Chapter 1: Demon Knight

Sleeping Sheep Inn - 25th Month of Winds - Midnight

He kept to himself while the rest of the inn celebrated the weekend with hearty laughter and heavy drinking. With a small ornate cup in front of him, already emptied, he studied the various customers. Two traveling merchants with two hired guards sat on the far side of the room, most likely discussing trading strategy. A band of cloaked fellows occupied the table next to the heavy oaken door, hoods pulled far over their faces. A gang of mercenaries sang jolly songs at the two centre tables, spilling ale over the floor every time they sang the chorus, heads red and throats hoarse. They even started a friendly brawl, pitting the two drunkest men available against one another and bet not on who would win, but who would take the most punches before passing out.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ The serving girl surprised him, knocking him out of his observational trance. She’d been the victim of many audacious flirtations; most of them came from the merry mercenaries, and most compliments given were not entirely undeserved.
He pulled his own hood a bit further over his face, his right hand hung limp to his side; covered by his azure cloak. ‘Another bottled spirit, please.’

The swords-for-hire had turned from brawling to binging, holding a contest on who could drink the most ale in a single go without regurgitating it all over the floor. The innkeeper and his staff would have their hands full with the cleaning tomorrow.
‘Here you go,’ the serving girl said, putting a new cup next to the empty one. He took a dull coin from his pouch and handed it to her. Before she had a chance to protest, the heavy door to the inn opened, letting in a strong gust of cold air.

The woman who walked in wore the robes of the Church; her hair was a bright blonde and tied in a knot on the back of her head. The blue with white lining accentuated her form, but his eagle’s eye spotted the tell-tale signs of armour underneath all that soft linen cloth, and she carried a traveller’s bag slung over her back. Her appearance silenced the entire inn; even the sell-swords ceased their contest to admire the newcomer.

‘I’ll be damned, the Crusaders celebrate weekends too?’ one of the mercenaries said, they all laughed in response, though the woman remained unflinching; as if her face was made of solid marble.
She stepped through the doorway, closing the door behind her; shutting the cold night’s air out of the inn. With determined steps, she made her way to his table, where only one more seat was left unused.

‘Seat’s occupied,’ he mumbled, taking care not to reveal his face to her as she stood in front of him.
‘You don’t strike me as a man who keeps company,’ she said to him, not moving from her place and staring at him incessantly.
‘You don’t strike me as a woman who would enjoy mine,’ he responded, keeping his face averted from her.
‘What are you going to do?’ she said, grabbing the stool and putting it behind her. ‘Stop me?’ She was amused, he knew that much. Her presence had turned the once so merry atmosphere in the inn into a more supressed equivalent. Even the serving girl forgot to complain that he’d given her twice the amount the bottled spirit cost, but he didn’t mind. He had no real need for coin anyway.
‘Well,’ he said, slightly annoyed. ‘What brings a member of the Church to a run-down place like this? Surely you have sermons to give and exorcisms to perform?’
She smiled, if only slightly. ‘You’re only half correct. We’ve received word that demons around the area have been found dead, the way they were killed is strongly reminiscent to the methods of a Demon Knight.’

He could feel his limp right arm twitch; it was hard to supress. ‘Well, the only demonic thing they have here is bottled spirit,’ he said as he chugged the tiny cup down in a single go. The strong alcohol burnt through his throat and set his tongue alight. He rasped his throat afterwards, and set the cup back on the shoddy table with an audible thump. ‘C’mon, have a drink with me, I’ll pay.’

Before she had a chance to refuse, he called to the serving girl to bring them two more cups of bottled spirit, which she brought over seconds later. He took his and raised it. ‘May the Lord bless our souls, and may demons tremble where we walk!’ he yelled across the inn.
The mercenaries and merchants responded to his toast wholeheartedly, and all the tension that could have been there melted away in an instant. He noticed she hadn’t joined in the toast, and he nodded towards her cup of bottled spirit. She eventually collapsed under the pressure, sighed, and chugged it down her throat. Her green eyes suddenly went wide, and her body bent over. She coughed, teary-eyed and with a face almost crimson red.
‘How can you like this stuff?’ she asked him between hacks and coughs.
He smiled. ‘I don’t, and that’s the point.’ His odd answer clearly confused her.

