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Thread: [M/IC] The Song of Excalibur

  1. #21
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    As Calliope finished her speech, her eyes immediately focused on the new officer who had taken command. If her hearing served her right, the man was Lucius' own nephew. The gunbearer scoffed and tilted her head towards her companions, but kept her gaze firmly locked on the rebels' new leader. "Another one, hm? How quick. I suppose this rebel legion does indeed live up to its name. Cut off one head, more take its place. I do, however, suspect that there aren't many heads left in this gods-forsaken town."

    At that moment, the young commander, furious at Calliope's attempt to usurp control, snatched a bow from one of his own men and loosed an arrow at her. In response, the gunbearer simply folded her shield arm at the elbow and raised it slightly. Clang. The arrow anticlimactically splintered into pieces on contact with the pavise's surface. Unflinching, she looked on and listened to what her opponent had to say.

    "Your words have no meaning when you are the one who said it, Bitch of Ironheart! How many families were killed just for the king’s damned ambition to rule the lands beyond? Attacking our allies? How many innocents have been slaughtered in the name of the crown? How many?!"

    Just as Calliope was about to give her own reply, Cassius cut her off. "Uncountable, but the crown holds the ultimate law, one must not stand against it. You've dishonored your vow as a sworn knight, Captain. By doing so, you've disgraced yourself as well."

    Now more furious than ever, Lucius' nephew loosed another arrow, this time at Cassius. All the same, a futile shot, much like the first one. The traitor continued spouting his traitorous rhetoric, which Calliope largely ignored. Her companion didn't seem to have held up so well, however. Weapon raised, Cassius was in the middle of preparing to charge when the larger Farram snapped him out of what looked to be the first moments of a bloodlust-induced trance.

    The tall knight spoke for the trio this time, raising his voice to be heard clearly. "You're persistent in your words, traitor. I shall give you a few days to reconsider your actions. Your Legion-Commander's eventual demise should be enough to be a reason that you should not betray the crown!"

    The gunbearer balked at the idea at first, but figured that it was at least a viable tactical move, given the time frame they had. When Farram was done speaking, Calliope raised her voice once more. "The kingdom is fighting a just and righteous war, but it is still, at its very roots, a war! Countless innocents die every day, and more will die as the days pass. Such is the nature of conflict! My question for you, men of the 45th army: Do you wish for your loved ones to be a part of those sacrificed for a better tomorrow!?"

    She took another pause to let the last line echo in the rebels' thoughts. "I say to you again, Hydras, I come bearing the king's mercy! This is not to be taken lightly, not even after your new leader attempted to murder two agents of the crown. See the error in your ways, repent, and be saved! Think for yourself, for your wives, husbands, and children. Heed not the words of your traitorous leaders, who even now poison your good judgement!"

    "As for you, nephew of Lucius," Calliope continued, looking down at him from atop her horse. "Your uncle was a traitor, and a fool. I pray you choose not to make the same mistakes he did by choosing to rebel. Your anger is palpable, but I sense the doubt and fear that boils beneath it. The same can be said for your men. You are tired, broken, weak... Be an example to them! Follow your common sense, step down and repent. All may yet be forgiven. Perhaps in time, even you will soon come to understand the we fight for the Greater Camelot! Think on it! For when we return, there will be only one last call to repentance, and then no more..."

    Satisfied with the seeds of doubt she had planted, Calliope gave the town one last look before slinging her large pavise onto her back once more. With a firm tug on the reins, she turned her horse around and began to trot away from the town... in the direction the messenger eagle had come from. "Cassius! Farram! Let us take our leave. Our business is done here for today. We have... other matters to attend to..."
    Spoiler:  

    Currently on hiatus (possibly for good)

  2. #22
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    "Stand firm!"

    With Brynne already at the breached wall, a few of the Argenti assisted Latia's guard with their shields to the crevice. She had yet to find Quintilius and Vitos underneath the rubble, but Latia's sophisticated urban planning made the streets rather unsurveyable. With the vigor of thirty men, she bashed and bruised her way into the breach - where the Camelots were bottlenecked until the main gate blew. From inside a twelve-man shield formation, Brynne's head popped up above the large round shields to scout the area ahead. There he was! She saw Quintillius had been ejected into the fields outside the city walls. He was surrounded by chaos and was hardly attacking any Camelon. He seemed to cower in the burned-down barn closest to the breach in the wall. Back inside the city, the remaining Argenti had just taken down a giant by spear and were well underway to their lead Fraulanx. For Brynne, the saving chance was now or never. Her loyalty to Quintilius was unparalleled. While Quintilius himself would never chance the entire warband with saving his slightly incapable butt, Brynne expected it from every soldier.

    "Alalala!"

    The shield wall, now reinforced with even more Argentinians jumping on top of the already-established turtle formation, bashed through the melee and into the fields. For any Camelot who attempted to break this living bastion, spears came from every direction. Not even a giant could interfere - it got quickly disposed of by the swiftness of the Argentinian spear.

    Once the breakthrough was completed, they had set a perimeter around the burned-down barnhouse and the tactically fallen rubble around it. The phalanx was twenty-five strong, Quintilius included. Brynne threw him her spear while she unsheated her feared flail herself. Blood and guts flew everywhere. The quarter-hour of intense fighting painted the average argentinian in dark-red. Quintilius' horn rang through the fields around Latia. A distress call, for any man listening. It was far too late to push back to within the city wall now.

    Quintilius' shield bashed against the mass-produced helmet of a Camelon. His spear soon followed, piercing through his belly. His next opponent came in hard and his armor was thick. Without hesitation, the Argentinian threw his new spear into the next. He unsheated his sword to face his left, where he shocked to see three mercenaries approaching him all at once. Quintilius lifted his shield to block the blows, but the blows never came; arrows rained from the Latian walls in aid of the Argentinians. It were Vitos and Sifra, accompanied by the Fraulanx and some Latian bowmen. At the other side of the barnhouse, Brynne had it rougher. A red creek surrounded her - all brainsplatter of the Camelons. In a crescent moon, the Argent phalanx surrounded Brynkvinna, tempting any westerling to enter the impromptu-arena. But after their most courageous knights had tried, the Camelots had brought in their own mercenary berserkers. More than ten scarcely bear-clothed men began throwing stones and axes into the shield formation, which forced Brynne's retreat and fatigued the phalanx. The berserkers could not breach the line either however, as more Argentinian reinforcements turned up. It was Hester the Horsemistress, shortly followed by Milos and thirty more Argentinians on horseback.

    With the cavalry raiding and trampling their way to the breach, the rest of the argentinians could make their retreat back into Latia. With no man lost, Brynne was the last to re-enter the walls from her twenty-four original men.


    ***
    A brief pause inside Latia

    "Hester, you madwoman!"
    Quintilius congratulated the horsemistress with her amazing push. By how early she arrived, he was certain she did not knew the rest of the horses were even following her. Milos joined in, his face restless and agitated. "How many?" his commandant asked. "Berios, Dahlos, Merilanos and Naamis." Milos answered grumpily before storming off to help with the breached gate. Quintilius nodded and looked back up to the axe-wielding redhead. "Hester! Spare these horses the horror of battle! And find Sifra!"

    "Skipari!" Brynne, soaked in blood, slapped a hand on his shoulder. "Dahlos' men," Quintilius replied. She nodded in return. It was painful, but a miracle. There was no time to linger, however.

    "Wa muten før inquisiteur gahn." Brynn's foreign words ranged of resolve. Quintilius nodded along in bitter-toned agreement. "Let us find Androkles and Ironshield. Argentos has done her part." With the argent phalanx under command of Milos, Quintilius and Brynne sought out Marcus Ironshield and Androkles of Skalagos. Together, they could surely devise a plan to mitigate the Inquisitors' influence on the battle.

    When the blood-soaked duo arrived at the Latian gate, Marcus and Androkles were already regrouped. "Ironshield!" Quintilius sang. "We must devise strategics to counter their commander's touch!" He instinctively threw a spear back over the walls. "I will not let the Argent fall for a losing battle!"
    Last edited by Q; 12-07-2018 at 01:58 PM.

  3. #23
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    Truth be told, she'd not yet met a traitor before. But then again, in her particular profession, the definition of traitor was a rather loose one. A traitor to one man may be a king to another. Deciding she must think upon such things with an open mind, Janny returned his smile. A smile makes everything better.

    "...I was after all, a famed knight once served for the crown,"

    And he said something else after that too, but Janny didn't quite catch it. For she was far too suddenly immersed in the realisation that stood before her, was a real life actual physical Knight. And a knight of the crown no less! Her smile erupted into a childishly giddy grin, hands rushing to her face in excitement.

    "You were a Knight?! A real one?!!"

    And without him even needing to ask, she rushed forward. Despite her girlish enthusiasm, in a surprisingly gentle movement, the girl looped an arm under his in attempt to help haul him to his feet.

    "Here, let me help you,"

    Knights were an almost unearthly thing to Janus Sage. Sure there had been the occasional story told by her Pater if she pleaded hard enough, and some of the posher people she offed cried out for them in final words. But that was all she knew of them. Unseen other-worldly spirits that hail from old tales and myths. Figures to aspire to, people to look up too, but real things? This day just kept getting stranger...

    As eager as she now was, doubt lurked in the corner of her thoughts. What on earth would a blessed Knight of Camelot ever think of a baddun like her? Hmmmm. Maybe she would keep quiet about her profession. Yes, perhaps that was the best thing to do. For the Knight appeared friendly enough, and she would be naught but friendly back.




    The woods were deep, nearly an ocean in and of themselves. The canopy was thick, and only the odd beam of sunlight managed to force itself through the thick forrest cover. But that was alright, he was more than used to the darker side of things. He could have walked along the road, but the forrest suited him better in his opinion. He liked the calm and quiet the woods granted him. It was time to reflect, and think back over things.

    Sage had been amidst the trees for a few days now. It had been a while since he'd even seen another mans face. Save for those lordly lookers on the road down the Westerstorm a while back. But have been something to do with the war as they were flying the colours most proudly. What fools...

    He did love the quiet so. He loved his daughter too, but sometimes she did talk quite a lot. Damn. He shouldn't have thought about her, even if it was in passing. For as soon as even the inkling of her memory managed to pass through his common thinking, the worry arrived. There should be nothing in the world for an Assassin to worry about. A good Assassin at least.

    They'd parted not too long ago now, a week by his reckoning. Her first solo commission of note should be a task undergone alone. They had both agreed upon this, both concurred that she was more than suitably skilled and practiced for the job in question, and yet, this worry ate away at him further. There would be nothing of his sanity left if it kept on at this ravenous pace. Damn it all.

    Some deep inner sub-conscience whisper murmured a song unto his lips. The words floated through the forrest as he walked, little more than a hum and sang to nobody in particular, The Sage continued on his way.



    The last mosquito that bit me had to check into the Betty Ford clinic

  4. #24
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    Latia, the Northern Pearl,
    The United Province of Grecca,

    Marcus takes a deep breath and his gaze fell unto the bloodied blade of his sword. He wondered how many men have fallen to the Night's Blade and yet, he kept on fighting as if there was nothing else on his mind. His armor stained with crimson and scarred with the weapons of the damned Camelots. As Quintilius approached him with a few of his companions, he lifted his eyes from the gold-rippled blade of his dark sword and looked at the man of Argentos, "You're right, with the Inquisitors at the helm there's nothing much we could do. The soldiers are only getting slaughtered by the minute," he breaths heavily as he looks outside the walls where the fighting was the most chaotic. Horses fell, Giants slain and soldiers crushed.

    Androkles turned to Marcus as he finishes killing a few more of the legionnaires. His armor is now red with the blood of the fallen, his helm drips with the same liquid too. Yet his eyes remained as determined as ever, though the same could not be said of his mind, "We must pull back!" The Skalagosi said to Marcus, "The longer we stayed here, the more of our men are killed. If we fight in the streets, it would be a slaughter. We must retreat!"

    Quintilius sulked. Perhaps Androkles was right. It was not their fight to begin with, especially not the Argentinians'. But to see Latia, the northern pearl, fall to Camelot? Their fathers would be enraged.

    "Milos! Have you laid eyes on the western wall?"

    Milos, Quintilius' second-in-command, looked up from the two-leveled shield wall at the gate. He was in little position to discuss strategics, evident by a shieldmaiden's foot on his shoulder, but Quintilius knew of Milos' fine qualities in multi-tasking.

    "Under much stress, Lokhagos!" The young Argentinian noble added some fire. "Much like I!"

    It was no surprise that Latia's western walls were on the brink of collapse. The supply line with Camelot was well-set up. Alas, it seemed Dame Godfrey's army had not managed to tilt the battle in greccan favor.

    "So be it, Androkles! Let us sound our retreat, and make haste for the hills. I fear by now the Camelons will be more devoted to slaying our kin than to sack the northern pearl."

    A pair of heavily-armored giants neared the main gate. Simultaneously, Camelot forces slowly broke through the breach in the wall. While the Latian defenders shifted to fortify the square near the main gate, Quintilius and Brynne joined their Argentinian brothers and sisters as a grand melee ensued. "Ironshield!" Quintilius' voice could hardly be heard over the clings and clangs. "Where would we meet, in the case we disperse from one and another?"


    Marcus gave a long thought, frowning as the thought of retreating from the battle would be considered a shame to their Greccan culture and yet, it's best for them to save many lives than to let them die of Camelot steel. Then, he thought of the place he never think of visiting, "Kaldir!" He shouted, "Ride forth to Kaldir! My men and I will buy some time for you people to escape. Go now!" He charged back into the fray and signals the full retreat with his horn.

