THE LITTLE KNIGHT

[Gandhi 3225]

 

 

THE LITTLE KNIGHT

 

 

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The following content – up until the very end, is a dream.

 

[DO NOT METAGAME]

 

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A light breeze fell upon the Karoswood, batting gently at the trees, and branches wafted in the wind. With the swift strike of a sword, a long limb of an oak tree fell to the grass. It was cold, the autumn breeze relentless at times, rarely would an unprepared man willingly embark into such a place. The Knight, however,—who stomped past the felled branch—wasn’t unprepared in any regard. He bore a satchel, hanging at his side, filled with alchemical herbs and other useful commodities. Upon his other side lay his sword, a finely tuned and well-kept steel blade, tucked comfortably within a pressed leather scabbard.

 

His march was harsh, he’d surely had his work cut out for him. What he had long since sought was a monster that perturbed and wrought havoc amongst the peasantry of Man. For it was his duty, as a Knight of the Realm, to protect and defend the weak; to tread in his forefathers' footsteps. Regardless, his movements were repetitive, drawing his blade, slicing effortlessly through limbs of trees, and stomping ‘pon meager sticks, ensuring his presence was known. He had created much noise, enough for any creature to hear him coming a mile away, but what was stealth and skullduggery to a Champion so steadfast and righteous as himself?

 

Eventually, the Knight found himself on the banks of a plateau. Surely this was to be it. The sun shone brightly upon the rolling meadow, engulfing it in a gentle glow. In the dense treeline, the Knight saw much of the field and stepped into the open, and finally, he drew forth his towering sword. With the weapon lofted to the sky, one could take note of the many intricate details laden in the hilt. Driven deep into the pommel was a blackened bull bearing white horns. Splayed across the Knight’s masked features was his prideful, cocky grin, as he swung his blade proudly in the air.

 

Times for arrogance were few and far between, however, as a roaring scream bellowed through the rolling plateau. With haste, the Knight buckled his knees and lowered his stance. Swiftly was the hilt of his blade engulfed in two firm, gauntleted hands, outstretched in the direction of such a terrifying howl. In the far distance, the Knight bore witness to a fleeing peasant, sprinting wholly through the autumn winds, and not far at his rear, a lunging creature with two heavy-handed antlers, locked firmly into an old moose’s skull. It was covered in fur, and one could almost mistake it for a moose, had it not borne two defined legs and two massive arms.

 

Sharp claws ravaged the grass it sprinted upon, yet still, it pressed forth on all fours. The Knight hadn’t ever seen such a fearsome opponent; he was sure many would’ve fled by now, had they been in his position. It wasn’t far for the peasant to sprint, and eventually he’d found cover behind the Knight. Stalwart was the Knight when his whole body was upended, hurled into a cluster of flowers. He grappled with his sword, eventually hoisting it skyward as the monster flung its attention from the lowborn to him.

 

The creature charged him again and this time, the Knight flung himself from its path, retaliating with a hearty strike to its gut. Roaring in pain, the monster kicked up many a wildflower as it spun on its hind legs and swung a sharp-clawed paw towards the Knight’s visored bascinet. Receiving the strike with courage pressed into his heart, he was only briefly forced to the ground before his blade struck upwards in a skillful thrust. He’d struck true, with purpose and righteous fervor, and his blade dug deep into the fur of the extraordinarily monstrous creature and another howl came, this time of unbearable proportion. Harshly, it retaliated, forcing one paw after the other down onto the bascinet of the Knight.

 

But through the pain, he had faith and courage in his cause, and it led him as his hands released his blade. His hands lurched for a swift, quiet rondel dagger at his hip, and the dagger sliced upwards, skimming past the bloodied fur of the beast, digging deep into its neck. With fury and resentment was the Knight assailed, but as his dagger struck true, the monster’s attacks became less and less. In mere moments had it keeled toward the grass, felled by the Knight in his quest not unlike a simple oak branch.

 

He fell to his knees as his inhuman opponent fell limp to the ground. He sighed, lowering his eyes to the remainder of the flowers, and from it, he plucked a single white primrose. With haste, the Knight retrieved his arsenal and set off to find the lowborn man.

 

“Come forth, you.” He beckoned with a commanding wave.

 

Stepping forward, the exhausted commoner lofted a hand and fell to his knees. “O’fair champion, you have saved my life, this monster has plagued our village for many a month.”

 

“It is my duty, fret not.” And without another word, the Knight turned on his heel and set off into the dense woods. The blackened bull with white horns upon his pommel was wiped clean of blood when he reached home.

 

 

 

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Then, Andrei awoke.

 

Leaping upward with a springing hand nearly launching a potted plant from his nightstand, the perplexed boy pulled himself from bed and offered a stressed glance at the plant. He donned his clothes—a finely woven kaftan of black and red—and descended the many stairwells of Krusev. He found himself initially in the courtyard, and then outside the walls. He descended up a brief, dirt pathway in the brush of the southern Karoswood and ended up at the site of a small flower, masked from the towering trees and bushes; a simple, quiet, white primrose. He sat, and revealed a small book from the pouch at his side. From the cover, it appeared to be a folktale of a Knight and his deeds in the Aestmarch. Andrei had dreamed many a time of boots far too big to fit on his own feet, but for now, he was only ‘the Little Knight’, a title bequeathed by his father, Erik.

 

Spoiler

references/inspo: 

 

 

[sarahbarah 7105]

Emma sat at her son's bedside, tucking blackened curls behind his ear. How he had grown to resemble his father, she thought. She could do naught but hold her son tight, cherishing the years of childhood he had left. 

[erictafoya 3276]

 

It was cold. . .
 

The Lord Father of Krusev rose from his bedchambers and pressed a kiss to his still slumbering wife's forehead. It was not unusual for him to be up before his wife, before his children, before even most of his servantry. Much work had to be done, and much work there was still to do. 

 

The sun is up. . .

 

Still, that did not deter the man from seeing his family before leaving for the capital once more. There they slept, all in their separate rooms. First was Birdie, his heiress and the pride of Krusev. How talented she already was. Then, there was Erika, his youngest child named after him and such a beauty like his mother that he referred to her as 'doll'. Then, there were the triplets. His little flower, as bubbly in slumber as she was awake and nearby was Markus, who was silently opposite. Then finally, he made his way to Andrei's bed when he realized that. . .

 

He wasn't there. . .
 

* PANIC! * "Where could he be" thought the Lord of Bulls. He checked the square, but he wasn't there. He checked the fortress, but the effort was fruitless. Then came the garden shrubbery, but he knew his son did not partake in such luxury. There was little choice, and he did not have time to wake the Bykursain. He rode on his horse, still wearing a nightgown, and whipped those leather reins. Through the Karosgrad he searched and on the roads he looked. "He must be close, he must be!" -

 

And then. . .

 

There he was. His Little Knight. Reading under the shaded trees as the sun rose atop from the horizon. Erik dared not interrupt, but instead admired his boy from afar. Despite his body ailing by the day, his smile was as healthy as ever. "There he is.", silently he thought following a breath of reprieve.

 

"There is our future, secured."