History:

Artos was born to a family of minor nobility, the second born son of the Ragnall family, and like second children of minor nobility, he was destined for the military. Due to his families prestige and wealth, Artos enjoyed a complete and well-rounded education in swordplay, academics, strategy, and horsemanship, but despite training from an early age and the amount of gold that was invested Artos was never much of a knight lacking the instinct of a swordsmen or the understanding of tactics. The only thing he seemed to excel in were academics much to his Father's dismay and much to Artos' dismay, his older brother, despite not training as extensively in swordsmanship was far superior at it then he. It seemed he was destined to a life of mediocrity.

As Artos grew older, his desire to prove himself worthy to his father grew. Every time he was defeated by his brother, it was another muttered oath that he would improve, every swing was done with the vain hope for another's approval, but the lack of talent could never be overcome, the wall was there, and he was close to hitting it. He would never be a master swordsmen, or even better then most other knights. It was a crushing realization, but it was replaced by the desperate inner plea that perhaps, just perhaps, he could overcome this shortcoming by being the 'greatest' knight. By being loyal, noble, honorable... to become a beacon of virtue.

To become a beacon of virtue is a wonderful dream, but not something that is easily done. When Artos was knight, he spoke his oath before his Queen, and burned the words into his mind. He would exemplify them, he may not be the greatest knight in martial skill, but he would be one that was spoken of throughout the ages for being the 'ideal' knight. He took whatever job was presented, did not balk at the tedious guard assignments or patrols even if he was raging on the inside, and slowly, he rose in statue and prestige. He never entered the Tournaments keenly aware that ending up on his behind in the first round would quickly crush his hopes, so instead, he would humbly speak of how he would not wish to enter because his blade was meant only for the Queen, and his 'humble' words sparked curiosity and rumors that his skill was far greater then it was, and he made no move to ever dispel that belief. There was nothing more the court loved besides a hero, well, perhaps besides a juicy rumor of debauchery, but heroes were a close second.

Thus Artos' undeserved reputation flourished until he was able to attract that attention of a powerful family who desired to have the 'mighty' Artos as part of his family and offered him the hand of their beautiful second born daughter, Amelia. Artos who was always plain by his families standard lacking his mothers luscious onyx hair and instead having mangled ruddy brown hair, sharp green eyes, and a receding chin to be offered the hand of one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom was a gift from the God's themselves, something he thought he so rightfully deserved for his ego had grown along with his false reputation.

They were wed on a breezy spring morning, and that is when his life started to take a turn. Amelia had never wanted to marry him, she was already in love with a peasant boy, and more then that, Artos was what she called a, 'Strutting Peacock,' filled with more self-inflated ego and delusions of glamour then common sense or any sign of the honor and nobility he led others to believe he had. Of course, it was easy for Artos to pretend that she was attracted to him as many of the court women were, and their marriage descended into lies and secret meetings with other partners within shadowed alcoves of the palace, but they were both fools to think that their actions would go unnoticed for long as the court is eternally hungry for tales of debauchery for nothing pleased them more then to tear down the idols they had helped put up, and so rumors of both Artos and Amelia's infidelity spread like wildfire, and it destroyed both their reputations. They were quickly disowned by both their families for such rumors, even baseless, could not be left as should it be found true, the shame both families would suffer would cost them greatly in wealth and prestige, it was much easier to dispose of the second born children then it was to risk the family legacy.

The fall from grace was hard for both of them, Artos took to drinking heavily, gambling what little gold he received from his 'new' position as 'guardian' of a small village on the desolate western plains, and Amelia fell into a crippling depression, burying herself in books and shutting herself off from the world. Few words were ever passed between them until one night where Artos came back smelling heavily of ale and cheap wine, beating down the door of the cottage, he entered Amelia's rooms and deaf to her screams, he forced himself upon her declaring that she should honor her 'wifely' duties. It was an action that could never be undone, even as he awoke to see her huddled on the side of the bed, her torn clothes hanging from her bruised body, no amount of apologizes or guilt could amend such an action.

Through the monstrous dead, a child grew in Amelia and Kayla was born nine months later. The birth had been difficult as Amelia had sunken further into depression and had often refused to eat, but despite the odds, the baby was born, and when she was placed in her arms, a light came into Amelia's eyes, she had a purpose once again. She could love and be loved even in the middle of nowhere married to a pathetic man who had forced himself upon her and ignored her pained screams.

Artos, on the other hand, could not forget what he had done. He took to drinking more and more, eager to bury all the harsh memories away that even the birth of his daughter could not amend. Her cries at night a constant reminder of the deed he had done, until one day, news reached him in the form of terrified and paranoid farmers of a witch, a spell-caster with ill intentions that had nearly cast a hex upon them for trespassing. It was as if the gods were offering him a second chance, a way to redeem himself. He would slay the witch, defeat her evil magic, and be 'reborn' from the noble feat. Perhaps, just perhaps, he would be allowed home once again where he could atone for what he had done to Amelia.

