“Don’t forget the sollerets, boy.” The older man’s voice was quiet, but painfully aristocratic. Sir Derrald made no secret of his knighthood, particularly not here in the midst of warriors from a neighboring nation, but his too-proper pronunciations and constant manner of staring down his nose shifted him from the “useful” knights to the “ornamental” ones. At least, it rather did to Seniré; not that it was a surprise.

”Y-yessir,” she muttered, careful to add a husk to her voice and slur ever so slightly. Adding depth to her voice only made her sound like a female with a head cold, so she had fallen back to the old standby of speaking as little as possible. When it did become necessary, she had adopted an uneducated twang and a throatiness that could, if not really analyzed, pass for masculine… and who stood around contemplating the pitch of a simple groom’s voice?

Seniré had been blending into the background for far longer than her time in the army camps. The life of a second daughter in a family with male heirs was not exactly the spotlight in the best of situations, and her own uniqueness had made her situation far from the best. If she was, for any reason, afforded more attention than minimal, it was never good. Breaking her dance instructors toes, dropping the priceless Thaam vase in the main hall, spilling the wine over the pristine white tablecloths during a salon with the wives of the finest lords… even simple things, like lacing her stockings properly or making polite conversation with an eligible lordling seemed far beyond her capabilities. It hardly helped that her siblings glistened with perfection everywhere they went; even now, one of her elder brothers had just returned from a brief skirmish, his armor a little blood-spattered but looking no worse for the wear. With his helm removed, Emmet Brigham looked every bit the proper young lord, with his thick blonde hair, noble profile and a smile that had ladies swooning within minutes.

Well, not all ladies.

As she knelt, scrubbing the polishing rag against the metal foot-coverings, her eyes flickered to the side; between the locks of mud-colored bang, she could see the slender group of warriors as they returned from the ambush.

They wore no lace or silk, no embroidered dresses that swept the ground as they walked. Their hair was almost universally cut short, and those who had any length kept it tied close to their scalp, rather than a wave of maintained tresses or a pleat of the highest fashion. There was not a dollop of paint on any lips, nor a smudge of rouge, nor even a lick of black kohl, but to Seniré these women epitomized the ideal of the confident female. Well-maintained, if somewhat worn or old armor fit easily onto their ropes of sinewy muscle, worn as naturally as the scars that dotted their weather-beaten flesh, and the weapons that they carried seemed little more than an extension of their bodies. They moved with grace, but not the sort of grace one could find in a ball; rather, it was forward, direct, with no wasted flourishes or extravagance. Not a single pair of eyes fell demurely to the ground at the sight of a lord –or anyone, really- and there were no annoying giggles or nonsensical chattering, merely conversations and the occasional smile.

The young Brigham felt her heart ache, a keen twist in her chest.

“Such a thing,” she heard from the knight, his arms crossed as he glanced to the Linden warriors with a look of ill-concealed disdain, “women on the battlefield. What can they do, charm the Tutari away?”

Seniré bit the inside of her cheek, wondering how he could say such things even as the women wiped huge amounts of viscous blood from their weapons. He had not even been in the recent battle, since the forces had already started to return by the time his horse had been suitably armored and his shield properly polished. If anyone had seemed intent on charming the enemy into submission, it had been him. The disguised lord’s daughter finished scrubbing the sollerets and rose to her feet, keeping her face lowered behind her bangs and shoulders hunched close.

The defensive posture made it hard for an observer to see her face, but she could see her own features mirrored clearly in the gleaming chest plate. A straight nose, just a little too long in typical Brigham fashion, set alongside high cheekbones that mimicked her brothers but had been spared her beautiful sister. The lovelier daughter had developed a soft, round face, and while Seniré hadn’t the angular jaw of her father she had been stuck with his sharp chin and high forehead; many of the servants had whispered that the only reason she had been allowed to stay with the family was that she would never pass for the daughter of another. They hadn’t known her proximity when they had whispered, of course. Her sister had inherited their mother’s lips, a luscious pink bow of a mouth, but it was Lord Brigham’s thin, flat frown of disapproval that met her own reflection.

Her eyes were a bit of an anomaly, unshared by either parent or any sibling. Though a little too wide, they were well-shaped, with matching banners of thick, black lashes and a deep setting that seemed to give them a permanently grey outline. That was not the strange part, however; the strange part was the color. A pale pink, almost the shade of a drained red but with just a hint of natural brightness that made “pink” the only fitting description, set the background, leaving the foreground to the slivers and flecks of dark gold that seemed to spring from her pupil, only reaching halfway across her wide irises. She had seen paintings of animals with such a color of eye, but they had been pure white of coat and fair of skin, neither of which applied to her. Reaction to her eye color, for those who gave enough attention to it, had been mixed; some recoiled from the strangeness with a quickness that suggested instinct, while yet others tried to study and stare despite her obvious discomfort. She thought perhaps they believed she could not tell what they were doing, that she would think they were merely making polite eye contact. The twin balls of pink hovered just above the Brigham crest painted on the gleaming silver armor; the three set of feather wings gleamed in their dark outline, wings that she had seen every day of her life. Sometimes, she desired only to take them from the shields and crests and –

“Don’t touch it with your hands, foolish child,” came the impetuous voice of the knight, and Seniré froze, fingers outstretched as though to touch the feather’s depicted on the armor’s surface. She dropped her limb and face, feeling the heat rise from her neck to her ears in embarrassment. Now was not the time to lose focus!

The older knight sniffed, his expression more than a little disgusted. “This is why you will never be a squire, boy. You know nothing of even the most rudimentary protocol. Go see to my horse, and do be quick about it this time.”

She spun on her heel and hurried away, eager to be out from under the eyes of Brigham men. The young woman was uncertain if her father had been a part of the recent fray, but she had seen both of her brothers depart with a small company of men, the etched silver wings of their shoulder pauldrons easily visible within the folds of warriors. She had yet to see the younger of them return, but her attention had been monopolized by her patron so she hadn’t exactly been keeping watch. They may not have had very large roles in her life, but she hardly wanted to see either of them piled into a heap with the rest of the dead; they were her brothers, and while she embarrassed them just as much as she did the rest of her family, they had been better than most about finding the humor in it. A quiet smile tilted her thin lips. Yes, she did love her family, despite everything.

A soft nicker brought her away from her thoughts. Sir Derrald’s steed, an eighteen-hand behemoth with a dapple grey coat, flared his nostrils and perked his ears at her approach, whickering again as she proffered the bit of apple core from the pocket of her jerkin. His leathery lips inhaled the treat and Seniré sighed deeply, feeling a massive amount of tension drain from her shoulders and back as the smell of hay and horse sweat washed over her. The mounts for the men were mostly tethered or staked in bunches on the outskirts of the camps, though a few were kept closer to their riders, and the lord’s daughter had found that she could obtain a modicum of privacy amongst them. The only humans that tended to come this way were her fellow grooms, all of them either too busy or too uncaring to pay her even a single glance; and if chance should send a knight or warrior of higher standing to fetch his own creature, it was not difficult to hide behind the walls of flesh and muscle that dotted the little makeshift paddock. Seniré had always loved animals and enjoyed sneaking off to brush the horses, even back in her father’s estate; the fact that they were now her only source of solitude was merely an added bonus.

With the slow, clumsy fingers of someone still getting used to it, she started to unlatch the bits of armor that still hung from the steed’s bulky frame. It was very like her patron, to insist that she shine his own armor before even relieving the horse of his; she was not even his squire, but that boy hadn’t been seen for almost twelve hours. The heavy plates clanked to the ground and the horse gave his skin an appreciative shiver, shaking his head before dropping it back down into the hay.

She never heard anything, right up until the thick shunk of the club against the base of her skull. Her vision went black and she fell against the armor, still warm with the body heat of the animal, her hold on consciousness tenuous. Faintly, as though very far away, she could hear a small squeal from the grey horse and the hurried, frustrated words of a man. The tinkling of a bridle sent a shot of strength through her, and rather than giving in to the darkness she forced her eyes open, but they refused to focus on the swirling world. Seniré could make him out though; a man, dressed in plainclothes, fumbling with the gray’s bit.

”St-stop… that’s not – “ her words sounded thick and her tongue wasn’t being cooperative, but she managed to lift her torso from the ground, keeping her face toward the intruder. He jerked his eyes down to her, and though he was close she could not truly identify his features.

“Got a thick skull, eh lad.” The words were nonchalant, but the boot that connected with her gut was anything but that.

As though the foot had popped a bubble, anger broke forth over her insides, spilling and seeping through all of her limbs like a tangible liquid. Her sunrise-eyes flew open as she doubled over in pain, but she knew there was no way he would let her recover and Seniré instinctively fell backwards, adrenaline clarifying her vision of the approaching figure. She didn’t recognize him, but she didn’t need to; the sight of a short knife in his hand was more than enough. “Should’ve stayed down,” he said coldly.

There was a spot in the back of her mind that knew she was supposed to be scared. She wasn’t trained for this, not prepared in the least, and no one had ever threatened her with a comedic slap let alone a knife. That voice was drowned out by the anger, overwhelmed into silence by the righteous fury that had flooded her with hot blood. The nerve. She had traveled all this way, suffered all of the whims and wants of a foolish old man, had not had a proper bath in far too long and this, this beast was going to take away the one thing that had brought her a modicum of solace. If he took that horse, she would be dismissed from service and probably charged with theft; the best that could happen would be discovery, and the worst would probably be death. And now, on top of all that, he sought to end her life here and now! Why? Because she had decided not to let him just… just do as he pleased?

Seniré didn’t know how she knew it would be there, but her left hand rose from the dirt and firmly grasped the handle of the pitchfork, and in the same movement she slung the top of it around her body. As soon as she felt it connect with his temple, she scrambled to her feet and wrapped her right hand around it as well, brandishing it like a thick wooden spear instead of a famer’s tool.

The man in black paused, whether from the blow to the head or the realization that the groom had a bit of bite, but came again with a renewed purpose. He shoved the end of the pitchfork over and lunged toward her. Unsure of anything except for her own very personal emotions, she lifted a long leg and shot a solid kick directly into the deserter’s groin. The fork may have been a helpful tool, but why he had assumed she no longer had working limbs evaded her. For the first time in her life, Seniré didn’t feel precarious or clumsy; she watched as he collapsed to the ground with a grunt of pain, both hands clutching his inseam, and leveled another kick to the side of his head, still entrenched in her righteous cause.

With a precision that she had never known in all her years, she put one boot on the wrist of his left hand and carefully positioned the tined fork of the tool a few inches above the apple of his throat. ”I said,” she clearly articulated, forgetting to add husk or slur, ”Stop.”

Soluunar


Barth snapped out of his reverie, brought back to the present by the sound of a voice coming from right next to him.

”We need to get those who yet life back to the camp. There’s nothing more we can do here. I am truly sorry.”

He looked up at the towering form of the young Lord Shalerin. Yes, the Lebi was right- with a grunt and a nod, Barth straightened up and regarded the man. "Nothing more… except to remember, Lord Knight. Aye, I shall remember their faces. Somebody has to."

With that he moved to his horse; the ashen stallion waited patiently nearby, pawing idly at the ground as he approached it. He swung himself up into the saddle and cast one final glance over the scene, watching as the wounded were tended to, and the dead were accounted for. They would burn them, as was custom- in these lands so far from home, there was no way to properly bury their fallen. Cremation gave the body to the sky and to the land, and there was no more fitting resting place than all that lay around them. Their armor, worn in honor and with pride, would be respectfully stripped from them, for as living men and women they knew not to waste, and even in death a solider of Linden knew their duty.

The Tutar, they would leave for the crows.

He offered a final nod to the Knight, and another to a group of his men as they moved to begin preparing the bodies of their departed (they paused in their duties only long enough to slap gauntlet to chest plate), and then he was off, riding back towards camp.

Ausan had ridden ahead, leading a group of Sisters containing all of those females that had been involved in the defense; to Barth's left rode Verana, her quick eyes darting in every direction, watching the tree-line, and also watching the line of citizens as they made their slow progress. The civilians would stop for a rest once at the camp, but then they would continue westward and north, to Lebidan itself. He knew they were eager for the safety of Lebidan and its thick walls, but it was a long way from the Allied Camp to the big city. All the same, they had seen enough of war for the time being.

By the time Barth reached camp, he was feeling the soreness in his muscles that always followed an altercation with the Tutar. His shoulders ached, his feet hurt, and there was a throbbing in one of his legs from when he'd been struck there. Something as simple as deflecting a Tutari blade with his own took a great deal out of him, and Barth was a strong man, with skills honed over the course of countless engagements. The beasts were tremendously powerful, and they put everything they had into their attacks. The armor they wore was crude, but they seldom relied on it. A Tutar's best defense was a ferocious attack- it was as simple as that.

He winced as he climbed down from the horse, grunting in greeting at the young groom who moved forward to handle it as well as Verana's; she looked at him, and they both simultaneously turned to see a general commotion taking place within the Lebi camp, which was the further away of the two. He saw people frantically moving out of the way as a retinue of Lords moved among the tents; there was no mistaking the sight. Next to him, Verana came to the same conclusion.

"It looks like the King and his Lords are readying for another meet."

He grunted, turning to glance in the direction of his own tent. "Yeah, no doubt I shall be hearing more about how they're sheltering my people, and how they lost good men defending them. If I am lucky, they will actually want to discuss the war, but I won't hold my breath."

"Will you go to them now?"

He snorted, moving adjacent to the Lebi camp without entering it. "They can wait. I wish to stretch my legs and then I'll be in my tent. That last ride has left me feeling a bit cramped." The truth was that his leg was killing him, but he didn't want to admit it to her. He was going to try to walk it off a bit before removing his armor- he usually kept it on long after he no longer needed it, an old habit of his.

He believed he heard the sounds of a scuffle of some sort, and as they continued moving past a series of animals, noticing how deserted the area seemed to be save for the assorted mounts, he stopped in his tracks. They watched as a man dressed in black turned away from the large grey horse he had been busy untying, long enough to deliver a vicious kick to the midsection of the groom that had been struggling to his feet. Barth's eyes narrowed; the man was attempting to steal the animal, meaning he was undoubtedly a deserter.

Verana made a small sound of outrage and made to move forward, a well practiced hand moving fluidly to the long knife at her side, but Barth put out a hand and stopped her, nodding towards the figure on the ground.

They watched as the groom scrambled to his feet, instinctively grabbing a pitchfork before striking the other man in the head with it. Barth studied the movements, following along as the groom countered the would-be thief's next attack with a well placed kick that floored him immediately. A moment later, the groom held a pitchfork to the neck of the other, and Barth knew then that it was no man he watched.


"Well now," he said with a smile and a half-glance to his side, where he saw a similar look on the face of the Maiden. The "groom" moved with the kind of fluid grace he had seen on the battlefield on many occasions, and there was no denying what was right in front of them.

He strode forward and seized the deserter by the scruff of his neck, yanking him roughly to his feet whilst the other stood by watching nervously.

"Who is your Lord?"

The man's lips tightened and he shook his head a fraction of an inch to either side, defiant and unwilling to speak. Barth knew there would be a very stiff penalty for desertion, and that the man had likely acted out of fear, hearing horror stories of the Tutar, but the Prince felt no mercy.

"Very well then. You had a chance to show some courage after your cowardice, to gain back some semblance of the honor you have cast aside, but you have chosen instead to remain on the craven's path."

He stared at him for a moment, disgust etched all over his bearded, scarred face, then glanced back to Verana.

"Who stands witness?"

"I, Verana Snowblade, stand witness to the crimes."

"And what are the crimes?"

"Desertion, theft and treachery."

"Noted and seconded, Verana Snowblade." He looked back at the deserter and a grim smile crept onto his weatherbeaten visage. "You chose not to name a Lord, therefore I shall treat you as if you were one of my own."

He whistled, a loud, piercing call, and after a few seconds a massive, dark-skinned man with a shaved head and an eyepatch appeared, emerging from the Linden camp.

"My Prince."

"Verana Snowblade and myself, Barth Krinwulf, stand witness to the crimes of desertion, theft and treachery."

The muscles in the newcomer's massive shoulders flexed under the dull iron armor he wore, as he glared at the man who had attempted to flee with the large animal.

"Take him a half mile out of camp, Haman, and break his legs."

"Yes, my Prince."

Without hesitation the gigantic man seized the deserter, who suddenly found the strength to talk as he screamed in protest, naming Lords, houses, royal lines long extinct, however it all fell on deaf ears. As the failed thief was half carried, half dragged away, the Prince turned to observe the groom who had been assailed.

"And now, the next thing to be taken care of," he said softly as Verana approached as well, with an unreadable look marking her pale features to match the one he wore. "Verana, I believe you know where to take our young lady friend."

She eyed the woman calmly, a small smile appearing on her face as she nodded. "Yes, my Prince. I know exactly what must be done."

A short while later Barth was pushing open his tent flaps (now noticeably limping) and trudging flatfooted inside, only then realizing how exhausted he was. The first thing he wanted to remove was the steel plate greave over his right thigh- he touched it and his hand immediately pulled back, as if he had been burned. It was much more painful than it had been earlier; by the time he reached the tent he'd been grimacing with every step, and the reason was now clear.

He stopped what he was doing and slumped down in the chair, deciding he would just leave the armor on after all.


_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
Upper Regions


"What did he say?"

Naiya pretended she didn't hear the question; instead, she concerned herself with weaving past innumerable thick tree trunks as she made her slow way back. She felt all of their eyes on her, three sets of them, but unlike Tamin and Piedal, Kilkren was not content with following her in silence.

"My Lady, I wish to know what Master Kahz had to tell you."

"Nothing," she replied absently, watching as a large red bird swooped over their heads, its wings working furiously as it regained altitude so it could land atop one of the three white towers that formed a perfect triangle around the Hall of the Circle and the large, smooth center square that housed it. It was said that the towers served as lookout posts during the Rebellion, but of that Naiya wasn't certain. Malinar was always hesitant to speak of the event in much detail, even to her, which she found strange.

"He sent us away so he could speak to you. He never really speaks to anyone unless it's to give grudging advice on combat tactics. Even last week, when we begged him for what felt like…"

Kilkren's words faded away as Naiya's mind returned to Kahz's message. She was unsure of the context, but she knew with certainty the old Demigod was speaking on behalf of his departed Galaia, who had perished long before Naiya was born. She also knew that whatever the message said, it would be useful to Rolyn Skyhand- which meant it would likely be bad for Malinar's cause.

