Tell Me About Your Oldest Knights!

[mj6373]

Just as a fun goofy question to get people talking about their campaigns, who are the oldest/longest-lived PKs you've had? And how badass were they? Do you think the accrual of experience over time overshot the loss to their Attributes compared to their youthful counterparts, or vice versa (or was it about equal)? You can mention NPKs as well if you had an unexpected bout of luck keep a recurring one alive/relevant much longer than expected, but it's sort of a given that the major Round Table Knights from the source material have impossibly inflated skills and attributes at either end of the aging curve, so I'm mostly interested in unexpected success for characters under the normal rules, and what it looks like.

 

For my one complete run of the GPC, the first generation age of death distribution was pretty lopsided - two of the PKs had died before the Anarchy had even started, not yet 30, while the other two survived til the start and end of the Conquest Period respectively. That last guy was 63, and lemme tell ya, attribute decay was catching up to him pretty hard - his skill was tremendous, but he hadn't been particularly big or strong to begin with and had withered a fair bit, so he was dependent especially on his high Sword (he had the Family Sword from BoK&L, which pushed him into the 30s) to get lots of crits and avoid hits due to how low his damage output and Knockdown threshold were compared to knightly opponents. (Technically he "lived" much longer than 63, but only because he died at the Grail Castle and accepted the resurrection deal, he was still out of the campaign bar a touching reunion with his foster daughter at the conclusion of the Grail Quest.)

 

And don't worry about those players whose first characters died super early, because their heirs turned out to be even more extreme successes in lengthy living. They were both just about Arthur's age, with fathers who died within a year or less of conceiving them, but who got a healthy boost to their circumstances from the nature of those conceptions and deaths.

 

One of them had a half-Faerie daughter and earned quite the posthumous promotion by saving Madoc and killing Gorlois before dying of his injuries, so said daughter had high Attributes (especially CON), passive Glory, and didn't have to start making Aging rolls til nearly the Tournament Period, so she ended up living long enough to be the one to complete the Grail Quest at 66 years old. Between solid Attributes across the board, rareness of major wounds, raking in tons of Glory, and good aging luck, she hadn't needed to spend extra resources keeping her Attributes reasonable yet, so she could instead achieve stupid high pinnacles of skill, more or less only surpassed by Lancelot by the end of her run.

 

The other one had cucked and then killed Octa (and was rewarded for it by being invited to a certain elevated dining position), and the son he had with Octa's wife inherited the Marvelous Family Axe (+8 Protection), plus got the most absurd string of luck with the Attribute rolls in Entourage's squire advancement rules, putting him +4 SIZ and +3 STR over what he'd have had if generated at adulthood. So he had ultra beefy Attributes, did tons of damage to take enemies out quickly, and rarely took damage from anything less than a crit from a knight-tier foe, which, combined with his player judiciously spending several pre-35 Winter phases on Attribute-raising and many more Glory bonuses on it post-35, kept him going all the way to Camlann, where he finally died at a ripe 74 years old. Tough bastard didn't go down without a fight even then, either; I was a little worried he'd end up being the final survivor, but the dice didn't quite come up septuagenarian. Spending all his Glory preserving his Attributes did mean his combat skills never got as high as the other two characters mentioned, though, but he still had Axe in the mid-upper 20s.

[Morien]

43 minutes ago, mj6373 said:

Just as a fun goofy question to get people talking about their campaigns, who are the oldest/longest-lived PKs you've had?

Most of our PKs die in the saddle, as it were, and seldom live past their 40s, as that is when they have enough Glory to catch everyone's attention As The Great Hero Who Really Ought to Be Doing Something About This Big Darn Dragon Over Yonder. Usually ending in either more Glory and even more high-risk quests, or, well, retiring from life.

One dragon-slayer decided that she was getting too old for this stuff, and retired to her manor to rest on her laurels. Since the Player in question stated that he wished to skip to a younger character and let this one live a long retirement, as far as we know, she is still in her manor, sipping her beer and enjoying life with her husband, kids and no doubt grandkids. She is an NPK now, current age 46, but we have not tracked her for some years so who knows how spry she still is?

Another PK got forcibly retired by losing to an opponent who took her as a prisoner. She is still a knight, but has been out of the circulation for a decade and a half, essentially a houseguest with a major noble. Granted, the relationship turned more amicable in a hurry, since he was a good guy, just one who had rather harsh rules for any challengers who lost (you come for the King, you better not miss). We have been updating her from time to time and the age is starting to nibble at her, her damage has fallen to 4d6 (might be even lower now). We were joking that the loss of her SIZ and STR while her APP remained meant that she actually looked more conventionally pretty than she had during her whole career, and while the APP finally dropped a couple of points, she is still pretty spry and healthy at 58.

