The Devious Crusader Update

It was Helmsday, the Day of Memories committed to the brave bygones. It was customary on Helmsday for heroes to take up arms and perform rituals honoring their heritage, celebrating their proud past and expressing their great gratitude for the lives their ancestors had led. No distance or decree could forbid the celebrations of Helmsday; many kingdoms had tried to curb its influence, but no amount of willpower can go against the tremendous tide of heroic gusto.

It was Helmsday, and all of Inhiemem was gathered at the King's court to recall tales of gallantry from the many Slime Knights who had served Illireen in his ancient lifespan. As many young slimefolk gathered about the elegant chambers, the guards kept watch, for they knew that the scourge of the backwoods was lurking around the castle, looking for the opportune time to make his entrance and disrupt the event with his usual heresy.

Sallaber, he was called. The Bastard son of a traveling blacksmith and a huntress, who died not too long after his birth. He grew up a scavenger, and was nothing more, as his behavior entailed. Regardless of his apparent dishonor, he somehow managed to make his way into the ranks of the Black Crusaders. Within a few years, he had managed to ascend to the rank of Knight-Captain before the Black Knighthood began to fall apart from underneath him. He tried desperately to keep the order together, to maintain the order's strength, but poor organization and even poorer leadership led to the Black Crusaders' ultimate downfall.

Regardless of how tragic his past, there was nothing that could justify how this bandit acted, and all the guard in Inhiemem knew this. Why else would Sallaber be exiled, in a land of such order?

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Many Years Ago...

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It was Helmsday, the Day of Action, committed to the Brave Knights of the Crusade. It was customary on Helmsday for the White and Black Crusaders to do glorious battle, to relieve tensions that had built up over many months of cold resentment. Many members of the Crusaders did not believe in the tradition, but the more proud and convinced members held to its practices. The hierarchy of the Crusaders influenced the tradition in interest of morale, however, and leaders oversaw many celebrations before and after battles.

It was Helmsday, and Sallaber was sitting, bleeding from his eviscerated stomach in a gulch on the Great Barrows. No more than an hour ago, a tremendous blow from a battleaxe had sent him screaming into the ditch, blood and dust spreading everywhere. With the crack of a rib and a hard landing, Sallaber hit the bottom of the gulch and keeled over, seemingly dead. His enemy, a tremendous Centaur, snorted, then returned to the primary path of battle, where many more were being struck down in injury or death. The Black Knight grabbed at his now damp wound, which had healed to a slight degree.

For three more hours did the battle rage along the dusty canyon road that Sallaber had been knocked from. One or two times, an enemy had caught Sallaber's eye and approached him, but both times had some Black Crusaders dispatched the attackers. Lurching out of the position that Sallaber had been knocked into hours before, broken bones that had settled in Sallaber's body began to squelch about inside his torso. Summoning tremendous strength, Sallaber crawled from the ditch and onto the battle torn path, now fading with the setting sun.

Wounds leaking and bones shattered, Sallaber dragged his broken body from the canyon into a nearby forest and found a stream, which he used to clean his wounds. Though difficult from his broken arm and painful from his lacerations, at least now there was one less threat to Sallaber's life to deal with. Sighing with relief, then moaning in agony, Sallaber laid himself out accross the forest floor. The copse he was in was nice enough that nobody would blame him for falling asleep under the stars, and the day had been rough. He could seek help in the morning, when he was sure some of his allies would regroup near where he was. After all, the battle seemed to be in the Black Crusaders' favor when he had fallen, and these woods were familiar territory.

Sallaber dreamed of many things that night, but did not die. His wounds did not bleed too severely, nor did his pain become too great. Though broken and bloodied, he was not beaten. Among his dreams were the maidens of Sarengar, and his allies in battle. What were they doing, now that he was gone? Did they think he was dead? Surely not, nobody would believe that the next in line for Black High Captain would fall in battle. Mighty as he was, though, Sallaber also dreamt that night of his vulnerabilities. He thought of what weaknesses he had, and wished for greater strength.

The next morning, Sallaber awoke to a strange sensation. His pack was laid about, and some of his armor was stripped from him. *A thief?,* he wondered, *Now?.* Gripping for his blade, Sallaber readied to strike at whomever was preparing to steal the contents of his rucksack. Rapidly getting to his feet with an unhealthy crunch, Sallaber readied his sword, only to see a young dryad girl, playing carelessly with his canteen in the nearby stream.

The sudden movement alarmed the girl, causing her to stand up slightly. Sallaber was confused, but more importantly, in pain. Many of his wounds had opened up, and his broken bones had been displaced. Grunting in pain, Sallaber collapsed backwards, and grabbed his torso. The Dryad girl began to flee for a moment, but upon waiting for a second, looked at the helpless man that laid before her. There was a brief moment of consideration that occurred before the dryad girl made her decision to help the wounded man. Approaching Sallaber, the dryad girl began secreting some pollens from her flowering buds.

