Daniel Conderman 
Sir Darius Argent was born into a noble house where tradition was ironclad and the law was both shield and sword. His early life was spent studying ancient decrees, obscure bylaws, and the art of speaking in a way that left opponents dazed, confused, and ultimately, compliant. He quickly realized that the law was not just a set of rules—it was a weapon to be wielded.
For years, Darius reveled in his mastery of legal interpretation. Need a toll waived? Find a loophole. Want a rival disqualified from a joust? Dust off an obscure precedent. His rise in social circles was fueled by his ability to manipulate regulations, always technically within the confines of the law, but with an undeniable smugness. He was untouchable—until The Incident.
It was supposed to be a simple gathering at the Meeting House of the Governors, a grand hall where the rulers of his home hamlet convened to discuss civic matters. Sir Darius, ever the cunning noble, had discovered a legal gray area regarding the import of exotic spirits. Technically, under the King’s Trade Decree, there was no restriction on bringing “liquors of foreign providence” into places of governance. The law was clear. The loophole was perfect.
So he did what any man of wit and vision would do—he entered the hall with a forbidden liquor in hand, triumphant in his ability to outmaneuver the rules.
But what he had not accounted for was the Greater Law.
Not the King’s Law. Not the Town Charter. No, this was something far worse—Clubhouse Rules. A forgotten yet omnipotent power held by the inner circle of the governors, the ones who enforce laws but do not have to follow them. And when the whispers started—“Does he not know?”—he felt his stomach churn.
The murmurs grew. The judgment thickened. A councilor, red-faced and indignant, stood and declared:
“Sir Darius has brought foreign liquors into this most sacred hall! While our law allows it, our Rules do not!”
Darius scoffed at first—what was this nonsense? But then it happened.
The snide remarks. The knowing glances. The disapproving nods. A slow, crushing realization dawned upon him. He had won the legal battle, yes—but in doing so, he had lost the favor of those who truly ruled. And in that moment, his pride shattered like a poorly drafted contract under scrutiny.
They didn’t arrest him. They didn’t exile him. They belittled him.
“Oh, he thought he was clever!”
“He must not understand true law.”
“Perhaps he should stick to the little rules.”
The words burned deeper than any blade. That night, as he sat in his chamber polishing his mirror-bright armor, the reflection mocked him. He had followed the law and still lost.
And so, in the cold glow of his flawless, reflective plate, a dark resolve took hold.
“Fine.”
“If I am to follow the rules… then I will follow them ALL.”
“I will use their laws, their words, their codes—and I will make them suffer under their own weight.”
From that day forward, Sir Darius Argent became not just a knight, but a crusader of regulations, an enforcer of every rule, an upholder of every decree. He would find the laws—ALL of them. He would master them. And when the time came, he would wield them like a hammer against the very people who had once sneered at him.
The law was no longer his tool.
It was his vengeance.
