The grounds were new to It, and so it betrayed it's pervasive nature early on. Silvery, translucent swirls of mist had swarmed the grounds of the House in the twilight hours of it's first few days in tenure. The Inn held no surprises for it anymore - from the Nexus it had been born and reborn many times, and would be times without end.

But the Houses. They were new. They felt only semi connected to the Nexus - that heartless phoenix, that immolated all the little parasites which used it for their own pitiful existences. But the Houses ....perhaps they were far enough distanced to survive that fiery cycle of death and rebirth. Not that It really cared. It didn't have the same problems with sense of self that the Host did. It was The Mist. The Host was The Host. And that was all the Mist had ever known, though sometimes it was known to other people by other names, the Mist still remembered it's own origins, and it's relationship to the Host.

Although perceived as a Mist to all but those who are Eternal, the Mist was actually smoke - cast from the burning of the Eternal Flame, of Life Which Cannot Be Extinguished. It was watching through the Host as the Lady of the House had offered sanctuary, and had encouraged acceptance. Where else to be obvious yet not curious" The Host would pass well with Warriors or Magi....but the Mist, and indeed some aspects of himself would have drawn too much attention. Those of the Sword were too often proud and resented the Hosts supernatural abilities - honor and pride were too closely knit there. And Magi ....certainly with them nothing would appear out of place - yet the Robed were often curious themselves, often beyond the point of wisdom. The Houses of the Hollow Teeth also proved alluring ....simply out of memories of another Nexus ....but they were different here, and this Host was not one of them. At least not yet.

One of the most curious things about the Host was that it almost always chose a human form. The Mist could see the attraction. Humans were powerful conduits, possessed of great potential - the greatest of those who were not Eternal. They were also possessed of relatively easily exploited weaknesses, however, though the Mist could see why the Host would venture the risk versus the rewards.

The Mist's intellect had wandered as it slipped in and around The House of Demons, permeating everything which was not warded, and steering far clear of any indication of protective magics, as it was not seeking intrusion - only information. Just as the Host would not barge into someone's room without Offer of Hospitality extended, neither would the Mist pry into personal lives, except where invited. It had saturated the very essence of the grounds now, except where expressly forbid by wards. It's mind did not think in linear terms, as creatures of more limited existence often did - this often made it appear as though the Mist's intelligence - if it had one - was rather low, but this was not the case. It was simply much farther thinking than most other beings could imagine.

As it finished establishing a link with the grounds, and establishing Sanctum status within the Hosts own residences, it billowed and gathered around the floors of the commons, becoming almost tangible in it's obscuring clouds. Lasting only an instant, as soon as it had gathered an apparent critical mass, it rushed directly to Kristoph's personal residence within the House and dispersed itself thinly throughout the room.

The Host had not specified where, only to remove the Books of the Black Rose from residence in the Inn to residence at Demon House. He had not specified his own rooms. In the Mist's wake in the commons lay a single chronicle upon the table, bound in leather and closed. The sigil upon the cover bore a red rose crossed with a white quill on a black field, with a marking establishing it as the 67th volume along the spine. Normally the Mist was purely obedient, but it had begun to find the cycle of rebirth to be a tedium in the plane of Eternity, and so had let it's not often seen whimsical side manifest. Kristoph would search his rooms to no avail and grow irritated, but to what end" He had become as tedious as the phoenix cycle, so let his hunt for the chronicle awaken his spirit again, and let it emerge again Ex Memoria.

The Books of the Black Rose were chronological by lunar calender, and thank the Seven Eternal Fires this period was almost over, and the Book of Bleak Winters would come to close.

So let the Host search for the volume. If another found the book before Lord Kristoph, they would have a powerful leverage on him, to be sure. But the Mist had contingencies in place, if it fell to that.

The Mist was far thinking.

First Entry

"Once, upon a time..."

"What a cruel gesture to children, pretending that Dragons can be defeated." I smirked, my monologue unheard, as I was alone. I always feel so lost when I return from the Oblivion beyond the Nexus. And with every return, even more so.

How much time had passed since my last rebirth here" How many other incarnations had met their end, in hope or heartbreak" There wasn't really any way to tell, of course. There was infinite diversity and infinite combinations.

