The Ballad of the Champion

This is an old story. It has been told many times before and you know how it goes. The Champion stands in glory, a radiant example of all that is good and righteous in the world. Against the minions of darkness he stands stalwart, the black tides breaking upon his shield like waves against the cliff. With righteous conviction he cuts down evil men, monsters, and demons alike. He does it not for glory, nor for riches, nor for fame; but because it must be done, because those with the power to act are obliged to act. He answers the call faithfully, donning the mantle of protector as a sacred duty because it must be done and he is the one who must do it.

The Champion's exploits become bardic tales, become legend, become myth. To the helpless he is a hero. To the men who flock to his banner he is a king. He is stainless, unbreakable, a paragon of virtue.

As in every good story, the Champion wins the heart of a beautiful princess. Their love is pure and fierce and all-encompassing. In all the world, the Champion treasures her above all else. She is the rose of his heart and soon she becomes pregnant with his child.

This is an old story. It has been told many times before and you know what happens next.

The Champion has drawn the attention of the Enemy. Of course he has–there could be no story of a Champion if there were no Enemy to oppose him. And this Enemy is ancient, and his shadow is long.

The Enemy reaches out from his distant stronghold and–painfully, deliberately–plucks the Champion's rose. Its thorns make a ragged wound of the Champion's heart, with the expected results.

First comes despair: the tears, the lamentation of a virtuous knight who has given all he is to a noble cause he has never once questioned, a sacred duty he has never once shirked, only to find that which he loved most irrevocably stolen. The loss is a hot dagger slowly twisting in his innards.

Then comes anger: the hot dagger striking the flashpoint of embers within him, igniting a need for justice like he has never known. For the first time, justice is no longer an abstract ideal he champions on behalf of others–now he feels the keening need for justice personally.

The fire thus ignited, the Champion focuses his anger into determination. He girds himself for battle: armor and shield of golden light to protect his body, and sword of holy silver to smite his enemies–to smite the Enemy when finally he finds him. With prayers to the Gods of Righteousness and Valor upon his lips, the Champion sets forth to battle.

Like a scythe through wheat the Champion cleaves the hoardes that stand between him and his distant Enemy. He becomes Apocalypse in flesh, implacable death in motion. The agents of the Enemy swarm him and he cuts them down. The agents of the Enemy are legion, and yet he does not falter. Scarlet are the rivers flowing across the battlefield, rivers set free from severed limbs and rent bodies.

This is an old story. It has been told many times before and you know how it goes. The Champion's holy war becomes an addiction. The quest for justice becomes a burning imperative for vengeance. All who ally with the Enemy must be made to pay the price of the Champion's loss. Those who stand before him are scattered like ashes in a maelstrom. Where battle was once a grim necessity, it becomes an elixir that salves his pain, a drug that allows him–however briefly–to forget the aching hollowness left in the wake of his lost rose.

There is no quarter given, not even for those agents of the Enemy who lose their heart for the fight and throw down their weapons. Mercy has been burnt away in the crucible of the Champion's quest. Those who flee before him are allowed to flee only so he can follow them to their lairs, always hoping they will finally lead him to the Enemy. But none are allowed to escape; all meet their end upon his sword, their pleas for mercy falling upon deaf ears.

After months of constant battle, across mountains and moors and mists, the Champion finally beholds the Enemy's stronghold. Weary is his body as he approaches, but no fearsome guardians impede his way. If he could see himself now, he would understand why.

His armor is no longer golden; its light has been smothered under countless small atrocities committed in the name of the vengeance he still blindly believes to be justice. His shield has been left behind on some forgotten battlefield, the need to protect abandoned for the need to punish.

His sword is no longer holy silver; it has been tarnished black by the blood of his foes, deconsecrated by the growing darkness of his heart. So intent upon avenging his rose is the Champion that he never noticed that the Gods of Righteousness and Valor abandoned him long before this moment.

Into the Enemy's stronghold he storms unopposed, body and soul reinvigorated by the prospect of finally confronting the catalyst of all his pain. He throws open the doors to the throne room to find me waiting, a smile upon my lips as I behold this fallen paladin, no longer stainless, no longer a paragon of virtue.

It was never my intention to break his body, to defeat the Champion in battle. My blade was only ever aimed at his soul.

This is an old story. It has been told many times before.

My name is Strahd, and we know how this story ends.