"Get your damned tendrils away from me, houseplant!" exclaimed Sallaber, as the Dryad approached him. She did not appear to understand Commonspeak, as she continued towards Sallaber after a brief moment of reprise. She first offered him the pollen mixture, bearing it in her hands, putting it towards Sallaber's mouth. He refused it by using what little strength he had to push her hand away, to little avail, as the pollen continued towards Sallaber.

She poured some of the mixture in Sallaber's mouth. Almost immediately, Sallaber reacted by coughing up most of the pollen, which spread in a mist over the damp forest floor. "What is this, poison?!" yelled Sallaber, wiping his mouth. He got up on one arm, before he noticed, that the cut that was on his mouth had become mostly scar tissue, and was no longer bleeding.

This girl was, by human standards, no older than twenty. Here she was, without any prompt from any leader or codex, administering relief to somebody that she did not owe service or payment to. All Sallaber's life, he had lived by the standards of his parents, who lived by their trades, and the Black Crusaders' Codex, which dictated that all glory and honor earned by the knight is owed to the Accord. Never had he seen anyone so selfless, so worth existence as that morning.

He was not about to admit it, though. Besides, what sense would admitting it make to somebody who does not understand your language? Regardless, he allowed her to apply the pollen afterwards, stripping him of all his heavy plates and affixing his wounds with leather bandages cut from his under-armor. The process took about thirty minutes, and he was left thoroughly exhausted, if no longer heavily wounded, after the event. While Sallaber sat in relative silence eating the remainder of his rations, the Dryad danced about the streamlet, embracing the sounds and going-ons of nature. Such a beautiful creation was this.

Around midmorning, after a very brief nap, Sallaber had regained a great deal of his strength, giving him the ability to walk. He was very slow at first, upset at the pains in his arm as he trodded about. Before noon, however, he was walking almost at his regular pace, and he joined the Dryad as she walked about the forest. At about twelve thirty, the two came across a few bushes in their way. Upon seeing them, the Dryad became excited and approached the bushes. She grabbed some fruit from the bushes and picked them from the bushes, tossing one gently to Sallaber. She looked at him eagerly, as he held the fruit parallel to his chest.

Wincing, Sallaber bit into the fruit, expecting something foul; but alas, the fruit was not disgusting, but rather, appetizing, even delicious. Sallaber greedily devoured the fruit, eating it until only its core remained, after which he promptly discarded it. Wiping his face, Sallaber looked at the Dryad longingly like a child, hungry for more fruit. Sallaber, at that moment, noticed how needy he looked. Before he could notice and change his disposition, the Dryad picked another fruit and gave it to him. He smiled and blushed as he ate the succulent fruit.

The rest of the day was spent in splendor, walking about the forest and drinking water which they gathered from the stream. This life was like nothing that Sallaber had experienced before, devoid of restrictions and hatred. There was no greed or lust, no mindless violence or spite. Only peace and understanding existed here, and the warpath could wait. This was truly home, and truly eutopia.

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Sallaber and the Dryad, who Sallaber felt no need to name, spent the next week or so in pure delight, devoid of society's interfering hands or any corrupt agendas. Sallaber's bones were healing quite well on their own ( which to this day he attributes to the Dryad's healing flowers, despite evidence against this claim ), and Sallaber's wounds had completely healed, from the miracle pollen. Sallaber figured that it was time that he brought the dryad with him, back to his home, back to the Forests outside of Inhiemem. There, he could live the rest of his life in splendor as a retired Black Knight, nobody knowing about or interrupting his time with his flowered princess.

Although she originally did not understand, then resisted the suggestion, Sallaber was eventually able to convince the Dryad girl to follow him from the copse. He led her out from the forest, along the canyon road, and across the Pao Prarie. The two went through plains and fountain, moor and mountain to reach the place where Sallaber called home. She traveled happily and graciously in the Knight's protection.

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He woke up to the shuffling inside the tent he had recently bought. "Not now, please. I'm trying to sleep..." he remarked, his voice harsh from tiredness. Shortly after, he remembered that the Dryad could not understand him. He opened his eyes, only to see that the girl was nowhere to be seen near the tent. Alarmed, Sallaber grabbed his blade from outside the tent and rapidly donned his armor. After making his preparations and grabbing some food in case this would be a quest to find and rescue his princess, he rushed outside the tent, into the twilight grasslands.

He called out three times, but there was no response. He was stricken with grief. What would happen to the life that he had been promised, the princess, and the long prosperous time after war? Where was his haven? Where were the gods, where was fortune?

Sallaber ran his gauntlet-donned hand through his hair, as he ran across the twilight fields. He approached a tree as he saw multiple figures in the distance, over the next hill. The twilight sky had many clouds, unlike the cloudless day before it. Sallaber approached the figures, then cried out, trying to call to his lost love.

