[M] The Devil's Wake: Chapter II - IC

[Awean8]

Highlands of Erimoor - 541 T.E - Late Spring -

"Dear Mother,

I hope that home has been kind to you. I myself miss the golden halls of Anglicion dearly. I miss the smell of roses that permeated the Royal Palace. I miss seeing the smiles of all my old friends in Porcelain Square and of coarse, I miss you most of all, mother. "

From a top of his majestic horse, Bandit, the young knight lead the cavalry into battle against the Sandi-Garians. The line of heavily armored horsemen carrying the flags and colors of Central Ishtaria stampeded directly towards the unsuspecting Colonial flanks, as their attention was mainly focused on the infantry who were battling in the middle of the fields. His speed and momentum only gained as the hooves of at least two hundred horses made every stone in Erimoor quake.

It was already high noon, but the sun was veiled by the collected clouds of the Highlands. Tristan felt the warm drops of moisture clank against his helmet and mail as the drizzle swept the battlefield. Colonial Pikemen, in a last ditch effort to counter the charge, scrambled to the flanks forming the basis for a sloppy phalanx. It was a futile effort at best however. "Men! Lower your lances!"

"Once again, I wish the gods weren't so cruel to have bestowed this fate upon me. The world, and all of written history will forever remember me as Tristan the Betrayer, which would make you the mother of such a monster if he were to be even called such. I am truly a bastard of a son. My apologies. Not for actions which I dare not regret, but for my terribly ill luck."

Crossbow bolts whistled past as they began to stampede closer. Most notably one of the bolts flew by creating a dent in his a shield, while another had killed the man who was riding right beside him along with a few scattered others. The eyes of the Sandi-Garian foot soldiers showed fear and terror. Many of which went into a desperate panic consequently breaking line in order to escape what was to only inevitably come. "Steady!"

"The Church. The Nobility, and all the courts of this realm. They are all of them but swimming in an antiquated current. They do not see, or feel where it will lead them. I simply wish to swim against it."

The two opposing forces meet and chaos ensues as Tristan's heavy cavalry quickly trampled over the broken line of pikemen, and crossbowmen slaying any in the path of their lances. Keeping their momentum as they entered in that sea of flesh and metal they slowly pierced their way towards the rendezvous point. Dropping their lances they than drew their swords for close quartered combat. Cutting their way through the hills and crags of Erimoor they rode towards a series of old ruins that had littered the grounds which was where a majority of the Central infantry were either moving towards, or fighting for at that moment.

Maybe one day we'll see each other again, and we can just put this all behind us. The consistencies of war just don't suit the life I wish for. I want to live peacefully and freely even if it means walking headlong into the jaws of hell!

In a few flash of moments, Tristan had found himself drudging himself out of the mud with the heavy rain now beating against his. Removing his helmet he sees with a heavy heart the fate that has befallen Bandit. The sadly courageous stallion simply sank into the mud as it wheezed and gasped for breath due to a shaftless head of a halberd dislodging itself deep within his neck consequently cutting off much of the air flow to the esophagus. "Bandit!"

In anger Tristan abruptly slew the now disarmed Sandi-Garian who had dared to kill his horse, instead of making the attempt at slaying a true man. Going to the stallion he attempted to pull the bladed head out, but to no avail. Seeing the misery and fear that Bandit harbored within his large black eyes Tristan did what any friend would do in the heat of battle. Slitting the poor creatures throat he let the lifeblood of the animal flow with the rest as he softly whispered into his ears, "I'm sorry my dear friend. We will once again ride together through gates of Stygia. I promise."

Now surrounded and outnumbered he rose his shield up to block the first of many swords to come. Fending off blade and spear alike the battle had been severely one sided even to the point where a pike had actually pierced through his armor. The wound wasn't deep but it had caused him to falter for a second. Parrying a broadsword he kicked it's wielder to the ground following it by locking another opponent's blade with his hilt, while keeping a spearmen busy with his shield. Breaking the lock and stepping back he skillfully skewered a soldier who had charged recklessly towards him and sliced off the leg of another who had done the same. Tristan's ring began to glow white hot, as he fought fluctuating in intensity with each swing of his sword.

Luckily, the rest of those Colonials who still lingered fled just as some of his cavalry unit returned to rescue him. Tristan sheathed Legato into it's scabbard and pushed his rain soaked hair from out of his face with a mixture of dirt and blood running down from off his cheeks. He took a deep breath, and relaxed for the moment. The ring dimmed back to it's seemingly average qualities.

"Tristan, we thought we had lost you back there! I'm glad to see that you are alright", said the knight known as Ser Baerthar. A bit of a pompous high nose, but slightly more tolerable than others of his station Tristan thought.

"For a minute there I had thought I was lost there as well." Tristan sat down on a piece of rubble to help rest his aching muscles. "How is the battle progressing so far?"

"All is well. Most of the Sandi-Garians have all but fled the field . A foothold has almost been established in the ruins, and we've actually caught quite a number of prisoners so the battle is at it's close."

"Excellent, give the orders to start preparing camp for the army. Send the heralds to retrieve a body count, and the war meeting will commence in approximately an hour." Tristan's face became a little discomforted at that thought, "I wonder how the generals in command will think of all this. It was a little bit more chaotic than we had expected, but I believe in battle it is best to embrace such chaos."

"With all due respect m'lord, but I disagree. As knights who have sworn to uphold order what you are saying implies blasphemy against the gods themselves."

Tristan without even looking up, or even giving him much interest says gravely, "Than you are currently speaking to the wrong knight."

"Aye, as you wish m'lord. I shall go off to carry out your orders. We'll meet back at the war meeting."

