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[color=black][h3]T H E  S H A D O W L A N D S[/h3][/color]
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[COLOR=#dbf220][indent][sub][B]Location:[/B] [COLOR=SILVER][I]Central Kingdom - Earth 1349[/I][/COLOR][/sub][sup][right][b]Post #3.00:[/b] [COLOR=SILVER][I]Prologue[/I][/COLOR][/right][/sup][/indent][/color][sub][hr][/sub][INDENT][color=#dbf220][sub][B]Interaction(s):[/B] [COLOR=SILVER][I][/I][/COLOR][/sub][SUP][RIGHT][b]Previously:[/b] [COLOR=SILVER][I][/I][/COLOR][/right][/SUP][/color][/indent]

The quaint little town was silent as the night as the stranger arrived in the village. On horseback, his horse was big and strong, but old. It's once black mane had now turned gray from aging. He tied the horse to the post outside of the cottage that had a sign on the outside that said "Gazette Inn." Once, the Gazette had been a reputable establishment. One of the finest in the entire kingdom. The poets and writers would all gather there, to that mild degree that the news pamphlets were named after the inn. But, that was a long time ago. Before the war.

Before all of the destruction. He mused on the times past and a solemn sign escaped his lips.


The man wore a grey cloak that almost looked black. It was draped over his shoulders, covering almost all of his clothing, but the clanking of his steps betrayed that he was clad in armor. He walked into the inn, pushing the wooden door open with his left hand, the light bouncing off the dirty plate armor that adorned his chest. It was quiet. As it always was. A handful or so patrons, one barkeep who was sitting next to the bar, drinking a lukewarm ale. The man walked in and scanned the room. His eyes were weary. Tired. He hadn't slept in a long time. He knew well that even when he did, he wouldn't get much sleep anyway. There just wasn't enough time.

Time. Such an abstract concept that truly should have so little meaning. Times past, and times to come were all that occupied his mind, when he let it wander. Refocusing at the task at hand, he sized the barkeep up and the pudgy man, dressed in a butcher's apron that was a little dirty with spots of spilled beer got up out of his seat.

"Uh, oh, greetings Sir Knight. What can I do you for?" The barkeep asked the knight, whom sighed. Full-armor certainly didn't make stealth an option. He saw some ruffians in the back make a face upon the mention of the knight. 

"An ale would do me just fine." He knight said, flipping a shimmering bronze coin onto the bar. The keep took it and grabbed the tankard, dunking it in the keg. Slamming the wet-glass onto the counter, the beer frothing. The knight took a swig and made a grimace. The ale was truly terrible. Tasted like shit. That's beer without any oats, he supposed. Harvest had gone to shit for the past five years.

"I've got a couple questions." The knight asked the barman who's eyes grew wider. 
"Aye."
"I'm looking for a man. One James Jesse. A Rogue, cheat and scoundrel. He cheated me in a game of cards a few weeks back."
"Purple hair?" He barman asked, and the knight nodded.
"Aye. He was here a few days ago. Headed East, I think."
"East? There's nothing East." The knight told with an extra stern tone.
"Did I say East? I meant North. S-Sorry, times are tough, my mind is not what it used to be." The Barman corrected, sweat beading on his forehead. He wiped it off with his right hand, his sleeve rolling up as he did.

The knight noticed the black mark on the barman's hand and his grip on the beer loosened as he took a step back. "Right. I guess I better pursue Mr. Jesse, then." The knight said, making his way to the door, only to find two of the ruffians blocking the door. One of them was a head taller than the knight, the other about the same size. 

"You shouldn't have poked your head where it don't belong. Knight. This isn't where you belong. You belong back behind those precious city walls." The thug mentioned, producing the long knife from his pocket. Twirling it in his hand. The knight scoffed. 
The thug lunged at him, knife first, the knight took a step backwards, Upper-cutting the thug's elbow, breaking it immediately. His companion swung a knuckleduster at the knight, hitting him in the cheek, making him stumble backwards, where two more of the brigands had gotten up of their seat, one of them kicked the knight in his chester, the other swong his wooden club at him.

The club was dodged by an inch, stepping backwards the big guy guarding the door grabbed him by the hood, yanking him backwards. Pulling down the hood, revealing his ginger hair. From behind the barman, the trap-door to the attic opened a little. A crack. A crossbow peaked out and a bolt was let fly towards the knight's back. As the knife came at him from one direction, the bolt from another, and four very angry men attacking him. He found serenity. Quiet and peace.

God, he was tired of fighting. He was so tired of men being this stupid. Not seeing the big picture. How they'd try to kill him just for the chance to steal his armor and make a few gold. Not realizing the bigger picture. That the war wasn't over yet. It was only starting. That back east, the enemy was amassing their army and soon, it would all come crashing down. He fist-pounded the mark on his left shoulder as he was yanked backwards. And the room lit up. He caught the bolt and threw it back, hitting the purple-haired assassin in the chest, sending him falling down stairs to the attic. He dodged under the knive, drawing his own sword from his back, the blade being fitted in a reverse-sheath under his cloak. It was his short sword, his two-handed one resting on his horse.

In three strikes he had disemboweled the men, at a blinding speed where lightning filled the room and blood painted the walls. Their heads rolled, one guy got his arm cut off and then his leg. The other was cut in half and the last one simply got impaled. Painless, mercifull deaths.

Sometime ago, the Knight would've been sickened at this display of violence. But he wasn't the same kid as when he was knighted. He wasn't the squire who had spared brigands for the sake of redemption anymore. He was a soldier in a war that threatened everything. And defeat was never an option.

He cleaned his blade on his cloak and holstered it in it's sheath. Walking towards the panicked barkeep, whom was crawling backwards behind the barkdesk, only to be met with the body of the supposed bounty the knight was hunting, James Jesse - The Trickster laid there, the bolt lodged directly in his heart.


"W-Who the hell are you?!" The barman cried out as the knight extended his hand to him to pick him off the bloodstained floor.

"My name is Sir Wallace of the West. A Knight of the Riders Of Lightning, in service of the king. And I have to talk to you about the shadow who gave you that mark on your hand."