Armour

Chapter 1: Dirt Mead

This is the chronicle of how I, once a humble laborer, ascended to knighthood and delivered the Princess of Eldritch from peril. Though such sagas have echoed through the halls of history, mine bears a singular distinction. For I was not born amidst velvet and marble, nor did noble blood course through my veins. My origins lay deep within the earth, a coal miner by trade—yet, if truth be told, a master of my craft.

It was upon a day when fortune, rare and capricious, smiled upon me. My liege lord, in an uncharacteristic display of benevolence, granted me leave to frequent the local tavern—a sanctuary where men might cast aside their burdens, if only for a fleeting hour. It was within those walls that my destiny, long dormant, began to stir.

The establishment itself exuded a warmth, an inviting aura that seemed to beckon weary souls from the chill of the evening air. It bore the name Harty’s, a legacy inherited by its current keeper, Olver Harty, from his sire before him.

Olver Harty was a man of stern countenance, seldom given to mirth or levity. His reputation for severity was well-earned; none who incurred his ire would find themselves welcome beneath his roof again. To cross him was to find oneself cast out, and the threshold of Harty’s would remain forever barred.

“What shall it be?” Olver inquired, his voice as gruff as the timbers that framed the hearth. Upon entering, I found myself acutely aware of my meager means; the scant coins in my pouch would purchase naught but the most common mead, a brew of such poor quality it bore the taste of earth upon the tongue. Yet even so, it was a small comfort, preferable to none at all.

“Mead, if you please,” I replied, my words hurried, not wishing to occupy more of his time than necessary.

“Coming right up!” he cheerfully said before whistling the sea shanty When She Comes Home. It’s a beautiful tune. Here are its lyrics:

Verse I

Oh, the wind it blows wild on the cold northern foam

And the gulls cry their sorrow for sailors who roam

But my heart beats a drum in the hush of the gloam

For the light that shall shine when she comes home

Chorus

So raise up the lantern, let it burn bright

Guide her through tempest and shadow of night

Sing to the heavens, let the bells loudly roam

All will be well when she comes home

Verse II

With a cloak stitched of longing and boots worn by years

She braves the salt spray and the mariner’s fears

The stars mark her passage, the moon carves her dome

And hope is the sail that brings her home

Chorus

So raise up the lantern, let it burn bright

Guide her through tempest and shadow of night

Sing to the heavens, let the bells loudly roam

All will be well when she comes home

Verse III

The harbor lies waiting, the hearth’s embers glow

The children keep watch where the wild roses grow

With each dawn that breaks on the crest of the foam

We whisper our prayers: let her come home

Chorus

So raise up the lantern, let it burn bright

Guide her through tempest and shadow of night

Sing to the heavens, let the bells loudly roam

All will be well when she comes home

Outro

So gather ye round, let your voices be one

For the journey is ended, the wandering done

With arms open wide and no more to roam

We’ll dance in the light—when she comes home

Suddenly, the door swung open with a gust of chill air, and a man of ragged appearance entered, his garments stained by travel and neglect. Without preamble, he strode to the counter and demanded a measure of whisky. It was plain to see, from the tightening of Olver Harty’s jaw and the narrowing of his eyes, that he knew this patron well—and held him in no affection.

“Payment first,” Harty intoned, extending a calloused hand, palm up, in expectation of silver. In Eldritch, such coins—known as Caperci—were the currency of the affluent, a stark contrast to the humble Denicci of copper that filled the purses of men like myself. I could not help but feel a pang of envy for those of noble birth: the barons and dukes, the kings and queens, whose coffers overflowed with riches enough to purchase a dozen castles on a whim, and for whom the specter of want was but a distant myth.

“Very well,” the man muttered, surrendering three Caperci with evident reluctance. Harty, wasting no further words, set about his task and poured a generous measure of whisky into a glass—a spirit I had tasted but once in my life, and that only on a rare occasion.

Here’s where my story really begins, though. The man whose name I had not caught began calling me a bastard son and called my mother a harlot and the swine of the earth.

“Keep your b****y mouth shut! Or I’ll shut it for you,” I hissed. He simply burst into laughter, as if this was one huge joke. This angered me profoundly, and I struck him in the face with all my strength. I’m quite strong, having worked in the coal mines for around twenty years. He fell back on his derriere and cried out in agony.

“What the hell was that for?!” he roared.

“Take this outside!” Harty demanded, causing the drunks to groan. They wanted to see the fight in its full glory.

Heeding his counsel, I seized the wretch by the collar and cast him bodily through the tavern’s entrance. He landed with a resounding thud upon the cobblestones, uttering another plaintive cry.

Yet scarcely had the echoes faded when, from the ground, he addressed me with a curious proposition. “Tell me, how do you feel about attaining true power? Surely, you do not wish to toil forever in the darkness of the mines,” he said, his words slurred yet laden with intent.

His offer piqued my curiosity at once, and I replied, “What must I do to see such a fate fulfilled?”

He groaned, clutching his side. “First, you might consider ceasing your assault upon my person.”

Abashed, I released my grip and drew a weary breath, chastened by my own rashness in dispatching a drunken fool.

“And then?” I pressed, impatience threading my tone.

He managed a crooked smile. “I know a knight—one who seeks a worthy apprentice. You, my friend, would make a fine candidate.”

“Me?” I exclaimed, astonished.

“No, the woodland fairy behind you,” he retorted with a wry grin. “Of course, you. What say you to such an opportunity?”

“I accept,” I declared, though caution lingered in my heart. “But first—your name?”

“Oswald,” he replied, extending a hand, which I took to help him to his feet. Gratitude flickered in his eyes.

“I am called Ian,” I answered, my voice low, uncertain whether trust was yet warranted. Still, hope stirred within me; perhaps this was the path out of my plight.

“Come, Ian,” Oswald beckoned, and I followed him from the tavern, across the village’s edge, and into a field lush with emerald grasses. Doubt gnawed at me as I surveyed our surroundings, but Oswald assured me we had arrived.

“And where is this knight you spoke of?” I inquired, glancing about in search of any sign.

“Chester! Cease your skulking in the trees—you are no monkey,” Oswald called out.

“Monkey?” I echoed, perplexed by the unfamiliar term.

He chuckled. “A creature from the distant lands of Africa. Surely you have heard tales of that far-off realm?”

“Indeed, I have heard many a strange story,” I replied, unable to suppress a smile.

At that moment, a figure burst from the shadowed wood—a man with hair the color of burnished copper, his face freckled and adorned with a matching red moustache. He stood a full head taller than I.

“Shall we begin?” Chester asked, eyes alight with anticipation.

“Let us commence,” I replied, resolve hardening within me as the first steps of my new destiny unfolded.