• “We were gifted since we were children, indeed. Magicians, warriors, all of us knights were passed on with the power of leadership and combat. People look up to us, and see us as protectors…nothing could be a more enjoyable gift than to be stronger than the commoner, someone weak and powerless, the ones who die in war, and we are what live. However, take up that sword and you will see one thing I did. The weak and powerless have a gift: they don’t have to fight…and only face certain death once.”

    An unknown knight’s diary

    Night had rolled in; the sun was cascading away over the city walls. Falon was in a haze from the amount he had drunk, realizing that it was only five minutes ago that he, Cas, and the intoxicated Darth parted ways. The other two headed in arms back through the markets to the Amaranth for some sleep, singing drunken lullabies gleefully as they went. As much as Falon wished to join them, he had something to take care of. Through his bleak memory and all the excitement and fun inside the pub, Captain Agnus’ voice rang clear in his head. He was to retrieve this package for him. All night, he could not shake the feeling of paranoia from himself.
    Falon stood up, bidding the bartender a farewell and stepped out of the pub, figuring a good walk to the errand would be good for him.
    Upon exit, he was slapped in the cheek by falling water. It was raining – great. Falon would have to make this walk quick if he wanted to stay dry. His eyesight still fuzzy a bit, he reached behind and pulled his hood over his head, and began down the empty market streets. Looking around himself, every building and house was closed up tight, fires being shut out, save for the guard posts and the lamp posts that barely lit the pathways. Remembering the location of his choice, the upper market, he knew he was close. Just up the hill it was, and Falon would see it soon, a simple large tent that stood firm in the endless rain. Quickly, he strode up the hill to hide from the rain.
    The inside of the tent was everything that it was not outside, warm and dry, a single large lamp at the center of the tent. Falon peered around for someone in service, seeing no one around.
    “Hello?” he said in a clear voice, stepping deeper into the tent, looking around still. “Anyone here?”
    “Oi! Who is here at this bloody time!” screeched an old man’s voice, this gaunt and pale figure stepping from behind the shadows, up to the counter. At the sight, Falon jumped slightly, blinking at the old man who donned a blacksmith’s apron, the furnace behind him casting a strange silhouette around his figure. “Ah, and who are you?”
    Falon shook his head, the effects of the alcohol wearing away with the sudden surprise. “I am...” he began, stepping a bit closer. “Here to pick up something.”
    The old man nodded his head. “I can see that. With all this rain outside and it being dark, I assumed you were not here for a casual chat!”
    Falon gave a nod in return and drew a note from his pocket from Agnus and slipped it onto the counter. “This note has what I request.”
    With a grumble, the blacksmith swiped the letter from the counter and began reading, his brown eyes scanning the text of the note. Suddenly, he blinked and shifted a bit, then looking up to Falon with an analyzing stare. “So, you’re here for the sword, eh?”
    Falon was a bit confused. Agnus sent for a sword? “I…I guess,” he gave a shrug.
    As if the old man’s disposition had entirely changed, he turned away and slipped into the shadows, briefly leaving Falon in the light before his return with something in his hands, a sheathed sword. Setting it on the counter, he looked back up at Falon and gave a sigh. “Tell Agnus that he needs to come pick his things up once in a while. So, you must be Falon – the chap that is mentioned in this letter.”
    The man’s words slipped from Falon’s ears, the sword being his concern, himself being amazed at the sight. In its black sheath sat the long blade, with a length that could reach his waist standing up. Decorated in a silver-looking metal and a crystal at the hilt, Falon assumed that this was a knight’s blade. What would Agnus need with this blade? Looking closer, Falon saw etchings on the sheath and the hilt in a strange language.
    “Well? Shouldn’t you be taking that elsewhere? Off with you now! This storm is getting worse!”
    That piercing announcement broke Falon from his state of trance and forced him to turn to face the old blacksmith, giving a nod. “Yes, of course. I thank you, sir.” And with little hesitation, his hand wrapped itself around the fine leather hilt in caution, and lifted the blade off the counter. Drawing back, Falon found himself wielding the weapon with ease, finding it to be feather light in his hands, in spite of its size. What was more interesting was whenever Falon took hold of it, a warm, soothing sensation rushed into him, as if the sword itself was feeding him energy. A unique feeling came from the presence of this sword, a divine feeling as Falon wondered.
