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Of Knights and Kingdoms - Artoria Pendragon - 01-21-2018
“Halt!” the King of Knights bellowed, her voice booming across the field, the Camlann hill visible in the distance. Atop it, Artoria could already make out several banners, likely a few units, the hill concealing whatever remained behind it. She knew not if her forces would be enough for this battle. But it was all she had. “Kay, rea--....” her command faltered in her throat.
Kay, like many others of the round table, had abandoned their cause short few days ago. Steeling her resolve, her knuckles grew white as her grip over Rhongomyniad tightened. The King of Knights sat atop her steed, her cape flowing in the wind along with its pelt-lined collar and the fur of her lion-head shaped helmet. Honestly, the knight had never had full faith in anyone except Kay, when it came to their rearguard. But the time for pickiness had long passed.
“Bedivere! Take the rearguard! Gawain! Handle the main body!” the knight called out commands to her subordinates and whatever few hundreds of knights her forces had left. Their conquest to chase Lancelot had depleted most of her forces, and now that Camelot had been conquered by Mordred and her associates, there was little left for her to do, but to try and retake the capital with what little of her forces still remained.
Her boot came down hard to the side of Hengroen as the steed kicked forward, flying through the ranks of soldiers. From their faces she saw but one thing. A faltering hope. A lack of faith that they would truly come out victorious and alive from this battle.
That Camelot would survive another day.
Hengroen skidded to a halt on the grassy plain as Artoria pulled on the reins. Turning the stallion to face her army, she called out, her voice booming over what little loyal soldiers she had left.
Men! Today, we face insurmountable odds! She knew their odds were slim, a blind beggar could see such. There was no use lying.
Today, we face our own kin, those who’ve turned their back on us!
Today, we raise our swords and spears against those whom we trusted our lives with yesterday! Artoria didn’t like this, yet her voice carried without faltering. For if their King lost hope, the army would be doomed.
It is not a good day, nay!
But if we stand down, it would be the end of our lives!
Aye!
Our homes!
Aye!
Our loved ones!
Aye!
Today, we fight to protect the future of Camelot!
Aye!
So march with me, knights of Camelot to protect your homes, your loved ones! And live to see tomorrow!
Aye!
For Camelot!
AYE!
As was customary, the front row lifted their blades into the air. Artoria jabbed Hengroen into a calm canter, riding to the edge of their frontline, before the King rode along it. As the King rode, the tip of her spear touched every blade and spear alike, granting the warriors of the frontlines the blessing of their King.
Eventually, the King of Knights returned to the frontlines of her army, bellowing out one final order.
CHARGE!
RE: Of Knights and Kingdoms - Artoria Pendragon - 01-21-2018
Two armies clashed as one’s commander was nowhere to be seen - a leaderless disgrace. It was cowardly of their leader to not march into battle with their men Artoria thought as she was forced to leap off of her steed. Hengroen would die today, a necessary sacrifice that she hated every second of the way. It was necessary for her to be the very first in the fray today.
For if she wasn’t, her men wouldn’t have followed her. Today, her leadership was the only thread holding the loyalty of her army together. Should their king be perceived as a coward, they would simply turn their blades.
Rhongomyniad found its mark, skewering some poor soul as the King of Knights rolled into the already-trampled grass. Her shining armour no longer quite as shiny as specks of dirt landed upon it, the King unleashed her power. The lance shone golden as her thrusts found their marks one after another, forcing her sword-clad adversaries to retain their distance or receive a lethal wound from the holy lance.
Occasionally, Artoria allowed the lance to cleave before her, sweeping away multiple knights at once. Of course, this was a battle of numbers. And eventually, the advantage of sheer numbers overwhelmed the reach advantage of the lance. The knights crept closer ever so slowly, each one replaced with another as they fell.
“Foward!” the lion king roared, even as her eyes caught the sword coming to claim her crown. Her fingers unwrapped from the hilt of Rhongomyniad as she left it into the poor sod who’d been unfortunate enough to be in the receiving end of the holy relic as her hand went for Excalibur.
In a flash the king drew her golden blade as the sword clanged into her shoulder. Her armour held as she struck the man down, unleashing a flurry of quick cuts toward any who were brave enough to place themselves within her sword’s reach.
