The Devil's Wake [M] IC

[Awean8]

Rated Mature for mass amounts of violence, blood, and gore.



Chapter I - Shades of Gray


533 T.E - The Battle at the Gray Plains

Dark silhouettes seemed to dance on the surface of the bronze band that was firmly wrapped around Tristan's finger. If time was available to closely examine him, you would find that the gleam of that ring was easy to spot due to the mud and grime that coated his skin. In the midst of the fighting he had lost his helmet revealing his face which was covered in dirt and blood. Donning the imperial colors, black and gold, he waltzed through the chaos around him. He raised his shield to thwart off a colonial soldier. The knight waited until he heard the sound of his opponent's blade hitting against his shield to initiate a counter-attack. He held his richly decorated sword over his head and brought it down without mercy, consequently leaving a large bleeding gash over the man's face and torso.

This afternoon Prince Kastor lead the Imperial Army, and the battle had started off with great success. The tanks rolled over the hills, scattering the colonial's petty excuse for an infantry and all the while the famous colonial spell casters were no where to be found. Morale was high, and the battle seemed like it was coming to a close. The Prince himself decided to lead a charge straight towards the Witch's main camp and all was well....until nightfall. It turns out that this chain of "fortunate" events was part of a trick for in the midst of the darkness, the Witch managed to flank him and surround the Prince's plattoon from all sides. Guided only by moonlight, and the flickers of hundreds of torchfires that burned brightly like will-o-wisps throughout the battlefield, Tristan lead his own platoon to save Kastor.

Slow and steadily they marched through lines of colonials, killing off all that stood in thier path. Squiredom could have never fully prepared Tristan for war. He wasn't the fighting type, but here he was covered in the blood of those he had killed. He brought his sword up, just in time to parry an enemy soldier's sword quickly following it by bashing him in the face with his shield. The enemy soldier immediately fell to the ground with a bloody nose, subsquently being trampled to death by both Tristan's platoon and the rushing Colonial army.

I shouldn't even be here. I should be back home flirting with Rosy, the local merchant's daughter.

Trained to be organized and efficient Tristan's Imperial Platoon, cut through the ranks of colonial rabble until finally over the next hill the Prince's silver lined crimson cloak could be seen shimmering in the moonlight. The Prince had his men dig in and take defensive positions, but to no avail for the enemy spellcasters had finally shown themselves around the western flank. Many of Kastor's soldiers were being incinerated by the mages, and others were forced into intense panics due to mind-affecting charms.

I shouldn't even be here. I should be helping mother take care of my sisters.

Just as Tristan had gave the order to charge in and reinforce the Prince's position, a man with burn scars across the left side of his face managed to cut Tristan's right shoulder causing him to drop his shield. The scarred-man was dual-wielding a bastard sword and a spiked flail. He was a Champion, the colonies greatest warriors. The young knight held his sword with both hands in anticipation of his opponents attack, whom almost immediately began attacking again. The flurry of attacks were difficult to evade. The scarred man even barely caught Tristan on the chest with his flail, luckily it didn't do any real flesh damage but it did rip his black and gold tabard nearly half off.

I shouldn't even be here. I should be sleeping under the tree on Baevars's Hill as I skipped out on chores.

In the next flurry of attacks, Tristan parried the flail wrapping its chain around his sword successfully throwing both weapons aside. The scarred man rose his sword up with both hands to cleave but before he had the chance Tristan had quickly stabbed him through the throat using a dirk he had hidden in his sleave. The Champion dropped his sword, and fell backwards to the ground choking on his own blood. Tristan recovered his tossed aside sword and moved on.

I shouldn't even be here, but where would Kastor be with out me.

Kastor was right in his view, so Tristan made his way holding his sword in his right hand and his wounded shoulder with his left, fortunately he met little opposition. The young Prince was fighting as valiantly as any King could hope to. He defended his fatigued soldiers to the very last; shimmering as a shining beacon of hope to all who looked upon him. Tristan was prepared to make light of the situation, exchange laughs, and immediately get his friend out of that hell, but in a single moment Tristan's hopes were shattered.

An explosion. Suddenly Tristan was lying on his back, there was no way real way of telling how long he was lying unconscious. The sounds of the fighting seemed to have dimmed down to only a few scattered cries, so it must have been long although it was still night out. The cool breeze brushed against his sweat soaked skin which was a great feeling after all the fighting. He looked to the night sky and saw the stars glimmer in the darkness. The knight realized this may be the most beautiful moment of his life.

It didn't take long however before he caught sight of the Prince beside him impaled by a long spear. The Prince lying on his back was left to die slowly. He was breathing irregularly and violently like a fish struggling on land. He moved his head to face Tristan revealing his glossy gray eyes. "Tr-tr-t-istan".

"Yes, my liege."

"Th-the Witch is dead", he had said before coughing up blood leaving a crimson trail running down his chin, "but at the same time she's very much a-alive."

"What does that mean? How can she be dead, but at the same time be alive."

"You will soon learn in time, my cousin. I have much to say, but so little time. You think she is your enemy now, b-but she will be a friend in time."