Looking at the vast battlefield which hosted the bodies of probably about a thousand men he could see the silhouettes of a few scattered figures walking in the distance stepping over the bodies tired and downtrodden, as they search for lost friends. Which made him wonder like he had always wondered after a battle, what was the current condition of his own friends? Had they survived, or have they succumb to the will of the Sad God? Did Claudia and Isaac make it? Without his horse, Tristan had a good thirty minute walk before he reached the ruins where the army will be camping. Hopefully, a familiar face might show up to give him some much needed company as he carefully stepped over the corpses of the fallen while rubbing the mysterious ring that seemed be wrapped around his finger at all times of the day.

This war is wearing on me however. My martial prowess never wavers but all this death takes its toll and only causes me to miss home more. Please send forth a letter in reply to at the least give my mind solace. What has happened to you, mother? Do you shun your only son? Are you alive and well? Until I receive word otherwise I will continue to send letters. Once more and not from the monster, Tristan the Betrayer, but as your once beloved son, 'I miss you with all my heart'"

Sincerely, Tristan Cyril

[Stiltzkin]

Val watched the battle unfold. "GET THE LEFT CALVALRY TO CIRCLE AROUND AND BITE THEM IN THE ASS WE'VE GOT AN OPENING!" Barked Val carefully watching the messenger make his way down into the battlefield. She paced quietly behind the table in front of her. "I can't stand this waiting. Where are the others?"

"General!" shouted a soldier behind Val. "What!?" The soldier staggered forward and began to stutter. Val's presence was quite intimidating. The red hair whipped around in the wind. Her green eyes bore into him like knives. Her unnatural beauty, flawlessly symmetrical. Such unnerving beauty, truly she had earn the title of The Red Queen. "Out with it soldier!" "General!.....uhm....w-w-we are in n-need of healers I've heard you are experienced in the healing arts. I've come to ask for your assistance."

"Oh? And who would take my place commanding?" Val was in the poor man's face now. She could taste his fear. "Lord-" "Don't you dare!" "-Russvik". Val's teeth grinded so hard the man swore he could see sparks. "I WILL NOT BE OUTSHINED BY THAT FOOLISH SHIT-SCUM DRUNK OF MAN JUST SO YOU CAN HAVE ME PLAY NURSE!" Val pushed the man away and kicked him hard sending him head over heels into the grass. "Tell the wounded to man-up or I swear I will come down there and it won't be to heal them." The soldier bolted away.

"Coward." Val turned her attention back to the battlefield. She motioned for her servant. "Divert 5% of our Healers to the wounded and tell them to hurry up and prepare my horse I will be entering the field. "Yes, General. Is that all?" Val sighed Get Argos Reimer and tell him to take over my position, tell him Defensive maneuvers only."

-----------------

"Raaaaaah!" Val's rapier gleamed in the sunlight absorbing radiation from the sun, friction from counters, and deflected arrows. Its blade slowly turning silver, orange, red, blue, and finally white. Glowing in the heat of battle. "General behind you!" Val didn't turn, instead she spun the rapier in her hand and thrusted under her shoulder. There was a gargle then a hiss as Sandi-Garian blood cooled the white hot blade. "Keen eye's soldier. Stay by me." Back to back and honorable fight amoungst a legion of enemies.

"Give me a lift. The soldier obeyed immediately cupping his hands to provide a foothold. The soldier lifted as Val stepped up, sending her into the air til she landed on the shoulders of a bewildered enemy. Val dropped down using her momentum to spin her legs in order to break his neck. Flashy moves weren't to effective in reducing enemy numbers but it really did damage to enemy morale. The circle around Val and her partner was now much wider. Experienced knights, visually scared of Val's performance. Fools.

A series of quick and deadly thrusts left the circle around the two Istarian warriors widening further. "What is your name soldier?" "Eric, Sir!" "Keep up the good work Eric!" Eric smiled as he cleaved through an enemies head with his longsword. Val grabbed his breast plate and pulled him down as a sword nearly beheaded him. Reaching over and with a flickj of her wrist Val severed The Sandi-Garian's Windpipe. the wound hissed and sprayed eveything in the vicinity with a crimson glaze. Val never dealt a killing blow. Sure a few mortal wounds here and there but never a true Killing stroke. She left that business to Eric who effectively finished off the stragglers. It wasn't long until the crowd around the two thinned out from a formidable 30 or 40 to a pathetic 10 enemies....who were now running. Not from her but something else.

"General! The Left Calvalry is retreating!" shouted Eric. "What the hell is Reimer doing?" The Soldier backed up slightly. "He's sending in the archers!" Val's eye's widened. "Shit!" The sky darkened.

--------------------

Val awoke to the smell of death and decay. The soldier she was fighting with earlier held himself over her his body locked in rigor. Arrows riddled his back. He had protected her. "Idiot. You didn't need to do that." She pushed him off of her and he slumped to the ground. Dead. All around her Val saw bodies. "How Ironic. A year ago you would find me dancing amoungst the dead but now....now I'm just tired. What a pointless waste."

"You are still alive General! I am hap-" Reimer had been running through the bodies that lay all around. He would have finished the sentence but Val had in the split second after hearing his voice buried a throwing knife into his forehead. Val turned and walked away. In the distance she could see another figure. Tristan perhaps?

[StormWolf]

"Honor Guard at the ready!" Liaman's voice echoed down the line, the thin mists of the Highlands darkening his visage and making the Russvik banner heavy with moisture above him so that it hardly billowed in the breeze. At the General's order, men in half-plate armor bearing large shields embossed with the Russvik family crest took up formation, shimmering steel helms and shields and bastard swords forming a wall. Liaman drew his greatsword, his heart heavy as he knew it was not Ice that he carried in his hands, but some impostor. While the greatest blacksmith in Central Ishtaria forged the weapon, it was not the same. It lacked the perfection of balance, the blue shimmer on the steel, the engraving on the blade. It was a sad excuse for a weapon, but it still did its job properly.

