CHAPTER 10: STEEL YOUR HEART THE JUDGMENT OF KLAUDIUS KORVALLIS
[ image disabled ]
Let me tell you of the fifth son of the family KORVALLIS A man who chose redemption in the shadows of BLACKSTONE And through service and sacrifice, became KNIGHT-ERRANT
I'm not better. Closer. Always closer. Better than I was. But not in the long run. I'm not myself. Not fully.
I don't remember the dreams I was having but I know I was having them. Awake, asleep, there were visions in my head, trying to give me memories and false memories and imaginations and fears. The shadow plane I see when I sleep, the dark mirror of my city, overlaid to the world around me, but that's not the real world. That's a picture, a drawing, white lines on black paper, something my mind creates to tell me something, or protect me from something, or to help me remember something.
I was dreaming constantly. Only time I know what I'm doing for sure is when I'm fighting. Even then the combat calls are a strain. I can put a sword to a neck, shoot a runner in the back, duck behind my shield to avoid a spell, but I can't get those words out with any speed or tone of command.
... tone of command. Heh. Listen to that shit. I told you I'm not better.
The hell would I even say that if I was. I'm no leader. Especially not right now.
But even if its not much I am better than I was. The dreams are only there when I sleep, now. Whatever healing was done returned a bit of my defenses, a bit of my clarity, and the sharper parts of my mind. What seems to be missing is rage, conviction, and resolve -- anytime I try to set my jaw my head starts to hurt again and then it swims away. I feel like I'm drunk on wine, warm and dizzy and snickering and I really wish I could say I hate it but I can't concentrate on it hard enough to hate it without losing --
Losing my --
-- dreams. I was going to talk about my dream. I can do that, at least.
I was in my cell, I think. I'm not actually a mason but I had brick and mortar and I was sealing myself in. You'd think this would be a bad dream already but its not... my cell has no windows, my cell has no doors. It got busted open and I couldn't go there for peace or safety. It's shored up now. I have other cells, other rooms, where I keep thoughts or a few years of silence or a few years of useless information. Dummy points, in the event something gets into my skull I don't want there. Anne taught me the trick. Fat lot of good it did me, but I think it's worked at least once. Keeps a Sending or two out from people I don't care to hear.
But the shadow court is where I found myself. I walked the stone halls, looking for cracks, dust and mortar caking my hands and arms and a cool breeze passing through and I found my way to the shadow court, where the line of knights in white stand beside the throne of my sworn king and are watched on all sides by shadows I still can't put a purpose to. My sword is there, gold and silver on one side, iron and rust on the other, my name on both sides of the blade, heavy as sin and light as a cloud. The rubies in the hilt smell like blood and fire. I pick up the blade, because its mine, and I wait there, taking in all that I see, re-memorizing this place. I don't understand it, and I'm not sure I ever will, but it feels like ages since I've seen it. The texture of the stone, the arrangement of the pillars. I get to spend some time wondering why it looks the way it looks. Do I know this place? Have I been here? I don't think I have, and I don't think that's the head-wound talking.
Overhead there's stars. ... there's usually stars. This time, there wasn't. Which was odd, but then I realized the sky was richer than it should be, as in it had color, and there were threads of gold snaking into it, banishing the motes of starlight, blacking out the sky by comparison, but creeping up from the east. For an instant I was sure I was going to die, that my shadow court was about to burn up in some great fire, but it wasn't being consumed by the Abyss or the Hells or anything else.
The sun was rising. The shadows didn't seem to mind, they just dispersed away as the light crept in and filled the sky overhead, and the knights in light became just knights, in battered, faded armor, standing at attention around an empty throne where my king should sit. The black stone turned grey. The dark sky turned blue. The light made me dizzy, but it didn't give me a headache. And in that searing light I saw inscribed upon that stone seat, four reminders. Four lines.
There shall be no murder. There shall be no theft. There shall be no false testimony. Obey the law.
I can't read, but I know those words. And in those words I was shown things. Knights at war. Knights at rest. Knights on patrol. Knights at court. Not just men of my city but men and women in shades of white and silver and grey and red and gold and blue and green and --
-- symbols, of faith and order and allegiance on their necks and shields and chests --
Knights. Protectors, defenders, champions. Perhaps not heroes, merely those who do their duty.
And I stood in my shadow court, now this dawn court, awash with light, staring at these men who stood before me that were once the only beacons in the dark, and were now merely men. But that wasn't wrong. Because that was the truth. They were just men. All of them.
