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Note: This is a revised chapter. The first part of the chapter is new and some minor grammar errors have also been corrected)


PROLOGUE

Many hundreds of years ago, in the land of ‘Terra’,
the ‘Twilight King’ Anu Malsumis,
‘Lord of the Demons’,
plotted to destroy the world so that he could rebuild it in his own image.

However, those who would oppose Anu’s ambitions,
‘Humans’,
rose up against his demon legion,
so that their dreams would not die.

Rolf Beowulf, the ‘Chosen Champion’,
accompanied by his allies,
Walsh Ashleigh, ‘The Wandering Magician’
Rosa Cecila, ‘The Priestess of Dawn’
Freya Frioniel, ‘The Huntress of Bohemia’,
and
Guy Sabin, ‘The Pillar of Rodanda’,
defeated the ‘Twilight King’ at the edge of the world.

But, victory does not come without its sacrifices…

The ‘Chosen Champion’ gave his life to seal the dark power of the ‘Twilight King’ away.
And for this, he is remembered as the greatest hero of his world.

However, this story is not about a legendary hero...

This story is about someone else…

CHAPTER ONE: HELP!!

    ‘There he is,’ thought Gestalt Czarnobóg. ‘Mr. Absolute Terror himself.’
    The androgynous figure of Count Varney stared down Gestalt with eyes of burning coal— but it’s hard to be intimidating while creeping around in a long-sleeved, puffy white buccaneer shirt with lacy trimming.
    If there were a proper dress code for vampire lords, Gestalt thought Count Varney was definitely trying a little too hard to look the part.
    Too much Austin Powers, not enough Dracula.
    At any result, it was time for him to die.
    Again.
    Or whatever it is the undead do when they fade to ash.

    “Gestalt! Turn off that game and let’s go!”

    Gestalt’s concentration was broken. He sat on his beanbag, staring at the pixels of his TV screen. The August issue of 'L33T Gamer Magazine’ lay on his lap. It was open and turned to the walkthrough guide for ‘Forever Fantastico 7’.
    ‘Bah,’ he thought. ‘I can’t save in the middle of a battle.’
    “Gestalt!” shouted his mother again.
    “Alright, alright! I’m coming!”
    “Did you put on the tunic yet?”
   Gestalt looked to his bed and saw the large, brown burlap potato sack she had cut three large holes in so it could be worn as an article of itchy clothing.
    “No mom,” he replied. “I’m not wearing that thing.”
    “Oh yes you are!”
    “Oh no I’m not!”
   The tip-tap of footsteps echoed from the hallway. His mother popped in front of his bedroom door dressed in the pewter-white shirt and black satin apron that comprised of her pseudo-15th century 'serving wench' costume, her brown hair rolled into Princess Leia buns. She lent a stare of disapproval at her son’s black t-shirt—the one that bore the cross-boned label of his favorite punk band, ‘The Jolley Rogerz’—and her face soured at the baggy black bondage pants that made him look sort of like a clown.
    Gestalt fixed his eyes defiantly at her. He wasn’t backing down.
    “Fine,” she said. “I don’t have the time to argue with you. Comb your hair at least, and let’s go.”
    Gestalt went to the bathroom and spiked his otherwise handsome black hair with styling gel until his head resembled a porcupine’s butt.
    His mother sighed.
    “Alright, let’s go.”

    “A Renaissance Fair is a wonderfully great way for getting in touch with your family roots.”— Or at least that’s what Gestalt 's mother had often told him. However, Gestalt had little interest in attending a silly social gathering for old nerds.
    He would have rather stayed home and played videogames.
    If only his mother would understand.
    “Gestalt, I just don't get you sometimes,” she said as they walked to the gates of the ‘Grand Olde Faire’, which on any other day was better known as Champoeg City Park. “You spend hours cooped up in your room pretending to be a knight on the TV, but when you have the opportunity to live like one for a weekend, you won't even so much as put on a tunic. What’s the difference?”

    “Mom,” said Gestalt. “The difference is when I'm in my room, nobody can see how ridiculous I look.”
    “Oh, you look quite ridiculous anyway my dear. Why can’t you just lighten up? You used to love the fair back when you were a ‘Junior Squire Scout’.”

    Though he was too aloft to admit it aloud, his mother had a point. Gestalt had very much enjoyed the fairs when he was a child. For a few years, he even competed in his share of youth tournaments, wielding his cumbersome wooden sword and stocky shield against the other young knightly pretenders to see who would win the little plastic trophies that made them the envy of their fellow third and fourth graders— well, at least for several minutes.  The heart of a child is a capricious thing.