This was the third night I had spent traveling between the Demon House and the Red Dragon Inn, three nights before that when I had first been offered Sanctuary.

Normally I would have introduced myself by this point, but I'm not even sure the effort is worth it. I guess I'm better suited just being the narrator of my own life, so forgive the slips into the third person. Something being forced to scribe using the power of the Eye is not helping.

With all the questions from without and from within, I'm not even sure of who I am anymore. It seems like only yesterday that I was accosted by Lord Draven in the newly constructed bar ....only to be saved by Armageddon. Or was it Draven who was saved" It's all fuzzy now.

And how many turnings ago had that been" It might as well have been an eternity of them. They are gone, and that is that.

Still. Little things tickle the mind and bring forth reminiscences. Like the banshee. I wasn't expecting her. Well, I was and wasn't. There used to be Thirteen of them, when I was first brought forth. But she doesn't seem connected to them in any way, just another Wanderer. Still, she has offered me Sanctuary, and it's more than most have. For that, I am ever thankful.

So different here, now. And the absence of my journals is irritating in the extreme. I should have been more specific with the Mist. If it wasn't so useful, I would banish if. Were I certain it was within the scope of my abilities.

I realize that the All Seeing Eye of Knight transcribes what I wish ....but it's not the same as having the volume in your hand to do it yourself. The feel of the ink, and the smell of the paper. It's unique.

If anyone finds this volume, kindly return it to me that the supernatural practical joke upon my person will be abated. Thank you.

Not that I suspect you (whoever you are) will actually return this to me. You've already read this far without doing so, after all. I sighed, the sound filling the empty room of the Manse, and wincing upon the realization of how my narrative reads without writing it myself.

If you think the perpetrator of this action will aid you should I discover your possession of my tomb....you could be right. The Mist is a creation of questionable loyalty at best. I wonder if that was inscribed. I can't very well edit if I can't see to do it.

Removing the Eye now, as it were. This is too frustrating. Return to me my possessions. Thank you. End of First Entry

The Mist was far thinking.

But like so many other intelligent entities, it could be arrogant and too sure of itself. That arrogance would lead to mistakes, and those mistakes would lead to the obstruction of it's goals.

But such is Life, and the Mist moves onward.

It wasn't as easy to maintain control over the body of a dead madman, not as easy at it had been to do while he was alive - but it shouldn't have been.

The Host had needed to die, he had been acting of his own accord, ignoring the pleas, nay the commands, of the Emissary. The Mist had not counted on the death of his spirit unlocking the way for other creatures of possession, particularly it had not counted on another Emissary. Another Dragon.

The search was on to find a more suitable Host. The only suitable Host, in fact. Other bodies would be ravaged quickly by the Emissary, for only one had been born on each world to contain each Emissary that existed.

The Mist only hoped that that person had not already been killed in this world, before the Mist had even arrived. That would be a string of luck - of the worst kind. Perhaps it should not have hidden the Books of the Black Rose within Bristle Crios. Perhaps by reading those Annals, the Host it had already had would have remained sane.

Although now the milk was spilled, and there was no getting it back in the bucket.

Although the Mist and the Emissary were two separate entities, they did work in tandem on many occasions, and this was one of them. Neither of them had any information to work with - what did the new Host look like" What age was he" Was he a he?

And how would they ever find him' Trapped in a now rotting meat suit, which had earned the enmity of many and the suspicion of the rest.

It was too much to hold onto that the Host would be drawn to them.

They needed to act.

The Mist needed to act.

But the Mist did not become agitated, for it possessed no human emotions, or even their equivalents. The Mist did what it always does, planned within plans, contingencies upon contingencies.

This was an inconvenience, but not completely an unexpected turn of events.

And the Mist was far thinking.

The Mist was far thinking.

It was Body, Breath, and Voice for he who had none.

On some worlds, He was known as Lord Kristoph Knightfall.

Sometimes simply as Knightfall.

And everything in between.

It was only a surname, and indeed many bore it who were gifted by those things that brought them fame ....and infamy.

But He was the man associated with that name - a man who evoked the images of the Hollow Toothed Lords, Knights of Death, and of the Deathless.