Tristan tried to put together the cryptic message, but to no avail, "Your confusing me, Kastor. None of this makes any sense!"

"You will learn in time. Just know that this battle was a victory, and tell that to all who should speak of this day.", the Prince looked away and began to stare up at the stars, "Tris-Tristan, you've been a good friend to me, and I thank you for that but you must follow your destiny, just as the Witch has foretold. Follow your destiny and all will once again be well. Goodbye, my friend."

The Prince than closed his eyes and never opened them again. Tristan weeped for awhile, thinking on his confusing words. What could he have possibly meant? After an hour of pondering, he eventually grew tired and attempted to rest. The last thing the knight had seen before he closed his eyes for sleep was a bronze band that was wrapped around the Prince's finger; one that matched his. They were given to the two as gifts to represent their close friendship.

[Jacogos]

We're losing..., Orian mused bitterly to himself atop his tank. The Leviathan was the largest, most advanced vehicle on the field, and Orian was damn proud of it. None of the other tanks even gave him a challenge, though he wouldn't really mind if they did since they would be on his side anyway. Taking himself out of his mental rut, the tactician surveyed his immediate area.

Joen's Rouges had been scattered slightly about the battlefield, though about half still stayed crowded around the Leviathan. One, a turncoat colonial mage whose name was Judas, caught Orian's eye and beckoned to the mercenary leader. Following the other man's cue, Orian stepped off the control platform of the Leviathan and onto a platform that would lower him to the side of the tank, so he would be within earshot of the mage.

"Sir, the Witch's forces are focused on the Prince. Should we strike?" Orian shook his head and produced his chained scythe in a flash, striking down a colonial soldier who had managed to rush the Leviathan. The poor soul had his neck mangled beyond repair, causing a rush of blood and air to escape in a quite unseemly manner. "Nay... We need to take up an artillery position." Judas looked confused. "Sir? We have no artillery... I'm probably the longest ranging man you have." Orian simply smirked and the platform of his tank rose again.

Once he was back atop his treasured invention, Orian halted the tank, causing his group to halt as well. Orian gave a signal to the two men manning the engine below him and they pulled a few levers, causing the tank to put out three legs, one on each side and another behind, that clamped the ground and provided stability for the tank. Once done, the tank's cannon then drew up to a 45 degree angle, the front aimed towards the forces doing battle not even a half-mile away. "Ready with trajectory, milord?" One of the men asked Orian. Frowning, he looked down at the man.

"I'm not a lord... Don't call me that.... Rouges! Bows at the ready! We will assail them from afar!" With that command, the Rouges within earshot readied their bows, as every mercenary was trained to do so in their battalion. "Engineers, four hundred yards and three degrees to the left. First target. Fire at your will." There was a loud WHOOSH! and the Leviathan chugged as a fire-bomb, especially converted for the tanks, launched from its muzzle. At that signal, the Rouges also let loose their bolts, pelting the Colonial army from afar.

Orian winced as he had miscalculated the degree of turret angel. He hadn't calculated the wind... the missile landed far too close to the Prince's army. He hoped no one was injured by that bomb. Brushing the thought from his mind, Orian recalculated and launched more volleys, effectively putting as much a hurt on the Witch's colonials as they had in their own sneak attack against the Prince.

"... Forward." Was the last command Orian would ever give to his battalion. Without any further to do, the Rouges rushed forward, replacing wooden bows for their steel weapons and met the Colonials while they were still trying to recover from the hail of fire and arrows. Orian stayed where he was, continuing his rain of fiery death. Eventually he had to get down and start holding back the ones that had gotten to close to the Leviathan, and the tank went back to its close-quarters purpose. He didn't know how long it took for him to finally stand back against the Leviathan's front and pant, soaked in blood of his own and others.

... Where was everyone?

[sevendeadlysins]

War...

Isaac stood staring at the treeline that seperated him and the mages brigade from the battle. He could hear the Imperial army marching in the distance. The ambush was to start when they passed a certain area in the clearing ahead, Isaac had forgotten which one, but the leader of the mages brigade would tell him when to attack.

War...A battle

Isaac took this time to think about what he had gotten himself in to. He could have stayed home. He would have had a fun afternoon of casting practice offensive spells at a dummy, or sparring with his arrogant classmates, only to crush them and leave them in a puddle of their own newfound humility. Isaac smiled at this thought, which took his mind away from the impeding battle. If only for a second.

Isaac was shaken from his daydreaming when his leader yelled "Charge!" Instantly, all the mages around Isaac lurched forward in a large mass, all of them sprinting toward the treeline, Isaac followed suit. Even before he broke through the treeline, Isaac could hear the battle taking place just a couple of yards away. He could clearly hear the clanging of metal against metal, the distant screams of the dead or soon-to-be dead, and the hate-charged battle cries of his fellow colonials.

Just as his group of mages appeared from the treeline, the fireballs began to take flight across the battlefield, lighting the night considerably better than the many torches carried by the soldiers. Isaac had to take time to marvel at the sheer size of the battle. There were probably thousands of soldiers, maybe even more. All of them were bunched up in a shifting mass in the middle of the clearing, almost every one of them were fighting, the ones that weren't were making their way through the crowd in order to get into the fray.