And right now, Malinar's cause is keeping aid from reaching the Mortals. She caught the resentment in her own thoughts and silently reprimanded herself, but there was no denying that she was sorely tempted to go against her better judgment. The women of Linden had fought yet another battle, and while they had stood fast against the Tutar, they hadn't done so without losses. And there were many, many more demons where those came from- she had seen them, had caught glimpses of the scattered masses in the darkness and gloom of the Ravine. No amount of toughness and bravery would save the world of men from the numbers that were coming- only help from the Gods, direct help, in the form of Elder knowledge and Demigod steel, only that could stem the tide. Nothing else.

"… and we still know nothing, but he spoke to you and I want-"

Naiya stopped abruptly, turning to face her Demigod with her mouth tight with irritation and a fire blazing in her vivid green eyes. "That is enough. Either walk in silence, or excuse yourself from my presence."

When Kilkren only stood there, dumbfounded, she nodded with a grunt and continued walking, still unsure of what to do. After a time she stopped hearing their movements behind her- they seemed to have wordlessly agreed, to leave her be, which was fine by her. She was in no mood for company or conversation.

Going to Rolyn was out of the question- doing so would be nothing shy of an outright betrayal to Malinar. She could not do that, even if she could be guaranteed he would not learn of it. If only there was a way for her to do what was right without going around her love and aiding his rival.

Even as the conflict within her mind befuddled her, she saw something that gave her sudden hope. A certain Elder God, walking somewhere ahead of her as she emerged from the tree-line, easily discernible thanks to his tall, upright stature and the horned armor he wore.

I can't go to Rolyn… but there's always the next best thing...



With the movement of the black feathers lining the hipline of their suit, Akryanus continued to walk forward without much hesitance in her patrol. Her Demigod had been loyally at her side for the last few hours, commenting on various observations that they passed with interest that could be equivalent to a lazed mule; This was usually directed to other folk that they happened to wander on by, having grown much more tired than she in the usual bowing etiquette and honorifics. Eventually, however, the dark-robed knight of hers would bark out another addressing sound from behind her, stopping in his movements to turn and pay heed to another walking nearby. The silver suit of armor thus turned as well, the stance that it gave tightening up even more at the image of Naiya and her own with their approach.

It was not a seize and stone-like transformation that came out of nervousness or antagonism, but rather out of excitement and eagerness to respect. Such was typical of the Star God, whom had always sought to be ever so chivalrous even with the most equal of folk around her. A gauntlet was immediately brought to her chest, the claws closing away that they may hide and her appearance seem more softer in the presence of the fiery deity.

"Greetings to you, my Lady Naiya." The male voice rung out, slightly metallized as typical from the attributes of the helm. Her head then bowed in a submissive manner, the horns lowering away for a moment of peace before slowly rising up the blue skies once more.



"Lord Akranus", Naiya replied with a nod, acknowledging the Elder God's well-known courtesy. He was the God of Stars, known for his heroics on Soluunar; he was also well known for being a staunch supporter of Rolyn Skyhand, with a relationship to the eldest Circle God that many described as being akin to that of a father and son. Something about Akryanus seemed strange to Naiya, though the knightly being never acted impolitely to her; whenever she questioned Malinar about Rolyn and his Champion, the God of Chaos was never very forthcoming with his replies (which she found somewhat irritating but not enough to press the issue).

But now was not the time to dwell on perceptions- if there was ever an opportunity to pass on the words of the oldest Demigod, it was now.

"I have a message for you. Well, a message for Lord Rolyn Skyhand. From Seagan Kahz."



The armored suit blinked at first at the title, though such an action could not be seen from the blackened and seemingly absent eyes of the helm's face. "Lord" was high above her, and she felt her knee twitch with a need to bow before the Goddess and declare that such a being as herself was not worthy nor born for such a word of addressing, but the thought was stolen away when Naiya described her business with her.

Naiya, with a message for Rolyn? She would have never thought such being possible, knowing her own stance with Malinar and the alienation she usually held for the Star God's Lord. Akryanus had never expected differently, fully respecting the complex views and varying opinions of the Upper Regions and what complicating relationships such produced, though she herself had always done her best to remain as polite and kind to all regardless of their opinion of her and her personal superior. To hear such from Naiya was a bit startling, and she thus took a moment of silence to stare forward at nothing in particular, the lack of expression that her surreal helm held making perhaps the entire action seem a little blank.

A twitch of her head could be seen, a butterfly twittling off at the corner of her eye causing the Elder God to move her attention briefly to the side. It was a reaction caused by lack of sleep, the slight jittery behavior seldom noticed except by those most observant of her behavior. It was by a remarkable display of willpower that the God's Insomnia never touched the best of her, though even the Immortal were not excused from the lightest of side-effects.

"A message? From the Lord Kahz himself? To pass on to Lord Rolyn..."

She did not skip to the after title of the Time God, disliking it for the blatant use of some about these parts who disfavored him. Her companion had already wandered off by the time Naiya had mentioned a message, bowing himself away for the sake of privacy.

"I would be most honored to pass such on, my Lady. What message do you seek to give?"



Naiya could not see the man's expression, but there was a moment of hesitation she knew had to be attributed to surprise. She was perhaps one of the last people anyone would expect to be sending along a message for the Skyhand, but she was hardly comfortable with it either. She still doubted herself, doubted the sanity of her actions, but she heard the calls of Linden's sisters, as they prayed for strength, as they died defending their unarmed countrymen- she heard it all again as if for the first time, and it gave her the resolve to continue what she'd started. There was no turning back.

"Kahz didn't explain himself- I do not fully know of whom he spoke, although I have my suspicions. Both of us are too young to have seen it firsthand, but we know what the man lost. He will never love the Circle, and he pays no heed to the politics involved which is why the message comes with me, as opposed to someone more… closely affiliated with the God of Time. This is what he told me."

She took a deep breath, then, from memory, she recited:

"She would say to find a way, because there is always a way. She would say that a law guides intentions but it does not govern wills. She would say that idle hands are idle minds, and that change comes whether or not we would move to bring it about. For good or for bad, the type of change is up to us."

Once finished, Naiya twitched her green silks nervously before nodding once more to the Star God.

"Fare well, Lord Akryanus."

There was nothing more to be said, and even if there was, she knew not what it was. She hoped she would not come to regret her actions, but what was done was done. It was out of her hands.



Akryanus watched her make her leave, bowing away and uttering her own farewell's, all while reciting the words and engraving them into her very mind. She wanted a perfect repeat, a flawless one that she may pass on to her Lord without any stutters or lack of cleanliness. Once Naiya had made her complete departure, the Star God slowly turned and directed her attention towards the Circle Hall, her steps a bit more swift and wide than usual.

The words themselves were strange. Was he suggesting that Rolyn act, regardless of what the rest of the Circle demanded or suggested of him? She could not decide, but knew that he himself would know better with what to do with such advice. It was why he was the eldest, why he was of one of the most important attributes of the very world. He was wise, and would know exactly what to do with such information.

Too grand and beautiful were those godly halls upon her approach, graceful and elegant beyond compare as her metallic steps took her through the entrance and among the chattering crowds. Their voices were high and sophisticated, reminding her of the talk of the royal court In a kingdom long passed. She stopped near the chamber at which she knew the most important of their kind gathered, waiting patiently at the entrance, but far from the doors. To be standing any closer would be rude. Her spear was kept with the blade against the ground, wishing to keep herself as tiny as possible during her stay; This was near impossible, for the Star God constantly glimmered, and her armor always stood out no matter where she went.



"The conflict is ended, is it not? The men have held their own, saved most of their people, what has changed, Skyhand? Why should we shift our stance?"

Rolyn's hand gripped the edge of the table tightly in an attempt to maintain his composure. He stared across the table at Malinar, at the dark eyes that met his gaze unflinchingly, as they always did. Even millennia before when they'd been friends, Malinar never shied from confrontation.

"The Tutari attackers were outnumbered, yet if not for the reinforcements, reinforcements that included some of the most skilled fighters yet remaining within both Kingdoms, they would have had the mastery. You are focusing your arguments on the fact that the men won- what of the fact that the attacking force of Tutar you speak of was barely a full squad? What of the fact that all told, the monsters wield a force roughly four times the size of that which the men possess? What of-"

"I grow weary of the questions, Skyhand. I believe we all do," Malinar interrupted, smirking around at the others. Valiya watched him coldly, eyes narrowed on him, whilst Freiya appeared as unreadable as always. And of course, Lorkhan looked at no one in particular, his black eyes fixed firmly on his own hands.

"A vote, then, if we must…"

It went the same as before. Rolyn and Valiya for intervening, Malinar and Freiya for abstaining, and Lorkhan… undecided.

"B-both sides have their points. I cannot make a decision r-right now," The God of Light said softly, and then another Conclave was concluded.

Valiya didn't linger for a change; she caught sight of the ugly look on Rolyn's face and bid him a quick farewell, filing out of the room behind Freiya and Lorkhan, who of everyone seemed to be the most eager to be gone. Malinar lingered at the door, staring at something outside. There was a blank look on his face, and his eyes seemed to be appraising, as if he was studying something with an academic interest. After a moment he turned, flashed a final, malicious smile at Rolyn, then wordlessly departed, leaving him in solitude.



Akryanus had watched them leave one by one, bowing away as they each passed on by, though bowing significantly lower upon Lorkhan's passing, half because of wishing to hide away from any light that he might produce on a whim. She raised her attention to the doorway, noting that only three of the five had passed, and found a certain individual to be looking directly at her for a prolonged amount of time.

It was Malinar, and the experience was anxiety causing to say the least. They were both of similar qualities, their military disposition and warrior-like presence obvious, but at the same time there was a clear contrast in their attitude, their essence, and even personality that did not seem to mesh at all. He was imposing and almost cold, with no need nor desire to bend and a complete disregard for anything outside of his purpose. She felt warmer, more addressing and active. There was also the clear knife between him and Rolyn, which painted him out as an unruly elderly family member that she was to stay away from, to not allow any of his words to break her focus.

Even so, she bowed to him when he finally passed on by, then turning off to look expectedly at the door for the last exit, her eyes now more brighter and ready than ever.



Rolyn took a deep breath and exhaled, the air pushing silver strands of hair away from his face, where they'd collected as he stared down just as Lorkhan had done. The man's indecision was understandable- he feared upsetting the balance, feared what would happen if he were to choose a side.

But by picking no side, he aids the other. Malinar would keep things this way, if he could. And he can.

Thinking about it did nothing to lessen the weight on his shoulders; with a sigh he rose, moving to the doorway, the blue robes billowing out slightly behind him as he walked with his long strides. The conflict below was at an end for the time being, but there would be no reprieve for the one raging in his head. And the worst part was, he didn't see any way out of it.

He walked out into the bright light of the Upper Regions outside, and caught sight of a familiar form waiting nearby.

For the first time since before calling the Conclave, Rolyn felt the shadow of a smile creep onto his face.

"Sir Akryanus. A pleasant sight on a dismal day."



Akryanus seemed to come upon her name being called, her steps having some sort of float to them as she hurried on forward. She had heard the Knightly title and it brought a smile to herself, feeling something right happening in a world that was often clouded and full of confusion, often forcing the young Elder God to retreat to her heroics and other activities to make some sort of balance and justice out of it all.

"My Lord." She replied on to him, bowing immediately upon her final step before raising with eagerness.

"I know your mind has been stressed, more-so than ever with what has become recent of things ... I know that Conclave has most likely left you with a sinking heart. I know not what to do that could ease your mind on this, but someone came to me with a message... A message from Lord Kahz."

She began with a sense of hope and eagerness to assist, as if this had become the most important mission as of late to the young God. It was justly so, for she had no other way of helping her Lord and mentor, and to be cursed with such was infinitely frustrating when in his presence.

"It was not from him directly, but from another. I will not speak their name unless you request it, for honor of their privacy and respect that they chose to pass it on. Would you wish to hear his words, my Lord?"



Rolyn expected the young Elder Goddess to attempt to lift his spirits, but there was little that Akryanus could really do- there was little anyone could do, with things as they were. When she mentioned the name of Kahz, however, he felt his pale grey eyes widen in shock.

Seagan Kahz?! Could he have…

When she finished what she was saying, he hurriedly turned around and gestured her inside the Hall of the Circle, walking inside ahead of her.

"Yes, Akryanus, of course, please come inside. And shut the door behind you."

It might not have been necessary- for all he knew the old Demigod had merely sent along the message that Rolyn deserved every ounce of hardship that came his way, however, while he would not have argued the point, it was unlikely Akryanus would be delivering such a message to him. But in any case, he had to be careful. By asking what Galaia would have done, he was stepping outside of what was considered to be standard practice.

"And you need not say who told you, what matters is that I hear the message in its entirety."



Akryanus followed loyally, though not without some nervousness as he welcomed her into the true Hall, turning about to stare behind her that some eyes might not perceive her entrance as something that was not given permission, nor that any would find the entire thing suspicious in any shape way or form. When she felt the area was clear enough, she slowly closed the doors behind her and followed in, gazing around with some layer of interest.

It was not every day that she was permitted within these halls. She had remembered the first time she had been brought within them, and the amount of shock and confusion she had felt during that very day. To be dragged before the circle, a group of beings that she herself at the time barely knew to be real in any shape way or form, and then to be discussed with terms she barely understood was the most mind-altering experience of her lifetime. It was on that day that she learnt of things that seemed idle legends and rumors of grandeur, and understood what it truly meant to stand among Gods.

Even now, the feeling of awe as well as fear did indeed come back as it always did, staring off at the empty seats and replacing each individual into every one as they once were on that strange day.

Finally, she turned to her Lord with the same eagerness as before, beginning with a quickness that aimed to enlighten and raise his spirits as fast as possible.

"According to the reciter, Kahz had stated as I now quote : 'She would say to find a way, because there is always a way. She would say that a law guides intentions but it does not govern wills. She would say that idle hands are idle minds, and that change comes whether or not we would move to bring it about. For good or for bad, the type of change is up to us.'"

Akryanus repeated, every word exactly as she had heard it, down to the very tone and emphasis that Naiya had used when speaking to her. Accuracy to a dumbfounding extent, without a doubt. She would not have it any other way when it came to Rolyn, for he in her eyes deserved only the best the world had to offer, as he had so kindly given to her.

"I do hope it helps you, my Lord. Whatever you do gather or are able to do with such, my only desire is that you have some peace of mind once again, and that you may look at the world down below with some confidence..."

She then bowed her head, feeling completed as she would after having performed some grand deed of danger and importance.



Rolyn listened to the words, and sat down in his usual seat, blinking wordlessly as the meaning behind them sunk in. Yes, she would have said those things… Kahz had it down to the letter, it seemed. He could even hear her voice, in that sharp, honest yet gentle way of speech she had.

"Galaia…" he said sadly, remembering why Kahz hated him. Why he hated all of them.

"She was beautiful, wise, kind and trustworthy," he continued, speaking softly but loudly enough to be heard. He had never spoken to Akyranus on the subject, but old emotions were coming to the surface and he saw no harm in it. He deserved whatever judgment she would cast upon him.

"And fierce. So fierce, she was one of those who saved us all. She helped to quell the Rebellion before it could spread, she kept the others from straying… and…" Rolyn looked up at Akryanus, his eyes shining with emotion.

"We ordered Seagan Kahz to help hold off Steelheart's army. He had almost 50 Demigods, a force to be reckoned with. The man loved war and hated Godhood- he cared not for the weakening, he wanted to command. Kahz killed them. All of them. And while that happened… Steelheart's strength returned to its former levels. And he…"

He trailed off, looking away from her for a moment, before shaking himself, his long hair growing somewhat disheveled though he did not care.

"After she died, of course Kahz blamed us. He could have been at her side, protecting her. He could have helped to kill the Elder God first, and then the others later- lives would have been lost, but the man only knew his own loss. It was a loss for all of us, every single one of us grieved for her and for the others that were taken, but nothing close to what he has endured. Seagan Kahz hates the Circle, Akry, but he hates himself most of all."



Akryanus listened, her heart that was once lifted brought back down to reality with the seriousness of the discussion. She was far too young to know of the rebellion in another way than the fact that it was a terrifying moment of the Upper Regions, that for the first time in all of history, Elder Gods turned against each other and slaughtered one another on their very own homeland. It was an event seldom discussed nor talked about, but in regards to Kahz, it must have been replaying in his mind over and over again, every moment of his Goddess's death played on him and engraved into his soul.

What it had done to him, no one could understand.

"... My Lord?" She asked, taking a step forward.

"Lord Kahz must have something left in him if he wished you to know this... Either that, or perhaps the memory of Galaia is enough that it could bring him spirit, even for a moment. Either way, it was no one's fault, I am sure..."

She lowered her voice, for a moment the masculine sound vanishing to reveal the softer, effeminate and dream-like tone that was her natural speech.

"It could have been anyone in her place, and anyone's greatest loss..."



"I followed what I believed to be the wisest course of action. I know it is foolish to examine things once they have passed and the results are known, yet still I wish I could have done things differently."

Rolyn took a deep breath, and nodded slowly. "But you are right about Kahz, I think. It could be that Galaia's memory has inspired him in some fashion… but the reasoning is not what matters now."

He stood up and began to walk back and forth, his thoughts a blur as he was struck by a new sense of purpose.

"Galaia's words, though from another and many years after her departure, shall not fall upon deaf ears. I have written our Laws, Akryanus, you know this. All of them, except for one."

He thought of all that was at stake- yes, it would not go over well with many. He would incite whisperings at the best, and outright fury at the worst. Malinar in particular would be enraged, but Rolyn would cross that bridge when he came to it.

"I will not break a Law- the role I played in their creation does not shield me from responsibility. But there are ways around things."

He paused and fixed her with an intense stare that conveyed all of his desperation as well as all of his hope.

"You would not be breaking any Law, but you would be aiding me in skirting them, which to some would mean a stain upon your honor. This would be for the greater good, for the sake of the lives that are in peril down below us, yet still, it could go against your sense of what is right and what is wrong. I will not order you to do such a thing. I cannot."

He moved closer, his eyes still fixed on hers.

"But I can ask. Will you do this, Little Star?"



Akryanus heard his words, the finality in them, as well as the question asked of her. She kept her gaze fixated on his own, hearing a name that was special between the pair of them; Something that brought back the most precious feeling in the world that she had ever held dear to her, and that was the love she held for a Father. A Father that she had found in him, and cherished the moment she had been given time to know him and been blessed with his guidance.

