Adelaard

Once, in an age of wonders long since lost to antiquity, the Dark Knight fought to rid the world of all things magick - from the arcane forces passed down by ancient gods, to the mythical beasts whose lifeblood was mana. He was a scourge upon the land - slayer of sorcerers, demons and dragons alike, banisher of arcane forces and wicked enchantments, dismantler of the theological regime. He was a folk hero of the proletariat masses, a dauntless knight errant whose noble quest was the extermination of the gods themselves. He harnessed the same forces he sought to banish to fight fire with fire - vowing never to become the very thing he sought to abolish - when at last the world was free of the tyranny of forces beyond the control of men, he too would disappear forever.

The world before him was a mighty civilization, built upon miracle engines and arcane wonders. The world he left in his wake was a dying husk - a wasteland of chaos and desolation - the scattered ashes from which he trusted a new, even greater civilization would be born if only men could be freed from the burdens and false promises of arcana.

But as his quest neared its end, with all but the last, central remnant of magick erased from the face of the world, the knight realized that it had, in fact, scarcely begun. That last vestage of arcana had slipped through his fingers, stolen away by the sorcerer Edaathur and what remained of the world's arcane scholars in their flying Crystal City. They had fled the world through a great door into chaos an left it gaping in their wake.

In his grim determination, the knight did not falter in his stride. With his mission complete behind him, he kept his vow and exiled himself from the world he knew. He stepped through the arcane gate and closed it - sealing it forever behind him.

And what he found on the other side was not death, but infinity.

An unending vista of worlds, the chaos filling the voids between into which he had plunged. Visions of the great Door to Paradise. And when he once again found himself upon a plane of reality, there was no doubt it was not the one he had known.

But the old knight, that remnant of a long lost age of epic ballads and fairytales, was undeterred. No longer would he fight to rid the world - the multiverse - of magick. Such matters were none of his concern. For somewhere among those billion worlds, Edaathur and his Crystal City yet lingered.

It mattered not if his quest lasted a thousand years - he would find Edaathur, track down the Crystal City, and finish the job he had begun all that time ago.

Only then would he have the answers necessary to venture further and accomplish his true, ultimate goal - that which had so compelled him since his first glimpse of The Door. For now the Iconoclast knew that it was not merely his own world which had been ravaged by the false promises and fanatic worship of cruel, 'higher beings'. Too many worlds had been tainted and subjugated under the will of the so-called 'gods'. But now, he knew where to find them.

And he would not stop until each and every one was utterly obliterated.

---

The old man appears often to travel alone, but for the creature sometimes seen perched upon his shoulder - when not remaining well hidden beneath his cloak - which he calls his ’demented cat’. Looking to be some sixty or more years of age - in truth vastly older - but in peak physical condition, the gunslinging wanderer known as Adelaard sports a tall, sturdy form with softly sloping shoulders and strong arms of ropy muscle. Depthless, golden eyes peer with cool, sagely fascination beneath the shadow of the wide brim of his hat - itself adorned with embellishments of metal and a single, dusty sapphire inset. A pallid complexion tanned by constant travel, skin weathered and deeply lined with age, a pair of pale, sage-green tattoos curving down beneath both eyes like fangs. His hair, snowy white but for a curious, sage-green tint, falls nearly to his hips, often bound in a single, long braid and allowed to tousle carelessly where his strong-jawed face is thus framed by the windswept locks.

His oilcloth cloak is old and tattered at the fringes, but thick and warm with many years of use left in its sturdy weave. It conceals a more elaborate ensemble beneath - the velvety black coat with its faded golden embroidery having once been a thing of gaudy flamboyance, now aged and dusty and reduced to something that might be casually worn by any man of the lesser nobility, perhaps even a simple bandit leader...Or an aging knight errant. The matching vest and simple, collared tunic beneath further lends the impression of informal gentry, while the denim trousers and dusty leather riding chaps leave no doubt that their wearer is at heart a traveler, in no way leading the lax and pompous life of any mere noble. His boots are rugged, dusty and well broken-in from countless lonesome roads. Curiously, he almost never travels on horseback if he doesn't have to.

The gun holstered in the leather belts slung low on his hips is a thing of immense beauty. Its polished metal finish, black as midnight, contrasts elaborate golden etching. It boasts an improbably long barrel. The cylinder is of the old-fashioned percussion variety, chambering seven rounds of ball and black powder - however a second 'conversion' cylinder kept in the knight's pocket enables it to fire more conventional cartridges. Impeccably maintained by its user, it is a masterwork of the legendary Dimensaani gunsmiths, known before the fall of High Rock for producing the most technologically advanced weaponry of their time. Indeed, accounting for the skill of its wielder, it is a weapon which could surely hold its own against modern firearms.

