A strange yet partially true story, The Ragged Knight..
Haven't been on here in a long time, but i thought i might as well get some constructive criticism or praise on this style of writing. I'd be curious to hear your opinion on it, and yes i know it's not for everyone.
The Ragged Knight
Permit me a moment to tell you a tale. A tale of blood and betrayal that took place an eternity before this last dark milennium.
An ancient story but one with stark relevance i promise you. This story takes place in the impious ages of old earth, in a land known as Gaul. Also called the Frankish empire. A princely holy man of the steel era, that followed the bronze and iron epochs believed himself able to hear the words of his faceless deity. To reflect his self proclaimed purity he takes the name Innocent. And then he takes his followers to war. Lord Innocent calls a crusade to eradicate a heretical sect, which our fragmented history names as the Karthor.
He proclaims that they shall be burned for their sins against the imaginary god. But these knights, wearing primitive armor and wielding swords of steel are the princes and lords of their realm.
To them, the virtues of nobility and honor matter above all. The people of their empire look to them for protection, for theirs are the blades that defend the virtuous weak against the evil strong.
Until their overlord Innocent blesses them. He declares their actions to be sacred deeds, and any crimes they commit in this war shall be ignored, and their sins forgiven.
Siegecraft in this bygone age is fought with catapults of metal and wood that hurl boulders of stone. City walls are brought down by these primitive machines, crewed by mathematicians and peasants alike.
And once the walls fall, the footsoldiers march in, led by their lords and princes.
Albergensia the stronghold of the Karthor heretics falls at dawn. The swordbearing knights lead their footsoldiers into the city, and with all their sins forgiven, even before they are committed, the crusaders show no mercy. The heretics number no more than a few hundred, yet the whole city burns. Men, women, children all butchered on the knights blessed blades. But what of the blameless masses? What of the children who know nothing of their parents heresy? What of the thousands of devout souls who have broken no laws, and do not deserve death?
Kill them all! Says Innocent, the primitive warmaster of his age, Kill them all! Our god will know who is loyal. He condems thousands to death, not because they are guilty, but because he believes a mythological paradise awaits those unjustly murdered by his men, and thus the city burns, an innocent population is wiped from the world, by the blades that should have defended them.
Like every emotion and deed, this slaughter is reflected in the sea of souls. The rage, the fear, the sense of bitter betrayal, all of it curdles behind the veil. Few things feed the warp as sweetly as war, and few things hold the rancid symbolism of the strong massacring the weak they were sworn to protect. Such slaughter gives birth to demons within the Empyrean. Countless mewling terrors born from individual moments of terror and bloodlust. Above them more powerful entities also swirl into existence, one born of a blaze, deliberately started, which claims a dozen lives. One from a mothers abject horror of seeing her children spitted upon the very lances wielded by those she believed to be her noble and holy protectors. These acts and thousands more like them, breed the neverborn in the hell beyond realities veil.
Sometimes, as with the crusade of Albergensia, a demon is born that rises above it’s siblings, one that encapsulates all the miserable complexity, cruelty and blood soaked shame of the genocide. Imagine that creature, born of this sublime betrayal. Imagine a spirit of war given form when a warrior caste turns its blades upon it’s own people. Acting on the word of a tyrant, in the name of a lie. It’s skin is the bleeding red charcoal of scorched flesh, like the families that burned in the homes. Its armor is a fire blackened mockery of the mailed knights whose treachery gave it birth. It carries a sword, just as the knights did, though it’s blade is graven with runic curses, heralding the war gods glory. The crimson and orange light that burns beyond it’s eyes, is the fire that lit the horizon as the doomed city blazed.
When it opens its maw each of its exhaled breaths, is the echo of ten thousand dying screams. It calls itself the Ragged Knight
The Ragged Knight
Permit me a moment to tell you a tale. A tale of blood and betrayal that took place an eternity before this last dark milennium.
An ancient story but one with stark relevance i promise you. This story takes place in the impious ages of old earth, in a land known as Gaul. Also called the Frankish empire. A princely holy man of the steel era, that followed the bronze and iron epochs believed himself able to hear the words of his faceless deity. To reflect his self proclaimed purity he takes the name Innocent. And then he takes his followers to war. Lord Innocent calls a crusade to eradicate a heretical sect, which our fragmented history names as the Karthor.
He proclaims that they shall be burned for their sins against the imaginary god. But these knights, wearing primitive armor and wielding swords of steel are the princes and lords of their realm.
To them, the virtues of nobility and honor matter above all. The people of their empire look to them for protection, for theirs are the blades that defend the virtuous weak against the evil strong.
Until their overlord Innocent blesses them. He declares their actions to be sacred deeds, and any crimes they commit in this war shall be ignored, and their sins forgiven.
Siegecraft in this bygone age is fought with catapults of metal and wood that hurl boulders of stone. City walls are brought down by these primitive machines, crewed by mathematicians and peasants alike.
And once the walls fall, the footsoldiers march in, led by their lords and princes.
Albergensia the stronghold of the Karthor heretics falls at dawn. The swordbearing knights lead their footsoldiers into the city, and with all their sins forgiven, even before they are committed, the crusaders show no mercy. The heretics number no more than a few hundred, yet the whole city burns. Men, women, children all butchered on the knights blessed blades. But what of the blameless masses? What of the children who know nothing of their parents heresy? What of the thousands of devout souls who have broken no laws, and do not deserve death?
Kill them all! Says Innocent, the primitive warmaster of his age, Kill them all! Our god will know who is loyal. He condems thousands to death, not because they are guilty, but because he believes a mythological paradise awaits those unjustly murdered by his men, and thus the city burns, an innocent population is wiped from the world, by the blades that should have defended them.
Like every emotion and deed, this slaughter is reflected in the sea of souls. The rage, the fear, the sense of bitter betrayal, all of it curdles behind the veil. Few things feed the warp as sweetly as war, and few things hold the rancid symbolism of the strong massacring the weak they were sworn to protect. Such slaughter gives birth to demons within the Empyrean. Countless mewling terrors born from individual moments of terror and bloodlust. Above them more powerful entities also swirl into existence, one born of a blaze, deliberately started, which claims a dozen lives. One from a mothers abject horror of seeing her children spitted upon the very lances wielded by those she believed to be her noble and holy protectors. These acts and thousands more like them, breed the neverborn in the hell beyond realities veil.
Sometimes, as with the crusade of Albergensia, a demon is born that rises above it’s siblings, one that encapsulates all the miserable complexity, cruelty and blood soaked shame of the genocide. Imagine that creature, born of this sublime betrayal. Imagine a spirit of war given form when a warrior caste turns its blades upon it’s own people. Acting on the word of a tyrant, in the name of a lie. It’s skin is the bleeding red charcoal of scorched flesh, like the families that burned in the homes. Its armor is a fire blackened mockery of the mailed knights whose treachery gave it birth. It carries a sword, just as the knights did, though it’s blade is graven with runic curses, heralding the war gods glory. The crimson and orange light that burns beyond it’s eyes, is the fire that lit the horizon as the doomed city blazed.
When it opens its maw each of its exhaled breaths, is the echo of ten thousand dying screams. It calls itself the Ragged Knight
31-35, M