No soul is lost to the darkness, I thought, for some reason. No soul is beyond redemption.
And I put a hand to my neck and my brand was gone. My Blackstone brand was gone.
I did practice medicine once. And by practice, I mean I was actually practicing, trying to improve it. I got far enough that I'll trust myself with my own care. I got far enough that I don't trust someone simply on the virtue that they have medicine in hand. You know I first got into medicine because I thought it was a clever way to hand someone poison? Give someone a tincture a day for thirty days and on the thirty first day hand them a toxin and watch them die.
I couldn't do that, now, even if I wanted to. Lack the eyes, lack the spine (or absence thereof). I don't consider myself a coward, but I'm not sure I could kill a man that indirectly. Takes a brave soul to claim a life while staying disconnected from it. You may not agree. You don't have to.
Yeah, I know I sound better. Funny thing about that. They say when it comes to a disease or affliction of the mind, the subject doesn't realize how bad they are. I know something is wrong, something is missing, something is skewed, so does that mean I'm not as bad off as I could be? I sound better, but I know I'm not better, but knowing I'm not better is better than not knowing I'm not better. And that sentence just gave me a headache.
No, not the 'where am I who are you what are we doing' headache. An actual headache.
Since the dream, since the first procedure, I do know something is missing. Used to be I couldn't keep anything in my head for long, concentrating was painful, stressful. Some things come easier now, my sense of self, for example, but I can't manage to stay angry. I did a passing Lowtown patrol and damn near choked on a bow-pull to drop an assassin that didn't know I knew he was there. I was asking myself it this man 'deserved' to die. Then I asked myself what the hell was wrong with my head. And in that delay, he damn near took my head off. Old instincts kicked in -- hook up the bow, draw the sword, skirt the shadow, and put the blade through his ribs. I did it without thinking, which is the only thing that saved me.
Killing is easy. Living afterwards is not. This applies in two ways -- typically, when you kill someone, unless you're very cold and very thorough, there's going to be people that disagree with you. Or witnesses. Then those people try to kill you. With or without justification. Morality aside, 'cause the reasons for the kill always vary, there will be consequences. Be it weeping adventurers or pissed off knights, the former being my personal experience and the latter being my personal dispensation.
Rambling aside, the second half of that, even if you pull off a kill completely clean, is living with the knowledge that you killed someone. No one forgets their kills. No one should. You build resolve, you learn how to do it better, you learn what reasons you can live with and what reasons you need to atone for. I have a memorial to the fallen tattooed into my ugly, mangled hide. That includes those that have died at my side in battle and several who have died by my hands. The important ones.
The ones that I need to remember.
I'm mostly lucid again, as you can tell. There's a nagging feeling something is missing, but its coming back. People talking too long still gives me a headache. I can fight off a spellbind in my head but someone could still talk a circle around me. And I have this feeling like my conscience is being affected. Like I killed someone I shouldn't have and its weighing on me more than it should. But I know I haven't. So its a crisis of conscience that doesn't involve killing anyone, which isn't something I'm so much accustomed to.
I'm overthinking -and- rambling. Stone save us both. C'mere a minute.
...
All right. Where was I? What'd I say to title this one? Killer -- yeah, that.
I was feeling too damn warm and fuzzy after the first bout of healing. Like some of my resolve was restored but not my sense of purpose. Not my will to kill. I forgot the things I've done that I'm not proud of. I forgot my crimes, forgot my kills, forgot my sins.
That's unacceptable.
Don't you stop me. Don't correct me. Don't tell me I'm being overdramatic and yes I can hear you trying to say that.
Please, just write.
Please. It's important.
Amadom and I haven't known each other long. But the man has bled beside me and really, that's enough. He fights for what I do and I believe him when he says it. He has looked into the darkness and he has walked into the darkness and he has emerged. He still carries the fire. And a healthy dose of cynicism and rage. But when the going gets tough he has a weapon and a spell in hand. We clashed a few times, mostly over nothing. I've trusted lesser men for lesser reasons.
So I let him heal me.
Which he didn't do.