Akryanus raised her gauntlets to slowly take off her helmet, revealing her youthful and maidenly features to the empty room that held only her and the God of Time himself. She stared down upon it, the moon-like hues looking at the face before her peaceful sight was brought up to Rolyn himself, and she offered a smile of happiness and warmth.

"I would follow you to eternal damnation if you asked it of me, Rolyn."

She began with a cheerful swing to her voice.

"And so, I will do whatever it is you need of me, if it is to protect that which you hold most dear. For now, and forever onwards."

She gave a bow, the greyed-out hair that had been braided away shimmering with dullness in the light of the chamber, but her lifeless skin brightened by the hope and loyalty she displayed towards her Lord.

_________________

“Well now,” came the deep voice from behind her.

Every muscle in Seniré’s body tensed as though electric currents had snaked up through her feet and frozen her to the ground. All of the smoothness, all of the instinctual grace, and all of the righteous anger drained from her lanky figure, leaving only an awkward young woman who stood in a murderous pose that she had only the faintest memory of attaining. The deserter beneath her boot was quite lucky that her fingers had frozen in shock, else she certainly would have dropped the pitchfork and punctured his trachea.

As it was, the immediate sound of footsteps that followed the words spun her slight shoulders around, hay tool dropping to the side as though it alone confirmed her guilt. The heel of her right foot caught on the prone figure of the fellow and the would-be warrior promptly fell backwards into the gelding’s discarded armor, landing with a clank and a clatter that caused several horse ears to flicker in her direction. The fall was a little jarring, but she was used to such things and merely gave her head a little shake: of course, the sight of Linden's Prince, lifting a man by his collar as though he were no more than a ragdoll, caused a dry gulp to stick in her throat.

She watched the ruling unfold, feeling uncomfortably close to the foreground of this impromptu courtroom. She had yet to see the Prince so close; he was obviously not a small man, even without the thick armor, and the intimidating array of scars and bristly facial hair did nothing to diminish his size outside the purely physical standpoint. He came with one of his Maidens, too: most of her countrymen simply referred to two women as his “girlfriends” or something equally flippant, but she had used many opportunities to sneak close and listen to more enlightened conversation. Verana Snowblade's deep red hair and form-fitting black armor made her seem distinctly sleek and small when she stood next to the Prince, but Seniré felt her stomach drop into her boots regardless.

If there had been any chance of regaining her footing, it was succinctly shattered by the appearance of a man who, from the sunburst-eyed woman’s perspective, was roughly fourteen feet tall and ninety-five percent muscle. She was sure that he could have wrestled any stallion to the ground in less than a minute, and his swarthy tan and missing eye told her than he probably did so a few times before his breakfast of granite and nails. The young woman wasn’t sure if it was possible to be so pale that one started to lose feelings in the ears and nose, but if it wasn’t, then she was as close as one could be to it. The screaming of the sentenced deserter echoed in her ears, fighting with her own thundering heartbeat for dominance, but before either could subside she saw the Prince’s visage peer down to her own grounded form.

His words caused her eyes to widen and pupils to shrink. L-l-lady friend? The smile that tilted the side of Snowblade’s lips caused Seniré to scramble to her feet, like a newborn fawn that instinctively tries to flee a predator’s scent. Her own defensive posture was almost unconscious, hands forward as though to fend off any approach, breath fast and knees unlocked, but Verana made no movement for the younger woman as the Prince departed the scene. Her river-blue eyes held, to Seniré, a look that said there was very little she had not already guessed about the “groom” and her situation.

“Come then,” she barked suddenly, her voice matter-of-fact as she spun on her heel and started back toward the concentration of Linden warriors.

The gawky girl hesitated. She… wasn’t going to be cut down? Or dragged away like that deserter, to have her kneecaps smashed against a rock? Maybe skinned, to make that giant a new eye-patch? She… wasn’t even going to be bound, and hauled through camp so that all could see what came of cross-dressing and deceit or a stable hand who took too much liberty?

Verana glanced over her shoulder, “As in ‘with me’.” There was an impatient edge to her voice that sprang Seniré into action, albeit a slightly windmill-like action initially.

She was able to catch up to her senior in only a few strides, and then kept subserviently in the auburn-haired woman’s shadow, her shoulders pulled forward and eyes on the ground. Her breath was coming a little easier now, just knowing that she wasn’t immediately about to be facing the business end of an arrow or the Maiden’s fierce little dirk, but her mouth was completely dry and the hammering of her heart allowed room for little else in her ears. There was no way this was going to end well, after all. She could speak up, give her real name and the name of her father, of course; that would probably earn her a one-way trip back home, where she would most likely be locked in her room until she died, to spare the family any further embarrassment. It had been contemplated for lesser things, after all. Disguising herself as a man, sleeping in tents with other (male) grooms, tending horses and armor like a low-born peasant… all of that was a bit overkill, honestly.

She bit the inside of her cheek, brow furrowing beneath her dirty bang. Even if she was sentenced to death for being a simple laborer that took it upon himself to apprehend a military fugitive, would being locked in a room for the rest of her life, known as only a shame and a pariah and an embarrassment that wasn’t spoken of in polite circles, be any better?

The fawn-haired woman’s heart steadied, and she took a few deep breaths. No. She had caused her family enough problems. She had taken this risk on her own, and she would take the fall on her own. Determination flickered in her large eyes, somehow accentuating the shards of deep gold, but any effect was lost after only a moment as she walked directly into Verana’s back, her nose hitting the base of the woman’s skull quite solidly. It would seem that she had stopped walking.

Rubbing her nose, partially out of a dull pain and mostly embarrassment, Seniré instinctively bowed from her shoulders and muttered, “Sorry,” in her “masculine” twang.

“No more of that,” Verana answered, turning around to face her as though she hadn’t even noticed the slight collision (though the clumsy woman knew she must have), “Speak in your own voice.”

The Brigham girl hesitated again, her head still mostly toward the ground. “A-all right,” she finally answered, just as quiet and muttered but with a higher, clearer pitch.

“And this,” she continued, cyanic eyes sharp with practicality, “How can you even see past this?” Before she knew what was happening, the lightning fast hands of the Maiden had pushed the hair from her forehead up, opening her entire face to the brisk wind of the world. Seniré’s eyes flew open in surprise again and she leaned back, immediately recoiling. Verana allowed her to do so, but added, “Just get rid of it. You’re lucky enough to have two working eyes, don’t put them behind a curtain where they can’t do any good.”

The light-haired woman started to acquiesce, but she felt very confused. Did people from Linden always try to bolster the confidence of their death-row prisoners?

The slim Maiden raised her arm a little, calling out to a few more women who stood close to one of the tents. One of them had a close-cropped head of black hair and was missing the tip of her left ear, but otherwise had a strikingly pretty face; the other two had ear-length brown hair yanked into impossibly short horsetails, one scarred and a little older and the other with wide, emerald eyes that dominated her face and the right side of her stomach recently bandaged. All three had been bent over their armor, the bloodstained rags dropping into the buckets as Verana beckoned them over. They moved smoothly and swiftly, and the younger woman quickly shoved her thick bang up into the body of her groom’s cap; the thing was already stuffed to capacity, but nerves made sure she found a way to fit the rest.

She felt their eyes on her, sizing her up. A flicker of determination sparked the base of her spine and the disguised woman straightened her shoulders a little, though she did not meet any gazes. All three of them, just for her? She may have accidentally been able to knock over a man who didn’t expect it, but she hardly thought it would take three trained warriors just to carry out her sentence, even if it were particularly drawn-out or depraved.

“So, getting to the point,” Verana piped, giving a short nod to the three women who, in a way totally hidden to the lord’s daughter, seemed to immediately know what was expected of them and headed to the left of the tent, “You can think of this as a… proficiency test, of sorts," she continued, following the other women at a slower pace with the girl in tow, "If you show a little potential here, you might have what it takes to stand against a Tutar without dying, so we'll – "

“What?” Seniré interrupted, her fear for the situation and deep respect of the Maiden temporarily forgotten, “Fight? You – you want to see if I can fight?”

Verana paused, a look that was half curious and half impatient crossing her face as she glanced to the woman, “What did you think was happening?”

A beat passed, before the lighter-haired woman put her face in one of her palms for a second to smother her relieved expression. Not executed, not drawn and quartered like a common thief, not tied to two horses who were sent galloping in opposite directions… not even in trouble. The sudden realization that she was significantly less likely to die today drained a fair amount of strength from her knees, but a rushing desire to impress the women that she had idolized from afar replaced it and she managed to only slightly stumble.

Verana brought her to a small, clear spot to the left of one of the larger tents, where a very clear circle had been drawn. It was between seven and eight feet in diameter, and two of the women sent ahead had taken up positions somewhere along the dirt line; both of them held long, thick sticks that looked as though they should have been far more unwieldy than either warrior made them appear, and they had slightly predatory expressions on their faces. Somehow, though she was more than a little uneasy, Seniré managed to look away from the etched circle in time to stop before she rear-ended the Maiden again. Snowblade extended her hand, fingers closed around a pathetic, dry twig that she proffered in a comically generous manner. “For protection,” she added, and Seniré had no idea how to decipher the red-head’s tone.

Not that there was a lot of time for consideration. The second her fingers closed hesitantly around the bit of dried branch, she was shoved smoothly and effortlessly into the center of the circle. “There’s only one rule. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“But I don’t – “

Woohmp. The sound the wooden staff made as it connected with her solar plexus was sickening, contributing to the effect almost as much as the blow itself. Seniré crumpled to her knees, arms closing over her midsection as she tried to pull air into her lungs. Her pupils turned to pinpricks as the second branch came swinging for her face, and she folded forward deeper just in time, feeling the rush of wind along her spine as the offending wood whisked past her.

Forgetting about the breath that was still mostly knocked out of her, she scrambled to her feet again and backed away from the two offending women, careful to stay in the circle but trying to achieve a point where she could see both of them. They weren’t very accommodating, however. It seemed like as soon as she managed to dodge one blow, the other woman had a swing coming right for wherever she had gone to avoid the first. Surprisingly enough (to herself most of all, probably) she was holding her own.

A branch whisked for the back of her knees and she jumped, twisting her torso mid-air to avoid the one that aimed for her left ribcage. She landed and immediately sunk to a squat as both branches aimed for her torso, one in the chest and the other in the lower back, one of her legs extended so that she could be even closer to the ground. She felt her heart quicken even as time seemed to slow, and her focus of the world around her seemed to melt into the background. There was no time to be nervous, to try to impress. There weren’t any disappointed fathers, or disapproving mothers here, or Princes, or knights or Lords or Kings. It was simple, so simple: just don’t fall.

She reveled in it. Tension that had been within her bones since the first day she discovered her “uniqueness” seemed to melt into the ground, the way it had when she had floored the deserter. Seniré felt almost graceful, fluid; she felt the way other women looked on the ballroom floor, but she had no bulky gowns or decorum to maintain. She had what they had, and more. The end of a branch whistled past her ear and she moved almost languidly around and beneath it, raising her leg behind her to avoid the other branch simultaneously. The faster the branches came, the faster she moved… and the faster she moved, the more fluid the movements became.

Somehow, before she even knew what was happening, both women were quite close; not so close that it was a two-to-one hand-to-hand combat situation, but far closer than the circle had denoted only moments ago.

Panic lit her nerve endings from head to toe and all of the grace disappeared as though it had never been. Suddenly very aware of her own large feet and too-long limbs, she felt (with a very familiar, sinking sense of failure) the toe of her boot catch on her own calf. The result, unfortunately, was that she ended up pushing her own leg out from under her body, falling forward onto her knees and palms. Instantly Seniré shut her eyes tight and threw up her forearm to block her face, bone-side out, and wrapped her other arm around her midsection in as defensive a posture as she could make in such a tiny space of time.

Fortunately, that seemed to signal the end of the “proficiency test”, and no branches thick as a man’s leg came flying down to her defeated body. Seniré was positive that she had done miserably, and the familiar sense of disappointment in herself settled across her shoulders like a well-worn blanket. She dropped her arms and leaned back onto her calves, long spine curved inward and head lolling to the side ever so slightly. Her new-morning eyes hesitantly sought those of Verana, and for the second time in less than half an hour she felt herself awaiting a judgment that, while less lethal, was no less important in the threads of her fate.

The pathetic little twig, protected by the woman's long fingers throughout the exercise, rolled from her hand and sat in the dirt by her legs.

The cold water from the buckets did little to ease the ache in her bones, though Ausan was not one to complain. As it were, the nervous and overly concerned squire insisted that she where a sling and rest her arm, just so that it could heal faster. Nothing but a grunt was given in her agreement to the treatment and as the toe headed young man sought to her wounds, she merely closed her eyes and allowed for it to happen. There were some fights that were just not worth it and she found the rather stern nurturing nature of the young man refreshing. Rarely did he ever flinch when she barked at him, or raged about one thing or another. He had come to serve her some years back, when she had saved him from a nasty beating at the hands of some other boys.

It was not hard to tell he was, different, from the others. Softer, kinder and gentler than the others, often called a girl it had been the taunting that prompted her to step in. The beating she gave those youths was one they would never forget and had certainly made them reconsider their treatment of others, not to mention thinking to insult someone in regards to their gender.

“Thank you, Cameron.”

Is all she said once he was done, the wood of the stool beneath her squeaked as she shifted her weight and pushed herself up.

“My sword.”

The request not even needed, but the young man had learned long ago that she never went anywhere without her sword. Her shield was something that needed to be cleaned and repaired often, but her sword was the one thing that she had to have on her no matter what. Already the worn leather was belted about her waist, care taken to ensure it was secure but not so tight as to cause pain on any of the bruised places on her body.

“See to my armor and Symas,” she said, again unneeded, but old habits die hard in the face familiarity. Plus, what bit that they spoke was their way of getting along; a minor way to bond in a way that was not overly friendly but what suited them just fine.

“Of course, M’Lady,” Cameron replied with a bow of his head as she walked passed and left him in the tent along to tend to his duties.

Arm in the sling, Ausan walked through the camp, meeting the gaze of all who thought to look her way. The glares were met with a nod and the smiles were met with smiles, it seemed to become second nature at this point, to nod to those who hated her and smile for those who admired her. Perhaps, she could have done the “lady” thing that her mother spoke of? Being that polite and respectable women that could change the course of a debate with nothing but her presence and a smile?

The smile that came to her face and the slight shake of her shoulders hinted at the amusement she felt in regards to that thought. One that she could hardly finish before the humor of it all became too much. She would have to tell it Barth when she saw him, he could use a laugh so, and she expected this might earn her at least a smile from him. Which was who she had been on the way to visit, he would be in his tent as usual and she would go there to aid him in removing his armor and seeing to that wound on his leg she knew he had. She had watched him deflect that blow and saw how it struck his leg, not to mention the way he limped over to his horse before he mounted up.

He always had to be the tough guy in front of his men. She thought with a small smile when commotion within the camp stalled her journey. Looked like they had picked up a new recruit, someone from the Lebidan camp she figured.

“A woman…” she said aloud with an arched brow as if she were somewhat, impressed.

“We found her handling a deserter,” Verana said from her right, the woman was as sneaky as ever, with this near unnatural ability to sneak up on everyone, even Ausan.

“When she say handling…”

“Held him at pitchfork end, after she had struck him across the head with it.”

“Hmnh,”Ausan grunt in what one could have taken to be a chuckle, as she watched the recruit with hard calculating eyes, “Bring her to me.”



"Right," nodded the woman with the close-cropped hair, spinning on her heel with a respectful nod as she did so. She walked swiftly to the circle, making a beeline for Verana.

--------

Verana started to say something, but her words halted as the last of the three women approached. She muttered into the red-haired Maiden's ear for a moment, and the sharp aquatic eyes flickered back to the woman on the ground. With a nod, Snowblade crossed her arms loosely. "Over there," she said clearly, jerking her head in the direction of her fellow Maiden.

The pink eyes found the mark and widened in obvious recognition. She scrambled to her feet and followed the woman over, gulping air to catch her breath. Her posture was still decidedly defensive and hesitant, but her eyes held steady on the senior Maiden. The warrior took up a position to Ausan's flank, but Seniré stopped about four feet in front of her, silent.



For a long moment Ausan merely looked at the woman, her brown eyes unreadable as she merely stared down at her. Stared at her the way that a lioness would regard a rabbit that it had trapped under her paw and now had to decide just how she would eat her? Head first? Or perhaps, she would start with the feet? Then again she could always save the ears for last…

“State your name, full name, and whose house you hail from,” the words were practically barked out like an order she would give anyone else beneath her.



The younger woman's spine stiffened noticeably, arms straightening at her sides, and her eyes dropped to the Maiden's feet.

"Sen... Um, Sen B-Bri... Brightman, sir! Ah, m-ma'am," came the hasty response, a flood of light red rushing up her collar to her ears, "in s-service of Sir Derrald of H-house Brigham,", she added in a much quieter voice, her shoulders caving even more as she spoke.[/quote]



Ausan glanced over her shoulder at her Sister and then looked at the woman before her with an arched brow.

"Do you know who I am?"



The pink eyes still did not turn up to face the Maiden. "Y-yes," she answered, in a small voice.



Slowly with an almost lazy attitude about it, she leaned down until her face was right in that of the woman before her. “Then you know I don’t tolerate weakness…especially a weak female…” her gaze was nearly as hard as her tone. “Do you wish to live in this world and continue to be a stammering little ****ing? Or are you prepared to be something more? More than just a woman. Pain is real and something that everyone should grow accustomed to, become intimate with. There is no man here to step in front of you, there is no man here to defend your honor or your home. It is you and only you that can do that. But you can't be afraid to do it."

She stood back to her full height, “Now again. Tell me your name!” This time it was an order, a harsh command filled with authority that she had earned through her own blood. If this woman planned to hang around with them, she would have to develop at least a backbone first.



The half-cowered figure finally straightened to a full stand, spine lengthening and shoulders sliding back. The gaze that turned up to the dark-haired Maiden snapped like pink embers in a sun-kindled forest fire, brows slightly furrowed in an obvious rush of determination. Even her stance seemed to shift, her legs almost bracing against the impact of Ausan's words. Her hands curled into fists.

"Sen Brigham, of House Brigham!" she stated clearly, voice clear as a bell but claiming a deeper pitch that resonated with unearthed stubbornness.



Finally! Ausan thought as a small smile quirked at the corners of her mouth. “Verana,” she turned to her sister who had a more noticeable smile on her face. “I think there is life in her yet. What do you think?”