Isaac was grabbed sharply by the shoulder and was turned toward a man, probably in his 30s, sporting mages garb and an amazing goatee. "What are you doing?!" He yelled at Isaac, Isaac probably looked dazed because the mage then shook him "Fight, novice!" He yelled and with that, he let go of Isaac and began resuming the firing of magic toward the enemy. Isaac hated being called a novice, he was called a novice all the time during his time at the academy even though he clearly was not. But he guessed he had earned the title so far considering he had not done anything but daydream in the past 40 seconds or so of battle.

Isaac raised his hands toward the swirling mass of people and tried to find a place where there was the highest concentration of soldiers that looked like imperials. He chose his spot and worked to conjure a fireball. Isaac stretched out his hands toward his chosen spot and concentrated. Orange whisps of fire began to swirl around his hands, each whisp eventually going to the center of his outstretched hands, contributing the the building ball of fire. After he had determined that he had charged it enough, Isaac threw the fireball at the chosen spot.

Isaac watched in awe as his fireball arched through the air. The imperials looked up at it, but it was too late for them to get out of its way. The fireball crashed into a group of at least 20 soldiers. All of them began to burn and scream, thier skin melting off of thier bodies and sticking to thier armor. He couldn't hear thier screams over the sounds of battle, but he guessed they would sound wonderfully horrific. Isaac wanted to begin to think about how thoughts like these sickened him and worried him about his own mental state, but didn't. Instead, he began to work on another fireball to shoot. That's when he noticed the large machine in the distance.

This thing was huge...And metal. It was like nothing Isaac had ever seen before. It moved on its own and it had a large tube thing sticking out of its front. Isaac stopped forming his fireball to observe this Imperial piece of machinery. There were operators on it, flanked by a couple of archers. This seemed to be thier form of mage, archers and machines. Isaac guessed that the machine shot missiles out of the tube sticking out of its front.

The metal thing stopped moving a couple of yards from the main battle and legs materialized out of the tank, Isaac counted three of them. Each of the legs dug themselves into the the dirt. After that, the thing raised its tube upwards, the archers around the machine readied thier bows in response to this. They were about to fire, but Isaac was too intrigued with the thing to do anything about it. Some guy on the tank made a motion and everything in the group fired a projectile, including the tank. The missiles the tank had fired were almost like fireballs from a mage, they arched through the air with the same beauty as a fireball and struck with the same power. Isaac considered the possibility of a machine used to create fireballs and other elemental missiles that would otherwise be created using magic. That's when he noticed one of the tanks missiles coming straight toward him.

Isaac stood stunned. "Ohhh....fuck..." He stared at the missile, it was coming in fast. Isaac looked at his fellow mages next to him. They all had noticed thier impending deaths, you could see it in thier eyes, but they were still faithfully cranking out every kind of elemental missile they could to fire at the imperials before they died. Isaac could respect that, they had a fierce loyalty to the Colonies and they were willing to die for them. But every one of the mages he was fighting with were at the ages of 30-50. Isaac was the only 18 year old in the group and, while 30 and 50 are nice, ripe ages in which people would happily die for thier causes, 18 is an age that Isaac considered 'too young to die.'

Isaac looked back toward the missile coming at him and began to panic. He stumbled back. The fire bomb was nearing him, he could feel its heat on his body. Isaac closed his eyes and fell backward, waiting to feel his flesh burning like those imperials he had burned not 30 seconds ago, he would be able to hear the screams this time, only they would be his own.

This is how I die.

Isaac hit the ground and waited...
And waited...
And waited...
The fireball never hit him...

Isaac didn't know what happened. Did he die? Did it miss him? The sudden realization that the sounds of battle around him had stopped interrupted his thoughts. The ground he was laying on was cold. A lot colder than the battlefield. It also felt wet. "What the hell?" Isaac whispered to himself. It was so quiet, his voice made him feel lonely. Isaac wanted to open his eyes, but was scared of what he might see. He might have died, and this was probably what dying was like. Isaac didn't want to accept death just yet, but he couldn't just lay there and guess what had happened.

Isaac, after a long while, finally opened his eyes. he was greeted with the night sky, just as he had left it on the battlefield. White flakes of snow danced through the air and lightly kissed his face as he stared up at the stars. They were quite beautiful. Isaac lifted himself up from the ground to a sitting position and looked down at the ground. He was laying in snow. "Where am I?" He wondered to himself. He obviously was not in Heaven or any kind of afterlife. If he was, the afterlife was shitty compared to the speculations of most clergymen.

Isaac noted that the air was thinner than normal and that no trees surrounded him as was common in the area. He stood and began walking aimlessly to try to find out where he was. As he looked around, he found smoke in the night sky to the north of him. He began walking toward the smoke when the steep incline that greeted him revealed that he was high up...Like really high up. Looking over the edge of the incline, he saw the familiar trees he was looking for. The smoke was probably the battlefield Isaac had just come from. But how did he get here?

