The SCP Experience - The Knight | SCP-7854

Episode Date: March 24, 2025

A battle-hardened knight discovers a cursed, sentient sword that grants him invincibility and power in exchange for blood—999 lives to be exact—until his final defiance leaves the blade one soul short of its escape and buried in mud for centuries. This story was derived from https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-7854 and is released under Creative Commons Sharealike 3.0. https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ Author: James Tully * * * DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #thescpexperience #scp #scpfoundation #scpencounters #securecontainprotect #scpstories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Sir Baldwin was tired of killing Saxons. Apparently, they were not tired of dying. His lance slammed into the chest of the man in front of him. He let the long spear swing out to his right side until the impaled body fell to the ground beneath his horse's hooves. His lance impaled another fleeing Saxon. His grandfather killed Saxons, his father killed Saxons,

and besides a few jaunts to the desert, he now killed Saxons. The skewered body fell to the ground, and Baldwin led his horse slow to a trot as he watched the rest of the fleeing stragglers disappear into the tree line. He didn't bother chasing them. Baldwin lifted his visor and pulled the skirt of his tabard to his face with a gloved hand, and wiped the sweat and blood onto the purple cloth. He pulled his horse's reins softly, guiding the massive beast in a semicircle to face the rest of his company. Sir Guy, he yelled. A man was lying on his back with his hands in front of his face.

He tried to ask for mercy, but the words were drowned in the blood that filled his mouth. A dismounted knight with the green tabard stood over the man with his sword drawn. He drove the sword down into the begging man's chest. The gurgling stopped. Sir guy! Baldwin shouted again. The green knight heard this time, and lifted his visor with his left hand while he pulled his sword from the dead man's chest with his right.

Yes, my lord, a fine day, isn't it? Yes, yes. Grab what you can carry and get the man back to camp. I'll follow shortly, and I want to be happy when I get there. Say no more, Guy said with a wink. A man had walked to Baldwin's side while he was talking to Guy. He wore plain chain mail and carried a long spear. A simple but practical short sword.

hung at his hip. His face was scarred from left temple to chin. Full of shit as usual, eh, my lord? The scarred man said. He looked across the battlefield as he spoke. Fuck off, Sergeant, Baldwin said. He did not look down at the man. The silence was finally broken as both men laughed. They looked at each other, and Sir Baldwin reached an arm down to the man below. The scar-faced man grabbed it around the wrist, and Baldwin returned the grip. They both squeezed firmly for a moment before letting go. It's good to see you alive, Will, Baldwin said, and he meant it. William was the best Sergeant Baldwin had ever known, and he had known many. But he was also a fine friend. Many in court looked at Sir

Baldwin with sideways glances when the topic of his friendship with the lower classes came up. But as far as Baldwin was concerned, they could simply fuck off. The closest thing to battle half of those face-painted bastards had seen was the tournament. And even then, they could barely stomach watching the melee. You as well, Sir Baldwin, Will said. Baldwin wouldn't mind if Will dropped some of the formality, but he knew it would be impossible to convince him to do so. Baldwin dismounted and tied his lance to his saddle.

He patted his horse gently on the flank and ran a hand down his mane. Thank you, Whirlwind, he said to the jet black horse, and again, he meant it. Will and Baldwin walked slowly towards camp. Baldwin guided Whirlwind by the reins, and the two men talked about life. They talked about women and battles, about home and family. They laughed loudly and the stress of war fell off their backs, as they left deep boot prints in the bloody mud below their feet. The tent was warm and welcoming when he made it.

back to camp. Guy had taken the hint, and Baldwin was happy to see the roaring fire in the center of the tent. The smoke rising and floating out of the hole in the canvas ceiling. Knights clapped flagons with men at arms. The company was segregated once. Nobles in here, commoners out there. But years of dying in the same god-forsaken hell pits broke down those barriers, and now footmen laughed with knights around the orange fire. Well, look what the cat dragged in. boys? Guy was already deep in his cup when he saw Will and Baldwin walk into the tent. He stood and stumbled toward the pair, swiping a mug from an unsuspecting knight, who was gesticulating with the frothing cup as he told one story or another.