    But, that was in the past. Gestalt was now becoming an adult. He had just turned fifteen this past April. It was time for him to end his involvement in such childish activities such as fencing and horse-riding. After all, what would his friends Jack and Tim think?
    Actually, Gestalt did know what Jack and Tim would think, because it hadn't even been but a week ago that, while helping him sift through his room in a quest for an old game cartridge, Tim had somehow discovered some Polaroid pictures that Gestalt's mother had saved of him from an old tournament and showed his find to Jack. Both of them had, with devilish smiles, told an embarrassed Gestalt that they didn't know he had been in the circus and would like to see some clown tricks.
    Gestalt could only imagine the laughs he'd have received if a picture had been taken of him in that potato sack shirt his mom had designed this year. The thought had haunted him the rest of that week, which is why he had tried his hardest to convince his mother to let him stay home this year— heck, half the reason he even bought 'Forever Fantastico 7' last weekend was to have an excuse to not leave his room this weekend.
    But his plan was fundamentally flawed, for his mother considered the annual Renaissance Fair a family ritual at this point.

    Once they had gotten through the waiting line of the ticket booth, Gestalt and his mother were greeted by a lanky middle-aged man colorfully attired in the bright purple and yellow pin-striped costume of a cartoon court jester.
    “Good morrow to you, good sir and mistress,” the fool announced, rolling his right hand before his belly while stooping to take a humble bow. “And welcome to the Grand Olde Faire!"
    “Good morrow to you, too, noble sir!” Mrs. Czarnobóg responded while spreading the ends of her dress just over her bending knees to make an awkward kind of courtesy, as is the proper custom for ladies to do in that situation.
    However, Gestalt was too irritated with being at the fair to want to appease formalities. Without looking at the jester, the boy waved his left hand in the general direction of the man as if to say “Howdy”.
    This unmannerly act succeeded in upsetting his mother greatly.
    “Gestalt!” cried his mother, horribly embarrassed by her son's rudeness. You know better than to break character! You’re suppose to be playing a role today!”
    The boy smirked devilishly.
    “But I haven't broken character Mom. I'm pretending that I'm a 'time-traveler' from the future where people are actually cool.”
    As had become routine in this situation —and the many others like it—his mother let loose a deep and heavy sigh, then shook her head disappointingly as if to imply that she knew not what to do with her own son.
    “How did I ever raise such a cynical child? Well, if you’re going to be such a party-pooper, then you can always wait in the car until I'm ready to leave.”
    The family car.
    That was a place Gestalt— having not been the most well-behaved child inside a supermarket— was well acquainted with. On a hot summer day like this, sitting in his mother's compact car for a few hours was comparable to being locked inside a big oven. Gestalt would practically be cooked alive— he could even foresee the vinyl car seat melting itself around his back to trap him in a hot and sticky prison.
    Besides, if he went back to the car he'd just get bored having nothing to do.
    Gestalt dug his hands into his baggy pants’ pockets, shrugged his shoulders and proposed an alternate plan to his mother.
    “Eh...I'll just wander around the bazaar for a’ bit instead.” Gestalt mumbled, glancing at his mother from the corner of his eye. Not making direct eye contact seemed to be key for avoiding banishment to the car.
    “Well, just don't get into any trouble.” replied Mrs. Czarnobóg half-listening, for she had become preoccupied with the dangling bells from the jester's fashionable hat. “Oh, and they will have the jousting around noon you know. You'll at least enjoy that I'm sure.”

        While everyone else around him pretended to be living in their own imagined concept of what Europe was like a few hundred years ago, Gestalt drifted past the unique merchandise being offered at the merchant tables to find what he was searching for— the food court. It was a very good thing that someone thought root beer and hot dogs existed in the 17th century, otherwise he might have had to walk across the street to the local Burger Hut restaurant to get a decent lunch, and that would have been a bother.

        As for the 'fair actors' themselves (most of whom were not actually very good at 'acting', but merely thought they were), every possible archetype you could think of was present that day. Amateur shoemakers, blacksmiths and book-binders peddled their wares from booths that were lined up underneath canopies of tarps so that shade would be granted from the blazing sun that looked down at them from overhead. This was a very good thing, since many of the booth-owners had rarely left their parents’ basements all year, and as a result discovered (much to their misfortune) that they were quite susceptible to sunburns.
        Of course, a Renaissance Fair just couldn't be complete unless the crowd consisted of at least a few portly men attired in forest green sweatpants, tennis sneakers and a home-made linen cloak of crude construction. Many of these men also thrust through their belts what was essentially a 'sword-like-object' manufactured in Taiwan from four dollars worth of stainless steel and wood. One might at first glance assume these men were the jesters— but if you had thought this, you would have been wrong.
        The professional fools were too busy struggling to force themselves into an Old English accent of 'thees' and 'thous' while performing feats of juggling, joke telling and card tricks. When your job is to make young children smile with delight, you probably don't want to be seen brandishing sharp pointy things in your hands.
        You might, you know, get arrested.