“Drive them back!” she bellowed to her companions as the before her knights fell. With a quick yank the woman retrieved her lance, leaving Excalibur into the miscreant whose life it had claimed. Much akin to a spear, the woman hurled the lance into the crowd of adversaries before her. Rhongomyniad thundered as it flew, eating through the armour and flesh of several knights, before the armament was lodged into the hill.
“Gh..!” the knight groaned in pain as she swung her gauntlet toward the unfortunate soul who’d managed to find a gap in her armor, leaving a delightful cut into her calf. Up until now, her armour had warded off most blows, at best her cloth-decorations caught by blade and spear alike. With a quick step forward the knight affirmed that for now, she was ‘merely’ bleeding. Of course, would she not tend to it, even such a minor wound would eventually be her demise.
Yet the King could see the hilltop within mere meters.
FOR CAMELOT!
The red dragon of Britain bellowed, her voice reinvigorating those around her with new fervor and hope. Their King was with them and they wouldn’t fall to such treachery. Camelot would be theirs, only if they fought for it.
And so they pushed forward. Soldier by soldier, meter by meter. Until finally, the frontline stood atop the hilltop.
“No…” she whispered. In the distance, Artoria could see the one thing she had dreaded to witness. Smoke arose from beyond the walls of the castle, the surrounding town oft joining with its own clouds of smoke. Camelot was burning.
And honestly? There were barely a dozen men left for her to rely on. And even if the traitors of Camelot were not doing much better...
They were fighting for the ruins of a fallen kingdom.
RE: Of Knights and Kingdoms - Artoria Pendragon - 01-21-2018
The cacophony of clashing blades and armour alike rang across the battlefield as the skies above burned crimson. The sun bled in the horizon, blood staining the mud-ridden ground. Screams of agony and pain echoed from one falling soldier to the next as their lives ended, limbs flayed and infections laid one strike of spear after another.
Gawain glanced toward the top of the hill where his king held adamant against the aggressors, spear and sword alike eliciting screams that sang an aria of gruesome death. They said King Arthur was beyond his knights - that he was no mere incarnation of the red dragon.
They were right.
His gaze returned to his would be opponent. “Traitor!” he called out as he brandished the holy sword in his hands. He would end this battle, once and for all. For his King would flourish for years beyond this day - they’d conquer Camelot and save Britain once and for all.
“Tch. You’re in no position to judge me, Gawain!” answered the armoured figure, their silvery armour touched by crimson red, a helm adorned by two devil-like horns on the sides. Truly, this knight was an incarnation of treachery, a demon. Without hesitation, the blood-touched knight charged forth, blade in tow.
Gawain’s leg swept low as the knight dropped into a lower stance, his blonde locks swaying with the motion, the fur atop his armour following suite. They pair had fought countless times before, training. Yet this time? It would be for death.
Gawain’s lips uttered forth but a single pair of words. “Excalibur Galatine!”
And as such, the diamond-shaped blade awoke, it’s core shining a gentle blue light. The holy blade had served the knight through many battles alike this one, and it wouldn’t be the last.
“No you don’t! Clarent...” the crimson knight responded in kind, a monstrous swing of the blade brought from above her head. It lacked any trace of technique and finesse alike, housing naught but pure, raw rage behind its power. “...Blood Arthur!” the beast howled as the sanguine blade’s locks slid back, releasing forth power which was naught but violated. Red as blood, yet stained and twisted by darkness, the power surged forth as the pair of blades clashed.
Trampled by thousands before them, softened by their blood, the ground gave in beneath the power of the howling crimson blade, Gawain’s boots slowly sinking deeper into the unforgiving earth.
“Enou--!” the knight’s shout cut short as their interlocked blades slid free of their confines. The crimson knight swung again, her strike parried in time by the man whom was known for his precision.
A retaliation in naught as the blade whistled by the hell-knight’s helm, her own seeking to find a gap in Gawain’s peerless defence.
A swing from the Knight of the Sun parried, as her blade sank into the mud from the strike, a swift duck avoiding a strike where her head had been moments before. He truly was peerless in chaining together his attacks and leaving no openings to his defence.
Rage flared in Mordred’s eyes as she witnessed his prowess. They were all the same.