Night fell further, a white cloak of hazy mist descended on the village. The streets were abandoned, most people feared the mist; since demons were said to roam in it, he knew better. Suddenly, the sky ruptured, letting out a roar of thunder and a wave of rain followed.
The Crusader groaned. ‘Wonderful, rain,’ she said. She got up from the stool and walked over to the innkeeper. A few moments later, she returned with a look on her face that said enough.
‘No more rooms available?’ he mumbled at her, with a playful smile he took care to hide. ‘Well, I guess you’ll have to test your luck at another inn and expose yourself to the graces of God outside.’

He paused for a moment, looking at her discontent of the thought of having her Church robes soaked by the rain outside. ‘Fine,’ he said after sighing deeply. ‘I’ll share my room with you on two conditions. The first one is that you hand me a Sancto, I haven’t read one of those in a long time. The second is that you pay.’
She tilted her head. ‘Pay what?’
‘Another cup of bottled spirit, of course.’

‘It’s getting late, we should withdraw for the night,’ the Crusader said after the other guests had already left, the swords-for-hire were well asleep on and around the table, and they snored loud enough to wake the dead. The stench of ale and vomit was strong enough to almost become nauseating.
‘Yes, let’s do that,’ he said, lifting himself from the stool and leaning on the table with only his left hand.

Sleeping Sheep Inn Room - 25th Month of Winds - Midnight

The room wasn’t anything to write home about; it had a simple table with a pair of chairs and a single bed, a rusty dented iron lantern attached on a chain to the ceiling illuminated the room with an eerie light. The Crusader put her traveller’s bag next to the nightstand.

‘You don’t have any luggage?’ she asked as she closed the curtains, noticing that he had not even a single personal item on him.
‘I prefer to travel light.’
She studied him from the corner of her eyes when she opened her traveller’s bag, it rattled as she rummaged through it; searching for the Sancto she’d promised him. When he accepted the offer, he asked her a question.
‘Do you Crusaders always carry a Grafted weapon along?’ he asked, she realised he must’ve heard the metallic sound of her longsword’s sheath shuffling about when she searched her bag.
‘That is classified Church information, I cannot answer that,’ she said curtly.
‘I’ll take that as a “yes”, then,’ he said as he opened the Sancto and started on the first page.

She looked at the bed, of which there was only one. His head turned slightly her way, she could feel his eyes dig into her. For some reason, she was strangely aware of him, as if he were hostile. His demeanour proved otherwise, though, and she took pride in being a good judge of character.
‘I’ll take the chair, you take the bed,’ he said, not even bothering to look up from the Sancto.
She eyed him in return, trying to figure out what caused the strange, almost ravenous aura that came from him, though his entire posture indicated he was not.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked him as she took off her boots and massaged her feet, the journey had had its repercussions on her soles that were now aching and throbbing painfully.
Her question caught his attention; he threw his hood back, revealing short unkempt black hair, sleek jawbones and a pair of piercing brown eyes.

‘My name is Falkner Rost,’ he said to her, maintaining unblinking eye-contact with the Crusader. For a moment, they stared at one another. None of them said a word; the muffled bits and pieces of conversation could be faintly heard through the walls. From the sound of it, the merchants were having a fierce discussion.
She laughed softly, as to not disturb the other guests that were trying to sleep. ‘That has to be the best joke I’ve heard in ages,’ she said. ‘Just make sure to never say that again, most Crusaders might take you seriously and execute you on the spot.’
‘My name is still Falkner. What’s yours then?’ he said as he flipped another page. He grabbed the pewter carafe of wine and filled a cup for himself.
‘Celia, and do you often drink such copious amounts of alcohol?’ she said, she took a seat across the table and poured half a cup for herself.
Falkner grinned. ‘Only if there’s a pretty lady to drink with.’ She disregarded the remark; she could notice from his tone that he was only toying with her in an attempt to make her feel embarrassed.

Celia took a black notebook from the pouch slung around her waist and opened it on the table. Falkner’s eyes flitted from the Sancto he had in his hands to the notebook as she took a pencil and started writing in it. For a while, the only audible sound was the flipping of pages and scribbling of graphite on paper, it seemed that the merchants had taken to bed.
‘What’re you writing?’ Falkner asked, he grabbed his cup of wine and emptied it.
Celia looked up from the notebook. ‘That’s cla-’
‘Classified Church information?’ Falkner interrupted her. ‘Figures, the Church is quick enough to issue orders, but when answers are demanded everything goes oddly quiet.’
Celia averted her eyes, and focused on her notebook again, she didn’t have to indulge him.

