blinked once before he realized he could not breathe. Then, golden blood began to flow from his throat, freely, as the edge of the barely visible wound began to darken and rot. The knight fell on his face, choking on his blood as the curses in the black blade impeded his body from healing the damage.
But the knights had bought the Dragonhearted all the time he required. He was a few steps from Abhorash, running at full tilt, blade in hand. The Lord of Blood growled as he reared his weapon to dodge and strike. He could not.
Guillaume didn't let him.
With his weaning strength, the knight grabbed with one hand the foot of the vampire lord, and with the other, the lowered blade, even as his hand crumbled and darkened. The Vampire managed to rip the blade from the grasp of the knight, and crushed the other hand of the pavarronian to free his feet, but it was too late. Amaranth was on top of him. And Abhorash prepared for a strike, a lunge of the blade, a feint and strike.
He wasn't expecting to get tackled into the ground by the bretonnian Duke at full tilt.
For a fraction of a second, Abhorash's mind wondered why the knight had done that, why to bowl into him like that. He was exposed, and once they hit the floor, he would tear his throat open. And in that slow moment, he realized, with no small amount of elation, something quite important to his current predicament. A smile plastered on his face. The curse controlled his body to fight. But what Abhorash didn´t see, he didn't feel or sense, remained hidden from the curse.
Like the edge of the summit.
And with that smile, Lord Amaranth of Avalon and the Abhorash of Lahmia fell from the edge of the towering summit into the consuming darkness of the sky, into the dying battlefield. There were screams, insults and curses exclaimed as he fell, but they were ignorant of this. Or of the third figure that jumped behind them.
Both knights fell, the Blood Dragon taken by surprise, losing a few moments, as Amaranth went for the blade. Everything was a blur, as they tumbled, colliding and fighting for precious seconds. Then, dancing in the air, surrounded by dark magic and human-eating bats, Amaranth stabbed his burrowed blade into the heart of the Lord of Blood. It ate at the blood-painted armor, scorching and destroying the un-living flesh as acid destroys metal. He pushed the blade deeper until it reached the crossguard. Abhorash grabbed him by the neck and brought him close, but he did not attack, he did not disembowel him or tore his neck open. The holy blade´s damage, joined by the severe punishment he had suffered through the whole fight had been enough to allow his own willpower to break through the enslavement for a single moment, as he spoke a single phrase.
"Make… sure!" He growled, and while the bretonnian could not hear, he understood well enough. And with a nod, he ripped Lilliane´s dagger from the vampire´s leg, and stabbed it in his not-beating heart, deep, and with all his might.
'Rest now, Lord of Blood,' He said. 'Your honor remains unmarred.' Abhorash laughed as he began to burn, and then he was ashes in his hands. He was gone, maybe not forever, vampires of his power were hard to harm, more to destroy, but the threat had been averted. But the power still binding the vampire was suddenly released. Purple light, hungering life, that killed everything that touched it, erupted in the same moment as the third figure smashed into the knight of Dawning Dragon. The purple breach in reality, a wound in the fabric of Everything, screamed once, eating at the bones of Drakenhoff like a rabid hyena, thick fingers of immaterial ether devouring flesh, stone, wood and everything else like a ravening host of locusts, before collapsing on itself. Nothing fell from where the gate had been opened; nothing remained but stale air, the overwhelming smell of death and the howling of reality being wounded, and the very fabric of the world burning.
A moment later, the tortured skeleton of Castle Drakenhoff toppled over.
{DRAGON OF STARFALL}
There was a hole in the Net. And impossibility, a paradigm or reality itself, brought backward and forwards at the same time, a never-ending spiral of infinite reflections. A reaction of an unknown, the veracity of an untold lie.
There was a hole in the Net of Fate.
And it puzzled Kairos Fateweaver to no end. By definition, every single, multiple, conjunctive and un-thought of fate was part of the pattern in the Crystal Net, of the Great Plan of his Master, and yet, the Vizier saw a whole, a black void in the Net. Something he had never, no would he ever see. And it puzzled him tremendously. Only his master should be able to alter a fate in such a manner as to erase it from view, knowledge and possible divinization. Yet it had not been the Changer of Ways the one to do so.
