The legend of the Blood Knight (origin story for a Scarred Lands Death Knight).

In the early days of Calastia, before the Empire of the Black Dragon, there was a time of independent provinces, of which Calas was but one. Local lords had taken over their respective governorships in the collapse of the Ledean Empire, and they allied, or warred, with each other as swiftly as the changing seasons.

Of these, the most ill-favored was the land of the Blood Knight. This warlord had carved his fiefdom out of a small mountain community, ruled with an iron fist in the name of Chardun from his mountain keep, once an outpost of the Ledean Empire where a troop of guards were stationed to keep watch over the mountain passes. His reputation was fearsome, and he never was seen outside of the keep without his black iron full-plate, adorned in savage curving blades and spikes. His black steed, which he always called Phantom, although he was known to have several such in his stables, was trained to be as vicious and savage as he, and ate meal soaked in blood, to help instill in it a taste for human flesh. It’s armor as well carried spikes, and on nose-guard was a curving blade, so that even the toss of its head could cause dagger-like wounds on those around it.

He carried a spiked mace into battle, along side a large spiked iron shield, with curving blades not only from the center of the boss, but also sharpened edges, the better to cleave downwards into a fallen foe, and sometimes a large curved single-bladed axe as well, for use when mounted atop Phantom.

It was the custom of the time for the local warlords to send champions to knightly tournaments, and there to compete for prizes of gold and the favors of the daughters of high station, although the Blood Knight had never been known to take interest in such showmanship. His only concession to the rules of knightly conduct was in the challenge-duels he fought with any knight or champion who came openly into the town surrounding his grim keep. Of these duels, he had lost not one, and it was ever so briefly in fashion for a young champion looking to prove himself to present himself for such a challenge. The ‘fashion’ lasted a single summer, long enough for word to spread that those the Blood Knight felled were taken hostage, as was sometimes the custom in such duels, but that the ransom was inevitably many times what even a noble family could afford (or would sensibly part with), demands of land, castles or a dozen noble maidens, as well as wagon-loads of gold coin. None were ever ransomed, and in the single case where one may have been, as the family had gone to great lengths to nearly beggar itself to raise the demanded funds by entreating allies and foes alike to contribute to the return of their favored son, a bandit assault on the gathering resulted in the funds desired never arriving at their destination, and no survivors among the family gathered to oversee the transfer. Many suspected foul play, but none could be proven, and the custom of challenging the Blood Knight fell out of favor. So he brooded in his far keep, and entertained himself in whatever bloody fashion suited his black moods, and the aristocrats of the land turned to other matters, more close to home.

Years later, surviving servants were said to speak of the awful fates of those held in his prisons, that he would visit them nightly after dinner and spent long hours into the night, and that from the vents to the underground cells would come hellish red glares, muffled screams and the stench of burning meat. When he would finally stagger forth, sometimes only when the light of dawn lit the top of the peaks, he would be crazed, eyes wild, and the servants knew to avoid him at all costs in such temper, for his hungers were unpredictable, violent and not to be denied.

Still, the years passed, and the Blood Knight was not known to raid his neighbors, or otherwise entertain designs on other local warlords authority, and so he was ignored, spoken of only as a night terror come to snatch unruly children, and generally forgotten to be a real person, even by those living within a few days travel of his mountain fortress.

So it came as quite a surprise when a summer tourney season began, and the Blood Knight, along with a dozen retainers, some visibly undead and accompanied by a swarm of carrion crows, arrived at tourney and registered for the games. Many pointed and whispered, and it was even openly proclaimed that this was some poseur taking the appearance of the infamous Blood Knight to make a name for himself, as his own name was not worthy of note. Others said that he must be over fifty years of age, barely able to sit his magnificent steed, and they wagered that he would be unhorsed, and unmanned, within the first minutes of the joust.

The maidens dispensing favor to the competitors had no idea how to react. It was tradition for the ladies to decide amongst themselves, based on vicious politicking, social ranking and occasional acts of blackmail, intimidation and barely-concealed violence, which lady would ‘sponsor’ which young champion, and in so doing earn a chance to be courted by that young lord, whether he won or lost the tourney (naturally, one would prefer to be courted by the winner, so the odds-on favorites where hotly fought over, particularly if their families were wealthy). No lady of standing wanted to be the lady of the Blood Knight’s far-off mountain keep, barely a pile of stones in the hinterlands, days from any city, or even township of note, and his reputation spoke of no great wealth or gentle birth. It was not even clear if this was even the true Blood Knight, or perhaps some usurping bandit in the armor of a man who died years past.