Funny enough, Tempus didn't do a thing for my battle-scar. Why would he? I earned it, I guess. Instead, Amadom put me up for his god's judgment. He offered my bow and sword to his lord and he invoked a presence unlike anything I've ever felt. It's like what I dream of in the shadow and stone but larger, more expansive. I say we're fighting a war, but Tempus showed me what war is. Tempus laughed, patted me on the head and said "no no, little man, you do not fight a war. You fight a battle. A constant battle for survival. And that is honorable. That is more than enough. But let me show you my domain. Let me show you everything in this world, every battle I observe."
At least, that's what I think he said.
I do misuse that word. 'war'. I let it define so much, everything about me.
I overthink it. I think too much of it. Of myself.
I don't fight a war.
But I do fight.
... Tempus looked into me and told me to keep that up.
And for some reason... healing or no healing... something is different.
Something has been changed. Something has been fixed.
The short version of today's story is: "don't take yourself so damn seriously".
Yes, you heard me correctly.
Bats and I have been friends a long time. Yes, you heard that correctly too. The man came to this island a Joybringer. He actually made it his mission to get a smile out of me. He failed in that mission. He set out to wear me down and I wore him down. I legitimately drove a cleric to a crisis of faith so intense that he laid down what he was and took up uniform steel. He turned dry and sarcastic as anyone else. He stopped the singing and the dancing and he devoted himself to more subtle work. Healing. Curing. Caring. Never asking thanks. Never demanding payment. His sense of humor stayed but it turned edged and dark.
He chose it. He found a purpose here among us. Something he was lacking, I guess. He was a soldier before us, he took to travelling, and now he's a soldier again. He says his goddess told him it was where he was needed. He says his goddess is fine with how he does things. I ain't got the ear to sound her out and ask her opinion.
Bats is sassy and he and I go at each other's throats so often you'd swear we either hated each other... or that we're doing it for fun.
Which in a way... really is what we do. I do it with everyone. I talk shit. If they can take it, then we bond. We're all deeply flawed and we're all a little bit crazy but the difference between me and them is that I take it so seriously that its poisoning me from the inside. Some days I go into our little banter fests and I walk out of it legitimately angry at the men I call my brothers. I once threatened Amadom with words so colorful we went for weapons. For all his crimes and insanity I will kill and die for the Songcrow. Gideon and I have nearly come to blows many a time. Lomir and I actually have. And at the end of the day we have no grudges, or at least, they don't.
I do.
I let it build up. Like I said, like a poison. I take it all so seriously. I can't forgive someone even if it means saving my life. I let rage drive my sword and let inflicted pain be a reward.
Damn it I... I was enjoying it. I laid a sword to a man once and I was smiling behind my helmet. I was grinning. I wanted to laugh. Even as blood sprayed over my helmet and filled my visor and should have blinded me but instead it just stains my blindfold.
Most of the time I take off that bandage and its covered in blood, that blood isn't mine.
I'm sorry. You... I know you don't like to hear me talk like that.
And this isn't from Amadom's spell. This isn't a side effect. This is me. This is me saying I was going the wrong way.
Bats didn't heal me. Bats didn't heal my injuries. Just like Amadom didn't, they just offered me up to their goddess.
And Bats had me sing a ridiculous song until I nearly fell over from exhaustion. From laughing.
And I smiled.
I will kill, bleed, suffer, and die for those men and women I've chosen to honor, just as I would for my city. I will, and have, broken laws, broken promises, broken my own principles, just to keep them safe and keep them from harm. Because before I was a sworn man of this city I was loyal.
These people are my friends. I can't hate them. I shouldn't hate them. I need to let my rage for them go. I need to stop planning how to kill them if and when the day comes they fall. I need to stop believing that they'll betray me and I need to trust one person, two people, just, these people, have my back. So I can face forward without fear.
Rishkin and Cathe will tell me I'm a fool for trusting anyone.
Let me be a fool then.
At least I'll die laughing.
And then there's Tymora. Lady Luck. She has more than a few blessings for me, I've learned. I guess she loves her adventurers, which might put her at odds with me, but she takes things about as seriously as Lliira does, apparently, and just laughs it off, because even though I talk a mean game, how many times have I put it all on the line, put myself out there, gambled and risked and goddamned dared? Too many times.
I don't know any Tymoran clerics. I don't need one, I don't think... but like I said.
She sent a few blessings. She's healed my injuries. She's given me a little nod.
There's a reason I have her sign burned into the interior of my shield. In a way, she's the first Sword Coast spirit I chose to honor, before all these others. Before I let them in to heal my shattered mind, she helped me find a little peace, a little happiness.