“Better than most men who strut about with their cocks in their hands,” she replied with a wink at Sen.
“My thoughts exactly,” Ausan said. “Sen, you are to be part of the Linden forces now. The females who join are made into Sisters, but you have to earn it. Whatever a man does here, I expect you to do it better. There is no weakness in this war, only the strength of will to survive to fight for those who cannot defend themselves. Understand?”

Once the woman responded she turned completely to Verana, “Find whoever she was with before and inform him that she is ours now. Yes? I don’t want to have to cut some assholes dick off when he thinks he can come stomping into Barth’s tent to raise a fuss.”

“Of course, Sister. I will ensure it is settled.”

“Good. I’m going to see Barth now myself so if you need me I will be there,” the older woman informed her sister before she took in Sen once more. “Try not to die and never let them see you sweat.” With that she was gone, her long strides carried her quickly and proudly through the camp toward the tent of her prince.




“You should stop being so stubborn,” she said simply as she entered Barth’s tent. “You could ask for help,” she remarked with a small smile as she took up residence in the chair opposite him. “Even I can accept help, occasionally,” she said as she gestured to her arm in the sling, which she carefully removed. For a moment she merely sat there with him, her eyes not on anything in particular, though she found that on occasion she would glance up to his eyes and then down to his dented leg armor.

“Here,” she pushed up from the chair and knelt before him. “Let me help you.”



"I don't… I just- fine, fine," he allowed, as they carefully unstrapped the greave, revealing a large bruise of a deep purple that appeared to be nearly black at its center. He grimaced down at his thigh, then shook his head.

"You remember the one that did this- broken tusk, playing dead. Surprised it settled for punching, but it must've had horned knuckles. Rune's Mercy, when a Tutar falls it may still yet breathe. Either the Lebis do not understand this, or our own soldiers need retraining."



“Ours know better than to not ensure the death of these beasts,” she remarked as she checked over his wound and shook her head slightly. “I may have to remind them of their folly later, so as to save us from such needless pain,” she said with a sigh. “Come,” she instructed as she stood. “Brace on the chair and I will help you with the rest. The fact that you never take this off as soon as we return from battle never makes sense to me,” the last part said more to herself than to him, though she knew it was something he had heard time and time again from her. Each piece was slowly removed with care and the occasional word of disapproval at how dented one piece or another had become. When she was done she had him sit back down while she fetched a bucket of cold water to then wash his form.

“Today…it was not like before, this group I mean…” she said after a moment of silence had lapsed between them and the cold rag had still in washing his back. “They were not as organized and just…chaotic. You know?” the small question posed because between them there was always that bond of understanding, even when the words themselves failed.



He grunted, something in the sound conveying his agreement. "Aye, something was different. They fought with the usual savagery, but something was… off. They may be monsters, but they are smarter than they seem.”

He twitched his shoulders and took a deep breath, stretching his right leg out in front of him, flexing it with a small, barely audible gasp.

"Do you remember when they breached the castle walls, back home? They kept falling back, over and over, drawing us out, wearing us down… they understand combat, they have applied tactics against us. Vicious frontal assaults supported by flanking forces, strategic retreats… they understand their strengths and our weaknesses. These ones who attacked now, I would bet my one good earlobe they saw the civilians and pounced on the chance for easy prey. I did not smell a chieftain in any of it, and to be frank, we are lucky they were so disorganized."



“Exactly my point, they were rushed and nearly desperate in their actions. Had they actually planned the attack not a single one of ours would have lived and we would have only known of their deaths once we went to find them,” the rag was returned to the bucket and the cold water was used to wash along his shoulders. “If there had been a Chieftain with half a brain none of those people would have lived and we likely would have lost a good deal more when we arrived to search for them. An ambush would have been waiting for us and that would have been the end,” anger had found its way into her voice, mingled with the frustration that had to do with the everything of it all.

A calming breath was taken before she returned to the task at hand, “You know if you let me beat that bald bastard in the face the others will be nicer to us.” Tone was playful and teasing as she leaned over his shoulder to read his face.



Barth was grinning now as he regarded her with a sideways glance. "Lord Borim would never look the same, this is true. Perhaps, dare I say, he'd even learn to keep his comments to himself. But I don't know if beating the man would help us with our popularity, Ben."

He ran a hand through the coarse hair concealing his jawline, as if pondering on whether or not it needed to be trimmed. "His father is a powerful Lord, and though that means little to us, we could never stand without the manpower the Lebis provide. Of course, growing up with a name of influence has certainly given him a monstrous ego. Resuran slew several Tutari fighters, I saw him- it is clear he has earned his place through toil and hard work. But Garth, he never even drew his blade."

The smile had faded from his lips and a look of apprehension had appeared in its place. "This attack by the beasts… it is the first in a long time. The silence… is is unnerving. Savage cries and the sound of steel crashing upon steel, those are familiar. But this calm fills me with foreboding."



Ben. The masculine nickname he had for her always made her smile, even if she tried her best to not show it. It just made her feel…more connected to the world around her, more than just the warrior maiden, the nightmare on horseback…she felt more like a woman if anyone would have truly believed it. It was one of those rare moments when she could remember that she as indeed female and not just the fighter.

“I don’t know,” she remarked when she stepped around to face him knife in hand. “It might just earn his respect if I emasculate him,” she shrugged and nodded for him to tip his head back. “Besides,” she began while she took the knife to the base of his beard near his throat, “if his father has an issue I will merely pummel him as well. Sure the old bastard is more bones and **** than anything I should be afraid of…”

Deftly and with practiced ease she worked the blade along his skin, to get the find edge for the foundation of his beard. It was something that had just happened one day between them, he had been scratching at it like a wild dog from sweat and she had remarked to get it trimmed. He made the comment of if she trusted anyone besides herself near his throat with a knife? The points were valid and so she took up her knife and had him sit so that she could tend to it for him. And so from that day forth when it came time for him to need a trim out in the field that was what she did for him. Just another one of those moments they shared and rarely spoke of with others.

It was their thing.

“I feel it too,” she remarked about the silence. “Like there is just storm brewing and we are standing outside waiting for it to blow us away or drown us…” voice soft and with just an edge of uncertainty. “Whatever they are planning…I pray to Naiya that we are strong enough to survive it…”

Ausan was like Barth, baptized in the blood and pain of war. When it was silent and still, there was something up, that much their lives have taught them and there was this dread that would gnaw at them like a rabid dog on a bone. Waist deep in a battle was easier to handle than this waiting for the other foot to fall.



"Whether we be strong enough or not, we are all that is left. And every one of our number knows it- it is in their eyes, as plain as the scars on our faces. The dull, deadened hopelessness, the knowledge of the coming doom. The Lebis have been far away from it, detached from what burdens us, but in some of them I am starting to see it too. Comprehension dawns, slowly but certainly."

His eyes found her even as his neck continued to crane upward to accommodate the movements of her blade. "The Tutar will not rest until this world is free of man, and I know in my gut that the next time we see them, it will be a force that dwarfs anything we have yet seen." He spoke plainly and openly, for once not hiding his doubts, for once not concerned with lifting the morales of those around him.

"You and the sisters pray to the Fire Goddess, and perhaps you take heart from such things, but I look up every day and I see nothing looking back at me. I see only the grey light of the day and the blood red of sundown, and I see each day counting down to the last. We give our fallen to Rune, we pray for strength, we beg for aid, but I fear it shall never come."



The blade stilled and she instead placed either hand on an arm of the chair leaned upon it, the pain as it shot through her arm was ignored while she gazed down into the troubled eyes of her Prince.

“Barth…” she said if only to ensure she had his complete focus and to give herself a moment to consider how to phrase the next bit. “The Fire Goddess and the Gods themselves hear our pain and head our prayers…” another pause as she looked away for a moment to gather her thoughts once more. “Perhaps they are waiting for all of Men to pray? Not just us but the Lebis too. They have to hear and know that all of man here in this world, believe in them and know that they can save us. The biggest part of faith is believing when there is no reason to believe,” she gave him a sad kind of smile, eyes locked on his own before she leaned back and took up her knife once more. “I learned that when my father locked me in the cellar for a week with nothing but water, there was no reason to believe it would get better because his behavior had taught me to expect nothing but the worse. Yet, when I was cold and tired, I prayed to Naiya and felt warmth. Whether that was a trick of my mind or the intervention of the Goddess herself…” the sentence dropped off and she shrugged. “I just know that sometimes faith is all we have left and we must cling to it in order to preserve who we are as a human being.”

She allowed silence to follow then, save for the soft sound of the knife against his skin as she continued to trim the beard he was insisted on keeping. Granted, if she could grow facial hair she might have herself, if only to add to her overall image of some mighty titan that rained pain down on the weak that coward before her.



"I shall not spend my days leading prayers to the Gods in the hopes of garnering their attention," he replied with a small smile, "but i do have faith, Ausan. I have faith in my sword-arm, and in yours, and in the strength of our fellow soldiers. I have faith in the sharpened steel that stands between us and our enemies. I have faith that if we must die, we will do so standing tall, spitting in the face of death, defiant to the very end."

A sad look entered his eyes and he looked away from her. "I pray for aid, every single day. I pray for the strength to continue doing what must be done. But what am I waiting on, Ausan? Do I expect to turn around and see an army of Gods striding through our camp? They would have come, long ago, if they intended to. Deep down, you know this- but do not let me deter you. I do believe that the Fire Goddess lends you strength when you need it, and that the Gods do indeed hear our voices- I just don't know if such things will be enough."

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "But whether my prayers are answered or not, I will not turn away from my duty- and unfortunately, that means putting up with these Lebis and their politics. The Lords undoubtedly wish to meet with me again, but this time things will be different." A note of anger had entered his voice now, accompanying the faintest twitch of a facial muscle. "The lives we have just lost could have been spared, if my words were heeded. Their King had his reasons for requesting a muster of our troops, more of their politics, I'm sure, but it was unnecessary and it weakened the protection I put in place for our people. If Sahir believes us a pack of wolves to be tethered to a tree when not needed, with voices not worth listening to, I fully intend to relieve him of that notion."



The words of her Prince rang true and played in the moments of doubt that she strove to fight against when she thought, even for the smallest of seconds that her Goddess no longer listened or cared. He was right, in so many ways and yet she hoped in so many others. The Gods may be waiting for something, that final straw or that final push to do what is needed to save those who prayed to them and worshiped them.

Or they could be…

No! She refused to think that they listened not to their pleas and that it was just a matter of time before they stepped in to save them. She had to believe this. Had to cling to this belief least everything she had learned from a child till now would be for naught.

“Perhaps you should pray to a Goddess instead of a God?” she teased as she finished up. “She might listen to you now that you look less like a savage and more like a rugged Prince,” the teasing continued as she wiped her blade clean along the thigh of her pants. The simple leather material what she wore when not clad in her full armor, which made it comfortable but that was about it when it came to anything in regards to fashion. “I’ve bathed you, shaved you and listened to you whine,” She messed up his hair and stepped away, her arm replaced in the sling to ease the dull ache that had set in while she had shaved him. “The least you could do would be let me punch at least one of those lords for you,” a broad grin was then plastered on her face as if she could implore him with merely that look, to ignore the politics and allow her the freedom to throttle all those who would insult him or their people.

It was obviously going to be a no go, but she was compelled to give it a try.

“Fine, but if I should happen to trip, it is not my fault where my fist, boot or knife ends up,” she winked and turned on her heel walked toward the entrance to his tent. “I’ll leave you to dress yourself, something I think you can manage yes?”

This playful fun side was one that only Barth and Verana saw, he more than her, but it was the Ausan that was beneath the armor. The one who prided herself on comforting those she cared about and trying to ease their concern with a bad joke that usually revolved around her hurting someone for them. It was what she was good at and something she was not afraid to do, regardless of potential backlash from any who might have thought themselves above reproach from her.

At the tent flap she still, one hand on the worn leather her thumb absentmindedly played across the familiar material as she dropped the humorous tone and took up one that was far more serious though sincere.

“You can always place your faith in me Barth. From this world, into the next and even beyond that you can count on my sword and my friendship.”

Then she was gone to wait for him to dress so that they could go together over to the tent where this accursed meeting would take place.

_________________

Farie stood next to Barth watching the prince as he spoke words that echoed inside his mind. Words he could relate to. We must all remember these events, for too easily could the tides have shifted and been instead Lebidans who suffered this fate. Too long has our rivalry stood, he thought these words as he watched Barth ride away. He stayed where he was watching the movement of those around him. He watched for so long he wasn't aware of the passage of time as he reflected upon all that had transpired since the start of this, what all it had led to. Incompetence and views that were flawed had led to the slaughter of innocents all because it had taken to long to get help to them. Farie felt sickened and angry all at once as he watched the wounded being cared for and the fires of cremation being lit. The bodies of all those who had died being burned. He watched until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He had been there only a few moments no doubt. He looked up to see Cordian by his side. He met the man's gaze and sighed.

"This should not have happened Cor," Farie said softly to a man twice his age, a friend he trusted implicitly, his mentor and his second in command. Steel blue eyes burning with fire met his gaze in turn, but Cordian didn't speak. Farie knew that look, "how many?" was all he asked. Cordian would understand.

"Three of our own, I have no other numbers to give, too many were lost," the cold hard tone of Cordian's voice told Farie everything the man's words did not. They may have only lost three of their own from his father's retinue, but the losses of this day had been too heavy regardless of who's man had paid in blood. Farie gently squeezed the hand that rested on his shoulder.

"It's time we speak with my father," Farie said his voice growing cold and hard as steel. The anger lacing his tone evident as he spoke. Cordian nodded and headed towards the two man who held their horses. Farie followed casting one final glance at the carnage around them. So much loss in so short a time. He had to do something. He reached the horses and swung up onto his own taking off towards camp. Cordian fell in step behind him.

Farie and Cordian reached the camp to see the general commotion of lords. Farie sighed heavily as he recognized amongst them his own father. He regarded himself. His fine dress and armour stained with blood he had no doubt his father would not take kindly to this. He figured a fight was in his future for certain. He had expected nothing less from the very beginning of all this after all. He knew now for certain that his father and him shared vastly different views over this. He merely hoped he could make his father see reason in this.

Riding towards the general commotion that was entering the meeting tent Farie stopped short and slid down from his stead. Cordian remaining at his shoulder silent and watchful. Farie had taken only a single step forwards then Lord Shalerin spun around no doubt disrupted from his heated conversation with the other nobleman by the sound of Farie's approach. His mouth was open no doubt with a heated word to say, but as he saw Farie and the blood stained appearance Lord Shalerin suddenly closed his mouth his face twisted in distaste.

"Father," Farie began his voice soft and respectful, but a hard edge to the world told his father just how angry Farie truly was.

"You foolish child!" Lord Shalerin began anger lacing his words as he drew closer to his son, "do you have any idea of the repercussion of your actions!" he demanded angrily. Continuing on before Farie could so much as respond. "Just look at you, dressed worse then those filthy peasants standing before the other Lords and our King like some vagabond child! A complete disgrace to our name!" The elder Shalerin Lord kept going, but Farie simply didn't pay further attention to his father at this point, for his words were as tiresome as this entire debacle. How clueless could the man be. Did the safety of countless humans not mater to him at all? Was he only concerned with how he looked. With each word that his father spoke Farie's anger grew until finally he cut across his father's endless tirade.

"Forgive me father that I did not take the time to clean the blood from my clothing and armour prior to entering your esteemed presence. I rather figured you'd rather I come straight away with news of the attack that had just taken place rather then be tardy due to something so trivial as my own appearance. Clearly I was mistaken. Shall I take my leave then and return to my tent to change and clean myself off before making my report?" Farie said each word clipped as he retorted in anger to his father's aimless stupidity.

His words simply enraged his father as Lord Shalerin glared at his son, "how dare you take that tone with me child! Your actions were beyond inappropriate they were disrespectful! I would expect a five year old to run headlong into a battle not their own! Not the commander of my troops! This was not our fight! It was not our blood to be shed!"

"You would have me leave woman and children to die! Simply because they are not born to Lebidan?" Farie asked blazing with fury. His voice pitched higher then before as the outrage over what his father had just said struck deep within him. Where it not for the respect that Farie held for his father he would have struck the elder man. It was clear from the way his jaw tensed and his eyes blazed in anger that violence was close to Farie's thoughts. "You are a coward father! I would rather be disowned from your name then wear your banner into battle if this is the way that you honour our family!"

_________________

Soluunar

Barth grinned as Ausan pondered aloud as to whether or not he could dress himself; he pulled on his wolfskin tunic and pants, both heavily stained by travel, and with a shake of his head he spotted the short-bladed machete he had left behind in his haste earlier. It wasn't often he found himself on the field without it, for despite his preference for the longsword he liked having the secondary weapon for close quarters. He would need to avoid making such mistakes in the future, lest they cost him his life.

He belted the machete on and replaced his boots as Ausan's final words to him echoed in his mind. "My faith in you and in our friendship is everlasting, Ben," he whispered softly as he straightened up. "I rely on you more than you could ever know."

He ran a hand over his beard, now noticeably neater, as he moved to the tent flaps. Ausan hated the thing- she never liked it on his face, and in their youth she had often quarreled with him whenever he allowed it to progress too far beyond a dark shadow concealing the skin of his jawline. But nowadays she took care of it for him, and though they did not speak of it, he knew why she did it.

Guilt. The shadow is lighter than in the past, but still it is there. It hangs over both of us, undeniable and too vast to ever be fully left behind, he thought as he paused at the flaps separating him from the world outside. But now was not the time to think on that. He needed a clear head for what was coming.

He shook himself and ducked through the opening in the canvas, making his way immediately to the Lebi camp after nodding briefly to Ausan. In private they were different, but there was business to attend to now. He fought to keep the limp from showing as he moved gingerly forward, taking great care to focus most of his weight on his left side. He did not wish to show weakness, not now. Not when he was determined to be heard, politics be damned. His father they saw as a toothless old tiger, and they were right, though such a description was rather generous by Barth's estimation. But Paetar Krinwulf's son would not be cowed. Not this time.


After a short trek, he finally approached the meeting area in time to hear raised voices up ahead. Barth watched in silence as the Lord Knight Shalerin was berated by his father for having a dirty appearance, and also for participating in the scrimmage. Although he'd had encounters with both men, the contrast between the two was nothing if not jarring.