Isaac looked back at the dent his body had made in the snow, which was quickly being filled by the flakes that fell from the sky, and looked back to the incline in front of him. How he got here didn't matter right now, he had to figure out how to get off of this mountain. While Isaac thought, he looked out to the smoke and realized how incredibly lucky he was.

[Atrum Daemon]

Garret’s blade split open a colonial from groin to sternum, spilling blood and entrails to the ground as the dead man collapsed with a gurgling sound. Garret, wearing chain mail armor under a surcoat of Imperial colors with his hands and feet protected by iron plate, whipped the blood and dirt from his face. He could not see much of the rest of the battle as he and his squad of swordsmen battled through the colonial ranks. He caught a jarring impact on his kite shield from a mace which nearly knocked him off his feet. Quickly recovering, Garret parried the next blow by battering the weapon away with his shield and cut off the colonial’s arm, leaving him to die in the dirt.

Garret shouted orders to his men and they cut left, moving to assist another group of their fellow Imperials. Garret ducked a swipe from a two-handed sword to find himself faced with a colonial champion. He had hear stories, hell the majority of the soldiers had, of the prowess of colonial champions. Garret finally had a chance to see it first hand.

Garret attempted to block the next blow and ended up having his shield torn from his arm. Recovering from the attack, Garret struck back slashing into the warrior’s arm before managing to turn away in time to avoid a small fireball that spiraled off into some other part of the battlefield. Garret rolled away from the champion’s overhead swing which buried his sword in the mud. Garret struck out at the man’s knee, slicing deep into the back of the joint and causing the champion to cry out. Garret’s iron-plated glove connected with the side of the man’s face, knocking him into the mud before Garret’s sword slashed down and decapitated him.

Then, Garret’s world exploded in a white light.

Garret awoke some time later on his back in the dirt. The sounds of the great battle had faded. With a deep groan he sat up, wrenching his helmet off and letting it fall to the ground. Nearby lay the headless corpse of the colonial champion. His breath caught in his chest as he looked around to see the dead bodies of his entire squad, men he counted as friends, scattered in the area.

He had survived, but how? Fate, it seemed, could be both cruel and giving in one sweep.

[Stiltzkin]

Cleanliness is Godliness

Val was in full stride far behind the main force. Like a Vulture she was picking off stragglers. Colonial and Imperial alike, each groan and moan was quickly snuffed out with a short thrust from her rapier. Traitorous as her actions may have been, Val was doing what was best for the Empire and...well those she was murdering. She had already justified her actions before, she could do the same now. There was not much point to thinking about it, Val was a quick thinker. The truth of the matter was that the wounded were a costly bunch. Val was saving money with brutal efficiency.

This was a losing battle. Val knew this because she was killing more Imperials than she was Colonials. She even wondered if this battle was lost precisely because she was euthanizing a large portion of the Imperial Army. She put the thought out of her head. "HA!" shouted Val to herself. "I euthanized that thought. Its an inside joke. HA hahahahahahahaha" Val doubled over into bursts of giggles. "I made a funny" Cackled Val. To the observer Val could be mistaken for a mad woman. Well they wouldn't be mistaken, Val was very much insane. The by product of so many deals with the Nine Devils.

Val herself would never label herself as sane or insane. No, those were human terms and despite her own mortal coil Val was far from human. She was a Vessel and she knew what that meant. She always thought it odd that with all the folklore and fiction available for studying the Daemons She could not find reasons for how and why the Body was left empty. ("Empty" being a loose term in this instance, Val knew about all the squishy bits in between the human soul and its mind.)

The Nine were smart creatures but occasionally they could be fooled..... Val wondered about this for a bit more. Completely oblivious to a young Colonial soldier making his way toward her from behind. Could the Nine either have such knowledge of the "vessel" or are they simply clueless to- The soldier ground his teeth and made a final slice with his sword before collapsing. "Oh? Did I miss one?" Val turned and knelt closely to the young soldier. "Imperial Shit! All the same. I may die here but I die with honor, today is a day of victory for the Colonies."

Val smiled and patted him on the head. "You boys are sweet but the Witch can only get you so far and your right this battle is lost but its best that you die here. The Imperial force is great and its only a matter of time." Val withdrew and long sharp knife from her sleeve and jammed it smoothly into the young soldier's throat. Blood squirted from the wound but Val moved quickly and narrowly dodged the crimson liquid. Feeling some resistance Val manuevered the blade and severed a vertebrae and the spinal column. Another movement and she removed the blade from his throat, wiping the blood off with his clothes and putting it back in its holster within her sleeve.

Val began to move forward towards the main force to tell them to retreat. She had done what she came to do and now it was time to retreat. Suddenly she stopped "What the hell was I thinking about before? I seem to have lost my train of thought, damn." Val began walking again "It will come to me later."

