They come in the deepest night, riding tall horses dressed in black metal mesh and aged leather. Their run echoes like an angry wind building up over a desolated plain before throwing itself into the chasms of a narrow canyon. The riders need no armor for they are almost invincible, yet they all wear one, having always done so. But not a glimpse of light gets reflected off of the mighty apparel. Swords are forged out of reddish steel as hard and sharp as black diamonds, shields crafted from the very core of centennial tree trunks and helmets fitted with a narrow visor hiding their true face to the world. The horses are wild and the riders are proud. They know no fear. Their coming weakens all but the strongest heart. And they need raise neither sword nor voice, for their eternally dreaded appearance is all that’s necessary for the curse to be spelled.
They are the Knights of Doubt and they ride on the wings of a storm called Defeat.
He who lowers his guard, she who lets the fire die, they who have walked in the darkness for too long, will fall prey to the riders. They will be taken silently, one by one, systematically. And it is said that:
Once fallen to the dark Knights of Doubt, for their silent return will he always look out.
Twice shaken by the storm of Defeat, forever weak will he be on his feet.
So what will you do when you suddenly wake up covered in sweat and surrounded by the shadows of a once familiar den, only to hear the wind crying to you through walls and windows that the knights are coming? Throw fresh wood in the fire, light up candles everywhere, double-lock the doors and secure the shutters, and wait? Or put on your warmest and most comfortable clothes, grab a torch or a lantern, slam the door open and step out into the night towards them, to greet them in the fields rather then with your back against a wall? You see, therein lays the only remaining question, for they will undoubtedly come. Or could that be the answer?