Two knights are locked into a personal feud, stemming from an even greater war, but something much darker looms in the distance.
The scribe wondered why the old woman's house had to be so far into the Dresden Wood. Everything had the man on edge. He stepped on a twig underfoot, causing it to crack, and he recoiled the limb in fear. King Saddler had better make this journey worth my while.
The cottage was nestled in between two thick oaks that seemed to be holding the structure upright. There were parts where the branches had grown into the walls, so it wasn't a stretch to believe the trees and cottage were dependent on one another. He knocked on the door and the force of it pushed it open. Uttering only a most ceremonial of greetings, he invited himself inside. There was little to note of the inside. A cauldron sat above a burning fire, and a few chairs were thrown around. The scribe saw the huddled figure of a person sitting in one of them, their back turned to him. She wore a very tattered hood over her face.
“Are you the soothe seer?” asked the scribe.
A cackle came from the woman, hollow and full of force. “If that's what people still call me.”
Great. She's got an attitude, to boot. The scribe took a few steps towards her, straw cracking beneath his feet, and folded his arms. “The King Saddler of Sardon has sent request of you. There is a terrible fear sweeping over the land that the old Legend of Armageddon has befallen us. People have begun to run wild with this fantasy, and the King fears losing control of the dukes if the peasents begin to revolt.”
The woman waved a bony hand in the air. “An interesting choice of words you have. Fantasy. Do you not believe in the tales of antiquity?”
The scribe kicked at the dirt beneath him. “We live in an enlightened age. With the gods no longer controlling us, we can cast away such things. The King simply wants someone, such as yourself, the common folk will believe to tell them everything is as it should be.”
The old woman coughed and pointed to something in the room adjacent to them. “Be a dear and bring me the thimble over there. I should not think I can manage to retrieve it myself.”
The scribe went over to the wooden thimble and transported it before her with more than a few curses muttered. Anything to hasten this endeavor. He put the heavy machine down and saw the woman's face. She was pale, weathered beyond the ages, and her eyes were nearly covered over in white.
“That's good.” She went to word on it, as if the scribe were only a servant and not on royal business.
“Can you manage the trip back to Sardon?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Even if I could, my lies would do you and Saddler no good.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked up at him. Not really at him, more past him. She was clearly blind. “There are many legends that have came to be and passed, and many more that will come again. Legend is not so decent a word for it. Do you know of the Gaia Knight?”
“Of course. All scribes learn that legend. It's a favorite among children.”
“In a time of great duress, when all the metal of the kings and every able bodied soldier is not enough to face the devastation which awaits, a hero emerges from the united forces of many. The Knight of Faith, with his unwavering devotion to light, the Knight of Shield, who holds before him a barrier of unwavering protection, the Knight of Respect, with his flames of esteem and deference, the Knight of Love, who has mastered arts of the mind, the Knight of Mercy, in which an endless darkness covers all in a blanket of forgiveness, the Knight of Feudal Duty, who is ever vigilante and sub servant to the many, the Knight of Truth, from whom misdeeds and falsehoods cannot hide, the Knight of Generosity, and his sword which is held back and his hand held up, and finally, the Knight of Justice, who unites all the chosen ones. Tell your king that these men must come together once again. But fear not, scribe. There is another matter that will befall Sardon. One of little import, but will no doubt plunge the world into ruin.” The woman breathed out another dry cackle, then went back to the thimble.
The scribe through his hands up. “This isn't enough to take back to the king! He will have my tongue. Fairy tales?”
The woman said no more. Indeed, she seemed to be in a trance, or perhaps had just chosen to stop listening. After waiting a few more moments, the scribe gave up and returned to his horse. If the woman would be no help, he would simply lie. She was in no condition to speak, which may have had some truth to it, judging by her rambles, and there is nothing for the kingdom to worry about. A gentle breeze blew in from the east as the scribe pulled on the horse's reins and sped for the city.