Or maybe he had, and Kairos could not understand, in even his unfathomable foresight, why. Yet logic, or what passed for such a thing in the mind of a mad Greater Daemon touched by the Well of Eternity, told him that there was no reason for Tzeentch to do such a thing. And then, like a mirror, the other voice told him there was every reason for the God to do such a thing. His ever-changing will was absolute and inexistent at the same time. So the Vizier kept on looking at what had happened
Futures unraveled, possibilities came through, ideas, branching paths and doomed choices. And he arrived at the blackness. Like a sickness, it ate at the future, stopping his foresight, impeiding his sight. With a psychic scream, Kairos pulled back from the Net of Fate and looked in panic as the darkness stayed put, obfuscating his sight of a very particular set of individuals. He weaved, he explored a thousand futures and pasts, and yet, he discovered nothing but dead ends, dark pathways that converged in that darkness, whose extension and the number seemed infinite and a single one at the same time. The fate of Champions of the Gods, of Champions of Orders, unimportant peasants, and even common and magical animals banished from his sight like nothing. No, it did not vanish. It was still there, but it was warded, obscured, keep unknown, by something.
That scared Kairos. Because if one of his heads was right, and the Architect of Fate wasn't the one behind the whole in his Net, then he could not think of any entity capable of doing such a thing without his knowledge. No ritual or action of such impressive power would have escaped his knowledge, and yet, here he was, watching in horror as something beyond even his understanding obfuscated his sight. He scanned the blackness and realized that his early comparison with a sickness had been erroneous. This was not a sickness, it was not a contagion. It had been eradication, a cleansing in sheer power that had excoriated that portion of his Net form even his sight. Something powerful, something beyond mere daemon and gods, had acted, something primordial. And he could not fathom what had done so.
This led him to one single possibility. Seeing as his power came from the Well of Eternity, then only something on the same or a superior scale than the Well could have done such a thing. So, whatever had brought forth the creation of the Well, whatever had been the origin of his ascension and power, had, willingly or unwillingly, made a hole in his Net of fate. And as with mortals, especially in Kairos´s case, one fears what he does not understands.
And Kairos understood fear when he saw the symbol burnt in his Net, the black dragon of outstretched wings, darkening the very world, impossible in size and might, as if it was the world itself, above fate, beyond mere sight, roaring at him. With a thought, he teleported to his Master´s palace. This, was worth his personal attention.
{DRAGON OF STARFALL}
The sphere grew several times its size until it seemed capable of covering the entirety of the tourney grounds. For an instant, nothing happened, and before Robert Baratheon could order someone to fire at the dammed thing, the sphere became almost liquid, as the energy collapsed into the blood-soaked arena. Ned could have sworn he hear laughter in his ears, the laughter of thirsting gods. The black energy covered the ground, like a swirling tornado, until it stopped; a covering of black that now had taken the center of the arena, like stagnant water.
Margaery hugged her grandmother close as her emerald eyes shone with horror. Garlan edged into a fighting stance as he stood over Willas, who, even as he remained on his chair, looked calm and collected. Stannis stood by the side of his knights, blade in hand, eyes inspecting the unholy occurrence, Davos to one side, Sandor tot eh other, towering over her charges, as Robert´s voice was lost to the sound of reality´s walls breaking apart. Eddard Stark wasn't sure at which moment Lord Glover, Lord Umber a, Lord Kastark and Lord Bolton had rallied to his and the King's side, but he was more than glad.
The knights of the Vale formed up beside Lord Yohn Royce, flanked by Ser Lyn Corbray, with Lady Forlorn in hand, the valyrian steel sword gleaming hungrily under the black light of madness that shone over the area, and Lord Horton Redfort, who, despite his short stature, stood tall against the hellish occurrence, a testament to his bravery.
Arianne observed in horror, while Ser Daemon Sand, her sworn sword, and first lover, stood over her, sword in hand. Arianne felt Trystain grab her dress tightly, and she brought her little brother into a fierce one-handed hug, the other hand seeking what little comfort her father gave her at the moment. Quentyn trembled, blade half-drown beside them, as ever-faithful Areo stepped in between them, and whatever devilry was occurring. The Red Viper had a weapon in his hands, his Lady Paramour by his side.
And then, from the blackness, came light, golden, pure light that could almost blind, as the light changed from gold to silver, before the small black lake erupted upwards, its drops disappearing into thin air.
And from the terrifying happening, the only things that remained as proof were two figures that had not been standing there before. Both were covered from head to toe in plate armor and were heavily armed. One of them was tall and terrifying, covered in crimson-red armor, like old dried blood, images of demonic faces adorning the armor from head to toe, skulls hanging by his side, a great axe in one hand, and a bloody maul in the other, both dripping with fresh gore, a never-ending stream of red that stained the ground, turning the sand black and dead. His helm was covered in spikes and blood-red skulls, and in the middle of his armor, a terrifying sigil of a demonic dragon, with red shining eyes stared into the crowd. He moved with the grace of a cat, and yet he felt more like a raging lion.
