Sir Salvatore Shinkicker, Knight of the Crown

There's a story, about the unlikely friendship between a savage barbarian and a noble paladin. About how both men joined the Knights of Solamnia together, fighting countless battles side by side. Their final battle, against the Knights of Takhisis. How they died in battle just as the Cataclysm shattered the world yet again. Lancelot was the paladin's name, a name once belonging to a knight loyal to his king. Salvatore was the other, meaning "saviour" in one of the lost languages.

    For the record, I am not the same man. I'm a dwarf, godsdammit. I've never even heard of this barbarian until I joined the Order. He died before I was even born. Why should I care who this man was?

   Yet, I can't help but feel that he's looking over my shoulder every single time.

   My whole life was spent in Tarsis, a city yet to recover from the Cataclysm that struck Ansalon yet again. I was poor, homeless, with no guardians to look over me. I was left to fend for myself in the streets, as the Thane's mercenaries tried to maintain order. I survived pretty well, considering the number of "friends" I lost along the way, as I approached adulthood.

   The Knighthood had always been my goal. Perhaps the gods had screwed around with my mind, but ever since I first laid my eyes on their bright, shining armor, their kingfisher insignia, I knew that that was what I wanted, and nothing was going to stop me. Even if I didn't have rich families or a noble reputation.

   And I enlisted as a squire. I already knew how to use clubs and maces, a necessity in surviving in the streets, but the knighthood expanded on that. They also taught me the use of the sword. My strength allowed me to wield weapons that would have strained the arms of other soldiers. I became a warrior. And then, after completing my quests, first the slaying of the crystal dragon, and then a duel against a death knight, I became Knight of the Crown. From homeless rat to almost-nobility, it was one hell of an achievement. Yet, I cannot bring myself to feel satisfied. Why?

   How similiar is this dwarf to that of the ancient barbarian? Only the gods know. Am I a reincarnation of that man? Is his ghost looking at me, right now? What standards am I trying to live up to? What about other slain knights, like Lancelot Le'grand, or Arthur Pendragon, or all the others? What do they want from me?

I need to know!

An exerpt from the personal logs of Salvatore Shinkicker