Dismounting his draft stallion, Liaman took a heavy swig from the leather flask that hung from his belt. The harsh whisky burned its way down Liaman's esophagus and in to his stomach, giving the illusion of warming his soaked body. His men watched - the venerable and the veterans looked on in pity, the young and new looked on in fear. Even Bran, Liaman's own son, looked up at his father with fear in his eyes. In the year since Liaman killed Arch-Bishop Biaggio and renounced the Imperial Faith from his house, he has gained a reputation as a dangerous and angry drunk with the temper of a wounded and rabid lion. Liaman did not care for the gossip of the town. Fear was as good a motivator as respect. Shouldering his way through the formation, General Russvik stood at the head of the formation, perspiration beading and dripping down the blood grooves of his sword. The Colonial forces advanced, Sandi-Garians - damned inbred desert rats and mercenaries. Snakes and liars all of them. Their intelligible war cries falling upon the ears of Liaman and his Honor Guard as feeble as he rain.

"We are the Guardians of Ishtaria! We Will Not Rest!" Liaman's deep voice bellowed down the ranks,

"Non Dormio! Non Dormio! Non Dormio!" the Honor Guard roared in response. Like rolling thunder of steel and iron, the two formations crashed on the battlefield. Shields and swords and axes and hammers slicing and smashing soldiers on both sides. It was a storm of chaos and blood, men falling like leaves blown from trees in a mighty gale. In the eye of the storm stood Liaman, his greatsword bathed in the gore of many men, and it continued to cut through men like the scythe of Death itself. The blade was much lighter than Ice, so Liaman's movements were much quicker, striking like lightning and leaving his foes strewn across the battlefield like lambs at a slaughter. Parrying one soldier's attack, Liaman' gripped the throat of another, crushing the enemies windpipe and using him as means to block an incoming sword and counter by impaling the man who wielded it and kicking his limp corps off of the length of the blade. Another of the Sandi-Garians charged, flourishing a wickedly curved sword. Liaman could only snarl at the lithe man before cleaving a mighty arc that cast two halves of the Sandi-Garian in two different directions, his intestines unraveling in slick red ropes on the blood-soaked soil.

Bran Russvik fought gallantly, but he was nowhere near as experienced as his father. With his shield constantly raised, Bran blocked blow after blow from his assailants, lashing out with his long sword whenever he thought it was safe. He wounded a few opponents, but another of the Honor Guard would claim the kill. Now, Bran was fighting a Sandi-Garian who was wielding a half-moon battle axe. He could feel the shock of the heavy-headed weapon pass through his shield and in to his shoulder. Bran knew that he would not be able to keep up his defense, so he lunged. The Sandi-Garian's axe pierced Bran's armor, cutting deep in to his shoulder, but Bran's sword cut in to the opposing soldier's throat, blood bubbling and gushing as the Sandi-Garian struggled to draw in ragged breaths. Bran's eyes widened in horror as he watched life leave the man's eyes. Falling to his knees, Bran clutched his left shoulder, the pain from the wound making it feel as if his arm would fall off if he let go.

There was another battle cry as yet another Sandi-Garian charged at the wounded Bran, the wild-eyes savage held a scimitar in his hand, ready to part Bran's head from his shoulders. The eldest Russvik child could only wince and close his eyes, awaiting for the inevitable death. There was a splatter of blood and a sickening gurgling, but not once did Bran feel cold steel bite his neck. Forcing an eyelid open, Bran saw his Father wrenching his greasword free from where it had gotten lodged in the Sandi-Garian's spine. The lightly armored warrior was split like a log by a lumberjack from crown to crotch, everything in between spilling out on to the floor. Upon beholding such a sight, Bran vomited, heaving up what little food he was able to stomach before the battle. Liaman looked over his shoulder at his wounded son, standing as a blade wall between the Sandi-Garian's and his son until the Honor Guard could surround Bran and get him to the back of the formation.

With a howl, Liaman spun and threw his sword in to the oncoming rank of Sandi-Garians, the heavy sword cutting deep in the throat of one enemy and burying half of its length in the chest of another. Drawing his dagger, Liaman ducked and wove around another Sandi-Garian's wild scimitar swings. Biding his time, Liaman waited until the enemy brought the sword over-head to attack until Liaman sank his dagger in to his opponent's armpit to the hilt. The narrow blade passed through the leather and cloth armor with ease and pierced the man's heart. Liaman took the dying man's curved sword and advanced on the three that remained of the rank that tried to attack Bran.

Blood-curdling screams gave testament to the slaughter as Liaman hacked the last three Sandi-Garian's to pieces, leaving them as limbless stumps. Dropping the shoddy scimitar, Liaman retrieved his greatsword from the carcass of the soldier it was buried in. He took this moment to catch his breath and observe the battle. The Honor Guard had done their job well and crushed the oncoming infantry with minor casualties. Russvik's Rough Riders, his light cavalry, had followed his orders to the letter and outflanked the oncoming reinforcement battalion that would have attacked the Honor Guard after the defeat of the Sandi-Garian swarm. Liaman could feel the stones of the Erimoor tremble beneath his feet as Tristan's heavy cavalry crushed the Colonial flank. Liaman raised his sword overhead, casting the reflection towards his officers, giving the signal to send in the heavy cavalry and follow up with the infantry. The battle was going swimmingly, if it could even be called that. The Colonials were, for lack of a better word, crushed by the might of Central Ishtaria's army. It was hard to believe that in a year a boy could mass so many followers, Liaman included, even if Liaman stayed for reasons completely his own.