"No….Nooooooo. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" The roar of the man caused everyone to flinch back, a thundering noise that came from something not quite human anymore, a screeching sound, akin to flesh tearing apart. "Years of planning, a thousand sacrifices! And then you, maggot, you naive filth! You ruined everything!"
"It would have been glorious! GLORIUS, YOU HEAR ME?! The Lord of the Blood Dragons would have walked among us again; we would have drowned the land in blood! AND YOU RUINED EVERYTHING! You waste of blood! You horse-fucking, whore-worshipping, inbreed bastard!" He growled, the voice more metallic than it should have any right to be.
"You are going to pay for that. I'm going to skin you alive and then quarter you for my spawn. I'll make you regret every second of your miserable life, you son of a whore! I will feed your soul to Nagash himself! I WILL…!" The red-clad man was trembling in fury, taking quick steps toward the other man, but he stopped when his opponent laughed.
The laughter filled the arena, like the toll of a bell breaking the dark just before the sun dawned. He was clad in what had once been a beautifully crafted suit of full plate armor, a tabard of black and amber with the sigil of a roaring dragon with the dawning sun rising behind it, and a grail in front of the claws of the flying creature, like a golden tower. The armor had been intricate, adorned with sigils, runes, imagery of lions and dragons, of winged beasts and dawning suns, a true marvel, more deserving of a display in some great king´s vaults than on a battlefield. But it was a suit of armor, made for war, not for art, and it showed. It was battered and covered in dried, and some fresh, blood. He had a sword to his hip, and his helm mirrored that of the other man, although his was not a deformed and demonic parody of a mighty winged serpent, but mimicking a proud dragon, standing tall for battle, its wings open, forming the wings of the helmet. Runes had been etched in the armor, in gleaming silver and gilded gold, a few ambers etched in the shoulder guards, forged to look like dragon´s heads. The knight looked at the red-clad man, before chuckling and getting to his feet.
"Oh, just shut up, you stupid bastard son of a druchii whore. Do I look like I care for your petty words, you bloodsucking animal? Do I look intimidated in the slightest?" His voice was tired, almost breathless, and sounded like he hadn't had a drink in years. He certainly felt that way. He felt like he shouldn´t be alive, he certainly shouldn´t have. It wasn't the first time he found himself wandering, just how in all that was good and holy, was he still breathing.
"Do not bore me with your empty threats. The only thing you are good at is slaughtering defenseless crowds of innocent women and children. When was the last time you actually fought a battle you could lose?" His tone was ice and scorn. The red-clad man roared in furious anger, blood coiling around his form, his weapons coming to life with hateful runes of red and black, horrible, like a moonless night in a starless sky filled the howl of abominations that had long ago been rejected by light itself.
"YOU DARE, BRETONNIAN?! I will give you the cold embrace of death! I will make your suffering know no bounds! And when I'm done with you, I will go back to your beloved land, and drown it with blood and gore on such a scale, that Nagash itself will reward me for my dedication! I WILL BE THE END OF YOUR LION W…!" It was obvious to everyone else in the arena that even beginning that sentence would have been a bad idea. Thankfully, or sadly, depending on one´s outlook, he didn't finish it, for a golden spear of light sailed past the face of the blood-clad warrior, piercing the wall of the arena with a flash of light, splitting wood as it was wet paper. The amber knight had his free hand outstretched, his gaze, hidden as it was by his helmet, focused on the other man, if one could call the monstrosity a man.
"Your existence is offense enough, vampire. Keep silent of any insult on my Duchess, or I will take your tongue." He drew the longsword, and the gleaming steel shone with golden fire. The blood knight stalked around the amber warrior, before speaking
"We were friends, once upon a time. In the past, we stood side by side against the worst the mortal world had to offer. We fought, we bleed, we suffered and we lost much together. Tell me, Amaranth, aren't you tired of this? Of your senseless duty?!" The knight of the dragon crest tilted his head to the side, curious.
"What would you know of senselessness, fallen one? You, who lives an empty existence devoid of anything but unnatural hunger? Empty of anything but blood, death and carnage. That is no life." The Blood Knight laughed, before continuing.