        'It's the spirit of the thing that counts the most, I guess.' thought Gestalt, still enjoying his hot dog at a picnic table near the food court. Now that he had something in his stomach, he was feeling a little better about his plight. 'At least everyone seems to be having a good time, even if they do look a little lame.'
        Speaking of lame, nothing could be more unusual than to overhear the odd kind of talk used by many of the fair actors. Here's a choice piece of the typical 'role-playing' nonsense that one usually hears some poor pimple-faced high schooler screaming at the top of his lungs at a Renaissance Fair:
       “THROUGH DANGERS UNTOLD AND HARDSHIPS UNNUMBERED, I HAVE FOUGHT MY WAY HERE TO THE CASTLE BEYOND THE GOBLIN CITY~!”
        'Goblin City', in this case, seemed to be the park playground that was infested with a disturbingly large number of runny-nosed toddlers armed with brittle plastic swords and wooden sticks that were swiftly wielded against anything that moved—including themselves—and even a few things that didn't move.
        Gestalt did have to admit though, from a certain point of view, they could be goblins.
        Another fine example of role-playing drivel was the booming voice of a merchant that managed to penetrate the other mindless chatter of the crowd so that it could reach Gestalt's ear.
        “Hear ye, hear ye! Come hither to Sir Metatron Boogley's 'Ye Olde Shoppe of Wondrous Trinkets and Things’! We have everything thou needs— and lots that ye don't!”
        So unusual was this phrase that it actually beckoned Gestalt's curiosity enough to cause him to walk through crowds of odd people. You see, when he heard a declaration that ridiculous, he just had to take a look at what kind of mail-order junk 'Sir Metatron' was trying to pass off as 'trinkets'.

        Displayed on Sir Metatron's table were fine examples of items you typically found for sale at a Renaissance Fair, including plastic daggers, faux- gold bracelets, rock-studded rings and plastic water guns. The seller had also laid down a few additional items that weren’t commonly found at a bazaar booth— all of which were jewelry, mostly rings, bracelets and earrings. Gestalt thought some of these pieces seemed to be of unusually high quality for a fair booth sale, and the best example was probably a very peculiar, round medallion attached to a long black chain. Engraved into the silver medallion with a golden stamp was what could only be the engraving of an eye —you know, the kind of symbol you'd find on the back of a one dollar bill.
       ' I've never seen anything quite like this before…' thought Gestalt, though it was not as if he had ever fancied jewelry before—aside from his studded bracelet of course. But there was something alluring about this medallion that he couldn't quite figure out, and the boy intended to keeping looking at it until he knew what that 'something' was.
       “A unique specimen, isn't it?”
        Suddenly, a firm and unfamiliar hand rested on Gestalt's right shoulder. Gestalt spun his head to his side to find a tall man with pale skin and long, silver hair that flowed around his neck. Though being touched by a complete stranger was really weird, the way the man was dressed was far more unusual—even for actors at the fairs, one might think he was over-dressed for the part. The tall man wore an elegant velvet cloak over his shoulders, and his tight leather pants and jacket were dyed vermilion. His eyes kind of twinkled a hint of red in the sunlight, and Gestalt thought he must have been wearing contacts or something.
        “Um, sure.” replied Gestalt back to the mysterious man. Though he was a little unnerved by the behavior of the stranger, the boy was too intimidated to say anything about having a stranger touch his shoulder.
        “You can search for hundreds of years, and you'll never find something quite like this medallion in all the world.” said the strange fellow again, though he never looked directly at Gestalt when he spoke to him. The vermilion-dressed man's gaze was firmly directed at the necklace— as if its wonder had put some kind of enchanting spell on him.
        “Oh my good young sir, are you interested in this here medallion?”
        The merchant, 'Sir Metatron' himself, had noticed Gestalt was looking at his ware and eager to seal a deal, he had rushed over to the boy.
        “Um, well not really but I think this guy here...”
        Gestalt turned to point at the man who had been infatuated with the medal, but discovered that the stranger had quietly walked away without Gestalt realizing it. After the way the vermilion man had practically been drooling over the necklace, Gestalt thought it was a little odd that he just left like that without a word to the merchant.
        “What was that young lad?” said the merchant, rubbing his sweaty hands together and winking his eyes rapidly at the boy. He seemed overly eager to sell the merchandise, but Gestalt got the impression he was just over-acting his part in the exchange.
        “Um, how much does it cost?” asked Gestalt, out of curiosity. It was a rather cool looking medallion after all, and might go well with his bracelet.
        “Well, a trinket like this is a rare beauty, so I can't just let it go for free, you know. Fifteen dollars is my asking price.”
        Fifteen dollars? Maybe it wasn't so special then. Gestalt still thought it looked pretty cool, though— even if it did probably come from some factory in Taiwan.
        “I'll buy it then.”

