A Knight's Oath is to Protect

Villamvihar

Man of Questions
Original poster
LURKER MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
  4. Prestige
  5. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. No Preferences
Genres
Science-Fiction, Science-Fantasy, Magical Girl, Mystery, Slice of Life,
How far away had he journeyed from the capital?

Gilbert could not tell, even if one threatened him with a sword to his throat. He had been through so many cities, so many villages that he lost count. Not only of them, but the number of merchantmen he haggled with so he could rest his legs between two stops. The capital of his country seemed so far away now and if the length of his journey could be any indication, he may have made it to some foreign country. He honestly did not know; several countries in the area spoke the same language with a variation of the dialect and he could not care less about truly listening to how other people spoke.

Because, even after all this time, his memories of Blodwen Yates haunted him.

His country's First Princess. And the very reason he left behind his comfortable life in the capital.

Shaking his head, the once-royal-guard-and-knight focused his attention back on his journey. He had to, unless he wanted to sink in the mud that substituted for road in these parts. Even if Gilbert were without his armour and weapons - which he was not; he would only pawn those off if he got life-or-death desperate - he felt as though he could easily sink in this almost-liquid terrain. There were only a few safe spots of stones or loose gravel that could carry him safely.

At least it did not start to rain yet, not to mention that the village grew ever closer. There, he would take yet another break in his journey to rest up, then continue seeking his goal until the rest of eternity. Or until he ran into something greater, stronger and more vicious than himself. Or perhaps until the goddess of the moon, Selene, visited him with her reaping scythe. Not that he would have minded the latter outcome. These days, the certainty she offered remained one of the few sanctuaries in his mind. He even had considered becoming one of her servants one he was young, but he chose to become a royal guard in the end.

Ah, those damned memories of his were surfacing again.

Trying to divert his attention, Gilbert focused on the village... and frowned. It did not seem out of the ordinary at first sight: houses of clay brick either with wooden or reed roofs, with the occasional bit of stone mixed in for the richer homes. Most houses had thick, sturdy walls with thin window slits, a sure sign of a frontier village. They were built to stand the test of time along with the test of generations and had a main road lined with gravel weave through them. The side-roads, like the one he had been trying to navigate, were practically sinking in mud, along with the fields at the outskirts. Rainy season had certainly not been kind this year, as Gilbert could attest with his rusting armor, but that was not why he had frowned.

He had frowned, because the village felt deserted. Outright abandoned. Perhaps a few days ago at mo-

A cry of pain got his attention.

"Out of all the pitbound, cursed fates of Ariadne, I got handed the worst one." His hand went to his sword. He wrapped his fingers around the grip. Thanking and cursing the goddess of luck in the same breath for choosing to wear his armor for the trip rather than to carry it, he advanced as silently as he could, senses honed for any signs of life. He got several. Mostly cries of pain, turning into hapless begging and pleading for mercy as he moved closer. In no time, the once-royal-guard figured out the situation: some sort of bandit or slaver attack. In which case, he remained a knight of his country, even if he had abandoned the royal family itself. And even out of practice, after having traveled for who knows how long, Gilbert considered himself more than a match for some idiots trying to get rich quick.

"Just once, Ariadne. Load the dice in my favour already," he kept on grumbling as he got close enough to see the attackers... the slavers... who were far too busy having their fun with some family trying to make a bargain for the life of their children, to pay attention to him, giving him plenty of time to observe if he wished.

He did not wish it.

Calling on the might of his training, the years he spent with armour and sword, he rushed forward at a speed many thought impossible, then slammed into the bandit closest to him. His buckler caught the woman right in the stomach, sending her flying through the air. Where she landed, he paid no attention to as he seized his moment of surprise and sunk the pommel of his sword into another piece of filth's skull before anyone could even react - but even when they did, the response was poorly organised, sluggish and most importantly, panicked. Chaos broke out within seconds as some of the villagers tried to wrangle free of slaver grasp and the leaders of various cliques within the group tried to mount some form of resistance.
 
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The little wood elf had to learn many things to grow accustomed to her new life. The numbing pain caused by the tight chains around her wrists became bearable. The raised fist over her head signaled for her to duck and cover her head with her hands. And she had learned that when one of the scary men barked an order, her elven swiftness could come quite in handy for quickly scurrying off to find firewood or to clean whatever weapons they thrust into her tiny arms.

