The Winds of Change

The knight trotted through a field, his sword in hand raised high above his head as his horse galloped towards a dense forest. He wasn’t afraid. His quest led him North to the out-stretching marshes that bordered the kingdom of Avalar. A creature had stolen its way into the king’s castle under the guise of night, cloaked in shadows made of darkness it stole the greatest treasure the kingdom had; the Princess herself.

            The knight rode on through the bogs of misty grey, through the fetid fields of dark ages long forgotten. A noxious gas erupted from a crack in the Earth. His mighty steed, Genevyr, fell and thrashed against the mudded floor. Dark shapes moved in unison along the edges of sight, far beyond the Knight’s vision or understanding. Yet, he didn’t falter. The knight sparks a flame from the palm of his hand from seemingly nowhere. A magic spark that erupted into a blue and green flame that danced along his fingertips, coating his ebony gloved hand. The flames dripped like dragon fire, falling to the ground and fading to nothing.

            He could not falter; his honor pact wouldn’t allow it. The flame crashed against the darkness, sending greenish waves of light against them, throwing them back beyond the tree line, and with it, the shadowed beasts of the forest.

            Genevyr was badly wounded. She thrashed for a moment, then grew still. Her eyes fell upon the Knight with a quiet understanding. For there can be no stopping what must be done. The Knight rested his hand across her white mane. The flame in his hand shifted to a dull grey as Genevyr’s breathing became calm, her movement more serene as she lay there. She blinked, her eyes focused and full of hope, if not for herself but for her companion who could be there. A shallow sigh escaped her mouth in a soft neigh as her eyes flickered shut.

            A moment past, he could allow that. A moment of sorrow and loss, of heartache and woe. The Knight quelled the want for revenge, for hatred and death. These were not the emotions for his pact. They would taint the moment, the memory of Genevyr. The hollow grey flame shifted once more to a blue-ish green haze, signifying the transition.

            A moment passed, that was all he could allow, but it was time to go.

            The Knight stood and began to walk, his hand now clenching tight, the steel-honed blade resting in his scabbard. He stopped, but he is out of moments. He says a soft prayer, whispers it to the wind, to the god’s who watch over the recently departed. A Knight is allowed a moment to grief, only one, this would be shunned but he doesn’t care. He whispers the prayer, and the wind whispers a soft reply. Words that are beyond his understanding, but the Knight trots on. Only the god’s can speak through the wind, and they never waste their words. The flame is a deep blue.

            For many days and countless nights, he trudged through the sunken ruins of the land of old; his heart beating a Tok, Tok, Tok. The flame of a sacred order guided the path ahead, until a great breach opened across the trees. From deep within the forgotten land there stood a dark spire that rose to the very heavens above, its black peaks shadowed by unnatural darkness. The Knight stood at its heavy foundation. The flame turned a dark crimson. Shadows formed across the dale, flanking the great structure of The Dark Lord, an agent of chaos.

            Rending his blade free, he burst through the entrance. Hidden within the winding dark halls were goblins with skin like cracked firewood. Their eyes were black with red dots that glowed with hatred, with vile unyielding pain. The Knight unleashed a deep red flame that sprang through the hall, scorching the creatures into dark unrecognizable masses.

            Stairs spiraled upward. Endless halls. Endless doors. Countless creatures of darkness flooded to him. His sword swung violently and true across a hundred, then two hundred. The once blue and gold trim of his armor had since grown a dark and malicious black and red. Time ceased to matter or simply ceased to exist within the confines of the spire.

            An oaken double door enlaced with black steel emerged from a dark hall. Strange designs clouded its coverings. Beings of dark shades dancing around a great fire while people screamed from within the flames. They held spheres of black that they prayed to before the flames as their master floated above them. The Knight gave pause, just a moment, until soft cries could be heard from the other side of the door. Without thinking, he kicked the door down. Inside was a large octagonal room with port windows running along its walls. The ceiling domed upward where a giant opening in the ceiling revealed a moon of absolute crimson.

            The princess was held to a table by the shadowed goblins all dressed in black robes with silver carvings running down their backs. At the head of the altar there stood a figure of black and grey. The Lord of Change stood straight; his hands held out to his side as the moon crested to its peak. Its skin was pure black, its head held no hair but instead flowed with a transparent haze of grey that ran down its shoulders. Ancient scriptures lay chiseled along its skin; passages ripped from The Book of Blood. It held no gender, its physical form an amalgamation of studded edges and cracked skin; pale, yet its ridges ran deep and dark.

            She seemed unharmed – as unharmed as he could have hoped. Tears trailed down her face as the dark beings held her arms and legs against the obsidian altar. Her eyes were a pale white. She looked to the knight with a pleading gaze.