Guy pushed the mug into Sir Baldwin's hand. Don't look so glum, Will. We'll get you one, Guy said. He punched Sir Baldwin in the arm, spilling beer from the mug. It's ladies first after all. Guy wrapped an arm over each man's shoulder. He took the arm off Will's shoulder and shoved him towards the fire. Get this, Bucker a drink. Guy said as a laughing trio of hard-looking men,

caught Will before he stumbled into the blaze. The men drank and ate. They sang and fought and talked. They sat silently and stared at the fire, and then sang more and talked more. The hours went on and the stories grew bolder as the barrels grew bolder as the barrels grew lighter. Baldwin watched his men,

and there was nothing he loved more than seeing them living. To see them living and remembering the good while forgetting the bad. He handed his mug to the closest man, who accepted it with a smile and stepped out of the tent and into the cool spring night. He looked across the moonlit battlefield. The sound of revelry came muffled

through the canvas of the tent, as the full moon dripped its gray light across the bodies that littered the field. Baldwin walked in the moonlight. He stepped carefully over the bodies of dead men. Some he had known, some he had not, and others had come across the sea to kill his comrades. He stepped over a Saxon whose skull had been smashed by a warhammer.

By the dead Saxon lay a young Frenchman, no older than 14. Baldwin looked at the young man's blank eyes, staring up at the start. and shook his head. He remembered when he himself was young, however many years ago that was. He nearly pissed himself the first time he smelled an enemy horse. It all became very real, very fast. Years of practice in the lists under Sir Ralph's eye. What a bastard that man was, God rest his soul. In more years lugging armor and weapons as squire were no preparation for the harsh reality of combat. But he hadn't pissed himself.

The smiles on the old knights by his side as they lowered their visors and prepared for battle, filled him with courage, or at least filled him with a desire not to cower in front of them. Either way, he lived then and he lived now. He looked up again and a faint glow caught his eye. Something reflecting in the moonlight. He walked to it and the glow remained steady. He looked down and saw that it was a sword held firmly in a skeletal hand. The glow stayed steady and Baldwin squinted at it.

Surely the moonlight couldn't do this. No. He crouched down and looked at the blade. No. It was glowing on its own. Or at least it seemed to be. Lasagne sur-gilled, Putsense-molyne for 15 minutes. We'd say that's their dojo.

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Telecharge it right right now. He looked across the sword and could see the letters C-C, carved into its black blade. The Roman number 300. He reached out and pried the hilt from the bone hand and lifted the sword into the

moonlight. It glowed brighter, and Baldwin felt his skin ripple with goosebumps. The glow increased, and he could not let go of the sword. He stared at the inscription on the sword and was not able to pull his wide-eyed gaze from the brilliant light that now radiated from the terrible weapon. It's hopeless, a voice said. Who's there? Baldwin said into the darkness beyond the sword's light. Down here, night, the voice said with dripping sarcasm. What?

Baldwin looked down at the weapon in his hand. Just listen to me, the voice said, and Baldwin realized it was coming from the sword. His mind reeled against the idea, but there was no question. He told himself to open his hand, to drop the cursed sword and leave that place. But he couldn't. He wouldn't. He held firmly to the hilt, and the blade continued talking. I am very old, and come from very far away, and do not have the patience to make this story interesting anymore. The sword went on.

To be blunt, I'm yours now, and you're mine now, and you have a lot of killing to do. I don't need a goddamn talking sword to tell me how much killing I must do. Baldwin shouted down at the blade. My lord? Will said from behind Baldwin. He had followed the knight into the field. The sword no longer glowed. Sir Baldwin, who are you talking to?

Baldwin looked up at the sergeant. His eyes were wide and his mouth was peeled into a grimace. His face softened when he saw Will. William, I... He tried to speak. Why don't we head back to Kim? Will said. This was not the first time he had seen a man affected after battle.

