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Listen, close child, can you hear the sounds of beating copper, scraping iron, or chipping lead? Can you hear the metal protesting? Can you hear it wining like nails across a chalkboard? We can.

That is the symphony of Mordred, the first knight of the Umbral tempest, the Stormfather.

Look, child, look to the west. Do you see that bright flashing light crawling up over the hills like the rising sun? We do.

That blinding flare, that otherworldly gleam, is the hide of the tempest knight. Would you believe that it wasn’t always so? There was a time when its skin was as dull as yours.

Long ago, in a kingdom whose name is lost was a young woman who dreamed of being a knight, a woman who could’ve taken any man's hand but instead chose to cut her hair and trade gowns for steel. We watched her weep, unable to carry the metal of the office she worshipped.

She was a tiny thing, you see, a fragile, delicate flower courting fire and brimstone, her petals to soft and thin to take the heat. No matter, they wouldn’t have let her even if she could. In that kingdom, knighthood was not an oath taken by women. Her father merely humored her while she was young, but, on her twenty-first nameday, he broke her sword and dashed her dreams.

Can you hear them shouting, child? Can you hear the young lady crying alone, cursing her fate and her father? She spit such venom that night to make snakes jealous and was lucky to still carry her family name after that. Or maybe she wasn’t?

Your fates are so fickle and easily manipulated. How different her life would have been had her family name held no meaning. Had she been of low birth, would her life be the same? No, we see her tending the sick; we see her on the front lines wielding penicillin like flashing steel. She would’ve been famous, even after all the knights were dead and gone.

How often you commit acts of terrible evil, forcing yourself in a field born without talent. Experience can only take you so far; eventually, those without talent are left behind. Why force yourself? Why did she want to be a knight when she hadn’t the strength? Her skills were not of the blade, but she was a clever girl. How else would she have struck down the phoenix?

The great hunt was a time when knights came to distinguish themselves. The king and his family honored those who killed the greatest of beasts. What creature was more elegant and dangerous than the phoenix?

In truth, the phoenix are messengers of the Stormfather and are immortal. All phoenix dream of being birds but will only live one life as one. To slay such a creature once achieving its dream would surely draw the attention of the exalted storm.

That poor foolish girl, she found the winged phoenix alright, and she struck it down while it slept, caving its skull in with rocks from above. That creature would never live again with wings, scampering away as a kitchen mouse. As she stripped the hide and feathers, the raging beast cursed her name, invoking the might of the umbral tempest. Adorned in the colorful skin of her fallen prey, the girl returned to her kingdom but not before the storm father gazed upon her.

Do you feel the deathly calm, that unnerving silence before the crashing of waves from a swollen sea? Do you see that sickly green haze in the distance, a yellowing light beneath a thin fog? We do, and it is time to shut your doors, child; the storm is coming.

That woman never returned to her kingdom whole; instead, she was the storm. The phoenix’s skin became part of her body, which is now more rigid than the finest steel. You can see it rising in the distance, can’t you? The slightest hint of the solar wind leaking out from the horizon. That’s what the people saw, and Mordred brought with her the fires of hell.

You can still find the king and queen and all their knights upon the charred walls of that place. Their shadows will never leave even if their corpses are ashes in the wind. Mordred’s voice burns so hotly the valley became a fiery cauldron. You can’t make it to the capital without leaving your skin behind. Still, we can see her wandering that place. Mordred carries her broken sword but has no need to draw it since her claws are enough. There are no knights alive who can compare to her might.

But, tell me, child, when you look upon her feathered skins and flashing hide, when you see her teeth and nails like lightning strikes in the distance and her home a blackened husk fit only for the children of shadow, do you think she got what she wanted?

Listen close, child. Listen close to the Deacons as we tell the story of the Stormbringer www.deviantart.com/fafnir313/a…

Description

Listen, close child, can you hear the sounds of beating copper, scraping iron, or chipping lead? Can you hear the metal protesting? Can you hear it wining like nails across a chalkboard? We can.

That is the symphony of Mordred, the first knight of the Umbral tempest, the Stormfather.

Look, child, look to the west. Do you see that bright flashing light crawling up over the hills like the rising sun? We do.

That blinding flare, that otherworldly gleam, is the hide of the tempest knight. Would you believe that it wasn’t always so? There was a time when its skin was as dull as yours.

Long ago, in a kingdom whose name is lost was a young woman who dreamed of being a knight, a woman who could’ve taken any man's hand but instead chose to cut her hair and trade gowns for steel. We watched her weep, unable to carry the metal of the office she worshipped.

She was a tiny thing, you see, a fragile, delicate flower courting fire and brimstone, her petals to soft and thin to take the heat. No matter, they wouldn’t have let her even if she could. In that kingdom, knighthood was not an oath taken by women. Her father merely humored her while she was young, but, on her twenty-first nameday, he broke her sword and dashed her dreams.

Can you hear them shouting, child? Can you hear the young lady crying alone, cursing her fate and her father? She spit such venom that night to make snakes jealous and was lucky to still carry her family name after that. Or maybe she wasn’t?

Your fates are so fickle and easily manipulated. How different her life would have been had her family name held no meaning. Had she been of low birth, would her life be the same? No, we see her tending the sick; we see her on the front lines wielding penicillin like flashing steel. She would’ve been famous, even after all the knights were dead and gone.

How often you commit acts of terrible evil, forcing yourself in a field born without talent. Experience can only take you so far; eventually, those without talent are left behind. Why force yourself? Why did she want to be a knight when she hadn’t the strength? Her skills were not of the blade, but she was a clever girl. How else would she have struck down the phoenix?

The great hunt was a time when knights came to distinguish themselves. The king and his family honored those who killed the greatest of beasts. What creature was more elegant and dangerous than the phoenix?

In truth, the phoenix are messengers of the Stormfather and are immortal. All phoenix dream of being birds but will only live one life as one. To slay such a creature once achieving its dream would surely draw the attention of the exalted storm.

That poor foolish girl, she found the winged phoenix alright, and she struck it down while it slept, caving its skull in with rocks from above. That creature would never live again with wings, scampering away as a kitchen mouse. As she stripped the hide and feathers, the raging beast cursed her name, invoking the might of the umbral tempest. Adorned in the colorful skin of her fallen prey, the girl returned to her kingdom but not before the storm father gazed upon her.

Do you feel the deathly calm, that unnerving silence before the crashing of waves from a swollen sea? Do you see that sickly green haze in the distance, a yellowing light beneath a thin fog? We do, and it is time to shut your doors, child; the storm is coming.

That woman never returned to her kingdom whole; instead, she was the storm. The phoenix’s skin became part of her body, which is now more rigid than the finest steel. You can see it rising in the distance, can’t you? The slightest hint of the solar wind leaking out from the horizon. That’s what the people saw, and Mordred brought with her the fires of hell.

You can still find the king and queen and all their knights upon the charred walls of that place. Their shadows will never leave even if their corpses are ashes in the wind. Mordred’s voice burns so hotly the valley became a fiery cauldron. You can’t make it to the capital without leaving your skin behind. Still, we can see her wandering that place. Mordred carries her broken sword but has no need to draw it since her claws are enough. There are no knights alive who can compare to her might.

But, tell me, child, when you look upon her feathered skins and flashing hide, when you see her teeth and nails like lightning strikes in the distance and her home a blackened husk fit only for the children of shadow, do you think she got what she wanted?

Listen close, child. Listen close to the Deacons as we tell the story of the Stormbringer www.deviantart.com/fafnir313/a…