    Androkles fought with such a devastating ferocity unmatched by any Greccan warrior on the field. His sword now covered in red and flesh of the fallen, one by one the legionnaires fall to his wrath but even if he slew a thousand men, it would be inconsequential to the grand scheme of the battle itself. "Androkles!" Marcus called out, pulling him by the shoulder. "You should retreat with the others, I'll stay and hold them off,"

    "No!" He drove his sword into a Camelot's abdomen and red liquid poured out. He pulled his sword and cut off the man's head with a quick swing of his blade, "I'll stay and fight. If you insist on retreating, it must be you!" Androkles then swung down his sword, splitting the skull of a legionnaire with ease.

    "But you'll be dead without someone else to back you up!"

    "I'll be fine, Captain," the Skalagosi smiled underneath his helm. His eyes burned without a shred of fear. He slammed his clenched fist to his heart, "For victory or death, Captain."

    Marcus sighed as he frowned and raised his own bloodied fist to his heart as a response, just how a captain should respond to their men. "And for Grecca, Androkles. See you on Kaldir!" He ran for the escape route, helping any units that caught themselves in the midst of chaos during the battle. He saw pillars of black smoke rose from the city, he saw flaming stones hurled from across the wall and slammed into the buildings. He heard the deafening crack of thunder and the bright burst of lightning in the skies. As he ran with a few of soldiers behind him towards the exit, the walls beside him began to crumble and fell upon him.

    *** At the walls of Latia ***

    Androkles kept on fighting with only a few hundred men who chose the valorous option to stay behind and buy some time for the rest of the army to escape. "Spears on me!" He shouted to the nearest warriors. They rushed to his side and locked shields, spears forward as they held the breach and slay every Camelot unfortunate enough. It wasn't long until a giant broke their formation and crushed a few of the Greccans in its fists.

    The Skalagosi rose on his feet and grabbed a nearby spear. His vision blurry and his legs began to tremble, yet he knows that if he surrenders then all will be for nothing. He looked around and saw an Inquisitor upon his steed, clad in an armor with a crimson cloak and his hands sparked like Axinius in the days where the world was young. Androkles took aim and threw at him with all his strength before picking up his sword.

    It cuts through the air with a blazing speed and struck the Inquisitor off his horse as he fell to the ground. Androkles smiled at the sight of it and continued to fight on, despite the overwhelming odds stacked against him. His gaze fell onto the red blade in his hands and took deep breaths, his eyes closed as he uttered. "Valerios, give me strength. May the fallen charged forth from the Halls of Novogarde and aid those in battle. May the spirit of our fathers rose from the realm of the dead and be on our side!" he recites and raised his sword in the air, its blade glows green as the veins on his arm does the same. "For Grecca!"

    Ghostly entities appeared beside them, all armed with the weapons and armors of Old Ghath. As Androkles charged forth with his sword, the fallen warriors aided him and the rest of the defenders in the battle. Some of the Camelots flee at the sight of such power, to call upon the dead for aid is no small feat but yet a mere human like Androkles managed to do so.

    *** Inquisitor Arhanion ***

    He spits as he saw Marius was struck by a spear to his chest. Yet underneath his helm he cracked a smile, seemingly amused by a human managed to deal a blow to one of the Inquisitors. Perhaps it was just luck, perhaps it was Marius' own carelessness that injure him. Arhanion rode past Marius as he was pulled away from the battle by a few of the legionnaires and charged forth into the walls where the defenders made their last stand.

    His sword cuts through the Greccan warriors with little difficulties but then a legion of ghostly warriors appeared behind them, seemingly wearing an armor of ancient origin as they charged towards the Camelots. "By the Twelve," he uttered under his breath. He grits his teeth and shouted, "Form up! Run away and I'll fucking cut your head or relieve you of your manhood!"

    The legionnaires formed a solid wall of shields as the ghost warriors pushed through. Arhanion had his eyes set upon one particular warriors who managed to tore a bloody path with his sword alone. He dismounts from his horse and engaged the man with the black and red crest. Without a word to speak, they exchange blow after blow, even with the Greccan dealing several cuts to Arhanion. A formidable warrior indeed, one that Arhanion had never seen before.

    He grabbed his sword by the blade and struck the warrior with the hilt, knocking him unconscious. Arhanion deemed him too valuable to die like the rest of his brethren, yet he wished to see him be made like an Inquisitor just as he was. To be chosen from the ranks of a soldier. As he fell, the phantoms began to disappear one by one as if they were pulled into a gate by an unseen force. It won't be long until the rest of the Greccans fell by the might of Camelot's blade and thus it did.

    A cheer erupted from the army as they have defeated the defenders of Latia despite paying a high price. Even if a large number of the enemy forces have retreated from Latia's vicinity, a victory is a victory nonetheless. Arhanion turned to his cheering legionnaires, "The city is ours! Gods be praised, we have conquered Latia! Burn the buildings, take whatever you wish! Turn this place to ashes!" His gaze fell to the fallen legionnaires that lies lifeless beside his feet, "And for the dead? Bury them and send their most valuable treasuries to their families. Don't you bastards dare to steal any of their belongings. You have the city to loot,"

    ***

    The outskirts of Westerstorm,
    The Sovereignty of Camelot,

    Having to deal with a rogue legion is not easy. To deal a famed legion is difficult enough. They may have killed their most renowned leader but would it be enough to make them surrender peacefully? These questions plagued Cassius' mind as they set up camp somewhere within the forests outside of Westerstorm's region. As the night falls, Farram returned from the depths of the woods with a deer carried on his back before cooking it for dinner.

    Cassius sat on a log with his eyes gazed deep into the flickering flames that kept them warm during the cold night. There was silence between the three for a brief moment, with Cassius thinking of how to deal with the 45th for a peaceful resolution. Damn it all to the Abyss. He thought to himself. I am the one who carved a path of corpses during the war with Sorror and now I wished for a peaceful negotiation is nothing more than just a damned joke to myself. He chuckled and sighed, covering his face with his hands. "Damn it all,"

    "Something wrong Cassius?" asked Farram as he looked into the flames and waited for the deer to be cooked. He unstrapped himself of the sword belt around him and laid his weapon beside him. He saw on the opposite side of Cassius and yet, he still looked taller than the rest of them. "Was it about your family or something?"

    Family. The word resonated in his mind. "Not really. But speaking of family makes me wonder how is she back home," he continued as his gaze fell onto his hands.

    "Oh, so you have a wife?"

    Cassius raised an eyebrow and casts a smile, chuckling at his words. "No I don't have a wife. I'm thinking of my sister. It's been quite a while since I've left home years ago."

    Farram laughed, "Thought so. It's hard to think of you, the deadliest fighter in all of Arno'or would have a lover." he pointed at Cassius. "Perhaps you have, perhaps you don't," he shrugged.

    "You don't know me," Cassius crossed his arms, "Perhaps you have way too many bastards to be counted with your fingers, Farram." He replied and looked into the flames once more. He could vaguely how his sister looked like, bright eyes that would glow like the stars of the night, a hair of silver and a beauty perhaps unmatched by the noblewoman of Camelot.

    "I'm still doubtful that you don't have someone to call a lover,"

    "Even if I do, I would not tell you nor any of the Ironhearts for that matter." Cassius replied. Damn it all. He cursed once again. He could even vaguely remembered how his lover would look like. Perhaps her golden hair has changed to something with a pale color, that her blue eyes would be different from the way he remembered it.

    *** Within Westerstorm ***

    A pillar of smoke rises from the center of the town, the flames burned Lucius' lifeless body as his skin turned to ash. Surrounded by the legionnaires of the 45th, they watched as their former commander ascended to the Halls of Novogarde at the hands of a loyalist. There were no tears for him, but rather there was vengeance that swelled up within them for avenging their fallen commander. None of their wrath is that of Zachariah's.

    After the burning of Lucius' body, Zachariah returned to the Lord's Hall where the high ranking soldiers of the 45th were gathered. A map stretched upon a large table, with flag that marked the position of every known legion on Camelot. As Zachariah entered, they nodded at him. "Legion-Commander." One of them speaks out, acknowledging Zachariah's rank as their new leader. "The rest of our legions would arrive shortly in three to four days,"

    "Five," another speaks. "If the weather is on our side, then the Hydras would be at full strength by next week. Then what about our allies? We have no one to trust as we are basically alone in our rebellion,"

    Zachariah's eyes scanned on the map, looking at the four pieces near Latia and five others on their way to the Red Fields. He counted another six scattered in Greccan and lands a nine more preparing themselves for a full assault on the Kingdom of the Sun. Arthur is about to wage war against another nation. "We can't ask for help from Rhoyse. His army is one of the most loyal legions to the crown,"

    "What about the 35th? The Bulls?" Another interrupted. He was older than the previous two, with a coat of orange beard and dark brown eyes. "I have associates in the 42nd as well,"

    "We can't risk them," said Zachariah. "If a third of a legion are the ones who opposed to the crown, the two remaining halves would crush them easily." He said, "We don't even have the money to buy mercenaries at this point." His gaze then fell upon the mountainous regions near Latia. It was considered an impenetrable place where the coldness of the north is the most violent and yet, "Send word to the Pale Traveler. We need her help,"

    The rest of the captains remained silent at his decision and looked at each other. She was a mysterious figure who came to Grecca and established a faction that resided deep within Latia's coldest regions. Some said she had vast amounts of wealth accessible because of her access to the numerous gold mines within the mountains. Yet, it was her mysterious nature that made them question Zachariah's decision. "Are you certain of this, commander?"

    Zachariah nodded.

    ***

    Dhûnwall Prison,
    The containment blocks

    "Thank you," the knight replied. His ears listened for sounds that would come from the end of the hallway and the other prisoners did they same. He looked around and scanned each of the cells. The sound of boots became nearer as he saw shadows approaching the end of the hallway. The knight immediately gestured to Janus to hide herself as he kept his eyes upon the approaching guard. "Hide!" He whispered. "And keep your head down until I told you so,"

    As she returned to her spot, his ears caught the sound of multiple boots and the clanking of keys. He can even hear the water dropping from the ceiling, the breaths of the prisoners and hear the faint voices of those who are approaching the cells. "Oh hell," one of the prisoners mumbled. "It's the Warden,"

    A lean figure with a crimson robe trimmed with gold approaches, a guard on each of his sides as well. His square jaw and his crimson eyes seemed otherworldly, glowing in the dark like a red flame. Underneath his robe is an armor which he worn at all times within the prison for he is prepared whenever a prisoner attempts to kill him. Or rather, he wears it just for the sake of it. His eyes scanned each of the cells, looking at each of the inmates from top to bottom. Then, he stopped at the knight's cell and turned his head. "How is your day, Galahad?" He said, casting a sinister smile upon his face, half scarred with burnt marks.

    The knight stands from his feet, his pain began to go away as time passed by. "Terrible enough, Warden. Are you here to bring me away once again? If so, come back another time you old bastard."

    The Warden chuckled, "Acting as if you were as powerful as you were before aren't you? Very well, I shall return tomorrow for our...appointment. You haven't told me the location of your father, Lancelot. But I am more interested in your damned mind. You lasted more than a year here, Galahad. Stronger than my previous prisoners,"

    "Shut your damned mouth," Galahad stares at him. Fighting against two armed guards would result in a devastating end. Even with his passive regenerative abilities like his old friend, Gwayne, he do not possess such strength within him to surpass the guards yet. "And you'll never get to know where my father is,"

    "Oh I will," he laughed as he walked down the hallway. "Oh I will, son of Lancelot,"

    ***

    The forests of Dhemer,
    Near the ruins of Dragonspire,
    The Sovereignty of Camelot,

    An Inquisitor's work is never easy and the same can be said for those in the Deadly Seven multiplied by a hundred. Yet, everything they do is for the crown. Or so they were told. The king is the ruler of Camelot and one cannot disobey his words - if one dares to do so, shall be dealt with. Thus, the Defiance of Dragonstorm has become one of the most pivotal moments in the history of the kingdom. So much so until there were none that dared to defy Camelot until someone brave enough to do so.

    There she was, standing at the ruins of Dragonspire - a once mighty castle where the once famed noble family of Dragonstorm used to live until the Defiance took place. At times, she'd even picture the battle happening there in her mind. Where the greatest 9th legion faced against the might of several others before it sadly decimated by Arthur's wrath. She looked around and saw a tattered banner with a rusted golden dragon on top of it, erected as a reminder that defiance shall be met with death.

    Avelina explored the ruins of the old castle, at times even venturing deep into the underground sections of Dragonspire where the weapons would be kept. Now, it was an empty place. A hollow representation of its former self. She emerged from the ruins and saw the man she was supposed to wait - an assassin of high regard. Perhaps even the most deadliest of all.

    "You there!" She called out to the man in the shadows. "Are you the infamous Sage?" She asked. The winds blew as the leaves rustled against one another, whispering like ghosts that speak of their acts in the past.
    "May the great Twelve have mercy on us all," - Marius, Inquisitor of the Crown

    Spoiler: Random stuff 

  5. #25
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    Sounds from the hallway. Janus was like a hare. Instantly she stood to attention, limbs rigid with vigilance. Her eyes lay locked upon the cell door, waiting, counting the incoming paces, trying to measure their distance. The girl was practically twitching with careful observation.

    "Hide!"

    She didn't need telling twice. Faster than you could say Excalibur, Jan had flung herself across the Cell, skidding to the floor and back down into the hole rom whence she came. She heaved the stone slab shut behind her, but took care to leave the teeniest of tiniest gaps so she could still hear and see what was going on. Jan just hoped nobody came wandering in, for if they stood too heavily on the slab they'd plummet right through.