They say Torm is the god of duty, loyalty, and righteousness. Dace tells me he's also a spirit of mercy, once a mortal man, raised up to the place he holds today. His partners on the Triad are Illmater, of suffering and enduring, and Tyr, of law and justice.
Despite my history with Illmater, I think he and I would be on decent terms. It's Tyr I'm not so sure about. Which is why Tyr is the one I wanted to follow Torm in this little spiritual outreach.
At this point most of the wounds are sealed up. My neck was a little stiff. Had a hell of a time in the mornings, like sleep wanted to keep me longer than I was willing to let it. My ears rang, my shadow sight was off. Couldn't pick out detail. All things I could learn to bear, but there's a reason I sought out Dace and Meluseld. One's a brother in battle, another a sister in service. As with the others, I'd kill and die for them, even if their offshore gods make me nervous.
In fact, its because their gods make me nervous that I need their help.
See. I am not a perfect person. Big surprise, I know. I've done things in the line of duty and I've done things in direct defiance of that duty. Very few of those things are the sort of stories you tell strangers. They don't exactly keep me up at night, as you also know, but I'm not like to forget them. I shoulder it and I move on.
But having my brain literally pieced back together, having my mind restored memory by memory, has a way of bringing about reflection.
I am healed, basically. A few more spells will finish what's been started but between potions and herbs and spells in the field I'd be back to fighting fitness on my own. I didn't need to seek out the Even-Handed or the Fury. But I did. Because where the Light healed me and Tempus brought back my instincts, one thing that seems to have suffered, or at least is weighing on me, is the knowledge I've spent years accepting. I remember the dead in my tattoos. But I don't always remember everything.
Torm and Tyr saw fit to remind me. Or rather, I needed to hear them remind me.
Essentially, I said the same thing of Dace and Mels. I asked them if their god would refuse to heal me if I wasn't worthy of it. If I was, say, a deserter. Or a traitor. Or any of the other things I know I could be called. Because they're my friends, or insane, or both, they both assured me that wouldn't be the case. Dace told me that among other things, Torm is a god of mercy, one who understands mortals and mortal actions. Mels was a little more realistic. She told me if Tyr struck me down, she'd find an adventurer to pin my death on in my memory. Nice of her.
Torm's judgment wasn't so bad. I felt... exposed. Stretched out. He, or whatever Dace summoned of His, passed over my shadow like it was nothing, read the names off my back, righted a few threads of muscle and sinew in my neck, and moved quietly on. I had expected worse, I guess, which is what made Tyr's pass more refreshing.
I don't know for certain I heard the voice of a god today. Sounded an awful lot like me to be a god. Knew the exact questions to ask that were bothering me. Mels' prayer was short and to the point and she told me to repeat after her. I stumbled twice.
"reveal the truth", "punish the guilty".
One of those happened. I'm working on the other.
I heard my own voice demanding answers to a few questions. ... or, rather, I heard my own voice telling me to tell the truth. How many men have I killed? How many people have I stolen from? How many times have I lied in the course of my duties? How many years did I serve in prison?
I don't fully understand the reason for the last question but I stammered out answers and I guess I stammered them out loud, because Mels asked me about them. I don't know what happened, nor am I sure any healing got done. I don't know if I -needed- healing. I had some incisions in there from a cut that was supposed to keep it healing proper, and those are gone, but I don't feel any different.
... no, that's not true. I do feel a little different. I feel like the sun's coming up behind me.
Not "everything seems brighter" like it did with the first attempt at healing. I mean like something is looming over me. Staring down.
I don't know if its Tyr. Mels made some joke that if I was to be judged, we'd know if I wind up facing 'the headsman's axe'.
I would have laughed. If I wasn't concerned she might yet get proven right.
I gave the answers demanded of me.
But there was a task asked of me too.
I... I'll tell you about it.
Just not right now.
I want to think about it.
Just let me think.
For now, I'm good... I am good. I'm back to shape. Enough to fight, enough to function.
Been a little while since we talked. Now, don't you get all panicked and squirrely on me now, I ain't here to do no harm beyond some heavy truth. But I s'pose to you, heh heh, truth's a damn heavy thing indeed.
'Klaudius Korvallis, Knight-Errant of Steinkreis'. Well ain't that a pretty little name you've got, son. Pretty little badge, pretty little sword, pretty little woman. Hell, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you might just think you're -not- some dog-ugly piece of trash wrapped in crude iron.