When he heard her response, his pace almost doubled, and he grabbed his blade from its scabbard. Rushing, blade in one hand and shield in the other, Sallaber charged to get to the Dryad Girl. Only when he was too far in, did Sallaber realize that the figures surrounding his lost love were Scarecrows, all wielding scythes, all coated in blood, all looking, with lifeless eyes, at Sallaber.

They were upon him within moments. They sat, cutting him apart, reopening wounds that had caused him such pain before. *This is my death,* he thought, as he laid, restrained by the wickerkin, being cut apart in the grassy fields before dawn. It was worth it. As long as she survived, even any longer than him, then there was justice in this world. Struggling in an attempt to distract those who were restraining the girl, he came to terms with his death.

But they continued to gather around the girl. Filled with suspicion, then immediate rage, Sallaber gained a resurgence of strength, then grabbed for his blade, through the torrent of scythes. Off went his flesh, being torn off so rapidly that he was sure he would bleed to death within instants, but it was all worth it, if he could get them away from her. But alas, he couldn't. They gathered, and they picked at her.

"No, you damned fiends! Away from her! Away!" Sallaber yelled, as blood pooled in his mouth and a scythe blade hacked into his cheek. Gaining a sudden boost of strength, Sallaber tore his sword from underneath the Scarecrows, and hacked through five of them. Their innards sprayed out over the night fields. He slashed wildly, hoping to kill those between him and the Dryad.

It was three minutes before Sallaber made a path. He charged forwards, knocking the Scarecrows over and blowing a path to his love. He grabbed her, and ran outside the fray. Placing her down, he noticed her deep wounds. Behind him, the Scarecrows took a moment to discern his position, then approached him. Stabbing his sword into the ground, Sallaber held his love in his arms.

"It was worth everything, the pain, the weakness, to know you. If only... If only I could have had more time, if only we could have made it... if only... " Sallaber began to bawl, wiping tears from his bloodied face. The girl hushed him with a mangled branch. She drew his face close to hers, and whispered, " I love you ", with her last breath.

Instilled with rage and soaked in the blood of his fallen princess, Sallaber summoned unknown might within him and struck a blow to the earth, sending a shockwave out that rendered his enemies stunned. "For what reason? For satisfaction? For greed? Her life was worth mine tenfold, no-- a thousandfold, and you have taken hers, not mine? Injustice! Bitter, Spiteful, and Unacceptable Injustice!" screamed Sallaber, as he charged at the Scarecrows.

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Sallaber carried her with him from that day onwards. At dawn he took a flower that had sprung from her corpse and placed it in his armor, then journeyed to the place where they had met and buried her there. He used his blade to carve her name on the inside of a helmet he scavenged from a dead ally near where he had been wounded, giving her a name, one to look at every time he fought, reminding him of his purpose. He returned home, broken from both the land's war and his own, and experienced the fall of the Black Knights in full force.

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...Intermission...

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Inhiemem was a much brighter land at the time. There was not a dark conspiracy that sought to sway the king to dark magic, nor were their murderers and rebellions in the land. The Slime Knights existed at the time. Even in limited numbers, the Knights brought great law and order to the land -- something that the guardship cannot even boast. When Sallaber returned, grieving and downtrodden, he was briefly considered as a Slime Knight, but analysis of his physical condition proved him to be unsuitable. This did not anger Sallaber, as he understood the verdict.

What did anger the wayward Black Crusader, however, was how the Slime Knights were never given their due respect. He had seen the downfall of his own order, in all their righteousness, and did not want to see another order fall in the name of scrutiny. One fateful night, he talked with some of the Slime Knights' leaders, in hopes of convincing them that they needed to demand greater respect in public and reform their order as a nondefensive, militant group.

Unfortunately, many of those he talked to were those who were most eager to transition the Slime Knights into the Town Guard. Yet more unfortunately, Sallaber did not know that the Slime Knight higher-ups were secretly adopting the dark magics of the land. The knights informed the king of Sallaber's treasonous attempts to disrupt the formation of the town guard, and the king soon announced Sallaber's banishment.

There were very few who sympathized with Sallaber. He had not had the chance to make many friends in the town since he came back from war, and there was virtually nobody that he had befriended before the war. All of his friends from war were dead or gone. Alone and angry, Sallaber was thrown struggling from the town by a band of the jovial newly formed guard. Tried as he did over the next few days, he could not even approach the town, one time even being struck by an arrow in the shoulder.

He vowed from that day onwards that he would fight the forces of this dark magic wherever it took form, because it was what had taken from him his town, his life, and most importantly, his love. With a heart of iron and flesh of shale, Sallaber wanders the lands near Inhiemem in search of a party of heroes capable of fighting alongside him in the name of light...