#[ IS THIS? AN ACTUAL BACKSTORY CORVIIS? ]

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Capitano: Leather-bound Memories

ONCE, long before he'd received the vision dyed red by his own actions, he'd taken to recording everything in the first of many journals, a gift from a mentor and a dear friend to celebrate his return from afar with claymore in hand. His brother, oh his dear forgotten brother, had chosen to stay behind to torment Rozalyne like he had since the three were far younger while he'd returned to the city of Freedom, to the friends that awaited them in the land they'd settled in so many years ago. He remembers how welcoming Rostam had been when the duo arrived, helping to obscure the reason why they'd crossed desert and valley in search of a better life.

He remembers the first words carefully recorded in that journal, cover engraved with the crest of Swords wrapped in wings. Some he'd forgotten with the tide, others seared into his soul as he adorned himself in the gleaming suit of white before riding off to battle, to the beginning of Celestia's Long War. He remembers the marching machines, the way those abominations spread their ranks thin on every front as Rostam descended into those dark depths. He remembers the endless fighting, the blade long discarded as his armour was tinted black by his actions.

He knows, of course he knows, that the original journal is lost to time, to grief and anguish. He'd replaced so many journals, so many friends, in his long lifespan. Sworn to atone, he refused to allow himself to pass until they were free, discarding the attire of the Proud Knight of Favonius to clad himself in the garb of the Mourning Archon. Once, Pierro had handed him another, pleaded with him to join and ensure no one else would fall in the way the citizens of Khaenri'ah had, a request from the Tsaritsa herself he'd said.

And so he dedicated himself to a singular cause for five hundred years. Yet he never truly turned his gaze from his home, the land where he'd laid his brother to rest so long ago. He'd lost track of how many Grandmasters he'd watch ascend to and eventually retire from the position, continuing to train all who picked up his banner in the old ways, instilling the same values in them that Rostam had once done for the man who'd disguised himself as Roland with his advice.

On his shelf there remains a journal, a dossier almost, the name and family of everyone who'd ever led the order that Rostam had taken great pride in so many lifetimes ago. Perhaps that journal holds his disgust for how Varka had failed his successor, taking so many knights with him and allowing that Monster Alberich's order to corrupt the gleaming symbol. Perhaps if one were brave enough to steal a glance, they'd see just how quickly he'd stricken that undeserving fool from the role of grandmaster. Those that flew the banner of the first, of the bloodstained knight, knew better than to interfere with those that their Lord favoured as the RIghtful Ordo Favonius.