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Dravis - The Fallen Paladin

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IronCretin:
Hmmm, perhaps I do have too much free time. . . or enjoy writing. . . or a bit of both.

Reading back through it.  .  . it's not very good. . . pretty jumpy and not very stimulating *sigh* 

LoL, oh well.  Ummmm. . . well, i was keen to do a description. . . but perhaps it's best left to another day.

~The (Zombified) Cretin~

IronCretin:
An excerpt from the Archives of Brother Marius:

The descriptions of Dravis Forsythe have always been diverse, he seems to be one of those men that shows only what they want to show.  It's difficult to say exactly what he looks like, especially due to his long period of absence from the kingdom proper.  However, many sightings have occured on the outskirts of the kingdom, some as far in as The Severed Crossing Inn (which is well on the way to Stilton).  One particularly reliable encounter (due to the large amount of witnesses) occured at Senor Farmhen's Manor, in the Northern Hills of Aberdeen.  The entire family, several servents, and a dog, were present at the time of the sighting.  The collaborated stories suggest that a tall man, approximately 5'11", with horse in tow, approached the picnic.  He asked them for some food and water.  They obliged, giving him a cold shoulder of mutton, so that he would not linger.  They permitted him to fill his waterskins, after which he mounted his horse and left the way he came.  His hair was white, looking as soft as silk.  His beard was trimmed close to the skin, but was also white, giving him a gaunt, spectral appearance.  His eyes, apparently, were of the coldest blue, and his glance seemed to hold those that it touched, frozen in place (whether this statement is justifiably the cause of magic, or merely psychosomatic, is debatable).  His cheekbones were well pronounced, but his cheeks sunk in.  He did not smile, but his teeth were quite white.  His eyes were well-set (not deeply set, though) and his nose was regal.  His armor was obviously polished often, and with care.  However, the plates were almost bronzed, as if someone had reddened the steel of which they had undoubtedly been made (the father, Senor Farmhen, however, knew best, and he suggested that the armor was made of Dwarven Admantium, which has been known to absorb colours if they are rubbed into it with polish.  He and I came to the conclusion that the stranger had been polishing his armor with blood.).  His armor was a suit of full plate, but his ornate helmet hung from his horse.  He had two scabbards, one upon his back, which held a large and exquisitely made bastard sword, adorned with many runes (which the father, who served alongside Lieutenant Jordan, during the Kilshkite Battle, identified), the other scabbard at his side, which held a long, ornately carved, but servicable, dagger.  However, one must remember that it has been many years since Dravis was last sighted.  Indeed, it seems strange that a man who should be 32 should have the bleached hair of an old man.  Yet, the witnesses all said that his eyes were those of a man in his mid-twenties, and burned with the ferocity of a wintersun.  In fact, I was ready to dismiss this account until they mentioned the horse.  Clad in heavy war mail, the same reddened colour of the rider's armour, the horse was black as coal.  However, the father of the family stated that this horse appeared to be of the Weshtale breed.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with this breed (and, undoubtably, many are), it is the horses which the Death Shrikes themselves rode, and only the Death Shrikes.  Many legends surround this breed of horses, but only one lineage is known in the kingdom, and its origin, although shrouded, seems to come from across the Great Sea of Durage.  Dravis is still alive, and the sightings of a similar character, with a similar horse, although rare, seem to be encroaching further into the kingdom.  I believe that the coming of Dravis is nigh. 

Luth:
After deciding I have not so much time to spare, I ask...

Please, Cretin, can you summirize the more important facts for the comprehension of your character in the story?  :whistle:

IronCretin:
Paladin - Fell - Wears armor - Has Horse - Kills Things - ummm. . . just think of pretty much any paladin. . . except kinda chaotic neutral.  It doesn't really matter, no one else has any complicated descriptions, I just think it adds more to the character to develop a back story.  It allows motivations as a precursor to the story, but these motivations should come across in the story proper.  Personally, though I wouldn't introduce a character into a story without considering who he is, where he came from, what he seeks in life. . . but that's just me.  If you don't want to read the stuff I wrote, it really doesn't matter.  As I said, all this (should) come out in the story, in some form or another. . . Nothing I've written is really pertinent to anything.  .  .