He had lived a hundred lives, a thousand lives; spirit, will, knowledge, and power, bound together in a single body.

By the Myriad.

And what was the Myriad"

A Jewel. A Mark. A Third Eye, centered on the brow.

A Sign of the Eternal, which sang out across the Infinite planes, a cable fastening a

A Sigil of the Dragons.

The Dragon the Knightfall bore was named as his blade - Justiciar, the Judge, and it's Aspect was Justice. And it was known, from time immemorial that in order to serve Justice one must be willing to act against injustice - evil to this Dragon - without reservation, without hesitation, wherever it may be found.

And the Dragon, Knightfall had found that evil lived in a Pit.

And in order to act against that which dwelt in the Pit, one had to be willing to climb down into it. To get dirty. To exist in the dark.

And in the the darkest depths of that Pit, justice was blind. And when it emerged into the light, was struck blind again.

But an Emissary's Host tempered the Dragon's fire, as that immortal self was made dilute, with Humanity.

The Mist was far thinking and could touch on all places and times where it's Host dwelt. Thus had it summoned a new Host to Rhy'din. But it hadn't been far thinking enough. The Host called, the Last Host for this Dragon it seemed, was too young, too naive in the ways of the world, and had too much living left to do before it was suitably mature. He'd not yet even taken his second name.

And now somehow possessed a Myriad - a Dragst Energist - of his own, fueled from within. All the Myriae were known to each other, but the one Kaius held - one of four, in fact, but specifically the one to which he had Keyed himself - was unique. Neither Knightfall nor the Emissary knew it not. Although all the Emissaries - Dragons - were Eternal, there were still gradations of ancientness. And though it bore the Mark of Justiciar, how could it be, when Justiciar was Knightfall"

Unless, the Myriad and the Mist realized, through the shared suffering of Justiciars Host, Knightfall had become ....something else.

Epiloge: Letter to a Banshee, Memoirs to the Lady of Knight

There amidst Kristoph's belongings lay the Book of Bleak Winters. He had found it again whilst in the process of moving his worldly possessions from the Demon House to House Eternal, where he'd been granted tenure as the Leader of that place - or as he preferred to think of himself, the Voice. He didn't seek to lead, but he would speak for those that would seek sanctuary and solace there, should they lack a voice or will of their own.

The tome brushed memories within him, things that - although they were recent - had been not forgotten but mentally set aside, in the tumult which had ensued since his return to the Quick Lands. Lifting the work, he noted that it had been read - more than once. In fact, it had been opened and poured through enough that the spine of the volume showed signs of wear, and at this he smiled - for books were the conduits of knowledge, and to think someone had read his works gave him great pleasure.

Opening the volume, he laid it flat upon a table top and let it's pages fall open to that page which was most viewed.

And was startled.

It wasn't actually part of the tome that he'd penned which had drawn so much attention; what had drawn the attention of whoever the reader had been was instead a sheaf of notes kept near the end of the tome - notes that he had intended to draft together into a letter, had he ever found the time and the right words.

But he hadn't. Not back then, at least. But what he had written had obviously been looked at - numerous times. And judging by the smudges of fingers upon the paper, by a woman. Smiling, he looked again at the words he'd written - knowing, or at least suspecting who it was that had read them.

Fiona O'Neill - the very person he'd sought to reach with those words when he'd put quill to parchment.

It could only have been her - his apartments at the Demon House, where he'd lived at the time, were locked perpetually against outside interlopers, complete with heaving binding spells which would hold those trespassers indefinitely. There were exceptions within those wards, however, that specifically allowed the presence of the Lady of the Demon Manor - again, Fiona.

A dusky hued blush suffused his face as he shook his head, rereading the words that he'd written - such sentimental ....and his lips curved into a slight smile, which was almost always only granted to her anyways. She wouldn't have seen his words as sentimental foolishness, he was sure. And in reality, they weren't - they were the most heartfelt words he'd ever put to paper - but he was still self conscious of them, and of letting his feelings show. He felt it unbecoming someone of his position, should any but the intended reader ever see them.

