He lowers to a seat on the table, hanging his legs off its edge and bending closer to the crowd with a conspiratorial gesture. “Come close, now,” he enjoins, his voice lowered in the now silent great room. The folk gather in; some standing, some kneeling, all listening.
“Two hundred years ago, and more, these lands were in the cruel grip of the Van Durens: tyrant barons who ground the people like a millstone with taxes and sent their children to die in a failing war. Their soldiers beat and used the people as they willed, and all the realm was bent to glorify these corrupted masters. But it was that vanity that would be their doom.
Rindle was no one. A peasant girl born to a father as vicious as the Van Durens; a man thick with drink and heavy with his hands. Faithless and sadistic, he made life a torment for the girl and her sisters…until, they say, Rindle was old enough to take up her father’s hunting knife. Some madness came into her, and while he was insensate from his latest binge, she set upon him! Cutting, slashing, stabbing, dragging her knife and splaying open her own father’s flesh wherever the madness told her to explore. Her mother helped cover it up and believed that the evil would be at an end; but however earned, the deed had buried a seed within the girl that must eventually come to flower.
The disquiet within drove Rindle to become an artist, and she excelled in the craft. Her nimble hands wielded a brush as well as a knife, and her intense focus threw her into fits of manic creation. As she came of age she grew in fame, and even the Van Durens took note of her. They invited her into their homes to paint portraits of their families or landscapes of their estates. But the Van Durens were as cruel within their homes as without. One night, while she was painting a portrait of Basten Van Duren, a serving girl fumbled and spilled drink upon the master’s coat. He flew into a rage, and thrashed the girl about the chamber! And in Rindle, memories and madness stirred. She drew that knife again, that she’d always felt compelled to keep hidden on her person…she slit Basten’s throat from behind, then cut open his belly, neat as you please.
She and the serving girl told the story of a robber broken into the house to do the deed. None suspected Rindle; she was no one, after all. But she could not quell the need that burned in her. She fell upon the Van Durens, one after the other. Some say she used what she had learned as a visitor in their homes to sneak back in under cover of darkness. Others say the madness in her made her more than just a mortal girl, gave her power to move unseen and strike without defense.
Did she believe in mercy for the people, or was she just killing more cruel fathers? None can say. But the people spread stories of her; the one-woman rebellion, the bloody justice that tyrants deserve, the Saint of the Knife. And the Van Durens shook with fear as their numbers dwindled. She took seven of them, before she finally met her end. When she came for the last, a housemaid caught sight of her in the benighted hall and raised the alarm. They had many guards on watch and they came upon her as a mob. Some fell to her blade, but as they fought and struggled and wrestled with her, they forced her own knife into her throat.
She was to be shown in public the next morning; proof that the murderer was dead and the Van Durens’ reign would continue unchallenged. But when they went to take up her corpse for the display, she was nowhere to be found. Some said they hadn’t got her after all, that they were lying to save face. Others said that even death would not stop her murderous quest.
The last Van Durens were mobbed by their peasantry. New masters came shortly after, of course. But those new masters knew that they needed a fairer hand with their subjects. Even if the people didn’t rise again, they feared Bloody Rindle could still be out there in the night, waiting for cause to strike. And so it has been every year since, that the good and just lords of the land invite everyone to share in their bounty on her night.” He concludes by raising his cup in a toast. “May we ever be kind and worthy masters, and may her shadow never fall upon our door!”
“Two hundred years ago, and more, these lands were in the cruel grip of the Van Durens: tyrant barons who ground the people like a millstone with taxes and sent their children to die in a failing war. Their soldiers beat and used the people as they willed, and all the realm was bent to glorify these corrupted masters. But it was that vanity that would be their doom.
Rindle was no one. A peasant girl born to a father as vicious as the Van Durens; a man thick with drink and heavy with his hands. Faithless and sadistic, he made life a torment for the girl and her sisters…until, they say, Rindle was old enough to take up her father’s hunting knife. Some madness came into her, and while he was insensate from his latest binge, she set upon him! Cutting, slashing, stabbing, dragging her knife and splaying open her own father’s flesh wherever the madness told her to explore. Her mother helped cover it up and believed that the evil would be at an end; but however earned, the deed had buried a seed within the girl that must eventually come to flower.
The disquiet within drove Rindle to become an artist, and she excelled in the craft. Her nimble hands wielded a brush as well as a knife, and her intense focus threw her into fits of manic creation. As she came of age she grew in fame, and even the Van Durens took note of her. They invited her into their homes to paint portraits of their families or landscapes of their estates. But the Van Durens were as cruel within their homes as without. One night, while she was painting a portrait of Basten Van Duren, a serving girl fumbled and spilled drink upon the master’s coat. He flew into a rage, and thrashed the girl about the chamber! And in Rindle, memories and madness stirred. She drew that knife again, that she’d always felt compelled to keep hidden on her person…she slit Basten’s throat from behind, then cut open his belly, neat as you please.
She and the serving girl told the story of a robber broken into the house to do the deed. None suspected Rindle; she was no one, after all. But she could not quell the need that burned in her. She fell upon the Van Durens, one after the other. Some say she used what she had learned as a visitor in their homes to sneak back in under cover of darkness. Others say the madness in her made her more than just a mortal girl, gave her power to move unseen and strike without defense.
Did she believe in mercy for the people, or was she just killing more cruel fathers? None can say. But the people spread stories of her; the one-woman rebellion, the bloody justice that tyrants deserve, the Saint of the Knife. And the Van Durens shook with fear as their numbers dwindled. She took seven of them, before she finally met her end. When she came for the last, a housemaid caught sight of her in the benighted hall and raised the alarm. They had many guards on watch and they came upon her as a mob. Some fell to her blade, but as they fought and struggled and wrestled with her, they forced her own knife into her throat.
She was to be shown in public the next morning; proof that the murderer was dead and the Van Durens’ reign would continue unchallenged. But when they went to take up her corpse for the display, she was nowhere to be found. Some said they hadn’t got her after all, that they were lying to save face. Others said that even death would not stop her murderous quest.
The last Van Durens were mobbed by their peasantry. New masters came shortly after, of course. But those new masters knew that they needed a fairer hand with their subjects. Even if the people didn’t rise again, they feared Bloody Rindle could still be out there in the night, waiting for cause to strike. And so it has been every year since, that the good and just lords of the land invite everyone to share in their bounty on her night.” He concludes by raising his cup in a toast. “May we ever be kind and worthy masters, and may her shadow never fall upon our door!”