"We were paragons among the living, knights forged in conflict and battle! The best our lands had to offer, the hammer and the blade! Martial prowess personified, mixed with dauntless determination! And for what?! To protect sniveling cowards! Useless sacks of wasted blood and meat?! Greedy thieves in merchant's silks who sucked us dry of our deserved spoils? Bureaucrats so corrupted they would have impressed the followers of the Great Rot?! Those are who we bleed for? Those are the ones we were sent to die for?! I WILL NOT STAND FOR IT!" The Blood Knight gathered spilled and fresh blood around him, seeping from his weapons and the plates of his armor letting his power show, letting his magic flow into the air, so the other man could see it.
"I have ascended to the ranks of the Chosen Ones of Abhorash! I AM A BLOOD DRAGON! My power is my own, my might mine to use! I will not be commanded by weaklings! I will not be ordered around by mere food! I offer this gift to you! Immortality, youth, power untold, as I offered you so long ago! Join me, brother of old! Abandon that bitch of the lake that has used you for so long, and take your well-deserved spot among the Lord and Ladies of the Night! Abandon this thankless existence you have bound yourself to, and fulfill your destiny! Take what you deserve! Follow my example, and claim what you are owed by this rabble!"
The other man did not move, and simply stood there. Before he began, yet again, to laugh. And like a sudden lightning strike, he slammed his sword into the ground; point first, as his very form seemed to burn with unseen fire, billowing into the dark winds, defiant and indomitable, an aura of pure fury taking shape like an invisible shroud, power not his own, but power freely given.
"Was this your last resort, old friend? To persuade me to abandon everything I love and hold dear to join your ranks of soulless, bloodsucking bastards? Was this your last ruse? To appeal to my pride and ego?" He ripped his blade from the ground, holding it in front of his face; his eyes scanning the reflection in the dirty edge, searching for something that he would not find there, before turning the blade around, letting his foe see only the edge of his weapon.
"Just because you were so eager to abandon everything you once stood for, you shouldn´t think all of us as weak. But I suppose that it must help you sleep, or whatever you do in that coffin of yours, to think all men as easily tempted as you." The Blood Dragon growled, his hands gripping the handle of his weapons so hard that dark crimson blood was flowing from beneath the armored gauntlets.
"As pathetic as these false gifts you parade. You are hunger, dust, and nothingness, and you will die as such, alone, forgotten, ashamed." He drew that last word long.
"I am power made flesh! I am what stalks in the night! I AM WHAT MORTALS FEAR!" Roared the monster. The amber knight chuckled ever so slightly. And then he laughed once more.
"Maybe. Maybe you are. But I am the protector of the kingdoms of men. I am the blade of the Lady. As long as I breathe, my vow remains. And as long as you exist, my duty is not done. Duty. Do you remember what that word meant? Do you remember what it entailed? To be sworn to a greater cause?" A lone sigh escaped the knight´s helm, and he seemed as if he was centuries old for a moment.
"Duty? What meaning has duty for the wolf among the sheep? Do you think duty binds the predator from his prey? Will you give up power like this for a concept as foolish as duty?" The vampire caressed one of the skulls that rested on his armor.
"To feel the sunlight on your skin. To laugh at someone else´s happiness. The smell of a vineyard at the beginning of the season. Of salt water by the cliffs. Of freshly picked aquitaine peppers and couronnians tomatoes. A child´s shining eyes of wonder. A friend´s encouragement. A lover´s smile." The Blood Knight faltered for a second at hearing the determination in his voice. Such simple words should not have sounded like a promise of imminent victory.
"Duty. Do you want to know what my duty is, old friend? To protect these things. Because that is what we fight for. Laughter, love, good, and joy, at the end of times, against the darkest of monsters and deepest of corruptions. Against insurmountable odds and endless foes." He laughed, he laughed with a calm and crystalline laugh, as strength returned to him like the tide, determination fueling a body on the brink of failing, a soul on the edge of burning out.
The vampire looked at the man, experiencing a strange sensation, as old as his memory, as foreign as sunlight. It was doubt. He had offered this man everything one could ask for, and he would not take it because of useless things such as those? What foolishness was this? He had not changed in more than a century. So idealistic, so naïve, so narrow and full of zeal and faith that he had forgotten how to think for himself, shackled to a useless goddess that dogged the steps of her own followers.
"You cannot win, you fool! How long before mortal courage gives out? How long before all that you hold so dear burns, withers, and dies?! When the piles of corpses topple the towers of your land in blood and carnage?!"