            The Lord of Change lowered its head as its eyes opened wide. Green dots grew within the blackness of its eyes. They fell upon The Knight, understanding the creature that stood before it. A lower lifeform undeserving of its time.

            Sparks ignited within The Knight like a fire born from a dragon. The embers of hatred crept through his core, infecting his will, his desires. It went against the pact, his holy order, to allow hate to fuel his justice. The flame turned a sharp black.

            Fire erupted from his palm, piercing like a lance through the hooded figures surrounding the altar. They began to scream before their vocal cords turned to ash as their robes fell to the floor, now vacant. The Princess wiped tears away and fled the altar. She stood behind The Knight of the black flame. Thunder erupted in the sky, sending spinning webs of purple energy through a blood red moon. Light filled the inner sanctum of the black spire. Its Lord stood at the altar; its hands folded into fists.

            A loathing endured through its mostly formless shape. It hated the realm of man, hated how resilient they seemed to be with such short lives. It didn’t understand what one could accomplish knowing that the end was only a flick away. They were bugs, vermin to be crushed without thought. It despised thinking of them.

            The Dark Lord rushed The Knight, a spectral blade formed in its hand. The Knight raised his blade in defense. Their swords clashed and held still, sparks raining from the sheer force. Their blades clashed together again and again like a wicked waltz between skilled dancers. The Knight weaved against the attack and swiped hard at The Dark Lord’s chest. Darkness fell through the room as The Dark Lord fell backwards, knocked off balance by the vicious swipe.

            Within his heart, The Knight felt a deep rhythm -Tok, Tok, Tok-, a rhythm of war and hunger. The moon grew tall, its rays transfixed upon the altar where The Dark Lord now stood. The Knight lunged, driving his steel blade into the dark being’s chest, but it grasped the blade steady with its armored hands. He pressed hard, taking the dark flame in his hand and pushing it into the hilt. The blade stood firm, unmoving. The Dark Lord laughed, knowing this was not the end.

            Hate welled within The Knight, hatred for the evil he faced. It would not be allowed, not within his order, not for him. His mind raced with emotion, sadness, contempt, fear. All the things he fought to extinguish. He was allowed a moment, but those were gone. Nothing remained but the hate.

            A thought spoke out. A whisper on the wind. The gods spoke briefly but never wasted their words. The voices spoke to him through gentle breath. They spoke of his triumphs, of the follies of darkness of its every-growing grasp, like a chalice filled with too much water. It spoke of man with their limitless potential, of the connections they could make. It spoke of Genevyr, and her final parting moments. The flame turned a glowing blue.

            His resolve turned a hearty steel. The blue flame erupted and covered the hilt, the blade. Its steely tip plunged through The Dark Lord’s hand and pierced through its form. A screech echoed the inner chamber that shook its very foundation. Lightning struck through the opened ceiling, engulfing the dark creature with astral energy. Its form writhed and kicked with unrequited fury. Not even its hate could quell the sparks as slowly its form faded from existence. The Dark Lord was no more.

            Tremors rocked through the dark spire. The Knight grabbed hold of The Princess and ran for the opposite end of the room. A massive section of wall broke free and tumbled down, blocking the only means of escape. The open air spiraled around them as they peered through the opened wall. Endless expanse separated them from the earth. They could do nothing but hold each other and wait for the end.

            Suddenly, a great wind fell upon them, sweeping them off their feet and into the air. They rode it, still holding each other as they tumbled through the air currents. Purple streams of energy crashed through the clouds in the dark-lit sky. The Knights heart continued to pound within, -Tok, Tok, Tok-. The wind howled and flung about like a thousand whispering words that piled onto one another, undecipherable to the human mind. Until all at once, it ceased.

            The two opened their eyes as a vast field of grass spanned outward. The dark spire was nothing more than a dot in the horizon. They smiled, realizing that they still held fast to each other. Wind rustled between their hair and around their shoulders. The Knight looked to the sky; a white steed of wind rode through the air with purpose. A purpose fulfilled. A whisper carried through the wind reached him, a soft voice that clung to him like cotton. A farewell. He smiled.

            The Knight waited a moment to savor that feeling. In The Order of Ancients, they are allowed a moment, but it’s best not to linger. He took the moment and was content.

Within the wells of humanity, they hold the boundless possibilities for evil. They hold the ability to do great and terrible things, but they also hold a converse possibility. Within each of them there is the power to not just do what must be done, but what should be done. To be a human, to be a hero, one must look past their bitter urges and find resolve within the wind.

“Shall we depart?” The princess asked, smiling. Her hand held tight against his.

The Knight smiled back, looking off to the sky now streaming with the visage of a thousand horses running off to places unknown.

“In a moment.” He said, the flame in his heart taking on a bright blue.

With a resolve forged of steel, The Knight held his hand to The Princess as they marched onward.