    Falon suddenly closed his eyes and his mind faded away into imagination, the strange aura washing over him. He felt himself fade away from the scene, and opened his eyes to find himself alone, standing in white haze, fog surrounding him. Looking around himself, he saw nothing but emptiness that remained endless. Then running a hand over his shoulder, he found that all his armor was gone, himself standing without clothes, knee-deep in water. Falon did not panic, nor feel strange in this place, he actually felt welcome. Every single muscle on his body felt cleansed, warm, rejuvenated. His eyes looking down, he bent over and ran his hand through the waters beneath him, his fingertips barely touching the water. The water was so clean…
    A sound was made and Falon turned sharply around, “Who’s there?” he asked, his eyes scanning the emptiness for the noise’s source. Out of the thin air slowly stalked a shadowy figure. Coming to light, it was a slender, feminine figure, with the shape of a lover, and beauty of a goddess; skin bright as day and hair long and flowing over her face. Her feet glided over the water in casual steps, and stopped before Falon. Her gentle hand moved from her side and placed itself against Falon’s chest, pressing slightly, the warmth radiating from her palm racing through the man like wildfire. Her fingers spread open, as did a pair of large white wings from her back, which reached out to the light. Falon’s once racing heart, now slow down, himself calming at this mysterious goddess’s touch.
    “You are…just like I thought you were,” whispered a voice, apparently from this woman. Falon only listened. “You are here now, after so many years. You have returned.”
    Returned?
    “You feel it, don’t you? A shadow is looming again over this world. He is returning.”
    Who? Who is returning?
    “…They were right. You do not remember who you are. Strong, loyal, just as you were before – you are still not ready. But that is okay, you need not worry about yourself, for you are blessed with a divine gift, one none can compare.”
    The woman leaned forward and put Falon into her embrace, throwing her arms around him. Falon blinked at all this, and was tempted to shove this woman aside. What was she talking about? What was she saying about him? Who was she? The warmth that came forth, the bright aura that emitted from this figure all seemed to relax him. Falon’s eyes grew heavy, and closed, his arms moving against his will, beginning to move around the goddess.
    “Who…are you?” he whispered to her.
    “You will discover soon enough, Falon…I will protect you.”
    “What the bloody hell is that?”
    Falon snapped open his eyes, finding himself inside the dark tent once more, the sword in his hand. The blacksmith hobbled over to the door of the tent and peeked out. The sound of bells and battle horns sounded in the distance. The blacksmith closed the tent door and stepped back. “Those are the warning bells…someone has invaded Moonshire!”
    Whether it was a divine connection to the sword, or the amount of alcohol in his blood, or the confused state he was in, all of it was gone now, himself feeling awake. He turned sharply around. Invaded Moonshire? How? And who? One thought came prime in his mind: the Amaranth. He must return to it.
    Falon looked at the sword in his hand, took the strap that was on the sheath and put it over his shoulder, the sword resting on his back. He got the package, now it was time to leave. He stepped over to the old man and put a hand on his shoulder. “Go hide and blow out the fires,” he advised to the old man, “they shall not see you up here. Now, go!” And with no hesitation, the old man threw a bucket of water over the fires and did his best to run and hide behind the counter. Falon drew a deep breath and stepped through and out the tent. Well, he wondered, at least he was not crazy now.

    The outside had completely changed. The once sleeping city suddenly erupted into activity, mainly guards sprouting from their keeps and towers, ringing bells and arming themselves. Off in the distance, the gateway to the lower main entrance to the city burst open, scores of screaming men purging through, armed in simple armor and weapons. Distant calls of guards echoed through the air: “Bandits! Bandits!”
    Shortly after, the screams of civilians filled the night air. Looking around, Falon tried to figure a way out without being detected.