~The (Nonchalant) Cretin~

IronCretin:
An excerpt from the Journal of Tharius, A Death Shrike in Service of the Queen.  Written before the incident at Heaven's Gate.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Month of the Fifth Rising.
~~~~~~~~~~~The third day.

We rode hard today, my back aches, and my hand is chaffed from the reigns.  My entry sh'an't be long, but I must relay what has transpired, for I have been lacking in my entries as of late.  I have been selected by the Queen to journey with Dravis.  Long trip ahead.  We ride to the castle of Duke Hirakde, in the highlands.  Strange goings-ons.  Very hush, hush.  Unpaid taxes, or some such nonsense.  My eyelids droop, 'tis a sign I should stop for today and rest.

The seventh.

We have arrived at the castle.  No one at gate.  Had to force entry.  Dravis is wary.  I get a cold chill from him, like he's more than what he seems.  But he is loyal to the Queen, his allegiance may not be questioned.  The throne room was empty.  We rest in the barracks.  Entire castle is empty.  Tables are set, clothes left mid-washing.  What has happened??

The ninth day.

We have found no signs of any one.  Searched the entire village, even the farms outside the castle.  Tomorrow we shall search the grasslands.  I have my reservations.  The wild grass grows tall, well over Dravis' head, and he is a tall man.  It is razor sharp, grains of silica line their edges.  Dravis is confident that our armor shall protect us.  Horses must be left in castle.  We expect the worse, a massacre in the grasslands.  No other explanation plausible.

The 10th.

How can I describe what has happened?  We have found the villagers, and the Duke himself.  They are living in the grasslands.  Cuts cover their bodies, head to toe.  Oozing pus and plasma.  I thought them necrotic consequences, before they spoke.  Strange, though.  They are kind, hospitable.  Seem to think their presence in the grasslands is natural.  They are eating raw toads, and bugs.  Sleeping on the matted grass.  Their bodies are infested with ticks and lice.  Sickening to me.  Refuse to leave.  They listen, constantly listen.  I can tell Dravis is on edge, as am I.  We can do little more than exchange glances, at the moment.  They say they're waiting.  I know not for what.

Day Twelve.

Dravis suggested one of us should ride back and inform the Queen of the events.  I am hesitant.  Neither wishes to abandon the other.  We have decided to remain together and wait.

Day Eighteen.

We are still waiting.  I saw something today under the arm of a peasent.  It is the first time I have seen one without his torso covered.  They all wear long shirts.  His underarm was melted, almost rotted.  Black, like festering wounds of a battle.  I asked him about, he said he saw nothing wrong with his body.  I pressed him and he grew agitated.  I dropped the topic.  Dravis and I shall talk later.

19.

Dravis is gone.  I know not where.  They won't let me leave to search for him.  Their peaceful mannerisms have been abandoned.  They have my sword.

24. 

I had to kill one of the villagers.  We were alone.  I convinced them that I had an affliction of the bowels, went to search for medicinal herbs out on the outskirts of the grassland.  Two men accompanied me, fully armed.  I bent down to pick an herb, and bolted.  My armor prevented a speedy escape, but they were caught off guard.  One caught up to me, just before he reached me I spun and leapt at him.  Tackled him to the ground and beat his head against it.  Didn't stop until blood ran from him.  The other man looked at me in spite and, what I took to be, fear.  He ran from me.  I sat on the damaged man.  He kept writhing for almost an hour.  At first I just kept pounding his skull, but it did nothing to stop it.  Eventually I stood and just watched.  It sickened me, but I couldn't stop.  Finally, he stopped moving and I took his sword.  I vomited.  I am ashamed to admit it, but it is so.  I removed his shirt.  The whole torso was red and oozing.  I threw-up again, I could not stop it.

Early morning, the twenty-fifth.

I hear chanting in the grasslands.  No lights, they never had a fire.  I can't sleep with the chanting going.  No drums, no instruments, only a mournful chant.  I do not know what language it is in.  My bones are chilled, despite the warm night. No sign of Dravis since he disappeared.  I cannot find my horse in the castle, and Dravis' is gone as well.  I considered walking, but the nearest inn is across the border, below the highlands, it would take me many days, and I am weakened.  I know not what has caused the disfigurement of the villagers, I fear all food and water.  My canteen was long emptied, I have drunk from pools of dew and puddles, and any other sources of water I can find.  I debated taking the fight to them.  I am fearful.  Horribly fearful.

I have lost track of the day it is.  The chanting is in the day now, as well.  I feel it in my bones, their voices, reverberating in my chest.  My heart feels constrained, and my breathing is weak.  I tried walking from this accursed place, but I found myself in the grasslands.  No matter which way I head, I head into the grasslands.  They're drawing me there.  Whatever's going to happen, I must be there, I must witness it.  I am the chronicle, of this I am convinced.  Dravis, where are you?  Lend me your strength.  I cry out your name until my voice is rasp, but you respond Not!  My friend, my ally, my comrade. 

There is a final entry, however it is smeared with pus and mud.  Slivers of bone and giblets stick to the page. 

While his journal contains little more, the results of Tharius' quest were documented, for Dravis had gone to retrieve aid from the rest of the Shrikes.  He returned to witness what transpired.  His disregard for Tharius was questioned many times, and is presented in the records of his trial, as is his account of the tale. 

(In other words, I'll continue this at a later time, told as an account, dictated by Dravis)

~The (Gee-Willickers Batman!) Cretin~

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