[Lancer's Lore]

The Legend of the "Nameless Lancer"

In a world cloaked in eternal twilight, where vampires roamed under the blood-red skies and wolves hunted under twin moons, there lived a nameless lancer. He had no home, no master, and no past he would share. His weapon, a weathered lance wrapped in silver and marked with mysterious runes, was his only companion as he wandered the desolate lands.

A World in Chaos

The land was ruled by terror. Vampires drained entire villages, their thirst unquenchable, while wolf packs tore through the remnants. Yet this was but a prelude to the real horror: a forgotten Monarch named Valthor, awakened from its slumber in the abyss.

Valthor was a being of insatiable hunger, devouring not just flesh but the very essence of life. Wherever it passed, the earth became barren, the skies turned black, and all living things were reduced to dust. His status as a Monarch, however, had been reduced to nothing, for the very essence of his being had been devoured by another Monarch who had similar abilities (though that will be a story for another time). While Valthor had become greatly weakened, it was still formidale among those of the mortal plane. Because of this, the vampires and wolves, sworn enemies, formed uneasy alliances in their desperation to survive.


The Nameless Savior

The nameless lancer appeared like a ghost in this cursed world. Stories spread in whispers: a lone warrior who struck down packs of wolves and burned vampire nests to the ground. None could say where he came from or where he went, only that he left peace in his wake.

One night, a small village was besieged by vampires. As the last defenders fell, a figure emerged from the shadows. His armor was blackened from countless battles, and his lance shone faintly in the moonlight. Without a word, he charged into the horde, his lance moving with inhuman precision. By dawn, the vampires were ash, and the villagers were saved. But when they turned to thank him, he was gone.

The Rise of Valthor

As Valthor's power grew, the skies darkened further, and the air grew heavy with despair. The former Monarch's form became a monstrous amalgamation of shadows and tendrils, with eyes that burned like stars. It spoke no words, but its bellowing hunger was a thunderous roar that left a mark in the minds of all who lived.

The nameless lancer knew the truth: no army could defeat Valthor. It was dead set on regaining its former power, and at present, it was beyond mortal strength. Yet, within his lance lay a power even he did not fully understand—a power that could challenge even a Monarch.


The Final Journey

The lancer's path led him to the Black Spire, a towering monument where Valthor's essence was strongest. Along the way, he encountered those who sought to stop him. Wolves attacked in packs, their eyes glowing with primal fury. Vampires ambushed him under the cover of night, their fangs aiming for his throat. Each time, the lancer prevailed, his lance glowing brighter with each battle.

As he neared the spire, a group of desperate survivors confronted him. "Who are you?" they demanded. "Why do you fight for us when we don't even know your name?”

He paused for a moment, his face hidden beneath a battered helm. "Names are for those who need to be remembered. I fight because someone must.”


The Battle Against Valthor

At the spire's peak, the lancer faced Valthor. Its form loomed above him, a living storm of shadows and flames. Tendrils lashed out, seeking to crush him, but the lancer was faster. He danced between the attacks, his lance cutting through the dark like a blade of light.

Valthor roared, its voice shaking the earth. "You dare challenge me, mortal?! What hope do you have against me, a Monarch?”

The lancer plunged his lance into the ground, and the runes along its shaft flared with blinding light. A voice, ancient and powerful, echoed from the weapon:

“This mortal bears the strength of countless souls who fell to your thirst for power, Valthor. Their will is now mine, and through this warrior, justice shall be done.”

With a mighty leap, the lancer drove his glowing lance into Valthor’s core. It screeched in agony, despairing in realizing its efforts was doomed from the start, and as its form unraveling as light consumed the darkness, the spire crumbled. The world trembled as Valthor was torn apart, gone from the world, yet leaving it changed forever.





A World Restored

When the dust settled, the skies began to clear. The twin moons shone brighter, and life slowly returned to the scarred land. The wolves retreated to the forests, and the vampires went into hiding.

But the lancer was gone. No one knew where he had gone or if he had survived. In the ruins of the spire, the survivors found his lance, standing upright in the ground, its runes dimmed but still warm to the touch.


The Legacy of the Nameless Lancer

Legends spread of the nameless lancer who saved the world from a Primordial Monarch's hunger. Villages built shrines around his lance, and songs were sung of his bravery. Though no one ever learned his name, his story became eternal—a reminder that even in the darkest times, a single soul could stand against the abyss.

Some say that on nights when the moons are full, a lone figure can be seen wandering the land, a lance in hand, always watching, always protecting. Truly, an honorable Nameless Lancer.