We have had one PK who actually died from old age at 57, after having been bedridden for a decade or so (low DEX). Naturally, the Player was playing the son. Still, not a bad age, for a veteran of the Anarchy and King Mark's Best Buddy.

There is one Player-Lady who is probably going to outlive everyone else, but she is cheating, as she fell in love with a Faerie Lord and vice versa, opting to forsake her mortal husband (and her child was half-Fae anyway, taking her along to meet her real dad). She is more Fae than human now, occasionally showing up to help her old friends, but with most of them dead, including her foster-son who returned to the real world, she is unlikely to show up again lest the PKs seek her out specifically or an adventure happens to take them to Overthere.

In a previous campaign, there was a Player-Lady born in 516, who lived all the way to the end of the campaign, retaining her APP 20+ to the very end despite the GM pulling some shenanigans (I admit to it). She was rumored to be half-fae (and pretty much confirmed by the Fae they met), but this brought her no system benefit. Still, the Player proceeded to roll over a decade worth of 'no attribute loss' from the Aging table from 35 onwards. So, the GM being a bastard, the events conspired and she traded her unaging/long life to Morgan Le Fay in return for the safe return of her lover and liege lord, Earl Agravaine. The game effect was that she would always potentially lose at least one extra stat each year, but wouldn't you know, she continued rolling 6's in the attribute loss table from time to time, too, and used her Glory Bonus Points for the rest as needed. Thanks to her age, she went from 'annoying little sister' to the (Honorary) Aunt (or even Great-Aunt) of most of the PKs in the party, and the Countess-in-all-but-name in Salisbury, and the feud between her and Guenever brought about the fall of the Round Table. After Camlann, she sided with Mordred's sons (Good Orkney Boys) against Constantine the Lying Usurper, but alas, she was captured in the final battle and burned as a witch by the vindictive Constantine, when she refused to bend the knee to him and publicly lie that Arthur had named him as the heir (he hadn't, in our campaign)... Her children with Agravaine survived, though, marrying into the noble families of Britain, mainly in the North out of Constantine's reach.

 

Edited July 14, 2023 by Morien

[Whiteknight808]

I wanted to share my PK Knight Sir Amren ap Alefric's swan song (he was only 22 but his father Aelfric a Christian Saxon who was one of the Saxon children given the King Arthur as a hostage was about 45 when he died with over 25,000 glory). Aelfric had completed the Heartblade quest and Amren had inherited the blade along with of a Faerie charger called Giath from his Aunt Dame Brisen. I need to let you know that we had played through the GPC using canon NPCs so the second time around the GM recast our PCs as the iconic Knights of the Table Round. Lancelot was recast as my 3rd generation character Amren who was the champion who wielded the heart blade and the amour of Queen Guenivere. He has 2 trusted friends in Sir Rholyn (a PK) and Sir Arianwen (an NPC lady knight and Rholyn's wife).

 

The Quest

 

Sir Amren began his quest with high hopes.  Despite the dangers he knew he was facing, he was well outfitted, zealously so.  He had spare horses, medical equipment, food, hard rations, light (yet sturdy) travel gear.  Coupled with his skill at arms, his arms & armour, a great horse and his own willpower, he was ready to face anything.

 

How little he knew.

 

The horrors of the Wasteland were many and varied.  After the first few months, his supplies had dwindled - charity and thievery taking their toll.  He was cautious that first year, keeping, when by all Christian rights, he should have been sharing - but he saw the desperate straights the people of the North had fallen to, he lived those hardships himself.  As time passed, his innate generosity of spirit had moved him beyond his initial churlishness - and it had cost him.  He was able to fight off the bands of men who thought him weak for his selflessness, though the wounds that he took from that such encounters often turned, leaving him feverish and weak.  If not for Giath defending his unconscious body, his throat would have been slit in that first year.  Lessons taught by Dame Blevine - healing herbs and the art of wound tending, were re-learned by the knight by the harsh teacher of pain and suffering.  Even though he could not dress the worst of his injuries, he could do enough to help survive.

 

Through it all, he kept Faith.  He was fair in his dealings, kept strong with his knightly vows and never refused a challenge.  His dire straights - malnutrition, pain, fatigue, despair - re-forged his Love for the Creator.  Without God, he was nothing - so he gave over his will to the Saviour.  He slept where he could, accepted charity offered, not too proud to rest his head in a dirt bower, grateful for the chance at safe rest.  When the same folk who protected him, stole from him - taking supplies and horses - he forgave them.  He knew they were desperate and he knew that those Worldly goods could help them greatly.  He was merciful in his dealings - all but once.