An interesting trophy you found, Will said as he noticed, the black sword that Baldwin still held. Yes, a fine weapon, Baldwin said. His mind was a fog as Will gently guided him back through the scattered bodies toward camp. He's a rough-looking fellow, the sword said. Shut up, Baldwin shouted. Will looked at him with concerned eyes. Not you, Will. He can't hear me, you know, the sword taunted.

Baldwin said nothing. Will did not take Baldwin back to the tent, where the revelry was still in force. Instead, he guided the night to his private tent and opened the flap, helping Baldwin inside. I think it's best if you get some rest, my lord. Yes, that's right. You're right. Will waited a moment at the door of the tent, concerned for the be-le-lawful. leagard night. Finally, he let the flap fall and let Baldwin alone. Well, that was nice, a friend of

yours? The sword said. Baldwin sat on his cot and stared at the black metal weapon. Anyways, like I was saying, you're going to have to kill a whole lot of people, my lord. Will you be quiet? Baldwin found the willpower to fling the sword onto the floor. Well, that isn't very polite. Baldwin stared at the sword laying on the floor. Something against his common sense told him the sword was right. He picked it up. Thank you. Now can I continue? Baldwin replied with silence.

Very well. You see, I come from far, far away. Your feeble mind won't be able to comprehend from where. So I'll just leave it at that. Baldwin wanted to say something to the pompous ass of a sword. But he stayed silent. And some damn fool blacksmith decided that for me to get back home, my blade must kill one thousand men. You see, here is where I would usually be more poetic about this whole thing.

I tell you about my sorrow and lamentations and this and that and just generally make quite a nice drama out of the whole story. But like I said, I'm old and frankly tired. So, that's it. You need to kill 700 people. I thought it was a thousand. Oh, yes, right. Well, you probably noticed the fine engraving on my blade.

I'll give you one guess as to what that number means. I get it. Anyways, it's time for me to sleep. The sword said. What? Wait. Baldwin said as he shook the sword. It said nothing.

Baldwin tapped it. Hey! He yelled down at the silence. blade. There was no response. Baldwin placed the sword in an old sheath and leaned it against the wall at the head of his cot. He thought he would stay awake and think about what had happened, but he soon fell into a dreamless, merciful sleep. The sword bounced against Whirlwind's black neck as Baldwin rode with his company. It hadn't spoken again, but Baldwin knew it was still listening. Something in his blood told him that the damn thing was enjoying all of this.

A fine day, Guy's voice snapped Baldwin from his thoughts. How many times you're going to say that, huh? Baldwin said to Guy. The knights rode side by side at the head of the company, and they led a stream of men and wagons that followed behind. Oh, cheer the hell up, old man, Sir Guy said as he clapped Baldwin on the shoulder. Go inspect the train, Baldwin told Guy. Very well, my lord, Guy said as he pulled his horse around.

A fine day! He yelled at nobody in particular as he rode down the lines of men. Baldwin shook his head, but his lips did crack a smile. The company rode on to meet the Saxons once again. The sun was bright as the men rode, and Baldwin turned his head to the sky. He closed his eyes, and the sun warmed his cheeks. He did have to admit it truly was a fine day. Baldwin's lance shatter as it burst through the chest of a footman.

He let the splintered wood fall to the ground and reached for the black sword that now sat strapped to his belt. It still hadn't said another word. Baldwin didn't think about any of that as he pulled the sword from its sheath and turned his horse towards a group of Saxons that looked exhausted from the collapsing melee. As soon as the point of the sword broke from the worn leather sheath, a bright flash engulfed the battlefield around Baldwin.