"I do not know. Maybe one day will dawn a day of discarded swords and broken lances, of spent courage and forgotten fellowship. An hour of howling wolves and shattered shields, when the time of men burns out, when abominations darken the sky and the sun drowns in the blood of my people." And every rune, every image on his armor shone with golden light, power, as radiant as hope, as unyielding as courage, and dauntless as justice. Taking a step forwards, the man let yet another chuckle, which resonated as the tolls of silver bells of the Great Cathedral of Carcassonne.
"Not today. Today, I fight. Today, I stand, for all that I love, a Knight of Bretonnia. For those I have lost, and those I can still save. For those I love, and those I can still avenge, I am called to stand, a Knight of the Lady." What wariness, what weakness had been present in his stance and words were gone; replaced by something else that burned like a sun in the dawning sky.
"I cast my excuses into the dirt long ago. You thought I would do less with yours, Draleit?" That got a reaction. That name made the red-clad affront to life roar, slamming his weapons in the sand, blackening it with its foul magic.
"Don't call me that! That was the name of a slave to your shackled beliefs. I AM FREE! I AM UGAN´THOR, RED REAVER! AND I HAVE EARNED IT WITH THE BLOOD OF A THOUSAND OF YOU KIND!" The other man was not intimidated, as he began to take a combat guard, blade coruscating in golden flames, undisturbed by the sudden show of anger. He had expected such a reaction.
"You will always be the man too scared to stand and speak the truth, too eager to earn your father's approval, too afraid to earn your mother´s scorn. Being a coward never had anything to do with freedom. You were not free because you let fear take hold of your actions." The man stopped for a second. His foe simply stood there, trembling with barely contained anger.
"I could have understood fear. I could have comprehended doubt. There is no sin in falling" His hand grasped the sword with renewed strength and determination filled his heart, falling in an offensive stance blade held vertically next to his head, pointing at the blood knight.
"But you choose to not get up. You fell, and choose to not get up. There is your sin. And that, I cannot forgive. You die here, betrayer." Now, the red warrior roared and charged.
"DIE, AMARANTH!" The amber knight twirled his blade and advanced. Like a tidal wave, the Red Reaver attacked, his maul and axe arced in two crushing strikes. The knight simply took a step back, and parried both blows with supreme speed, blinding flashes of golden and red where the weapons met. And the fight, the last one for at least one of them, began. Words echoed in the air, for nobody but the combatants to hear, vows made long ago, still unbroken, still standing.
'I give my body, heart and soul, to the Lady whom I seek. No plea for help shall find me wanting. No obstacle will stand before me. Death will come to find me'
The Knight attacked, his blade becoming a gleaming lightning bolt of death that seemed almost too fast to be true. He was unnaturally skilled, a mixture of grace and wrath, and while he normally could change in between several styles as the situation dictated, he was too tired, injured and furious to go for a prolonged fight, so he engaged head-on. Among the styles he had learned, this one was purely offensive, quick blows, filled with power and might, fast and deadly, precise and shattering. This form was concentrated on overpowering one´s opposition in a mixture of strength, precision and superior skill with arms, mixing the dauntless assault with parries and counterstrikes to keep his opponent on the defensive.
The Red Reaver barely managed to take a step back, before the blade slashed him across the chest and abdomen, the red armor shriveling and dying when faced with the golden flames, as if it was living tissue. He roared words in an unholy language, before attacking again. The knight simply sidestepped the first blow, ducked under the second, and blocked the third. Not even with his seemingly superior strength, did the Reaver manage to beat the lock of weapons both had, his axe and maul pressed against the other´s sword. The knight then pushed the weapons of his rival to the ground, as both struggled to keep the other´s steel still.
'I am a Paladin of Bretonnia, my blade is my fury, my word is my honor, my actions are the mirror of my soul'
The words keep being whispered, and the Reaver roared at them, almost as if it physically hurt him to listen to them. He pushed him back, as the knight simply retook his combat stance, grabbing the blade with both hands.
'No evil will taint the lands bequeathed unto me. When the clarion call is sounded, I will ride out and fight in the name of Liege and Lady'
He danced through the furious onslaught, scoring hits on his maddened rival. And then, he raised his hand and opened his palm, as the inscriptions on his armor shone with light. A shine, like the first dawn of the world, was born into this world for a brief moment, striking the Reaver in the chest with enough strength to break bones, shatter steel and rip wood apart, crashing into the walls of the arena, as the crowd behind ran for their lives, the silence that had reigned since their arrival gone completely. The vampire, rose, far removed from mortality. Such blows that would have broken lesser men meant little to a creature of blood and darkness.