 

A fellow knight, once proud and true, had joined him.  Sir Rufus, a knight of Logres.  Amren had trusted him - right until the moment he had stolen his last horse.  Amren did not count Giath as chattel, he was a companion.  His last horse was a simple nag, once fine, now broken and barely worth the title.  Giath has tried to stop the thieving knight, only to recieve a vicious blow to the neck, one that nearly killed him.  Amren pursued Rufus, enraged that the knight could have struck his only friend in this desolate waste.  He found the treacherous knight quickly, limping back towards him, terror writ across his features, wounded.  Pursued by the band of hungry Picts that had slain his stolen horse, Rufus begged for a clean death, knowing that those that trailed would not give it.  Armen simply turned and left, leaving him to their mercies, his terrified, then agonised cries still echoing in the knight’s ears, an echo that persists to this day.

 

Amren suffered.

 

He grew haggard and old quickly, lines drawn in his once smooth features, premature grey streaking his once vibrant hair.  Old, bad wounds turned into stiff movements, slowing his usual grace.  He grew thin and gaunt, as did Giath along with him.  Food was scarce for them both, each of them settling for maggoty meat or mouldy oats, eating whatever they could, shy of cannibalism.  He ate every piece of the game he could find - flesh, skin and organs.  He consumed raw vegetables, even grass.  Hunger was a constant companion.

 

Amren travelled.  Unsure of any location of the Grail, he quested.  He fought knights depraved and degraded by their experiences.  Knights of the North, made harsh and cruel by the years of Blight, pursued him as a masterless warrior, forcing him to fight to the death or be executed as a common bandit.  He rode deeper into the wilderness, until confronted by a deep gorge, stretching as far as the eye could see.  At first he tried to ride around it, but the gorge continued, impossibly long.  Reluctantly, seeing no recourse, he guided Giath into the crevice.

 

Getting into the gorge was easy, getting out all the more difficult.  Numerous trails leading up the other side led to nowhere, the lip of the crevice tantalisingly close.  Time and again, he was forced back to the floor of the gorge, until only sheer determination kept him trying to reach the top.

 

After many days of incessant travel, the gorge itself seeming to sap his will, Amren finally prevailed.  Through sheer determination, he pulled himself and Giath through the torn rocks, the sucking mud, slippery and endless trails to the top of the crevice.  At the top, a cave stood, inviting.  Wearily, he set up camp within it.

 

Later that evening, the glint of gold caught his eye.  Gold!  Within lay a bandit’s treasure trove.  The gilded ransom of a thousand knights, the wealth of the world, all at his fingertips.  With this he could purchase anything his heart desired, be rich beyond his wildest dreams and give up this foolish Quest.

 

Ignoring the riches, like many other false wonders he had seen, Amren deliberately left the relative safety of the cave, journeying once more into the desolate waste.

 

The trail led higher, narrowing dangerously, to the point where it was a thin strip of ledge, jutting over a high cliff, the bottom of which could not be seen through the dark night.  Amren felt himself teetering on the edge.

 

The sheer ledge narrowed even further until there was barely room for himself and Giath, but Amren's convictions kept him from falling.  He paused, looking down and up, the sense of vertigo fading rapidly.  Squaring his shoulders, he continued until the path cleared to a broad plateau.

 

A sense of peace came across him those next few days.  Amren kept moving, not sure of his destination, but sure that he had to continue.  He even managed to trap a small rabbit, the meat a welcome change to a steady diet of watercress and tubers, Giath making do on the stunted grasses that grew on top of the hill.  Giath had long since given up on glaring at Armen reproachfully at having to consume fodder, rather than the oats he was used to.

 

On the third day the plateau become sparse and rocky again, a mirror of the dreaded Wasteland below.  Picking his way through rocky outcroppings, a hopeless sobbing pricked his awareness.  Cautious from previous ambushes, Sir Amren approached carefully.  Mounting up and threading his arm through the loopholes on his shield, he slowly nudged Giath forwards, reviewing the sight before him.

 

A thin girl curled up at the base of a skeletal tree, standing over her were two knights.  Male and female, green belts.  Arienwen and Rholyn!  Both looked gaunt and battered, Sir Rholyn's face pulled in a rictus of hate and anger.  Cael'Ruarch was drawn, Arienwen standing between him and the girl.  The girl lifted her battered and bloody face, Morgianna, obviously recently struck with mailed fist.  What had driven Rholyn to strike his niece, to bare blade in anger so?  At the sound of horse and tack, both knights turned their attention to Sir Amren, Arienwen drawing her blade.  Both had closed features, veterans of the Wasteland, fully expecting conflict.  Those looks changed, stark relief on Arienwen's face and astonishment on Rholyn's.  To Amren's dismay, Rholyn's face was taut with scar tissue, fully one eye and one ear missing.