    The Warden huh? Now who could this be. She hadn't been in the prison long enough to yet make his personal acquaintance. And the way everybody else in this place spoke and treated him, jan was rather glad she hadn't met him. Instinct forced her to instantly analyse and observe the Wardens gear and attire. Trained eyes spotted where a weakness could be exploited here and there, where his strengths did and did not lie. But she tried to shake this compulsion from her head, for she needed to concentrate on other things first.

    Wait,

    Wait a moment...

    G A L A H A D ? !

    Janus fell backwards (hopefully nobody up top heard) and she had to try very very hard not to scream. It wouldn't have been a fearful scream mind you. More of a shocked beyond belief scream. As if somebody had just made her jump. Hands clasped tightly over her mouth, her eyes locked themselves upon the Knight. And she'd been speaking to him mere minutes ago.

    By the twelve...

    The warden fellow continued to spout more fire at Galahad, but his flames were unheated and misaimed. Galahad merely waved them away. The Wardens words did not burn this Knight, heavens no. Galahad was far too upstanding to be demeaned and brought down by such common insults and jests. In her opinion the Warden could sense this too, for he left almost as quickly as he had arrived, with nothing to offer the Knight save for petty jabs. And the two of them were alone once more.

    Janus all of a sudden found herself a lot more nervous than she had previously been. All forgoing giddy enthusiasm was now doused by a bout of skittish anxiety. Knights lived by honour, it was their bread and butter. It's what people admired about them, what made them so highly rated and praised throughout the world. So if he were to ever find out what she did, who she really was, surely, he'd have her killed on the spot.

    Slowly, very very slowly, Janny opened up the slab once more, and emerged from her hiding spot. There was no smile this time, despite her tries. Instead she looked cautious, almost frightened but not quite. her voice was quiet, and low when she spoke,

    "Umm, are you alright... Sir?"




    He'd reached Dragonspire a little while ago now, and sat amidst the old forgotten ruins of the place. Sat upon a rock, he cleaned his sword. The hem of his clock used as a makeshift cloth. His swipes were long, and delicate, careful not to press too hard upon the blade. The mans hood had been lowered, but despite the streaming daylight, he seemed still somehow cast in shadow. As if the sun itself were fearful of his presence. But I'm sure it was really just the time of day or something...

    The man didn't look up at the call, he barely even flinched. Instead, he simply finished his current task before anything else. He brought the hem up from the bottom of the blade, all the way up to the top in a last sweeping stroke. The hem of his cloak fell back to the ground, and raising a hand, he pricked a finger against the tip of the sword. It wasn't a particularly forceful jab, quite delicate in fact actually. But a scarlet bubble beaded from his fingertip at the simple movement all the same.

    The man smiled ever so slightly.

    He lowered his hand and rubbed it against his tunic casually. Rising to his feet the blade was sheathed. Slow sauntering steps lead him towards the woman. He voice naturally low, but the tone was as casual as the rest of his apparent countenance.

    "That name may as well be a death sentence one way or the other Madam. Are you sure you want to be throwing it around so offhandedly like that?"


    The last mosquito that bit me had to check into the Betty Ford clinic

  6. #26
    Member Q's Avatar
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    A five-hour ride from Latia


    Wide valleys and open plains, at last! The bulk of the Argentinian warband traversed the greccan lands in a curve around Latia. They would meet up with Ironshield at Kaldir, but this was of little importance. For now, they thought of the fallen, their own mortality and the wonders of the world. Out of the original seventy-three, fifty-six Argentinians stood standing. They had lost young Llairos, the veteran Dahlos and his three brothers, and the others were still unaccounted for - either lost in battle or merged with Godfrey's forces. Their deaths hit hard, for the few Argentinians had a close bond. But it was a miracle to see any survive the bloody siege of Latia.

    As night fell, they had set up camp in the cliffs. A small stream ran nearby and the flora was rather lush. Tranquil, yet surrounded with treacherous territory. The Argentinians could find peace here, at least for the night. While the hoplites were still setting up tents, the command crew sat around the fire. From left to right; Milos, Sifra, Quintilius and Brynne. Their treestumps looked comfortable and the mood was light. Milos was revisiting the events at Latia.

    "...Before I knew, we were half-way to the wall. I must commend Hester for her tenacity. Were it not for her and dame Godfrey's knights, we could have never passed the Camelons. Nor survive the offense!"

    The other three nodded along. They were all inside Latia's wall and saw little of the battle beyond. "How fared Lady Godfrey herself? Pabos spoke to us about an apparent disappearance?" Sifra asked Milos politely, her fine articulation evident.

    "She suffered great defeat. I estimate half of her forces must have perished, but I do not know. The melee was overwhelming." Milos responded calmly. He preferred calculated risks in battle. This was a whole new experience. "You ought ask Hester when she returns from hunting. Where that woman even finds the energy!"

    Meanwhile, their purple-plumed leader was smoking his opium pipe and gazing up in the sky. He frowned. It was unwordly how serene the sky was, so uninterested in what had just transpired on earth...

    "Quintilius!"

    He looked up at Brynne. She continued in her broken anglo-greccan.

    "It is time!"

    With a confused look, Quintilius replied.
    "For what? For... Pleasures of the flesh?"

    "WINE!"


    *****


    But half an hour later, the majority of the Argentinians was shouting loudly.

    "For towers of silver!"
    "Hoo-ray!"
    "For Llairos and Dahlos!"
    "A-yay!"
    "Merilanos and Naamis and Berios!"
    "Heuuuy!"

    The tent's flap opened at the other end of Quintilius' impromptu treestump-for-speeches. Hester and Vitos walked in, both carrying a big, fat, mountaindeer.

    "To Hester, the scourge at Latia!"

    "Magnifi-cay!"

    "Brynne! Halgos! Bring us more of the Latian wine!"
    He could not help but be enthusiastic about Brynne's theft.
    "It tastes of cherry and honey!"

    The festivities went on for hours. Milos and Sifra were the least drunk, yet still far gone. Around the fire in the main tent, Vitos was playing his lute while others manned the wardrums and flutes. The up-tempo ballads filled the tent with comfort. In the middle, Brynne was taking shots from her wooden cup whilst arm-wrestling any contender who dared. A loud clang on Quintilius' shield interrupted the party.

    "Attention, brothers!"
    He nearly collapsed when Hester hit his shield with a warhammer.
    "It is time... to..."
    Speaking was hard.
    "...Contit a winner!"
    The room stared at him with confused looks. Hester pushed him off his treestump and spoke up for her stumbling lokhagos.
    "To pick who was the finest warrior today! Everyone cast their contestant in the vase and the victor will have full command for the days ahead!"

    As the vase (like the wine, stolen out of a Latian home) passed by all the argentinians, it returned at Quintilius and Hester. By now, Quintilius was barely conscious. "Skipari! Who will you choose?" He answered in mumblings: "Mhmphfn... Brynne!" A sudden strike of energy sprung him back on his feet. "Mattios, Voyos! Count the parchment!"

    The wardrumroll intensified as Mattios and Voyos relayed the count to Hester, whispering in her ear.
    "Take heed, riders of Argentos;"
    "Trioth, with tri-deci votae, Brynne of Vascrannog!"

    Loud claps and cheering ensued. Hester nodded at the brutish Brynne who stood front and center in the crowd of fifty-five.

    "Secunda, with quat-deci, Vitos of Argentoros!"

    The argentinians cheered even louder. The kind-hearted mountainman had lost so much.

    "Primos!"
    Hester let out a devilish smirk.
    "I."

    Wine flew through the air. The wild lot slammed their hands on the table and began chanting. A staggering twenty-nine of the fifty-six had voted for Hester the Horsemistress! Nearly everyone finished their drinks and refilled their tankard.

    "Milos! Keep this lot under control!"
    With wine in hand, she descended down to the troops.
    "Balrios, Voyos, guard the perimeter and comb the horses!"
    She pointed into the crowd, her eyes on fire.
    "Quintilius! My tent, now!"
    Last edited by Q; 12-12-2018 at 01:56 AM. Reason: made it even cooler

  7. #27
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    Somewhere out in the forests,
    The United Province of Grecca,

    As his head bonked to the point of stagnating perception, he followed Hester to her tent. Her mare was idly hitched up to a tree. A map of Arno'or was laid out on her table. On the way from Latia to the cliff overlook, Quintilius had already spoken to Hester about strategics. He wondered what she needed him for.

    He leaned against a tentpole. The opium and Latian wine had taken a toll on him. He stared at the last sip in his cup and reluctantly swallowed it off. "Oh, Hester." He began rambling. "Will there ever be anything but war in our puny lives?" Hester released her curly red braids from her warrior-like ponytail.

    "No..." Her devious smile reappeared. "But between here and the next battle, there is wine, music and love." In a decisive action, expected from a Norsene shieldmaiden, Hester took off her lightweight battle cuirass. Quintilius dreamed away at the sight of her unclothed torso. The madwoman might have cut off her right breast to master the bow, but it did not take anything away from her untamed beauty.

    ***


    An hour of exhaustion later, Quintilius sat alone on the cliff above the creek smoking his pipe. He shouldn't be seen in Hester's tent; he also had loyalties to the other shieldmaidens. It must have been three strikes past midnight, for the Argent's lokhagos was slowly drifting off into sleep. The serene sounds of the wind meeting stone carried him away to deeper thought...

    But the peaceful moments only lasts when fate wants it to be. As Quintilius began to sleep, his mind was just like other mortals - full of desires, hatred and memories. An endless ocean of thoughts and questions, a sporadic one perhaps. It was then when he saw himself standing alone on a field of grass, surrounded by nothing else but a sea of green stretched as far as the eye can see and a clear blue sky on top of his head. Perhaps, this is what peace looks like to the warriors who fought for a very long time.

    Up on a hill is a small wooden house with a woman taking care of the laundry and children playing around. Quintilius stands and observed them, questioning about what he saw. Everything felt a little too real, the wind that touches his skin like a lover's touch and the sound of children laughing as they play with their mother. A beautiful scenery indeed.


    Cautiously, he stepped foot in the wooden house upon the hill. The faces of the children were unclear, but there were two elder daughters and a younger son. The son looked innocent and modest, playing with his wooden spinning top. The two daughters were fighting in the mud, each hell-bent on bringing the other to submission.

    The woman interrupted the girls' fight. With a girl in each hand, she separated them each to another end of the cabin. She looked somewhat familiar. Her aura felt intimidating, but here, in the house upon the hill, she was at peace. Quintilius roamed the house content. As he strolled out of the door and onto the porch, his apparent son looked up from his toy; "Father, will we ever go back to Argentos?"

    The words hit him like a rock. It did not seem right. What was this vision? What was it trying to explain? Was this a warning from higher powers? A mere fata-morgana? Or a vision into the future?

    A lightning cracked the sky open with its blinding light but the dark clouds were not present nor were there signs of rain. A man then appeared upon a hill far away from the wooden house, his hair were of the sun's blazing flames and his eyes carried the color of the peaceful oceans. He wore a cloak made of wolf's fur and a scar ran down his neck from the bottom of his lips. Besides him stands a fair maiden whose face is untouched by beauty itself, her pale white skin is complemented with a long coat of silver-gold hair and a pair of glittering violet eyes.

    The two approached the house with the maiden walked close side by side with the taller man. He towers over her with his muscular might but it was her beauty that could make any man infatuated with her. They approached the wooden structure upon the hill with silence, not wanting to grab the attention of Quintilius and his family. To have him enjoy the peace even for a moment.


    There, Quintilius' curiosity had lured him back into the house. As the girls were back to playing their aggressive games, he stared up to the chimney above the fireplace. It was decorated with his javelin, shield and purple-plumed helmet. A forgotten life, it felt. He shook his head and turned to the mother, who intrigued him like no woman before. "Woman, who are you?" he asked. Her eyes locked with his and for a moment, Quintilius saw the prettiest woman ever, yet could not describe a single feature besides dark hair and a firm jawline.

    This was a most peculiar dream, if it even was one, for he could not remember what had happened before he stood on the green plains. Perhaps the horizon gave answers. He had always relied on his keen sense of direction. Finding out where he was might help him solve this riddle. As he surveyed the endless grasslands, he spotted the tall figure and his beautiful companion on the path to the wooden house. However contradictory to his doubts about his idyllic vision, he instinctively felt the urge to protect the children. "No further, entity!"

    The man with the blazing hair stopped in his tracks and laid his blue eyes upon Quintilius. "Please, Quintilius of Argentos. I assure you that we mean no harm," the man said, his voice is deep and speak much of his might. He raised his arms, "I bring no weapons that would mean you harm. Please, we just want to talk to you,"

    "We need your help," the woman said. Her voice is painted with a desperate tone, one that speaks of a terrible horror that would fall upon the world if they won't get help. "I'm sure you have heard of the stories of the Burning Nights. Where the demons of the Abyss poured from their hellish landscape and into our lands to bring upon death to our world. I am afraid that time would come again," she continued as she gazed upon Quintilius.

    Then the hills that surrounds them turned into a field of battle and the skies bleed with balls of fire descended from the skies. Angels and demonic creatures battle each other in the clouds, humans desperately fought for survival as the monsters crawled out from the cracks beneath their feet. A peaceful scenery turned into one that resembled chaos. "War is coming, Quintilius. Your ancestors have fought these demons and so does the old kings of the past." the man spoke out and turned his attention to a figure above a hill, fighting against the forces of the Abyss by himself. His golden armor stained by the crimson blood of the fallen beasts and his sword clashed with the burning steel of his enemies. It was Valerios, the god of war and protection. "I fought in this war thousands of years before the humans rose to dominance and...I wasn't ready," his eyes then shifted to Quintilius, who now dons his armor from Argentos as he stands above the corpse of a fallen demon.

