Calleon Tattered Cloak (Hollow Knight Inspired)

Prologue

Under the soil of the Earth, the dirt that we eat, whole kingdoms rise and fall, often within the span of only a few weeks. This is the story of one such kingdom, uniquely positioned between the underworld of the springtails and the high-sky where the bumblebees reign. Its name in the language of their first residents was Chthinthe, a word not easily translatable. We call it Molthome, our home. 

Molthome was not like the ruined kingdom of Arthronas or the republic of Hind, where the mantis lords killed those who survived. Molthome resisted the eb and flow of change, its denizens being the long-living insects. It was there to exist. It was there to remain. For better or for worse, the dirt of Molthome was older than most animals. Water from ancient trees irrigated its rivers from which the most noble to the most low drank. And towering in the core of the earth, chitin castles with their high towers shone black in the gloom of the caverns. The only light that of the bioluminescence of the hardworking fireflies in their villages of twigs and ripped leaves above – the domain of those more savage than me, those that spoke the language of the Intedera and the Locust. Vile languages derivative of those kinds that eat fathers and those that lay waste to their own kingdoms. Their language even sounds it – like they are gluttonous to the point that they always talk like their mandibles are occupied with tearing. But these lesser creatures too, are worth saving. 

I cross my heart for what is about to come. The Order of Hermes fled onwards to castle Nimea, sending their messages on pheromones. The message hit me hard, driving me to the gilded floor of my homestead. The ant hordes of Anthema pushed against the borders of our outer edge. I, Calleon Tattered Cloak, disgraced in name, was called to defend. To defend a kingdom that is not truly ours. 

It was a sad story, really, how one such as myself came to be a lord in this magnificent palace. After the Monarchs had been driven out we moths took over, but we were but simple knights in comparison to kings such as they, living in their old castles as hermits lived in caves.

The eb and flow of kingdoms does not apply to Molthome for this very reason: its palaces never sit empty. There always sits an arthropod on the throne of Molthome, even if it is only moths such as ourselves. The denizens call us usurpers. They do not realize we are their only hope. If Aleon, our brightest castle at the edge of the kingdom, falls, it is only a matter of time before we all drown in the chaos the ants brew.

I am on the road now, with my men in the gloom. We are knights in heart and soul, brandished to defend what is not ours. But we are flightless, we are alone and our wings are tattered, merely capes. We are lightseekers, who cannot fly. This is our story.