 

"God's Blood, Amren!  You're a sight for sore eyes", Rholyn let the oath out explosively, not even aware of the pained wince across Amren's features at the blasphemy.

 

The mounted knight approached, looking down at the sobbing girl.

 

"By all that's holy, Sir Knights.  Why do you treat your kinswoman so?"

 

His attention returning to the girl, Rholyn snarled, "That she-witch did this", he gestured to his face, "Watched while her paramour took my eye and ear.  Laughed whilst he did it, urged him on.  Now, she needs to die."

 

Fresh wails tore from the girl, wrenching at Amren. 

 

"P..please", she begged, "I did not m..mean for that to happen, I could not help it.  Please, please...I..I can help.  I can make amends.  I...I know the way down, but please, please forgive me."

 

Her heartfelt sobs tore at his heart, he did not doubt she was sincere.  He looked to Arienwen, the look of simmering anger in her eyes, the nod she returned, confirming her husband's words.

 

Two Round Table knights accused the girl of perfidy.  She did nothing to deny the injury, in fact she begged for mercy, acknowledging the crime.

 

"We are the injured party Sir Amren, we cannot think clearly on this.", Arienwen said, "You decide.  Should she perish by my husband's blade, or been forgiven?"

 

All three stared at him.  The girl trembling, Arienwen exhausted from keeping her husband from slaughter, Rholyn simmering with hatred.

 

"She is a kinswoman.  She is a noblewoman.  Both your Oath to Arthur and your Blood prevent you from offering her harm.  Trust me, my uncle, my brother knight, you do not want this blood on your hands."

 

Rholyn's eye blazed with fury and for a moment, Amren thought he would strike him down.  With a sulfurous oath, the furious knight flung the cursed sword from him and turned away, chest heaving as if he had just fought a mighty battle.  Perhaps he had.

 

"I forgive you, Morgianna."

 

The words were hoarse, barely above a whisper, but heard nonetheless.  Arienwen briefly closed her eyes in relief.  Despite the horror Morgianna had wrought upon her beloved, she did want to see his blade sullied with that blood.  Fresh sobs caught in the girl's throat.  Amren turned to her and lifted her gently to her feet.

 

"Woman, you have done your Uncle ill.  You have harmed your Family.  Someday, there will be a reckoning.  But as your Uncle has forgiven you, I will not judge your actions.  Show us now this boon.  If you can aid our sorely pressed Kingdom, perhaps the Saviour may forgive you as well."

 

Morgianna wiped at the blood and tears upon her face and led them to a rockfall.  She pointed down the natural stairwell, cunningly hidden from searching eyes.  She stiffened at the hiss of metal upon leather, only to see her uncle sheathing Cael'Ruarch, the grim look in his eye softened somewhat by the familial love he still held for her.

 

All three knights moved to the edge of the precipice, looking down the pathway.  Amren turned to thank Morgianna, only to find her gone.  The trio shared a long, silent glance, then they resolutely made their way down the narrow crevice.  None spoke, each lost in their thoughts, pondering the trials they had faced and those that loomed before them.

 

The path flattened and broadened, still only allowing them single file, but with more space either side of their stride.  Armen pulled to a stop as he realised the track ahead was blocked.  An old, wizened crone stood athwart it, preventing passage.  He approached cautiously, as did Arienwen and Rholyn.  Each was not foolish enough to believe this a mere old woman, stranded alone in the wilderness.  Amren, himself, suspected she was a Crone, a Hag of the Unseelie court.

 

"Stop.", oddly, her voice was melodious, the sweet sound horribly incongruous issuing from the hags lips.  "You may not pass, until you pay my Toll."

 

Amren stepped forward, "What may your Toll be, my Lady?"

 

The courtesy was not ill-spent, the wizened creature preened and nodded, appreciating the comely words.  Amren was well versed in Faerie Lore, he knew that courtesy was the paramount virtue both Courts held dear.

 

"Truth, you will tell me a Truth.  You must answer without prejudice or forethought.  Do you agree to my terms?"

 

The knight nodded and stepped forward.  "I agree to your terms.  Ask your question."

 

The old woman leered at him and he felt a sudden chill, "Why did you abandon your Lover, in favour of your King?"

 

"Because I am not worthy."

 

Silence greeted his words.  Astonishment from his fellow knights, the crone peering at him almost lasviciously, enjoying the moment.