Once the elder Shalerin announced that the small battle was 'not their fight', Farie appeared to have had enough.

"You would have me leave woman and children to die! Simply because they are not born to Lebidan? You are a coward father! I would rather be disowned from your name then wear your banner into battle if this is the way that you honour our family!"

A ringing silence followed the Lord Knight's pronouncement; Barth stepped forward, reaching the tall Lebi's side so as to fix the elder of the two men with a steady gaze. Behind Lucianus Shalerin, he could see the large tent that no doubt housed King Sahir; there were some other royals present as well, though Barth paid no heed to them for the time being.

"If you do wish to disown your son, he would be welcome to fight under my banner. It may be tattered and ragged, but his abilities would be appreciated for what they are. You speak to him as if he were a child- well this child has displayed uncommon skill in the face of a new enemy. It is men like him who will give us a fighting chance, Shalerin, and you would recognize that if you were not so busy worrying about appearances and bloodlines."



Farie turned as he heard the voice behind him. He regarded Barth for a moment as he listened to the man's words. He heard the angry gasp from his father and Farie knew things were going to get fugly.

"How dare you interrupt what is none of your business, Prince" Lucianus sneered the last word as if it where something disgusting he was having to swallow. His eyes blazed with fury and indignation, disgust making his lips curl. Lucianus glared with open derision at Barth. It was evident the elder Shalerin thought as little as possible of him.

Farie was absolutely stunned by his father's words and the open hatred on the man's face. His eyes were wide with shock and outrage. Anger quickly darkened his features.



There was movement behind the elder Shalerin as several men emerged from within the tent, but Barth's attention was focused on the Lord who had drawn his ire.

"None of my business?" Barth felt his face grow hot, as the anger he had held in check for so long in regards to these Lords finally began bubbling to the surface. He moved closer, a muscle in his jaw tensing up as he glared.

"You say that defending our people was not your fight. A brave claim to make, since it was by the order of your King that the force protecting my people was a fraction of its former size! He wished to make a show of his new allies for the benefit of Lords like you, and if he had not made such a demand, lives could have been saved. We would not be burning the corpses of innocent people right now as I speak, had your foolish politics not taken precedence. And now, I hear that you feel no responsibility?"

He clenched his fist, for the first time no longer aware of the pain in his leg. "This is enough to make me question the very nature of our alliance, Lucianus. It makes me question many things."



Farie couldn't help the pain that crept into his eyes with every spoken word turning the anger he felt towards his father into full rage as every word that Barth spoke fell on deaf ears. Farie glared at the man he had once held in such high standing. Had even called a hero, in a voice as cold as ice he said so quietly his words were only heard by those closest to them, "I for one, will not remain here to stand for this. Those were people who did not deserve their fate father. Once you told me that on a battlefield all man are equal, is that not the case here? Or does our own stupidity get us all killed?"

"ENOUGH." Lucianus roared to his son, before Farie could keep speak. His angry gaze turned away from his son, but only for a moment, "your just like your mother, soft and ignorant," and with that he turned that fury to Barth, "Our politics as you call it is all that is keeping your people from starving, or being massacred. Remember who you're talking to, young Prince, for you need us. We on the other hand do not need you." He sneered derisively.



Ever at his side, like a silent shadow Ausan walked with him up to the tent that would house this…meeting. Even the mere thought of it exhausted her mentally beyond measure, but she pushed that aside for now. Right now, her prince needed her and that was all that mattered. As luck would have it, they came upon a family dispute that was not worthy of anyone who claimed to be noble born. Even her father, the tough bastard that he was would have berated her in private at that age, if he would have done so at all once she had slain her first man.

Knowing that her place was to remain at Barth’s side and no more, she stood there in quiet silence, though when he spat out the word Prince, her arm was removed from the sling. When he commented on their people needing them her first clenched and by the time the last of the words left his lips her fist had flown and struck the old bastard right across the jaw.

“Be lucky that was my shield arm and not my sword arm,” she remarked from the now downed man. “Or else I doubt you would have the sense to even think right now,” she spat on the ground at his feet and glared up at the other Nobles who had gathered.

“By the right of my father’s blood and the might of my own blade I challenge any of you to fight me! If you wish to stand up for this poor soft bastard then do so! I have faced foe worthy of nightmares and there is not a man alive nor dead that I fear! By the might of Naiya! I accept any and all challenges to settle this matter here and now!”



Barth watched as Ausan moved forward like a blur, smoothly decking the Lord in the jaw, sending him sprawling out onto the hard ground. Before he could do more than make the wry observation that the Elder Shalerin's clothes were no longer quite so clean, Ausan had issued her challenge in a loud, ringing voice that traveled over the entire camp.

And then, there was motion.

Lebis in every direction drew their swords, their faces displaying outrage at the assault of one of their Kingdom's most prominent Lords. Lucianus rubbed at his jaw from the ground, but he said nothing as men from amongst their number moved forward with blades in hand. Without conscious thought Barth drew his short-bladed weapon from its sheath, even as behind them, from the Linden camp, men and women alike mimicked his action, prepared to stand with the Maiden. They were vastly outnumbered, but they advanced all the same as the tension in the air around them grew.

"This does not need to happen," he said as his eyes darted from person to person, analyzing their movements in preparation for an attack. He was going to try to diffuse the situation, but if needed he would not hesitate to use his machete. "If the Tutar break through the battle lines, they will not care what nation anyone hails from. If we do not stand together, there will be no hope for man. There will be no banners left to fight for. There will be nothing left."



Cordian had stood by Farie's side throughout the whole exchange. His own anger and disappointing mounting with every word that Lucianus uttered. However, as his station prohibited him from interfering he remained silent and felt a small part of his own loyalty die, as he watched the way Farie's face darkened with rage. Saw the hurt and torment reflected in the eyes of a man he had known since adolescence. Cordian was Farie's oldest friend.

Farie was torn between the father he loved, the country he owed his loyalty to and the man whom he had stood with in battle. On this day Farie would stake all his loyalties and all his faith with another country against a common enemy that was greater then their two lands combined. Farie had seen and felt that enemy first hand, and in this he knew his father was dead wrong. Just as he was about to defy tradition, to defy his father and foresake all his loyalty he watched in startled bewilderment as Ausan instead struck his father across the jaw and sent him crashing into the ground. In one heartbeat the tide changed.

In a single moment Farie made his decision ignoring his father's hurt and bewildered look he turned his back on the man and faced Ausan and Barth, "I will not fight against you Prince Barth." There was nothing in Farie's voice but respect. For in a short time he had come to respect the prince. He regarded Cordian who stood by his side. The older man nodded. Neither had drawn weapon, but it was clear they would not fight against those whom they had been allied for against the Tutar. He regarded those around him, "I will instead stand with you in the face of an enemy far greater then our own differences."

Farie glared back at his father who met his steely gaze with a promise of retribution for his son's betrayal, yet Farie did not care. For if it meant defying his own lineage in order to safe humankind, he'd rather live to see his fiancé Elisia again as a disowned lordling then to die in a fruitless self-righteous man's fight, for the pride of a father who had only insulted his own honour with his words. Farie was disgusted and angry, but not angry enough to destroy their chances of survival. His anger however, was at the father who lay in the dirt behind him. In fact if it hadn't been so close to open warfare between their two countries he'd have congratulated Ausan for her action and words. He felt much as they did that the nobles needed to be taken down a peg or three. Including himself.



The sword still hung at Ausan's hip, untouched and in her mind at that point it was unneeded. None of them, not a damn one of them would be worth her blade this day and she would sooner disarm one of those uptight bastards than to sully her own with their cowardly blood. Not once had she glanced back, but she felt the presence of her people and it suited in instilling her own resolve in the matter.

“My challenge still stands!” Her voice clear as day with complete confidence. “I have no fight with any of you! But, I am no longer going to stand by and allow for these insults!” Slowly, she looked each and every one of them in the eye , “So, I say again. Any and all who wish to challenge me, step forward now and let what may come put it all to rest!”

There was no going back for her on this one, injured arm be damned. She had faced foes more injured than this before and the Tutar never showed mercy. While a fight amongst one another would help nothing, neither would this continued insult and dishonor. If this were to work respect would have to be given and shown.



Several Lebis put their weapons away upon hearing Farie Shalerin's words- undoubtedly men of his retinue, who knew him and who had fought with him in the past. Still, many others continued to hold their blades at the ready; Barth nodded at the Lord Knight, grateful for his words. "Against the Tutar we will need men like you, of that I am certain." As Ausan reinforced her challenge to the camp at large, Barth watched as a fat man with a curly beard and a jeweled circlet upon his brow emerged from the large tent.

"Put down your weapons at once!" cried King Sahir of Lebidan, and immediately all the Lebis who had not already done so sheathed their swords and stood at attention, though some still glowered at Ausan in silence.

"There exist differences between us, yes, this is true," the King continued loudly as he moved towards where Barth stood; Lucianus pushed himself back to his feet, grumbling angrily as Sahir passed him by without looking at him. "But that does not excuse some things. You are right, Prince Krinwulf, to be angry. I thinned the protection around your people, and I did not act swiftly enough in reinforcing it."

Barth watched him levelly, unable to keep the distrust from his features. Thorin Sgaran Sahir was a calculating man, and Barth knew better than to think he was merely there to apologize to him.

"Your fierce Maiden, your Lieutenant, she is also right- insults to your people will not be tolerated by me any longer. You will be shown respect befitting soldiers of your stature. Lord Shalerin spoke hastily, and out of turn," he glanced at Lucianus with a look of reproach, and the Lord's face reddened visibly, "when he said we do not have need of your people. We need you, you need us, and we must all stand together if we are to face the coming danger."

Barth slowly replaced his weapon at his side, and behind him he heard the others following suit. There would be no bloodshed, not today in the camp, but that wasn't enough. At the corner of his eye he caught sight of a bald head over a red beard, causing the usual pang of irritation he felt whenever he found himself in Borim Garth's presence. Idly, he wondered if Ausan saw him and if she was going to be punching anyone else before nightfall. He hoped not, since they were trying to keep tempers from flaring again and a second Lord being struck by Lindenian knuckles in such a short timeframe would only spell disaster.

"Your words are certainly agreeable," he replied calmly, "but will you stand behind them? Will our voices be heard?"

Sahir nodded solemnly, meeting his stare without blinking. "Yes. You have more experience fighting these monsters than anyone, and as such, we must hearken to your wisdom. I hereby grant you, Prince Barth Krinwulf, strategic command of our Allied Forces. My Lord Knights shall answer to you in the coming battles, until further notice."

His words created an explosion; they were suddenly surrounded by sounds of outrage and disbelief that mingled and multiplied to deafening proportions. Borim Garth was shouting, his face as red as his beard, and Lucianus Shalerin was now standing with his mouth hanging open in complete shock. Beside him, a man who had to be Borim's father was swearing into his hands, his whole body shaking with suppressed fury.

While every Lebi Lord and half of the knights assembled quarreled, whispered angrily or stared, on the Linden side there was a pleased silence, with many a shared glance and more than several smirking faces.

"ENOUGH!" shouted the King, and finally a reluctant silence fell over the area. "My word is final."

With that he turned and walked back into the tent, leaving Barth standing where he was, just as surprised as anyone else.

"Well now," he whispered softly. He would have said more, but his mind was curiously blank.




Soluunar

Heldrith'thn sat on the floor in front of the Black Throne, peering up at the fire in the bowl above his head, feeling the warmth spread through his ancient body. He inhaled softly, hearing heavy footsteps rapidly approaching.

"Roumjain! The Grug'jinka is in contemplation! He cannot be disturbed," said the acolyte, but it seemed that the angry Chieftain would not be deterred. "He cannot-"

The robed Tutar's words were cut off as he was knocked aside effortlessly by the hulking, blue-green skinned Tutar. He wore his battle garb, and the sound of metal striking the stone floor of the Temple grew louder as Heldrith'thn rose to meet him.

"What is it?"

"You allow small force move out while we gather others- Roumjain understand this. But why can't Roumjain join with first force? Why Roumjain have to wait? Why all Chieftain wait? Want man-blood! Want crush dead-eyes and twist polished-steel! No want wait!"

"The Flame commands it," Heldrith'thn replied, unimpressed. "I already told you once, when I told the others. The first force was already prepared for battle. They are smaller in number, but they are large enough to be enough to defeat the men all on their own. In the meantime we muster the second army, which will take a great deal of time."

He wasn't even sure if the brute was following along with his words or not, but he didn't care- he came to the Temple demanding answers, determined to have his way, and he was going to get one of those things.

"Fools like you would want to join the first force as you please, so that when a small group is ready, they would trickle out there and join the others, little by little. The Flame does not wish this, Roumjain. Our first army will push the men to the very ends of their power, if it doesn't obliterate them entirely, that is. And then, once ready, our second force will go out all at once, three times the size of the first and bolstered by the presence of every Chieftain. It will be unstoppable, Roumjain, and the shadow that falls in its wake shall last forever. For without light there is no shadow, and our light is the Flame."

Roumjain blinked several times, mercifully silent after the flood of information.

"Be gone, Roumjain. Now!"

He shouted the last word and the Tutar, at least 3 times his size, jumped and fled from in front of him, racing out of the Temple as if fearful of being burned- or worse.

Heldrith'thn took a deep breath, and moved back to the floor in front of the Black Throne.

"Soon. Soon the end comes for man."

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
Upper Regions

The silver haired Circle God stood in silence, staring at the fountain's clear water as it rippled softly out from the center of the immense circular construct; it was a calming practice for him, something he did when he was particularly stressed. Completing the Circle was proving to be nothing short of an arduous task, one he was growing more and more weary of as time went on.

He heard the familiar sound of chain mail behind him and turned, already aware of who approached him.

"Malinar, I wasn't expecting you."

The God of Chaos and Destruction smiled as he walked into the garden, his reddish brown hair just barely touching his powerful shoulders. His tanned, leathery countenance was stretched in a grin as he drew closer.

"Since when is Chaos predictable, my friend?"

Rolyn smiled, mirroring Malinar's expression. "A fair point. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Malinar shrugged, sitting down on the bench directly opposite the fountain, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "I am just here to talk. What of the Circle?"

"I've made little headway, I'm afraid. Galaia is reluctant to join, she prefers to stay out of it."

Malinar nodded sagely. "Yes, she prefers more room to spread out. Plus, joining us would confine her to the Upper Regions, a prospect she is not fond of in the least."

"Indeed. She prefers traipsing around with Kahz, and she does not envy us the rules that bind us. It is not a life she wishes for herself. For the time being, I believe Freiya will make an adequate addition."

Malinar nodded again. "Yes, she brings a valuable perspective. And it is not much of a Circle, with just two of us after all," he added with a grin. "As powerful as you may be, we need other bodies around that table."

Rolyn moved closer and Malinar stood up, stretching slightly, looking lazy and content, although his eyes displayed the same keen sense of awareness they always did. From when he had been a Mortal General, that quality had never left him nor had it faded with time.

"You speak highly of me and of my strength, but I know these things, Malinar. And I know you have surpassed my power, as I expected you would."

Malinar shook his head, bowing slightly at the words.

"Dear Rolyn, knowledge is power, and that is one thing you will always possess more of. In that regard I do not come close- however, it wouldn't hurt you to learn the way of the blade, you know."

He drew his sword and extended it out, a gauntleted hand clutching the gleaming, razor-sharp steel.

Rolyn smiled, shaking his head at the weapon. "Thrice now you have offered, Malinar, and my answer has not changed. I need no weapons, nor do I desire to use them."

"It is a knowledge you lack- one of the few things that you have no grasp of."

"Thank you, my friend, but I will pass."

He placed the weapon back at his side, looking somewhat disappointed but ultimately unsurprised.

"Very well, Rolyn, but don't say I never offered."


"Lord Rolyn."

Rolyn jumped, realizing he was not alone in his home.

"Yorinth. I did not hear you come in."

"Um, My Lord, I knocked several times. and I called for you as well."

Rolyn blinked with a rueful shake of his head as he rose from the mat. It was one of two mats in his dwelling, the one he sat on during periods of contemplation and reflection. There was another, somewhat thicker one for sleeping. Rolyn Skyhand did not spoil himself with material things- the home was one of the most modest ones to be found in the Upper Regions, and it was solely intended as a place of peace for the old God. Nothing more.

"My apologies, Yorinth. I was deep in thought."

The Elder God of Enduring nodded; Yorinth was one of few Elder Gods who wore plate mail, gleaming and resplendent, though mostly hidden beneath the midnight blue robes he wore at all times. He did not polish or maintain the metal- its appearance was simply a result of his dominion.

There were limits, of course, but for the most part Yorinth could preserve or restore almost anything he wished. Above all and regardless of his abilities, Rolyn placed a great deal of faith in the Elder God. He was a wise, eternally calm man who never strayed from his purpose, and he was also one of the God of Time's only open supporters in the Upper Regions.

Yorinth shook his head quickly, causing the long brown ponytail behind him to swing back and forth. "Not at all, My Lord. I would not have disturbed you, normally, but I came to inform you that I am taking my leave, for a time."

Rolyn frowned at him, puzzled. "Oh? Might I ask what for?"

Yorinth shook his head again, this time rather sadly, as a pained expression appeared across his features. His thick eyebrows bunched up and his heavy jaw grew visibly tense as he stared regretfully at his Lord.

"No, My Lord. With respect, I cannot tell you. Fa-fare well," he finished and turned, his form moving quickly as he exited Rolyn's dwelling. The Circle God watched him join his lone Demigod, Lagaan, outside before departing with him, still moving rapidly, as if determined to get as far away from Rolyn as possible.

With a twitch of his pale blue robes, Rolyn finally turned away once the man was no longer visible, now smiling.

"Yorinth, Lydia, Gaius and Akryanus. Only the last knows of my involvement, and she shall remain in the Upper Regions. The others leave of their own free will, and they are free to do whatever they can to aid whoever they might encounter."

Between the 3 of them there were 11 Demigods, bringing their total number to 14. Just 1 shy of being enough for him to invoke the Law of Protection, yet small enough that it did not constitute a full military force. It was the perfect plan, if only it didn't make him feel so… devious. He still needed one more, however.

"All for the best," he said softly to himself, even as he remembered the sword Malinar had once offered him. If the man found out what he was up to, he would likely offer it once again. Only this time, the blade would be facing the other direction.


