thoughtformed | (no subject)

Belike you've nothing better to do than roam about the Moore engaging in brigandage and outrage, but I'd beg a moment's grace for a humble address. I've been mocked often enough for having no liege and no arms to hang upon my shield, and 'tis true I've no lands, no squire, no one to vouch for my patents but my steed, Ducati. And a love of song and merry color has lead a wag or two to christen me the Red-Breasted Knight, or the Red-Robin for those who doubt my horse's testimony of nobility.

For myself, I say gramercy, and count the name a feather in my cap, for if my deeds gave you nothing to speak of, you'd need no name, for you'd know naught of me. And yet, it seems I'm spoken of often enough. I've never failed in honest test of arms, nor in the tilt or other such hastiludes. Perhaps that's worth a little speech. There might be one or two other feats of which mention is made as well. But my point is thus: speak of the Red-Breasted Knight as you will, and be welcome. But if your own ignoble deeds pass so far as to bring your own name to my lips -- why then, have a care. Not every knight athwart this isle will wait the King's good word to ride you down.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I'm afraid 'tis but a fever-fancy that all brothers of the blank shield know one another, my friend. I know the same stories and songs of those brave knights as all men do who have ears, but the Dark Knight seldom rides far from Nottinghamshire, and the Night-Wing across the Channel and along the coast, in the Danish whaling port of Bludhaven.

We are not, I fear, so lucky as to rest our feet on good English soil, nor quite so benighted as to be damned to Denmark.

What about the Red-Hood?

Speak not to me of that scurrilous knave in the same breath you name good knights. Whither wind and wave has carried such a rogue, who might know, and wherefore would I mark such a thing?

'Tis truth as you may have heard that he rides against bandits and reivers. But that helm he wears is red with the blood of men denied quarter or any chance at ransom.

Huh.

So, if you're a knight, you kill, right?

Peradventure, a man flung from horseback may break his neck, or plate and corselet fail him and a lance penetrate his vitals. But never have I denied even the blackest rascal his pardon nor his parole, should he kneel and beg for it and swear upon my hilts to abide by the same usages as any other captive or hostage may be expected to.

You're a phony.

Nor would you be the first man to accuse me thus. But will you prove that charge, sir, upon your body?

There are people here who need to be put down like dogs. They won't even beg. What will you do then? Still spare them?

That is a matter between my conscience, their pride, and God's mercy.

Did you just call yourself God?

Blasphemy.

My thoughts exactly. But it does come down to your self-righteous mercy, doesn't it?

To honor surrender is the task of any true knight.

None has fallen so far that he may not be redeemed... Master Todd.

None?

Not even The-Joker?

For myself, I find the foul-humored jester's redemption as unlikely as an Orkney kingship. But it's not my place to gainsay the word of the Lord.

We have, I think, trod this ground before.