Waking up in the bed the next morning—or whatever passed for morning in this perpetually twilight-tinged world—I shot up with a start. I always seemed to do that, but it was especially prevalent today. For a moment, I was disoriented, the strange surroundings throwing me off. My eyes were bleary, and my brain felt like it was playing catch-up.
"Alright, now, Leo," I mumbled to myself, doing a quick mental check for stroke symptoms—but everything seemed in working order, so I calmed down a bit.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I set my bare feet on the cool stone floor and stood up to stretch. The familiar sounds of the bog filtered in through the walls, the croaks and whispers a constant backdrop to this surreal experience. It was impossible to tell what time it was, the twilight outside I couldn’t help noticing again providing no clues. Time seemed like a fluid concept here in the Trial, especially in this tower of Riddara.
I moved to throw on the borrowed clothes I’d been wearing lately, from where they lie crumpled on the stone floor, but something caught my eye. On one of the tables in the room lay a folded pile of clothing. Curious, I wandered over to examine the offerings, nearly naked as I was.
Unfolding the garments, I found a dark green woolen shirt, long at the bottom, that reminded me of serf blouses from those medieval textbooks we had in school. It was coarse to the touch but looked surprisingly durable. Below the shirt, there was a pair of dark brown leather pants with a string-tie in front, a far cry from the button and zipper I was accustomed to. Accompanying these were thick, knee-high socks, more akin to tights than anything modern, dyed a pale green. Last but not least, there was a pair of mid-calf length boots, also leather, darker brown than the pants, almost with a hint of crimson in the right light. There weren’t never any right light, here, I supposed, but there was the soft glow within the chamber that I still couldn’t see a source for, so maybe you could consider it proper illumination. You know. In a pinch.
"Well, ain't this something," I said aloud, inspecting the clothing. It was like something straight out of a period drama, or maybe a Renaissance fair. Shrugging, I figured it was better than the tattered remnants of what I’d been wearing when I first stumbled into this mess.
With one last glance to the poor tech’s stolen garments, I began to dress myself in my new swag, the fabric of the shirt scratching against my skin, the leather of the pants stiff but fitting surprisingly well. The socks were snug, and the boots, once I got them on, were actually quite comfortable, molded to my feet as if they’d been made for me. Which, now that everything was on, I wondered if that wasn’t the case. Seemed to make a sort of sense, you know? I was doing this thing now—whatever it actually was—so, the least they could do was provide me with the proper attire…right?
It was a strange feeling, being decked out in what felt like a costume from another time, but it also felt oddly right, like I was stepping into a role I was meant to play. Funny how that works.
Fully dressed, I took a moment to look myself over. The outfit was practical, clearly designed for mobility and durability, and, what was more—it gave me a sense of being part of this world. There was something that really resonated with my sentiments about this fit, like I should have been used to wearing it already. Probably had to do with it being my apparent home. Still, I felt more like a participant now, less like an interloper who had stumbled into a story that wasn’t his.
It was a good feeling.
With a deep breath, I prepared myself for whatever the day would bring. I had no idea what challenges to expect on this fine…foggy twilit day. But I was here. In the Trial, dressed like some medieval adventurer, ready to tackle whatever got tossed in my general direction.
As I was about to leave the chamber, though, another object caught my eye. Hanging on a hook next to the open doorway was a…coat. Of sorts. It looked sturdy, for whatever that was worth, like something a knight might wear in those old-timey paintings. Fitting. It looked like it was made from hides that had been dyed a mix of green and brown, with fur fringing the sleeves and the bottom. The coat had a high, padded collar, also rimmed with fur. It looked both functional and somewhat regal. Princely even. Also, I didn’t know much about much, but the thing looked like it might be expensive, so I was perplexed to just see it hanging there like an old bathroom towel.
I walked over to examine it, thinking that this piece seemed a little more official, maybe even noble, compared to the standard peasant vibe of the other clothing items. On the breast of the coat was a diamond shape, stitched into the fabric with expert craftsmanship. It was made of dark, dark brown leather and had no adornment—just a plain, blank shape. A patch of some kind? Am I joining up with a medieval motorcycle club? I mused. Still, it looked…well, it looked pretty nifty, I had to think. But the shape of the patch reminded me a bit of Myri, which brought a smirk to my face.
Curious, I slid the coat on, and just like everything else I’d been donning in the last few minutes, it fit like it was tailored just for me. It was warm, immediately cutting out the chill and clammy cold that had been nipping at me since I woke up. The weight of it on my shoulders felt reassuring, like it was designed to protect as much as to keep warm.
Turning around in front of a small, polished metal piece I’d discovered last night that served as a mirror, I had to admit, the coat added a whole new level of seriousness to my attire. It wasn't just some…get-up. It felt like a part of a uniform, or something. I liked it.