He shielded his eyes, but the light was gone as soon as it appeared. It fell into a steady glow around the Roman numerals carved into the sword's blade. Ha ha ha ha, yes, the blade said, and Baldwin heard it loud in his head. When he heard those words, his body rippled. He felt taut and alert. His veins bulged and his flesh tingled. Yes, he said back to the sword as his mouth twisted into a primal grin. Baldwin slashed his blade into the group of Saxons

and felt the sword ripped through flesh and bone. His smile grew as he looked down at the bodies that fell cleaved into pieces under his horse's trampling feet. Skulls were smashed under hooves, bursting like ripe apples. Baldwin yelled and pounded the pommel of his sword down onto the head of a man that desperately tried to swipe up at him. The man's skull burst

and shards of pink and red-stained skull fragments splattered against Baldwin's legs like pieces of grotesque pie. The sword was laughing maniacically now, and Baldwin's own euphoric rage grew with every swing of the weapon. Baldwin was overcome with joyful bloodlust. He tore his helmet from his head as he dismounted whirlwind and dropped to the muddy field below. An arrow ripped through the air and slammed into Baldwin's face.

It embedded itself in the bone and flesh of his left cheek and jaw. Baldwin stared at the archer as he reached up to grasp the shaft of the arrow that stuck out of his face. The archer trembled as he moved to load another arrow. Baldwin grinned, and his eyes opened horrifically wide as he tore the arrow from his face. Baldwin was laughing as he threw the gore-soaked arrow into the archer's eye.

It crashed through the socket and out the back of the skull. It continued flying across the field and out of sight. The sword was singing, now, and the numbers on its blade ticked higher and higher, as Baldwin cleaved his way to hordes of men. And so the day went. The sword singing some martial tune in a tongue Baldwin couldn't understand. And Baldwin, gleefully slaughtering man after man, while his torn jaw laughed below his wide eyes. Baldwin? Will jogged toward the mud-soaked, bloody body that laid sidelong on the battlefield. Sir Baldwin!

He yelled as he began to run. He came to Baldwin's side and knelt next to the Knight's still body. Whirlwind stood near and let out puffs of air through his nose as he looked at Baldwin. Will held his hand to the knight's chest and his ear to the knight's mouth. He could hear and feel breathing. He looked at Baldwin's mangled face, but knew he could do nothing. Not yet. He pulled Baldwin from the ground and hoisted him onto Whirlwind's back.

He moved swiftly. back to camp, leading the nervous horse by its reins. Wakey, wakey, the sword said. Baldwin could hear the voice as his mind floated back to consciousness. Did you sleep well, night? Baldwin could feel bandages around his face, and he remembered the arrow. His hand snapped up to his jaw, and he felt the dry bandages under his fingers. His eyes narrowed as he felt around more, expecting to feel blood-soaked linen spread across his torn

face. Oh, stop. That's all taken care of. Baldwin heard the sword and peeled the bandages from his face. He ran his hands along his cheeks. They were as they always had been, a bit rough, but as good as they got. See, good as new. Baldwin sat up. Where was that damned thing anyway? And so it went. The sword talking on and on while battles rolled with fury. Baldwin rode that fury into the midst of the enemy and slaughtered them one after another. Will had died three weeks ago, and Baldwin had watched as the enemy's arrows perforated his comrade. The sword was singing as Baldwin's friend died in the dirt. Guy had died the next week. He had told Baldwin what a fine day it was as they rode into battle.

A Saxon had slammed a spear through Guy's eye as Baldwin was screaming with the joy of slaughter somewhere far away. Baldwin had found Guy after the battle had ended. A pity was all the sword had said, as Baldwin stood over his dead friend. The following week, whirlwind was torn from under Baldwin, as an enemy lance pierced the horse's body. Baldwin had knelt at the loyal animal's side as it gasped its last breath with wide, terrified eyes. It's only a beast, the sword had said, as Baldwin's friend faded away. The weeks went on, the campaign continued, and the numbers on the weapon ticked on and on, up and up, until finally in the middle of one gruesome conflict, they read 995.

More, night, more! The sword screeched as Baldwin pulled it from the chest of a twitching Saxon. Baldwin's face was sullen as he stood in the center of a circle of bodies. He could remember when his skin would stand on edge before battle. When the fear was almost too much, but his courage pushed the terror away as he and his brothers rode forth to meet the enemy. He remembered when he first felt the power from the sword and the immense joy the slaughter that followed brought him.

