Sir Owain Glyndŵr

Silent Knight, Unholy Knight


As it rounds the corner, the first thing you notice is the smell. Unnervingly sweet, as though it’s an overbearing perfume, the scents of Lavender, Mistletoe, and Willow Bark faintly mix with that of the various oils and resins. As you hear the footsteps approaching, you notice they’re stiff and labored. Perhaps it is due to the copious amounts of armor worn by the creature, though strange it still seems. You can’t make out any features due to this armor, though all the same you feel a sense of dread as the creature approaches.


Sir Owain Glyndŵr was the last Prince of Powys, in the world of Prydein. When the Rejk arrived on this world, he was only a boy, though as the years progressed, his family was systematically wiped out by the Rejk’s forces in an attempt to cement his hold over the planet. Spending his childhood being rushed from safehouse to safehouse, he developed an immense hate for the unseen overlord, for preventing him from ever being able to feel safe.

By the time he reached adulthood, Owain had very little remaining in the way of living family, making him the sole male heir to the throne of Powys. A wild man, ruled more by emotion than by reason, he boldly struck out against the Rejk’s sheriffs and generals in small guerrilla style attacks, in an act he and his followers called the Last War of Independence. Despite the success of a number of small attacks against the Rejk’s forces, the rebels simply didn’t have nearly enough power to compete with the seemingly limitless force exuded by the Rejk, and in a surprise attack gone wrong against the a transport thought to be carrying the Rejk, Owain was mortally wounded and captured.

When he awoke, he felt different. His memories of his past life felt distant and alien, and though deep within he could still feel a dimly festering hate for the creature known as the Rejk, on the surface, he felt only empty. As he looked down to his stiff form, he found it covered in bandages, oils, and ceremonial charms. In the dim light of the crypt he knew he should feel cold, but he did not. He knew he should feel pain from the wounds he suffered from the battle, but he did not. As he rose to his feet, he felt a pull on his mind, it led him down hallways and through corridors he had no recollection of, though he traversed without trouble. Finally, he entered the throne room and took his place aside the throne with the other bandage-clad warriors, ready to defend the Rejk with whatever quality he possessed that imitated a life, though he knew not why he did so. For a moment, he felt rage boiling up from within as he saw a fleeting look of amusement cross the Rejk’s face, but the anger was gone before he could so much as think on it. He was but a tool.

For many centuries, he served as the Rejk’s guard. Protecting him day and night without rest. Shortly after their journey to oversee the project on Wea however, something happened, forcing the Rejk, his lieutenants, and the guards to enter into stasis until an opportune moment, and in this brief moment of agitation, Owain felt something brimming on the edges of his consciousness that he had not felt in almost 1300 years, free will.

Sir Owain Glyndŵr

Night Eternal KJtheGinger