       After Gestalt handed the merchant a ten and a five-dollar bill from his wallet, he put the medallion around his neck, then turned to walk away from the booth.
        Suddenly, Gestalt began to feel dizzy and discovered that he had lost his balance mildly. He tried to shrug it off, feeling stupid, but then he felt like the ground beneath him began to move as if it was swaying to the right and to the left. A howling gust of chilling wind blew straight into Gestalt, forcing his eyes shut. Gestalt turned his head down toward his chest to shield his face from the slicing air, but when the shifting wind stopped, all of the people around him had ceased their whimsical conversations.
        In total silence, Gestalt opened his eyes and found himself surrounded by crowds of people looking at him in horror, as if they had just seen a ghost.
        “Demon!!!” shouted a prune-faced old woman with a little girl clinging to her ratty, oil soaked dress.
        “A demon is among us!” cried a straggly looking fellow in a muddy leather jerkin and green leggings. The man pointed a shaky finger directly at where Gestalt was standing. “He appeared out of no where! I saw it! I saw it, I did!”
        The faces of the crowd were so disfigured in terror that small children grasped hold of their parents’ trembling legs. About four adults even sprinted away in absolute terror, shrieking in unintelligible and fearful noises, that were as loud as their lungs could make.
        Gestalt suddenly found himself the center of attention, and he could feel the piercing gazes of at least fifty people angrily directed at him. The happily mad crowd of actors around Gestalt had suddenly become a dangerously mad mob of villagers.
        ' Wait a sec,' thought Gestalt, remembering where he was. 'This is probably some kind of special event for the festival. This is just part of the—'
        Before he knew it, a sharp pain struck the back of Gestalt's head. A child from within the crowd had just pelted him from the rear with a small rock.
        “Oww! What the hell are you doing??” Gestalt covered his throbbing head with his hand. “That hurt!”
        The crowd responded with shocks and gasps.
        “It speaks our tongue!” cried a villager.
        “It's surely come to kill us all!” shrieked another.
        “Look at the way it's dressed— it's a devil if I ever saw one!”
        “The way I'm dressed?” repeated Gestalt, believing he had discovered the reason for all this unwanted attention. “Oh, so that’s it then — you've decided to single me out because I didn't come in a stupid costume!”
        Now, as if things hadn't already become strange enough, pushing his way from the rear of the crowd came a husky man mounted on what Gestalt thought was an unusually large ostrich. The man's steel armor flashed in the sunlight, and he appeared to be one of the actors dressed as an otherwise very convincing knight. The mob of people began to step aside to allow the giant bird to pass, lest they be ridden over and trampled upon by its claws— as one of them almost was, for the knight had given no warning when he decided to steer his mount directly into the crowd. The knight rode his poultry steed until it stood before Gestalt, at which point the knight withdrew a rather large broadsword from his side.
        “You are a fool to be here demon, for the ‘Advents of Rolf Beowulf’, the ‘Paladins of Deus’, protect this village!” shouted the steel-clad man in a stern, harsh voice while raising his cross-hilted sword into the air dramatically. “I shall smite you down in the name of the Goddess Deus, and the world shall be rid of your evil~!”
        Yes— Gestalt was now sure this HAD to be some kind of contest at the fair, or something like that. Though the end result of all this drama probably meant he'd end up as the 'King of the Day', Gestalt felt very nervous having so many people looking at him. Succumbing to worry and doubt from the pressure he was feeling, the boy raised his hands up and grinned anxiously.
        “Hey knight guy, I think your costume is really cool and all— but I'm not really interested in playing games right now. Sorry!”

        The boy started to turn to walk away from the knight, but before he knew what happened next, the armored man swiftly brought down the flat side of his longsword across the back of Gestalt's head with a great force.
        Falling to the ground with a heavy thud, Gestalt's mind became blank as he fell out of consciousness and into the darkness of slumber’s sweet embrace.