A Story of the First Paladin
For those of you unaware, I’ve constructed a private mythology about the very fist paladin not being armor clad knight, but a an ancient human huntress of the who discovered the Oath of the Ancients from a yet older time that left her the means to be empowered with the Light itself. It would be hard for her to appear in most settings, but in the Primeval Thule campaign I’m currently constructing, an amalgam of low and high fantasy set in an ancient Earth that has yet to undergo the Ice Age, she can not only be present but be a major NPC or PC, not a distant legend or myth.
So, as a preview of what I’m working on, and have the opportunity to write about one of my favorite OC’s that it’s hard to find inspiration for, please enjoy this tale of the First Paladin in a savage world unprepared for one who rises above all darkness.
Deep in the vibrant jungles of Dhar, the sound of life was constant companion. From the steady hum of the insects, to the ravenous howl of the saber toothed cats that made this land their hunting ground. In this cacophony, all but the most experienced hunter would be hard pressed to identify one sound above the rest. But as a new sound pierced the air, even the softest skinned city born noble would have been able to recognize it above the jungle’s din.
For the sound of human suffering is one that nature in all its abundance can be hard pressed to imitate.
To the slavers of the Quorothaq clan, that noise was as common as the wind, and would only grow stronger as they closed in on their homeland, the Crimson city of Marg. The heart of Thule’s slave trade, where thousands of souls were processed every year into the ideal slaves for those who had the coin to purchase them. They’d captured a good haul this time, a small but well rounded tribe of the many that resided in the Dhar.
Clad in black robes that should have been sweltering in this humidity, but projected a coolness in the air that made his guards shiver, the leader of this caravan looked at the captured tribe, the compliant adults bound together in a line of iron chain, while the young or unruly were kept bound in the enclosed wagon. Quietly, he did a tally, deciding which he would forward for labor, to to be trained as gladiators, scribes, courtesans, and, of course, the niche market the Quorathaq had on those willing to purchase slaves for sacrifice or other profane rites practiced by the cults and flesh eaters that infested Thule. The bone mask he wore had belonged to a demon blooded slave that been chosen for such a ritual, with the bone spurs in particular making it a privilege of of his to illustrate his status with the Qurothaq and the dark powers they traded with.
The leader’s power had proven especially valuable. No marks or wounds on the slaves, some still having the attentive and empty eyes of those bound by enchantment, their families looking at them with confusion and fear. The Masked Slaver gave one a condescending smile: their suffering would end soon enough: no family of slaves was kept as one for long in the Crimson City.
“Master?’
One of the the guards prompted the chief slaver’s attention, the caravan slowing even as he turned to the voice. He followed a guard’s pointed hand further down the worn path. Around a hundred yards from the head of the caravan stood a lone figure, female, clad in fur and heavy leather, armed with a single spear, and wearing a helmet made from the skull of a great beast.
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The woman was clearly a hunter or warrior of some kind, and in the Dhar, such figures rarely stalked alone. The Slaver whistled, and his guards drew iron while forcing the slaves to their knees to keep their profiles small in the event of a crossfire of arrows: dead slaves had no value after all.
He likewise committed his own preparation, and with a gesture and word of power, could see in his mind’s eye the surrounding environs to an inhuman degree, sensing…nothing. The Slaver frowned, and checked again, confirming that while there was indeed a plethora of life, there were no other humans watching from the jungle, save the interloper on the road.
Who continued to stand alone, their spear pointed upwards. Waiting.
The Slaver Chief should have felt confident at being able to dispatch a single possible threat with either his arcane might or superior numbers. But something felt off as the caravan made it’s way closer, the jungle becoming too silent, the glint of golden eyes, one brighter than the other, too unwavering. Against a force such as his, even the primitive and barbaric warriors of the Dhar would hesitate at such a foolhardy display.
But he sensed no fear save his own, and faintly, he recalled the rumors spread by other slaver companies of entire caravans missing in the Dhar recently, no trace. He’d thought it nothing more than a plot, something hatched by one of their rivals to frighten away competition from the rich hunting ground of the Dhar. Surely it was nothing more than that...surely...
“Halt”
He, and indeed, the entire company of Quorothaq, disciplined killers all, did as the figure bid. He blinked, his ears ringing as he belatedly understood that the language the Dhar (Were they Dhar? They had eyes like an Atlantean, but he’d never felt like this in the presence of members that declining race) warrior used was one he’d never heard before but somehow understood implicitly. Before he could better comprehend that, the figure continued, still standing before the company.
“You will release your captives, leave this place, and forget ever returning or continuing you abominable trade. Do this, or I shall enrich the soil with your blood, so that your deaths benefit the world your actions befouled in life.”
