Darkthornes. That ill-fated name had been swarming about the castle far too often for the White Wolf's liking. The name brought a bad taste to Einar's mouth, the taste of disgust. They were naught but those whom were led astray, whom allowed themselves to be captured by darkness. They were sadistic, malevolent ... they lived for evil and bloodshed. They lived for pain, for pleasure and for domination ... Einar knew this, for he had once been one. Even as the giant man marched through the halls of the castle keep, he could feel himself growing more and more angry. The Darkthornes had carved a great wound within the Wolf's breast - a wound that was still, and always would be, fresh. Gauntlet-kissed fist closed in tight, the steel plates moaning at the tension as a sneer of hate etched itself upon the White Wolf's features. He knew what all this talk meant, knew what the Darkthornes' presence here meant for them all.
It meant war. It meant death. Destruction, bloodshed and disease. It meant suffering, decay and evil. It meant that Einar would need to march onto the battlefield and face the Darkthornes once more. It meant that he would need to face just exactly what he was, and what he wasn't. Prejudice would linger at every turn. He was a half-breed, a prodigy of both bloodlines. He was Blackthorne and he was Darkthorne. Too good to be evil, and perhaps too dark to be a force of light.
Einar continued on through the halls, his heavy boots echoing 'pon the cobblestones, those grey eyes staring ahead - This attack by the Darkthornes meant something else as well. Two houses of the Darkthornes were attacking, which meant that they'd aligned themselves. It had been many years since the houses had been united - and by the murmurs of the castle, the general consensus was that they all feared the houses of Darkthorne would unite once more. And if that were the case ...
Magnus.
Even the thought of seeing the man again made Einar's blood boil. Magnus Darkthorne. His father. A creature of darkness beyond compare. He lived for bloodshed, for tearing flesh and breaking bodies. Loved to hear the agonizing screams and lamenting cries ... the White Wolf shuddered at the thought. There had been a time when he, himself, had shared his father's love for death and pain. But, those times were gone, and Einar would never allow himself to submit to the darkness again. Never. However, Einar knew, even now, that his vow against darkness would be tested in these coming times. Knew that the urge to rip and tear and maim would come again ... He would never truly be rid of the taint that had claimed him. He would never truly be rid of the Lycal blood that flowed through his veins even now, that taint in which Magnus had thrust upon him. a gutteral growl rose from the Knight's throat, and as it reached his ears, the White Wolf paused.
You're a monster.
Jaw tightened, and the man began moving on once more. Yes, he was a monster ... beneath this flesh, he was an animal. A ferocious beast. But, he could control it. He -would- control it. He would never let himself become that monster on the outside, not again ...
You will need to face Magnus again.
Einar knew it, he'd always known it. Deep down that fact had always been there, lingering. The White Wolf had turned from that path, but it was still there, waiting for him. Magnus was still alive, so that wound of his would never heal, would never go away. That wound was doubt, it was fear ... and it would survive through the ages, so long as Magnus Darkthorne drew breath. Einar would need to face him, would need to face the beast he had been ... and Einar would need to kill him.
T'was then that the Knight came upon the main hall and Queen Reinne. A flicker of a smile passed over those features, hidden by the long pale locks of blonde, as he began to calm. It had been Reinne herself that had aided Einar in his return from the darkness. She, whom had helped Einar defeat the taint. That smile, however, lasted only a moment as Einar remembered the talk about the castle. Luther had been involved in the Darkthorne attack, and the man had fallen in battle. Lids fell over those grey hues, and Einar sighed. The torment, the pain ... he could hardly fathom what it was that Reinne was feeling. A part of him wanted to go to her, to comfort her, to tell her he was sorry ... However, Einar would never do that. Would never open himself to Reinne like that. He was the silent defender, the loner ... the White Wolf. And so, he stood there, in silence, armoured arms crossed infront of his breastplate. Reinne would have need of him soon enough ... and it was then that Einar would comfort her, standing infront of the men whom slew her husband ... sword in hand.
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