I gave a small nod of approval to my reflection. "Well, ain't that something," I muttered to myself. “I could get used to this kind of treatment.” Really, though, I was just tickled pink to not have to walk around in a hospital smock or a dead guy’s tennis shoes any longer. Still, the coat made me feel more like a character out of the stories I used to read, a protagonist gearing up for an adventure. Which, I think anyone would be lying if they said they hadn’t thought about that a time or two. Even the biggest, meanest, most miserable cus on the block probably had a time in his life where he was standing in his back yard, pretending he was fighting wizards, or ninjas, or something like that. Now, hell, I might have been about to do that for real. It was odd how clothes could do that to a person, make them feel like they were stepping into a whole new skin.
With the coat on, I felt more prepared, more simpatico with my surroundings. I checked the pockets, finding them empty but deep. I could stash a few things in there if I needed to, which was always a plus in my book.
“Always gotta make room for road snacks,” I snickered.
With one last look around the room to make sure I hadn't missed anything else, I headed for the doorway, pulling the coat tighter around me. Stepping out of the barracks, I took in the view.
From this vantage point, the swamp and the ruins spread out before me like a scene from a storybook, albeit a particularly spooky one. The whole upper hald of Riddara lay beneath me, a confluence of crumbled stone and overgrowth, weaving a story of age and decay.
The remains of the structures were draped in a blanket of moss and creeping vines, nature reclaiming what was once hers, I always liked to think. In the distance, the murky waters of the swamp glimmered dully under the perpetual twilight, the surface occasionally disturbed by the ripples of unseen creatures. The calls of distant wildlife, a chorus of croaks and rustling, filled the air, creating a soundtrack that was both haunting and oddly calming.
Above it all, the sky remained in its perpetual state of dim, a canvas of deep grays both light and dark, the light soft and diffuse. It gave everything a dreamlike quality, as if time itself had paused, holding its breath.
Standing there, looking out over this scene, I felt…well, connected, I reckon. One with nature, or whatever the old Buddhist monks used to say. ‘Course, my familiarity with them was ninety-percent based on movies, but I’m sure they got that from somewhere if it was such a common statement, right? I took a deep breath, honestly, feeling pretty confident. I’d survived one single day here, only…what, a lifetime to go?
"Alright, Riddara," I said to no one in particular. "Let's see what you got in store for me today. I'm all dressed up now, might as well throw a party."
Myri was waiting for me back by the stone altar near the entrance to the ruins, and I greeted the entity with a wave.
“How you like my new threads, Myri?” I asked, grinning wide and giving the diamond a little spin. “Pretty slick, huh?”
“Ah, Leo,” the rhombus said. “Good morning. I see you’ve found your raiments.”
“I’ll be honest, Myri, that was not the response I was expecting,” I said, pretending to be crestfallen. “All dressed up and I don’t even get a ‘goodness, Leo, you’re lookin’ sharp.’”
“...erm, goodness, Leo,” Myri said softly. “You’re looking sharp.”
“There we go! Now that’s how a fella stays feelin’ appreciated!” I said.
“You are appreciated, Leo,” Myri said, more seriously. “Your ancestors appreciate your return and participation in the Trial so that you might take up the mantle of your birthright.”
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“Well…yeah, I uh, figured that,” I said. “I was just having a bit of fun, is all. Jeez, you really are good at taking the twang outta my tune, ain’t ya?”
I glanced at the circular altar, intact again, and sighed.
“Alright, guess I’m done fooling around. What are we up to today? Gonna make me arm wrestle a werewolf or something?”
“What is a werewolf?” Myri wondered.
“Not going to lie, the fact that you don’t know is powerfully reassuring,” I said. “But, let’s not worry about it. Ain’t trying to give anyone ideas on how best to whip me up and down the post.”
“Very well, Leo,” the entity continued. “Today, you will participate in the Athöfn.”
Now, normally, this would be where I would usually badly pronounce the thing Myri said with the typical reservations I had for this whole process, but…it seemed today was a new day. Marshlore seemed to activate, and I knew that Athöfn was a type of ceremony. What type, exactly, was unclear, but, hey, score one for me in the knowledge department.
“Okay,” I said, nodding. “Sure, let’s get on with it then. Am I going to need to…like, cut my hand and bleed over a ram’s skull or something?”
“Nothing so archaic,” Myri said—as if everything we were doing wasn’t about a half-step away from being an ancient druidic religious rite anyhow. But I was quiet in my rebuttal—wouldn’t help matters none if I started pissing off the metallic diamond servant, now would it?