 

"I do this for them both, my King and Queen, my Lover.  She deserves better, she deserves the man who would surrender all for her, even his love."

 

Amren kept his gaze on the hag, "I am not that man."

 

The warty horror let loose a musical laugh, a throaty contralto, sending a shudder through him.

 

"You speak Truth.  It is delicious."

 

She turned her foul gaze to Arienwen.  She stepped forward, chin up.

 

"Would you rather be a knight, or a mother?"

 

Arienwen paled, casting her gaze down as if struck.  Resolutely, she lifted her eyes to meet the crone's.  "A mother.  Knighthood has given me a husband I adore, but I would rather give him sons and daughters he could cherish."

 

Tears slid down her cheeks at the shameful admission.  The hag seemed to savour the grief torn from the proud knight.  Rholyn glared at the creature, briefly embracing Arienwen before gently urging her aside.

 

"Ask your question and be done with it, witch."  His tone was deliberately scornful, not out of ignorance, but courage.  He knew the dangers of taunting the Fae Courts, but such dangers paled in comparison to the heartwrenching pain he would spare his beloved.  The crone scowled.  "Oh, a very special question it shall be too."

 

"Why have you never acknowledged that you are the reason your marriage is barren?"

 

Rholyn shuddered as though a sword had been shoved into his vitals.  The crone chortled with glee, watching his pain avidly.  When he answered, his voice was hoarse with remembered pain.

 

"It was my burden to bear.  None other.  I made the decisions that led to it.  I cherish my wife and my son, I will not have them carry it for me."

 

The crone purred in unholy pleasure.  Amren suddenly knew, how he did not know, but he knew that the answers were immaterial.  It was the torture, the pain of past wrongs and indecision that fed her twisted appetites.  His face hardened, "You have your payment, my Lady.  Let us pass."

 

"So it shall be, but I think your friends rudeness requires a further lesson."

 

With that, she stepped aside, letting them pass.  The knights pushed past cautiously, even Giath pulling at the reins in distaste as he barely made it by her on the narrow path.  As they continued down, the hag started screaming, a bansidhe wail of grief and horror, released from a thousand answers to a thousand painful questions.  The sound tore at the knights, reached into the most atavistic memories of their ancestors.  Reached into the primal part of them that remembered why they should be afraid of the dark.

 

Reason threatened to bolt in favour of terror.  Terror would see the knights fling themselves from the edge of the path to escape the awful wails.

 

The cries did not have the intended effect.

 

All three knights simply continued walking.  Amren with tears standing in his eyes, a well of sympathy in his heart for the hundreds of pained souls that had fuelled those wails.  Rholyn with a murderous look in his eye, as if he'd turn back to slay the foul creature, perhaps he would have, if not for Arienwen.

 

Arienwen sobbed, hearing the lamentations of her unborn children in those tortuous peals.  Tears streamed down her face as she resolutely continued down the path.  She reached out for Rholyn, gripping his sword hand tightly, instinctively protecting her beloved from any reckless action on his part.  Together, the knights continued down the track, ignoring the bansidhe above.

 

The rocky pathway spilled out onto a grassy hill.  The verdant expanse of greenery was shocking after the denuded wastes the knights had previously traversed.  Coming to the top of the hill, the peace they felt from the land was abruptly and mercilessly torn away.

 

Below them, a castle stood under siege.  The still pristine silvery-white walls barely scratched by the horrendous weapons of war arrayed against it, the defenders returning a murderous rain of death from their own siege engines.  Unclean creatures invested the keep in works deployed around the base of the hill, upon which the edifice stood.  Goblins, fomori, giants and ogres, all commanded by the slim, beautiful fae of the Unseelie Court.  All around, villages and the town that had serviced the keep lay sacked and burning.  Victims too slow to flee to the safety of the keep had been impaled or hung for the amusement of their captors.  None were left living.

 

Instinctively, all three knights dropped to one knee, Amren pulling Giath down to his side to reduce their profile against the hilltop.  They surveyed the scene before them.  With speed of horse they might make the barbican of the keep, the only bastion of safety as far as the eye could see.  The only other choices were back up the path they had come, or seek the dubious safety of open ground.  Neither appealed to the knights.

 

The only problem - they only had one horse.

 

Rholyn and Arienwen shared a long glance, years of love and companionship conveyed in that one moment.  Rholyn turned to Amren.

 

"You'll have a better chance of getting through the works with a distraction."

 

Amren returned his gaze, understanding dawning in his eyes.

 

"No!  I will not abandon you to that fate.  Neither of you!", his voice was soft, yet determined.

 

Arienwen smiled softly, her gaze compassionate.  Rholyn simply looked grimly amused.

