Khilith was dreaming about flying again. Well, he wasn't sure if flying was accurate; it was more like he was simply in the air while the world moved beneath him. He could feel the wind on his face and taste the vapor in the clouds as he floated. In front of him, a peak; at the peak, a cave. But as he approached the cave, something prodded him in the side, hard, and Khilith's dream shattered back into reality.

"Hey you, you can't sleep here!" came a voice from his side. Khilith slowly became aware he was lying in an alleyway, slumped against one of the walls. He slowly rose, willing his tired eyes to make sense of the scenery. What had happened last night after the fifth bar? Had he made it to a sixth? Khilith raised his eyes to meet those of the man who had poked him: a middle-aged street guard by the looks of it, and the staff the guard held in one hand being the culprit of the jab.

"...Wait, uh... what exactly are you?" the street guard asked, his brow furrowing in obvious confusion as he stared into Khilith's face. "I thought you were an orc but... those scales."

Khilith sighed, and began to examine the handful of bottles lying about him. Perhaps one would... Ah, but no luck. They were indeed all quite empty. He returned his attention to the guard, who had backed away to the mouth of the alleyway.

"Look, whatever you are, don't make trouble, you hear?" the guard said nervously. "We can't have people just sleeping out on the streets. If you need a place to stay, there's many an inn in town, and many'll take work for payment, you hear?"

"Indeed, good sir," Khilith said, his deep voice amicable as he slowly rose to his feet, one hand to his head as he strove to shake off the headache. "It seems, however, that I may have drank a bit too much the night before. I apologize for the trouble. I meant no harm, as I'm sure you did not in waking me."

The guard relaxed visibly. "Ah, yes, we've all been there. May I ask your reason for being in town?"

"I came to join the Knights," Khilith said, brushing himself off in a vain attempt to make himself presentable. He frowned at the obvious stains on his dark clothing, and sighed again. "I am to attend the entrance ceremony."

"Then you'd best hurry," the guard said, laughing. "The ceremony begins in just over an hour, and they'll want you on time."

"I guess that leaves no time for another drink," Khilith muttered. "Thank you, friend, I'll be on my way."

The guard stepped aside as Khilith walked (or stumbled) out of the alleyway and towards the castle, where the ceremony would be held. Perhaps by the time he arrived, his headache would subside.

A lone man walked the path towards the castle, dressed in armor that had been hastily strapped on, leaving him to adjust it every once in a while. His expression was sullen, trying not to make eye contact with those that looked upon him. They whispered to one another, keeping their distance from him like he were some ill omen. He was a strange man, of the like from a foreign land, darker complexion and eyes a hot yellow, messy hair black as night with a strange bluish glisten to it.

He had no real name, no lineage that was obvious to him, things that even a lowly peasant would have in comfort. Rumors spread about him, that he was born of a devil, or cursed at birth, and he wouldn't be surprised if they were right. They called him Editus Rayne, a bringer of misfortune. Ever since he could think on his own, he has known only a cycle of unending struggle, and the cruel cold within and without. He didn't even know why he had survived this long, or cared to do so. He was here, now, hand picked to be sized up for the role of knight.

Why am I even doing this? This is laughable, I'm not fit for a knight, they know it well, and yet... picked by the king himself? Why? he wondered as he scratched through his hair with slight visible frustration. From everything he knew, from what all people have said, the king wasn't the kind to pull such a cruel prank. They say he is a good man, a righteous man, concepts foreign to an unwanted child grown into a cynical man. Everything to him was a subject of suspect, as much as his own existence was. Just, what the hell even is a righteous man? he wondered in frustration. He wanted to see it with his own eyes, what is truly the brightest of virtues.

He looked ahead to the gate, taking a deep breath and exhaling, blowing his messy hair from his eyes. By no surprise to him, others had come before him, likely more enthusiastic than him. What sort would these others be? Glory seekers, looking for their slice of fame and fortune? Were they the noble sort that looked down on blots like himself, was there going to be a fight as soon as he entered their presence? He wasn't afraid of conflict, he wasn't afraid of battle, and he certainly wasn't afraid of being honest.

"Well then, o' noblest of parties, the stray mangy dog, Editus Rayne, now walks among you!" he cried out with an irreverent yet smooth tone, thick with flagrant disregard of even his own self. He then fished out something from his bag, a rolled up piece of parchment with the undeniable royal seal. "Perhaps I was mistaken and this is my arrest for some crime instead, but this summons I received seems to indicate that I was called for... service?"