But when she had returned with a bucket of water hugged against her chest to see them holding bundles of chains and hauling cages from their cart, the child had not been prepared for this. She didn't have to see the know what they were planning to do next. They were going to bring more people like her to terrify and to torment. Should she had pleaded harder for them to stop? Even after the red haired woman had struck her so hard across the cheek that it sent her tumbling in a shivering heap to the ground?

The tall man with the peppered hair and the thick scar across this lip had told her she had earned that. And if she didn't want to earn another one, then she best do as she was told and learn when to shut her mouth. And so the terrified elfing didn't speak another word as she was dragged away by her curly hair and roughly deposited into a small rusty cage. A cage meant to carry chickens to market now became her only safe haven; the only place to hide away from the ones who tormented her.

After many nights of shivering in her dark barred corner, she stopped questioning why this was happening to her.

When asked what benefit there could for being kind, the child had told the strange spirit she found in the woods that it costs nothing to be kind to someone - even if they didn't deserve it. And at the time, she had believed it. But when he chuckled at her, squinting his eyes in that odd way he did, it felt as if she were a small hollow glass and he could somehow peer all the way through her.

"Ah, but there is the 'some' cruelty to kindness, is there not?' He had said as he lazily lounged about in the high branch of the elm tree, "When you give and expect nothing in return, there is still a price you must pay. That's why if you wish to use this magic gifted to you, it must be from something you give. And it seems you have so much to give, don't you, little flower? Why, I would even say that heart of yours could cost you... everything one day~"


The child couldn't hold back the tears that blurred her chestnut eyes and streamed silently down her dirtied cheeks. He had been right. She it had cost her everything. The troupe she had known as her only family were given an equally horrible fate, forced to toil their short days in the hot sun until they worked themselves to death. And she would never be able to say how... sorry she was to have done this to them.

Perhaps, she deserved to be in this cage. But they certainly did not deserve to spend the rest of their days in fear and in chains.

The little girl lifted up her tearstained face when she heard shouts coming from the village. She could not see what was happening, but. Well, did she need to? They would be back soon with more people; with more little children just like her who would have to learn to obey or be punished. It was when she did so that she focused on the lock upon her pen. Her captors had not returned. Yet. There could be her chance to escape. To bring forth an item with the strange magic at her figner tips. Slowly, the child turned her face to the bars around her. They were so thin; she could squeeze an arm through but it would hurt. It would hurt but... she might be able to bright forth something to get her out of this prison. To find help. To escape from her life before her captors decided she and the others they enslaved held had no price for them in the slave markets in the far south.

Shaky breaths left her lips as she tried to will herself. To use the magic, she must give something in return. This would be... the most she had ever done. It was normally just one tiny prink. A little bubble of blood she had grown used to. But a prick wouldn't do for this. The little girl squeezed her hand through the jagged bars; she watched as the flesh of her arm scrapped against the wiring. Squeezing her eyes shut, she bit her lip as the pain began to register more and more. Something wet was streaking on her skin, but the elfing kept going. She kept going until, with a quick jolt, she yanked her hand back.

Her eyes had opened. Her arm was all scrapped up, similar to when she might trip and scrap a knee against the forested ground. But back when that would happen, she had someone to comfort her. Solantus would gently lift her up to dust the dirt off her dress or Sephera would wipe away the tears that began to sting at the corners of her eyes and let her know she was alright. No one was here now. She couldn't let the pain get to her. Not when she had a key which had now appeared within her grasp. Fidgety fingers moved the key to the lock. Her heart raced as she turned it and the cage door clicked softly.

With all the might her little arms could muster, the child pushed the iron bars of the cage door forward. Even when the pain began to rise again in her right arm. Even when the cage door caught a bit against the cart's canvas or jolted upon rusty springs, the voice that reminded her that freedom was just a breath away kept her going. The cage's ends scrapped loudly as it chipped the wood of the old storage cart.

A big enough gap; The little girl wriggled between the opening and she stumbled over the end of the cart. The child nearly landed face first in the mud that splattered all about the cart's wheels. White spots danced within her visions as she lay there for a moment, her elbows and her knees caked in mud. But she only realized now that her right arm stung something terrible. Slowly, she shifted to her knees to cradle her scrapped up arm against her chest.