A few moments later, she shut the little notebook and stored it back in its original pouch. As she walked over to the bed, Celia could feel Falkner’s eyes tracing her, following every step. The bed creaked as she tested it, the softness of the mattress would provide a welcome alternative to sleeping in the woods, especially with weather this bad.
‘What’s this Demon Knight done to deserve you chasing his tail?’ Falkner said as he refilled his cup and offered to refill hers; she refused.
Celia sighed, all these questions were wearing her patience thin, and she longed for her well-deserved rest. ‘All Demon Knights were ordered to fight at Hell’s Gate, until death if necessary. The fact that one is alive and in this village means he or she has disregarded the Church’s direct orders. Such practises are punishable by death.’
Falkner raised an eyebrow and turned his head. ‘Isn’t that a bit excessive?’
‘No,’ Celia answered curtly. ‘They knew what they were getting into when they applied for it, they were all told the risks and they all accepted the Church’s terms.’
Falkner chuckled and turned another page of the Sancto. ‘Did they really, now?’

Celia started to remove any other unnecessary accessories, two daggers, a pouch of caltrops, a roll of bandages in case first aid was needed, a compact sack of bacon and dried meat, easy to eat when on the way to the next village, along with an iron canteen with the Church’s symbol on it to hold water.
‘What happened to your arm?’ she said, opening her canteen and chugging down its contents.
Falkner looked at his limp shoulder with a look of disgust on his face, as if some horrible creature had taken its place.
‘Demon,’ he said, as if the discussion was over and done with that answer.

It was already late, and Celia’s eyes became weary. ‘I’m turning to bed,’ she said, more as a confirmation for herself than for Rost.
Falkner looked over at her again, staring straight into her eyes with that piercing gaze; in the light of the dented lantern on the ceiling he seemed similar to one of the librarians back at the Ecclesia, studying ancient texts and scriptures.
‘Aren’t you afraid that I’ll assault you in your sleep?’ he said in a thoroughly amused tone and with a faint smile on his face. She gave a mocking smile in return.
‘Men have tried, men have died.’

She started her evening prayer with fingers interlocked and her forehead to the balls of her thumbs. ‘My Lord, the day has ended. Once again, I thank You for Your graces and Your limitless benevolence. I beg of Thee, wash my sins in the blasphemous blood of demons. Guide my blade, I am but Your tool, to be wielded as You see fit. I beg for Your grace, for tomorrow, and all days to come. Amen.’
She never heard the sound of Falkner’s teeth gnashing together.
 
And with that, she lay down and covered herself with the sheets, but kept a dagger at hand; one could never be too careful. The sound of raindrops assaulting the wooden roofing relentlessly, accompanied by the crackling of paper as pages were turned slowly lulled her into a very light sleep.

After a while, Falkner looked over at Celia, her form distorted by the sheets. She seemed to sleep peacefully, yet he noticed the distinct reflection of edged metal come from her every once in a while when she turned in her bed. His senses told him she’d armed herself, probably to prevent anyone from making unwanted approaches.

A sudden jolt went through his limp right arm, causing him to grasp it to keep it under control.
‘It’s time already, huh?’ he whispered to it, as if it had a life of its own. Maybe it did, Falkner couldn’t tell anymore. An uncomfortable buzz came from his right arm, like an animal, screaming to be fed. They were close, very close. Three of them, most likely ready to pounce some fool who thought he could brace the mist, or an ignorant girl that ran away from home for whatever silly reason she deemed more important than being ripped apart by claws and fangs. It mattered not; dinner was served, both for them and for him.

He slowly put down the Sancto, caring to not make noise and awaken the Crusader asleep in the bed. Before he opened the door to leave, he looked over at his sleeping guest.
‘You carry the graces of God,’ he whispered as he grinned, his canine teeth turned to fangs; ready for the hunt. ‘And I carry His damnations.’

She beckoned to the stool in front of the instrument. Its keys were made of the brightest of ivory, and the darkest of ebony. Everything else was covered in a beige marble. It was here I would play my song, it was here I would tell my story through the flourish of sound. As I traced my fingers across the small keys, I knew each would carry a tone of their own, each would play its part. I could feel her gaze over my shoulder as my fingers tensed, ready to play.