The imposing revolver is Adelaard's deadliest and most proficient weapon, but not his only one. The leather strap worn across his chest like a bandolier sheathes a fine broadsword at his back, which serves him well in certain engagements upon which he might not need waste precious bullets. While certainly no master swordsman, he can hold his own with the blade and several other weapons.



Though it is typically out of sight beneath his vest, the knight wears a pendant around his neck which, depending on the status of his familiar, alternates between an empty frame and a large, beautiful sapphire.

A drawn and soft-spoken man, the wandering knight errant Adelaard exudes an air of quiet wisdom - of age far beyond even that which his creased skin and silvery hair would imply.

His voice is like dust - the scratching of dry autumn leaves on weathered cobblestone, mild and warm in its way, yet obscurely powerful - capable of both belting out commands or battle cries in the way of the olde knights, and softening to the reasonable, reassuring tones of an experienced diplomat.

Adelaard rarely speaks without thinking, giving everything he says a tone of calculated measure - carefully chosen words spoken in an invariably drawn, even-toned precision. His accent is faint and difficult to parse, though he often favors the archaic dialect of ancient kings and poets, regardless of how out-of-place it might seem. This in itself contrasts with his own dialect - which tends to switch almost at random between archaeic 'thees' and 'thous', and conventional 'yous' and 'yours'.

Highly perceptive, he tends to keep quiet, remain alert and observant, only speaking up when he feels there is good reason. Outwardly to be confident in his virtues and at peace with his faults, this tentative inner peace might easily be mistaken for an air of pomposity or self-importance. Not that such impressions would be entirely misleading. Though not boastful, he does have a certain sense of quiet superiority, Though generally in control of his emotions, he is by no means immune to them. Nevertheless, he is highly reserved, often distant or even aloof - and generally abrasive at that. His jaded, worlds-weary cynicism might not be a permanent feature, but it does preoccupy him regularly.

He rarely smiles - his face, though obscurely grandfatherly, seems almost as though it were not made to bear any particularly strong expressions. A stern, largely humorless old man within whom one might sense a hidden sadness, an aching loneliness of which he has never allowed to see the light.

Still, those fantastically bright, golden eyes have not dimmed with age. They shimmer with untold stories collected over the ages - the eyes of a man who has seen the skies of a hundred worlds, the depths of a thousand valleys, and the eyes of a million passers-by along the endless, winding roads he has traveled. His are the eyes, perhaps, of a man outside of time.




Adelaard is a man of many skills. As a young man, he was among the elite of the ancient order of knighthood into which he had been born and raised. As all Dimensaani knights, he was trained intensely, mercilessly, relentlessly from a young age to become one of High Rock's finest. His training - like his responsibilities - included not only combat and strategy, but also diplomacy, survival skills and other scholarly pursuits.

Like all Dimensaani, Adelaard has a very keen sense of alchemical properties in unfamiliar substances. Though far from infallable, it affords him an extensive - if instinctual - propensity for recognizing and utilizing alien flora in basic alchemy. His medical expertise extends only so far as basic battlefield first-aid, and tidbits he recalls hearing from more medically experienced people than himself over the years.

He is not excessively well versed in the arts - except for poetry. He believes it to be the purest art form in existence, and has a vast trove of knowledge on the subject. Often he will quote enigmatic verses to illustrate (or defer) his point, instead of just answering properly.

Inscribed on the palm of Adelaard’s left hand - which is usually gloved - is a complex rune designed to aid in the extraction of arcane essences from any given source - siphoning the power into himself and thusly extending his life indefinitely. He is incapable of spellcasting in any capacity, for unknown reasons.

He is largely self-sufficient, a woodland survivalist - a hunter and gatherer capable of long and lonesome treks across unforgiving territory. Though horseriding is technically among his repitoir of skills, this fact is negligable as horses, in general, seem to utterly despise him, becoming uncooperative and difficullt when he tries to take up a mount. For this reason, he tends to travel rather slowly from place to place - often to the consternation of anyone unlucky enough to be traveling with him for some reason. He rarely takes on traveling companions for this reason among many others, not the least of which is his overall gruffness.

Though stemming from ancient tradition, knights of the Dimensaani were never been strictly bound to any specific code of chivalry and Adelaard is no exception. While it is his obligation to offer aid and succor to those whose plights he deems just, he is not constrained by vows or oaths - and ultimately, if made to choose between his own quest to hunt down Edaathur the Sorcerer and his knightly obligations, he will invariably choose the former. Similarly, though he is a generally lawful and noble individual, his moral compass is questionable at best and he will not shy away from doing whatever must be done to track down his ancient enemy - moral or otherwise. He is truthful, even blunt, and frowns upon deception and trickery (Though is not above using them himself, if the need arises). He finds corruption of office to be contemptible beyond measure and will often fight to right injustices and wrongdoings as he is faced with them. Rarely will he refuse to aid one that has asked it of him, provided he deems their plight just and fair, or in the interest of the greater good.