“In times past,” Myri continued. “This would have been done with a group of hopefuls, in order to better foster a sense of kinship and belonging. However…”
“Yeah, I get it,” I said, after Myri’s pause dragged on a bit too long. “It’s just me out here. So, why do I gotta go through with it then? I mean, I suppose it’s probably important, but if there’s no one else to get cozy with in this place—present company excluded—doesn’t it seem a little mean?”
“Mean?”
“Well, yeah. Shit, Myri—I’m rocking this whole thing on my lonesome. Makin’ a guy participate in a team building exercise solo seems a little rude.”
“Ah…I think I understand,” Myri said. “Still, it is better to know what the purpose is on the larger scale, I think, in order to get one’s arms around it.”
That’s big talk coming from something without any arms at all, I thought.
“Fair enough,” I said. “So, what does it involve—or, wait…is this another one of those things that you can’t tell me much about and I just end up getting punched in the face over and over when a simple sentence would have sufficed?”
“I, erm, well…” Myri began. “Fortunately, this one does not have the usual constraints.”
“Thank the Lord,” I said. “So…what do I need to know?”
“You will have noticed the skilt on your overcoat,” Myri said. Marshlore pushed the thought into my mind that the word skilt meant ‘badge,’ and I automatically looked down at the patch on my chest.
“You know…” I said, nodding. “I did notice that, yeah. So this next challenge has to do with this little doohickey?”
“Indeed, Leo,” Myri said. “Today you will be acquiring your Verndari.”
My mind did the work on its own—and it was weird how seamless this seemed to be happening now. Man, Marshlore was really putting in the man hours for me. Instinctively, almost, I knew that Verndari was something like a patron, or a protector—though the context of what that was still wasn’t clear.
“Alright, so, it’s like a sponsorship,” I offered. “Fair enough—had to get myself one of those when I started apprenticing at Rollins. Easy enough.”
“Ah, okay,” Myri said. “Though, I should note that you are perhaps not fully immersed yet to understand how this process happens. This would typically be something that all Boglanders know, from the time they are small—it is one of the most well-known examples of the Trial of the Marsh Knight. Because of your auspicious upbringing…it has been deemed important to give you more context, Leo.”
“Well thank the Bog,” I said, leaning into the euphemism a little sarcastically. When in Rome, right?
“Yes!” Myri stated, its glow brightening. “Each hopeful in the Trial moves to explore the wilds of the Boglands, reaching out to see which Verndari connects with them. Then they return, and accept the bounty of the crest.”
Myri moved closer to me then, hovering right near my chest.
“Which will be emblazoned on your skilt, notifying the Trial of which Verndari you are under the protection of.”
“Okay…” I said. “Am I going to have to…worship the thing, or something. Because—as I mentioned before, I’ve never been the spiritual sort—but, where I come from, people might look at that as a bit blasphemous.”
“No, nothing like that, Leo,” Myri said, dimming a little—was that disappointment? Ah well. “It is merely a symbolic brand—something to add an element of…difference into the Trial. It is fun. A rite of passage and time honored tradition.”
“Sure,” I said. “So, when do we start?”
“You will begin at once, unless you have any more questions?”
I thought about that. I did have a few, but, well, most of them seemed related to just learning more about the nature of the Verndari, rather than anything that might be more helpful. I’m sure whatever I found out would just take away time from the overall importance. Instead, I inquired about something else.
“Are there any…I dunno, special Verndari?” I asked. “Like…ones that get you some sweet extras, or anything?”
“They are all special in their own way, Leo,” Myri said diplomatically.
“Ah, shit, that’s a no then, huh?”
“Any other questions?”
“Uh, just one, I guess,” I said. “Which direction do I need to head out to—and will I need my weapons?”
“Any direction is the correct direction,” Myri clarified. “And as to your weapons—yes, you should always endeavor to be well armed.”
I smiled wryly, glancing back at the barracks.
“Uh, alright then…” I said. “I’m going to, uh, need to make a real quick pitstop then…”
“You...forgot your weapons?” Myri asked, and the tone almost sounded incredulous.
“...yeah,” I said. “To be fair—I was so excited about my new outfit that I kinda forgot about them. I ain’t used to lugging around self-defense items, so the process ain’t exactly natural to me yet.”
“Very well,” Myri said. “Go and retrieve them, and then we will begin.”
“Much obliged, Myri,” I said, and quickly turned to jog toward the tower in the distance.
After a quick dash back to the barracks to grab my trusty bore club, I set out into the wilds of the Boglands. The idea of finding my Verndari had me both curious and a little keyed up. I mean, it wasn't every day you went looking for a mystical patron or whatever it was.
Walking through the swamp, I decided to take the proactive approach.
"Here Verndari, come on, boy!" I called out, half-joking, as I poked around. I checked trees, pushed aside brush, and even turned over logs and rocks. Anything that looked like it might be a good hiding spot for a mystical protector, I inspected.
