The deafening silence is broken only by the dripping of water in the abyssal cavern. The knight comes awake against the rocky wall with a gasp, his unlit torch at the fingertips of his left hand, sword held loosely in his right. The grim darkness a veil, unbroken by the meager eyesight of this lowly man. The pain in his head was sharp, but bearable, as he wipes the blood from his mouth and on his torn tabard.
He sits forward with a wheezing groan, broken rib crackling. The knight reaches into the pouch at his side and pulls out his flint and steel slowly, as if weighed down by water. He strikes once, twice, the third time setting alight his torch and savings grace. With a grim, shaky sigh he leans back then pulls himself up with a pained gasp, up and up along the wall. The torch, still weak, illuminates the small, open cavern around him, revealing nothing except the continuance of the cave, deeper into the earth, the rock and darkness engulfing and swallowing all.
The knight shifts the longsword in his hand, then sheathes it, using the wall to help him navigate. The only sound coming to him was the crunching underfoot and a wind that sounded like a monstrous moan. Caves always had a way of delivering fear in the form of absence, but the knight only knew his mission was close by. He could not stop, lest he fall and sleep for eternity. The blood smeared lion on his tabard, reaching forward through a large circle as if to pounce, was a grim reminder of what his life had been. As he reaches forward another step, and yet another, the darkness brings back the ghosts of his memory.
There was a woman and a child, his loves, his world. There was his mother and father, city tanners that aspired only to dream of each year's mid-winter and mid-summer events. His hardened commander came to him, along with his king and an entire hall dedicated to the group of knights and their mission. The knight winces in pain as the path takes a steep dip, but continues through it, breathing becoming more and more of a chore. The ghosts come back in time, the constant dull pain giving them solidity, memories flooding to him.
He had taken this mission only for the glory and money, the promise of his own lands. He was not nobility, but he had risen through the ranks of the military quickly and efficiently. What he lacked in knowledge, he had made up for in diligence and hard-work. The knight's mentor had taken him under his wing as a squire, seeing the promise of the young man, recognizing someone worth investing in. Years of devotion were dedicated to learn the way of a knight, though whereas some would be twisted and corrupted by the power they wield, his mentor had never allowed him to stray from his path. For that, he was forever grateful. One day he had asked his mentor, 'Thou'st allow thy fellows to tread such dangerous paths. Is't this not a sin?' His mentor had looked knowingly and replied, 'Mine charge, thou shall see. Thy peers may sin, 'tis the way oft we see, 'tis true. How'ver, mine Squire, remember this: thy peers are most important to thy life. In battle, twill be times when thy allies ar't thy only saviours.' The knight-in-training at the time, young and full of assurance of self, did not know the meaning, but took his mentor's lesson and asked no more. Three years later in a skirmish between the country's neighboring enemy, his mentor died from a sword in the back by a traitor he called friend. The knight knew then that placing your life in your 'allies' hands was dangerous, and peers should be watched. Keep your allies close and your enemies closer, as they say.
He sighs deeply, weariness dripping from him like a toxic sludge. It demanded he stop, rest, quit his mission. The Witnesses in the darkness would catch him if he did, though. He had heard their handy work and seen the aftermath enough to know that it would take him a long while before death would claim him. The thought of their flashing claws reminded him of his quarry. A creature of considerable size, the only survivor found of the many destroyed villages in the country had only said a single word: Lisk. The King, in his desperation, had called to arms as many knights as could be spared, calling a reward for the one who slew the Beast. The Third Prince had been given the task to bring the Beast down, of which he had readily agreed. Rumor only mentioned that his motivations were, perhaps, not wholly selfless. 'Greed is't a powerful motivator,' he thinks to the emptiness around him.
The man comes to a split in the cavern, marks marring the left side of the trail. His chainmail clinks as he illuminates the marks, his quarry's direction plain and clear. He huffs and continues through, following the damage, blood marking and pooling in parts of the cavern. He notices something along the wall, just out of torchlight. Coming closer, his eyes recognize one of the fellows of his troupe. A large man, he was a knight who knew only living day to day as best he could, loud in personality and appetites. Many a night was spent in feasting, drinking and women. Though the knight didn't really know him very well, he knew this man to be amiable and kind, well known amongst both the common folk and the nobility and considered a friend by many including the knight himself. Now the only thing he would be remembered for was a torso in pieces, the open horror on his face twisting his once ready smile into an ugly mask of fear and hate.
Ignoring the corpse, he continues along the tunnel, his thoughts turning back to the ghosts from his lifetime. Three and a half decades was a long time for many, and he had lived a fulfilling life. His thoughts softened as he thought of his child and wife, so far away now. His child had soft hair of golden wheat, unlike his own grey-streaked black. The little one wanted nothing more than to run in the fields, his bare feet touching green grass. This man, this father, missed his son terribly at that moment, remembering chasing after him, both laughing and calling toward each other. The memory of his wife always watching and sometimes joining, her own golden hair flowing in the sunlight, smile brighter than the sun itself. They were happy, and the time they spent precious to him. The grimness of battle and the corruption of court politics were left behind in that bright home, the healing balm to the stain of life. Tears fall from his eyes, unbidden and streaking his dirty face, a smile of bittersweet anguish showing his naked feelings. He remembers, until his exhausted body demands sleep as he teeters and falls, asleep before even hitting the ground, the clatter of armor deafening in the small corridor.
The knight wakes slowly once more within the darkness, the skittering of creatures in the darkness pushing him to get up quickly, reaching for his sword, adrenaline pushing the pain to the back of his mind. The torch that had once guttered hungrily before was out and nowhere near him as he feels around for it. Cursing, the knight pulls a spare from his side and strikes his flint and steel quickly, panicked. At last the torch lights and he raises it all around him, striking out against the darkness, back against the wall. One of the creatures backs away quickly, the only thing that could be seen was long, gangly white arms and legs, eyes glowing a low green in the light. It continues to back away, then disappears altogether as the knight pants heavily, adrenaline coursing through him. A long blood streak was pooled along the floor where something heavy seemed to have been drug, a grim reminder of a torso ripped apart and sitting against the cavern wall. He sighs and continues forward, the ghosts of his memories staying out of his view.
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