[RisingPhoenix]

He stood, watching the armies clash. He was observing as each landed devastating blows against one another. The Mages he had trained were proving to be quite the nuisance against the Imperial army, a smirk cross his face to know that a result would come from this war. He was tired of the Imperial law, tired of those who served the Empire. How dare they accuse one of his own for the death of a Royal Member. How dare they gather the gall to even speak such a thing. They would pay for their words, they would pay dearly with the life of their beloved Prince. His attention covered most of the battlefield until it was time for the Mages to charge. He watched them as they summoned their spells and landed catastrophic blows against the Imperial Army. He continued to smirk even though he still had not gotten involved in the overall mass of death. Suddenly, the ground began to tremble. There was a scream of panic and surprise, before death overtook them. What caused such travesty was soon revealed as a immensely large machine came surging onto the battlefield. Akira's expression changed and a scowl replaced the smirk that once occupied his face. It was time for him to get involved in this little war.

His presence on the battlefield didn't go unnoticed. The many magic users around him nodded and fought even harder as if to impress him, but he didn't want his presence to be the presence of which to fight for, the Witch was the one of whom he fought for. Her ideas for a better future was one he'd die for. He had no weapon, merely the magic he used offered greater damage than a mere sword could muster. It wasn't long before he was met with opposition. An evil smirk crept across his face as he looked at the Imperial soldiers with much malice.

"Demônio de fogo."

His voice filled the area as fire erupted from the earth consuming three of the Imperial soldiers, their smoldering armor landing roughly on the ground beneath. He never faltered in his duty. He was fighting marvelously against the platoon of men who had dared challenge him. They looked into his deep garnet colored eyes and shook in fear before being consumed by fire. The smell of burning flesh lingered in the air adding to the aura of death that plagued the field. It was then that the large fireball shot by the mammoth of a machine came hurling towards him. He had noticed a young mage back away from the fire.

"Idiot," he stated softly as he dashed in front of the novice and concocting a spell that bounced the fireball away from novice. A shower of arrows followed which bounced off the protective orb that surrounded Akira, vanishing after the arrows ceased falling. Surprisingly, when Akira turned around to see if the young man was alright, he had vanished. Sighing, he knew then that the young man must've used some type of transportation spell. He also knew that he'd have to find this young man and train him. Such irresponsible use of magic could spell disaster for the young man as well as those around him. Though this was no time to worry about such things and his focus went back to the battle at hand.

"Catástrofe."

Two orbs of immense hell fire began to revolve around Akira, his sight set on the large behemoth machinery. He thrust the orbs forward, the spherical fire surging forth. The two orbs struck two of the tanks causing them to explode violently, spreading shrapnel, killing those around them. He wanted to find her to make sure she was alright. After all, the Colonials were being led by the Witch and if anything happened to her then everything would end. He slashed through opposing men, using various techniques and spells to devastate the enemy.

He didn't go untouched during this war. As he was dealing with a knight, a soldier had crept up on him, swinging his sword and making contact with Akira's left arm. The sword had cut into his arm, and the blood was trickling down. He was grateful to the gods that the sword hadn't cut through his arm, but had only left a deep gash of which could be repaired. He growled and blasted the soldier with intense energy that caused his body to explode. He had to do something quickly, or the loss of blood would cause him to pass out. He made it to a tree off in the distance. He didn't know how he had mustered up the strength having lost so much blood, but he had managed to make it to this lone tree. Sitting underneath it, he placed a hand over the wounds and began to chant. Slowly the wounds began to heal but sadly Akira passed out.

When he awoke, the scene before him was barbaric in nature. The aura of death filled the air and the overwhelming sense of loss filled him. He looked around at the mangled bodies of his comrades. Senseless death, and yet he had been a part of it. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before searching through the many bodies. There was nothing he could do to salvage them, necromancy was an art he knew but never used, and why would he? It only animated the bodies, but the body never regained its original soul. Sighing, he glared around the battlefield before noticing motion in the distance.

As he approached, he noticed that it was his brother.

"Hikaru, what is the meaning of this?" He asked. He hadn't realized that his brother had fought alongside him the entire time. He had used a charm to change his appearance, but now he was far too weak to keep the mirage in affect. Akira looked down upon his brother and held him in his arms.

"Ak-k-ira, I'm sorry, I only w-w-wanted to he-e-e-lp," Hikaru stated, his breathing irregular. His body was riddled with various wounds and gashes, and above all else, a sword was implanted in his side. Akira removed it with a swipe of his hand and place his hand against the wound.

"Don't worry Hikaru, save you energy," Akira replied attempting to hold back his emotions as they began to take over. A tear managed to escape his eyes as it fell down his face and littered the ground. Hikaru closed his eyes and breathed his last breath before his body went limp in Akira's arms.

"No, no, no, no, no, you can't leave me Hikaru, you can't leave me. What about me? What about me? Don't you remember what you said? You told me you'd always be there. Don't you dare leave me Hikaru. Do you hear me? Don't you dare leave me. Hikaru.....Hikaru.." Akira sobbed as he pulled his older brother close and let his emotions flow. Hikaru was the only family he had and now he was gone, now he was with his precious mother and father.