 

"Precedence.  Sir Knight, as a Knight of the Table Round, I remind you that it is your duty to succeed in this Quest.  Both Sir Arienwen and I have seen naught of any other knight, Round Table or no, this far.  Living, that is.  We have seen corpses.  Knights defiled instead of properly interred.  Others turned mad with grief and pain, still others who have surrendered to base desires.  Simply put, Sir Arienwen and I will not allow you to fail at this point."

 

"You will make your way to the keep.  Achieve this Quest.  Find the Holy Grail."

 

Amren held Rholyn's gaze, tears streaming down his face.  In the face of such bluntly and clearly worded orders, he could do naught but obey.  The knights withdrew down the hill to prepare.  Rholyn turned to Amren as both he and his wife tightened straps and checked weaponry.

 

"Wait until we are seen and the fighting ensues.  Then make for the keep at all speed.  Do not seek to aid us.  Your duty lies within those walls."

 

Amren nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.  After all that he had seen these last years, the forthright manner in which these two knights readily sacrificed everything they had, including each other, tore at him.  He saw the glances between them.  Such sacrifice made his devotion to the Queen a pale thing.  Could he do the same?  Would he and Guinever feel this for each other, in the same circumstances?

 

Rholyn briefly considered relinquishing Cael'Ruarch to Amren, then muttered something about whomever took it from his corpse had earned it.  Arienwen laughed at his mutter, a devoted, carefree laugh as she ran her fingers through his hair, pulling him down for a last kiss.  The two knights buckled on the remains of their rusted armour, pulling on their helms.  Amren finally fought his way past his closing throat.

 

"It has been an honour knowing you both, fighting at your sides, calling you kin."

 

Rholyn and Arienwen drew their blades and saluted him.  Gravely, Amren pulled the Sword of Love and returned the salute, the silvery steel gleaming in the bright sunshine, a fitting respect for the two brave knights.  Without further words, the pair strode over the hill, directly towards the entrenched fae.

 

Amren waited, a cry hung in his throat, wanting to beg them to reconsider.  But he knew his duty. He knew the chances of all of them achieving the keep were non-existent.  Instead he waited and when the first sounds of fighting reached him, he spurred Giath, making for the barbican.

 

Rholyn cut yet another screeching goblin down, their black blood staining his armour and blade.  The Questing years had dulled the sheen of his plate, weathered once shining leather, but Cael'Ruarch was still as sharp and deadly as ever.  The treacherous blade was heavy in his grasp, like a lump of pig iron, reluctant to be wielded with any sort of decency, courage or self-sacrifice.  Rholyn would have none of the trenchant blade's reluctance, he was a strong man and well capable of wielding the errant sword.  It thick span of steel sheared through metal, leather and flesh with ease, lopping off limbs and heads with equal measure.

 

Beside him, Arienwen struck with matching ferocity, though more finesse.  Her blade rarely embedded in flesh, instead whipping over eyes and fingers, sliding a mere handspan into a body and deftly seeking her foe's heart.

 

Together, they were deadly and it seemed that even against such staggering numbers, they would prevail.

 

But the years of hard Quest, wounds old and new, the weakness of human flesh betrayed them.  Rholyn did not even see the blow coming, taken from his blind side.  He felt the crushing impact of the huge ogre club and the earth as it came up to meet him.  He felt the goblins swarming over him, sinking both blades and teeth into vulnerable flesh.  He snarled and struck back, even semi-conscious he was lethal.  Cael'Ruarch was lost in the press, so he used mailed fist and dagger, stabbing the steel into one gnawing goblin, driving metal-clad fingers into the eyes of another.  Still they came.

 

A feral cry rang above him as Arienwen slashed at the foes atop her beloved, screaming like the bansidhe they had bested.  She kicked and cut, thrust and spat her defiance to her foes, driving them from his prone form, the cowardly goblins fleeing from her ferocity.  Standing over him, she killed any who dared approach.  Goblin and ogre and fomori fell before her rage.

 

Rholyn tried groggily to regain his senses, hearing his wife fighting for both her life and his.  Suddenly, all was quiet.  Blood coating his remaining eye, he looked up, Arienwen's form standing still above him, silhouetted by the dying sun behind her.  As motion was measured in heartbeats, he watched her blade slip from nerveless fingers.  His gaze locked on the spear transfixing her midsection, thrust through plate and flesh and plate again, thrust with such viciousness that the spear haft embedded in her body.  The Redcap who had struck her the mortal blow growled in impatience and tried wriggling the spear, as if flicking a piece of offal from an eating prong.  The whimpering gurgle of agony from his wife sent a surge of white hot rage through his body, clearing his head.  Cael'Ruarch was in his hand, slipping lovingly into his grip as the Killing Rage came upon him.  The Redcap had time for an astonished look before his body was cut in twain, diagonally from shoulder to hip.