    The woman held the man's hand and touched his face, her eyes gazed upon his. "It'll be different this time, Valerios. Far different." she said as her fingers intertwined with her husband's.


    "This is madness!" Quintilius cried out. He had fallen to his knees, smudged in dark blood. His posture was hopeless. He knew he was no hero. That the twelve would speak to him about this matter, he could not understand. Perhaps their chosen were to busy with the war. "Could it be prevented?"

    The apocalyptic surroundings were horrifying. The ground set ablaze and everywhere prowled a creature known only from tales. He fought to resist these visions, but could not. He was alone in this nightmare - no fellow Argentinian to save him.

    The fair maiden turned her attention to the fields where eyes fell upon a pair of warriors who held off against a larger demon themselves with an army behind them, fighting the endless hordes of the demonic creatures of the Abyss. "It can be prevented. Or at least, you can help the world be prepared for this." she said, before everything around them changes once more from a sight of a terrible battle to a small fleet of ships fleeing from an island. The red skies were now dark as the moon appeared and reigned over the night with the glittering stars. "The Kingdom of Andrûcil has fallen long time ago. But not its people. Not the descendants of the heroes that saved the world from the Abyss." she observed the island as she, Valerios and Quintilius were on a small boat.

    Valerios could hear the refugees upon the ships cried in sadness and terror. Tentacles emerged from the waters below and grabbed the island, destroying the buildings and crushing those beneath its tremendous weight. One by one it pulled the island of Andrûcil into several pieces, some were dragged into the ocean below. Valerios watched, he sighed to see upon the destruction of a human kingdom once more. "You'll have to find them, Quintilius." Valerios pointed at the ships. "Their kingdom may have been destroyed by a beast of the seas eons ago but it was the help of their ancestors that allowed your forefathers to win the Burning Nights. Find them on Moiairon, may the gods be ever on your side,"

    Everything fell apart, fading into nothingness as Valerios and his wife disappeared from Quintilius' vision. Meanwhile in the real world, the maiden approached the Argentinian camp with a golden spear in her hand. She walked through unnoticed and went inside Hester's tent, sticking the spear upon the ground and runs her fingers down Hester's soft hair like a mother would do to her child. A smile crept onto her face, "May Mother Moiairia guide you," she said before disappearing into the heavens in a beam of light.


    A co-post between me (gold text) and Q

    ***

    Latia, the Northern Pearl,
    Some hours later

    After the 5 legions under the two Inquisitors have looted and burned the city to the ground, they marched deeper into Greccan territory with their supplies replenished and each of their legionnaires now eager to face the might of the battle hardened warriors of the United Province. As Androkles was sent to Dhûnwall by a small group of legionnaires to escort him to the unbreakable fortress, they set up a camp at the borders of the two northern nation near a river. The cold iron chains prevented the Skalagosi from attacking his captors and free himself of the terrible fate that awaits him at Dhûnwall. Yet, he sat idly with his back against a tree while the legionnaires were eating fish and consuming whatever food they brought with them from Latia.

    Their manners disgusted Androkles as they laughed and talked about the destruction of Latia as they eat. He wanted to rose on his feet and drive his clenched fist into their jaws, but he could not for the heavy chains that binds him prevents the Skalagosi from doing so. They threw bones at him, followed an endless barrage of insults to Androkles and his ancestors, calling them as “weak bastards.” Yet, his anger rises within him, like a flame that is ready to burn those that surrounds him. The chains and his weakened state would leave him in a worse condition if he wants to attack them. He heard them talk of an army that marches upon Skalagos and this surprised him.

    Then, he heard the bushes rustled against one another and the legionnaires’ eyes shifted from Androkles to the woods. There were nothing but shadows. As they listened closely, there no other sounds but the crackling fire and the rustling leaves and the howling of the northern winds. Slowly they unsheathed their swords from its scabbards, one of them grabbed his own shield. Five of them, Androkles counted. He could cut them all in one fell swoop if he regained his strength. But even with his superior skills, he could not best them in his state.

    "Who goes there?!" One of the legionnaires shouted, a young man. Perhaps somewhere between his 20s and early 30s. His hand trembled upon his shield as he held his sword close to him, the man's eyes gazed forward into the woods. "Show your - " his words were silenced as his body thumped to the floor and his head rolls to the ground.

    Androkles watched in confusion. He only saw a flash of darkness before the young man was killed with a swift strike of its bladed weapon to the man's neck. The legionnaires frantically looked around for the unseen enemy. "By the Twelve! What the hell are y - " another speaks out before a spear pierced his throat. Then a man appeared in a flash of light, clad in a golden ornate armor and a blazing sword in his hand. He stood there silently, watching the remaining three prisoners before taking a few steps forward. Another of the legionnaires picked up a javelin and threw it towards the armored man, but he caught it in mid air before snapping it in two with the sheer strength of his grip.

    "Bloody hell," Androkles cursed as he watched the man fighting the remaining legionnaires with ease. His burning sword cut through their steel as if it was butter, their weapons shatter at the might of the man's strength. As he stabbed one of them through, a burst of flames erupted from the legionnaire’s body before finishing off the rest. He was violent in his movements yet, as he brutally defeated the remaining soldiers of Camelot without much effort. He swung his sword down and cut a man in half before grabbing the last legionnaire by the throat, snapping his neck.

    Their bodies lay lifelessly upon the ground and the armored man turned to face Androkles. He extends out his hand to the Skalagosi, "Get up," he said and helped him to stand before breaking the iron chains that binds Androkles with his sword.

    He watched him, observing his armor from head to toe and finds himself mesmerized at the sight of such otherworldly beauty of its steel. He had never seen such armament made by any blacksmiths on Ochlion, the intricate details and runes matched with the fiery sword that burned red. "Who are you?" He asked, looking around at the dead bodies of his captors. Brutally dismembered and killed, yet the man does so with such efficiency that everything ended within the span of half a minute.

    "I am the one your people called Valerios," he simply stated.

    Androkles stumbled backwards and dropped on his knees, bowing to the revered god of war and protection that stood before him. To stand in the presence of a deific figure is an honor indeed. What do the gods wish of me? He asked himself. "Forgive me, my lord. I should have known that is was you," he said, his eyes dared not to look upon a deity. He instantly recognized the armor and the blazing sword Valerios carries, remembering how the legends spoke of the fiery blade named Soralon had tainted the seas red with blood during the War-in-the-Heavens. Many damnable creatures fell to its blade.

    Valerios had his eyes remained on the dead soldiers that he slew with his sword. A sense of dread emanated from his surroundings, as if darkness itself resided within the men he slew. He turned to Androkles, "No it's fine. I have come here to search for you, young one!" He helped the Skalagosi up once more and observed the wounds he sustained from the battle at Latia. He frowned underneath his helm at the sight of such battle wounds, "It must be hard for you to fight in a battle that guarantees no victory." He said.

    He frowned, praying to the gods that his battle brothers survived the battle and from the greedy ambitions of the Camelot. Androkles nodded in response, "But I know that the Greccans won't be easily wavered at such a defeat. For their wrath shall be paid soon enough. That I am certain," he states. The war machine that is Camelot won’t be easily defeated just as he hoped for, he too is certain of that.

    The god smiled, assured of his courage to move forward than to surrender to the threads of fate itself. He puts a hand on Androkles' shoulder, "Good, they will pay for what they did to your country. But for now, I needed your help."

    "What for, my lord?"

    He summoned a spear and it manifests in his hand. A long bident spear with etchings of ancient runes upon its tips. Valerios hands it over to Androkles, "Take this. The Spear of the Undying. It was once the weapon of someone I know but it'd serve you well for the future."

    Androkles grabbed the long spear in his hand, his eyes was once again enthralled by the sheer length of the weapon itself. An ancient relic of a long forgotten war, the Skalagosi now holds it and he began to sense a terrible dread that would come in the future. Yet, he frowns. "Why me? What is it that you need me to do?" He queried. Then he felt the power of the spear course through his veins, his wounds were healed and his energy restored. He felt strong again, such is the power of the spear itself. "I can't have this. I am not worthy of such weapon,"

    "Take it, Androkles. You must venture into the depths of a fallen might, find the crown of the forgotten beasts and the masters will heed your call," Valerios said cryptically. "Time is of the essence, young one." The god then vanished into the heavens above in a blinding beam of light, leaving Androkles with the ancient weapon in hand.

    Into the depths of a fallen might. The words echoed in his mind as his gaze fell onto the spear before looking up into the stars. Then perhaps one place may suit that description - the Fallen God's Tomb.

    ***

    Days after the Siege of Latia,
    Somewhere near the Great Statue of the Son,
    The Eastern Ranges,
    The United Province of Grecca,

    He stands alone in a forest, surrounded by the woods as the leaves rustled like ghosts. It was at morning where Marcus looked around him and felt no pain nor there were any injuries to his body. Strange. He said to himself. His body felt lighter and full of energy as if he never even fought in the Siege of Latia. Yet, he sensed something different about his surroundings.

    Marcus ventured further into the woods, traversing through endless hills filled with trees and animals. Then, he stumbled upon a rock with a stone within it. Caliburn. He thought as his eyes widened to see the legendary weapon before his eyes. As he moved closer, he saw a young blonde man approached the sword and pulled the blade out of the stone.

    "All hail Arthur!" Marcus heard the voices of knights exclaimed in joy as they knelt on one knee with heads bowed. "All hail the king of Camelot!" he looked around, his gaze fell upon an old man with a robe of silver and an ornate staff that held a green jewel at the top.

    As he turned once more, the scene changed. From within the forests near Godslake, Marcus then finds himself walking in the courtyard of a mighty castle. The banners of a black dragon upon a crimson field flutter in the warm winds of the southern lands. Then the gates were lifted as Arthur rode in with several of his knights - this was the time where the king chose the bravest knights to be a part of the Round Table. The king dismounted and a knight in brass armor welcomed him, Arthur pulled out Caliburn and handed to the man. "This is a gift, Percival. Only those who descended from the Son are allowed to wield it, just like both of us." the king said.

    Percival initially refused, "This is rightfully yours, my king. I can't accept it." he stated. But Arthur convinced him to wield the black blade of kings.

    Marcus can't hear the things they spoke. As he took a few steps to approach them, the scene changes once more. The castle now burns with the legionnaires under Percival's command fought desperately to defeat the overwhelming forces that attacked them. Pillars of black smoke rises from every part of the fortress, its walls crumbled as flaming balls destroyed its very foundation. Marcus recalled that this was the Defiance of Dragonstorm, where the legionnaires of the 9th Legion fought with all their strength to defend the noble family that resided within its walls.

    The Ironshield then saw Percival, returning from the front lines. His brass armor now charred black by the flames of the enemy. He could see him ordering the legionnaires to fight to the last man as he struggled to get his family safely. "No! You have to go!" a man's voice erupted from the courtyard, grabbing Percival by the armor. "Your life is more valuable then mine, son. You hold the sword now, you must not lose it or else, Arthur would conquer all of Arno'or!" Marcus heard the man spoke, desperation colors his words.

    He saw the two argued for a while, before Percival reluctantly left his family's side and escaped with a handful people. Marcus knew where thry would go next - Kaldir, it is where the last Dragonstorm would meet his end. As he explored the battlements, a bolt of lightning pierced the sky like a spear and hits where Marcus is standing.

    ***


    The knight immediately wakes up, taking deep breaths as he finds himself in the real world once more. The Defiance of Dragonstorm and Caliburn, he saw the two events played in his mind. While he knew a part of the truth of the destruction of Dragonstorm and the raid on Kaldir - Arthur's search for the famed sword, more questions were raised than answers were given. Why would Arthur want the sword?, he asked himself.

    He looked around and saw nothing but rows of beds with apothecaries tending the wounds of the injured. He recognized a few of the faces there, it was those who fought alongside him during the Siege of Latia. "Where am I?" He mumbled.

    "Somewhere in the Eastern Ranges," a voice spoke out from beside him. A woman approached with a tray in her hands, carrying a bowl of mixed herbs. She had a coat of raven hair with a pair of azure eyes that seemed to gleam like a pair of jewels, wearing a cloak of wolf's fur on her back and a short sword hangs from her hip. "Thank the gods you woke up. I thought you won't for a few more days like the rest of your friends," she said, picking up the bowl and poured warm water into it before handing it over to Marcus. "Drink, it's a mixture of godsweed, Night's Eye and a small dose of Ethelia. It'll speed up your recovery,"

    Marcus nodded and took it from her hands and drank its contents. It was sweet just as its pleasant smell despite of the numerous herbs mixed into it. "What happened to the city?" He asked, keeping his gaze to those who were bedridden. Some had lost their arms and legs, others were crippled and there also those who are lucky just like him. "How many of us survived?"

    "Not more than 20. At first there were about 60 men but most died along the way due to the coldness and others to wound infection." She frowned as the woman pulled up a wooden chair and sat beside Marcus' bed. "You were a few of the luckiest." As she spoke, she casts a smirk on her face as she looked at him. To think about one’s companions rather than themselves is perhaps a rare thing to occur in a time of war. People wished to survive no matter the cost.

    Marcus took another gulp of the herb before putting it aside. "What about my men? Or those of Godfrey's? The ones from Argentos?"

