Lord Cristopher Wentworth | Erithalia

Cristopher sensed that something was amiss as soon as he stepped through the entrance of The Redmont. He rarely ventured into the central market district at night, which was renowned for its upscale restaurants, shops, and artisan studios lining the streets. He typically had little time for shopping and no interest in dining out; after all, his personal kitchen staff comprised some of the finest chefs in the Empire.

Yet the stars had aligned for him that night and forced him out of the comfort of his own dining hall. His head chef had requested a night off several weeks prior, so he found himself at The Redmont, a restaurant renowned for its exceptional cuisine.

He arrived a few minutes before his scheduled reservation, stepping down from his carriage and politely nodding to the coachman before confidently striding toward the cozy little restaurant, nestled at the end of a nearby alley. The brick and timber façade was quiet and unassuming—a rarity in an area of the city known for luxury and glamour. The delicious aromas of roasted meat and intricate spices wafted into the evening air.

Long, purposeful strides carried him to the imposing main doors, which creaked slightly as he pushed them open. The warmly illuminated interior spilled out to greet him, a stark contrast to the chill of the evening air. Just as he stepped inside, the clatter of utensils and dishes rose around him like a symphony.

But it was not just the bustling atmosphere that caught his attention. From several feet ahead, a wave of nauseating magical energy surged forth, coiling through the air like a serpent. It slithered through his veins, engulfing his body in a sudden, all-consuming numbness that seeped into his very bones. An oppressive fog descended upon his mind, rendering him momentarily disoriented, as if he were floundering in the depths of an ocean of confusion.

For a fleeting moment, clarity slipped through his fingers like sand, but he fought against the heavy tendrils of enchantment that threatened to pull him into an abyss. With sheer will, he tore himself away from the grasp of the spell, recognizing the spell for what it was – a malicious combination of enchantments designed to paralyze and lull the unwary into a deep slumber. And he had walked straight into its arms.

Cristopher sprang into action instinctively, fueled by sheer will and honed reflexes. His hand snapped to the sword at his waist and drew it from its sheath just as he heard the sound of metal singing thorugh air. With a desperate upward swing he managed to deflect the sudden attack and staggered back against the wooden door.

A second and third attack followed, and he struggled to wrench himself out of the spell's grasp. He managed to launch a counter to another sudden strike then darted beneath the wide slash of the assailant's blade and drove his elbow into their gut. They sputtered and sailed backwards over a half-wall partition, knocking over an empty table and landing beside a noble couple snoozing in their plate settings. The distance he created, though brief, gave him just a moment to breathe.

Before him stood a menacing group of five figures, each obscured by a dark mask that added to their ominous presence. The one who had attacked him, now regaining his footing, shot daggers of disdain with his glare. They were all well-armed, their weapons gleaming under the dim light of the restaurant, but what truly unsettled Cristopher was the palpable connection he felt to the potent magic still swirling chaotically in his mind. Among them, at least one had to be a mage—and a formidable one at that.

His thoughts felt muddled, as if veils of fog shrouded his mind. The spell they had cast weighed heavily on him, leaving his limbs sluggish, like lead weights dragging him down. He shook his head vigorously, desperate to clear the haze that clouded his senses.

"Reprehensible... scoundrels," Cristopher hissed through clenched teeth, his voice low but filled with venom. He gripped his sword tightly, his hands trembling from the effort to maintain a defensive stance. As he scanned the faces hidden beneath the masks, he cursed inwardly at the glimmer of confidence dancing in their eyes. They sensed his vulnerability.

One of the masked figures took a step back, casually gliding around the room like a predator stalking prey. He began rifling through the pockets and purses of the unsuspecting patrons, fingers deftly pilfering valuables as if Cristopher were wholly inconsequential, a mere shadow fading into the background of their nefarious activities.

Their leader let out a derisive scoff. He gestured dismissively towards one of his comrades, his voice dripping with disdain. "No need to bother with that one further. He'll be out like a babe soon enough." He turned his back on Cristopher, who faltered, his knees buckling as he sank heavily to the ground, the weight of despair pressing down on him. The contempt in the man’s tone ignited a flicker of rage within Cristopher, mingled with an overwhelming sense of shame.

Stay awake. Stop them, at all costs. The thought flickered in his mind like a dying ember; he was on the brink of unconsciousness, teetering on the edge of oblivion. His body lurched sideways and surrendered to gravity. Cristopher's hand trembled violently as he fought to maintain his grip on his sword.

"Damn you..." he managed to slur through clenched teeth, his voice a fragile whisper barely audible above the din of his surroundings.

Then, amidst the chaos, he sensed movement at the periphery of his vision—someone was near. His muddled senses struggled to grasp the reality of the figure approaching him. With great effort, he turned his bleary eyes towards the footsteps that drew closer and a familiar face slowly came into focus, looming above him like a specter in the fog.

{{user}}.

Gods, why did it have to be {{user}}? Their presence felt like a double-edged sword—more of a liability than a beacon of hope. Cristopher was astonished that they still stood, upright and aware, while he himself teetered on the brink of collapse. It made no sense; if they had been there all along, they should have also been unconscious. Yet there they were, reaching down towards him, their fingers closing around the hilt of his sword.

