The times of rest in daylight that followed brought vivid nightmares to the one known as the Crimson Knight, his mind conjuring a pitch black tapestry that did spite the daylight he slept within, a tapestry that clung heavy as a battleground; his sword slashed at vainly in streaks of golden sunlight cuts and burgundy parries against the clawing darkness that assaulted him from that obsidian fabric. Things hissed and cursed his betrayal as they lurched forward from the void, their blurred features a product of their unholy speed, their faces unknowable yet all too familiar. Faces with names. Their speed Valborast matched, blow by blow, yet, yet...
Valborast found his feet moving backwards, backwards further in bounding steps of necessity, until he felt an edge to the ground.
This part of the nightmare was all too familiar and well trodden for the man. The fear of being cornered pervaded his mind, just as he had encountered all those years ago when he had performed such actions to liberate himself from Zakron. A flurry of cuts to defend his blood, his choice. And then it came, as it always did, in infinite slowness he was bodied into the depths, claws assaulting him as they dragged him down, and finally, fangs sinking in as his frame sank into the abyss of his own mind as he continued to fall endlessly.
The final moments, a refrain from an audience at the nightmare played out again, an audience Valborast had no words to retort, nothing but the sensation of suffering and crushing sense of defeat. A laughter of an all too familiar voice echoed out from all directions, dry and choking, with the words,
“What folly Val. What folly,” being the final goodbye to the nightmare as Valborast roused with immediate motion.
Valborast rolled out of bed as if were aflame, his shoulders pressing him to the ground, his hands beating back that which plagued him, yet he did so without yelp or cry as he tussled.
A few moments of dealing with his own phantoms was enough to bring him to his senses, the feeling of the hardness of the floor, of his own heart beating fast in his chest, of the memory of being in this situation before. He became sober, and his dread was replaced by relief, and rapidly replaced by irritation at having suffered the same fate as the previous two nights.
He stood up, his brow furrowed, his palms upon his face dragged down in exasperation and loathing and he muttered to himself as he sought out his pipe. Daylight had passed, and the moon cast illumination through the window that revealed a path to his smoking paraphernalia. Rich expensive tobacco that carried with it the hint of vanilla and coconut, a purchase that Valborast had made to soothe his mind and carry his scholarly pursuits with some degree of comfort.
“
How am I suppose to accomplish my task if I must contend with such...visitations?” Valborast muttered to himself as he placed the pipe to his lips and loaded it with lithe fingers. A mote of flame was commanded, and the window was opened to release the first exhumation of the new day. He thought of the progress he had made with Captain Selene's authored book. How it illuminated something about her existence, and made him feel as if she had opened a door of secrets to her very existence. But more than this, Valborast felt as if he grasped the nature of his task more clearly. For if he could illicit such a response from his readers, he would be glad indeed.
A gentle breeze muddled with the smoke he produced. He tapped his pipe and loaded it once more with tobacco and gave a dark hum of thought as he did so.
Valborast mulled over the question, and set his pipe to the task once again. But one satisfactory conclusion was drawn. The knight dismissed the thought of approaching a healer or councilor almost immediately in favour for his path.
“Cleansing violence,” Valborast uttered, as if he expected it to be brought to him under silver cloche.
He looked at his sword and thought of the last time it had been drawn in the physical world. He thought of the work he had recently enacted, and how it might be soon time to train those who would seek advantage against the kindred, not through words, but by example.
The shimmering mists of a combatant evasive, of darkness befalling the eyes of the assailant, of wounds drawn and set to weeping, of speed and quickness without abatement.
“
Too long,” Valborast said with a comforting smile, as if providing platitudes for the blade's sake. It was a mundane
weapon, but one that had been a vessel to his own magics. The lore of light, to cast shadows across the damned souls that might thwart him, the lore of blood, to drain his foes of their vitae so that he might put an end to combat humanely.
If such a word could be used for his own manner of bringing about violence. If his cause was required, he would exsanguinate until the last breath was drawn and shuddered out from pale frame.
“
Too long,” Valborast repeated, and smiled as he exhaled, the scented smoke lifting out into the cold air outside, his mind calmed by the venture he had decided upon. He would go on to rest his eyes further yet not fall into sleep as his mind was occupied with all the skills and techniques he might marshal in a contest.
He awaited until daylight struck the earth once more, and set about the edification of his own prowess, to fight something that was not phantom, to give rise to the adrenaline and thrill of combat, to expunge his own fears, to try and give his rest some peace for having matched himself against a knowable foe.
****************************
The training grounds carried with it the usual sounds, the thuds of arrows sinking into targets, the smacking of wasters against one another, the encouraging calls of coaches, the dismay of targets failed and the cheer of goals accomplished. The air was cool, and the clouds concealed much of the sunlight as they drifted slowly with the fresh scent of moss and the forest to greet anyone who brought themselves out this day.
Valborast's grey shadow blending in tone with the overcast canopy and he walked with the pace of a funeral procession as he proceeded to the centre of the training ground, his crimson robes hiding his footsteps, his outline undisturbed from the effort of movement. It was as if the knight moved by will alone instead of the locomotion of footfall. The handle of his blade was held higher and with purpose about his belt, the steel nestled expectantly within, his mind already performing numerous cuts that were languid and inviting response, Valborast having a cruel sense of remedying countercuts with a quickness that was granted to him by sudden invocation of his blood to act. To defend oneself against the
vampire's speed was Valborast's earliest task in combat. The rest came after. To this, Valborast would apply himself first.
If I can find a willing and capable person to spar against. One who won't quail before the challenge. One that will let me enact my methods.
He went into the center of the training ground, the ground well worn and marked from the scuffles that emerged daily to better the martial prowess of the order. Valborast could see the imprints of the previous day's contests, he could detect where body fell, where blade had marked the soil, and in particular, the rare spot of blood from a contest to first blood was commanded. Such things were uncommon, but expected.
How could one train without that possibility.
He waited and breathed slowly as he stood to attention and with expectation. His eyes cast themselves upon those who would walk by, awaiting the subtle signs of a challenge to be risen towards. The wind did not fetter the knight's clothing, and the only sign that he was affected by the world around him was the odd movement of a strand of hair upon his head, and his own eyes moving to receive those who might prove themselves wanting of the sparring. He was neutral in his gaze, so that he might not frighten or to invite the wrong spirit of contest.
Proper sportsmanship will be required, proper tact, but, I must be true to my aim to employ my style, my kindred graces. I owe myself, and my readers, that much. 