'That which is sacrament, I shall preserve. That which is sublime, I will protect. That which threatens, I will destroy, for my holy wrath will know no bounds'
The Reaver charged again, slamming his axe into the ground, the baleful energies harnessed into it released as a torrent, skinless hounds of blood, hate and gore taking form with a soundless command around the Knight. And now, only now, did the Knight roar, roar with fury in his eyes, roar with fire in his heart, roar with determination in his soul.
"As long as I breathe, hope will burn bright!" He took one monster down with a swing, before whirling around and taking two others that had sought to tear at his ankles in a single strike. He crushed the skull of a fourth under his armored boot, before charging his opponent.
"As long as I stand, justice will prevail!" He smashed the maul aside, before biting his steel into his opponent's arm, almost cutting it in half. The retaliation from his foe crashed against his wall of sharp steel, like rain against iron. The words rang in the ears of every person in the arena, but only some of them had heard those same words uttered before, years ago, in more peaceful times, in a more wistful, innocent way. It was an impossibility, something that was not supposed to happen, a wound already closed and healed. And yet those words still opened the wounds, and let the pain flow free. Only, this time, hope was also trickled out with the hurt and the pain, a dim hope, yet hope nonetheless. Purple eyes widened, stony cold eyes of the color of a stormy sky, broke their hard discipline for a brief second, grey eyes like the fur of wolves widened in a barely remembered memory.
'Honor is all. Chivalry is all'
He impaled his blade into the red warrior's chest, earning a cry of pain from his foe. The Reaver stuck blindly, and the Knight took the blow, being thrown backward, skidding in the sand, until he was some 30 meters from his foe. There was even more fresh blood in his armor, and it wasn't his opponent's. On a good day, fresh and ready, Draleit would have fallen in mere minutes. But he was half-dead already, bleeding internally in so many places that he wasn't completely sure if there were any undamaged organs left in his body. There was a massive gash in his belly that just would not close, his left knee had stopped hurting and felt numb, which was a bad sign, and his left eye was beginning to fail, an earlier blow of a greatsword´s pommel having damaged nerves and muscles around it, even under the heavy armor. He could barely fight. But he HAD to fight, so mastering his own body, taking in his sixth or seventh wind in the last few days of unending battle, he steeled his guard, took a deep breath, and roared to the sky, and the thing he had once considered a friend.
"Ours is the Fury of Gilles! Ours the Wrath of the Lady!" His blade erupted in flames of bright color. The Reaver called his power against it, blood flowing like a wave, dark red flames surging to answer the anathema in front of him, the Winds of Death and Blood following his commands, a brutal form was created for the power that he was gathering for his retaliation.
"I will show you what true power looks like! By the Blood of Lahmia! By Abhorash! You, pitiful mortal, slave to your wench of the lake! I WILL SHOW YOU THE POWER OF THE NIGHT!" The orange-clad man did not seem to react at first, but then he spoke, his voice thundering like a storm, his will becoming veritable power, energy arching from his body.
"I am Sirius Amaranth, the Dragonhearted! Blade of Unity! Champion of the Lionhearted! Knight of the Morningstar! I am the Lion´s Wrath! I deny your darkness, now, and always!" He took a step forward, the sand under his feet simply turning to glass under the amount of power unleashed, the energy reaching its peak, begging to be unleashed, begging to be allowed to purify. Amaranth was more than willing.
"DAWN´S WRATH, MORNINGSTAR'S FURY!" And he struck, swinging his sword, the furious flames unleashed, avenging vindication released in a torrent of fire and holy energy which collapsed against the shield of blood and dark fire, both clashing like the fury of opposing gods. The detonation filled the arena with smoke, and threw many to the ground, while all of those who were still in the arena were thrown back to the stands by sheer force. When the dust in the air cleared, the Amber Knight stood, his helm shattered, his blood dripping into a pool under his feet, and his blade was broken.
He wasn't.
His foe, on the other hand, was on his knees, both left arm and left leg missing, with half his torso, as he desperately tried to heal the damage done. Sirius Amaranth advanced until he was standing above his former friend.
"Any last words?" He said simply, his voice tired, but neutral. The other man laughed, before choking on his blood. It took almost a minute for him to speak again.