"Where is my son!?" Liaman yelled out, sword still clutched in a gore-govered hand. Liaman had fire in his eyes, the kind of fire an animal gets when protecting its young. "My Lord General, he is at the apothecary now. His wound is deep and it does not wish to stop bleeding. Our apothecaries may only be able to do so much." the same Honor Guard soldier reported, trying his best not to strike a match to Liaman's infamous temper. "If the apothecary cannot do his job then have his head on a pike and find a better one! Get my son a damned healer. I don't care if you need to cut down every tree in Erimoor to do so. Scour this whole fucking, godless earth for someone to heal my son! If he dies, I'll hold you partially responsible, and I'll have your skin as a belt after I kill every fucking sand-dog left on this plane and the next!" Liaman wiped his blade clean on the back of a dead Colonial before sheathing the weapon. With the Honor Guard returning to formation, Liaman uncapped his flask and took another swig of whiskey.

"Honor guard in formation. March! Hunt them down. Take prisoners and spoils of war. These Colonial dogs will serve as a fine example to those who would attack Central Ishtaria." Liaman whistled and his horse quickly trotted to his side. Mounting his saddle, Liaman held his steed at a steady trot at the head of the honor guard, his armor stained with the blood of many and his eyes were as cold as ever.

[Stryker]

A blood-curdling scream echoed out for a few seconds before it was altered by blood entering the poor soldier’s windpipe. His body slowly collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain as he feebly reached for his sword once more. All around him he saw his fellow soldiers either dead or dying in the mud they had just erupted into a fierce battle on. Friends, comrades and maybe even a family member or two gazed into his eyes, lifeless on their end and filling his soul with sorrow. This ill-fated battle was one that should’ve been avoided if life was to flow through their veins tomorrow.

“My… sword…” he thought to himself, feeling his limbs beginning to grow cold as death continued gripping at his ankles, greedily pulling him down into an abyss of despair. “If I can just take one more…”

“Your attempt at reaching that trinket you call a weapon is a mistake…” another voice spoke up. “You being on this field at this present hour is a mistake…” the voice rang out once more.

Before he could pull his body another inch, he felt a familiar, cold steel wrap around the underside of his throat and begin to gently pull upward, as if Beelzebub himself had grasped his windpipe in his palm and teased his spirit with the oncoming death.

“The Colonies have betrayed you and your men, they care not for one soul that marches into battle for them, only the outcome whether it is good or foul…” the voice continued before walking around in front of the doomed soldier, the hook blade still cradling his trachea.

The man wore black armor, draped by a cape that seemed to be made of pure blood. Its crimson coloring shining at the tips due to it grazing the dew that had occupied the grass before battle and bloodshed took its place.

“You’re unfortunate… you had to find out at the last possible moment that this is the case for you and all others that are sent out from that accursed establishment. Your life is meaningless unless victory accompanies it back to the feet of your masters.”

“Who…” the soldier barely gurgled out, still trying to reach for his blade while the man ranted.

“I call them masters because you and every one of your comrades are mere dogs to them, begging and doing anything you can think of to receive praise, hollow praise from people who would care if you keeled over as long as the end justified the means.”

Suddenly, the man placed his boot on the side of his head. “This may seem a cruel fate, but your will is done and debt is paid. Rest easy for I will strike down all who justify those actions.” He told the soldier before raising his boot and dropping it down on the man’s ear while raising his sword’s blade. The blade cutting through the man’s throat, releasing a pool of blood into the mud, turning the mud an odd shade of crimson.

“Pathetic… not even fit to share a battlefield with a Goblin…” he thought to himself before swinging his unique sword upward, slinging the still-fresh amounts of blood from its grooves

“Sir Mace!” a soldier called out before stopping behind him and watching him sheathe his sword, still a wonder to those that weren’t familiar with its wielder. The blade curved into a perfect half-circle at the end, making executions a harrowing experience in the right hands.

“What is it?”

“We were able to quell this group before they reached the flanks of the eastern forces but we sustained casualties, half of our force is dead.” He explained.

“Make their bodies dignified and return their weapons to them, burials may be out of the question but dignity is never a thing to be forgotten.”

“Yes sir!” the soldier replied before spinning on his heels and retreating.

“When you are done, see to it that half of the remaining soldiers seek out Alexis’s force and join their ranks. The trees hide eyes like veils, these small parties of enemies are plentiful and will take any opportunity to make a kill.”

“Sir, but what about you?”

Before responding, Mace looked to his left wrist at a trinket that was attached to his armor, it’s blue, mist-like coloring standing out amongst his black armor. He then raised his hook sword once more in his right hand while raising his left hand, “Short sword.”

In the instant that he uttered those words, his left arm became bathed in a pale blue light. Once the light faded away, in his left hand was a beautifully designed short sword roughly 4 inches shorter than his other sword.

“Stragglers are all that remain on this end and they will be met with swift recourse…”

[Summer Memories]

“Fuck,” Alyssa moaned, “as soon as I get out of one war, I’m right in middle of another one.” Alyssa and her unit were rushing forward in attempt to support the Left Cavalry as they charged enemy lines. “Stop!” the commander yelled. Alyssa immediately stopped more soldierly instinct than her own will. “Load your bows.” The man commanded was surprisingly calm despite the chaotic environment. Alyssa quickly took an arrow and loaded it into her bow. “FIRE!” The commander yelled. Alyssa and the rest of the archers obeyed, firing a wave of arrows that filled the sky.

Alyssa was watching the arrows descend into the mass of Sandi-Garian troops, mowing down men like cut trees. The commander took unsheathed his short sword and yelled “Charge!” Alyssa’s archer unit also doubled as a light infantry. She watched as every archer threw down his bow and unsheathed their short swords. They sprinted right into the fray and joined the infantry into pushing back the Colonials. Alyssa went with them but hadn’t discarded her bow.

