Lord Heir of House Hildebrandt
Name: Sir Arthur Hildebrandt
Eyes: Dark Brown
Weapon: Two-Handed Sun Splitter Greatsword
Armor: War Dog Mk.1
Sir Arthur the Merciful, Lord Heir of Hildebrandt, First born of the First Born, Knight-Lieutenant of the House, Captain of the Vanguard.
Arthur stood as rigid as a statue in the waiting room of the castle medical bay. Blood mottled his hair and caked his armor. The ringing of screams and clashing metal still hung in his ears; a symphony of death. The battle had been won, but another battle has just begun just beyond this door. Arthur hadn’t seen the spear until it was too late. In the blink of an eye, the spear was replaced by a man. A man he recognized as Apollo, a swordsman in the Hildebrand vanguard. He had given his life in exchange for Arthur’s. A debt Arthur intended to repay. He had scooped up Apollo and carried him personally from the battlefield. The medics did all they could, but the spear had dealt a mortal blow. Everything lies in Markavious’ hands now.
Normally, the ascension process is limited to only the bravest, most capable soldiers who had given their all for the glory of their house. It took debate and an order of the Lord for the operation to be done. But Arthur didn’t have time for debate, nor for approval from his mother. This man was dying, and he could not think of anyone more worthy of the procedure.
Arthur slammed his plated fist into the wall, chipping away concrete leaving a large dent.
He should’ve seen the spear. He must become stronger if he is to lead this House.
The door to the operating room slid open, and out stepped Markavious.
“The ascension is complete, although there were some hiccups in the memory transfer. You may see him now. Try not to overwhelm him. It is a very jarring process for a man who just died.”
Markavious eyed the wall by the door and sighed.
“If you must break something, I ask that you don’t do it in here.”
He smirked and walked past Arthur.
Arthur collected himself and marched through the door to greet the man…no…the immortal who had saved his life.
Beads of sweat fell to the ground as Arthur lay into the practice dummy. The lost capitol had state of the art training bots with adaptive difficulty algorithms. The foe he now sparred with reminded him of something from the dark ages. It’s form molded plasteel body barely taking the visage of a man. Worst of all, it was stationary. The longer their forces stay in this place, the more Arthur found he missed his home. The home he failed to protect.
Why? Why wasn’t he strong enough? He always placed first in training against anyone but Apollo. Now his friend is forever imprisoned in a battle frame. Titus repelled an invasion with only six men. Arthur couldn’t with an entire army at his disposal. Now he had lost almost everything. He will never be worthy of Judgement. At this rate, he would barely be worthy of lordship.
Ever since he was young, all Arthur had ever wanted to be was a knight. When he was five, he went missing for many hours. The castle guards searched all over the keep for him. They finally found him in the crypts with a pot on his head, swinging a ladle around as if it was a sword. His mother laughed for ten whole minutes when she was told. His eighteenth birthday was the greatest day of his life. It was the day he received his knighthood. He dreamed of leading his House to bright new future. Now all of it has turned to dust. His line will crumble and die with him on some forgotten battlefield. The conquerors will seize his lands and slaughter his people. His legacy will be one of blood and ruin…
He will not give in.
As long as the blood of Titus flows through his veins, he will fight.
Justice is his shield.
Fury; his weapon.
Salvation lay at the tip of his blade. He is the Lord Heir of Hildebrandt. Commander of its armies. He is Sir Arthur, Knight of True Steel!
The song of the sword rang through the courtyard and Arthur danced to its rhythm. The world seemed to melt away as the blood red blade arced and pitched, moving through the fading light as though to cut the sun. Man and sword intertwined twisting, spinning, thrusting. Arthur ran down the list of sword forms passed down through the generations. Connecting and flowing one to another with increasing ferocity. Crane Threads the Needle pivots into Tiger Leaps From Bushes. Snake Takes the Apple rises into Bear Shakes the Pole. Rhyno Smashes Gate. Rhyno Smashes Gate. RHYNO SMASHES GATE. Somewhere in the distance a name is being called, echoing louder and louder until-
Arthur snapped out of his reverie. Bits of mangled practice dummy littered the courtyard. Blood from his hands fell to the ground and mixed with the sweat at his feet. Arthur turned toward the voice as his greatsword crackled, sputtered, and fell to ash.
The immortal looked Arthur up and down. Arthur could only guess what he thought. Mechanical eyes are notoriously difficult to read, and these eyes happened to belong to Viktor Forge. Viktor was always something of an enigma to Arthur. He was Arthur’s bastard half brother; later ascended for reasons Arthur never understood. He never bid for rule. Never requested legitimacy. His past has always been painted with vague secrecy. None of it mattered to Arthur. The only thing Arthur needed to know was that Viktor served his House with honor.
“Sir Arthur? Is everythin-”
“Everything is fine, Viktor. I just needed a little exercise.”
The pain of defeat washed clear of his mind. Arthur watched the setting sun dip closer to the horizon. Where there once was fear and dout, he found only purpose. Arthur gazed down at the large hilt in his hand, blood soaking into the grip.
“Even a broken sword can be reforged.”
“Walk with me, Viktor. We have work to do.”
The blood of titans flows through my veins. Their legacy gives me strength.