This story takes place on the eve of Dav's march in Vandago and the start of the Consolidation. Aelwyn finds him in contemplation on the battlements of the palace and suggests a trip to renew his vows and his faith before the final plunge.
Chapel Perilous, for want of a better name, is based off a section of Wolfram's Parcieval in which the knight enters a holy space that is no longer what it seems to be.
Dav and the Chapel Perilous
On the eve of his march of conquest, a dear friend of the king sensed the shadow of doubt over the man’s heart. Aelwyn, with yet twenty years to live, rest a hand upon his sovereign’s shoulder and bade him:
“My king, a man and blade are one when given a soldier’s wage by God,
But in his contemplation and zeal for the sting of battle
His body may sharpen to the quick, leaving not but the naked blade of the Soul.
Renew, my king, or you will only be able to cut when battle is done,
A blade too sharp to know any sheath but flesh, any friend but war,
Having forgotten the succor of the Lord, the wisdom to rule and reason to March.”
The warrior-king took these words to heart, knowing that Aelwyn knew his mind as friend and advisor over these long years. He asked of him the course of action to take to find succor before the plunge into the lands of Vandago, vassal to The Island Nation. Aelwyn raised his arm, pointing to the West and the backbone of the Tarn.
“Seek you, my king, the place where you first satisfied your thirst.
Take only yourself, no armor or escort; only a single page.
Drink deep and wash the sword that will unify the world.
Walk the same path you used to gain revelation and with every step
You will become a pilgrim again into the divine realm of the Lord.
Refill your cup at the Source, and from it drink deep the resolve you require.”
Upon his guard captain and advisor’s words, the good king Dav sent word to the barracks to see that a young page be prepared to ride out with him in the morning. The king, before his lonely bed, peered toward the wheel of the Heavens and saw the foreboding moon of the Warrior in its full wax. He prayed, that night, and found his sleep. The page, a lad of fourteen, stared at the same moon and his mind whirled at the coming prospect of dawn. He, too, prayed at his bedside with the bloody eye of heaven peering through his window:
“Lord, whom with bright blade of Justice did make clear the world for man,
Accept the prayer of humility and for succor under the dread-moon.
Fill my cup with wisdom, so that I know how to serve a King in his hour of need.”
The boy took to his bed but could not sleep. Eagerness and dread let his eyes rest only an instant before his mind settled into uneasy dreams. His mind, filled with the fog of night, thought that the clarion call sounded the king’s departure. Bolting from his bed, he took to the stables and departed with the haste of storm toward the mountains. The moon still filled the sky and the sun was many hours off. A call came up as the boy’s horse disappeared up the Pilgrim’s Path. The king sat up in his bed.
“Lord, what foul moon now drowns the stars from my sight,
A faithful lamb has wandered on, in zeal to me and to you.
I will not let one life suffer for the weight upon my head.
Saddle my horse, and fetch my sword! I ride in haste toward the chapel!
Space erected in dire memory of awe-struck revelation,
Sad place, where ill-rumor speaks of shadow and unnatural vines.”
The king, a zephyr upon a steed, did ride into the Tarn after his page. As hoof beats tore at the rock of the thin pilgrim’s road, the sun did rise and begin to fall in the valley of the Spring. With his mount tied at the crossroads, the page continued on foot toward the Upper Spring and the place that, in holiness built, was now clad in a fell air. Vines clung to the fresh-cut stone, impossible in short weeks since its construction. Upon the heavy wooden doors, the page did pound, seeking the clerics and stewards left behind.
“My friends, dear priests and guards of sacred ground, bar me not!
I seek the King and am his man upon a pilgrimage. I pray, answer!
The page’s voice echoed off the stone and faded among the trees.”
Distant waters’ roar, reminder of Spring and pool, dimmed to grave stillness and left the page with his thoughts and labored breath. His form collapsed against the door in desperation. Tears touched his face and prayers flew from his lips out of fear that he had betrayed his king and lost the man. As if to answer, the doors parted. A league away, the King rode his mount until both were bloody and exhausted. With the sun fading below the grasp of the trees and the boy’s life at stake, he had no choice but to spur onward. The boy moved within the darkness of the church, only able to see a march of candles burning upon the walls and the Cup sitting upon the altar.
The boy moved forward, finding no keeper or cleric within the shadows cast by the writhing flames. Though constructed quickly at the sight, there was no expense spared. First among chapels, the floors were of smooth’d stone and the candles clad in gold. As the page moved to examine one of them, another’s light snuffed from across the room. In his fear, he removed the candle from its spot and held it out against the darkness. A voice like the wind of winter tore at the air and the doors of the chapel sealed against the approach of dusk.
“Thief! Infant with sticky hands! What hold you there? Think to burn me with that?
My own flame? Thief! Fiend that steps in this place and shakes in his boots?”
“I am no thief, serrah! I am a page to the King and only seek him here. Spare me, keeper, I did not know anyone was here. The light has gone out and I only wished to see!”
The darkness moved against the boy, wrapping around him like a dozen serpents. A scream tore from his lungs as the teeth of night smote his side. It reached the king’s ears as he approached the sealed doors of the chapel. Silence weighed upon him from then on save for the heavy beat of his heart. With sword in hand, he brought his shoulder to bare against the chapel door and plummeted into the darkness it afforded him. No light from candle or window crept through, leaving the man blind as the doors swung closed behind him. A fell laugh slithered from the darkness.
“Here is the King come for his man, with no light to aid him. Raise your sword!
You have come to fight against the very Night! One that has waited for you!
Behold, upon the altar, your little lamb! He is slaughtered for your foolishness!”
The king seeing nothing, strode into the darkness with his blade raised high. Blows moved from the black, tearing at flesh and cloth or ringing against his sword. His strength began to wane under the onslaught, and he crumpled to his knee. In desperation, he raised his arm and sword to shield himself, praying:
“Lord, give me strength to defend against the darkness!
An innocent has fallen because of my quest and I must mete justice.”
Upon the altar, a flicker of light pushed back the darkness. The page, the golden candle still clutched in his hand, held it aloft with the remainder of his strength. The king, eyes able to see his foe, a mass of shadow wrapped around the vague form of man, returned smite for smite. As each limb was removed, another candle reignited upon the wall, bathing the chapel in a welcome glow. Like oil spilled upon the ground, the fiend quivered and oozed upon the stone. The king, tears in his eyes, moved to the altar and scooped up the broken page in his arms.
“My boy, you have saved my life even as I have lost yours.
Forgive me and know that there is only reward for honor.
As your light has seen me through the dark, so will all be saved.
I find my resolve in the heavy cup you have given me, my son.
For your honor, and all those before you, I drink deep of resolve.
To shield the Land and see it clean. One Cup, One King.”
With those words, the king recovered the Chalice from the floor of the chapel and gave the boy his last rites on his way back to the Lord. The burning candle, symbol of hope, was cast into the oily slick left behind by the hellish fiend. A blaze burned, matching the fire with the heart of the Uniter. Unnatural vine and demonic darkness fell away from the Chapel. Fresh morning light poured in as a new day greeted the King as he rode from the hills and toward the front of his lines. The march to Vandago had begun.
Chapel Perilous
Yeah. I've used this one on-grid a few times, but the telling of it changed from each one. I still remember turning people off with this story, because it's not very happy. One of those triumphant stories that's sort of horrible to get through. With the dialog written out as it is, I hope someone picks it up and turns it into a pastoral play or something in-game.
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