She didn’t go straight into the engagement like the rest of the archers but preferred to stay on the outer fringes. Alyssa was a thin woman who didn’t have skill with a blade, making her completely useless in hand to hand fighting. But what she lacked in physical strength she made up for in precision. She sent an arrow straight into a Colonials throat, making him gurgle, choking on his own blood as he went down. Another arrow went into a knee of another Colonial, making him an easy target for a soldier to dispatch. An additional arrow caught a Colonial in his left eye, the man screaming as he went down, lost among the bodies of men clashing.

Alyssa loosed arrow after arrow and soon, her arms were trembling from the exertion. “I’m not made for this prolonged a fight.” Alyssa groused. In an attempt to alleviate her tiredness she took off the leather jerkin that the Central Istarians called “armor.” Almost as soon as Alyssa tore off the jerkin a horse nearly slammed into her. She cursed and turned to look at the rider but there was none. The horse was rider less, obviously meaning that that the rider had either been killed or pulled of his horse.

Ignoring the battle, Alyssa chased after the horse and grabbed its reins. The horse snorted and whinnied in terror. The horse itself was black and looked young. This must’ve been its first real battle. Alyssa clutched onto the reins, keeping her grip tight, and tried to calm the animal. Calming a nervous and jumpy horse was easier said than done, and the constant wails of dead and dying men weren’t helping at all. “Shhhhhh.” Alyssa whispered, “It’s alright, just stay calm.” The horse whinnied and eyed her apprehensively.

The horse finally calmed and Alyssa grinned. Maybe I can use this horse to get away from this battle, she thought, and I won’t have to continue to have to fight in this appalling conflict. Alyssa longed for the days when all she had to do was call out and there were a dozen servants at her feet, ready to undertake any order she gave them. She also yearned for a warm place to sleep and clean clothing every day, unlike the army where soldiers slept in tents and the only time to wash was if they were located near a very convenient lake.

Then her father popped up in her head and Alyssa’s temper flared. “Stupid father,” she muttered under her breath, “kicking me out just because I didn’t want to take over the stupid business.” Her father believed that she would come crawling back and begging his forgiveness? Well, he can forget that, she would make her own way in the world and she would show him who’s better. And she would do it one battle at a time. Alyssa jumped onto the black horse and grabbed its reins.

“Come on” Alyssa sighed in frustration, “Let’s go.” The horse was understandably terrified, having just survived a battle and not willing to go right back in. Of course, Alyssa wasn’t thinking of this, she was only thinking of how she could help accelerate the Central Istarians to victory so she wouldn’t have to fight anymore. The horse finally gave up and allowed Alyssa free rein. She forced the horse to a gallop and turned him around, charging straight into Colonial lines. It was a reckless move and full of abandon.

Alyssa hadn’t really thought it through and expected anyone on horse to be invincible, save from an arrow or lance. As she rushed the lines, Alyssa fired more arrows into the mass and horse crashed into the enemy lines. The animal was rearing up, kicking at the Colonials and keeping them at bay while Alyssa fired more arrows into a cluster of men, despite being tired. Suddenly a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her off the horse and hit the ground, her breath leaving her in a whoosh.

A Sandi-Garian reared over her, smiling down with broken teeth. Alyssa’s eyes widened in shock as the man’s scimitar bared down on her, ready to plunge into her heart. She closed her eyes and waited for the inevitable pain, Alyssa heard a crunch and instead of sword plunged into her chest, one was protruding from his. The Sandi-Garian fell over, dead, while the man who saved her pulled her to her feet. Alyssa was surprised; the man who saved her was none other than the archer unit commander. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The commander yelled. “I-“ Alyssa stammered. The man cut her off and yelled “Just get in the fight and quit trying to act heroic!”

Luckily, Alyssa wouldn’t have to participate in the fight because the Colonials had broken ranks and were retreating; actually it was a full rout. Men were running scared, discarding weapons and armor. Alyssa and the rest of troops let out a ragged cheer. Alyssa exhaled in relief and she fell back onto the ground, which was littered with the bodies of dead men. Alyssa hadn’t realized how tired she was until just now. Finally, she thought, I can get some rest.

[Miss Fortune]

From atop a nearby hill, Kalthia stood, her form a rigid statue before the ruins that lay behind her. The rain made her robes stick to her chilled body, her hair damp and plastered to the sides of her face and neck. It was a calm drizzle when she trekked her away up the hill. Her boot prints were all but covered in a thin layer of mud. She had watched the ending of the onslaught, a battle that raged between the Central Ishtarian army, and her own people.

She swallowed hard. Empowered as they were, they were struck down by the forces Tristan the Betrayer had brought forth with him. Squinting, she made out the silhouettes of Sandi Garian men flee from the battlefield, lest they meet the same fate as their fallen comrades. She sniffed; she’d surely catch cold if she stood in the rain any longer.

She took one last moment to gaze across the body littered battlefield. It was hard to see much from the rain. Before, the smell of rain was intoxicating, the earthly smell of grass and dirt blended together. Now, it would remind her of the battle she watched from afar. She hadn’t been allowed on the battlefield, but the screams and battle cries were still heard echoing throughout the area. Though unknowing was she of the actual people that gave their lives, she felt a nagging feeling of respect needing to be given for the dead.

Such is the life of a warrior.

She dropped to one knee atop the hill, her free hand touching the cold metal of her insignia. She wasn’t much for pleasantries or the trivial affairs of others risking their lives for an unjustified cause. She bowed her head in solace.

“Fare thee well, brothers in arms. Though your battle has been lost may you walk amongst other forgotten heroes in Stygia,” she muttered.