And so favors were dispensed, and some champions bore the favors of more than one lesser ranked lady, who were willing to compete for the affections of an aristocrats son, but the Blood Knight rode into the joust with no favor, for no lady would grace him with such.

The joust was merciless. The young noblemen, fresh from playing at war for a generation were no match for such savagery, and the Blood Knight seemed built for carnage, even his horse taking swipes at the opponents steed, crippling one rivals steed in passing after the lances snapped, and forcing the battle to proceed on foot, where the Blood Knight used the spikes of his own armor to bear his foe to the ground, after his spiked mace tore the mans shield from his nerveless fingers. The favored son, Darrus, a skilled warrior who was expected to win, and bearing the lilac-scented silken scarf of the highest ranked (and thus, most vicious) lady in the provinces of Calas, finally stood in the final challenge against the Blood Knight, both having defeated all comers, one through sheer bloody-mindedness and the other through a graceful display of weapon prowess.

Their first lances snapped, and while the Blood Knight drew blood from his foes face with a backhand swipe as he passed, it was not enough to discourage the young man from taking a second lance. Fortune did not favor the young champion, as the second lance caught him under the helmet and stuck, causing him to be vaulted from his steed and hang briefly before a horrified audience from the Blood Knights lance like a boneless metal pennant before crashing thunderously to the ground. His throat had been crushed, and he lie on the ground, neck askew, unable even to breath. The Blood Knight laughed as he dismounted and crossed to his foe. He raised his helmed face to the assembled nobles as if in question, and slowly, the boys father raised a hand for him to finish it, as he knew that his son would never survive, that death would be a mercy. Bringing the edge of his bladed shield down, the Blood Knight severed the young mans head to the shock of all watching, and reached down to take the lady Beatta’s favor from his arm, clutching the now-bloodied scrap of lace from his spiked fist as he strode forwards to claim his prize.

The boys father had to be dragged away by his own retainers, as he objected to the desecration of his son’s body, and the token golden statuette of man on horseback was tossed to the Blood Knight by a tourney official who would not step down to the grounds to present it to the grim warrior. Those remaining broke up hastily, and the Blood Knight rode off immediately without comment, which probably saved him from having to fight his way out, as angered relations and aristocrats steeled their nerve to protest the days events.

It was that night that the lady Beatta was abducted from her home, and only the bloody scrap of lace was left in her stead, as evidence of her fate.

Two days later, having assembled a sizeable force of outraged allies, the ladies father rode into sight of the Blood Knights grim keep, ever in the shadow of the Kelders, to see smoke rising from the smoldering ruins.

A small ragtag group of servants and guardsmen remained, and they told of the ladies arrival and what followed. In a gown of scarlet, but wearing chains of iron, she attended a feast and was married to the Blood Knight in a grim ceremony overseen by a hooded priest. Her mouth was gagged, and so she could not even protest the proceedings. After the ceremony, she was carried to the Blood Knights private chambers in the central tower, and the next she was seen was in the morning, wrapped in a sheet hanging from her chains midway down the tower, having leapt to her death in the night.

The servant who woke the Blood Knight with the news of his betrothed’s death was slain out of hand, strangled as the other servants present ran from the room. He strode forth armored and armed, and slew all who approached him, including a guardsman who tried to speak words of reason to him. It was only in seeing their own fall, that the remaining guards turned against their lord and fired their crossbows into his body. A dozen bolts and still he staggered forwards, until finally a thrown spear from his hand-selected captain sank into his gut and he stumbled backwards to lean against the well in the center of the courtyard. He raised his hand, and perhaps was about to speak a final curse on those who had betrayed him whom they swore to serve, but a fresh volley of crossbow bolts cut his words short, and he fell backwards into the well, leaving a trail of blood on the stones to mark his passing.

The remaining guards and servants, looking askance at the befouled well, backset by the grim image of the hanging corpse of their lords ‘wife,’ seized their belongings and fired the keep, vowing never to return to the mountains shadow. Of the prisoners in the dungeons, some of noble birth, those that could be recognized, who retained enough reason to understand their choice, chose death rather than be ‘rescued,’ saying only that it was too late and that they had seen too much to remain in this world.

The guardsmen told the arriving lords that during the first night, flames had shot up out of the well, that hell had arrived to claim its own, and that they would never return to the shadow of the Kelders, for they feared that someday the Blood Knight would crawl forth from the well, to seek his revenge on those who betrayed him…