[Stryker]

“Raise your shields!” Mace roared to his unit as a barrage of arrows rained down upon them. Luckily for him, while he lacked a shield there was a large rock that he hid behind. Due to the rock’s size though, an arrow grazed his cheek, opening a cut just under his left eye as blood already began to seep from the fresh wound. He raised his hand and traced his fingers across the cut and tasted it before snarling.

He climbed atop the rock with a gleam in his eye and pointed towards the Imperials. “Let none stand while we still draw breath!” his voice boomed across the battlefield.

Upon his order, his men rushed in, swords held high and voices echoing behind his as both sides charged towards each other. When they met in the middle, swords ricocheted off shields as well as other swords in a symphony of sounds. As expected, lives were lost on both sides in the initial contact. Mace narrowly avoided his life being claimed by a lowly imperial soldier slashing at him wildly.

“In times of war, sense evades this one like decency to a tavern whore…” he thought to himself before parrying one of the strikes and tearing his flesh starting from his right shoulder, across his chest and ending at his pelvis. The younger soldier screamed while being torn apart before slowly crumpling to the ground in a heap of flesh and blood which began pooling from the large wound.

Afterwards he spun around just in time to see a shield coming towards him. Lacking the time to avoid it he blocked it as best that he could with his gauntlet which only served to diminish the blow a bit before making contact with his shoulder, dislocating it painfully. After grunting in pain he used his good arm to puncture the attacker’s abdomen, no doubt striking a lung in the process as he immediately began gasping for air while slowly falling to the ground.

“Damn… my arm…” he groaned to himself before striking down another soldier.

After a few minutes of battling with one arm he chose to stand a good ways back and tend to his shoulder from a safe distance away. Once taking a knee and setting his spear down next to him, he was able to pop his shoulder back into place. “Gah… better…”

As he stood back up and picked his spear up to fight again, he heard a loud explosion to the left and turned. One of the imperial tanks had exploded and showered the battlefield with shrapnel.

Before he could react, a large section of the tank came spiraling from the sky. “No!” he shouted before…

************************************************** ********

“Wh… what happened…” he mumbled to himself as he lay motionless on the battlefield.

With a strain, he slowly sat up, his arm pinned to his side due to it’s soreness from being separated. Upon sitting up and getting to see his surroundings, his heart dropped once he realized that his entire unit had been wiped out. Another thing he realized was that the enemy unit they had been fighting was also all dead. “What’s… what’s going on?” he groaned.

“Everyone’s dead… but me?”

He then took a glance around the entire battlefield and saw that both forces had been decimated, only a fraction of their original numbers were left on the plains from both sides.

“How long was I out?” he wondered before grasping a spot on his head above his right eye where the shrapnel struck him. Blood had started streaming from it and off to the outside of his eye, following the blood trickling from his cheek wound down his chin and staining his armor.

[Belle Chose]

"No! I won't wear it!" She'd shouted at the soldier as he'd tried to force a shirt of chain mail at her.

"You must!" He'd argued, trying to force it into her arms again.

"I can't move with the bloody thing on, I won't wear it!" And she hadn't. Instead, the Rogue donned bracers the length of her forearms on her left and right, a chest and back plate of thin but surprisingly strong steel and a helmet of the same, all blackened in the fires so not to bring too much attention to herself. Claudia was used to a certain level of stealth and wasn't willing to give it up now. Under the armor, she wore a simple tunic, a layer of bandages under her bracers and over her chest, and a pair of men's trousers; her boots were her own, well worn and while not meant for the battlefield, left her sure-footed.

It was easy enough to mistake her for a young man when she was dressed normally, but now, bosom hidden under bandages as well as a chest plate and face framed by a helmet rather than her short fiery locks, Claudia easily became a Cladue, maybe no more than 15.

From the armory, she'd picked a pair of blades, each no longer than her outstretched arm and now, amid the battle, she wielded one in each hand. Her slender and light frame darted easily between two Imperial infantrymen as they swung for her; her blades lashed out like a viper, one swing, then the next, cutting into the flesh. They fell in her wake.

Her soft-soled boot fell on the chest of a fallen warrior and she stepped up, parrying a blow from another soldier who'd lost his helmet. Her eyes bore into his for a heartbeat and as she used just about all her strength to drive his blade away, another slashed into Claudia's side. The blade cut through the lowest of the bands of leather and buckle that fastened her chest plate to her torso, her tunic and into her side.

The pain that seized her brought her to her knees in a gasp and she narrowly missed the blade swing for her neck. A fellow Colonial Rogue struck down the Imperial soldiers and hefted her to her feet. Claudia clutched and her bleeding side and took a moment to assess the wound - it wasn't too deep or severe, but it'd surely hinder her agility. She gave a little snarl, tore the hem of her tunic and bound the slash wound about as fast as she could, rather sloppily, but tightly to keep from losing too much blood. The battlefield was no place for the thief. She knew her way around blades enough to keep herself safe and enough about wounds to keep herself well, but...