A faint yellow glow glimmered, casting miniscule shadows across her solemn wet face. Best not to mull over split blood, she thought, there shall be other battles, and other bodies of the fallen. She thought back to the fleeing Sandi Garians who fled the battlefield with their life. It was said ‘best to flee with your life to fight another day than to stay and die in a hopeless battle.’ Whoever thought of such proverbs would be best suited to keep their nose buried in books than to stand over a battlefield littered with bodies ripe with flesh for a vulture’s feast. Wise as the men were, they were still cowards. They should be thought of as such, though she frowned for she knew they would be deemed survivors of Tristan’s bloodshed.

Kalthia tightened the grip on her staff. She had business to attend to, no matter how insulting her mission may be. Punishment is punishment when it is deeming to a person’s pride. If anything, her pride had taken a heavy blow. It took years to work her away up the ladder, but where was she now? Soaking wet near a battlefield acting like a messenger boy for Garrant’s distasteful lies about her swindling a weapon’s commission out from under his nose. She snorted, indignant.

It wouldn’t take much to swindle him out of his life savings, but making it past his bulbous nose would be even a feat the Gods would call troublesome.

The trek down the hill was more interesting than the journey up. The mud made her steps falter and her boots slip in the mud. Halfway down the hill, she skids in the mud, catching herself with her staff before falling face first in the mud. Soaked by rain, and her boots covered in mud up to her calves, she was grinding her teeth by the time she made it back to the make-shift camp site. She wasn’t cut out for this. She stifled her contempt. Her irritation towards earthly problems seemed trivial and childish compared to the dead soldiers, wounded fighters and all the battles that are to come. She needed to find Tristan Cyril. It was one of the main reasons she was here amongst all the death and blood. Kalthia sighed; she needed a drink.

How am I to find him? I have no idea what he looks like. Her brows furrowed. She had her work cut out for her.

“Any word of Tristan surviving the battle?” asked Kalthia.

“No word from the battlefield yet.” The soldier turned, and sized the female mage up and down. “Why are you here and not on the battlefield with the rest of them?”

Kalthia puffed up, indignant. “I’m acting on behalf of the Guild of Avalon.”

“So a messenger,” grunted the soldier.

She gritted her teeth, “a messenger yes, on behalf of Avalon joining the cause.”

The soldier stalked off, shaking his head, mumbling profanities. Did she really look like a Sandi Garian? The battle was long and tedious. She was tired and cold from the rain. Her stomach growled. One more thing to make me stand out, she thought, crossing her arms over her chest. She would wait for authority figures to arrive from battle. In the meantime, she stood outside the ruins, leaning against one of the foundations that were basked in the light of the setting sun that shown through the clouds. Would Tristan make it back before she delivered her message on behalf of her Guild? She could only wait and see.

[Mysteria]

Narissa Faolain was working diligently in the newly built apothecary store in the small village of Thornshire along side of her good friend Mary, who was also her current apprentice, setting the jars up in a precisely arranged order upon the shelves. They were taking inventory of what herbs they had and which would still be needed when the front door opened and Rissa instructed Mary to go help the new arrivals while she finished up the current task at hand. As she was writing down the last of the needed items she overheard the newcomers. Their excitement filtered through the small store being carried to Rissa’s ears as she overheard the news of a battle not far from town that was currently taking place.

Although she had no particular interest in battles or fighting of any nature any more since she’d given up her life as a rogue and turned back to healing, Rissa knew that she had to go and offer her services. She’d done enough of damage in her lifetime to mankind and she now needed to make amends for all of the things that had littered the past several years of her life. Helping the wounded soldiers of the Central Ishtaria army that fought would be a way for her to make atonement for her sins. No sooner had propped the closed sign up in the window than Mary began to question her “Rissa, why are we closing when we’ve just opened?” she queried. Rissa answered her even as she was packing her bag filled with herbs and other items for healing the sick and wounded. “You heard them the same as I did Mary, there is a battle going on, and I must help.” She pulled the cord to the bag to close it tightly “I can’t ask you to go with me, I know it will be dangerous” she said as she made her way towards the door, Mary reaching out and grabbing her arm to stop her “Rissa, you don’t have to ask, I’m going. You’re going to need help, and it will help me to learn.” Despite Rissa’s protests Mary insisted, presenting a new argument for each one of Rissa’s protests until finally Rissa agreed. “Let us make haste then” the flaxen haired woman said as she quickly twisted her locks into a braid and tied it off as they made their way out the door.

Shortly thereafter they arrived at the site of the battle, dismounting their horses and stepping into the muddy earth beneath them. They both jumped right into the fray, assessing the wounded at the back of the field. They worked quickly but efficiently as they dressed the wounds of the injured. As they worked the battle raged around them, seeming to go on endlessly. As dusk began to settle over the field a soldier approached “You there, you are a healer are you not?” Rissa looked to the anxious soldier as she finished wrapping the arm of the patient she was just finishing up with. This soldier was obviously made up of more brawn than brains and she suppressed the slight smirk that played at the corner of her lips, replacing it with a quiet “Yes, I am.” A look of relief flooded the man’s face, his demeanor quickly changing “Please come with me, quickly.” Rissa picked up her bag, and along with Mary they followed him as he led them to an injured soldier who appeared to Rissa to be a mere boy who couldn’t have possibly yet reached manhood. In wartime, not even the young were spared the duty.