Fear found the spring in her elven step. In quick little leaps, she bounded away from the cart. She bounded away from the woods from where the cage she had once been. And she never looked back. The terror that blinded her senses and only drove her survival instincts forward just told her to flee away from those who could harm her. Her footsteps slowed when she reached a dead end; it registered. Shd was in the village now. The same village by the river where her captors were now causing terror among the townsfolk.

The child dashed away, crouched shivering behind a group of fish barrels. With each clatter of footsteps running around her, she shrunk away into the smallest ball she could master. With her face buried into her knees, the elfing squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the sounds to die away.
 
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The chaos he caused attempted to wrench Gilbert's focus away from the battle, but he refused to yield. Singling out the slavers who wielded actual weapons, he backhanded yet another attacker with his buckler, sweeping the man away for just long enough to shift his grip on the sword and plunge it into his opponent's guts. Blood splattered all over the knight's armour, peppering the already rusted surface while yells rung out from every part of the slaver caravan, trying to organise some sort of resistance. However, a lot remained frozen from the sudden burst of violence, feet slowly sinking into the mud as their minds tried to process violence being inflicted on them.

This suited Gilbert just fine. He ignored those who could not do anything save for acting as statues, instead rushing for the figure who was trying to call the shots. An older man, possibly the leader of this entire operation. Of course, the presumed leader acted immediately.

"Gus! Rathe! Impale him!" he shouted as he scrambled to save his own hide. And while his orders were probably on point, with the element of surprise lost, the two men he had called out to lost the element of surprise. As soon as they moved, Gilbert's trained eye focused on them and immediately recognised their equipment: long spears with chainmail in order to ward off attacks. A decent threat, were he an ordinary individual, especially with two of them on the field, but... Perhaps Ariadne really had loaded her dice in favour of the knight today.

Without flinching, Gilbert smacked one of the spears away with his sword, then stepped well into the guard of his opponent. He angled his approach so the other spear would have to waste a second or two's worth valuable time; exactly enough for the knight to raise his buckler then smash his opponents head straight into the ground. Though his opponent attempted to resist with all of his might, all he achieved was stalling exactly long enough for his partner's spear to hit its mark on Gilbert's armour.

The rusted plate rung, yet held. Not wishing to resist the inertia, Gilbert stepped sideways right before stomping on his former opponent's face and continuing on his way as though he were swift wind.

"Altan, Firena, Ilkern, Kalis, stop him!" the old man cried out once again as he saw his vanguard fall, still trying to scramble away from the charging knight. The distance between them decreased moment by moment, years upon years of training paying off. And once again, if Gilbert had a single advantage, it was the fact that the slavers lost their element of surprise, giving him exactly enough time to prepare his response: squeezing his buckler hand so as to activate the mechanism hidden within.

The next moment, a massive shield blossomed in front of Gilbert and his speed grew greater. A minor blessing ran through his being, divinity lending a fraction of its power to a mere mortal, imbuing with the strength to literally shatter the blockade of people in front of him. Plowing through the wall of blades as though he were a battering ram, he found his mark within seconds and gave the older man a taste of steel. His sword sunk into the supposed ringleader's neck; he severed it to raise above his head much like a barbarian would raise a trophy of his defeated foe. Needless to say, the impact was instant.

Those who had been frozen in place, begun to flee. Those who had the wherewithal to follow the boss' orders, hesitated. The village's people, though frightened, started fighting their captors more intensely, breaking free from their chains. In short, the entire operation the slavers had planned went up in flames in the course of a few seconds. Fighting the unarmed villagers would have posed no problem of course, but Gilbert... he had shrugged off everything they had thrown at him. He did not even look worse for wear, with the only damage on his armour being blood along with a slight hint of a dent where the spear struck him.

Gilbert retracted his shield as he rushed towards the four who attempted to stop him. They were lying on the ground, dazed, making perfect targets of opportunity for his steel-clad boots. No mercy remained for those who tormented the innocent and as this sunk into the slavers' psyches, they started to flee.

The knight gave chase to one of them, following the scoundrel into the village's narrow streets; headed towards a certain set of fish barrels...
 
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Panic.

