Rodrigo was the son of two Spanish immigrants who moved to Hopeville in search of a better life. The Cuban propaganda and pro-Communist leanings drew them to the island, but it was not a idyllic as they thought. Rodrigo’s father, Juan, was only able to find a job at the docks, and the family was soon forced to live in the favelas which infested Hopeville. The family was terrorized by drug dealers, especially Alan when Juan refused to pay into his protection racket. However, the family managed to scrape by for a while, growing tighter knit in the process.
Which is what made it so hard for Rodrigo when Juan was shot dead in a gang battle. He managed to find his way home, where he died on the bed. His last words, spoken to Rodrigo immediately before he passed, were, “Do what is right.” It is that mantra which Rodrigo has held to, even in times of difficulty. When Juan said them, he had no idea how important they would soon become.
Months later, when Rodrigo was sixteen, he was scrounging for food in the local garbage dump. Suddenly, a pile of garbage gave way from beneath him and he found himself in a damp, smelly underground cave. But this cave wasn’t just a hole in the garbage: it was piled high with treasure, including a sword and a suit of armor! Rodrigo obviously did not know what to think, and was just about to go get his mother when he heard a voice say in Spanish, “Come here, boy.” He spun around to find the cave empty. He was about to get out of there, treasure or no, when it spoke again: “Come here, Rodrigo.” Thoroughly scared, he was nonetheless curious. But the cave was empty, so when it came a third time he just moved slowly to its source. Finally, after a few more “Come here”s, he realized it was the sword talking.
Without thinking, he touched the talking sword and a swarm of memories entered him: a young boy, who looks like Rodrigo, practicing at the sword. The same young boy learning to ride. A young man, giving a young woman a rose. The boy grown up, being knighted. That man being married to that same young woman. The same man with another woman. His wife storming out of the room. A curse being uttered in anger. A lovers’ resolution. The man fighting in hundreds of battles, too many to count. The man being approached by a group of knights, each with the sigil “The Knights of St. George” over their hearts. The man dying in battle, his soul trapped in the sword by an angry curse.
“Now you see, boy.” And Rodrigo knew: this... thing that was in his sword was once his ancestor. And with that, it all became clear, the visions fitting themselves into a single narrative: the man had been cursed by a spurned wife, and even when they had reunited it had not gone away. Later, the man became a great knight and was inducted into a prestigious organization, the Knights of St. George”, which had... less than illustrious intentions. The man, his ancestor, had died in battle and his soul had been trapped in the sword.
And then another set of images: The sword being recovered by one of the Knights’ members. The sword being stored in the Knights’ meeting room, hearing everything. The meeting room changing, becoming more modern. The sigil changing, forfeiting the cross of St. George for a deep black candle. Men clustered around maps as borders changed and they plotted. And finally one man stealing the sword and fleeing to Hopeville from Spain. That same man storing it, along with many other treasures here. And finally that man dying, coming to see his treasures one last time before dying, a bullet wound bleeding heavily in his chest. With a start, Rodrigo recognized his father.
“You see, boy, it is your legacy. You must use me to avenge your father and rejoin the Black Candle, as they call themselves today.” And Rodrigo listened, donning the armor, the sword, the shield. It seemed there was even a horse in the back, a very rare one. And he fought. Against hundreds of gang members crowded around, the bullets dropping from his armor like spitballs. He cut them down on horseback, using sword and lance to cut bloody swathes. And he searched, looking seemingly in vain for any hint of the Black Candle. But he learned to fight and be a hero, and many loved him. But more despised him, and he was beaten bloody night after night in brutal street fights against the gangs as they searched out the Paladin. He dared not tell; his mother, for fear of her fear for him.
When the heroes appeared, first silently and then in the open, Paladin ignored them. His fight was in the slums, not in the shining city many thought of as Hopeville. But slowly the sword, his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-uncle fifth removed, slowly urged him to join them, hinting they may know of the Black Candle.
And so he has set out to find them, and to discover what they know. And if they know nothing, perhaps to help them, for he has seen the good they can do.