 

The injured knight swung about himself in vengeful fury.  Fomori captains, ogre champions, fae knights, none could stand against him.  He slew and murdered them all, until a circle of limbs and hacked bodies surrounded him.  But Rholyn was only human and as his lifeblood pulsed from a dozen different wounds, his foes merely withdrew, waiting for him to die.

 

Panting, he looked about him.  The fae watched impassively, even their bloodlust stunned by the sheer wanton destruction the knight had unleashed.  Cael'Ruarch fell to the ground once more, sated and scornful of the sorrow that engulfed Rholyn as he looked to his lovely wife.  His sword-companion, his Lover and friend, kneeling in the bloody dirt, cruelly impaled by the fae lance.  He fell to his knees in front of her, his sight dimming as bloodloss took it's toll.  Tenderly, he embraced her, pulling her head to his shoulder.  Her arms weakly slid around him, her coughing cries of pain cut off as he held her close.

 

"I love you, my darling wife.", Rholyn murmured.  "...and I you, my beloved husband.", came her whispered reply.

 

Neither saw the shadows that fell over them, as the fomori and orges surrounded them, clubs and axes raised.

 

...

 

Amren sobbed as he heard the cries of battle suddenly stop, to be replaced by the shouts of raucous victory.  He knew his uncle and aunt were slain.  He knew that their deaths had bought him the time he needed to gallop Giath the last stretch to the barbican, the great horse's meagre remaining strength fading rapidly.  Amazingly, the gates opened at his approach, admitting the rider and steed, slamming shut before the investing troops could take advantage of the momentary break in the castle defences.  He pulled Giath sharply up, before the horse could plow into the fae folk clustered in the castle's courtyard.  The survivors who managed to flee, the common folk of the fae, each one as handsome as any lord or lady of Logres.  They clustered about him excitedly, calling his name.  How they recognised him, he knew not, but the herald of the keep also called him by name, greeting him to the keep of the Fisher King, lord of all Listeneisse.

 

Dismounting, Giath's reins were taken by a slim, female squire, who, amazingly, led him docilely away with merely a smile and a click of her tongue.  Amren let him go, knowing he would be well looked after.

 

"Thank you Master Herald.  I present myself as Sir Amren ap Aelfric, knight of Logres and Champion of the Queen.  I ask the boon of Hospitality and apologise for my dishevelled appearance."

 

"Sir Amren, you are more than welcome."  An older, handsome woman approached, her manner and bearing regal.  About her, the fae knelt.  Amren moved to do the same, but the woman swept forward and took his hands, drawing him up.

 

"No.  You are heartsick and wounded, both in spirit and flesh.  I will not have you kneel before me.  Come, rest.  Let us see to your hurts.  We will bathe and clothe you appropriately, then you must rest.  Tonight, we feast.  Meagre fare, to be sure, but our Hospitality will not be stinted.  I am Dame Brisen, attendant to the King and his daughter, Elaine."

 

With that, she allowed him to escort her to the keep, the fae murmuring quietly around him, watching him with something that looked uncomfortably like hope.

 

...

 

Cleaned and groomed, his hurts seen to, Amren rested until evening.  His torn and filthy clothes were exchanged for beautiful garments of silk, linen and samite.  His swordbelt and scabbard were taken and cleaned, returning the leather and silver to a bright, burnished hue.  Soft boots of supple leather replaced his scuffed and weathered riding boots.  Dame Brisen came herself to escort him.  As they walked through the keep, they did not exchange pleasantries, instead walking in slow, solemn silence, as if processing to the Great Hall.

 

Amren entered the Hall, bright sconces lit the huge chamber with a pearlescent, steady ambience.  The floor was dressed stone, strewn with sweet rushes.  Fine tables of well fitted wood, lovingly constructed, adorned the room.  Three hearths added both light and heat, filled with the warm, steady crackle of a well kept fire.  Seated at the high table was the King himself, King Pellam, the Fisher King.  Knights and ladies clustered about, fae maidens and haughty elven knights gazing steadily at Amren, that same hope in their eyes.  At the table stood the champions of the King, plus his daughter herself, the radiant and innocent Elaine, smiling down at him, before lowering her gaze with a gentle blush.  The King spoke, his voice tired and pained.

 

"Please forgive my ill manners, Sir Amren.  The pains of an old man prevent me from rising to greet you properly."

 

Amren politely refrained.  "It is not ill manners your Majesty, I can see that you are pressed sorely."

