thefairytaledead:“He’s one self-important bulwark of a man, but I suppose being the target of many a

thefairytaledead:“He’s one self-important bulwark of a man, but I suppose being the target of many an assassin will lend itself to that. No need to search far for the stories - he’s a bit of a legend. You’ll hear his name come to many lips around here. Just don’t pry. You’ll awaken that beast.” -HuntressAQUILOThe star-pure knight who commands a dragon.Proud | ambitious | principled | passionate | guarded | competitive | resoluteAssociated tale: The Glass Mountain Possessed by: Princess of Glass Mountain Former residence: Kingdom of AltairFull Biography: hereBackstory: A Champion’s RiseThe knights of Altair serve the Good Fairy. This holy calling makes them the incarnation of prestige. To be among them is a privilege: they are as stars in a constellation of pure noble bloodlines, and they dominate the astrolabe of their homeland with their destiny. It is rare, near impossible, for a common-born Altairi to join their ranks - the nobility gate-keep, and do not look kindly on a forehead without a star.The star upon one’s forehead, you see, is the Altairi birthmark of the blue-blooded. Their king has it, along with his heirs, and all those among the nobility at court.Sir Aquilo was not born with his.“Who is he,” whispered begrudging nobles, when he, newly knighted, first entered their halls. They eyed him as hawks do a little bird, and were embittered, as though he had stolen the light that irradiated their holy sanctum.He was a nobody’s son. An outsider. An intruder.“Who are you to wear that golden armor, and bear the mark of heroes upon your face?” they practically had said to him.He had won the Labyrinth of Tales, and had chosen these trappings for his prize, the raised mark upon his forehead placed there by Good Fairy’s magic. He had won in a humble worn plate of leather and with an old sword at his hip, to the envy and ire of his opponents - those clad in the finest enchanted armor that wealth and influence could obtain. And it made people talk. It stoked little fires among those who were pontifical, if not vulgar, enough to badger and bait him.“Surely he has not received any formal training. He can’t possibly wield a sword that well,” said some, in challenge.So he trained. He bled and sweat tirelessly in practice, day and night, until the pernicious whispers stopped. But when they did, they were simply replaced by worse things.“Do you think you are better than anyone here,” said a man from his own Order, “just because you managed to escape death in the Labyrinth once? So you don our crest. And that should make you special?”The man held a sword to Aquilo, and Aquilo answered his challenge with everything he had learned. “I think,” he wanted so very badly to say, “that I am one who doesn’t foolishly underestimate the fiber of another man, even if he wasn’t born in the anteroom of a manor.” But he was taught to have grace, and to be wise around wolves like this, and he let his skill speak for him. And when it was over, and the man had sunk to his knees in a loss for words, Sir Aquilo sheathed his blade and did little more than smirk.But the badgering persisted. In the king’s court, around town, right outside Aquilo’s own door.A true knight braves the Labyrinth more than once: words from his peers that loomed constantly over his head. He told himself to ignore them. “I am better than this,” one part of him said. But the other part, proud, whispered, “I am better than them.” And it wanted to prove this so, so very badly.So Sir Aquilo returned to the game, in the very same shining suit that he had earned there. Battled the demons and the nightmares of the In-Between. Again, and again, making enemies among peers. He found that the greatest threats were not the wisps and the horrors and the tempting illusions, but the people who would eye him closely, waiting for their chance. They would goad him into fights when they found him alone, underestimating how quickly he could learn on his feet. And where people fell by his blade, he carved a name for himself.They called him the greatest swordsman in Altair.“Did I step on your toes?” he would come to say, eventually. Eventually, wiping his golden blade clean of the blood, and holding it to the Sun where it glittered, bright as his reputation, he would look down upon the rabble. With a train of horsemen at his side - spoils earned from games won hard - he would stride about the playing field and sneer, just a little, at those who had long ago whispered, “who is he?”“Who are YOU,” he would scoff, “to fumble about in my presence? I am a knight of Altair - or is your skull so thick that the star upon my face evades you?”He would return home, after, to greet his father. “The people around town cheer your name,” the old man would say. “But some make up other names for you.”“Let them,” would be Sir Aquilo’s response. “It is they, not I, who claim that I am the greatest swordsman. People simply have to chew whatever words fall from their tongue. If they find the taste betrays them, perhaps they shouldn’t talk.”———————————–More on The Fairy Tale Dead here. -- source link

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