Claudia shook her head, setting aside her thoughts. For now, she just had to survive this war she'd been thrown into. She used what was left of the leather bands that had been cut through to re-secure the armor around her torso; the moment she began to wonder about how no one had thrown an attack her way, a soldier stumbled backwards over her short, slightly crouched form. Claudia shifted, spinning to face them about as quickly as she could, blades in hand and aimed at their throat, only to realize he bore Colonial colors. She grabbed him up and thrust a fallen soldier's sword into his grasp. They both returned to the fight, at each other's back for awhile before cutting through in their own direction.

Across the battlefield, Claudia caught glimpses of other's fights - the mages reigning fire and other assorted elements down upon Imperial soldiers, Imperial tanks firing massive fireballs into the fray; from here, she could smell the hellfire one mage had conjured and a cry broke from her throat as she watched it demolish a pair of the tanks. The Rogue wasn't in the same area, but felt the resulting shockwave as the metal beasts were blown to smithereens; all the soldiers, Imperial and Colonial alike stood in shock for a few heartbeats, but an Imperial soldier was the first to strike again. Claudia was not his target, but his troupe quickly followed suit and the young woman twirled like a dancer away from a blow, only to dive into his form, both blades sheathing them inside his torso.

She winced, the corners of her amber eyes wrinkling just a little, as she twisted her blades inside the soldier and then stepped back, drawing them swiftly out. She turned away from the wounded man, thinking he was done for, but apparently he still had fight in him. With his last swing and a few stumbled steps, he pursued her and brought his sword down; his last step faltered and his swing went askew, the flat of the blade catching her helmeted head.

The blow knocked her out cold and she fell face down into the boot-stomped and body-laden battlefield.



How much longer it was for consciousness to return to her, no one could tell, but her head was throbbing and body aching. Claudia was immensely dizzy and her body felt weak, but she knew she had to get up. She was panting softly with the effort of just turning herself over, to face the sky, draw in a breath.

The clamor of battle no longer rang out, but it surely rung in her ears; she had never heard anything like it, and only now, in the silence, did she realize how loud it'd been. Claudia's neck and shoulders were sore, legs equally so and as she took inventory of herself, she couldn't find something that didn't ache or have a complaint to make.

Claudia's fingers fumbled with the buckles along her sides, the knot she'd hastily tied during battle was too tight now, and with the battle apparently over, she wanted the chest and back plates off of her. Next to come off was the helmet, which took some effort - it was deformed from where the blow had hit her, but without it (or if the metal had been any weaker) surely her head would have been crushed.

She sat there, staring at the helmet for a little while before taking it in one hand, reeling her arm back and lobbing it away from her with just about all her strength. She watched it sail through the air and didn't bother to look much longer for where it landed. Claudia inspected the wound across her side carefully, grimacing; blood had soaked through the make-shift bandage and the side of her tunic, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped while she'd been unconscious; it just needed a good washing and bandaging - it'd be fine, if not a little painful to twist with.

The Rogue gathered herself to her feet and looked about the field, biting her lip to hide her horror and disgust at the scene. She placed a hand over her nose and mouth, eyes reflecting the stray fires that burned from torches and magic.

"Dear Helios," she whispered, voice cracking.

[StormWolf]

The battle had raged for quite a while before the reports of Colonial Mages reached the nearest Inquisitorial retinue. When High Inquisitor-Chaplain Liaman Russvik received the requisition order for additional support from the ranks of the Inquisition, he did not waste a single breath in delay. The bell was rung and the Inquisitors donned armor and took up arms of iron and steel. They rode for the battle that raged in the distance, the fires of combat forging an artificial and perpetual twilight. Liaman said not a word as he rode at the head of his column of crusaders. Theirs was a grim task that was not to be taken lighty. They were the iron fist of the church and the mortal wrath of the gods. Such a responsibility was not to be smiled at.

Reaching the battlefield, Liaman dismounted his black mare, slapping the horse on the rear to send it back behind the line of combat. The sounds of death and agony and the pungent smell of burning flesh was heavy in the air. Liaman took a deep whiff of the scent, sighing grimly before pulling Ice from it's black sheath. The greatsword glowed dimly in the surrounding inferno, the long and broad blade thirsty for the blood of heretics, having long been deprived of such a bountiful feast. Liaman marched forward, not flinching a single muscle as arrows and fireballs narrowly missed him. His armor was polished steel plate-and-scale armor, the golden seal of the church emblazoned on the the breastplate. A long, flowing cloak the color of blood billowed slightly in the breeze. Liaman's cold blue eyes bored in to the ranks of Colonials before him. The High Inquisitor was not a small man, by any means. He stood at almost six-and-a-half feet in height with broad shoulders, heavy with burden.

A thinned troop of Colonial knights stared at the inquisitor for a moment, steeling themselves before attacking. One of the knights swung at Liaman, blade shining. Colonial iron was good quality but mass-produced weapons lost quality and integrity. When the Colonial sword clashed with Ice, the Colonial sword shattered, sending a shower of shards in to the eyes of the knight. Blood welled up like oil would through desert sands as the knight screamed in agony at the horror of blindness. Ice fell in a swift arc and crushed the Colonial Knight's helmet in. The other knights attacked, swords clashing and shields crumbling. Liaman's greatsword sung as it sliced through the air and Colonial flesh, spilling blood and entrails and severed limbs on to the ground, which had already had its fill of gore. The final knight met his end with Ice slicing open his abdomen, coils of intestines wriggling free from the gaping wound; he fell to his knees, plopping a handful of entrails on the muddy ground before Liaman flashed an arch of his sword and offed the man's head, ending his misery.