    "There is one who carried your colors. About Godfrey's soldiers, many of them died along the way. Those Argentinians? There's one here, although she suffered grievous injuries and won't be able to fight for an extended period of time." She continued, picking up the wooden bowl and puts it upon the tray. "You've dealt a massive blow to five legions of Camelot, that's a - "

    "Who are you? Why do you bring us here?" Marcus turned to her. "From your equipment, you are not an apothecary like the others but certainly knowledgeable in medicine. You are not a soldier of the Greccan army just like us. Are you the Red Rats?"

    She stands up and scoffed, "Don't think of us as the Red Rats. Our goals are not equal. My name is Myrana, a member of the Silver Shields." She gestured to one of the apothecaries and handed the tray over to them. "We fight the Camelots and weaken their forces whenever we can. But we can't deal any significant damage without enough warriors on our side,"

    “And you want me to fight for your cause? You know that simply attacking them from the shadows and cut off their supplies won’t be enough to weaken their legions,” Marcus stands from his bed and with his height, towers over her. He looked into her with his ember eyes before turning to look at the injured soldiers, “You should send them back to their families once they are fully recovered.”

    Myrana raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms, looking at him as she observed Marcus from head to toe. “Then what do you suggest? Raise an army numbered in the thousands? The Silver Shields have no allies but ourselves. We have Greccans and Camelots who refused to fight for their kingdom on our side. You’d think that Gaiseric would accept their help?”

    “No,” he said. “We bring back the Round Table,”

    ***

    Westerstorm,
    The Sovereignty of Camelot,

    Cassius rode out in the middle of the night while Farram had sent a raven to the nearest Camelot garrison in request for reinforcements. The Sword of the Night sensed that something is at play and the 45th Legion won’t give up their freedom just as easy as they’d hope to do. The nearest garrison would arrive in five to six days should they receive Farram and Calliope’s message. The thought of having to fight a former ally crossed his mind as he rode with his stallion and out of the forests.

    Westestorm emerged from the hills as he approaches the small town in under a few short hours. His steed never fails him as always, it has accompanied the knight in every battle he fought in, witnessed just as much death as he do. As he reached the gates, he took off his sword belt and held it and raised his hands. “I wish to speak to your current Legion-Commander!” he called out.

    The legionnaires brought Cassius to Zachariah and keeping a close watch on him while one of them kept Sorrow away from him. Fifty five, no, more than a hundred legionnaires, he counted. Each stood vigilantly upon the walls of the town and a few of them even have orders to dig trenches, set up traps and reinforce the battlements. The 45th worked endlessly as if each one of them were unfazed by Calliope’s speech. If there’s one thing that her words would do, it’s to ignite the flames of passion that would drive them to fight for freedom.

    Cassius enters the main hall, his gaze locked with Zachariah’s as he stare him down the hall. Two guards stood at the doors, a few more at the sides to protect their current Legion-Commander. He counted three others standing at Zachariah’s side, his high ranking officers perhaps. “What is it that you wish?” the commander spoke out, his voice echoed in the rather empty hall while keeping his eyes down at the map that was laid upon the table.

    “I need to talk to you, privately.” Cassius said.

    Zachariah lifted his eyes and nodded to his generals before ordering the guards to wait outside the halls. He picked up the pieces that marked the locations upon the map and puts it aside. As soon as they left, only Zachariah and Cassius remained. “Are you negotiating on your terms of surrender, old friend?” he asked.

    The man with the silver mane scoffed, “Don’t be a goddamned fool, Zachariah. You were about to face entire legions that were trained for war,” he said as he walked towards the table and leaned forward. “You may call upon the remaining soldiers of the 45th but it won’t be enough to face the entire kingdom on your own. This is suicide, Zachariah,”

    The commander bursts out in laughter as he crossed his arms. “Says the man who slaughtered a hundred soldiers at the Battle of the Towers and send many more the Reaper’s scythe at Kaldir.” He clenched his jaw, the thought of remembering the terrible sight at Kaldir was unnerving. The screams and wailings of the innocent Greccans seeped into his mind. “I was once like you, fighting for the crown like everybody else,”

    “Then why do you change, huh?” Cassius looked at his old friend. “Tell me why. You were one of the most loyal man I ever knew and now, what happened? Turning your back against the king?”

    “I was loyal to the crown!” Zachariah snapped, driving his fist onto the table. “But can’t you see the horrors Arthur has done to those who did nothing wrong? Have you even asked yourself why the king wished to attack Kaldir? Have you? To hunt down Percival is just a damnable excuse for him to go to war,”

    Cassius stepped forward, “Percival and his family had their banners raised in defiance against Arthur, Zachariah. You know that goddamned well!” He pointed at the commander, his eyes painted with the colors of rage and began to hear the whispers of his sword once more, despite being separated from one another.

    Take me, kill him, slaughter them all,” the whispers said.

    ***

    Meanwhile in the woods near Westerstorm, Farram kept a close watch on their surroundings as the night grows cold. He held his sword tightly in his hand as he watches into the shadows, being cautious for any assassins or brigands who were brave enough to attack two experienced soldiers of Camelot. Yet, he remained on watch. “Any word from Guy, Calliope?” Farram’s voice broke the silence that persists in the darkness of the night.

    Then, he sensed something as if there were eyes watching them. He felt its unseen breath as if ice had gripped the air itself. His hair stood on end and yet, Farram felt no fear – only unease. He turned around and saw a figure clad in a black armor with a cape made of dark flames that streamed down his back like a river of fire. The knight’s eye glow red like rubies underneath the pale light of the moon. Farram drew his sword instinctively, “Who are you?!” he shouted at the figure.

    The knight was too quick. In one moment he was a few yards away from him and on the next, he was within the range of his large sword. The ironclad figure swung his massive sword for Farram’s head but the warrior of Camelot barely dodges his powerful strike as it hits a tree beside him, cutting it down with a single swing. “Damn it!” Farram cursed and clashed steel with the knight.

    Calliope fired the Lance of Longinus at the knight as the deafening sound of the firearm echoed into the shadows louder than thunder. But her efforts were for naught as the knight’s fiery cape seemed to have consumed its bullets and turned it to ash in an instant.

    “Run!” Farram shouted and attempts to stab the knight’s eye.

    The man grabbed Farram’s sword and shattered it within his tight grip. “Not this time, knight,” he said. His voice was deep as he looked into Farram’s eyes with his own. He drove his fist into Farram’s face before turning to Calliope, dragging along Farram’s unconscious body on the ground while holding his own sword on the other hand. “Tell me,” the knight spoke out. “Where is your king?” he stood close to Calliope and towered over her, looking down at the noblewoman with his blazing eye.

    ***

    Chapter 2: There Is No Right Or Wrong

    The ruins of Maraz,
    Southeast of Latia,
    United Province of Grecca

    Days after the end of the siege at Latia, the 4 legions under the two Inquisitors’ command marched south to conquer more lands for the sake of the crown. Stumbling upon the small town of Maraz, they sacked and ravaged the settlement, looting and even captured some of the residents to be sold as slaves on the continent on Essarch for profit. For days they marched and only a few of the legionnaires succumbed to the coldness of the north as they collapsed onto the thick snow beneath their feet without a sign of life. The winter months on the northern regions of Arno’or are devastatingly harsh, storms happened for every few weeks as the native beasts and predators prowled during the night.

    If they marched south, perhaps the violent weather of the north would be replaced by the warmth of the sun as winter isn’t as terrible as it was before. Yet, they kept on marching in the name of the crown, carrying the banners of their own legions with pride. They sang a song to keep morale high, they let out their voices, louder than the winds of winter that howled throughout the day. They marched in a column, with the archers in the middle and the infantry walked alongside them on each side in a solid line. Cavalry remained in the front and the back of the column while the least experienced troops would guard the supplies.

    “Any reports from the scouts?” asked Marius, turning to Arhanion as he rode beside the infantry with his armor covered in snow with a thick cloak of bear’s skin to keep him warm. They were not too far from the next nearest settlement, Ademar and is considered to be the city of smiths as they supplied the armies of Grecca with the finest equipment in the kingdom. Only the flat plains of Maraz separates them from Ademar.

    “There are enemies in sight, we may march into Ademar unopposed as it seems. We could reach the plains in two or three days if we keep the pace,” Arhanion replied, his eyes darted from the legionnaires and to the woods that surrounds them. Sometimes he wished that Grecca had less forests and more cities to be looted, at times he’d see an endless ocean of trees stretched as far as the eye could see. “What do you think the king would do if we managed to subjugate Grecca?”

    Marius’ gaze fell to the ground, “Perhaps bringing more advancements? Building new settlements dedicating to the growth of the kingdom? But there will be rebellions and King Arthur would do anything in his power to destroy them all. Especially the Red Rats,” the Inquisitor said. Not everyone would accept a new monarch quite easily, loyalty doesn’t shift as easy as water. “People wanted to change their allegiance with a reason. The king would give them that,”

    They marched for another few days until they reached the end of the woods. The harsh weather had took a few more lives of the legionnaires as they reached a large plain covered with snow as far as the eye can see. As they continued and marched in the standard positions of each of their units, with spearmen placed in front and heavy infantry behind them, archers making up the third line as the heavy cavalry units protected the flanks. Even with a seemingly solid composition of units, it is the violent rage of the snow that would spell imminent doom to those who aren't used to it.

    The winds blew more violently as time passes, obscuring their vision and slowed down the movements of the massive army. Yet, they kept moving without hesitation. Marius kept his gaze upon the horizon, watching out for any enemies that would attack them in this deadly storm. "Marius!" He heard Arhanion shouted through the blizzard. "I see banners!" He said.

    Marius narrowed his eyes to where Arhanion pointed - at a hill that stands at their front. The silhouette of an army emerged from the violent storm and the banners of the royal army of Grecca blew against the cold wind. The Inquisitor could hear their footsteps thud against the thick snow. As they stood at the hill, they did so without showing any signs of fear - only anger and the desire for vengeance. They wore an armor devoid of any sigils but the king's own, a sign of their unwavering loyalty to the Greccan crown. "Prepare for battle!" He bellowed and Arhanion relayed the order to the rest of the army.

    The Camelot legionnaires raised their shields and planted themselves in position, spears forward and arrows nocked on their bows. The crimson banners of Sovereignty now stand against the silver army of Grecca. A few thousand soldiers, he estimated. Not more than ten thousand, he hoped. But even with a large number of warriors, Marius is confident in the abilities of the 5 combined legions under their command. "Kill the king, the war is over," he spoke to himself.

    Then a large man wearing a silver armor walked up to the front lines of the opposing army, wearing a full faced helm with narrow slits for the eye and an upright crest of black and a cape that carries the insignia of his family - a black knight holding a greatsword upon a field of green. In his hands was a large two handed hammer fashioned in the head of a wolf. At that moment, Marius knew that he was facing the mightiest king of the Greccans since Leonidas the Liberator. His army would face the wrath of King Gaiseric the Unwavering.

    "For victory or death!" Gaiseric bellowed, as loud as the roar of a mighty dragon. He raised his massive war hammer in one hand as he turned to face his soldiers.

    "For victory, we endure!" They responded. They shouted in unison as their voices erupted from the hills that watches over the remains of the 5 legions of Camelot below. The warriors of Grecca bashed their shields with their weapons, unleashing their battlecry upon the enemy. Their voices grew louder as seconds passed, the estimation of their numbers became more difficult.

    "For Grecca!" Gaiseric bellowed once again. His words echoed by his loyal soldiers.
    "May the great Twelve have mercy on us all," - Marius, Inquisitor of the Crown

    Spoiler: Random stuff 

  8. #28
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    The night was eerily quiet. Cassius and Farram sat by the fire, conversing as they usually do. Calliope, on the other hand, paced steadily, circling the camp. She had taken it upon herself to be a sort of patrol for the night, but at the same time, she used the relative quiet to mull over the trio's possible courses of action. This rebellion had to be crushed quickly if they had any hope of reaching the Greccan front in time.

    She had considered many possibilities and likely scenarios, but eventually, Cassius volunteered to go back and negotiate the rebels' surrender once again. At first, Calliope was against it, but she eventually figured that the damned rebels may listen to a man whose legends were greater than hers. Worst case would be that he'd go berserk in the middle of their camp, but that still plays out to the loyalists' favor. As Cassius saddled up, Calliope bade him farewell and resumed her pacing. Farram, on the other hand, went back to his spot beside the fire.

    There was a common silence shared between the two, mostly because Calliope had most of her attention playing out scenarios in her head. Farram, being the conversationalist that he is, was the first to finally break the silence. "Any word from Guy, Calliope?"

    Without turning to face him, Calliope gave her reply. "None since a few days ago. As far as I know, they're still marching for the border..." At that moment, she had a brilliant idea. She perked up and strode towards the ravens, intending to send a call to arms to none other than her own platoon. Considering how far Ironhearts march each day, they should be past Westerstorm already. If they turned around, a swift pincer maneuver can wipe out the rebels quicker than they'd expect. With forces from the loyalist garrison marching for the front gates, and the elite soldiers of Calliope's forces infiltrating through the rear amidst the chaos, victory would be assured.

    As misfortune would have it, however, she never got to the ravens. At around the same time as Farram, an uneasy chill gripped her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood, and she immediately set to work reloading her arquebus. Crouching down to speed the process along, Farram's voice boomed behind her. "Who are you!?"

    As she finished loading her weapon, Calliope turned around to see Farram squaring off against a black-clad knight whose eyes clearly glowed red like that of a demon. The strange knight moved quickly - almost too quickly - and rushed Farram, a long, fiery cape flowing behind his every step. For a brief few seconds, Calliope marveled at the knight, both in awe and fear. Clearly, he was of a supernatural origin. Finally, she snapped out of her trance just as Farram dodged a wide swing that cut down an entire tree in one cleave.