Above all, Adelaard is loyal to the quest. The unending mission he set out for upon the day he left his own place and time behind, stepping through the Door to Chaos and sealing it in his wake. He has journeyed far and wide on the trail of the Crystal City - which is known by many names throughout the man worlds, from Gilead to Stella Viventium - and the final, deadly spark of arcana that resides there with the sorcerers he vowed to destroy - chief among them the mysterious, and immensely powerful Edaathur, with whom he has held a grudge for many decades.

Adelaard's war against all things magical is long over, now. It ended when the Crystal City - last bastion of magick - departed his own, battered world in flight through countless others. While he still finds the misuse of, and hyperdependence upon magic to be thoroughly heinous, he will not outright murder anyone over it. Though he still finds theology to be the most revolting and foolish practice known to sentience, he will not destroy someone for being a priest or wizard - may even travel with or provide aid to them.

His right to destroy those whose lifestyle he finds repulsive ended when he left his own world behind. He accepts that wholly and absolutely, and abides by that doctrine not merely in responsibility, but willingness. For his desire to change the world left him along with the right to do so.

That being said, he may still take particular relish if such as he despises should become his enemy for more justified or practical reasons. Evil wizards and cult leaders are by far the ones he seeks to take down the most, when the opportunity presents itself.

---

Ballad of the Dark Knight Iconoclast

Once, in an age of wonders long since lost to history, he was a legend. A folk hero of the proletariat masses, shrouded in mystery. As infamous as he was renowned. The subject of countless bards’ tales and campfire stories. Once, he was the The Iconoclast - he who had come out of the Godless Lands, where no power was higher than that of the will and determination of humanity - come to strike down corruption, to fight for mankind alone when all hope seemed lost. A champion of reason, a force of nature, a cleansing flame on the righteous warpath of leading humanity to the genesis of their true potential.

He had come forth from the reclusive city known as The High Rock, last of his kind, alone but for his shadowy companion perched upon his shoulder. He had gone out into the world in search of wisdom and experience - a young man, the flame of passion burning in his heart, the wild strength of youth alight in his mind.

The world the young traveler beheld was one of glory and wonder. A prosperous land, where nations coexisted in peace, where crops bloomed lush and full, cattle fat and plentiful. Indeed, an ostentatious society, with wealth and luxury abound. A world without strife, defined by lavishness and prosperity.

But the young traveler was not fooled by the gilded facade of the civilization of the Age of Wonders - for it was all built upon a brittle foundation of lies. It was a civilization corrupted to its core. A civilization which prospered not by the merit of its people, but on their subservience.

Magick.

It was the very core of the civilization of the Age of Wonders; the forces of arcana which had been handed down to mankind by the gods in exchange for their worship and undying devotion. The forces channeled through The Church and any number of other religious orders scattered throughout civilization, granted to the religious officials as a reward in exchange for the worship of their flocks. It was not the natural forces of mysticism which required passion and scholarly devotion to wrangle up from within the natural world, but divinity which flowed freely at the expense of a people whose lax ambitions aspired to nothing more than the role of mindless herds of cattle, obeying their theological overlords so that they might continue their hollow, meaningless lives of endless, shallow pleasures and empty consolations.

But the young traveler, in the wisdom passed down from his lost people, could see the true cruelty in the gods that so freely gave of their power to mortals who exalted their divine egos. For those godly entities knew all too well that mortal men could not control the powerful forces bestowed upon them - or else they were not half so all-knowing as their worshipers claimed. Indeed, the prosperous civilization had been approaching the brink of collapse for decades, perhaps even centuries, as holy sorcerers became overburdened with the excess of arcane forces that spread throughout their civilization like so many fibrous roots into every aspect of life. Those forces were becoming harder and harder still to control, and so becoming more and more dangerous with every passing day...

And so came Adelaard, The Iconoclast - a knight errant, wild and reckless, who sought to tear down the establishment with all the flame and vigor of youth. Adhering to his own code of honor, he was a rallying force for the rebellious minorities, inciting unrest wherever he went, banishing the magicks hitherto considered sacred by the theological masters of the world. He was largely seen as an enemy of civilization in those days - an anarchist, a rebel for an impossible cause. Yet still the knight persisted, dedicating his life to the destruction of theological divinity…

Or perhaps he was in fact a quiet and scholarly knight, observant of the deteriorating civilization, studious in his ongoing preparations for the eventual collapse. Some say that he infiltrated the College of Lexumia - the greatest hub of arcana in the world, under the jurisdiction of The Church - devoting his life to learning the skill of weaving the very spells he so despised strictly as a means of enabling him to fight fire with fire when the time came. Indeed, some say he became a powerful sorcerer himself, going so far as to infiltrate the High Council of Lexumia - the order dedicated to the proper control of arcane forces, formed from necessity as the powers grew ever more unruly.