...
...
Nothin', huh? Nice. No, really, I mean that. Used to be I could get a rise out of you in two to three words. S'good. Temper's been the undoing of many a Korvallis. Not so much the ones you pray at, but we both know the truth about those, don't we?
... we do, don't we?
Hell, thunder, blood, and stone, boy, you don't know a damn thing.
Let me explain something to you, and then we'll get to why I'm here. You say to yourself "ohhh well I'm the fifth son". Cute story. How could it be that a family five generations old had its oldest known member serving in Vongottstein? How, do you in fact damned figure, is that possible? Did the knights teach you to count, 'cause you're shit at it.
Bluntly, it ain't possible, son, unless someone's not talkin' about the bodies in the middle. The liars, the cheats, the thieves, the murderers. We're a family as old as the stone you serve and we're just as sick and twisted. Oh sure, people like you and my brother, like to pretend we walk on sweet, clean, smooth marble, but you ever had your face ground in the cobbles with a steel heel on the back of your skull, boy? 'cause I have. And I can tell you that the stone under our feet is rough hewn hunks of nothin' fancy. Fifty different kinds of stone carved out and replaced and replaced again, not a one perfect, not a one clean. Not of shit, not of blood, not of nothin'. Not a pretty little one in the set.
'course that don't sit well with your shining example of our city, does it? That keeps you up at night, knowing you're fighting for something sick and flawed and mortal as any man of flesh and blood. Or are you really tryin' to be some paladin of a bunch of stacked rocks? You really think you're a damned hero?
You listen to me. We're not men. We're not even dogs. The Korvallis family is a lineage of rats. Stinking, swearing, gnashing, diseased rats. Only reason my brother died with a clean name is because he never made it home to face treason. Only reason our father died with money was because he lined his pockets with bloody hands. Father before his, the last one you choose to count, venereal disease.
You really are blind, boy. And a shit liar, to boot.
...
Heh, now, that made you angry. You want to find me? Wander on into the shadows, boy, the best thing I ever gave you, oh, except, you can't come on into the deepest dark and get me. 'cause you cut your own shadow down, the only thing on all the many planes that would never betray you.
Good to know I still got the touch. Angry is good, y'know. Keeps you awake. Keeps you alive. I told you that, didn't I? You gotta hate to sleep, gotta hate to wait, gotta hate bein' still and bein' calm. Survive, boy. That's what I taught you. I taught you what a Korvallis is. Scavenger sons of the stone. Not proud. Not brave. Alive.
...
But why am I here? I could harp all day -- heh heh heh -- but I don't think I'll get through. Like my damn brother, you're proud. Real proud. All the ugly shit in the world could fly right in your face and you wouldn't stop chargin' forward. And for what? A pretty little badge, a pretty little medal, a pretty little commendation.
Naw, kid, besides bein' here to piss you off with nothin' but a word for old times' sake, I'm here to give you some advice. You're puttin' yourself back together and you're reachin' out to what, foreign gods, offshore witches, 'cause you're suffering from some delusion of conscience? You want forgiveness, boy, you gotta forgive yourself. And you gotta think of more than a glimmery stain on the horizon. You beg forgiveness for the things you do when the sun is up, too. Curse yourself for mercy. Curse yourself for washin' off that blood. Curse yourself for pride and bravery and thinkin' for any damn moment you know the hell better.
You listen to me, son. And you listen good.
Steinkreis 'endures' because its as much of a simpering slavering snarling scavenger as the rest of us.
Don't you dare forget that. Ugly things will be done by bad men in the name of survival.
Those were my last words to you. Even if I had known I would not return, I would not have chosen different ones.
You do not weep, now. That is admirable. You rage, you quake, you fear, but that is because we are not truly stone. We simply aspire to be.
And that is the important lesson, boy, most important of all. I have never claimed I was a perfect man. I have never claimed to be better or higher than anyone else. Look back, remember, and know the truth of it. I did not raise you, and that is for the best. I have seen too much of war to be able to care for a child, least of all a misguided one. Your youth, regrettably, could only be left to fate. Any number of things could have broken you, scarred you, changed you, or warped you. I know that some have. But remember this; we are as stone, and stone must endure.
There is a cognizance in death that surpasses the sight of shadow or light. I know your heart. I know what you wish to do. I shall not deter you from it. I question why you require the oversight of foreign gods when our city stands strong around you, but more than stone marches beside you when you range outside the walls. You march with many gods, many souls, against many foes. More than I ever dared. Only once did I range from our city, as your father has now told you, as you have seen, and for that desertion I paid the ultimate price.