    “Oi! What do we have here?” spoke a raspy, low tone. Falon turned to his side and saw a small group, five of them, of bandits, all smiling and brandishing their blades that looked of crude cleavers, bloodied fresh from some victims sorry to get in their way. Spinning their blades in hand, the five all gave a growl and charged at Falon. As much as Falon did not wish to fight, he had to, for his sake, and for the old blacksmith’s. Opening his legs a bit, he jumped back at one of the bandit’s swings, him evading it deftly. His hand reached behind him, grasped the leather hilt firmly and pulled forward. A shining light came from the blade exiting the sheath, the tip touching the ground. Falon finally got a good look at the blade; it was a flamberge, blacksteel with silver, razor edges and runes carved up the blade that had small waves and flame-like curves at the edges. Still, the sword was light as a feather, and gave Falon a deep energy just from holding it. His moment of slight euphoria was cut short when another bandit lunged at him, bringing down his cleaver. The feral growl that rang from his throat was met with the clanging of steel from Falon raising his guard, stopping the heavy blade with ease. With a rough push, Falon pushed away the man in defense, forcing him to rebound back. Falon felt a presence aside of him and turned to parry another attempted attack, this time the attacker pushing forth, the two blades pressing to Falon’s chest, compressed by the bandits. The bandit’s face neared Falons and gave a laugh. “You have a pretty sword, boy. I might just take it from you!”
    Falon opened his eyes and stared into the empty pupils of his foe, seeing nothing but empty darkness. No sense of life was detected in this man, as it was with the rest of them. The essence of life…
    “You are demons,” Falon grunted, holding his own against the bandit.
    The demon only gave a laugh as his soul-less eyes filled with black. “You’re perceptive lad. I didn’t figure you had the powers to detect life. No matter, your mana is not worth anything to me.” With that, the bandit raised his fist and gave a sharp sucker punch straight into Falon’s jaw, his head whipping back, his body following. The sword slipped from his grip and slid aside, and his head smacked against the hard ground. Disoriented from the hit, Falon soon felt a foot press to his stomach, the demon stomping on him, the others laughing mockingly. “A corpse is a corpse anyway.”
    Falon had to think, he was losing focus. Looking aside, he saw his weapon a few feet from him, the blade beginning to glow a bit. A soft whisper rang in his ears, the source seeming to come from the sword, as if it was calling to him.
    “Falon…use not your muscle, but your will and heart, for they bring you the weapon.”
    Falon closed his eyes and relaxed his arm, his nerves seeming to calm themselves down, the energy that boiled in his body had not left him. Finally, with one last ditch of effort, he reached out and felt his spirit connect with an aura. Opening his eyes, he spotted the sword slowly approaching him, eventually snapping to his hand. Something was different – Falon looked up, finding the demons still laughing, but slowly, their actions sluggish. Off in the distance, a massive explosion erupted, the fires reaching to the sky, lighting the dark storm clouds in red…slowly. He was holding his breath, his mind relaxing and recollecting his thoughts. His vision clearing, time seemed to move back into sync, the explosion catching the demons’ attention. “Look at that!” one of them shouted in excitement. Now was his chance.
    “You can take my sword,” he mumbled, his free hand grabbing the demon’s ankle, holding it in place, his other arm raised. “When you pry it from my dead, rotting body!” And with a grunt of aggression, he turned the blade in his hand and swung up, the edge of the blade catching the bandit’s forehead. A spray of blood rocketed from the wound as the demon tried to draw back, the grip at his ankle forcing him to trip. In fluent motions, Falon stood up, turned the blade and drove it down into his enemy’s chest, sapping the life from the dark vassal. Turning back around and facing the four remaining and staring. A crooked and daring smile crossed Falon’s face, him turning his head to spit some blood out his mouth. He then drew the blade from the slain and readied himself. The four simply looked at one another, then back to Falon, gave a cry, and charged.
    Falon charged right for the group, holding the blade close and giving a swing catching the chest of the front-most foe, and continued slashing and moving quickly, seeming to mow them down, his sharp blade passing through them with little resistance of skin and armor. With each strike and parry, he felt more vitalized. His heart beat faster through his chest in excitement, the adrenaline pumping…He had almost forgotten that he was fighting for his life in a city under siege.
    The final one fell over with a groan, its emptiness dying away from this world and Falon stood over them, wiping his blade of…what the hell was it, he wondered. Looking at the blade in disgust, he knew it was blood, a crimson flavor of the eye, but looked sick, blackness mixed in. Looking closely, black blotches in the liquid were moving. Was that, Falon wondered, a parasite?
    Falon then heard a rumble at his feet and looked down the hill. He had to get moving; and with a quick wipe of his blade, he replaced it in his sheath and turned to the sky, looking high. What once was a river of foggy mire became now an ocean of fire, the flames of a siege lighting the entire city. It was all too real. What was going on? His mind raced and stumbled onto his endless dreams…the sky of fire.