    She steadied herself, aimed down her sights, and shot the attacker in the back, right where the heart would have been. To her surprise, the knight didn't even flinch. It was almost as if his cape had burned the iron bullet to ash entirely. Immediately, Calliope felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. Their opponent was no mere mortal, for sure.

    "Gods above!" She exclaimed, scrambling for the ravens instead of trying to reload. As fast as she humanly could, she took the parchment and quill that Farram had used to write a call for aid and scribbled down: "Guy, march on Westerstorm posthaste -Calliope" In her haste, her handwriting turned out sloppy, but readable. While she grabbed a raven from one of the holding boxes and tied the parchment to its carrier, she heard Farram yelling at her to run. Almost immediately after, she heard the sharp sound of metal cracking to shards, followed by the heavy thunking sound of steel beating bluntly against steel. As the messenger raven took flight, Calliope turned around and dipped her hand in a pouch on her back.

    To her surprise, though, the knight was already upon her. He towered over the noblewoman easily, and his strength was made more apparent by Farram's limp body hanging from his grip. Behind her back, Calliope took her hand out of the pouch. The fingertips of her thumb, index, and middle fingers were now covered in a fine black powder, finer even than ashes from the forge. With that same hand, she pulled a ceramic orb from one of the slings on her hip in such a manner that the knight wouldn't notice.

    Calliope, though faced with danger, kept eye contact at all times. The knight, looking down at her with literal flames in his eye, asked her a question. "Tell me, where is your king?"

    Behind her helm, Calliope's eyes narrowed in suspicion. Was this man a rebel? How did he come to have his power? There were many questions running through her head, but now was not the time to entertain them. She broke eye contact and looked down, but only to look at Farram. Her reply to the knight was short. "... On the righteous path."

    Behind her, she put her powder-covered fingers on the wick of one of the ceramic orbs and snapped sharply. The friction ignited the powder on her fingers, and thus the hempen wick as well. With one motion, Calliope tossed the orb hard, aiming it straight for the black knight's eye slits at near-point blank. At the same time, she spun her head to look away and closed her eyes, jumping out of the way as she did so. The orb shattered on the knight's helm, and disappeared in a blinding flash of light. For the briefest of moments, the area seemed to turn entirely white, surely blinding anyone looking directly into the blast. At the same time, a loud boom rocked the forest, louder even than her arquebus.

    The flash of light and deafening sound was sure to disorient most- if not all- men, and despite her gamble, not even Calliope was spared from her own creation's consequences. Hear ears rang and grew deaf, but her vision was only obscured for a moment thanks to her looking away from the blast. She had been close enough for the split-second inferno to singe marks onto her cloth and leather accessories, but was otherwise relatively unharmed. Slightly dazed, she dashed into the dark forest as fast as she could, hoping that the flashbomb worked on the knight. She knew full well that she'd have a better chance at winning if she disappeared into the bush and fought the knight with guerilla tactics.
    Spoiler:  

    Currently on hiatus (possibly for good)

  9. #29
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    Galahad turned to the girl, his back against the cold stone walls of his cell. He is still weak after enduring endless hours of torture and pain, all for the sake of protecting his family - his brother and sister, as well as his father Lancelot. Only the gods knew what is his father up to, though Galahad hoped that it was for the salvation of Camelot from the clutches of the Mad Dragon.

    He dropped down and sat, his eyes remained at Janus though his mind is elsewhere, thinking of a way to escape from the impenetrable walls of Dhûnwall. "Hey kid," he called out in a whisper. "I bet you know some the gangs that resided within the prison, would you mind sending them a message?" He asked.

    Gosh he really did look rough. When he went and slumped against the wall, Jan honestly thought she'd lose him for a moment or so. The man just looked distant, his body here yes, but his mind clearly wandering within other realms. If he hadn't of spoken to her, she'd mistake him for an actual corpse altogether truth be told.

    A Message? Now that was an interesting request. Whatever could he be planning by sending messages. Still only halfway surfaced through her little rat hole, Janus leaned forwards, resting her head in her hands, a devilishly cheeky smile blooming across her face.

    "A message? Oh yes, do tell,"

    * - * - *

    Her task, although simple enough in theory, did in fact take a day or so to fully organise and undertake. She wanted it completed to a satisfactory level too, for firstly, Janny never did anything halfheartedly if she could help it, and secondly, she didn't really fancy displeasing a man like Galahad. Sure, he looked a little weak and off colour now, but she didn't really like the idea of seeing him truly riled when back to his full strength.

    Therefore, she undertook her mission as seriously as she would have one of her regular commissions. The Sage's were professionals after all. To begin with, she decided to go after the more... 'brutish' prison mates, thinking they'd be the trickiest to convince.

    Whereas some of the other types and cliques had organised and banded together naturally throughout Dhûnwall, Janny was rather surprised to find the more warrior type inmates relatively disorderly. For if they weren't starting fights with other gangs within the prison, they just decided to fight each other instead. But if there was one thing the Brutes were not expecting, it was for a small teenage girl to emerge into their cells like a mole in the ground and persuade them into banding together as a solitary organised force.

    And persuade them she did. For the Brutes, the usual simple empty promise's were enough to sate their appetites for the cause. Once collected together to form a single Gang, Janny appointed a rather giant-like blonde called Bela to be their leader. He had a surprisingly smart head on his shoulders, and he kept calling her Mouse, which she decided to take as a term of endearment instead of an insult. Lovingly, Janny named her newly formed gaggle of giants 'The Bulks'.

    Second on the list were a type much more closer to her own heart. Hell, they were nearly her own flesh and blood even truth be told. Thieves, other Assassins and altogether general sneaky people had (unsurprisingly) formed a little gang of their own already. This could have been a problem, but, lucky for our girl Jan, who happened to be the founder and organiser of this pre-existing clique but an old friend. Adoni was a girl just about a decade her senior. Both Janus and her Father had run into her a few times on the job, and the two girls in particular had formed a casual friendship along their travels. So it was in fact rather nice to bump into her like this. Adoni's bunch were nicknamed 'The Sneaks'.

    Finally, there was a rather rare breed to be collected into a final faction. So called liars, men and women labelled traitors to the court. Fallen Knights and politicians, all people of honour. Some of these did refuse her offer, possibly out of pride or maybe just simple lack of hope at their prospects. The others were the trickiest to convince however, but after hours of talking, she just about managed it. Janny internally called this ragtaggle little band of outcasts 'The Wronged'.

    To each of her now newly collected and organised factions, Janny had recited Galahads exact words. She'd simply told them all what he had told them exactly, and only added the odd dash of exaggeration when it was absolutely needed. Once she'd finally assembled and organised them all to a satisfactory level, it'd been around three days. The planning had been extensive, dodging and noting guard rotations and shifts was tricky, and goodness knows how many little tiny fibs she had had to tell to get all those that she could to help them.

    But she'd done it. After three days, Janus had managed it.

    The time was nearly right, for an uprising to begin.


    The bells toll eleven. No, twelve times Galahad counted. By the fourth day, he had hoped that the plan was carefully relayed to all the gangs of Dhûnwall for it to be able to work. To the gods he praised, that his strength had been recovered after remaining within the confinements of his cell and he could fight against the guards if needed - no, if they stood in his way to freedom.

    Damn it all. He cursed as he looked outside his cell and observed the two guards that stands ready at the end of the hallway. A large rectangular shield in their hands, their armour is unsullied by the crimson colour of blood. Recruits. Galahad thought to himself. It seems his plan would go more smoothly than he had anticipated. But these are legionnaires of Camelot, they won't be surrendering just as easy as he'd hoped.

    Galahad watched as a legionnaire approached their cells, carrying a shield painted red with a black hand holding a thunderbolt, no doubt this man is a part of the detachment force sent to the prison from the Storm Legion. Yet, the former knight felt no fear for any of the soldiers that patrols the damned prison itself. All he cares is to get out of the walls of Dhûnwall itself.

    As the man opened the iron doors to Galahad's cell, the former knight grabbed the legionnaire's throat and slammed him down to the ground, knocking him unconscious. He quickly turned his attention to the other two that stands at the end of the hallway and picked up the man's sword as well as the large shield. It happened too fast, in a single swing Galahad had sliced their throats and the dead bodies thumped of the floor underneath his feet. Crimson blood poured out of their wounds.

    Galahad wasted no time. He unlocks the cells with the keys picked up from the floor and have them armed themselves with the weapons of the fallen legionnaires. It wasn't long before the sound of drums can be heard booming across the walls, relaying the signal of an attempted prison break.

    *-*-*

    Truth be told, it started like any other average day at the prison. New captives being dragged into cells here, raving old loons screaming into nothing over there. And instead of the usual scheduled torture sessions and gruel eating, it seemed a general riot and revolt had been thrown into the works for that particular day.

    Janny had holed up in Adoni's cell for that night, with reason. Adoni and the rest of the Sneaks were to flee into the tunnel system during the night, and then place themselves in various advantageous locations throughout Dhûnwall. Some were waiting beneath the armoury, taking stock and readying themselves to dish out weapons as was seen fit, others were laying in wait under the guards barracks, and it went on.

    Janny was to wait in the cell until the guard came for his usual checks. Because it he went and saw a completely empty cell with no obvious signs of force being used to escape, he'd probably notice. It wasn't long before the telltale signs of footsteps made themselves heard down the hallway. In a flash, she was hidden. Crouching behind a small half-wall. She couldn't see behind it, but she could hear, and that was more than enough.

    His footsteps stopped, a moment of quiet as he looked into the cell.

    "... the fuck."

    Well that was easy enough to decipher.

    The jangle keys, louder than usual as he rushed to find the right one. Boots shuffling against the stone, rather close now, and then,

    She practically leapt to her feet. A single quick swooping motion, best way to do it. With a wide swing of her arm she looped it around the guards head and pulled him back and down. He struggled of course, but Janus expected nothing less. Killed in silence, and less than a minute. Twas the Sage way to do things. The body slumped to the ground with a dull thud.

    She took his sword as a precaution, muttering under her breath as she did,

    "I'm glad Pater isn't here..."

    Then she was gone. Back down into the ratway, and off to find Galahad again.


    The last mosquito that bit me had to check into the Betty Ford clinic

  10. #30
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    The city of Skalagos,
    United Province of Grecca,

    An old city that stood by the old principles of Ghath now lies in the way for Camelot conquest. Hundreds of banners flutter against the warmer winds of Skalagos and its surrounding regions as the entirety of the 32nd Legion stood at the gates of the large city. The ironclad soldiers of the Iron Legion stand with their backs straight as a pole, their hands itched to reach the hilt of their swords as their eyes remained on those that defends the city. Each of the legionnaires are filled with the determination to bring Camelot might and power upon their enemies.

    It is something that even Lord Eli finds quite unsettling for their sheer unwavering loyalty to the crown. It solidifies Arthur's position as the king, but even at times, Eli would thought of the consequences. After all, what would happen to those they have conquered? To enslave them, perhaps? Or to teach them the ways of Camelot?

    As they arrived, they began construction of their siege equipments. From the massive towers to the iron battering rams while others prepared themselves for the inevitable battle that lies in the future. Eli was in his tent, his eyes looked down upon a table with a map marked with the current area conquered by the kingdom. His gaze darted from Grecca and down to the south where a small flag located near the borders of the Kingdom of the Sun - a legion marching towards the southerners, no doubt. Even Eli knows the skills that a smith from the Sun are famed for their expertise in creating blades that have been said to cut through armor as if it was nothing but paper.

    Eli looked over at the western continents, Essarch and Moiairon, each separated by the Long Sea. He wondered if Camelot took over Arno'or, would the kingdom set their eyes upon these lands? He noted that Moiairon is the sanctuary of the world's most fierce and devoted soldiers, some far more violent than others, even a few states in different nations utilized male slaves trained from childhood to become a deadly warrior.

    "Eli," a female voice called out as she entered the tent.

    The Legion-Commander lifted his eye from the map, his attention shifted to her. "What is it that you need, Captain Sylva?" He asks before noticing a raven perched on the female's shoulder. Its red eyes darted from one corner to the next.

    Sylva took a deep breath and lets out a sigh. Her hand grabbed the smooth stone pommel of her sword, "Urgent message from the Ironhearts at Westerstorm. An entire legion has gone rogue and turned their backs against the crown," she said dryly as she growled. Sylva took the letter and handed it to Eli, "Three of them against the entire 45th is - "

    "Suicide, I know." Eli sighed and slammed his fist down upon the table. "The 45th you say?" He had heard of the Hydra Legion's exploits in the many campaigns they have participated since the beginning of the long war between Grecca and Camelot. How they'd burn a city to the ground and utilized devastating tactics upon the enemy.

    "Unfortunately, yes." Sylva responded with a calm voice, despite knowing that they'd have to deal with traitors until the battle at Skalagos is over.

    Eli pulled himself away from the table, looking at Sylva as he crossed his arms. To send the entire legion to face the 45th would mean breaking off the siege and Eli wouldn't do that. His nostrils flared and sighed, "Send a small detachment force to Westerstorm."

    Sylva nodded and promptly left the tent.




    Somewhere near the Great Statue of the Son,
    The Eastern Ranges,
    The United Province of Grecca,

    The chilling coldness of the north bit his skin as if he froze deep in the heart of winter itself. He pulled his cloak tight as he stands near the edge of a cliff, eyes gazed towards the endless ocean of trees and mountains that pies ahead of him. To find the famed knights of the Round Table seemed impossible. Some of them died, others imprisoned while a few managed to escape the clutches of the Mad Dragon himself and lived peacefully in a different place. Maybe even changing their identity. It'd be a difficult task for Marcus to bring them back.