But I digress. Know this. I shall not judge you, for it is not my place to do so. Nor is it the place of my wayward brother. We do not haunt you, we do not torment you, we come to you now because you called us, and in so doing, you have erred. An adventurer cannot pass judgment upon you, for he does not comprehend you. A Knight cannot pass judgment upon you, for you are Knight-Errant. You serve the Lord Commander. You serve the King upon the throne, long may he reign.
Do not correct me. Do not interrupt me. You claim you listen well, do so.
It is not for us to challenge you, nor to curse you. Your father is correct, our family is old and populous. Many of our line were flawed. In fact, all of them were. Such is the nature of humanity; we are flawed. But we can aspire to outweigh those flaws with virtuous action. At times, we shall fail.
I died a deserter, and a failure. You did not. You were instead knighted and honored. Not for sympathy, not for vanity, not for show. You were raised up because you were deserving.
I do not tell you this to deter you from your path. I tell you this to subdue your fear.
In this, do not weep. Do not tremble. Do not hesitate.
Do what you have chosen to do.
...
The words you use for parting? I do not agree with them. You know this already.
But all the same. 'Good luck', son of my blood, son of my city.
When light shines down on something from dead on, the subject casts a multiple shadows. When I was first learning to see shadows, this confused the hell out of me. How can something have more than one shadow? I had the one, and I killed it. All that clings to me now is its corpse.
Hell, you know that story already. Right. Focus up, me.
I willed myself to the shadow court again. I've restated what it looks like so many times I bet -you- could see it if you wanted to. The shadow congress was back in session. The knights were in their places. My sword was waiting for me, and I took it up, like I do. I don't need the ghosts of my ancestors to help me lift it anymore -- I'm stronger than I was when I first came here. My sins don't ooze and steam past my lips because I've already given them up. We've all been through this before. You've heard this before.
Except this time I carried the sword forward. Towards the platform where those figures in light stand at perpetual attention. I walked to them and I turned the pitted, ugly, cursed face of my sword on them. I defied the light, dulled it, dispersed it, and invited in the shadows that would so gladly fill this whole damn place up. And just as the beams overhead seem to be giving up, I turn the sword again and let it catch that fading light. I sent this into the shadow and it recoils, offended, confused, but shies away. A grey sort of dusk settles over everything, the white light above now overcast, but the shadows turning wispy and distant.
"I know you," I told them. The men on the podium, with their battered armor and heavy swords. "I know who you are."
That gets their attention. One by one they lower their weapons, some more grateful than others to do so. The shadows hide men, the light blinds men, but despite the melodramatic nature of this sentence I damn well do walk in the dusk. I see best in low light, be it in dreams or out.
The six men on that stand see me, now, too. I don't know if they were waiting, or sleeping, or even aware of what they were doing. Their time was simply done. They are ghosts. Memories. But they're my memories. They're my ghosts. And they have to listen to me.
The first of them is wild-eyed, wild-haired. More brown than gray. Clad in ragged hides, dirt on his face, blood on his hands. An ugly, warped longbow over his shoulder. The weapon in his hand is ugly, pitted, and dull. He is lighter than the rest of them, feral of face and build, and probably the most afraid of me. He should be; it was a knight that made him into what he was. A knight that cast him into the dark and locked him in his own head. Whether or not the sentence was intentional, it was still carried out. And he could have died. He could have gone mad. He could have learned to hate the very stone that held him. But he didn't. Maybe because then, he had bigger concerns. Like where his next meal was coming from. Or where he might be able to lay his head for a few still minutes before he got uprooted by something bigger, meaner.
The second is dressed differently and terrified for entirely different reasons. The man that precedes him was afraid of guardsmen, sure, but he was more afraid of the unknown. For this man are scores in his armor from blade and fire, all delivered by sick, twisted, nightmares that masquerade as people. Things that carve the flesh from good men and giggle and smirk and philosophize as they do it. The foreign enemy. The invader. The darkest deepest blackest hearts Thain shall ever know. -Adventurers- are what taught this man to fear life itself. Taught him he'll die one day and no one will try to save him, no one will mourn him. But in the very least, he has a wall to put his back to. And nothing fights harder than a cornered animal. He sees me and he isn't afraid, but he wishes I wasn't looking. Unseen, unheard. Would that I could tell him what he would one day be. He wasn't much for jokes, but I think he would have laughed all the same.