    Falon’s thoughts were interrupted suddenly with the echoing shouts of bandits. Barbaric calls rung through the dying streets. A shocking pain ran through Falon’s brain, and he grasped the front of his head, closing his eyes tight, feeling a deep darkness approaching. Through shut eyelids came a colorless vision to the gates of the market, bodies lining the streets in a helter-skelter path of chaos. More barbarians came through, followed by a slowly marching group of what looked like wizards and warriors, clad in black armor, brandishing weapons of pure evil. Through the doors came a scattered cluster of demons passing through, climbing on houses and people, tearing them apart. Guards along walls armed with bows fire proudly and retaliate, but soon fell victim to the demons that climbed over the walls. The attacks were relentless, and came from all sides. Darker forces came, and his vision took him beyond the walls, into the harbor, where large battleships came in endless waves among the storm, hurling balls of fire from catapults into and over the walls, but under the flying aeroships hovering over the area by spinning propellers and balloons, slowly coming down to drop more demons off. Out in the harbor, guard’s ships as well as well endowed adventurer ships took rebellion and attacked the foes at sea, including one mighty ship, the Amaranth. Falon had to get there. Apparently, they were fighting beneath the cliffs of the upper terraces.
    The pain subsided and Falon opened his eyes to find himself watching the scene alive, fireballs hurling over the walls and into buildings, soldiers marching up the streets. He needed a new route if he was to survive escaping. Turning to his side, he saw the edge of the hill that left off to a series of rooftops. Giving a deep breath, he began moving, running and jumping off the edge, landing roughly onto the first of the houses. He then turned about and found a small group of the crawling demons by his spot, soon turning to him. Falon swore under his breath and began running, and let them give chase.
    Falon’s legs moved fast, him forbidding them to stop, giving great focus on running along the roofs, occasionally having to climb up sides and ivy branches. Should he turn and engage his pursuers, his precious pathway could be cut off. His only option was to keep moving and never stop. But no matter how fast he ran, the demons kept up with relentless pace and were soon nearing him. The mighty walls of Moonshire continued to be breached by the hail of fire and debris fell in the wake of the chase, Falon staggering to stay afoot. Up ahead was a three-story house, him being on a two, and a large gap between the two. Seeing no other way but up, he made an extra burst of energy and dashed for it.
    With a loud shout, Falon pressed his final step to the edge and leaped, his arms extending out, praying for something to grasp. Fate had struck well and Falon felt the impact of his hands clamping tightly to one of the ivy branches that hung on the wall. His feet swung under him and he gave a sigh of relief, but continued to climb, realizing he was letting the vile creatures to catch up. With all his strength, he thrust his hands forth, grabbing and climbing up as fast as his body could. Fast, but not fast enough, for through all the chaos, he could hear the stampede of tiny clawed feet expediently approach. Falon looked back and saw one leap at him, latching onto the wall beside him. Quickly, Falon swung his arm and swat the demon off, it falling into the dark void below before greeting the edge of a post with its back, the snapping sound awful to ears. A dull shriek curled from the rest of the pack, and Falon returned his gaze to find them retreating. Whatever that! He continued his climb.
    It turned out that they were not running from him.
    Falon’s senses slowed down, a feeling of darkness consuming his senses. Danger approached and quickly Falon turned his head to stare down a gigantic fireball rocketing in his direction. His eyes widened and then looked down. He could not make the climb, and the fall was deep, but he had to risk it. He grabbed foothold and let his hands slip from the branch, him beginning to fall. But it was all too slow.
    The meteor slammed headlong into the side of the building, exploding on impact. Searing debris splattered all around, the explosion catching Falon as well, and sent him in a freefall. With a gasping cry of agony, a piece of the wall caught him on the way down. With a thunderous sound, his body impacted with solid ground, pieces of debris slamming into him, pinning him down. More fire erupted from the building.
    Falon opened his eyes to find himself numb, his vision growing dark. A hand reached feebly out to the sky, his lungs gasping for air, and inhaling nothing but smoke. And as his vision started to blur, he could see the glowing eyes of the group of demons leering at him, as they descended upon him.

    “I will protect you…”

    That was all Falon remembered.