Which sounds were coming from where? Why were they all blending together, swirling this way and that in the raging waves in a hurricane of violence? The little girl feared if she dared to move from her hiding spot that she'd be lost in the tumble, unable to know which way to swim for the surface - for a breath of fresh air and a promise of safety. She dared a peek from the darkness of her bundled up ball, cradling her burning arm as the sounds only bounced all around her in louder veracity. The little wood elf's chest fluttered in jagged breaths as her eyes darted at the shadows that danced along the walls, of the fleeing silhouette of what she believed were frightened villagers in the hands of their future captors - her shoulders shivered, as the child balled up like a frightened little cottontail trapped in the high grass as wolves circled in closer all around her.

Please... Stop. She just wanted it to stop. This world felt so terrible now - so different than she once remembered. When the shadows transformed into barbed creatures and long spindly hands that tried to grab her, the elfing closed her eyes and tried to search the ghosts that still plagued her mind for a key of recollections - for the comfort she found in summer evenings among crimson tents embroidered with tattooed flowers and painted words in her people's elven tongue. Of the warmth of the other children's laughter as she twirled with them among the brush in pursuit of the fireflies' mesmerizing glow.

But the child couldn't hold onto the warmth that she so desperately fumbled to grasp. Its joy fleeted away like a blown out candle and she was once again left alone in the dark waiting for a creature to sink its claws into her once again.

Someone leaked past the sounds of her gasping panicked breaths, of the tears that returned to the corners of her eyes. Footsteps bounded past her followed by a heavier pair in hot pursuit - a slip; the first stumbled against the fish barrel she had hidden behind and threw its contents forward in an attempt to slow down his pursuer. The soft slop of fishy flesh slapped upon the cobblestone and much like a fawn spooked from its hiding place, the child darted away just in time. She stumbled, pressing herself against the far alley wall as frightened eyes watched one of her ex-captors flee onwards in the alley as their pursuer rounded the corner.

A terrified gasp fell from her lips. A man, dressed in armor that made him seem so much bigger - an iron golem with blood smeared on his blade. The little wood elf slunk down in the shadow of the stranger, crouching and covering her frizzy head with her arms as if not looking at this new source of fear could hide him from the world completely.
 
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Gilbert focused on his opponent, but the man had a hefty head start. Even with his training, the knight could only make up so much of the difference between them as they zig-zagged in the village's streets, his heavy armour sinking deeper into the mud. The protection it offered turned into a disadvantage and he did not want to call on his blessings again unless he really needed to. Thus, he moved on with only singular determination, advancing step after step. Unfortunately, it seemed Ariadne loaded her dice twice today.

The rascal found a barrel of fish that he spilled. Normally not a problem for Gilbert. Yet what lay behind that barrel... A child. Battered, bruised, covered in mud, looking as though she saw the manifestation of terror itself. It proved more than enough for the knight to freeze and the slaver to bolt away in a blur of legs.

Heart locked in a vice-like grip of iced pain, Gilbert felt as though he could barely breathe. Old pictures started to come to life in his head. Things he thought he buried a long time ago, yet became vivid things that lived and breathed. Almost enraptured in them, in their unpleasant grip of mental agony, the knight remained standing for long, long seconds. He must have looked terrifying to the child: covered in armour, mud and splatters of blood; sword stained crimson; scraggly, unshaven beard and unkempt hair that almost blended with the mud around him; towering over her; wearing a pale visage.

It took Gilbert too long to shake himself out of it. Far too long. Biting his lips so as to not break out in a deluge in swears in front of the child, he tried to make the best of the situation while he felt his hands shake around the grip of his sword. His entire body trembled. He had to use his pain to anchor himself to this reality lest he be swept away by a torrent. He knew his silence helped little, but at this point, what would even help? The little girl - was she really a girl? He felt uncertain - covered herself, trying her best to protect from whatever beating would come. Exactly like she should, a distant part of Gilbert noted.

What could he even say to her in this situation? Could he even do anything?

Gilbert took a deep breath. He forced his trembling to halt.

He could do something. This time, he could do something. He repeated these words under his breath as he made a carefully measured step forward. Then another. Then another. He inched close to her, fearing she would bolt at the last second. He did not even care about her lengthened ears, a sign of elvish heritage; he just wanted to do something. It would have felt wrong to not do a single thing even if his cynicism noted it would be the perfect time to ambush him.

So he took off his armoured gauntlet with a click of plate upon plate. Then he placed his hand on the child's shoulder.

"Are you all right?" His voice came rough, distant. Yet it was all he could do at the moment.
 
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