Gawain swung, his strike catching the side of her helm as the holy sword pierced, shattering the metal like it was naught but brittle porcelain. Mordred yanked back on her own blade, a clump of mud launched by the motion as Gawain moved to prevent the projectile from blinding him.
“Got you.” she muttered as her blade swung from below, seeking for the gap that would be there in his armour - the blindspot that his retaliation to the mud would’ve left there. And Clarent rang true. Her blade ran the man through, his scream more of surprise than agony.
“You...fight with no honor…!” the man cried as his blade’s glow vaned and the once mighty weapon was claimed by the all-encompassing mud.
“You got that right.” she answered coldly, her blade retracted as she allowed the once proud knight to simply splat into the sludge.
As she stepped over his soon-to-be rotting corpse, the battlefield echoed of Gawain’s cries as the battle grew to a halt - those still alive enough to brandish their blades turning toward the knight who met their demise.
Even king Arthur himself turned toward Gawain and the treacherous knight whom now approached her, climbing the hill step by step.
It was the beginning of the end, some said.
RE: Of Knights and Kingdoms - Artoria Pendragon - 01-21-2018
“GAWAIN!” echoed the scream within her helmet. Artoria could only see the tip of that cursed blade protruding from Gawain’s back, his armour pierced like naught. Clarent, the blade of denotation that signified kingship, a right to the throne.
But much like the throne, Clarent had been stolen by the Knight of Treachery, Mordred. The knight had once demanded recognition from Artoria, demanding to be made her successor as they were her own son. The prince to her King.
She had declined, for the duplicitous knight was ill fitted for kingship. The best she could grant now, was a merciful, just death. For Britain.
For Gawain.
“ARTHUR!” Mordred screamed with pure, unbridled rage as her helmet split open and merged into the backplate of her armour, the shoulderpads left with a pair of horns sprouting atop them.
A blade raised, the Knight of Treachery rose to the hill as her King lifted her blade, the spear set aside for the moment.
The holy blade in hand, the King of Knights made her stand. The knight in shining armour was no longer. The steel’s silvery glimmer had worn out during their advance atop the hill, eaten by the blood and dirt alike that stained her purity. The once radiant white cape that fluttered in the wind tattered from battles before, mere besmirched strips of lion pelt and cloth remaining. The flowing fur of her lion head-like helmet long since splattered with touches of crimson. That decorative cape-like sown from deep blue cloth, that veiled her legs from behind torn upon the broken spear shafts and jagged blades alike.
Yet the knight beneath it all, the king of Britain, King Arthur - Artoria Pendragon, was very much alive. “Mordred! Stand down and justice shall be swift!” the King proclaimed cloudly, her eyes flashing behind the visor of her helmet as she readied her blade.
“NEVER!” came a furious response as Clarent was lifted and the knight of treachery charged forth. “I shall succeed you, Arthur!” she hissed as the King moved Excalibur to counter, the slightest touch of pain in her voice. “You denied me… Now your kingdom will end…” were her words that drowned beneath the sound of their clashing blades.
“Then I am afraid...that I must end you.” the King of Knights replied calmly, taking a step back as their blades separated. The Lion King took a quick step forth as Excalibur sang through the air. The sanguine knight dodged with a sidestep as Clarent howled in the wind, the blade screaming for blood.
Swiftly, the king retreated from beneath the strike, as a single hand caught onto the handle of the spear she’d discarded before - Rhongomyniad. But it was not alike the Knight of Treachery to allow for retreats, no. Her strikes followed through, forcing the King away from the center of the hill. Whether it was the blade or the Knight whom thirsted for the blood more, was anyone’s guess.
“Rhongo…” The spear lifted as the King drove it forward. It emitted a shining light, akin to the brightest sun as she called for its immense power, shuddering the earth itself as the weapon awoke from its long continued slumber. “...myniad!”
There was naught that could’ve stopped the strike. No armour in the world capable of warding off the holy lance that acted as one of the pillars that held together the world. The battle for Britain had ended in a single strike.
“Chlgh..!” the king coughed, a hint of crimson spilling through her helmet. Slowly the knight glanced down. Certainly, Rhongomyniad had ran Mordred through like it was nothing. Yet the devil continued to smirk incessantly as Arthur’s glance followed lower.