Now, he felt nothing. A Saxon charged from behind, and Baldwin turned on the man, cleaving him in two from shoulder to hip. The pieces of the Saxon fell to the ground with meaty thuds and still Baldwin's face did not move. 996. He stopped going to the communal tent after battles many weeks ago.

The ale tasted bitter to his lips, and the laughter grated his ears. He would sit silently in his own tent while the sword, that blabbering fiend, would go on and on about how wonderful it all was, how close it was to getting home, how it had finally found a worthy champion. Baldwin knew he should just leave the damned thing behind the next time the company marched, but he couldn't. Or he wouldn't. He didn't know why, but he couldn't part with the terrible thing. I am yours, and you are mine, the sword had said, and the words were true, unfortunately.

Two more Saxons charged Baldwin, and he punched his left fist through the face of one as he gored the other man through the eye with the sword. He pulled the sword free as the face-smashed man struggled at his feet. The man was scraping at his destroyed face with his hands, trying to cry out, but his mouth was now a crater of shattered bone and destroyed flesh. Baldwin felt nothing as he impaled the man's heart with the blood-soaked sword. Nin hundred ninety-eight. The sword was singing.

It was laughing maniacally between the foreign verses it bellowed as Baldwin stood slouch-shouldered in the growing pile of bodies. Another Saxon charged, and Baldwin held his sword out and watched as the man impaled himself on the blade. He lowered the sword and the body dripped to the ground. 999. Yes, Knight! Yes, it's time! Finally!

It's time for me to go home! The sword was hysterical now. Baldwin's lips twitched and disgust as he heard the voice ringing in his head. Then, he saw the Saxon. He saw the one he knew would end this, one way or another, a giant of a man who carried a massive axe in two thick hands. His long blonde hair was tied back out of his face, and he wore no armor. His bare chest was thick with muscle as he strode purposefully towards Baldwin.

Yes, this was the one who would end this. Baldwin walked towards the enemy's champion and raised his blade. The sword sang its terrible song in Baldwin's head, as he walked steadily to meet the giant Saxon. Baldwin was shin-deep in mud as the two warriors met. The Saxon let out a scream of rage as he swung his terrible axe, and Baldwin deftly shifted his body to avoid the falling blade. Again, a mighty swing of the axe,

and again a nimble dodge by the non-phased Baldwin. Was anything difficult anymore? Baldwin dodged more of the enemy's attacks and slowly realized that there was no more challenge. There was no more fear. There was nothing left in the terrible poetry of warfare for Baldwin. His life had been an emotional struggle with the deep lows and unfathomable highs of war. And now this damned sword had reduced it to a foolish game that he could never lose.

His eyes thinned as he had a thought. Yes, this would end here. He remembered the kind eyes of will and the eternal optimism of Guy, and the thought of his dead friends turned his stomach. Finally, he felt something. Yes, it was time to end this. Kill him! It's time! The sword was screaming into Baldwin's head.

But Baldwin did not strike at the giant in front of him. He lowered his sword, the sword said, finally had a loss for words. Baldwin saw the spit, dripping from the Saxon's clenched teeth, as the axe sliced through the air. Baldwin closed his eyes. It was a fine day, he thought, as the axe ripped his head from his neck. His body crumpled into the deep mud of the battlefield, and the glow of the Roman numbers faded to nothing as the sword sank into the mire. The carved numbers on its blade read 999 as it disappeared into the muddy darkness.

SCP-7854 is a medieval French sword from the early 8th century C.E., forged primarily from Camasite, like the derived from a nearby meteorite crater and inscribed with the Roman numeral CMXCIX. Discovered in 1973 by archaeologist Dr. Renaudi, the sword initially showed no anomalous properties. However, six days after excavation, and coinciding with Dr. Baudry's death from sepses caused by a cut from the blade, the sword violently escaped its containment and descended into space at extreme speeds, as confirmed by Foundation satellites. Its current location is unknown, though it was last tracked over 40 million kilometers from Earth,

with ongoing efforts to locate it via the Foundation anomalous space telescope.