Featured Knight: Lord Raven

While not being the outright winner of this months "The Pen is Mightier" Challenge, it was a splendidly written short, and a lot of writers-to-be could learn a lot about what entails describing a scene from this. Without further ado, enjoy Lord Ravens "A Knights Mission"

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It’s a night just like that in which Mirrean digs her toes into the snow, praying to her otherworldly patron deity to see her through this. She’s been sent on a mission to this land specifically because it’s the coldest night of the year. Adorned with the finest furs, she feels no warmer than she would bare and vulnerable. The silver sword at her side burns to touch, and yet her wrist is safely secured upon it. Her eyes sting in the sharp frosty wind, yet they dart to and fro in an attempt to protect from ambush. Their protests are as meaningless as the blood and dirt covered up by the fluff from above.

The visibility is poor, the winds so strong the visceral crunch of snow with every step can barely be made out. Her skin is numb, her reflexes frozen and launching through molasses.

Her body is prepared for this, trained night and day for the last decade under the faithful knights at her lord’s keep. She remembers harsh lessons and dark chidings, but those aren’t what keeps her alive and moving forward into the whispery fantasma she’s been tasked to. It’s the brighter memories. The times she felt her heart soar and her world gain colors anew. Her lungs blow visible air now, too sharp for her lungs to take in without consequence let alone properly let out, but that’s not what she thinks about. Her memories are cast to the times that led up to this. The trust her lord’s smile held when he told her he believed she could do this. The warmth spread around the fire that filled her with the very dedication she uses now to keep herself moving. A phantom flows from the crunchy wasteland below, and her sword is beckoned from its scabbard without a thought. Years of dedication drawing truth and cutting down monsters when cutting the very air is impossible for her conscious abilities. Silver is what these creatures need, put to rest and let loose away from those that would suffer here under their directive.

She says not a word, conserving her energy as much as she can for the next wisp and strike. She finds herself begging for it, and relieved something fierce when the scrape of mystical claw generates a spark of ember for her against her trusty blade. It’s warmth for her hands, for her face, for their freshly leaving souls.

This is the difference between a weary knight and a weary vagabond. She marches on, charges towards the threat when that without an oath would become a renegade and set flight with wings of shame. Determination flows from her every twitching muscle, another ghast finds itself falling to the snow to dissipate. A lost soul soon reunited with the very nightmares it used to haunt, no more a threat than a joyous memory. Her mission is simple; release this place from its torment no matter the odds, and see to it that the innocent can continue their lives with laughter and light hearts on the morrow.