But before he would close the Book, he did take the time to cast one more spare glance at his words...

Lady Fiona,

Forgive the forward nature of my words - it's unbecoming for a stranger to so cavalierly throw his heart at the feet of one of such beauty and compassion as yourself - alas, it must be done lest I lose my nerve. The fact that I speak of losing my nerve tells volumes of my mind set; for years I've wandered, seemingly alone, and searching for this place - only to have finally found it, and found that it is more alien than I can ever remember. Save for one thing - one person. Until I'd found that one person - or rather, she found me - I'd thought myself lost upon the shores of Oblivion, about to finally give in and forget everything - forget myself, and all that I'd gained, all that I'd lost, over my long life - lives, even.

Words can't begin to describe the feeling of taking into oneself the willingness to forget everything that has made you who you are - all the love, likes, dislikes, passions, curiosities and knowledge gained over not just one but three lifetimes. To stand upon the cusp of nothingness, only to be held back by one thing - one person - of whom the thought almost completely reinvigorates not just the body and mind, but the soul itself.

Fiona, Lady of the Demon House - and Lady of the Knight, of my Heart, you are she who gives me pause in abandoning everything I am and was, to the emptiness of Oblivion.

Lady of the Mists - when first you called out to me, willing to give succor to my soul, desperate and hungry for solace - I thought it fate. Long have the Mists of the Night Lands served me, allowing me to travel unseen, and enabling me to watch over those I loved, making sure no ill came to them as long as it was in my power to prevent. Perhaps though, I wandered too far and too often, for I lost myself.

But your voice called me back, like sweet music, caressing my spirit and volunteering for me shelter within the walls of your dwelling.

Imagine my shame - no, that's wrong - humility, at being offered aid against the one foe I could not fight on my own - despair. But as quickly as you offered it, it seemed you were to disappear, not matter how high or low my search for you....and search I did. I consulted those whom I swore never to speak to again - finding them and considering them betrayers to my past, and denying me a future - those who dwelt within the Final Myriad. They showed me....you, my Lady. You a thousand times over, and when I thought I had seen enough of you that my heart was filled to bursting - that I could take no more, for you weren't truly there - they showed me more still. And I fell in love with you, fell back in love with you, as was supposed to have been - a thousand times a thousand times a thousand times over, and again. While at first, it was merely your nature - and kind heart - that drew me to you, after being shown the myriad of your lives - of our lives that could have been - by Omega....lady, I miss you and love you in such a way that all the worlds poets, philosophers and fools combined could not put words to it. I am for you - and I think I have always been. It was not merely friends and family that were familiar that I was seeking to find solace in, in returning to the Nexus - it was you, but I never knew it....and no, with your absence, I fear I shall never be able to tell you.

Every night now, I walk past your portrait in the Demon House, if only to catch a glimpse of you; if you won't step from the Mists and let me cast my gaze upon your true face, then....at least I have that, though in the darkest parts of the night, memory of you haunts me like a ghost - and my heart is the host of its haunting. Will you ever beckon me forward again, like you did that one night in which you saved my soul from myself" Shall I ever again look upon your smile" Or will your portrait haunt me here forever? Even now, as I write draft upon draft of this letter, never finding the write words to tell you that I love you - that I miss you - and knowing that I'll keep drafting again and again - leaving the final copy here in this tome, in the hopes that you might some day find it within the House that is yours, and perhaps you will be curious and eventually read it....then at least, you would know...

Until the end of time, and at the edge of memory....if you ever come looking for me...

I'll be here, waiting...

For you.

Eternally.

Yours.

Lord Kristoph Arknight, of High House Knightfall - called by friends, loved ones, and foes alike...

Knightfall

After finishing the letter, he could not help but wonder how she'd never thought him a sentimental fool. But he was smiling - because she'd read the letter, and had come for him regardless.

And within himself - the void, the patch of Oblivion - was filled, with her love.

And he was no longer empty.

But he did think to himself...

It was long overdue for him to write again...

And the next of the Books of the Black Rose must be penned...

But the current volume, it would be copied and transcribed someday to the greater collection - but for now....he would leave it in the chambers of his fiance and wife to be.

He had, after all, written it for her.