A black and white tabard stained with the blood of other men hangs upon the armor of the third man. His sword is rusted in its scabbard, barely noticed, hardly ready, but his bow is new. Heavy, iron arrows tipped with poison fill his quiver. He checks the shadows around him for friends and enemies alike, and he seems harried even with nowhere to go, like he knows he needs to get back before they find out he's missing. He was the first of them to forget how to be afraid, even for a little while. The first to stop asking "do I die today" and start asking "who needs to die today". A man who walks in shadow and hunts the shadow. A man who thought he had the right to judge. Thought wrong, but so it goes.
There's a whisper around him, something I remember. A shimmer of a higher purpose. The shadowmaster looking at us, all of us, pointing into the deep and dark, and saying "no, you don't know what the enemy is -- that is our enemy, that is the danger, that is what we must hold back". And at the time we dismissed him. But still we followed.
Now I'm all that's left of us...
Sorry. Lost my place. Four. Up to four....
The fourth man is not a man. He knows it, I know it, but he challenges me with a stare to say something about it. You might remember him, actually. He looks healthy, stronger, taller, than those before him, but I know the vigor isn't truly his. There's something twisted inside him, something corrupt and chaotic, something inhuman. The flesh of a monster molded into that of a man, wearing the shame of a deserter but carrying the resolve of a spy in enemy territory. Of the lot, he's the only one masked: an ugly, bestial thing with a dull fire burning in its eyes and hooked, snarling teeth. A beggar's replica of a knight's sword, albeit without gold or mithral, hangs off his shoulder. He has stood amongst the people, and creatures, he once feared, and come to see that they're as much trash as the rest of us. No enemy should be worshipped. We that murder, lie, ravage, and ruin should not be proud. Should not fool ourselves into thinking we are so mighty. I think he thinks one day he might become a testament to that. That he might be the one to humble the bastards that bled us, to fell dragons, to shake the earth.
I know better than to tell him how that belief turns out.
The fifth man has the same unnatural health but a different sort of mask. He does not see me, he barely hears me. He leans on his sword not for balance but to try and feel the earth move beneath it. Grasping desperately at memories he needs to let go, give up his fixation on sight and embrace that the world for him is now, and will ever be, shadows and sound. He doesn't grieve for it, but he hasn't come to terms with it. Like an amputee trying to pick things up with their stump of a hand. Seeing him reminds me that there's one name tattooed on my arm, one man still living that still needs to die. Unfinished business. My last act of true vengeance. I'm an agent of justice, these days, but that name, that story, the loss of the fifth man's eyes... all connected. All burned into my brain. I can't forget. I won't forget. The mission is not done. And for his sake, and for mine, I will see it through.
And six. Six is blind but not bewildered. Six is armed and armored as I am, as he should be. The brigandine of a heavy soldier. The greatsword of a sworn knight. Always a scowl, never a smile, half clad in wisps of shadow and running almost entirely on hate. He nods to me without recognizing me, because he thinks he is the last. He thinks he is the final shadow, the last ghost, how it will be lived out and how it will end. Bow or sword in hand, fighting on the streets of the city, struck down at last and mercifully dismissed from duty. Gone to the dust and the stone to be forgotten like so many before him but dying with the knowledge the city and all within it still stand. He and I are similar, but not. He calls himself a soldier, because he doesn't care for accolades or honor. All that exists is duty and death. No exceptions. No distractions.
I nod to him, and him to me, but then I reach the podium. And I step onto it.
Seven men now stand in that court of shadow, blades upturned in the dusky light.
The convict. The knave. The vigilante. The monster. The cripple. The soldier.
The knight.
And for seven men so are invited seven powers.
Tymora. The Light. Tempus. Lliira. Helm. Torm. And the souls of the Honored Dead.
Look now upon your son and his six shadows, Steinkreis.
My name is Klaudius Korvallis. Fifth of my family sworn in service to Steinkreis. Knight-Errant in service to that enduring city. Knight-Instructor to the next generation of Knaves. Loyal servant of Knight-Commander Feldan Rittermark. Sworn sword of the Regent on the throne, Bargus Telmoran. Brother-in-arms to Gideon Carter, Lomir Kelmont, Bat Cantebury, and the young Corollaria. Student of Shadowmaster Drogo Burrows. Oft-times rival of Thimns Songcrow. Associate and opponent of the necrosage Rishkin Templar III. Murderer of Alfin Vale. Betrothed to the lady Xavia Sampson. And a twice served-and-sentenced criminal.