_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_



The Tutari force that moved forth from the Ravine was large, larger than anything the soldiers of Linden had yet seen. The war between the demons and the dead-eyes was long and hard, but the Mortals had only ever fought bands and individual Chieftains- never a unified force. The beasts moved very slowly at the onset as their path was new to them; they had been ordered to cut straight north instead of eastward as they had in times past.

The Flame commanded it, and they would follow the Flame to the end. Savage grunts, snarls of exertion could be heard echoing down into the cavernous depths of the Ravine as they picked their way forward, finally emerging from the choked, black lands of their birth, walking upon dried grass and dead weeds as they waited for the remnant of their people who had yet to complete the climb.

Ahead of them they could see trees and green grass, and far beyond where the grass began, not yet visible, they knew the humans waited. The Tutar licked their lips, tongues running over razor-sharp fangs and tusks as they envisioned the slaughter that was coming.

Patience was something they did not have much of, but they needed it now. For a change they were not moving in small groups, instead they now moved in ranks and rows, an army of terror, a sea of black steel that would not abate until it tasted the blood of the men they hated so much.

On every one of their backs there were scars, brands given to them at birth, reminding them of their ancestors' oppression at the hands of the humans. The hatred had burned in their hearts their whole lives, and the thirst for killing was ever at the back of their minds, waiting to finally be satiated. Soon, their most primal needs would finally be met.

The remainder of their number emerged from the foul pit that was their homeland, and they began moving once more. They moved with some semblance of order, not much by the standards of men but still a far cry from the Tutar remembered by those from Linden. Once their enemies came into view they would charge with all the ferocity of their race, of course, but for now they moved with a calm, relentless purpose. A long walk remained ahead of them, but they were close to the slaughter they had spent their whole lives waiting for.

They were close.


_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
Soluunar

Barth's first command was that their camps be moved westward and north- when the Lebi Lords questioned the reasoning behind such an order, he explained that the Tutar would be able to bypass their camps entirely and attack the city directly if they remained where they were. There was no guarantee of where the attack would come from- in the past it was ever eastward, from the black mountains that stood between the Ravine and the Scorched Plains, but there was no way of knowing if such a trend would continue without stretching their troops too thin.

When the Lebi Lords argued that by moving north so they would be surrendering valuable ground to the Tutar, Barth explained to them that by remaining in the more open southern reaches of Lebidan's countryside they ran the real risk of getting wedged into a war on two fronts. Better to surrender some land and fight facing one direction, where inferior numbers wouldn't hurt them quite so much. The Lords and their Knights relented, and the camps were moved.

He had beaten down the complaints and the arguments with his logic twice before, but this time Barth was doubting his ability to bring the others around to his thinking.

"You want us to what, now?" asked Lord Knight Resuran, as he blinked down at the shovel Barth held out for him.

"I want you to dig. Trenches," he said, as the tall Knight with the braided mustache (Rune's Mercy, he still hasn't trimmed it) reluctantly took it from him. Next to him, Borim Garth made a loud snorting sound and stared at Barth as if he were mad.

"Jahal, why are you humoring him? This is madness! We are Lord Knights! We are honorable soldiers, decorated warriors! We are not gardeners!"

Barth sighed and rubbed his eyes. The other Knights were also staring at him with similar looks on their faces. One Knight, a son of Lord Brigham based on the crest adorning his armor with its three sets of feather wings surrounding a shield, was staring dubiously around at the others. He was the eldest son by Barth's reckoning, a tall man with blond hair whose armor was positively blinding in the sunlight. Behind him another pair of Knights openly rolled their eyes at the insanity of the Linden Prince.

Overall, Barth was wholly unsurprised by the reception garnered by his order, but he was going to try to explain as he had before.

"The Tutar wear crude armor, and many wear little at all. They are able to do this, because they rely on their savage attacks as both their offense and their defense. They thrive on momentum and force. If they came charging up here at us right now, without being forced to slow down, bad things would happen."

He began pacing back and forth in front of them, praying that they were paying heed to his words because he was far too tired and agitated to allow for repeating himself.

"They don't use horses, firstly, because they are too big to ride anything, and secondly, because they don't need them. They can run with incredible speed that belies their size, and if you don't believe me ask any of your countrymen who have faced the things. Trenches will save lives. Trenches will force them to slow down and climb, and might even help tire them out a bit more than a leisurely run down a straight path. Trenches will give our archers more time to thin their ranks, and trenches will make it harder for them to communicate and coordinate during their charges."

Some of the Knights were nodding now, but he could see doubt remaining on some of their faces.

"Most importantly, it will slow their momentum."

"Aye, and why do you need us, then?" questioned Lord Knight Garth, ever the spokesperson whenever there was disagreement to be had. "There are plenty of men, and women too, from your camp, capable of putting shovel to dirt. Why bother the Lord Knights with this menial work?"

Barth gestured out to the countryside below them; their camp was at the top of a very gentle slope, with trees on either side and green grass for as far as the eye could see. "First, we need a lot of trenches, Lord Knight. Second, the others will work harder from seeing men of your standing taking on such labors alongside them. And lastly, you will do it because I ordered it. Every single soldier will be digging trenches, taking it in shifts if necessary. Breaks will be arranged, if you fear your endurance is not up to par, Garth."

His voice had taken on a new tone now, tinged with irritation, and Borim finally appeared to slump down slightly, seeing no way out of the work ahead of him.

"The exceptions are new recruits, their trainers, and the scouts. And even they will likely take turns digging. If there is a single Knight without a shovel in his hand and sweat on his brow when Ausan comes around later, the Tutar will be the least of your concerns. The shovels are waiting yonder," he added as he jerked his thumb over one of his shoulders to the tremendous stack of tools that had been collected from the city north and from the camps. "Get to work. Not only are all the Knights going to be digging, but they will be the first to dig. It will be good for morale. I have already marked the digging spots, obviously you'll start with those furthest, and work your way back."

He moved away, listening to a few grumbles as they all moved towards the shovels; he knew they wouldn't be happy about it, but all that mattered was that they did it. His own people would share in the labor of course, and he himself would take a turn later once he had ensured that preparations were taking their proper course.

He was nearly back at camp when he caught sight of a familiar face; he frowned, recognizing the gaunt visage of his father, whom he had successfully avoided for much of the previous week. He still wore the tarnished silver sword at his side, desperate as he was to hold onto whatever relics of the past still belonged to him. The sight left a sour taste in his son's mouth.

"Ah, young Barth! Good to see you, my son."

"What do you want," he said flatly and without inflection, more of a statement than a question.

"Son, there's no need for animosity," Paetar Krinwulf chided with a grin on his face that Barth saw right through. It was as fake as the jewels in the crown he'd been forced to leave behind when the Tutar drove them from their home. He recalled that the king had to be dragged away, lest he go back for it and die in the attempt. Barth wouldn't have minded, personally.

"I am just so proud. You have these Lord Knights doing as you say! You are giving them orders, and they are obeying. This is our way in, young Barth! I could leverage this-"

"You will leverage nothing, you old fool," Barth said roughly, cutting him off. "You put your own interests ahead of an entire Kingdom of people already, and we know how that turned out. I will be dead before I see you in a position of power again."

"Wh-what? Barth, you can't be ser-"

Barth seized him by the scruff of his neck and drew him so close their faces were barely an inch apart.

"You sent me away to die, long ago," Barth whispered, his voice soft and dangerous, carrying on it every ounce of the fury he held in his heart towards the father who only ever loved power and wealth, though not with enough intelligence to hold onto either of them. "You never cared about our people, or me- everyone around you was just another pawn, something to be used for your own maneuverings. Well those days are long gone, father."

He let go of the man and walked away, entering the camp at long last, noting that the pain in his right leg, while much better than before, still pulsated on occasion as if to remind him it was still there. It was shaping up to be yet another long day.

_________________

Seniré stood there for a few seconds after Ausan had left, her brain obviously trying its best to catch up with her situation. A myriad of very faint expressions flittered across her now-visible face as she experienced emotions that had been shoved aside in the rush of adrenaline, illustrating clearer than words her internal conflict.

A “Sister”… she was to be one of them, then. If she could handle it, of course. It was still highly likely that they would rescind the decision after a few days, perhaps sooner, depending on whether it was based off a meeting with any of the Brigham men or her own fantastic inability, but she was lighter than air just to be given the chance at all. A jittery smattering of laughter rolled through her gut but she held it back, only allowing herself a small smile that was quickly smothered behind one hand. She could feel the faint heat of her cheeks and knew that they must be flushed, though hopefully it was believable that the redness came from her recent physical exertion or intimidation. In the back of her mind, the second daughter was almost confused by her visceral response to the matter; she was behaving like a normal woman would after the handsomest lord had just proposed marriage, rather than a scarred woman proposing an opportunity to get covered in the blood of monsters.

A sense of eager anticipation –not dread or foreboding- seemed to spread through her deepest layer of skin like a sheet of warm peppermint, bringing a heat that made her want to scream to the Sun like a savage as well as the soothing reassurance that she had done something right. It was an odd mixture, to be sure, but she didn’t think anything had ever felt so beautiful as it coursed through her veins. The budding passion, denied by “decency” and “limitations” before now, swelled in her chest and demanded dominance over her wallflower nature and fade-into-the-background mentality that her lifestyle had shaped. For the first time in a very long time, there was confidence in place of shyness, and a surety in her own desire. Seniré knew she could never look beautiful in the latest court fashions or be able to dance the latest step in a ballroom, but may the Light cease to shine on her if she couldn’t learn to protect her home. That… that she could do. She would do it.

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of her mind, a gawky little girl plucked the etched wings from a shield and placed them on her back. She would not miss this chance to fly.

Her eyes closed and she inhaled deeply through her nose, as though trying to reset herself. Odd how such a transpiring of events could make even the thick air of an army camp smell different. At the end of her exhale, her gold-streaked eyes snapped open and she turned to Verana.

“Where do I start?”


--------------------------
8 Days
--------------------------


The sharp jab from the butt of the polearm sent a pulse of deep ache through her abdomen, made more noticeable from bruises that had yet to heal and muscles that had yet to recover. Seniré had learned quickly, however, and besides a setting of her jaw that denoted the grinding of teeth, she held back visible reactions. Her eyes never dropped from her opponent’s body, the dull training weapon in the offending hands kept in her periphery. It was a mistake that she herself had taken advantage of in a recent situation; never assume that a stick means arms and legs are no longer functional. The thought had to take the foreground in this particular instance, especially: Verana was a roguish, opportunistic fighter close-up and seemed to pride herself on taking advantage of her trainee’s distractions, most of which she caused.

Not that she needed to cause many today. Sen had been placed on what she guessed to be a young tree trunk, balanced horizontally on two rather tall "stumps" (if they could so be called; they were obviously almost half of the original tree) the tops of which had been hollowed into cups for the purpose. This placed her on a crude balance beam, of sorts, approximately six feet above the ground. She had been told that it was to “hone her sense of awareness”, but all she found herself aware of was the distance between her aching body and the unforgiving ground of the army camp outskirts. This wasn’t the first time Verana had prodded her onto the unstable beam, but it was the first time she had bound the blonde woman’s hands behind the small of her back.

A tendril of frustration slipped into Seniré’s mind, forged on the anvil of exhaustion (army training was no picnic, particularly for a woman raised in a castle) but it was quickly smothered in a tidal wave of determination. The Maiden had been willing to offer her extra help, albeit when no one was looking, and the would-be warrior intended to take advantage of it. She had no time for such thoughts as “tired” or “thirsty” or “bruised and potentially fractured ribs”. Sen felt as though she already owed the red-haired fighter quite a debt, not only for bringing her into the fold but for dealing with Derrald’s bluster and self-righteous tirade upon learning that his groom had been… what was the word… ? Oh, right: conscripted by the Lindenian lieutenants. The pale Maiden deserved a hero’s medal for that alone, so sparing some free time to help the clumsy girl was quite a display of charity.

“Come on,” she chirped, the lengthy polearm spinning in effortless circles around her hand, “Land a hit.” The older woman stood casually on the beam across from Seniré, her posture belying the ironclad balance and control of her body. So far, the blonde woman had been able to do nothing but try to avoid the blows, something limited by the terrain and awkward weight distribution that came of her hands being tied. She wracked her brain for a solution, but other than using her feet nothing came to her; and if she swung a leg in a kick, she had no doubt that the hard ground would catch her with all the tender softness of… well, the ground.

She hadn’t felt quite this stuck in some time. Most of the lessons had come surprisingly quickly to the Brigham’s ugly-duckling daughter. It may have taken her several years to learn how to breathe in a corset, but she had grasped many of the basics for combat maneuvering in a matter of days; she was by no means battle-ready, but each day she seemed to become just a little less likely to die when the time for battle came. Some of the women had commented on her “instincts” with interest, but Sen found that those self-same “instincts” tended to come and go on a whim. She constanty watched the soldiers, both men and women, with a hawk-like intensity and mimicked them to the best of her ability, but she could not mimic her own intuition. The only time she seemed able to perform anywhere near a quarter their level (defense-wise, at least) was when she was totally distracted or extremely frustrated, but would these tools be able to serve her against the Tutar the same as they had against a surprised deserter? The uncertainty brought out a familiar hesitance that she did her best to smother. She didn’t want to be that girl anymore. “Lady Seniré Brigham” was a sad, awkward sop of a girl: “Sen” was a Linden recruit, a Sister-warrior (potentially), and certainly did not have time for things like hesitation. The transition had been remarkably easy, all things considered, but the shadows of a pummeled and broken self-image still flitted in her periphery on occasion.

Not that her physical image was very similar to what it had been. She still wore the old, long leather jerkin, but the baggy sleeves of the grey tunic beneath it had been sheared away at the shoulder, leaving her long arms void of fabric. The oversized man’s breeches had been traded in for a pair in a more appropriate size, and the mucking boots had been replaced with smaller but sturdier boots that encased her lower legs from knee to toe. They were heavier, since the leather had been stiffed into armor around the areas over the toe and tendons, but to Sen they fit far better than any lady’s shoe ever had. There had even been a modest assembly of worn leather armor tossed her way; her kinsmen would have turned their noses up at the shoddy accoutrements, still warm with a posthumous soldier’s scent, but Sen had felt oddly invigorated to know that her “new” armor had once protected a proven warrior. Two hardened leather bracers, set in a layering pattern like plate mail, covered her arms from the back of the hand to elbow, and the scuffed pauldrons came attached to stiff leather that encased her from the hollow of the neck to just beneath her breasts. A thick belt the span of a man’s hand wrapped easily around her narrow hips as well, and though no two pieces of leather were the same color or had the same wear, she felt a thrill of pride when she secured them to her body.

Her silly groom’s cap, of course, had been one of the first things to go. The gold-streaked mop of hair had been tamed in a different way: the bulk of it now stayed braided low on her scalp, though she was unused to doing so and the twisted locks often had as many stray strands as captured. Rather than cut her bangs short, she had braided them into smaller versions of the one in back and tucked them into the hair stretched over the top; the result was a totally clear face, save for the odd little twist that refused to be corralled and stubbornly hung just to the side of her left eye. It made for a rather messy, piecemeal style, but she could see and so far no one had been able to use the short, thick braid against her. Something about keeping her face open to the world brought about a change in her posture that was quickly becoming permanent: her shoulders stayed back, even when relaxed, and though her spine still tended to curve it was always languidly to the side rather than defensively inward. It made avoiding Sir Derrald almost completely unnecessary; he searched for a slouched young man with a hat and dirty bangs, so this inquisitive, blonde woman held no recognition for him. Still, she did not seek him, or any of the men from Lebidan. Sen had been keeping close to the female fighters, and otherwise kept to the outskirts. Even if her raw, untested lack of scarring or muscle marked her as different from the rest of them, at least she looked like she was probably in the right place. The recruit did her best to avoid eye contact with almost everyone, and fortunately her previous lifestyle had enabled the perfection of a “quickly forgotten” image.

Not that it helped her much right now. The dull end of the pole came whizzing toward her again and she managed to avoid it by bending backwards, unwilling to tip forward and sacrifice more balance than was necessary.

“Just once!” came Verana’s instructive voice (though it sounded more like a taunt at this point).

Light, woman, how?, came the thought as the offensive instrument came back for another attempt. She was starting to get irritated, not so much with Verana as the situation. Sen could even feel a tiny animalistic growl rising in the back of her throat, though she didn’t vocalize. Her brows tilted downward in a mixture of stubbornness and concentration and she let her unlocked knees bend a bit more, bringing her lower to the beam. Never let them see you sweat, she thought to herself, like a little affirming mantra. Her current opponent didn’t really count as “them”, she was sure, but it was the principle of the thing and this was training for reality. Though her ire had started to snowball, her face remained a mask of unemotional concentration.

* “Three more people died while you’ve been practicing for your honeymoon!” *

Hot indignation flashed through Sen’s eyes despite her wishes, pupils shrinking. She was unable to charge, given the two-dimensional nature of the terrain, but it would be difficult to call her next move anything other than that. She sprang toward Verana in a cobra-like strike, sacrificing all of her balance to a heady momentum. Time slowed and she felt a solid whack from the pole, but she was already close enough that it had come from the base of the instrument and couldn’t gather enough latent energy. However, the Maiden’s other hand shot forward to meet her charge with a solid set of knuckles, somehow backed with firm power that belied her sleek figure. Sen felt the wind rush from her lungs for what felt like the twelve-thousandth time that week, but rather than immediately crumbling and toppling from the beam, she braced her weight against the fist and struck out for Verana’s feet with her own. The first leg of the opposing woman managed to dance away, but the nature of their arena was awkward at the best of times. With a small jump, the red-haired woman avoided the kick with her other leg: but found both calves entwined with Seniré’s own lengthy limb. There was no time for the instinct-driven woman to enjoy her questionable “victory”, as the two of them promptly slipped from the smooth surface of the trunk. The Maiden easily caught herself, hands finding the proper purchase so that her body swung effortlessly down, feet dangling not far from the ground.

Sen, however, landed on her face.

She remained still for a moment, letting the flashing bursts of light fade from her vision before re-opening her eyes. The faint taste of blood lingered on her tongue and the deep ache in her already over-worked muscles sharpened, dutifully alerting her to the new bruises that would definitely show their blue-black faces presently. The trainee yanked herself slowly into a sitting position just in time to see her sometimes-mentor drop calmly from the beam.

“That doesn’t count,” she said, but Sen could hear the smile even before she found it on the woman’s face.

