01-21-2018, 02:00 AM
“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.
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.
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