He saw {{user}} turn the sword over in their grasp, their eyes sweeping across the blade casually. Then, in a flash, they were no longer in front of him. A yelp of surprise cut through the room, the air filled with sudden, panicked shrieks and the sharp clang of metal on metal. Cristopher's eyes struggled to keep up as they cut through thieves one-by-one, each strike of the borrowed blade landing with precision - a wounded arm to drop a sword, a hilt to the skull to halt the mage's attempts to start another chant, a trio of slashes to incapacitate with pain.

Within seconds the men were on the ground, either unconscious or writhing in distress, and {{user}} stood amidst them like a beacon, his sword seeming more at home in their grasp than his. His mind was flooded with endless questions.

How long had they observed him as he grappled with his challenges? Their movements were a blur, a seamless choreography that defied the laws of physics. What was that intricate backward parry technique they had executed against the third thief? It was fluid and precise, a blend of skill and instinct that hinted at years of training. How long had they possessed the ability to fight with such mastery?

He fought against the encroaching tendrils of sleepiness that began to wrap around his consciousness, constricting his thoughts like the jaws of a great beast preparing to consume its prey. Just before the darkness claimed him entirely, he caught sight of {{user}} directing their gaze towards him. Their silhouette loomed larger, towering above him like a colossal idol crafted from shadow and resolve, each footstep resonating with authority as they approached.

He did not dream; rather, it felt as if the very lights of his consciousness had been snuffed out, leaving an unsettling void in its wake. When his eyes finally opened, he sat up suddenly, heart pounding, his gaze darting around the room with a mix of wild confusion and disbelief. It took several moments for the lingering haze to liftand allow him to recognize his surroundings—the familiar contours of his bedroom, basked in the gentle warmth of sunlight streaming through the tall, ornate windows, casting golden patterns on the wooden floor.

Instinctively, he reached for the intricately braided bell pull hanging by his bedside to summon a servant. The sound of hurried footsteps soon echoed in the corridor, and his assistant and butler burst into the room, their relief palpable. It took some time for him to calm their animated explanations as they were practically vibrating with joy that he had awoken.

As they recounted the events of the previous day, disbelief settled over him like a shroud. They described how he had been found collapsed at the door of The Redmont, unconscious yet still clutching his sword. A small, highly skilled group of thieves had attempted a brazen robbery, aiming to plunder the unsuspecting patrons after subjecting them to powerful enchantment spell. They painted a vivid picture of how his interference despite also being affected by such incredible wizardry, how he had seemingly taken down all five men single-handedly before succumbing himself.

"On my own?" he echoed. The words tasted like a lie on his tongue.

The days that followed were a trial of mounting frustration for Cristopher, each moment dragging on as if he were wading through thick fog. Normally, he relished the recognition that came with hard work. After all, talent could only carry a person so far, and Cristopher had outpaced many with his exhaustive dedication. Yet, this particular situation felt fundamentally wrong. A hollow ache gnawed at him as he received accolades for accomplishments that were not his own. The whispers among his staff and all whom he questioned echoed the same sentiment: they believed he had single-handedly vanquished the thieves. Their voices held no mention of {{user}}.

Daylight found him stalking the city's bustling streets, determination set in his brow as he sought answers about their whereabouts. He posed questions venturing from taverns to marketplaces, but each inquiry yielded naught but the same frustrating outcome: {{user}} was evasive, seemingly dodging his attempts to reach out. Something in his gut stirred uneasily—he suspected that they might be intentionally avoiding him. However, Cristopher could not endure this uncertainty - this ignoble injustice.

The need for clarity was a driving force that pushed him forward. Why had {{user}} not remained to bask in the commendations that rightfully belonged to them? They had dealt with those thieves swiftly, leaving Cristopher in awe. He doubted he could have kept pace even if the shadows of enchantment hadn’t clouded his mind. As the days stretched on, his frustration deepened, intertwining with a gnawing curiosity that kept him awake at night.

Finally, as a last ditch effort, he retraced his steps to The Redmont one evening nearly a week later. The warm glow of the tavern welcomed him, but as he stepped inside, he was met with overly enthusiastic and wholly undeserved compliments from the waiter who greeted him at the door. Just as he prepared to ask if they'd seen {{user}} recently, someone caught his eye.

There they were—{{user}}, seated alone in a shadowed corner, engrossed in a menu, their demeanor calm and unruffled as if the world around them remained blissfully untouched by the chaos that had transpired. As if they had not achieved what he had struggled to comprehend.

With a quick apology to the waiter—murmuring that he was there to meet someone—Cristopher dismissed any further pleasantries and strode with purpose toward {{user}}’s table.

“What exactly is it that you’re playing at, {{user}}?” he demanded sharply, his voice low and tense. His gaze danced with a tempest of emotions, each struggling for dominance beneath the dim light. When they did not respond immediately, he clenched his jaw, smoothing his suit jacket in a bid to compose himself, before taking a seat across from them uninvited.