Her voice sonorous, almost felt rather than heard, and with every word she spoke, the Slaver Chief felt a cold flame in his ears, and realized with a start that his ears were bleeding. He gripped his staff, spoke a word of power, and felt his connection with Set, the Serpent Lord, gather around him like a protective cloak, the god of darkness granting him a ward against light.
With the coiling presence of the Serpent Lord around his previously frightened heart, the Slaver stepped forward, his god’s strength fueling every step.
“Who are you to command us?” He demanded, already constructing a spell to boil their eyes to steam. But the spell fizzled in thought as he found his gaze met by the figure, their eyes piercing him to the soul, as they seemed to examine him for all he was, and found him utterly wanting.
“What I am, Slaver, even if your language had a word for it, you could never understand. Stand aside.”
He heard the sound of metal clattering upon the ground, and turned to see three of his men flee into the undergrowth. Snarling, he let loose a wave of power at the interloper.
The woman danced aside before roaring to the sky, her skin hardening to stone and their eyes becoming feral as a lion’s. Then with a roar to match thunder, they sprang forward, spear in hand.
Men began to die swiftly, either by spear, or vines that began to erupt from the ground, strangling or pinning the slavers in place. The huntress exercised powers that kept them from swarming her that was like Dhari druid, but where they summoned nature as a wave or became one with it in power, the huntress was both human and more, their spear flashing with a speed that rivaled any gladiator he’d ever seen.
Against the Slaver Chief, the powers summoned were far less subtle, a band of silver light cut into his skin, spears of ice fell from the sky, avoiding his own power by dispersing into mist. The worst however, what shook him beyond even the other displays of power, were when her spear cut into his skin, the resulting wounds would be blasted with a power that cut into his very soul, and he could not deny what it told him, that he was evil, that his very soul had been made forfeit by embracing corruption.
