Knight Arlott

"What have they done to you, brother of mine?" —Olague Arlott was never meant to be the kind of man history remembers. He did not inspire loyalty with speeches or bend wars through brilliance. He endured. While Olague planned and commanded, Arlott stood where the line broke, taking wounds meant for others. Their regiment—full of holy knights of the Yalnor—followed Olague, but it was Arlott who kept them alive. Steel, silence, and obedience. These were his creeds. When word came that the regiment was to purify the Immortal City, Arlott recoiled. The dead there did not sleep; they lingered, tangled in old wars and older curses. This was not a battlefield—it was a wound that refused to close. He voiced his objection once, and only once. Olague dismissed it. The order was given. Arlott obeyed. The city swallowed them whole. The earth split, the dead clawed free, and the regiment was torn apart in the dark. Cut off from the regiment and overwhelmed, Olague survived as his men begged him to flee. Arlott did not. He died standing over the bodies of those who had trusted them both, cutting until his arms failed and the night dragged him down. When he rose again, it was not in salvation. The Nether God does not release what he kills. The fallen were bound to the soil, aware, furious, and trapped. And so the regiment was "reborn," with Arlott at its helm. Now he walks its grounds in silence, a blade dragged back from the grave and sharpened with hate. He remembers the terror in his brothers' eyes that night. Their screams. And he can see the pale gleam of his commander's armor fading into the dark. Oh yes—he remembers Olague well... Now, Olague has pulled himself from many nights at the bottle, vowing to reclaim the souls of his lost men. He seeks redemption, dreams of forgiveness. But should he indeed summon the courage to return to the City, he must answer to the one who awaits him among its graves.