    He was only here for a few days since the Silver Shields have brought the survivors of the devastating siege of Latia. Many of those survived chose to be a part of this faction that hid deep behind the refuge of the woods, while others made the decision to return home. Marcus knew that he'd have to choose sooner or later. Perhaps the Shields and the Rats are all the same, serving one goal but their method of achieving it differs greatly.

    "You're not planning on going to find them alone, aren't you?" A familiar voice spoke out to him. His muffled footsteps can be heard as he approached Marcus, wearing a thick cloak of wolf's fur upon his armor that gleamed like silver in the sun.

    Marcus turned to him and casts a smirk as his friend approached. "If no one's going to accompany me, then I'll go off alone. I don't give a damn if those Shields didn't grant me the permission to leave," he said and lets out a sigh, forming a white mist with his frozen breath. "Besides, why are you wearing that armor Theseus? Aren't you supposed to be carrying the old Ghathi armor like Androkles does?"

    "Bloody thing's being repaired," Theseus crossed his arms as he looked over at the mountains. He saw the Great Statue of the Son itself, its massive shadow looms over a part of the forest. "I'm planning to follow you whenever you go. You're not going to die alone,"

    "Right," Marcus turned around. Dying alone. He thought to himself as the images of the burning city of Latia appeared in his mind. Thousands of brave Greccan fell to Camelot steel, their blood stained the grounds of their nation deemed sacred by the elders. He kept a hand on the pommel of his sword, his gaze returned to the mountainous range ahead of him.

    Theseus turned to Marcus, "Where are we supposed to go next?" He asked, wondering if his friend would know the answer to that question.

    Marcus clenched his teeth and pulled his own cloak. The freezing cold winds of the north seemed to grow more violent as the seconds passed, it felt like it bit its skin like the ice wraiths of the old tales that his mother used to tell him. The haunting creatures of the frozen wastes dwell within the cavernous regions of the Hollow Mountain. Marcus shudder at the thought of it, even though he believed that such creatures shouldn't exist.

    The Hollow Mountain. Its name echoed deep within his thoughts. A familiar place once told in a story by his mother and the other elders of Thevalea. "The Uncrowned King marched from the mountain, to search for a place no longer barren, a thousand tribes flocked to his cause, for his next actions shall have no remorse," he recalled the words uttered in the Tale of the King Without A Crown, a story known by many Greccans - one that speak of Galehaut's emergence from the Hollow Mountain, a tale that tells of the warrior's eventual ascension to knighthood as he aided Camelot in a time of desperate need.

    "The Hollow Mountain," Marcus said. "We'll go to the Hollow Mountain,"






    The Palace of the Gods,
    The Plains of Paradise,

    Sat on the silver throne of the gods is the great Alvarind, the Firstborn and the All-Seeing. His skin is fair and eyes blazed like fire with a flaming ring float behind his back as he walked down from the Eternal Throne. He peers down from the balcony of his majestic palace - a mighty fortress surrounded by massive towers of gold, each houses a large crystal that is able to project a powerful beam of pure energy upon their enemies. Alvarind watched the world below the Plains of Paradise, his eyes observed how Ochlion began to engulf itself in the flames of war.

    "Father?" Valerios called out from the entrance of the throne room. The Firstborn of the Firstborn, the warrior god of the Twelve. He exudes an aura of power from his presence alone, one that seemed too small when compared to Alvarind's own. Valerios walked closer andapproached his father, he knew something was bothering him. "Worrying about the world again, father?" He asks.

    Alvarind nodded. His lips stiff without a word to say, though his eyes says it all - he was worried. Concerned about the state of the world he has created alongside the gods. He felt pity for the mortals who find themselves stuck in a conflict they never wanted. A war that began with the prospect of power - with corruption of the mind.

    Valerios knew his eyes well enough. He too had seen the effects of war itself, perhaps much more times than any of the gods ever had. After all, he fought in a perpetual war to keep the demons of the Abyss at bay and to protect the mortals that resided in the physical world itself. A thought crossed his mind, "Kharos had something to speak to you, father." He speaks, breaking the silence between the two.

    "What is it?" Alvarind replied. His voice deep but emanating with power and displayed his might perfectly. The Firstborn lifted his gaze from the world below and turned to his son. "What is the King of the Wild Hunt wished to speak of?"

    The Warrior God clenched his jaw. Valerios felt unease even by thinking of this matter. "He sensed something...or someone is tampering with the essence of life. Kharon had felt some of the souls were twisted, transformed into something malicious. He even claimed of them returning to the world of the living," he said.

    Alvarind's eyes widened at those words. "No one had the power to alter life itself." His voice, now painted with the tone of concern. "Bring me to him,"

    * * *

    A barren land stretched before their eyes, gray sands that seemed like ash and trees long dead scattered across the landscape. Millions of souls formed the many lines that trailed across the Forgotten Deserts, each leading up to the Gates of Judgement for the god Arethes and his companions to judge upon their deeds. Behind the Gates is a sprawling city of great proportions as if each buildings were coated in gold or silver and a large hill in the middle, which housed the mighty Halls of Novogarde.

    Kharos was the guide to the numerous souls that finds themselves entering the afterlife. The leader of the enigmatic Wild Hunt and the Herald of the Vengeful. There were thousands of horsemen under his command, each possessed an undying loyalty to Kharos and to the gods.

    Valerios and Alvarind appeared in the Plains in a beam of blinding light, watching over the souls that walked towards the Gates. Valerios saw one of the many horsemen of Kharos standing beside the line, guiding them as they traversed through the depressing landscapes of the Plains. He gulped, as he turned backwards and looked at the souls that arrived. The war on Arno'or had taken many lives and there'd be many more to come.

    "My king, you're here!" Kharos appeared on top of his horse. A horned helm covered his face with a mane of silver hair flowed down his back. Black flames flickered from the hooves of his steed and its eyes glow red like rubies in the pale light of the moon. "I have an urgent matter to speak of. I am also here on behalf of Lord Arethes." He said.

    Alvarind turned and bowed his head slightly as a sign of respect. He heard of Kharos deeds. Many of which were immortalized in the song sang by the elders and bards of Ochlion. "I was told that you have sensed that someone is tampering with the essence of life itself? Manipulating the very soul of a mortal?"

    "Indeed, my king. It is something that Lord Arethes and the Companions of the Dead sensed as well," Kharos continued. "Even the Hound could smell it," he said, looking at the distance where his eyes looked upon the endless trail of souls that streched across the hills of the Forgotten Plains as far as the eye could see. "Souls are not meant to be changed, or twisted in any way. The thought of someone dragging them back from the dead into the living world once more shudders me,"

    "Even you know how it felt to feel the grasp of death itself," Valerios remarked.

    Kharos nodded. "Once is enough. But this would disrupt the balance of life itself. Or perhaps, it would be the cause of the awakening,"

    The word itself made Valerios shudder. The awakening, a terrible event that bring upon a war for existence. A war that would be much more terrible than the one that happened during the Age of the Gods, or even the Burning Nights during the Dawn of Creation. "My forces have held the demonic beings of Etherios at bay for centuries. How is it still possible for my traitorous brother to resurrect?"

    Kharos turned, "Humans are drawn to power, like moths with seared wings to flickering lights. They would do anything to achieve it. Such as manipulating the very fabric of life itself," the horseman watched the souls once more. He heard the screams of several of the spirits as they appeared in the distance. He heard others wail and weep. "Look," he pointed.

    Valerios and Alvarind turned towards the direction. They saw a soul screamed in pain and agony as its body twisted, its mind changed from that of a human being to one that harbors thoughts of hatred and malice. It howls, knowing nothing but to obey and howl as its screams stopped before it slowly disappeared from the Forgotten Plains. "Another one," Valerios mumbled. "Someone resurrected him,"

    "Indeed," the Firstborn said, turning to the king of the Wild Hunt. "This is troubling indeed. What do you have in mind to deal with this situation?" He asks, meeting the cold gaze of the horseman himself.

    Kharos remained silent. There is nothing but the voices of the dead that surrounds them. His gaze fell to the ground and closed his eyes as he thinks before lifting his head. "I shall send a few of the Hunt to track down whoever does this. It won't be long before - "

    "I suggest that we send the Godslayer himself," Valerios interrupted. Uttering the name itself would be enough to bring fear to most of the minor deities of Ochlion for his power can only be rivalled by the most powerful gods of all. The Godslayer, a being that only answers to the will of the gods. "Dark times are coming after all,"

    Alvarind and Kharos turned their attention towards the Warrior God. For many eons, that name hasn't been uttered. Alvarind looked at his son with worried as he said those last words. But even the Transcendent God knew it all too well, that darkness is approaching and they must be prepared to face it.

    Kharos' eyes speak of his own thoughts. It was clear that he too feared the Godslayer for its power. To be able to slay gods stronger than a mortal singlehandedly is a feat that no one is able to achieve - except the Godslayer. Even Urka'ath was slain by a fleet of warships. "What do you think of this, my king?" He turned to Alvarind, his eyes fell upon the Transcendent God.

    He took a deep breath after thinking deeply of this matter. "Let him loose,"




    Dhûnwall Prison,
    The Sovereignty of Camelot


    The scent of smoke fills the air and the distant sounds of fighting can be heard. Dhûnwall succumbs into chaos. Everything seemed going as intended. At least, for the time being.

    Galahad freed the final prisoners in his block and made his way towards the armory where the weapons would be kept. If he wished to be free, he'd need an armament to keep him alive. As he maneuvered throughout the maze-like structure of Dhûnwall, he reached the armory and finds a pair of guards standing at its doorway. Each carried a black shield painted with the insignia of a hand grabbing a thunderbolt - more of the legionnaires from the Storm Legions, no doubt.

    The knight chose not to hesitate and charged ahead. He felt a surge of energy coursing through his veins once more, a sensation he never felt after spending months confined within the cold walls of Dhûnwall. He felt his powers are returning to him.

    "Hold it right - " one of the legionnaires shouted at him with his large shield upfront. But Galahad was faster than he looks. The knight punched through the guard's shield with his fist and send him crashing to a wall with his sheer strength.

    Galahad's arms and fist were as hard as diamonds, his skin is jet black with crimson markings all over. "It's been a while," he growled and blocked an incoming downward slash from the second guard with his own arms, only for the legionnaire's sword shattered into fragments. The knight drove his hardened fist into the man's face with his strength, like a hammer to a nail.

    Meanwhile, the inmates of Dhûnwall fought the fearsome legionnaires of the prison. Many of the guards fought with an unwavering discipline and tenacity as they faced the burning rage of the prisoners. They knew they were outnumbered. But it was their resolve to never yield made these Camelot soldiers a formidable foe.

    The Warden fought mercilessly with his guards. On one hand he wears a gauntlet with sharp claws and held a sword in the other. Twenty four of them in the courtyard, surrounded by an angry mob of inmates. Yet, the Warden felt that defeat is not an option. His lips curled into a wrinkled smile, blood drops from the tips of iron claws and his eyes shifted from one man to another.

    His guards stood behind him silent, forming a circle with their shields locked and their spears lowered. Even with a small number of men, the signs of fear were not on their faces. Their cold eyes gazed into the crowd, red and painted with an aura of dread and unease. One could even hear their growls.

    The Warden raised his arms and stepped forward. His crimson cloak flow down his back like a river of blood, his steel armor stained red after engaging many of the prisoners. Many of whom, died by the Warden's cruel hands. "Come on!" He shouted at the crowd. His voice is as loud as a lion. "You wish for freedom? Slay us all!" He bellowed. "If you can," he retreated to the safety of his guards, behind the shield wall.

    They charged. Each letting out a battlecry that screams out their anger as they clashed with the remaining twenty four guards under the Warden's command. Stab an eye of a legionnaire, they'd feel no pain and continued to fight as if it was nothing. Hurl javelins and let them pierced their hearts, it'd take more than that to bring the Warden's guards down.

    Yet, the Warden watched as they fought. Taking mortal wounds that would instantly kill a human. He smiled as he looked at the twenty four that stood around him, each growled and slaughtered the prisoners violently. An axe struck one of their heads and fell as blood sprayed from his skull. His body thumped to the ground, a pool of blood formed from the head where the legionnaire was hit.

    The Warden dragged the corpse of his guard and pulled the axe away. He closed his eyes and kept a hand upon the legionnaire's heart, his lips moved as he uttered a few words of an ancient language in silence. The corpse shook violently as a flow of energy surged within him, flailing his arms and lets out a haunting scream that made the prisoners fall a few paces backwards, watching the Warden carrying out his 'work'. Its screams echoed across the courtyard. Yet, the Warden continued until the dead guard stopped.

    The legionnaire slowly rose from the ground and stood upon his feet, his eyes glow green like a pair of emeralds, shrouded with a deathly aura. He lets out a demonic roar that echoed across the courtyard and its surrounding areas. He did it.

    "Arise,"




    Somewhere in the forests,
    Westerstorm,
    The Sovereignty of Camelot,

    The black knight stumbled backwards an dropped Farram's body as the orb struck him before it bursts, unleashing a blinding light that envelops the surroundings. It was too bright in fact, as if a deity had come down from the heavens above to intervene. His helm sizzled by the effects of the orb itself and the knight managed to regain his balance. The thunderous boom echoed throughout the woods, loud enough to make a fearful hunter to think that it's a roar from a dangerous beast unseen by many. "Arthur..." he growled underneath his helm. His head lowered and his hand still gripped the large sword.

