Knightegel: Born of Conflict

Chapter 1: The Devil

A city is under siege. A golden army tears through its militia like stampeding buffalo trampling the grass underfoot. Canons burst on each side. People run to and fro like frightened mice. Soldiers in purple armor rush through racing crowds of people, stabbing and slashing helpless victims as they go. A golden army is in hot pursuit. Sunlit warriors defend civilians from a swift death. There is screaming, shouting, and war cries. All fades into nothingness.

A burst of gray haze opens to the bright blue eyes of a child. A man and woman running through the streets to escape the violence with a small child in his mother's arms stop short before the leader of the purple coated soldiers...the commander. The mother drops the boy, startled. The boy hits the ground sitting, with no reaction to the fall. The commander stands before them, anger flooding his eyes. The boy's parents turn and run. The boy looks into the eyes of the commander. Closer and closer into the boy's eyes. Closer, and closer. Then...darkness.

Violet eyes shot open as a man lay in bed, motionless, in the dark of the early morning. Moonlight embellished his bare chest and white trousers with a violet hue. His glaring irises sparkled like pieces of shattered glass, relentless in their wake. But before they could close, waves of distressed noises filled his ears of all happenings in the night: of pain, of laughter, of dreams, of nightmares, of old, and of young. The noises intensified with every second they endured. He got up slowly, sitting on the bed at first. He cringed at all the clamor hammering at his senses and turned his head as though to avoid it. The noise died down, allowing him a second of calm, but then came rage, hate, and violence. The sounds of arguing, vengeful wishes, brutality and murder usurped all else, making him shiver as if his room was freezing cold. He gasped, grabbing his head as a grueling ache pierced his skull. "No, no," he said, "Stop."

At his words, the shivering and all that preceded it stopped, and he exhaled with relief, at last closing his eyes one more time. Finally, in his mind, he heard a young woman's voice say, "Undiagnon (oon-die-ag-non), thank you for our baby boy, Sorez. He is our finest blessing."

Sorez walked over to the window, opposite the right side of his bed, and stared into the moon above the rooftops. The light revealed a lean and fit physique, without a single blemish. His hair was windswept and wavy, though a bit unkempt from his bed, and reached down a little past his jaw. He turned from the window, eyes mirroring his uncertainty, and then walked away.

Some moments later, while taking a shower, he looked up into the shower head as the water streamed down his face. The steam around him became the cooling of metal at the forge. Beads of water striking his face, echoed the clanging of the hammer as it beat upon metal rods to give them shape. The cloth in his hand was as the one he applied to polish metal when the work was complete. A bar of soap sat on a shelf close-by, just barely used, and Sorez never once touched it, let alone look in its direction. Stepping out of the bathroom wrapped in a robe, he looked left to a door at the end of a hallway, considering for a moment, while wiping wet hair from pensive eyes. There were sconces on the wall, but they were unlit, and yet, there was an oddly mild ambiance enveloping the hall...one that subsided as Sorez returned to his room.

As soon as he stepped in, his hair was noticeably dry and neatly composed, as was his face also. Heading for the closet, he selected an outfit and dressed himself in attire reminiscent of 18th century colonial design, including a button-down vest, a suit jacket over the vest, and a greatcoat. Every major piece of the outfit was a dark navy blue. At his right side was a one-handed sword.

From there, Sorez made his way to a larger room, not far from his own. Upon opening the door, the room was very dark, but he seemed to ignore the lack of light altogether...as the interior was to his eyes, illuminated by a bright, golden sun. The perceived light opened wide the space before him, revealing a cozy setting of fine wooden surfaces with a hue like saturated sandstone, all carefully carved with rosy renderings of interwoven flames. The table by the forge in the far-right corner was pleasantly aged by nicks, dents, and the occasional burn mark. Another where the tools hung was much worn on the surface, yet sturdy, seeming the oldest in the room. On his way to the front door, Sorez took some time to admire his work, artfully displayed, from swords, armor, and pewter pots to gears, plumbing tubes, and pocket watches. At the door, he grabbed his cloak from a coat rack and scanned the room one more time. Although there was not much to glean from his mum expressions, one could still tell, if only in the eyes, that this was a man who missed his craft...and in a way, he seemed to say for now, "goodbye," albeit, without a single word.