Rissa asked “What is his name?” “His name is Bran” said the soldier who stood watching as she leaned down on one knee, gasping slightly at the wound which was bleeding profusely. “Mary quick, my bag” she said calmly as she applied pressure to the wound. Mary handed her the bag and Rissa pulled out a small jar which was filled with a balm type substance concocted from Yarrow root. Rissa spoke softly then “Bran, my name is Narissa and I’m going to help you” she said, concealing the worry in her voice as she didn’t wish to alarm the already pale young man in front of her. Applying the balm and wrapping the wound she looked up, her eyes turning from the soldiers to Mary’s “This boy needs more attention than what can be given here, we must get him back to the store quickly. Mary, ride ahead and prepare the extra room, you there soldier, we must get Bran onto my horse, there is not a minute to waste.” The soldier began to protest “His father will not wish him to” Rissa’s emerald eyes flashed as she cut him off “If his father wishes him to live, he will find the boy later at the apothecary shop in Thornshire, if the boy is not given further treatment immediately…” her voice trailing off as the severity of the situation finally registered across the soldiers face.

With Bran in front of her, Rissa held onto his slumped form as she spurred her horse back to town, Mary meeting her outside of the store where the two women quickly took the boy inside and began tending him.

[Atrum Daemon]

Garret flew no flags. He and the host of men Tristan had given him needed none. Flags made one recognizable. Made groups of dread soldiers into men fighting for a house or king. Garret and his black armored riders, Dread Riders they were called by others, had ridden right into the Sandi-Garian flank in accordance with Tristan’s plan. Lances at the ready and seated upon powerful horses bred for such use, Garret and his riders speared into the Sandi-Garian flank, lances opening bodies and spilling blood and gore upon the ground.

The initial charge nearly destroyed the will of the Sandi-Garians as the sight of the black-armored cavalry conjured visions of spectres from old stories and legends. The black-hooded figure at their head seeming like a wraith from the deepest pits. In Garret’s hand, the Furysword blazed with the fires of chaos as it drank from the battle and sang in Garret’s head.

The black steeds trampled those who stumbled and fell before the Sandi-Garians managed to pull themselves together and fight back. Garret let his riders overtake him and charge forth, tearing into the enemy. He dismounted his horse and set his feet firmly on the ground. He soon found himself targeted by a large Sandi-Garian who seemed to be something resembling an officer or overseer of some kind. Garret was reminded of the battle on the Grey Plains when he fought against a Colonial champion. The big Sandi-Garian would likely prove an equal challenge.

The big, bronze-skinned man wielded a two-handed curved sword and was clad in flexible leather armor with metal studs and reinforcement in some parts. Garret, although he still felt a bit vulnerable without a reliable shield, made himself ready for the coming fight. The Sandi-Garian officer made two big swings with his blade, each more than enough to cleave Garret in half. The Guardian managed to evade both swipes and lunged with the Furysword, the blazing blade aimed to cut the man’s chest in half diagonally.

The Sandi-Garian solidly blocked the strike and pushed Garret’s arm away, only to block again when the blazing sword struck again and again. He blocked Garret’s last strike and connected one large fist with the side of the man’s head, off-balancing him and knocking the hood askew.

Garret pulled the hood back to get it out of his eyes and ducked a decapitating strike by his opponent and punched him in the ribs, cracking two solidly with his gauntleted fist. The big man grunted painfully and struck blindly, missing Garret with his curved blade by inches. Garret recovered and parried the big man’s next blow and ran him through with the Furysword as a follow-up. The flames within the sword burst forth as it penetrated the Sandi-Garian, bright fire engulfing the man and reducing him to ashes in seconds.

Garret looked around as the ash fell from his blade and saw the battle was ending. His riders were milling around, many dismounted and finishing off wounded with lance thrusts to the neck and chest while a few had torn off to catch a few prisoners. Garret nodded in satisfaction. The boys had performed very well. He hoped that the rest of his old companions had faired as well as he had.

[RisingPhoenix]

Sparks flew as metal met metal on the battlefield. As death roamed the field picking off its victims, Haruko found himself in the midst of it all. He had followed his beloved brother Mugen into battle. Coincidentally, Mugen had followed Tristan into the great barrage of clashing swords and shields. It was hard to keep an eye on Mugen. It seemed he was in his element when he battled. Haruko was so concerned for the safety of his brother that he had forgotten about his own safety. He was quickly drawn back to his own problems when one of the opposing soldiers dashed towards him, his sword drawn. Haruko barely had time to dodge the slash, receiving a minor cut on his arm. This was a wakeup call to focus on mission at hand. With a quick gesture, Haruko had unsheathed his tanto. The man took a stance and the two seemed to be the only two individuals on the battlefield. Haruko kept his senses alert, in case any tried to approach him from behind.

The man charged his eyes filled with hatred towards Haruko. Metal met metal as Haruko’s tanto slammed around the man’s sword, once, then twice before the man got a chance to retaliate and swing his great sword. Haruko quickly ducked and flipped over the man, but not before slashing the man’s throat, allowing the crimson liquid to flow forth like a river. He had moved with such quickness that it had been difficult for the soldier to predict his move, and in turn it had cost the man his life. Haruko didn’t waste any time. He quickly sheathed his tanto, grabbed his staff, and turned his attention to the opposing side and began his onslaught. One by one the men fell; each receiving knockout blows from the staff Haruko possessed. It was as if he was determined to prove to Tristan as well as any who doubted him that he was more than capable of handling himself. One more fell and soon Haruko found himself standing in front of a very tall soldier. Haruko smirked, glaring at the man as he took an offensive stance. The man looked down at Haruko, and showed his disgusting yellow teeth. The sword he held was rather large; more than likely this man was an executioner. The battlefield around them seemed to vanish and Haruko set all his attention on this giant of a man, with this rather large deadly blade that he possessed. If it had not been for Haruko’s speed, he would have probably already been dead. The man laughed a hearty laugh and looked at Haruko before speaking.

“You puny little runt, you mean to tell me that you did that?” He said his voice deep and monotone.