Twin rose-colored eyes blinked blankly, then closed as a matching smile tilted her own thin lips. She casually wiped the thin line of blood that had dripped from the corner of her mouth onto her shoulder, succeeding in more of a smear than a removal, then hauled herself awkwardly to her feet. Verana talked as she sliced through the bindings around her wrists, her voice instructional but not unkind.

* “The idea,” she started, with only a hint of exasperation, “is to be able to shift balance without sacrificing speed or form. You cannot outlast a Tutar, as they are powerful and do not tire. Your only hope, then, is to kill them while you still can, and to do so you will need to not only evade, but also land some hits of your own. And those hits will need to have something behind them, otherwise you will merely be swatting the flies off of their backsides for them."

She regarded Sen for a moment, her lips pursed in thought.

"You've demonstrated some instinct and you can move, but you will eventually need to display some ability with counterattacking. You cannot sacrifice power in the interest of dodging. Just… re-direct it. Don’t waste the momentum, use it. And for the love of Naiya, lower your center.” She paused, a short, firm little sigh puncturing the brief silence.

"Your people… this is new to them. I have seen how they watch us, half of them disbelieving and the other half unnerved or vexed. And the ladies, they stare with eyes wide, and I know they wonder if they too can pick up steel and defend their lands. That is why you are… important."

There was a silence, while the last word hung in the air for so long Sen wasn't sure if that was actually what the Maiden had said. * She tilted her head, expression shifting into a something both seeking and a little concerned. Seniré rubbed the rope impressions from the skin of her wrists, eyes strangely intense and fixed on Verana.

* "If I can make you into the type of soldier that can survive, then you could possibly be a sort of standard, something they can look to, that can show them it is possible. There is a considerable supply of untapped potential behind Lebidan's walls, and if we are to make the most of it, it begins with you. You must succeed- you are the first, and a quick death for you would not do much for our cause. That is why I will do whatever it takes to keep you alive, Sen."

There was a fire blazing in Verana's eyes that made Sen jolt back a fraction of an inch, as though given a static shock.

"Whatever it takes."

She paused, the smoldering heat of her eyes calming into the more-familiar bright clarity. Sen thought she looked just faintly reflective. When the pale woman spoke again, her words came with an audible note of amusement. “If you’re going down, it won’t be alone, hm?” she half-chuckled, obviously referring to Sen’s charge-and-tangle. “Not a horrible style. Not particularly good either, but it beats dying pointlessly, I suppose. Perhaps this way the next person will finish them off while they're busy pulling free of your limbs. ” *

The Lebi exhaled audibly, tension dropping from her shoulders and tiny smile tilting her lips once more. That was surprisingly close to a "good job" and even though it had been made clear that she had not passed this particular session with flying colors, the storkish young woman rather felt a little tingle of victory along the surface of her skin. Or maybe it was just the bruises.

“You should let me punch people more often,” Ausan said as she shook out her fist and joined the rest of her people in a celebratory silence of satisfaction. Claps of congratulation were given to her shoulder, among some “high-fives” and “bumping of fists”, to those closest to her. This was a good day for them; a good day for their people and one could not help but feel a sense of satisfaction.

A glance through the crowd of those gathered and her gaze was met with a familiar glare that she actually welcomed this time around. A challenge or more a silent promise was exchanged in the look between them.

You’re next.

“Now, what’s next?” she asked Barth with a smile that was beyond pleased with herself.

-------
Over the next eight days, life was hard but better. They had a voice now and a presence, more than just the refugees begging at the heels of the Lebis for help. Now, her Prince was their commander and he made the changes that were needed to ensure the survival of as many of them as possible, even if that meant people were a bit **** because of it. Even with the changes that had been made she could still feel that anger and animosity that came from those of the other Kingdom. Admittedly, there was less of it, but enough was still there that Ausan happily waited for her chance to punch the next lord in the face. She figured the next punch should grant Barth the title and right as King to both Kingdoms. All she wanted, or more needed was the chance to punch him right to the throne.

The hooves of her horse galloped down the line of trenches, the beasts weight caused its hooves to tear into the soft earth and kick up earth as it rode by. This was the fourth group she had to check up on and there were still that group of Knights that would be less than pleased when she rode up to check on their work. She was somewhat looking forward to that one, if only she planned on putting them all to shame when she got down in trench and showed them how an woman was better than them.

“Dig!” she shouted from her horse before she dismounted and strode to those at work. Today she wore as little as possible and envied the men who could afford to go shirtless in this heat and oppressive work. The sleeveless vest she wore was a light weight and was only on to cover up the more…feminine attributes she possessed. The pants were made of the same simple material and just as lightweight to allow a freedom of movement but nothing that would smoother her either. Down in the dirt with the others she took up a shovel and helped them the best that she could. Dirt load after dirt load was tossed up out of the trench, only to then be carted away by some of the citizens. Once she was done there, she exited the trench and mounted up once more to head off to check on the others.

In the back of her mind, she almost begged that someone be obnoxious and give her a reason to toss them out of the trench and then back in again. Barth would likely frown at her methods, at least in public, but after this last encounter he had to admit she knew how to change the world with nothing but her fist.

“Imagine if I used my sword arm?” she mused aloud to herself which caused her to chuckle at her earlier thought of making Barth the King of both kingdoms with a punch. Obviously she needed to use her sword arm for that.

---

"What do you think you are doing?"

"Checking out the view," replied the Knight, a thin man with a mop of curly black hair, who was tall but who had a narrow jaw currently housing a malicious smile. The shovel next to him didn't look like it had been hefted in some time, and his forehead was dry. "I don't usually like muscles on my women, but you look like you can use those arms for more than swordplay," he continued with a glance up and down her body. "I have a weapon worth wielding, if you want to go somewhere private."

She slowly licked her lips and arched a brow before she walked casually over to him. "Is that a fact? Why don't you whip it out and show me?" she smiled surprisingly sweetly, which had those familiar with her person stepping back.

The Knight's grin widened, and he closed the gap between them. "Josen," one of his fellows whispered with a wide-eyed glance at her, "maybe you shouldn't-"

The knight put a hand up, cutting him off mid-sentence with a look of annoyance. "When I signed on with Lord Brigham all those years back I was promised a title, spoils, and some of the…" he leered at Ausan for a moment before looking back at his comrade, "sweeter things."

The Knight was a new arrival from the city, and had obviously missed much of what transpired in the camp before they changed locations at Barth's command.

"So you want to see my longsword, eh? Better stand back before you hurt yourself," he said roguishly as he reached into his trousers and began pulling out his "weapon".

The other Knight shook his head and turned away, leaving them in relative solitude within the trench.

It took all she had to not roll her eyes and keep her face looking “interested” in whatever shriveled up hunk of jerky he pulled from his pants. Somehow, by the blessing of the great fire goddess, she managed to even portray an expression of surprise.

“Oh my…m..may I?” she asked with an hesitant hand. The moment he nodded agreement she reached for his…sword, slow at first almost tentative before she snatched it in her strong grasp and squeezed.

“Do you have any idea how long it takes for a Tutar to run you through with their spears?” she asked him and when he hesitated to answer she jerked her hand. “Faster than it would take you to whip this pathetic excuse of a **** out of your pants!” A jerk and a twist now, “So how about you focus on digging this ****ing trench and less time thinking about what poor girl you are going to force yourself on. Because with any luck, when they run you through with their spear it will be over nearly as fast as your own pathetic sexual endeavors!”

A final jerk given, before she used her free hand to shove him by his face away and as he lay there on the ground holding himself she threw his shovel at him.

“Now get your pathetic ass up and dig!”

_________________

Farie couldn't help the smile that curved his lips as the kings words settled over them. As those around them began to drift away Farie walked over to Barth and said in passing, "It's about time you were properly recognised," he didn't wait for a response from Barth, instead he kept going back towards his tent. There would be plenty of time in the coming days and months for words to be exchanged. For now his support had be established and that was all that would be needed.

As Farie made his way back to his tent Cordian stepped to his side. Farie looked at him with a small half smile, "Old friend, you did not have to stand by me in my defiance, you know my father will make you pay for this, in ways he cannot me."

"Aye lad, but this old man has plenty of tricks of his own, the warriors of house Shalerin do not follow Lucianus anymore lad, they follow the man they saw fighting the Tutar alongside the warriors who were there and who clearly know the enemy better than we do. Lad your father is toothless dog who will not say any of us. He will instead divide us. Do you think he wishes to do such? While his own position with the king is tenuous in the wake of all this? Nay, lad none of this will come back on me. Or the others." Cordian said with a barking laugh as if the whole thing was somehow funny. Farie frowned slightly as he neared his tent and thought over the words his friend has spoken.

"When all is said and done the end result will be no less harsh Cordian," Farie finally said taking a seat inside the tent leaning back and closing his eyes. His mind was a blur from everything that had happened.

"You're troubled about them aren't you?" Cordian said ending the long silence that had descended over the them. He regarded Farie from where he stood just inside the tent. Farie's eyes opened and focused on Cordian.

"How will all these deaths, and the attitude of my own people affect those we are suppose to be sheltering Cordian, when our very actions are the reason so many are dead?" Farie replied. His voice soft. The pain in his gaze and words evident. Farie had never liked war, never wanted to see death, he had imagined glory and riches. This. This was atrocious and it was horrible. All those innocent who had died. All the loss and tragedy. He couldn't focus on that right now. And yet he couldn't just push it aside and not care either.

"We did what we could," Cordian shrugged. He was a veteran of war. Had seen more death than most. "You need to rest Farie, and you need to tend to your wounds. Now get out of your armor and let me take a look at the damage. You can't change the past and you can't change your father Farie. You heard the prince's words, if your father throws you from your home he'll take you in under his banner. If it comes to that, you'll not be going alone."

For the next few hours Cordian tended Farie's wounds from the battle and after a time left the young man to his own thoughts. Farie sat for a while with his eyes closed, not even sure how long he remained. He thought of home, of Elisia. He thought of his mother and just as his thoughts returned to his father with a deep sadness Lucianus walked into Farie's tent.

"You ungrateful child! How dare you humiliate me like that in public! And for what!" Lucianus barked as soon as the tent flap closed behind him. Farie sighed, but he didn't rise to his father's words. It would be pointless. "I cannot disown you now or I will loose all those who heard the king's words, but boy the moment we get home! You rest assure if you survive this Farie I will not have you within my home to sully your sisters with the corruption of your wild ideas! This is the last of them I will be deal with boy!" Lucianus finished and waited only a moment, when it became evident that Farie wouldn't respond to his words he turned on his heals with one final warning, "This isn't over Farie." It was far from over.

Farie regarded the man as he turned and left, knowing full well that the moment this was said and done, he wouldn't have a home to return to. So be it. Every war had its price. If it didn't cost him his life, that is. It was still more than those who had lost everything had. For a moment he allowed himself the anger and pain of the loss, then he rose and pushed it all aside. It didn't matter. For all he knew they wouldn't life to see the dawn. With those final thoughts he finally decided to rest and catch what sleep he could. For sure the next few days would be only harder.





Farie still continued to attend the meetings, but wasn't ever as easy for him to do so. Every time he neared his father that anger simmered within him. He didn't show it to the others, only Cordian knew what awaited him after the wars end. He couldn't allow the man he commanded to be divided in loyalty. He valued their lives to highly for such. Yet, a part of him couldn't come to terms with his father's actions. He couldn't simply blindly agree to his father's wishes anymore.

He wasn't regarded the same by the nobles anymore, this too grated on his nerves, but it was yet another thing that wasn't worth the lives of countless people to satisfy. So he would attend, in silence and listen. Lending his support to Barth and to the war efforts without spoken words. So it was that when the camps were to be moved Farie pitched into the effort of moving and relocating the camp.

So it was that Farie found himself yet again at one of these meetings and as was so often the case, the Lebidan knights argued. So often that he was beginning to think it was some unwritten rule to do so. One that was starting to seriously **** him off. Every time they did this they wasted valuable time in which they could be preparing. And for what? Pride. Farie watched Barth with patient understanding. Even if he didn't feel particularly patient, he remained silent, determined not to make this any worse by speaking his mind. Something the younger Farie wouldn't have hesitated to do. Farie had come to accept that Barth was a wise and knowledgeable leader who's request were done in order to better their chances of survival and victory. Yet, not many had. Farie didn't hesitate to follow. He had seen Barth's skills first hand in battle.

Farie offered a small smile and a nod of understanding to his words, as Barth spoke. He would have dug the trenches even without the explanation, but he payed close attention to those words. They may become useful in battle. He was after all curious as to the reasoning. Wondering what purpose the trenches would serve, but he'd have done the work regardless, even if it didn't make sense to him until Barth explained the reasoning. The man had faced these beasts more than once. Farie's single experience against them had been a learning curb. A painful one at that. Though he was a formidable warrior, he didn't have the experience or battle skills that Barth had earned in hard combat. Farie's experiences of war were minor in comparison.

Farie and Cordian, who had become a fixture at Farie's side, headed for the shovels without hesitation, and without fearing repercussions. Farie didn't' fear Ausan, he respected her strength and even if the concept of a female warrior still made his head ache, it was something he was growing accustomed to. He respected her strength and her prowess in battle. He admired her tenacity to stand up to man, and he admired how she'd punched his father. Something he could never forget. However, what really made him see her and the maidens as a whole in a new light was the battle they had all survived. It still seemed odd to him to have a warrior maiden, but he was growing to find it appropriate.

Without further need to wait he headed out the one of the furthest dig sites and began digging. Cordian began to dig not too far away. For the first little while Farie hummed an ancient folks song his mother had often sang while he was younger, but soon he grew to need every breath he had to keep digging. It is after all hard work to dig trenches and eventually even strong men grow weary. For hours he dug only stopping for a quick break or some water, knowing that his example was what those who followed him looked too. It has been taught to him as a small child, had been drilled into him by Cordian since he had begun training. No man would follow another in war if his commander was a coward. When it came to war, every man was equal. He chided himself for his thoughts, every human is equal. He reminded himself that here woman were as powerful in their battle prowess as males were. This would take some getting used too. He realized that his chances of making inadvertent insults was quite high.

All this time digging gave him time to think, of what he would do knowing his father technically didn't own his loyalty. He considered Barth's words from many days ago. Could his allegiance shift from his own kingdom this easily? Farie didn't know, inside he felt torn by the choices awaiting him. Choices he was doing his best to avoid thinking on, and yet all this digging left his mind free to think on this. He couldn't get away from the thoughts that spun around his mind. Would it really be this easy? Could he really just leave all he knew? The answers he didn't have were staggering, but he knew one thing, he respected Barth.

_________________

Soluunar

Barth stretched, glad to be shirtless for the moment (he knew Ausan envied him this) as the cool mountain air touched the damp skin of his torso. He stared down at the scars marring his chest, standing out more for the lack of hair wherever they adorned his flesh, and he wondered how many more would soon be joining them. After his brief moment of contemplation he resumed his work, mindful of the time passing him by.

As one dug deeper, the ground grew harder and became littered with rock fragments- Barth was starting to feel a tightness in his back, but he ignored it as he continued to work his way down into the earth. As he continued digging with robotic, instinctive movements, from time to time he would hear whispers around him and he would notice pointing gestures coming from amongst the soldiers; mostly, they came from the Lebis. They did not understand why the Commander of their forces would be sweating in a trench with dirt all over his face and dust caking his beard as he toiled just like the rest of them. The Lindenians, on the other hand, were not surprised by the sight- Barth led by example, and he did not give orders that he himself would hesitate to follow.

He grunted, driving the shovel forcefully into the dirt and hefting the loosened soil into the large crate waiting to his left, which, when full, would be pulled up via ropes to the ground above his head. From there it would be carted off in wheelbarrows to the furthermost trenches, to be utilized in the final phase of their preparations. There were thirty trenches in total, with roughly half of them, the furthest away, bordered on each side by heaps of dirt and sand, as well as countless barrels of water from the streams flowing down from the eastward mountains.

Men stood with rakes and more shovels, mixing components together, even as additional barrels of dirt made their way down the gentle slope from the trench that was still being worked on. Each trench was roughly 10-12 feet deep, and at least 5 across- more of them could have been dug, but quality was more important than quantity. Additionally, they stretched quite a ways to either side, which explained why there were only 30 after the entire encampment had been at work for so long. A Tutar would have little issue with hurdling a shallow trench, or with climbing out of one without even needing to slow down. The whole purpose was to buy time for the defenders, to allow for more arrows to be fired and for more time to coordinate the counterattack.

The second half of the trenches were fitted over the top with planks (along with a little surprise underneath)- everyone walking over them was instructed to keep to the sides, as the center portions of the boards were not nearly as sturdy. There was the occasional fall as wheelbarrows were caught in knots or cracks in the wood, but for the most part the laborers had little difficulty navigating over the covered trenches.

Barth wasn't alone in the trench; it was likely going to be the last one, though if time permitted they would aim to dig a few more- on the other side he saw a group of females hard at work, one of them looking particularly weary with a red face that was almost entirely concealed by dirt. Some Knights were laboring nearby as well, silent save for the grunts of exertion as they worked with the vigor of men who knew they would soon be able to stop for the day. Lebis and Lindenians, working alongside each other, too tired and too focused to worry about their differences- perhaps shoveling dirt was the key to unity after all. The thought brought a grim smile to Barth's lips, just as the sound of heavy footsteps overhead reached his ears.

"My Prince!"

He looked up and caught sight of an enormous, dark-skinned man garbed in dull iron armor; Haman looked even taller than usual (which was saying a great deal) given the much lower elevation at which Barth stood, deep within the trench. "What is it?"

"You must come up, the scouts have returned! It is urgent!"

Barth immediately seized one of the ropes dangling nearby and hoisted himself up, grunting as he pulled himself over the edge and onto the ground near the giant soldier. The scout was also there; she was a Sister, a slim woman with a silvery helm slightly too large for her that she'd worn ever since the death of the original owner, her older brother. She was deadly with the short bow, and was known for using it at very close distances as well as in long-range situations. "Ayala. What news?"

"The Tutar, My Prince. They come. From the northern reaches of the Ravine, as you predicted."

"How long?"

"A few hours at the most. They will be here before nightfall."

"How many?"

"…"

Barth blinked and moved closer, wiping his brow with the back of a hand that came away covered in sweat and dirt. The woman's hesitation was unnerving; she had seen many a horrific thing in her time on the field, and it was unlike her to display such uncertainty.

"How many, Ayala?"

"Many thousands, My Prince. I would say it is nearly twice the size of the force that sacked Linden and stormed Castle Krinwulf."