The swamp was quiet, save for the occasional croak of a frog or the distant rustle of leaves. I kept calling out and searching, feeling a bit silly but figuring it was better than just waiting around.
During my search, I couldn’t stop my mind from wandering back to a time when I was truly lost in the wilderness. It was back in Kentucky, on a camping trip with some buddies from the shop. I had volunteered to scout ahead, find us a good spot to pitch our tents. "I got this," I had boasted, full of confidence.
Turned out, I didn't 'got this' at all.
I wandered deeper into the woods, each step taking me further from the path and deeper into unfamiliar territory. The trees seemed to close in around me, their branches like fingers trying to snatch me up. Before I knew it, the sun was setting, and there I was, no idea which way was back.
I’ll tell you something, though, the forest at night is a whole different beast. Every sound seemed amplified, every rustle in the bushes a potential danger. I remembered thinking about every horror movie I'd ever seen, cursing myself for not paying more attention to the outdoorsy stuff.
After about three hours of stumbling around in the dark, scared out of my wits, I finally found my way back. My friends had already set up camp in a nice little clearing and were finishing up dinner. The relief I felt seeing them, I can't even describe. They gave me a good ribbing, of course. "Leo the Pathfinder," they called me, laughing.
I learned two things that night. One, I'm no outdoorsman, and two, getting lost is a hell of a lot scarier than any ghost story.
And here I was, in a swamp that made those Kentucky woods look like a kiddie park.
Then, I heard it. The snap of a twig nearby. My heart jumped, and I instantly felt a rush of excitement. Well, that was way easier than I thought, I thought to myself, turning toward the sound. No stormy cloud sticker for Leo, today!
What I saw, though, wasn't what I expected.
Standing there, draped in a bold red cloak with obsidian-colored leathers, was a person. For a moment, I was so caught off guard that all I could do was grin widely. "I found you, Verndari!" I exclaimed, but the figure didn't move. They just stood there, silent, their face hidden beneath a hood.
A feeling of unease started to creep over me. Something felt off about this situation. The figure remained still, offering no response.
Looking to diffuse the tension, I lowered my bore club, signaling I wasn't there for a fight. "This might seem like a silly question, but…are you... are you my Verndari?" I asked, a hint of uncertainty in my voice.
That's when the figure laughed, a sound that was surprisingly light and feminine. It caught me off guard, and I realized then it was a woman.
She pulled back her hood, revealing a gorgeous face. Like, stunning, really. Besides that, though, it was a face with burnished skin—kinda like some of the guys I knew back at Rollins, the lifer welders who spent more time in front of the torch they did in front of their families. Her hair was a rich coppery color, and her eyes shimmered like molten metal, a crooked smile playing on her lips.
On the side of her face, a large runic tattoo was visible, intricate and bold. Marshlore didn't offer any hints about its meaning, but it made me think of Mike Tyson, of all people. Guess she’s a fan of the classics, huh? I joked to myself.
"Well, ain't this a surprise," I said aloud, still a bit taken aback. "You're not exactly what I was expecting for a Verndari."
Her smile widened, but she remained silent, her eyes studying me with an intensity that was both intriguing and a little intimidating. Then she tilted her head as if in greeting.
“The scion of Clan Trask,” she said. Her voice was pleasant, but…maybe I was imagining it because I hadn’t really interacted with another human since arriving in this joint, but was she sorta smug? Like she knew something I didn’t? I mean, she did, there were no bones about that, but, like, acting like that was a bit sour, wasn’t it?
“So they tell me,” I said. “And…I take it you’re not my Verndari?”
She laughed again, and that had the effect of making me feel a little bit stupid.
“I just wanted to see you for myself,” she offered instead. She adjusted her stance and that’s when I saw something beneath her cloak. On her hip tucked into her belt was a sword. But not just any sword, mind you. This was a long, slender thing, with a hilt forged beautifully out of what looked like silver and pressed with gem-like rivulets of what might’ve been ruby. It was a handsome weapon for a handsome woman. It was also setting off alarm bells in my mind. I tightened the grip on my club, but didn’t lift it just yet.
“Well, you know me, now,” I said, trying to press as much Southern hospitality into my voice and smile as I could. “But, I’m afraid I don’t know who you are—got me at a disadvantage as they say.”
The woman raised and eyebrow and then nodded, placing a hand on her hip. Not on the sword…but near enough to it that it raised my hackles.
“How rude of me,” she said—in a tone that sounded like she didn’t find herself rude at all. “Well met, Trask…”
If I didn’t know any better, I would have almost said her eyes started to glow when she spoke.
"We are enemies," she said. "I am the Pyre Knight."