Haruko looked behind him and noticed as least 5 men lying on the ground unconscious. He smiled and looked at the giant of a man.

“And if I did?” Haruko replied.

The man’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree before he began his onslaught. Swing after swing he attempted to cut Haruko in two. Each time he missed, though just barely. Haruko had delivered a few blows, but the man seemed undeterred by the attacks, leaving Haruko in awe of the man’s strength. Though he tried to flip away, he was grabbed by the throat and thrown viciously into the earth. He could have sworn he heard a bone crack, but as he struggled to get to his feet, he found out that everything was still intact, though he had suffered some cuts here and there.

“Give up little man,” the rather tall soldier proclaimed as he laughed.

Haruko glared. He wasn’t about to let this man get the better of him. Thrusting the blunt end of his staff into the ground, he slowly reached for his tanto and unsheathed them both.

“You wanna play big guy? Let’s play,” Haruko stated as he dashed towards the man in a very odd way.

Each tanto was extended out, gleaming as if hungry for the man’s blood. The soldier glared and readied for the attack. As Haruko got closer, the man swung the mighty blade, but Haruko jumped into the air. He hadn’t predicted that the man would be able to move the large sword just as fast as he would a small one. The great sword screamed through the air and collided with Haruko’s tanto. He had seen the attack just in time, though the force behind the attack slammed him into the ground beneath. The towering man stood over him as Haruko looked up into his eyes. This was the decisive point, either Haruko would kill him, or the tall soldier would kill Haruko. Haruko quickly thrust the blade of one of his tanto into the thigh of the large man, a bellowed scream exiting the man’s throat. He repeated his stabbing three times before the man kicked him away with a mighty thrust of his foot. Haruko now had a busted lip and a bruised ribcage, but he’d live, the man however would not. He had been injured, and the smell of the man’s blood made Haruko go into a state of pure mania. Grasping his tanto tightly, Haruko dashed towards the man again. The great sword was once again swung, but this time Haruko slid under the blade and sliced deep into the man’s legs as he slid under him. The man, trembling from blood loss, fell to his knees. Haruko did not delay in his punishment, and with a quick gesture, had slit the man’s throat, letting the crimson life ooze ever so freely from the man’s body. By then, the battle was over. When all was said and done, Haruko found himself resting upon a rock, bandaging himself, and checking to make sure his blades were cleaned. He had retrieved his staff from the ground and had positioned it beside where he sat. He had done what he was asked to do, and at the current moment, he had no concern for Mugen for he knew the man could take care of himself. Each wound took time to bandage, and with each touch, pain surged through Haruko’s body.

[Kris]

Alexis charged with a group of five, all of them, including Alexis who in the lead, wore heavy dark cloaks that covered their appearance, while a sole man was left upon the dark mare of Alexis, to deceive the enemy that he was the leader. The horse panted heavily, and was difficult to restrain under the regime of the stranger atop of her, but she did well to not fight him too boldly, for it would have attracted unwanted attention.

The five made a perfect advancing which was based on speed and drawing their blades only at those that stood in their path. This phalanx combination of charged attack, had a clear aim. Removing the general at the edge of the other camp site, just like pawns were trying to "kill" the king in a game of chess. Once they were closed enough, streams of arrows were shot at them, and one of the five fell down.

"Lily!", cried one of them.

"Leave her!", Alexis barked the order, making sure the other four were still charging with her.

Alexis knew that this kind of an attack was a desperate move from her side, but sadly she was placed in a terrible difficult situation, where she was cornered, and most of her unit dead. This general which fought against her, proved to be a master tactician and knew exactly how to approach them. Alexis realized that the only way he cannot read her moves be if she wouldn't plan them ahead.

He probably foresaw that the four would go and help their fallen friend, because the arrows stopped all at once, replaced with a brute storming of soldiers swarm. Alexis gritted her teeth as she removed her two twin swords, the other four doing the same.

Sword to sword battle was still better than arrows in terms of dodging, but against so many...

Blade hit blade and left metallic echoes over a far distance. While still trying to pave her way for her target, Alexis battled each foe that came for her. They were strong, but she was faster.

This, however, proved to be false about her other comrades of her small group, for another two were down, rips of their dark caps were how the bodies were to be left in symbolic way of burying.

Alexis roared with tears, swearing to get back and pick up the bodies of the three fallen female warriors that trained alongside her for so long as she kept to cut and defend against the enemy, her twin blades, when not attacking, crossed to be used as an effective shield. Soon she was alone, but not without leaving a trail of bodies behind her as a present for the lord of death, in return for her life that she was able to keep until now.

"That vigor!", called a voice from behind, but before she was able to parry it, a blade was sent directly for her legs, cutting right upon the surface or her left thigh, leaving a sore wound, which forced her to her knees. The next moment someone was above her, drawing his blade right above her neck.

Her eyes caught quick glimpse of the man and widen in fear when she realized it was him, that general she aimed to kill. He slowly removed her cap, bearing her face to him as he lifted up her chin, "I knew it. You are that group's leader", He moved closer to her, his breathing almost near her lips, "That kind of attacking... I'll admit I didn't think you'll be the crazy type... Then again, it was awfully smart and brave... How about entertaining me a bit more before meeting death, woman", he grinned.

She kicked her right boot, and he thought she was trying desperately to shake him off. He chuckled at that lame effort, but before he knew what was happening some sharp blade was pressed right to his heart. Before he died he was capable to take a quick look at the blade that was hidden in her boot.

"There is only one man I shall ever allow to be above me", she said with anger as she panted heavily, sweating like crazy while blood and pain still poured from her legs.

The enemy, surprised at this, backed down, and Alexis was soon supported by two other men who helped her to sit upon her black horse, "Charge!", she ordered, choking her pain, as to not lower the moral of her troop.