This post is part of a series. See the previous post here.
Part 7 – Armour of the Crusader
The sun rises on yet another oppressively hot day in this world.
“It’s…it’s you,” says Preston of Garvey. The crusader approaches him slowly, his new metallic armour clinking.
“It’s been weeks,” Garvey says. “Months, even. I even grew this beard to show the passage of time.”
“Your village. It is still a waste land. Litter covers your dwellings. Why have you not tidied this place? Do you wish not to live in squalor?”
“Well-” Preston begins. “I-“
“When we asked you to come here, I didn’t think you’d actually come.”
“I saw your signal. It was rather strange to send it via smoke. Now I am here,” the crusader responds. “What do you require?”
“Go and speak to Sturges. He said he had something for you.”
“Sturges,” the crusader repeats. “Your blacksmith?”
“He’s over by his house.”
The crusader finds the blacksmith beside the house. Inexplicably, he is still hammering the same spot. The same spot he has been hammering for months. Indeed, good steel needed to be tempered – and perhaps this blacksmith was a master of his craft. Cyrillian watches for a moment, hoping to pick up some of his techniques.
“Oh, it’s you!” Sturges says. He stops hammering, barely turning to register the crusader’s arrival. Come with me… I’ve been working on something.”
The blacksmith leads the crusader around the side of the building, into what looks like some kind of rusted out workshop. Inside the workshop…
A magnificent suit of armour, gilded with gold and painted in shining, albeit worn, white paint. It is a suit of armour worthy of any of God’s followers.
“I figured you could use some proper armour, you know? This style is your thing, right? The whole…knight outfit.”
The crusader is silent for a moment. He eyes the armour with growing concern.
“I cannot accept this,” he says. “This gift… it is too much.”
He had a point. Getting minted power armour that early into a story would probably not do well for character development.
“But, surely…” Sturges starts.
“No. I cannot. You are too good for this world. And for that reason you msut keep this armour. Wear it yourself. And think on me with you mete out the Lord’s justice.”
“I think you’ll need it more,” Sturges says. “The wasteland, it isn’t safe.”
“It is safe enough,” Cyrillian says. “Whatever happens, I will brave it. Your armour is a noble gesture – appreciated, but respectfully refused.”
As Sturges looks on, the crusader turns and leaves. But then, Cyrillian stops.
“This place… it is a hovel. A squalid shanty town the likes of the Devil could not coutenance,” Cyrillian says.
“Er, what?”
“If you cannot clean this place – make it fit for human habitation, then I shall.”
Just as he had done with the Red-Roke shrine, Cyrillian begins tidying the Sanctuary village.
He makes good progress – clearing leaves, sweeping dirt, tidying up rubble.
The crusader decides to stop and rest. He sleeps for approximately 10 hours.
But when he wakes up, he finds himself somewhere else entirely….
The crusader is on alert immediately. The room is empty. Clean. Inhuman looking. As he gazes upon the flawless walls, he starts to feel fear.
He goes outside, locating Sturges the blacksmith once again…
“Yep,” Sturges says. “We banded together and built you a house overnight. What you were saying… you were right. We ain’t achieved much in the last few months – and we can’t for the life of us think why.”
“This world,” the crusader says. “It was destroyed. This fact… this fact is a trauma too great for many to bear. Do not blame yourself for feeling its effects.”
“Well, that’s all in the past now, “Sturges replies. “About two-hundred years in the past,” he mumbles to himself.
“What was that?” Cyrillian asks, as he is leaving.
“Hm?”
“What was that you said?”
“Me?”
“Yes, you, blackmsith.
“I just- well, I er. I just said that it was about two hundred years in the past.”
“What was?”
“The war.”
“What war?”
“The war. THE war. You know. The one that destroyed everything.”
The crusader stares at Sturges blankly.
“Your world… it was destroyed two hundred years ago?”
“Are you insane, boy? Of course it was. Why do you think the place is wrecked?!”
The crusader is unmoved.
“Do you not think that, after two hundred years, you might have…cleaned up the rubble? Done away with the ruins of an ancient civilisation?”
“Sounds like a decent idea.”
“So why haven’t you done it?”
Sturges shrugs. “No idea. Raiders?”
“Raiders- what- you- What are you saying? No. I know not what lethargy has gripped the human race in this world.”
“I’m, er, I’m not understanding you, buddy.”
“I built a church, with my own two hands. That is what i have done in the time since I last saw you. And what have you done?”
“Well this piece of metal has been hammered really good.”
“Madness. This world is gripped by madness. But what if…” The crusader thinks for a moment. “What know thee of God, blacksmith? Of the Holy Book?”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
“Wh- huh?”
The blacksmith, not quite comprehending the holy power standing just behind him, remains unmoved.
“God guides my path, blacksmith. And he can guide yours too.”
“God?”
“Yes. God. Read this,” Cyrillian produces a book. It appears hand-written.
“It’s hand-written,” the crusader confirmed. “Read the holy Book. Rejoice.”
FInally, Sturges turns around. He takes the book from Cyrillian’s hand.
“Well, we are indebted to you. I’ll, er, I’ll read the book.”
“Good. Yes. But first – you must clean this village. Make it fit for human habitation. Turn it into a beacon of existence, and more will come.”
Without another word, the crusader heads back to his home encampment.
The words of God ringed in his ears. Cyrillian had been tasked to return the word of the good Lord to the wasteland.
And now, it seemed, it was needed more than ever. Perhaps it mattered not if he would be forgotten in a thousand years. At that point, a new disciple of the Lord’s grace would have to be brought forth. Until that day… it was down to the crusader to return the grace of God to the world.
So he would travel. He would spread the word of God. Create new communities. Usher in a new era of heavenly divinity.
Another back-end of the decrepit and the rubble, Yet another corner of the Earth Cyrillian would have to cleanse.
Satan’s creatures immediately set out to stop the Crusader. They are stopped in their tracks. With strength and steel, he smites the mutated mole-creatures in their tracks.
Just ahead, he spots a pool. The strange sensation Cyrillian feels from this pool compels him. Was this the grace of God enveloping him?
As he draws closer, Cyrillian’s vision begins to blur. He feels a strange sensation overtaking him. It is as if… as if he is becoming rapidly ill. It feels like a sort of…glow. Like a crackling, bubbling glow.
No. This was not light. This was a sickness. The crusader falls to his knees, the contagion overtaking him.
This was no blessed spring. It was a mirage. A false light – placed no doubt by the Devil. The curse implanted in him by Satan was taking hold quickly. It would not be long before Cyrillian lost consciousness.
And lose consciousness, he does. His body lying alone in the middle of an unknown land, this could well be the final end of the Crusader’s quest.
What happens next? Find out in Part 8!
It's Only A Model 
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