"If you are going to kill me, at the very least look at me in the eyes, one last time." He growled before removing his own red helmet, showing black air and pale skin, eyes blood red, tattoos cut into the skin. The other man complied, removing his cracked helmet. Long black hair, curly and yet not unruly, hung to his neck, a cared for, and now blood-smeared and covered in dust, beard and mustache adorned his features, while a pair of amber eyes stared his former fellow knight down, hard like diamonds, unforgiving like the glare of hell itself. A white line, the mark of an old scar, ran from one side of his face to the other, a long line that seemed to go through both eyes. A scar meant to take the sight, and only managed to strengthen that sight. A face that had seen battle, blood and loss. A face thought lost.
"You will forever remain a puppet, you know that, right? You will be used and cast aside like a broken sword. You will forever stand alone atop the bloody hill." The Knight nodded, before taking his ruined blade with both hands.
"I haven't been alone in a long time, old friend. But you are not wrong. I was made to stand alone against fate, to defy it. An impossible, suicide task, to be honest." He stated simply, shocking the other one to the core. He blinked, doubt flourishing in his blood-filled eyes.
"Then, why? Why stay? Why didn't you join us?!" Sirius smiled at him, his eyes softening, his features relaxing just a little. And he said words the other man could not discuss.
"Because, Draleit, I had faith. I had faith in the teachings of my master, the will of my King, the beliefs of my knights, the mission of my Lady, the values of our people and the goodness in our hearts." He took a deep breath as stray, welcomed thoughts crossed his mind.
'The love of a brave woman, the friendship of a true brother, the council of wisdom beyond my years and the teachings of a hundred souls willing to follow me into the darkest of times against the most terrible of foes.'
"I had faith, I always had faith. And with that faith, I lighted my way into the darkness. I only wish I had been able to give you some of my own light to guide you. But it was a flame that only you could spark." The other man was left speechless. The simplicity of it all….
Faith.
Such a curious thing, faith was. It was a powerful, tarrying tool, capable of burning whole worlds, or bringing them together. Of uniting, and dividing whole civilizations. Some may say it was the most powerful tool of a god. They wouldn't be wrong.
Such an obvious, powerful tool, and he had abandoned it so easily. So much power for a fool.
"I am sorry." Was all he said, and Sirius knew he meant it, the last action of the man the Reaver had once been. He smiled at his old friend, one last time.
"I know. So am I." The blade was swung, and one death that should had happen decades ago was reaped, as the Red Reaver began to dissolve, his body simply discomposing as the energy that had kept it standing simply banished. And the Grail knight simply fell to his knees, tired like he hadn´t been in a long while.
'Rejoice, for we, the Knights of Bretonnia... shall be your shield.'
Those words, that promise, he took to heart, as the Vow he had made so long ago was reforged. And, like a thousand times before, tired as he was, sad as he was, confused as he was, in desperate need of a rest as he was, he rose to his feet, yet again.
"And while a single Bretonnian draws breath, this war is not over." He said, turning around, his eyes focusing on a point in space that seemed empty and devoid of anything, yet it trembled as if hate alone would tear it apart.
"So next time, if you really want me dead, have the basic fucking decency to come personally, bloodsucker scum. Reveal yourself, Neferata. I know you are watching!" Reality bled yet again, to reveal a gaunt beauty, dark shining hair of black and eyes of pale blood, adorned by obsidian. Her skin looked unblemished, and dead at the same time. There was a deep void in those eyes, like a pitiless and endless chasm in the heart of the darkest place on the earth. And then it laughed, a terrifying laugh that made everyone present tremble slightly. Somewhere, a baby was crying.
"Tsk, tsk, Amaranth. You bretonnians need to learn that you are as much of a lamb as those horses you enjoy riding so much, and taste no better. Meant to be bled, meant to be fed upon. You may have stopped us now, but we both know that there will be a next time, and next time, you will not be there." Sirius´s eyes were fixed on the ground, and his hands trembled, but if it from was fear or anger, none could tell.
Death loomed over him. He was weak, barely capable of standing, and unfit for a training match, much less a fight to the death. There was a massive chance he would die there. Images flashed by his eyes.
Green eyes, adorned by golden hair, smiling at him from below, smiling the most beautiful smile in the whole of reality. If darkness engulfed the stars themselves, those eyes would shine on eternal, no matter the void or abyss that sook to swallow them. Eyes of a lover, of the greatest treasure he had ever found. Something he had loved before even knowing what love was.
