- Legend tells of an ancient warrior who still roams the wild frontier of Eldemore. Sitting a top a twisted steed, snorting fire and ash, and bloodied battle ax slung over his shoulder, they call him the Revenant Paladin. There are those who'll tell you he doesn't exist – that he is some myth or fantasy. But the next time you're out on the lonesome plains at dusk, and you hear the soft sound of hoof beats following you, just remember: always look forward - never back.
According to the tales, many generations ago, a great battle was raging between the Nors and the Dragoon Riders. The Nors cavalry were led by a wild eyed man called Hjortr Seolfor. He was regarded as the greatest general, and the most fearsome warrior to ever ride into battle. His Sleipnir, Stígandr, was his equal match in every regard, a steed with a taste for battle, who reveled in bloodshed and gore. Neither feared death, but welcomed it – threw up their shields and shouted to the heavens to challenge it, and death seemed to quake before their battle cry, for they charged through battle after battle without gaining a single scratch. They decimated scores of Dragoons and Drakes, and carved out a deep and bloody path through history.
Alas, not even tyrants can outrun the hourglass of life. On the day of a decisive battle, the great warrior led his troops into battle. They threw their hooks into the skies and pulled down the mighty Drakes to slay on the ground. It seemed as if the Nors had won not just the battle, but also the war. Then Fate took a hand in the events. In one fell swoop the invincible Paladin took a bolt to the heart. The force of it flung him back off his stallion and pinned him to the earth. His steed, full of unsated bloodlust, carried on regardless, hardly aware of the fate of it's master. As he charged a great Drake, the dragon struck the equine in the head, and the world went black.
As the day wore on, leaderless and outnumbered, the Paladins fell. Never one to back down, every one of their cavalry was slain that day. Horses and riders – men and women, none were spared in the wrath of the Drakes, and not one asked for less. Their spouses and children would sing the praises of that day for ever on. It seemed the days of the Paladin had passed on into the realm of songs and stories... and peace reigned in their place.
But one being looked at the smoldering battlefield, and felt anger, not at the senseless loss of life, but at the calm that had descended over it. He glowered at the watchful crows as they calmly went about their duty, cleaning up the mess in preparation for the peace that would flourish. He was Oblivion, and he would not stand for peace. He reached out a claw and gently stirred the waters, delighting in the distortions the ripples caused. Across the field only one soul lay living - Stígandr, knocked unconscious by the blow, legs broken and twisted, bleeding and close to death. The breath of Oblivion stirred his mane, and slowly, agonizingly, the Sleipnir got up, thinking to fight. He fell down almost as soon as he got his feet under him. He cried out to his Paladin, but his whinny was too weak. His breathing slowed. A crow landed on the horse and pecked at his face.
Oblivion snarled. He reached out and picked up the fallen Sleipnir, imbuing him with new strength as he righted him on his legs. The equine felt his life return, and his pain lessen. He looked about him in astonishment. And then he saw his fallen rider and his cry of utter loss sent the crows scattering. Full of rage and anger, as Oblivion had intended, the Sleipnir rushed off towards Alabaster intending to destroy the city under his hooves. The power of the Ancient coursed through his veins, with every step he grew stronger and stronger, until it looked as if he very well could take down the city and start another war all on his own.
Fate saw all this, and her concern grew. After all the trouble she'd gone through to end the bloodshed, here was her brother meddling once again. She flew off to the Guardian of the Dead, the Gravekeeper Ancient. Time was running short, could he not give her this one favor, she begged of him? The Gravekeeper gave her a slow blink, considering carefully. By all rights the Sleipnir was his, and Oblivion had committed a grievous sin by taking that from him. Still, to give up another soul... Fate wheedled and wiled, and the two struck upon a deal. She would ensure sweet sacrifices of delicious candy for him every Hallow's Eve, if he would but grant this one time a boon.
And so the Gravekeeper, took the fiery wisp of the warrior's soul and put it back into his battered body. The man awoke, utterly terrified for the first time in his life to see an arrow in place of his heart, and his Sleipnir nowhere to be found. Quickly Fate spirited him to his rampaging steed just as the Sleipnir reached the gates of Alabaster.
When he saw his master, the Sleipnir's rage and pain melted away, and he went to his bonded. The fire of Oblivion died in his eyes, and was replaced by an unmatched love. Peace it seemed, would come to both them and Eldmore soon enough, and the two laid down to die in the verdant groves of the Endless Forest.
But in a cruel twist of fate, they discovered they could not. Compelled by the ancients, death would come to neither of them. They had become pawns of the Ancients themselves – subjects to Oblivion and Fate both – neither can they die, nor can they take life ever again. This is the curse they must bear, to wander Eldemore the rest of their days, acting on the will of the Ancients until they have atoned for their original sins.
It's said they wandered South, away from the memories of their homeland, to Faldurin's Reach, where the legend goes they helped reestablish the Paladins in this new land. To this day it's said they roam the wilder reaches of the frontier, doing Fate's dirty work. So take heed - when you see a shadowy silhouette on the horizon for a split second, when you hear the plodding of footsteps, but no breath, when you smell the scent of blood and death when there's no cause for it... the Revenant Paladin is near.
Fate's very own gun for hire.
- Notes:
Umm... yeah...
What with the new Paladin Lore, I was talking with some others about how sad it would be if a Paladin or his Sleipnir was killed in battle and the other somehow survived. And I was all for spiritual journeys of healing and finding love again, and then Sphye said something about making a deal with Sully/Oblivion to get them back, and that led to zombies, and Gravekeeper Ancient and candy, and Tyasi insisted on no happiness. And then I got the 'Ballad of Paladin' stuck in my head, since I wanted Paladin cowboys, and then there was this awesome sketch Griff did, and then I decided to write a story about an undead, zombie Viking Paladin with a giant axe, who is also a cowboy...
soooooo....
This happened.
Blame Bena! It's all her and her awesome lore's fault. *runs away* (This is totally my new headcanon though - I want it to be an actual Eldemore ghost story, that may or may not actually be true. XP)
Oh, and there was supposed to be an Otterling too, but I couldn't figure out how to fit one into the legend that made sense. Maybe I'll think of one later.
And oh yeah! I didn't really read this over or edit it, and I wrote it at one in the morning, so please feel free to point out any mistakes you find. I'll read it over again tomorrow, I was just excited to get it up.