“You’re coming with me...father.” stated the treacherous one as her eyes reached her own abdomen. To her own surprise, she’d been ran through by Clarent, the crimson and silver blade now stained by her own blood.
A wicked grin danced on Mordred’s lips as she retracted the blade, pulling out whatever intestines came first from within the King’s abdomen. She felt cold as Clarent fell from her hands and ground claimed her.
Oh.
She’d fallen. A wry laugh escaped her lips as the colours began to fade from her eyes. “So this is how it ends, father.” she uttered, a cough tearing its way through her body and interrupting whatever train of thought she’d been upon before.
Mordred, like all respectable knights, didn’t fear death.
Even if it was hell that awaited her.
RE: Of Knights and Kingdoms - Artoria Pendragon - 01-22-2018
The darkness was cast aside by the illuminous white as it threatened to tear through her closed eyelids. A hand was lifted in an effort to shield herself from the worst as her eyes slowly opened.
“Mhn...” The woman bit her lip as she used one of her hands to prop herself upright. Of course, there was little around her, that wasn’t simply that white. Well, aside the quietly flowing fountain, of course.
It was an odd curiousity, really.
Why have absolutely nothing, but then place a fountain seldomly somewhere into that nothingness? What purpose did it serve?
It wasn’t large enough to serve as a beacon that could be seen from afar. Mayhap it was there to indicate a center point, something one could affix themselves by, were they to stumble on it.
Concluding not to dwell on the matter, the knight rose to her feet agilely enough to seem like she wasn’t wearing any armour at all. ...That would be because she wasn’t. Frankly, she was completely in the nude, as witnessed by her reflection on the fountain water.
On second thought, something did stand out, in the distance. A small dot, not larger than one’s finger glistened in the distance. Before making her leave, the knight knelt beside the fountain, sinking her hands into the water, forming a makeshift cup from those interwoven hands.
Not knowing when she would have access to water the next time - and even more so lacking a method of transporting the liquid reasonably, she knew better than to leave without having her fill first.
The air wasn’t particularly cold, nay. Not that it was warm either. It just...was. With those thoughts drifting in her mind, the knight began her walk. Luckily, there was little need for shoes with how smooth the ground was.
She could remember her name, Artoria Pendragon. Her childhood, Ser Ector...Ser Kay.
Caliburn, the stone, Merlin. Her never ending training as well as the time she spent traveling around Britain in search for experience and understanding.
Caliburn shattering, the replacement for it, the holy sword Excalibur or the holy spear Rhongomyniad. With each step, a memory flashed back into light as bit by bit the knight walked through the white void. But more so, walked through her life.
This was likely purgatory, the woman thought as she took another step. It made sense. With each step, a memory more recent than the one that had come before it. So it was likely, that once she remembered her death, she would reach the end of this place. Mayhap she would die again.
----------
After what seemed like thousands and thousands of steps, the King of Knights could finally see the dot in the distance clearly. It was a large wooden chest. Bearing no lock or restraints, Artoria closed the remaining distance to the coffer as she knelt before it.
Further inspection yielded that it bore the insignia of the round table. Which of course meant that Artoria herself had the utmost authority to open the container, as lifted the top before pushing it back.
She was greeted by a fierce lion-like helmet with copious blonde fur worked into the top and back pieces, forming something resembling a mane. It was her old helmet, one that she’d used throughout her life. And now it was here.
As she place it aside and continued to sort through the coffer’s contents, she could find her gauntlets and grieves alike, as well as her white cape. As she donned the helm gauntlets into her hands and greaves onto her legs, she pulled the cape onto her shoulders, closing the clasp that held it in place. As she placed the helm atop her shoulders she pulled the massive cape closed, veiling her otherwise naked body from sight of any who may have peered for a glance.
And so, the King of Knights, armed with a helmet, gauntlets, grieves and a cape, continued her journey through nothingness.
RE: Of Knights and Kingdoms - Artoria Pendragon - 01-24-2018
In the distance, there appeared another speck that stood clear against the blank nothingness. Beyond it, the knight took note of something her eyes hadn’t took to, before. Reprimanding herself for such a simple mistake, Artoria was forced to wonder whether it had been there before, to begin with.