    His ears rang from the deafening sound earlier. But soon gradually dissipates as he slowly regained his senses. The knight looked around for Calliope, who disappeared just as quick as she had thrown the weapon at him. He watched the shadows, hoping to find the noblewoman once more but it seemed she escaped. Perhaps the gods is on her side for now. Perhaps.

    The knight growled and turned away. The sound of hooves stomping against the ground can be heard in the distance, growing louder as the seconds passed. A horse appeared from the depths of the forests, with every step it made leaves a burning mark upon the ground and its mane is of the dark fires of vengeance itself. Its eyes flickered like flames, much like the knight's own. He pulled himself up before taking one last look at the camp, "Not here..." he said before riding into the darkness.

    * * *

    It's by the time when the sun began to rise when Cassius returned to the camp, bringing no news that would please the others when spoken. Zachariah chose not to yield, despite the odds stacked against him and the entire legion. No matter what Cassius had said, Zachariah would stand his ground and made a decision that would change their lives. "Damn it, Zachariah." He said to himself. "Should've fucking yield when you had the chance,"

    By the time the Sword of the Night reached their camp, he finds an injured Farram lying inside the tent and the signs of combat happening around them. The fallen tree and the various burnt marks all over the campsite. "By the gods," he uttered. His eyes widened. "What the hell happened here?" He asked.

    He could feel his sword whispering into his mind once more as Cassius looked around. The words of murder, power began to creep into his thoughts and the images of a burning field of corpses flooded into his mind. Its whispers grew stronger by each passing day and Cassius fought against it as to not fall into its temptations like he always do a few years ago.

    Cassius looked at the fallen tree and the footsteps left behind by the knight's steed. Questions were raised and he needed those answer soon. His instincts told him of a dangerous power, one that could threaten the supremacy of Arthur himself. A power that could possibly rival even the Lord Inquisitor himself.

    "Can't you see it?" a voice hissed from the depths of Cassius' mind as he looked around at the destruction. "It was he who did it!" it continued, its voice emanates a sense of dread and wrath as if it demands vengeance.

    Cassius turned around to look for the one who speaks. He sees no one but the tents and Calliope. He soon realized, that it was Sorrow that speaks to him telepathically. That only he can hear its voice. His heart dropped, fear began to consume him and questions flooded his mind. Yet, Cassius fought the voice in an attempt to shield his mind from its temptations.

    "Fool!" it screamed again. "Those black flames only belongs to the Black Knight himself!"

    "Impossible. He died 20 years ago," Cassius replied with his thoughts. He heard of the story a thousand times in the taverns and in the camps. A lone knight fought against an endless horde of Camelot legionnaires, slew many with his sword filled with nothing but hatred and the desire for revenge. A lone knight who fought viciously, one that was seen as a hero to the Greccans and as a traitor to the Sovereignty of Camelot before he impaled through the heart by Arthur's sword.

    "Is he? I doubt it"

    No one had found his body. Some said that his flames had burnt so hot that after Arthur killed him, his body had turned to ash. The bards speak of his black flames were the cause of his death. As if it was his vengeance that brought the mighty knight its gruesome demise. "Damn it all," Cassius cursed.




    The Battle of the Red Snow,
    The Plains of Maraz,
    The United Province of Grecca,

    "Hold the line!" bellowed Arhanion as he commands a unit of veteran soldiers fighting against the ferocious men of the Silver Army. By the time Gaiseric's men had broken the first few lines of the Camelots, the fighting is fierce and the field was shrouded with an aura of chaos. Each warrior is consumed by the battle fury of their forefathers, every swing of their blade is filled with the intention to kill their enemies.

    The Greccan King charged down the hill and smashed through the lines with ease. No legionnaires stood a chance against his fury as he swings his hammer in a wide arc, sending a few of them flying into the air. The snowy fields of Maraz were soon stained red with the blood of the fallen and bodies were scattered across the plains. His Silver Army fought and fought, each of them slaying their enemies without a shred of hesitation. "Cavalry, charge!" He roared at his troops and his captains relayed the order.

    Knights clad in silver armor with the sigil of the royal family emblazoned upon their chestplate, they rode upon their heavily armored steeds with their lances couched. Both sides of the cavalry surrounded the legionnaires and attacked them at the flanks. Many legionnaires tasted the devastating blow of the charge.

    Their blades sang and scream, their voices can be heard from a distance despite the sound of the violent blizzard. Yet, even in the cold weather of the north, the legionnaires kept fighting. But even their own loyalty and courage in their abilities were no match for the Silver Army of Aratos. Their banners fell upon the ground as they were slain, hundreds of legionnaires killed as the seconds passed with little casualties inflicted upon Gaiseric's men.

    The king carved a bloody path through the ranks of the enemy forces with his mighty war hammer. He crushed many skulls and sent many to the hands of the Reaper. His wolf-headed hammer stained red with the blood of the legionnaires, one could say that the king's weapon had feasted upon the flesh of his foes during this battle. He heard his men chant, each word spoken in an almost perfect uniformity, "FOR GRECCA!" they shouted.

    "Until the world's end we shall fight! Until the gods die we shall raise our arms to our foes and pierce through the night! For our vengeance will not be sated!" They sang.

    Marius fought hard. Even hurling thunderbolts at the enemy proved insufficient as they'd rose to their feet and kept fighting as if nothing happened. Even losing an arm, the Greccans continued to fight. Such tenacity would put the Camelot loyalty to shame. The Inquisitor witnessed the carnage as his men were slaughtered by the ferocious warriors of Grecca. Many fell to the cold steel of the Greccans that day.

    Gaiseric hurled his hammer and the earth cracked beneath his feet as he struck it to the ground like thunder. Many feared him for his strength and ferocity, rightfully so. The Greccan King bellowed like the roar of a lion, "Leave no men alive!"

    His men responded with a collective "Aye!" as their voices made them seem a million men strong despite their smaller numbers.

    Marius continued to observe, "May the great Twelve have mercy on us all," he uttered. His heart dropped as he could not bear to witness the battle any longer. Five legions against an army much smaller than their own, suffering heavy casualties. He seized the horn from his banner carrier and blew upon it that it tore asunder. A blast of horns relayed the signal for a full retreat. It's time for the legions to retreat to fight for another day.





    The Red Fields,
    Somewhere southeast of Kaldir,
    The United Province of Grecca,

    He looked over the red fields where the red colors of the poppy stretched almost as far as the eye could see like a vast ocean before settling his gaze down at the map on his table. Rha'az have set up camp since their arrival for the past couple of days, with his men preparing themselves for the inevitable confrontation with the largest army of Camelot ever assembled. His scouts told him that they were a few legions stronger than the one attacked Latia, the one that burnt the Northern Pearl down to the ground.

    Even with such tremendous loss, Rha'az held his ground and his heart would not waver at such news. He had other matters to deal with at the moment. The mercenaries were eager to get their job done, the soldiers were filled with the determination bring vengeance upon their enemies and their steel hungers for Camelot blood. Yet, they waited for the arrival of the enemy.

    He sent out a few scouts to search for the enemy. Hours later, they've returned and rode past the tents, heading towards the commander's tent bearing urgent news for Rha'az to hear. "Commander Rha'az!" One of the scouts called out as he entered, lifting a clenched fist to his heart with his head bowed. "We have spotted the enemy sire. They won't be long until they reached our position tomorrow before noon." He said, looking at the commander with an ashen haired woman and an old veteran soldier standing by his side.

    Rha'az lifted his eyes from the map displayed. He picked up a piece of a dragon's head carved out of wood and placed it near the position of their, marked by a small crimson flag. "They are not far from us. I expect them to arrive in a few more days." The commander said, his voice exudes with a calm tone despite knowing that they are about to face the largest force ever assembled since the end of the Great War. He looked at the scout, "Thank you." Rha'az turned to the silver haired lady, "What were you saying about the tombs?" He asked.

    She stands with her back straightened, her icy eyes looked at Rha'az full of concern. Her pale white skin contrasts that of the Dragonspear's own. "The tombs were empty. Its lids have a hole that went straight down to its interior, as if someone stabbed the corpse that lies beneath it with a sword." She said, frowning. As a Greccan, it was unforgivable for bandits to rob the resting place of the fallen but to find such acts like these made them unpleasant, "Out of the twenty tombs of the Old Kings I've visited, all of which are empty. The armor and weapons, stolen. Even the corpse of old monarchs were abscent from their sarcophagus," she continued. "Each bears the same mark - the mark of a sword plunged down from its lid,"

    Rha'az frowned at her words. He had heard of grave robbers who'd steal valuable treasures buried with the fallen bodies of kings and queens. Crowns and jewelry, even famed weapons are said to be stolen and sold off for a fat amount of gold that would last a couple generations. "I'd understand why the belongings were taken. But why the bodies? They are nothing more than just bones enveloped in cobwebs," the Dragonspear said, turning to the old man. "Do you have any idea about this...anomaly, Grandmaster Orwell?"

    He struck his white beard with his fingers, his wrinkled face frowned as his green eyes shifted from the lady to Rha'az. He pulled a wooden chair and sat, "Nothing can be said about this. There are no reason as to why they wanted the bodies of our old kings. There's nothing worthy enough to be sold from mere bones." He said as Orwell's eyes darted from the two to the ground and to his surroundings. He thinks as he picked up a bottle of wine and took a gulp, "Unless we are talking about raising the dead,"

    "Impossible," the woman snapped. "No one had the power to bring the dead back into the world of the living. Not even the wizard Merlin or the Morgana of Avalon. To tamper with the essence of life would cause terrible consequences!" She said.

    Rha'az laid a hand on her shoulder, "Calm down, Anaerith. We'll find a way to deal with this matter." The commander said, calming her down as he looked into her eyes. He noted how she looked nothing like a Greccan, but like one those who hailed from the Kingdom of the Sun or even Qin as if the blood of a dragon course through her veins. "If this is true however,"

    Orwell shuddered at the thought of it. The idea of a corpse sprung back to life, lunging forward as a last effort to bring down a foe is terrifying enough to think of. "Even dealing with those red-eyed bastards of Camelots are difficult enough. Pierce through their damned hearts and they seem to keep fighting no matter what," Orwell remarked.

    She raised an eyebrow at Orwell's words as she crossed her arms. "Our men fought just as ferocious as they are. Perhaps even more dangerous than the - "

    "No," Orwell's shoulders tensed. He clenched his fists as he looked outside, "These legionnaires...they're different. Unlike the ones we fought years ago, these soldiers behaved like monsters that harbors no pain. Only hatred. Complemented by obedience and a blind loyalty. That makes them dangerous,"

    Rha'az walked to the entrance of his tent, his arms crossed as he peered out to look at the vast fields of poppy stretched before them like a blanket painted in red. Thousands of soldiers roam across the camp, each armed with a reason to unleash their tempered hatred for the war machine that is Camelot. He saw them smile and laughed as they do so like it was their last day of life.

    How many more men would die in this war? Hundreds? Thousands? He asked himself. The beautiful sight of the Red Field would soon be filled with scattered corpses from both sides of the war. May the gods help us all. Guide us all. He clasped his hands, his fingers brushed against the silver armlet around his wrist. He turns to face Anaerith who looked at him, as if she waits for an order, "I'll have Romulus accompany you in your task in finding the Paradinn," he says.

    “Thank you, commander.” She says. “May the gods guide us all in the foreseeable future,”




    The Ruins of Dragonspire,
    The Sovereignty of Camelot

    “Watch those words that left your mouth, shadow walker.” Says the Inquisitor, whose hand is upon the pommel of her sword. Her golden hair falls on her shoulders, tied to a braid as her cold blue eyes looked at Janus like a piercing lance. In her other hand holds a rolled parchment, sealed with the sigil of the Lord Inquisitor himself – a raging bull with four horns. “The Lord Inquisitor has orders for you, Janus Sage. I promise you, that upon the completion of your task shall be rewarded handsomely.” She continued.

    The sound of hooves rattling against the ground can be heard. Avelina noted of those who are approaching and turned her attention to them. She caught the sight of a pair of knights – no, Inquisitors who passed through the woods and entered the ruins. These aren’t simple Inquisitors of the lower ranks but of the Deadly Seven themselves. One had a horned helmet with narrow eye slits and a cape of red streamed down his back, his shoulder pads were similar to that of a dragon’s skull. “Inquisitor Lust,” the horned man spoke out. His deep voice exudes a sense of authority and power and the grip around his reins tightened. "Our Lord Inquisitor wishes to see you," he said before his ember colored eyes shifted to Janus. "The Shadow Walker may accompany us,"

    Avelina rolled her eyes. She had other matters to attend to after relaying the orders to Janus and her day shall be a lot more busier by the time she reached their headquarters. Perhaps there would be heaps of letters from across the Sovereignty, some would come from the garrison commanders and others would be sent from the legion captains requesting for aid. "Inquisitor Wrath," she acknowledged her colleague, "What for?" She asked.

    "It's about the new legions," the second Inquisitor speaks. His voice muffled by the helm he wore with a single horn protruding like a rhino's and narrower eye slit than Wrath's own. He dons a black armor devoid of any embelishments and carried a large sword on his back. "The king has assigned some of them for us to command,"

    Of course. Avelina knew of the rumors spread across the military that speaks of the scientists and contracted sorcerers from Essarch and Moiairon helping the kingdom to create a new breed of soldiers - one that wields such tremendous power and strength that would easily conquer the nations that opposed them. She never thought that it would be true. "Great. More matters to deal with," she says sarcastically.
    Last edited by Rha'az; 12-30-2018 at 02:54 PM. Reason: Adding new content - addressing "necromancy"
    "May the great Twelve have mercy on us all," - Marius, Inquisitor of the Crown

    Spoiler: Random stuff 

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