Liaman muttered a small prayer for then souls of the Colonial Knights before moving deeper in to the battlefield. A young mage caught Liaman's eye as she mowed down half a battalion with arcane fire. Liaman focused on the young mage, who was no older than his own eldest daughter. The Mage locked eyes with the High Inquisitor in turn. Panic wrapped its icy fingers around her, crushing her will with fear. The High Inquisitor, wielder of Ice, the Hound of the Church had ended the lives of many mages much more powerful than her. She struggled against the icy fear that held her, mustering up as strong a lightning spell as she could, and casting the bolt towards the High Inquisitor. The bolt met the edge of Ice, deflecting the bolt hard in to the earth, sending up chunks of baked soil into the heavens. The sword vibrated as arcs of energy danced and flickered along the broad length of the blade.

"In the name of the Holy Four and by the order of the Imperial Church, all mages are required to be purged of the daemonic forces that hold them and be subject to re-education. The punishment for disregarding these sacred laws is death. The choice is yours." Liaman recited the required lines for approaching a Mage who was too young to be on their own in the world.

"I will never be stilled and slaved by an Imperial hound just because I was born with a gift. The very gods you claim to serve will damn you once I send you to them." the young Mage cried out, summoning a fireball and casting it at Liaman, who was slowly approaching. Just like the bolt of lightning, the fireball was cast down in to the earth, setting the ground on fire. The flames seemed to part and give way to the High Templar. His greatsword pressed to the neck of the young Mage, the blade still glowing red-hot from the fireball.

"If that is your choice, then I have no other option than to purge you from this world. This land is ours, witch!" with that, Liaman pushed the young Mage girl to the ground and pierced her middle with the length of Ice. She took in a shuddering and shrill breath as her life fled from her body, denying her a future that would never be experienced. "May the Four take pity on your daemonic soul." Liaman muttered over her body before advancing deep in to the battlefield with his retinue of other Inquisitors. Suddenly, the world shook as a great explosion tore apart the battlefield. Liaman watched as the fires consumed his men and threw him back against the ground. The High Inquisitor met the ground hard and darkness overtook him.

With a groan, Liaman came to, and slowly rose from the ground. Filth coated his body from lying amongst the dead for unknown lengths of time. The once chaotic field was now empty, taken by an eerie calm. With a grunt, Liaman rose, using Ice to help him off the ground. He could see no one living in his field of vision. Did the god of death decent himself and lay waste to this battle, seeing it as fleeting? If so, why was Liaman spared? Such thoughts were quickly overshadowed by far-off voices. Others did survive, but some might be Colonial, and they might be mages. For that simple statistic, Liaman kept his blade ready, resting the cold steel on his shoulder as he cradled the weapon across his chest.

[Kris]

People were dying beside her and Alexis tried her best not to cross gazes with those that had been lying frozen, those that war forced them to remain eye open because there was no one available to close their eyes, the last deed of grace.

"My lady", said a soldier and she turned around to face him. She recognized him as Bob, a new recruited. His eyes were still young and innocent despite his physical body which was strong and sturdy. His brown hair, short like hers, waved in the wind. He was covered with blood and sweat, "Please, be careful".

Her lips formed into a smile, She heard from others how absent minded she appeared to others while she battled and indeed her mind was always busy, planning moves, wondering on who was hurt and who wasn't, thinking on how to take back the bodies of those who died into proper burial, "Forgive me", she said weakly, "I shall", she was watchful, but decided to give the soldier a good feeling by letting him think he saved her from being not too careful.

She removed a sword from a leather scabbard that hanged over her belt and tossed both the belt and the scabbard into the ground. The soldier wondered on why she did so and once she noticed his puzzled look she said, "While in battle, one most never returned his weapon and flee. That is the utmost disgrace", she smiled, "I shall never run from battle while my comrades die left and right".

Bob thought for a moment and did the same, returning a smile to her. She started to march and others followed her, swords, spears, bows and other weapons in hand.

***

It was too fast… far too fast… And she was the only one left.

She crouched beside their dead bodies, trying to recognize the faces of those who still owned theirs.

Someone fired a flame spell at them.

Alexis was not used to fight magic and never knew of its immense power. They were all wiped out without a second blink, but she was alive, and she hated the fact that she lived while those she wanted to protect were not.

She recalled the last events.

Someone cried to look out. It was Bob. She remembered she was pushed by him too…

He must be the reason she was still alive.

She barely stood, her cloths and armor were scorched… Her head was bleeding, her left arm was hurt as hell… but she lived…

She lived…

There was a great silent.

She moved from one man to the other, searching, moving in circles like mad woman. She looked like a vulture searching for prey.

Then she found him…

Dead.

She bent beside Bob and closed his eyes. The last deed of grace the man was worthy of.