Regardless, the knight continued her journey. It was honestly an odd experience, traveling clad in naught but gauntlets, greaves and a cape together with her helmet. There seemed to be little reason for the chest that held them to have been there to begin with, nor for the expectable next one to have appeared as soon as she continued her journey.
Her memories continued to flash back into existence as she saw the day Tristan, the Knight of Sorrow had walked out from her court. The words he had uttered that day, now burned bright in her mind.
“The King understands not of human heart.”
A hint of guilt, sown by the seeds of doubt took root in her heart for a moment, only to scorch within the flames of her will. If such was what Tristan felt, it left Artoria little option but to find the man and prove her worth. Mayhap it had been upon her, that… That what?
Artoria couldn’t recall as she walked.
With another step flashed back Lancelot’s madness. The King remembered. How Lancelot of the Lake had succumbed to madness for sleeping with the Queen. Of course, it was easy to see why, in retrospect. Much like she served out punishment whilst seated upon her throne, Lancelot had wanted a punishment of his own. Should she ever meet him, the King would deliver his punishment. Deliver him from the wicked deeds that gnawed at his soul.
The stream of memories ebbed and flowed, a vision of Gaheris and Gareth flashing by as the pair were cut down by Lancelot in his madness. Had Artoria punished Lancelot as he wished, the pair would still live today.
A memory of her step brother, Kay, caught the knight by surprise.
The man she’d always placed her utter faith in, had left her. But why? Artoria couldn’t understand. Of course, only a few of her knights remained by this point. Gawain, Bedivere… The rest of them lay dead or had simply abandoned her cause.
Stumbling into awareness, the King of Knights came to a hollow realization.
She stood before the next chest.
RE: Of Knights and Kingdoms - Artoria Pendragon - 02-01-2018
The King of Knights pushed back the lid of the stone chest, as the ornately carved slab of stone fell onto the ground with a quiet thud. The stone crate bore the seal of her kingship much like the one she had opened before. This time from within shone the chest plate and plate leggings of her armour, shining in their silvery greatness.
Relics of a shining King of justice, whom had once ruled without a flaw. As she donned upon herself the glinting armour with its cobalt etchings, the memory struck her. It crashed down upon and through her mental walls as if she had never forgotten.
She could feel as Clarent ran her through, severing whatever link connected her to those among the living as her body and soul alike, plummeted among those whom had died upon that horrific battlefield.
With a glance down, the knight touched upon the armour, her fingers examining the cold steel with curiousity. The feeling of Clarent interred within her gut so lifelike, that she couldn’t help but to wonder how it wasn’t still there.
She had died.
Clarent had ran her through, much alike to the spear she had buried within Mordred. They had slain one another in single strikes.
Yet the steel displayed no signs of ever enduring as much as a scratch upon it’s brilliant surface. It radiated with the power of the divine, reserved only to the just and righteous to benefit from.
As the King picked the final piece, her plated leggings and the dress-like cape that came with them, Artoria couldn’t help but wonder. So why was she alive?
Was she alive?
It was possible that this was naught but an afterlife. For heaven, it was oddly quiet. Awfully empty. In her mind, she came to the conclusion that this could not be heaven. After all, for it to be heaven, it should’ve been less...empty.
Yet much alike heaven, this couldn’t be hell either. It was much too pleasant for it to be hell. Of course, the thought did cross her mind, that she was intended to regret her life, or otherwise be tortured by the memories returned to her.
Yet she had made the decisions as she had, to the best of her ability as a King. Was Artoria proud of every single decision she had ever made, would she always make the exact same decisions again?
Nay.
But there was little use in agonizing over that which had come to pass, rather than seeking to learn from the mistake and searching for a future still hidden from sight.
So it wasn’t heaven, nor could it be hell… Purgatory was the only place she could fathom this blankness representing. And mayhap her soul was now judged. Her memories shown to her in a new light, her armour passed down to her for reasons beyond her knowing.
In the distance, a gate-like shape caught her eye. Had it been there the entire time? Artoria couldn’t tell.
Regardless, it was clear that King of Britain, the Great King of Knights, her deeds and misdeeds as well as her dreams and dreads had been weighed.
And as a result, this gate had been presented before her, a passage to whatever judgement awaited her.