For a moment, he almost gave up, but the presence of Set and his dark strength filled him, and when he spoke, the god spoke through him.
“̄͊͌̾͐M͕̲͂ͣ̒̽̓͋ͮ͝O̧͚̺̯̣͖̅̽̐́͌R͙̖̼̦͚͙̿͒͊̒ͦ̃T̥̺̈́̏̔͐ͩͣ̏A̬͉̠̮͈̹̙͋̽̎͛̓̂L͍̮̹̼̰̗̇̃̋ͩͣ̀ͅ.̴͈̜̩̙͖͊ͪ͐̽͋ͩ̐ ͍͑Y̘̳͊̑ͧͦ̀O̫̹Uͧ̆ͨ̊̆ ̮̳̹W͎̥Ḭ̪̩̖͙ͣ̃ͮ̐̚ͅL̘̮̩ͨͯͨͦL̛̳͖̺̯ͨ̄͐̿ͤ ̩͉̺̝͉̞͈ͧ̃͑ͬͮ̕D̳̹̙ͫ̽͒̈́̐̓͋I̞̹̝͕̭̞͖ͧ̔̂͜E͉̪̍ͭͯ͡ͅ ̙̻̈ͮH͝Ė͈͎͔̞̺͉͉̎͆̒̌Ŕ̜̠̓̾ͩÈ̆ͤ̄,̮̦͑̑̈́̚ͅ ̨̖̼̃̈́̒A̞̻̼͈̔́N̮̤̫̘̺̳͓͒̋́D̖͇̯̘͔ ̤̣̳͓͉̞͚̄ͨȈ̺͍͖͊̉̊ͥ̚ ̝͔̟̹̒W̟̦̥̹ͥͥI̼̼͕̰̘̟ͬͧL̺͌ͧ̽̀ͯͫ̄L̛͇͚̼̖ͫ͋̏̊̚ ̝̬̪͓̠͆ͭ͠D̴̘ͨͨͥ̎ͧͩE̵͎͈̩͇̹ͤͤ͒V̖̹͍̱̝̱̟O̖̫̪͈̘͙̊̏̍̾ͧ̑͑ͅU̜͐̒ͧͧͭ̃̃Ř̝̹̰͛̀͝ ̫̞̠̠͑͟ͅͅY͆͋̆͋̄ͧ҉̙̙̼̭̥̤͙Ö͖̬̒ͮ͢U͌ͩ͛ͨ̊ͭͬȐ͉͎͍̘͓̪ͧ̀̌͠ ͑ͩͫ̉ͤ͊̃҉S̢͔̫̭Ŏ̫̹͚̀̒ͮ̔ͦ͠U̸̙̞̯̺̥̺ͬ͗͛ͤͥ̚L̹̙̺̙͍͍̙̒̓ͪͩ͞.̦͇ ͇̥̈́ͪ͒͐͒͛̑Y̳̦͖̰̲̦O͓͉͎̗͎̥̼̒U̟̤ͯ̏̒̿̕R̸̺̮̈̽̈ͣ̾ͅ ̷̹̯͍̽̑ͫ̆͌Ḳ͙̱͚̲͆͆ͮ̀́̈͢I̸͑͊̾̏͂͗̒Nͫ̾̒̇̚D̃͆̐̓ ̧̯͔̘W͙̘ͨͣ̆̓́Ī̄͌ͭͩ͏L͚̺̬̄̈̓ͣ͐Ĺ̴͉̖̬ͯ̽ ̧̪̣̣͕̗͖̤̓N̫͙̳̰̉ͮ̈̆Ẽ̸ͤͬV̸͎̼̳̹̙ͨ̏E̱̗Ṛ̻̻̑̐ͥ̀̀̓͂ ̫͚̾̂ͭ̏̓̎̚A̦̜̮͙̼G̊ͭ̈́͏̮̲̖A͕͙̩͐I̻̺͔͈̭̝ͪͫ̒̋͊ͅN͉ͣ̑ ̓̽̀҉͇̰͍S̗̗̱Ṳ̷͓̠ĻͮͣL̺̹̯̼̮̣̑̍̍ͮY͍̣̠ͦ ͓T̜͚̭ͤ̀H̪͎̭̱̝̪̆̂̅̚̚͟I̫͗ͪ͌̈̉ͨ̅S̷̱͕͌̐͆͂ͮ ͚̞͖̦W̵͓͈͔͂̽̏̋Õ̝ͣͧ͗ͮ̀ͯ̕R̉͛̃̓̃͜L̞͌ͣ̈͑̿D̩̻͍̹̑̂ͨ̓́.̦̞͍͍͙͉̆̍̄ ̹̬͗Y͓̭͖̏͋̾O͙̖͍̰͔̺͔̓ͪU̪̭͍̝̭̙̍͒͌̏͑ͨ̚ ͎̩͎̳̃ͣ͢W̜̺̣͈̟̮̫͋͜I̍͂́ͦ̾L͗̐̌ͮ̎Ḷ̯̰̙͉ͨ͗͂̒ ̶̹̱͙̔̉ͪͮ̅̇ͅB̹ͧ̉͋̇̇̄E̹̹̩̥ͤ̕ ͇̬̿F͎̹̺͙̜̂̌̍͟Ö̜̞̼͔̼͔͙ͮ̋ͮͫ͡R̪̟̻̿̑̔̿G̯ͫͦO̥͈̹͓̳̙̎̆̀̏̚̚͞T̰́͠ͅT͙̘̬̣̝̠̪̒͂̎E̓͒̾̈́ͪNͪ̆͑͆̍̈,̨̭͔ͩ ̵͖̲̝͚̗͔̼̈̑̋͊ͯY͏O̮̗͍̖̰͋́̈́̈ͣỤ̷͖̪̜̋͂̿͛Ṛ̹̺̠ͤ́ ̡͔̘̇ͫG͇ͭͭͣ̏͆͛͟O͚̼͈͇͔͎̩ͧD̡̫͇͚͍̜ͨ̇S̤̓͋̏̊͛̄̓ ̸̰̤̪̘͖̀̐̊̆͐̚U̟̫ͩ̐ͤ̔ͯ̕ͅN̷̆M̟̟̜̠͔͔͇̾͐ͦ̽̏̊͡A̞̜͖̬ͣͩ͒̔ͨ̎D͉̜̜̥͚Ē̞̥,̧ͭͮ̂ ̘̩̦̫͜ͅY͙̱̳̽̋̀̍͢O̹ͫ̐ͧ̓ͫͮͅU̡͉̬̠͍͆ͥ͛͂̆ͣR̹̙̰͉̎̚ ̵͆͐̉ͣ̚L͎I̪̜̹̙̱̠̅̿G̽̃͒̿̓͆H̩̬̩͍̀̀ͩ̈́͜Ṭ̶̠͑̓͋ ͖͓̖̩̭̭͖ͭ̄ͬ̌̓S̺̱͈̰̣̱̅̉͊͂̐̉M̯̮̥͎͚ͣ͂̂̊̽͘Ǒ̧͓͈̹ͯ̽T̳͕͎͉͕̙ͤ͛ͩ̕H̟͎͎̖̰ͯͧ̿͂E̦̟̜̖̹̻̥̔̇ͤ̀Ř̫͔̘̝̙̓ͥͤͯ͂͠Ȅ̛̜̅͐̉D̜̺̜̭͐ͣ̽̂͗̔͠ͅ,̰̦̖̯̜͐̑͌͆ͭ́ ̘̟̪̯̮̯ͤA̶̩͉̱͂͐̓̌̄̂L͚̳̹͆ͮ̅ͩ̉Ĺ̦̙̫͜ ̹̘͕͈̰ͨͮ͒͌̏ͭT̹̈̇ͨ̐ͤH̦̟͔̞͓̼ͬͭͪ̃ͤͭ͟A̦̐͐͂ͬͫT̳̝͎̈́ͭͣ̌ ̯͓̽͞Y̗̫̜͕̗ͯ̏ͦ́́ͅͅO̘U̍̃ ̰͔̘̋͆ͥ̇ͩ̀C̹̓͞Ô̼̝̒ͫͩ̽ͫ͞U̫ͨ̿ͨ̓̿̈́L̰͎̦͈̠͌ͫ̀ͧD̯̺̳̣ͭ̾̿͌̈ͥ͂ͅ ̹̣ͣͬ͆ͦͭ̃Ě͏̼̲̥͈V̘̯̰͍̩̼̾ͤ̊ͯ̇͑ͨḚ̯̰̻͓͍̯̑̒̇͋ͩ̈̚R̜̰͇̟͙͉͔̍͠ ͈͖̘͒ͬ̆ͅB̤̏ͣE̊͐҉̠͇̠̲ ̘̣̟͙̟͈͊͆̀L̜̯̤͛͒̀͜Oͥ͋͑S͓̭͒͋̇̿ͥ͐͊̕T ̓ͪ͛̊̉͢Ĭ͙͓̼̼͇̻̺̓ͨ̏ͮ͆͋N͚̹ͧ̉̍ͨ̈ ̧͙̔̈͛͑̀̚T̙͔̣̫̬̟ͨ͞Hͨ̇͏͉͕̮͖E̶̖̺̬͓̍̄̊ ̲̣̱̇̓ͦ̇̿̂̚Ć̷͙́̽͒̓O̵̝͈̻̩̫̼͌͗͆͂̐̈L̬͉̼̞̱͉̈́ͦͯ͝D̺̯̂̚͡ ̝͔̒D̼͖͓̙̟̤̉Ạ̣̭̇R̫ͣͅK.̜̩̙̹̻͕̦̕ ̱̠͔̺͉̯̄ͣ̒̊͗̌T͔̥ͪ͒̃̒̀H͕̱̥̜̤͎̬Ǐͧ̏ͮͨͦ͏̩̫̩̼̫̯Ṣ̛͖ ̠̹̰̤̀ͮ̇̎͌̃W̡͎̽ͧ͂̈́̑̌O̱̰̠ͪ̅̿̆ͧR̡̬̪̺͓̣͖̯̈͒̚Lͥͤ̏̅͑͗̍D͕̙̳̘̥ͭ͌ͤ ̞̰̊͋ͫI̼̥̱̱̪͖ͩ̐̈̃̿̑S̨ͪ̊ͬ̀̾̚ ̴̘̜̰͈́͛MI̵͕̥̮͑ͯ͋N̯͢E̪̎͛.̝͓̗"̎ ̖̥̯̺̯̰̤̋̔̒̔ͮͩ̓