Grabbing his sword, he took off towards the hut that held the evil witch. When he arrived, he was moderately surprised to find a small, well kept hovel almost expecting it to be a tent or some decaying skull covered house, and watching from a distance, he saw a figure, obviously female, bent over in the fields. Creeping up on the bent figure, readying his blade to strike before she had a chance to use her foul magic, his mind full of the rewards he would receive and the adoration he would get, he lunged, plunging the steel blade into the woman's back. The cry of surprise and pain was cut short as the blade plunged through her chest, tearing her heart and ripping out through her chest, splattering the ground in blood.

With near glee, Artos planted his boot into the small of her back, and tore the sword free, the once silver blade running red with the blood of the witch... and then a scream ripped through the air startling him out of his self-adoration. An older woman was kneeling in the door, screams of anguish pouring from her, and finally, Artos looked down to see the result of his handiwork. A small girl, not a witch... not even an adult, she had to be no more then twelve winters. The truth was there were no witches or spell-casters at the hovel, just an older woman who had spurned the advances of a group of drunken men who in a fit of rage had turned to the 'guardian' in order to strike back at the prude.

Dropping the blood smeared blade, Artos fled from where he came, and even over his frantic heartbeats, he could make out her sobbing, broken voice screaming at him, "I curse you, I curse you Artos Ragnall. By all the Gods, I curse you, you monster. You murderer."

Artos never looked back as his feet hit the ground carrying him back towards the village, back towards home, back towards the rest of his sins, but there was no where to flee. The Gods had indeed been watching, a curse born on innocence blood and the anguished cries of a mother could not be ignored. As he fled through the forest, his body started to spasm and convulse, he roared in pain as he clutched at trees as his body was torn to shreds, his bones snapping and rearranging, his skin tearing itself apart as warm blood ran down his body, as he became the monster the had lay dormant within his soul. He watched helplessly from his own mind as his new, monstrous body ran through the woods heading for the village.

The screams of the villagers filled the air as the beast descended on them, tearing them to shreds. Shearing apart bodies, ripping off limbs, and feasting upon their screams. Men, women, and children, none were free from the Beast's insatiable hunger for carnage and destruction as blood ran in rivers as the white fur was stained red with the blood of innocent and the guilty alike. Until the beast made his way towards Artos' home. Artos screamed inside his mind, pounded on the invisible walls and fought the shackles that held him in place as the beast broke through the oak door as if it were paper and moved towards its goal. Amelia, braver then her husband had ever been, stood defiant in front of the door preferring to die then watch something try and harm her child, but it was all for naught. She was knocked away with a absent minded blow, and the beast approached the crib and towards the cries of a small baby.

The baby represented his sins, his mistake, his faults, but she was his daughter. Artos screamed and pleaded with the monster, begged and cried, but it only seemed to fuel it as it bent over the small walls and closed its jaws. The small wails cut off in one sickening crunch as blood sprayed across the white blankets, marring them forever with her blood. Artos watched, in shock, as the beast turned on Amelia to finish what it had come to do, and Amelia, her face devoid of emotion looked into its eyes and a flash of recognition gleamed through her tortured eyes, those green eyes. Those cruel green eyes, the same eyes that Artos had that night.

Sorrow turned to disbelief then rage before her eyes dulled as her mind finally shattered. The blood of his child still on his teeth, the Beast closed his jaw around Amelia's neck and finished the task it had set out to do. The Beast let out a roar, the blood running down the side of its face matting the fur as the iron taste was forced and burned into Artos' He had taken her family, and so the Gods had taken his, but the debt had not been paid.

The next day, Artos awoke to find he still did not control his body, he was locked within his own mind for his crimes, but the beast was gone. In its place was another, one void of warmth or emotion, one of unequaled beauty and regality. One whose skills with a blade vastly outdid all the other knights in the Kingdom, it was being he had always pretended to be. The Knight. His goal, his deception, made tangible. A finally mockery to his pathetic life. Artos fell, his mind blocking out the painful memories and his actions, as he was forced to watch the two of them, the Knight and the Beast live his life.

He wandered, for a time, his Beast doing what it wills when it emerged, the Knight upholding his vow throughout his travels. Villages burned, people murdered, villages saved, and maidens rescued. Good and Evil. Noble and Savage. All being done by the being. The Knight Artos was soon heralded as the 'White Knight' a being of peerless skill and virtue, while the terror of the Beast was spoken in hushed whispers with some saying the Beast and White Knight were forever suck in a constant chase and search of each other, no one understanding the true tale that the White Knight and Beast were one in the same.

But his curse was not quite done. As Artos craved attention from others, so would he forever dance to their tunes. With a simple phrase in a forgotten language, Artos would be forced to obey the speaker. The knight and beast both forced to kneel before another, to obey their orders without question or hesitation. To commit great good or evil in their names. "Gwrando Fi Ac Ufuddhau Fy Ewyllys," and the great beast and mighty knight would become nothing more then a pawn to even the meekest of being.

(Pending. Brainstorming for what role we are going to have him play.)