 

The King invited him to sit at the high table, giving him the honour of partnering his daughter.  As Amren seated first the princess, then himself, King Pellan lowered his head as if to say Grace.  Amren's gaze dropped to the floor under the King, shocked to see fresh blood pooling under his chair.

 

A chime sounded, drawing his attention to the Hall and the strange procession that entered the room.  In front, a handsome, solemn boy carried a white lance.  From the tip dripped blood, bright against the white shaft.  It carried down the length of spear and over the boy's knuckles, spattering onto the pristine floor.  Immediately following were two more boys, each carrying golden candelabra, inlaid with black enamel, gilded arms adorned with ten bright candles.  Next came a beautiful maiden, carrying a silk pillow, upon which rested a golden cup whose radiance outshone the score of candles.  Lastly, another young woman followed, carrying a silver trencher, from which wonderful smells wafted.

 

Entranced by the procession before him, Amren could do naught but watch the blood drip from the boys knuckles.  He gazed, awestruck, as three droplets formed a perfect trinity, not unlike the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  The blood roused him, reminding him of the sore wounds upon his host.

 

"Sir King, please, what wound ails you?  Can I aid you?"

 

A stillness fell upon the assembled guests, the King looked upon Amren, drawing himself up.  With a deep voice he asked, "What is the secret of the Grail, who does it serve?"

 

Amren stood and fell to one knee, bowing his head.  "It serves you my King."

 

King Pellam's eyes glowed, every moment sitting straighter, shedding the pained posture that once crippled him.  "Who am I?"

 

"You are the Fisher King, you are King Pellam.  You are the greatest of knights and Kings."

 

Age slipped away from his features, colour returning where once only pale, drawn features dominated.  "What is the secret I have forgotten?"

 

"You and the Land are one."  With that, Amren stood and walked calmly to the Grail, the Seelie Fae riveted by his actions, tears streaming down the maiden's cheeks, who held the Cup.  Reverently, he grasped it with both hands and moved to the wounded King.

 

"Drink my King.  Drink and be renewed."

 

King Pellan placed his hands over Amren's and drew the Grail to his lips.  A short sip and the Healing Amren's words had begun was complete.  The King stood, hale and whole, once more the King of the Seelie Court.  He placed one hand on the knight's shoulder.

 

"Your gentle concern has Healed me, Sir Knight.  Of all the outsiders who have come before us, only you possessed the wit and grace to ask of me that which ailed me.  This compassion was all I needed to return from my half life of pain and suffering.  Thank you, Healer."

 

A cheer rolled through the peers and nobles of the fae court.  Men and women weeped openly.  Dame Brisen smiled warmly upon Sir Amren, her hopes realised.  Lady Elaine stood transifxed by his Glory, eyes brimming with unshed tears, her gaze warm and lovely.  Very soon, the news travelled to the courtyard, fresh cheers joining the celebration.

 

"Mead and meat!  Let us feast properly, now that our shackles are removed.  On the morrow, we face my dread brother and remove his threat from both this realm and the mortal world!"

 

Elven knights let forth triumphant cries, finally released from the Geas that prevented them properly defending the Seelie lands.  Many looked to Amren to lead them, a proven knight of unparalelled chivalry and honour.

 

Quietly, Lady Elaine joined the pair, the King embraced her and laughed heartily.  At that, tears spilled down her cheeks, a small sob of remembered grief caught on her lips.  King Pellan took her hand and joined it with Amren's, silently asking him to escort her back to the high table.  He smiled.

 

"Think on this Sir Knight.  For your boon, you may ask me anything, anything it is in my power to give."  The King glanced slyly at his daughter, who had the grace to blush deeply and prettily before lowering her gaze, a small, pleased smile hovering on her lips.

 

Returning to the table, Amren found his plates heaped with the best of his most favourite foods.  The Cup of Christ, the Cauldron of Plenty, providing the feast.

Edited November 29, 2023 by Whiteknight808

[Tizun Thane]

Many of my knights died, in their 20s, 30s, 40s.

Among the PKs who did manage to survive, they usually retire in their 40s, in order to play younger characters.

I remember distinctly 2 knights:

•  1 very unlucky character with the age rolls, becoming unplayable as a knight when he was 51 (Strength 5 or 4, it was pathetic).
• 1 very powerful knight, religious and chivalric knight (of course). He was a RTK and he absolutely refused to die, no matter what. With his glory, he managed to win against aging (better than L'Oréal!). He was the biggest badass grandfather character I ever see. At the end, he died at Camlann as a NPC, saving Arthur.

He had 8 living children whith his childhood sweetheart, 18 living grandchilden.  He finished with something like 50k Glory points.