He raised his hands, feeling a darkness pool out of his eyes. Around him, his dead guards rose, their flesh becoming hard and necrotic. As one, they surrounded the huntress, backing her into the tree line, and the Slaver Chief, smiling as he stepped forward, speaking his own voice.
“Whatever you are, you should have never come alone.”
Surrounded by the hungry dead, and facing a chosen of the god of darkness, the huntress should have quailed, tried to flee into the blades surrounding her. Instead, she smiled, and spoke in that strange, painful tongue once more.
“A Paladin is never alone.”
Then, with all the ease of one parting a gossamer veil, the huntress (Paladin? What word was-) vanished into the bark of the tree as though it were water.
Then, accompanied with a sound so deep it was more like a force than anything else, something gigantic crushed through the tree line, the huntress upon its back. One of the ancient beasts, a terror even in the savage jungles of the Dhar, clad in feather and scale with a maw large enough to devour him whole peered down at him with reptilian contempt.
Damir G. Martin
Even the mindless dead paused at the sight. The Paladin smiled, her bloody grin feral in its delight.
“This is my brother, Soft Feather. He hates slavers.”
Soft Feather then proceeded to underline that statement by crushing the guards underfoot. The last thing thing the Slaver saw was a great maw of teeth.
The former slaves had tried to scatter in the battle, but the iron chain linking them prevented that. The bone spear of the huntress, somehow unbroken the battle, cut through many links with practiced thrusts, the great beast she’d ridden busying itself with what could be safely eaten from their former captors.
One captive, a young girl, was the first to speak.
“Who...what are you?”
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The strange woman faced the child, knelt, and removed their helmet of bone. A pair of golden eyes, one more golden than the other, met the young one’s squarely. She spoke not in the strange, potent tongue earlier, but in the familiar hum of the Dhar.
“I am a promise made flesh, one to help you and all who need it. One I hope you can grow to share. Come. Let us follow the trail home.”