When I was a young Darkest Child, my home, a chateau, seemed much undone by siege and siege engine. The stone was fall all about in great heaps and only some few chambers and dungeons kept the cold and wind in their place. The reason, this is because my parent and mother were very keen on embittering. They sallied forth each week to harry, insult, wound, destroy, dismember and generally be nasty to all our neighbouring castle owners. This, in return, encouraged all our neighbours, by and great peaceful souls on a whim, to come visit and fashion similar attentions to our chateau, high up upon its height.
None the less, even during the bombardments, I was engaged in an happy darkest childhood. Until as time went, I grew as expected too tall, it was to me that I must grow up and sally forth myself and destroy everything. I explained to my beloved parents that my great vocation and wish was to become a social worker, but they closed their hearts and donned their helms. Destroy, everything again you must destroy everything, they said, Destruction is power. Which is the family motto and even a saying that I have no clue.
So, I went to destroy the castle of my school friend, next castle along. But when I got to the great gates, they asked me in to partake of some refreshments. Which I accepted of course.
When I got home my parents disowned me and sent me out of the home castle, into the wilderness without boots, I had to make myself some sandals from vines and the rough bits from the trunks of palm trees. So, I spent some years out in the world where it was different, I was alone with the shrubs and grass alone. Sleeping in caves and doorways, begging for scraps of coin and selling magazines on the high street.
When I become as upset and alone so much that I was alone and my sandals had worn out, I came back and asked my mother if I could try again. She then called order for this fine and historical armour to be forge made, for me and sent me out to enhold the family name, destroy stuff and finally inherit my ancestral pile, literally. Although I don’t know why.
Thus, my armour shined, I am come to make your grand places to porridged.
That is indeed a sorry tale, said the Sphinx from high in the barbican, Might I inquire which branch of social work your calling implied? I myself have become interested in the care and attention of several humans. This for me, a well-known purveyor of chaos, is a bit of a revelation.
Yes, well, at first I was unfocused, but as and when I had experienced first-hand the sorrow and desperation of homelessness, I had hoped to become involved in the rehousing and rehabilitation of homeless people, said the Darkest Knight, looking at his feet, and speaking in a wistful tone.
And yet, said the Sphinx, you are now threatening to turn people’s homes to porridge and put innocent children to the cold street where their unsocked toes will become colder and colder.
When you put it like that, said the Dark Knight quietly, but then my ancestral pile, and here he raised his mailed arms up in desperate and his voice trailed away. Perhaps I could provide the children with woolly socks. Raising his shiny visor up to the Sphinx, his chased armour sparkling bright in the sun.
Perhaps, said the Sphinx calmly, you could turn away from your quest for destruction and open a hostel for the homeless.
The Guardians of the Cave 