Some say it was he who spoke out against the Council when they decided to entrust great wealths of power to the mythical beasts which would become known as the Wild Gods. That he was among those who fought the grueling campaign against the Dragon King when the power granted to him by the Council drove him to genocidal madness - that he was among those who destroyed the mad King and sealed away his accursed spawn beneath the mountains. Indeed, some would go so far as to say that it was Adelaard himself who spectacularly assassinated the High Vicar of the Great Church - the tipping point which would show the world once and for all that the forces of magic they were already beginning to distrust were indeed too dangerous to be allowed to exist. A society that had been on the cusp of total collapse at last fell in upon itself - the world was plunged into chaos - and so began the Age of Darkness.

It was in that dark time that Adelaard the Iconoclast truly became the legendary folk hero sung of in ballads and praised throughout the war-ravaged lands - even as he faded further into obscurity. He was a shadow - a mysterious stranger who roamed the land, offering his services to whatever faction would have him - and, more importantly, serve his purposes. He was there for the hunting down and eradicating of the Wild God Akaietas of the Deep Wylds, and many years later would be the killer of her last remaining offspring, the Isandrii warrior Akota'eru. The massacre of that day would be one of the Dark Knight’s most painful memories...But only one among countless other atrocities engaged in during that dark time, where history ceased to be and madness ruled the battered minds of broken men.

With the coming of the Age of Darkness came the universal loathing of structured religion - and he was the knight champion of the atheistic way. Yet still he was an elusive figure - one of many such warriors dedicated to eradicating all traces of ill-gotten magick from the world. Indeed, the Age of Darkness was a time of universal bloodshed - a time of witch hunts, of genocides, of wars that raged over lands dead and dying, burned by the flames of war or withering from the receding of the arcane forces which had for so long nourished them.

As the priests and sorcerers were killed off - mythical beasts with blood of mana hunted down and slaughtered en masse - the forces of magick began to weaken. It is unknown how long the Age of Darkness lasted, for so little of history survived the great purge - yet always the legend of the Dark Knight persisted - the wandering Iconoclast of which so much was speculated, yet so little known. Be he the sole noble sorcerer who turned against his own kind and vowed to destroy himself to when the purge was complete, or the rebellious knight errant who vanquished the arcana with steel alone - be he the outlaw who spread chaos and deception wherever he went, or the chivalrous lord devoted to the cause of humankind - the legends persisted. Many took the mantle upon themselves - but still more would claim that, though those legends persisted far longer than the lifespan of any man, they spoke of the same person. Perhaps he had stolen a forbidden spell from the Council to grant himself immortality, perhaps it was merely the way of his extinct people - and, indeed, perhaps it really wasn’t the same man - but the truth remained as solid as reality itself; folk heroes seldom die...so long as they are needed.

And so it came to pass that, after decades upon decades of visceral darkness, madness that spread like the wildfires that consumed the once verdant plains and cruelty beyond the scope of imagination, the influence of arcana was reduced to a shadow of the all-encompassing force it had once been. With the world in ruins and the great nations only barely managing not to destroy one another completely, the final assault was launched upon the fortress-like final bastion of magick and the Old Ways sequestered deep within the great granite mountains. The Crystal City. Lexumia. Stella Viventium. A place of many names throughout many worlds.

Indeed, Adelaard was among those who lead that final campaign...And he was among those who stood upon the level expanse of nothingness where a city had once stood, wrought up out of the rock by sheer divinity and the combined efforts of the world’s most powerful sorcerers, back before the fall of Darkness. In a last ditch attempt at saving themselves from slaughter, the remaining sorcerers had whisked away their final enclave to realms unknown…

And, in their wake, left gaping a mighty portal into chaos itself.

The cyclopean, monolithic gate towered over the war party, all of whom were drawn to the swirling, abyssal madness that roiled inside. Things lurked within the primordial darkness between worlds. They could see them - entities that defied description, the very personification of all that was evil and cruel...

It was there, standing feet apart with a hand hovering, claw-like over the gun at his side at the head of a small army, that Adelaard realized his quest was far from over. Indeed, it had only just begun - in a flash of inspiration, he knew what must be done - and knew that for it, he would be damned. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

With the soldiers at his back, cyclopian gate to oblivion looming over him, the Dark Knight began to step forward. He drew his gun like lightning - it thundered in the gathering storm, slaying one after another of the abominations which were only now beginning to come through.

And so it came to pass that, after turning around to take one last look at the world and everything he had known, Adelaard the Iconoclast stepped through the gate - and sealed it behind him.

What adventures transpired among the many worlds scattered throughout the primordial chaos as the Dark Knight doggedly continued his quest to reach the unreachable star may never be known.