And this shall be my confession.
Upon the crime of murder, defined as the taking of a life of another person, be they monstrous or humanoid, outside the bounds of my duties as a servant to the city of Steinkreis, I name myself guilty, on eighty-seven counts. This number shall rise.
Upon the crime of theft, defined as the taking of possession or property from another person, be they monstrous or humanoid, for personal gain and without recompense, I name myself guilty, the value of which is in excess of one hundred thousand pieces of gold. This number shall rise.
Upon the crime of false testimony in court, defined as falsifying of account or report of actions undertaken beneath the auspice of the badge or outside its bounds, I name myself guilty, on one hundred and eleven counts. This number shall rise.
Upon the crime of disobedience to the law, defined but not limited to insubordination, absence without leave, willfully engaging in battle as a solder of the city against foes of my own choosing, flagrant disrespect for superiors of both rank and social station, conduct unbecoming, breach of the peace, failure to identify myself and my intentions within disputed territory, and of course, resisting arrest, I name myself guilty, on five hundred and ninety-three counts. This number shall rise.
Hear this. And listen.
Upon the charge of safeguarding the innocent, defined as protecting the defenseless by word or by sword, tending their wounds, and standing between them and the Hell that tries to consume them daily, I name myself guilty, on at least one count.
Upon the charge of punishing the guilty, defined not only as violators of Steinkreis law, but those that would dispense cruelty upon the helpless and place personal gain over that of the common people, I name myself guilty, on at least one count.
Upon the charge of compassion, defined as mercy to the defeated, disregard of my personal well-being for the sake of friend, foe, and neutral party, and staying my hand from torture against even the vilest enemies our people have ever known, I name myself guilty, on at least one count.
Upon the charge of humility, defined as willingness to pay any cost, any price, any sentence deemed necessary for these crimes and those that have yet to come to pass, I name myself guilty, on at least one count.
... and upon the charge of long-winded, meaningless rambling, defined as you ought to get the goddamned idea by now, I name myself guilty. Shit.
I'm saying all this now, you're writing this down, because I've already given this confession. It's happened. I wasn't answered. I wasn't struck down. I wasn't punished. But I wasn't absolved, forgiven, or released, either.
And upon the count of expecting exactly that bloody outcome, I name myself guilty again.
Because who am I really confessing to? Ghosts, gods? I could bring this to the Knight-Commander and he'd either execute me on the spot, or ask me if I'd been drinking, throw the paper in the fire, and tell me to go home to my lover and rest.
He knows, by the way. He made a "huh" sound when I added it in after a debrief, which I think translates to "good for you, get out of my office".
The point, I suppose, is that you know. You know everything. And don't you dare forget it. I'll accept I might be worth keeping alive another day if you accept I have done terrible things and I will do them again. But I will always do them because I believe somewhere in this twisted mess of my mind that it is the right thing. May I be damned if I'm wrong, and let that day be today if someone cares to say it. Let me be cursed, let me be defied, let me be all of this, but let me -be- just a little bit longer.
If there are powers that listen, be they yours, be they mine, be they something bigger and grander and incomprehensible and defying description, let them listen to me. Let them hear me.
My name is Klaudius Korvallis.
I am not the wind, nor the boundless storm it carries.
I am not the shadow that surrounds and encompasses this island.
I am not the stone that endures against adventurers and monsters.
I am not the hero of this or any story, nor will I ever be.
I am not the very thing I swore to combat: a deathless adventurer sowing ruin with each step.
I am not the opposite: a better, grander, more noble man than those undying few.
I am not my father. I am not my uncle.
I am Klaudius Korvallis. I was born in Websters' Landing. I was made the man I am by the darkness of Blackstone and the battles that my service has led me to. I was made Knight-Errant for valor, honor, service, and sacrifice. I am these things, and one day I may die in this uniform.
But first, let me live. Let me live to be the man my city asks me to be.
Let me live to be the man you tell me that I am.
My name is Klaudius Korvallis.
I am just a man.
But I am a just man.
And I endure.
For you, for all of you, and for all that shall come.
[ The Island of Thain ]
For Kreis' Sake [KOMPLETE]