Eyes of golden fire, shining with calm and confidence, peace in the raging inferno of battle, trusting every fiber of his being, even when everything had seemed lost, raging with fire when all had been doomed. Eyes of what he could call a brother, of loyalty beyond words or mere actions, faith unbroken by conflict or loss. A trusted friendship, a true friendship, that had lasted decades.
A proud smile, under brown eyes. So simple, yet so brilliant, like fertile soil, like a promise made and kept. A father´s smile, a beckoning hand, and a kind laugh. Eyes of a father, a king that tolled far beyond what others did, by right, skill and will. His first and greatest teacher, the conscience on his shoulder, letting him advance, but always at his back, comforting.
Eyes of purple, mistrusting purple, shining with unborn hope. A massive burden, followed by doubt and unwarranted shame, eyes in search of approval and teachings, of recognition. Eyes of a son, of a legacy, a boy that shouldn´t have existed, but he couldn't simply ignore or let go off. His blood, by design, not choice, what some had called an abomination. His greatest pride.
Two gemstones, one purple, the other amber, shining with joy and with curiosity, an unbridled well of innocence and sheer kindness. The light in his heart, the shape his conscience took form, what he was fighting for, what he had always fought for. A soul that shone so brightly that no evil could stand on its path. His greatest joy.
Eyes of pink, like round petals, mischievous, wise, sometimes childish, other, elder as the roots of the world itself. Eye of council. Eyes of a friend among friends, trust in his abilities, the quintessential manifestation of a mentor in a being that in other circumstances would have been a hated foe but for the Lady´s actions. A man that had been with him from the very beginning, and would follow him beyond the end of times.
A dozen pair of eyes, of multiple colors, all looking at him, all awaiting orders, expecting commands, willing to follow him… his friends, his brothers and sister. Loyal knights to the end. How many had he lost? How many had he failed? It mattered, but not to them. Their choice remained. They would follow him, they would carry his symbol, and they would be his shield.
Then, the knight laughed and spoke.
"I am certain you already heard my little sermon before the fight started, and as much as I would love to improvise another of those speeches my Lioness loves so much, I will not waste my breath on you. So, I say to you, you malcontent, bad-fucked whore, you abominable harlot, go choke on shit and die." The knight had a vicious smile on his face. The monstrous beauty hissed, but then smiled yet again.
"Kill him." She said, smacking her lips hungrily, as her fangs shone under her full, red lips. And the shadows morphed, expanding like some baleful cancer, warping the ground and reality beneath them, forming in two dozen figures like the one he had just vanquished, knights of blood-red armor and black spines, who advanced to take the head of the Grail Knight. He simply raised his broken blade, and prepared himself for the coming end.
"We all die, abomination. But, let's see how many of you, you dead fuckers, I can send back to Morr before the time comes, shall we?" The first Blood Knight struck, and Sirius blocked, taking a step back, parrying 5 attacks before retaliating with precision, cutting the hand of his offender. The second knight was better and faster, and almost took his leg off, had he been a second slower. He lost his teeth to the hook the Grail Knight delivered. But the third one slashed him across the throat, making the Grail Knight stumble to his knees, pain raking every fiber of his being while the poison ate at him. But he wasn't dead yet. He got up, and with his fee, pulled a discarded sword from the ground into his grip. He smiled, blood still flowing, as he wielded both blades, the familiar rush coming to him like the most natural thing in the world. Gods above, he had missed this.
"So, my turn then?" The monster that had wounded him lurched forward. He lost, for his troubles, half his face, and a good chunk of his neck. He did not get up. The others rushed him, and he struck back, blade biting, slashing and killing things that should have died a long time ago, fire burning in his chest, fury coursing his veins. He was still standing, and as long as he could stand, he could fight. In a flurry of dual strikes, he tore them apart and sent those undead things back to Morr.
He left only 4 of them, or it would have been more proper to say that there were only 4 remaining when his body finally gave out after a blade gutted him in the stomach, cutting him from side to side. The Undead simply licked his teeth, and raise his blade to cut his neck wide open, as the other two who were intact advanced, ready to tear him to pieces, a predatory smile on his cracked lips, a third one rounding up, his left arm gone to the elbow.
Those green eyes, like emeralds in the depth of the Underway shone back into his memory. It was the most beautiful last sight one could ask for.
'I am so sorry my love. I loved you with all I had, and then some more. I will wait for you, wherever I go, and I will find you, I promise, no matter what gods try to step in between us.'
And the blade fell. And the knight smiled the last smile he would make.