Xander Harris is sitting in his apartment sewing white garments together. ˜Angel once called me "Buffy's White Knight".˜ He thought grimly. ˜I'm just not her white knight, I'm everyone's.˜
He stopped sewing. Xander took a look at his completed uniform. I consisted of ivory white clothing. Gloves, pants, long-sleeved shirt and a mask that covered everything but the mouth and jaw. Lately Xander had been working on altering his voice. He sounded deeper, darker and dangerous.
Xander then went about dressing in his nightly garb. When he finished, Xander looked like someone the evil to fear and the innocent to trust.
He was now....The White Knight.
"I look like an idiot! Who am I kidding, I can't do this. What was I thinking?" Xander stared at his reflection in the equal hope and dread that a response was forthcoming. To his eventual relief he did not hear one issued from his mirrored image. "Well, I guess I'm not going crazy then." The one time Zeppo then began to stalk back and forth nervously in his outfit. His mind presenting to his ego the argument that this was indeed a bad idea despite all his earlier enthusiasm.
After a full minute of recrimination he looked once more into his reflection unwilling to easily give up on the dramatic and romantic notion of his to be some kind of costumed Vigilante, to this end he began practicing his voice. Praying that his ability to project an alternative persona successfully would cover his Xanderishness, hoping that this inturn might encourage a renewed confidence in himself and the fool that he felt like dressed in the Knight's costume.
Clearing his throat he spoke as regally as possible, syphoning off as good of an English Accent as he could manage. If he was to do this then he had to be able to switch instinctively to the 'Knights' voice whenever necessary. But despite many hours of practice he still couldn't do it. He tried imitating Giles-talk and it came out so forced that it was a dead giveaway as a fake.
Looking once more at his reflection a thought arose - maybe he was thinking too big, maybe he had to start thinking small. He glared at his mirrored image once more and lowered his helmet's visor down, trying to look as intimidating as possible by clenching his jaw. But alas if any Vamp or Demon was to die in his presence it would probably have been through laughter on their part.
He needed something.
Something that would draw their attention away from the glossy whiteness and cleanliness of his costume.
He looked so ... boring and good guyish.
Just then a spark of inspiration mastered him and he went straight to one of the many Tomes he had borrowed from the Magic Box. Within it's pages there were many diagrams and pictures that he had used in order to make his outfit as authentic as possible to the Noble Warriors of Old. He opened the ancient book to one of the more used of the Pictures and noted the emblem on the Tunic of the Knight.
It was of a Blood Red Cross centred across the chest. Skimming to the side, Xander noted that the symbol belonged to a perished group of Knights known as the Templars. Reading further there were comments based around legends associated to the Order of Knights. Some accounts stated that the Knights did not all perish or die out, but rather retired to an unidentified foreign land to follow the teaching's of one of the Order's greatest Leaders. Becoming Assassins for Hire and Killers of anybody who would betray the sacred teachings and Code of the Dumas.
Assassins that carried the title of Azrael's.
Xander lightly closed the book and smirked, the Tomb that he was holding in his hands had to be 300-years old easy. If the Azrael Order did exist, it surly would have died out centuries ago, and that was on the assumption that it actually exited at all. Besides, there was something about the emblem of the Order that stirred something in him he couldn't quite explain. In his minds eye he imagined the crest upon his outfit and practiced his fake voice once more. What boomed from out of his mouth now was a rich tone of both authority and danger. A voice of a Warrior bred for combat and birthed in Hell. So shocked at it's alienness Xander's eyes sprung open and a half-laugh raised in his throat. "Wow. Just goes to show what a little imagination and creative thought can do."
Suddenly he felt alot more easier with his decision to play this 'White Knight' as he began to slowly strip off the costume he had manufactured, it felt now ... right. Like it was something he was born to do. As he carefully began folding his outfit away another thought entered his mind, he had to have a weapon. But what kind? A Mace? A Crossbow? A Quater-Staff? A Sword? He was adequate with all instruments, but not particularly skilled in any to be considered a daft-threat with one over the other.
By this time he felt that insecurity and doubt once more raise within him. Why was that? Where did that confidence go? Xander once more slumped in his chair as exhaustion of a busy day on the Construction Site and long hours sewing into the night overcame him. As his eyes flittered closed an image of himself in his Armour and Crest filled his imagination. In this imaginary landscape he was perfecting moves that seemed to have belonged in a Jet Li movie. Brandishing a flaming Sword in his right hand. Flaming Sword... hmmm where did that idea come from?