Barth felt his mouth go dry. The news was beyond his worst fears, and it lent credence to the doubts that had been nagging him for so long. Still, he fought to maintain his composure in front of those watching. "Are you sure?"

"I… I've never seen anything like it."

He nodded, and turned to Haman so that that his heavyset officer could order those working the trenches to begin the final preparations. The final trench, the one he had just been down in, was covered like the others but not before being filled with sharpened stakes that were hammered into the earth so as to stand straight up, waiting for the weight of their savage foes to fall upon them. The stakes were present in each of the covered trenches, while the uncovered pits further out were given a different treatment.

Sparse amounts of dirt were scattered over the planks covering the trenches that were closer, and the water that had been collected was mixed into the dirt and sand before being poured into the other half. The visible trenches, packed with the thick muddy mixture at the bottom, would greatly slow the enemy down while the planks would allow for the defenders to engage their foes while still being able to pull back beyond the safety of the next series of pits. The Mortals, lighter and smaller of stature, would stay to the sides and thus would not break through. The same could not be said for the Tutar.

Seeing things being appropriately set into motion, Barth turned and moved back to the camp so that he, like the rest of them, could don his armor and prepare for what was coming.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_



As the Allied Camp armed itself, weapons prepared and chest plates secured into place, the Tutar's march reached its final stretch. The Lindenian scout was correct; there were many thousands of them, more than Prince Barth had ever faced before. Linden was now aligned with Lebidan, but even together the two nations were outnumbered by the forest of crude, black metal marching north from the Ravine. They moved in ranks, something unheard of for such creatures, and while there was still a lack of order by typical army standards, they still maintained some semblance of structure in the rows and columns that stretched out, seemingly without end.

These particular Tutar had been given specific orders- they knew their strength was in outlasting their fragile foes, pushing them to the limits of what a Mortal body could endure. They would overwhelm and tire, until sword arms could no longer be raised in defense. They would force the men onto their last legs, and then they would show them no mercy. Mouths filled with pointed fangs grinned, tusks twitched eagerly and clawed hands flexed impulsively as they finally caught the smell they had been waiting for. The flesh of man. The trenches were less than a mile away now, and they could see the telltale glints of sunlight off of polished armor- the enormous force, somewhat ordered in its composition, finally broke rank as they began their charge.

It was a river of death, rushing forward.

Savage screams and howls that mingled and merged into one, deafening roar.

Jagged swords and spears, moving as if with lives of their own, became nothing more than blurred, pointed objects as their owners swung and hefted them with reckless abandon.

Some of them fell, and were trampled to death by their fellows, but those losses were of no concern.

They were many, and they were strong.

They were there for one purpose and one purpose alone.



To destroy.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
Soluunar

They watched with a shared sense of numb anticipation as the Tutari horde drew closer; they were even larger than the Prince remembered, towering, crudely armored shapes exceeding 8 feet in height that many of the soldiers around him had never seen before. He could hear mumbled curses and gasps of shock as the distance between the two forces lessened with alarming rapidity and the figures grew more distinct.

Finally, when the beasts were within a half-mile of the trenches, Barth gave the command. He waited as long as he did to avoid wasting arrows, but there was no sense in sending volley after volley when in some cases it would take several to bring just one of the demons down.

"FIRE AT WILL!"

Archers from both nations stood between the covered pits in orderly lines- the air was suddenly filled with the twangs of their bows as arrows sped from strings to plunge into the approaching torrent of black steel. Bodies fell, bestial roars of pain filled the air, but they were drowned out by the sounds of bloodthirsty snarls and murderous howls as every Tutar that went down disappeared under the heavy feet of two more of its comrades.

The attackers reached the first of the trenches and fell in without slowing down; the mud at the bottom, combined with their massive weight, made climbing back out an arduous task for them. Their growls of frustration added to the general din, even as their comrades began attempting to climb right over them only to stumble and trip over the flailing limbs of their fellows. The archers took the opportunity to continue peppering them with arrows, filling the first of the elongated pits with carcasses even as more of the monsters began running over the bodies of their fallen, treating them like a bridge of corpses that provided passage across the gap.

The archers continued to fire, the Tutar continued to die in the trenches until their fellows could cross over them, and the cycle repeated itself for so long that Barth was beginning to believe his eyes were deceiving him when he looked out to see a still massive army on their doorstep. They had slowed down the assault, had killed the momentum of the attack, and they'd made a dent in their foes' numbers without suffering a single casualty, but there were just so many of them. He was beginning to wonder how many arrows they even had left when he saw the enemy reach the final uncovered trench, now dangerously close to the ranks of bowmen.

Spears were now falling among them, and more than one archer fell back with wooden shafts impaling their torsos. Although the Tutar carried spears, they also carried an ingrained reluctance for ranged combat. Their bloodthirsty nature gave them a preference for close quarters, where they could more personally slaughter their enemies.

"ARCHERS, ONE FINAL VOLLEY THEN FALL BACK!" he roared even as Haman repeated the command in an even louder voice beside him. "KEEP TO THE SIDES!"

The reminder wasn't necessary- they remembered to avoid the center of the dirt-covered boards as they retreated, making room for the next level of defense. He caught sight of Verana among them, shooting into the trench even as she fell back towards where the foot soldiers waited. She had volunteered to stand with the bowmen, which did not surprise Barth in the slightest and he'd seen no need to deny her the chance. With the way he'd designed the covered trenches there was no way horses could be used here- at least not yet, but the time would come for that later. For now, the soldiers on foot would need to hold their ground against the tide.

There was a legion of them, men and women armed with sword and shield, waiting with stoney faces for what was coming. They hid their nerves well, and if not for the sake of those around them, they did it to demonstrate the strength of mankind in the face of the horned, fanged and clawed river of death that inevitably flowed towards them. The archers, formerly at the front, moved to the rear of the front-line troops, taking the backseat for the moment from where they could fire sparingly and only when clean shots presented themselves.

Behind them, with their horses stamping their feet nervously, the cavalry regiment waited, intermingled with more foot soldiers and archers that would come into play once the fighting progressed further into their own territory. Along with a considerable portion of Linden's infantry, the Lebi Knights were mostly situated back there, though some were mingled in with the front line troops. For some it was by choice, as they wished to prove their valor or provide inspiration for the men fighting under the same banners as they. For some others, mainly those of a lower standing, they did it because they'd been ordered to do so by their Commanding Lord Knights.

Although Barth was supposed to be organizing the defense and as such was situated just ahead of the mounted fighters, he still felt the instinctive urge to reach over his shoulder for the hilt of his longsword, even as the Tutar began climbing out of the last of the muddy trenches, fighting over the corpses of their fellows. A spear shot out towards him but imbedded itself into the ground at his feet- he spared it only the briefest of glances before gesturing to the legion of foot soldiers.

"SWORDS FORWARD!" Barth screamed, feeling his voice becoming somewhat hoarse. The second half of the trenches were much further apart than the others, to ensure that there was room for maneuvering without the risk of falling into one of the covered traps along with the opposition. The defenders that rushed forward kept to two columns as they crossed over the pits, then fanned out as they reached the solid ground beyond. Barth could see no fear in them, in spite of the massive flood of enemies that continued to pour forward, trampling the bodies of their fallen. Lindenians, Lebis, foot soldiers, Sisters, Knights… the battle-frenzy was upon them all.

This… this was war as he knew it.

_________________

The back of her forearm swiped across her brow for the umpteenth time that day. She could feel the dirt and grit as it scraped against the grime already covering her face, but attention to such a friction had long since been abandoned in the heat of the day. A heavy bead of sweat that had just missed the interception slipped down and caught on a fringe of thick eyelash, hovering there like morning dew caught in a spider’s web, before dropping to her cheek. Her palm followed, smearing the perspiration-and-dust mix even deeper into her pores.

She had been given the much-appreciated gift of a short break in between training and trench-digging (today, anyway), but as a group of Lindenian women moved in to start a shift she had casually inserted herself into their ranks, making her brief respite even shorter. The sister-warriors had molded around her lanky figure in an almost unconscious, natural acceptance of her presence, though for the most part Sen was unsure if they had truly even seen her approach.

Armor was quickly discarded in the heat of the day, as well quite a few more articles of clothing than Sen would have deemed appropriate amidst so many male soldiers. The majority of the women wore enough to keep their legs protected from errant shovel strikes of flying bits of rock, but as sweat soaked into their shirts many of them were being removed in favor of replacements that left little to the imagination. The Brigham daughter felt her youth very keenly for the first twenty minutes or so, noticing the thick garden of scars that decorated their female figures and the ropes of sinew that lined the bones beneath the weathered skin. She stood out a little more without her piecemeal leather armor or jerkin; the sleeveless tunic remained to cover her entire torso, though it tended to lay plastered to her back and chest and smelled heavily of earth and salt. Her skin was still a far cry paler than most of theirs, contrasting the muck and dirt, and her body still soft, unworked. The remaining tenderness was vivified by the bruises that decorated her long arms and the bit of her chest exposed beneath the unlaced collar, and even in the way she moved; determined, unrelenting, but with a shakiness that announced her crying muscles to the world.

A familiar voice snapped her sunset eyes to full attention and her breath caught in her throat, arms frozen with the shovel half-way into a pile of stubborn gravel.

“… seems like he ought to be an example, is all I’m saying.”

She recognized that another male voice had muttered a response, but her ears only focused in on the familiar one, trying to gauge the distance and position. Her shoulders hunkered over her body and she turned her head down, seemingly in a display of determination toward her shoveling.

“… too familiar and the respect is lost, right? Isn’t that what the old quartermaster always said?”

Her breath steadied as the distance of the speaker remained steady, but her mouth felt far more dry than it had a few second ago. She shouldn’t be surprised, obviously; the order was that everyone needed to help dig the trenches, so why wouldn’t Emmet be here? She wasn’t wearing armor, which made her feel undisguised, but at the same time a portion of her mind knew her to be unrecognizable even in a sweaty tunic, as long as they didn’t come to close or spend too much time observing the trench-diggers on shift around them. A long breath steadied the nervous young woman, and she reassured herself that Emmet wouldn’t spare a group of female warriors a second glance. Still, the knowledge that he was closer now than he had been thus far made little tingles of anxiety creep up and down her spine in a way that she had believed herself too exhausted to feel.

The look on her face must have been a little worse than she thought. One of the women, a taller, older one with broad shoulders and hair so short it was almost shaved, set a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t say anything, but as Sen looked up into her face the woman gave a short gesture upward. The intention was clear, and the once-noble leaned her shovel against the wall of the trench. She headed down the line a few meters or so, then gripped the knotted rope anchored to the ground above and heaved. Her muscles trembled dangerously, but she was not about to tumble down and admit defeat in front of all the warriors. Or in front of her brother, who could easily be closer than she thought.

Before she could steady her grip and haul herself further, a familiar voice echoed. The clear, deep resonance of the Prince-Commander’s voice, lowered in a way that bespoke a conversation rather than a deliverance of orders, came from the stretch of ground just above her head. Sen wasn’t sure why, but she released the rope from her grasp and let her feet thud softly in the disturbed soil, eyes glazing over as her ears honed in on his words. The din of shovels and gravel faded into the background.

“… the Ravine, as you predicted.”

“How long?”

“A few hours at the most. They will be here before nightfall.”

A thick lump the size of a black cherry materialized in Sen’s throat.

“How many?”

“…”

Oh, by the Light, no.

“How many, Ayala?”

“Many thousands, My Prince. I would say it is nearly twice the size of the force that sacked Linden and stormed Castle Krinwulf.”

Sen’s eyes closed and she bit her lower lip, the granules of dirt from her face melting onto her tongue. She didn’t have to be a veteran of Castle Krinwulf to know that there had probably been a lot of Tutar. And what came… what came in hours… was twice that. The muscles that had trembled and shook with exhaustion now found themselves stiff with electric fear, frozen in position and forcing the Brigham woman to listen to the rest of the conversation.

“Are you sure?”

Her eyes opened as the Prince-Commander spoke. He didn’t sound afraid. He certainly didn’t sound pleased, not by any stretch of the imagination, but… he didn’t sound scared, either. A slow breath, one that she didn’t know she had been holding, escaped from Sen’s lips.

“I… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Before the would-be Sister could force her slowly-mobilizing limbs into real action, orders began echoing from the giant man with the penchant for leg-breaking; she had heard some of the warriors refer to him as “Haman”, but to Sen, he would always be the man to split her kneecaps if she ever messed up. As the shouted commands echoed, the warriors clambered out of the trenches double-time and fell to their tasks, moving with a speed and coordination that no one could have guessed having seen them digging for hours. Trenches were covered and spiked and dusted and finished, the pounding heat of the day forgotten and the ache of arms lost in the flurry of activity. Sen found herself caught up in the fluster, rushing to carry out barked orders as quickly as any of them; it was more than a small relief to be told what to do at a time like this. She wasn’t sure her own brain could function on that level just now… and since the end of her life was no doubt only a few hours away, she wasn’t sure it ever would again.


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


It wasn’t the way she thought it would be. Things seldom were, but Seniré had been an avid reader for most of her life and the battles depicted and described in books… well, she had a certain idea in her mind. This… this was not it.

They were huge. Not even close enough to truly see the full size, and even at this distance she could see as much. Not just height, but in width of shoulder and expanse of muscle, bulging beneath skin that looked leathery-tough even from the midst of the Linden infantry, where she had been positioned. They were armored, but it looked less like the armor she had seen around the army camps and more like bits of sliced black rock that had been roughly attached over the too-large musculature, making their misshapen bodies seem even more grotesque as they writhed in their massive horde. The short spears they carried were easily as thick as her leg, wickedly-shaped blades glinting in the pre-evening light. They… simply didn’t seem real. None of this did. Everything seemed to be something from a nightmare, something that she would wake from and be in her tent, in the quiet army camp, with nothing but the occasional shuffling of the night watch to lull her back to sleep… her heart seemed to be unable to decide if it would thud arrhythmically like an autumn thunderstorm or just freeze in her chest, violently switching back and forth as the whispers of the soldiers died around her ears.

The ring of the Prince’s voice echoed in her ears, authoritative and strong. The leg-breaker’s voice echoed the Commanders, but by the time the echo reverberated over Sen’s head her hearing had become strangely selective and attuned to the twang of bowstrings and the rush of arrows through the air, whistling en masse in the skies ahead of her like a school of thin, wooden flying-fish. The raging growls and bestial snarls adopted a new pitch as their numbers started to fall, crashing into the hastily-dug trenches and being crushed beneath arrow and feet alike. Despite the numbers that collapsed into death within the ensnaring pits, still more came, endless black rock savages trampling and clawing their way toward the human forces.

“SWORDS FORWARD!”

Battle-cries arose from her left and right like sudden gusts of wind from the edge of a canyon cliff, the power behind them enough to sweep her off of her feet: even if the forward movement of the infantry ranks did not. Bumped and jostled and even occasionally lead along by the few Sisters that had been positioned around her (by Verana, Sen was pretty certain) she crept forward. Her booted foot landed on something hollow and wooden and instinctively she pushed back into the wave of her fellow humans until her footfalls fell quiet once more, as though the boards that covered the trenches were electrified. Her eyes darted about the battlefield with a strange sort of clarity, pupils only pinpricks in the expanse of dawn-light color. A flash of dark auburn glinted somewhere to her right, but was gone before she could focus. She stepped on something else, not a board but something soft and pliable; her eyes dropped to see the fallen body of one of their own, a spear neatly puncturing it through the sternum and out the center of the back. A wave of bile rose in the back of her throat and she felt her fingertips go numb.

I can’t do this. I CANNOT do this.

The thought sounded louder in her own mind than even the Prince-Commander’s orders as they resounded in her ears. Her breath came in shallow, fast gulps as the sounds of carnage engulfed her senses, drowning her awareness, crushing her beneath the weight of the dead and dying. A splatter of thick arterial blood from a warrior’s bisected torso splashed in a vertical spike, the hot, thick liquid coating Sen in a broad streak from jerkin to forehead. It smelled –and tasted- metallic. The wave of nausea rose again and her vision darkened around the rim, and somewhere outside of her consciousness she knew she was being jostled and moved ever forward into the din, into the madness, into the writhing, seething mass of blood and carnage and screams and snarls.

The short blade, hilt grasped so tightly that her fingers had turned white and she could no longer feel the tips, began to tremble as the immediate closeness of the sister-warriors broke away from her, quickly finding themselves overtaken by the crush of combat. A hard shield jolted her from behind her left shoulder blade and she jerked to the right, the weapon breaking from her fingers (apparently they weren’t as tight as she thought) and flying into the tide, lost beneath the bodies of the fallen. Sen felt the tendons in her knees start to loosen.

Light, don’t let me fall.

Her vision continued to close, the cacophony fading out as though it were drawing away.

“Sen!”

The familiar voice snapped into her mind, the volume suddenly restored to full and the clash and clang of metal and bone flooding back into her. Her head whipped around as a rush of blood cleared her eyes and banished the vomit that threatened her throat. Verana’s sleek black armor and Thaam coloring stood out against the backdrop of random silver plating that adorned the infantrymen. She wasn’t close –maybe five yards away- but she was close enough.

“Why are you here?”

The woman’s voice was loud enough to be heard clearly over the fighting but was almost conversational in tone, as though they two of them were having tea and discussing the carnage from a picnic-spot vantage. The Brigham woman blinked. As though a curtain had been wrested from her body, she saw the situation for what it was: this was not a wave of unbreakable, monstrous change. These were beings, with blood and flesh, who encroached on her home. On her people. Towards her family, seeking to destroy anything that had ever given meaning to anyone. They would devour and decimate everything in their path, and here she was, about to crumble to the ground without so much as a whimper and let them walk right over her body as if it were a welcoming threshold.

Her brows tilted down into a furrow of determination, the swirling pink-orange of her eyes flickering from pastel fear into a fierce, burning sunrise. She felt her teeth grit and her muscles pulse with adrenaline, a flutter of desperation filling her lungs with befouled air and forcing her heart to beat deeply once more. Her mind cleared, but her eyes still had trouble finding something on which to focus; everything was still happening so quickly. Where was she supposed to go? Her face turned back toward where Verana had been but the older woman had disappeared yet again into the throng, the twang of her bow lost amidst the gurgle of dying snarls.

A spear, embedded into the space between neck and shoulder of a soldier, lay sticking almost straight up. Sen didn’t study the weapon for more information than that; it was close and in an area that she could get potentially get through. Her feet carried her almost without conscious thought and her fingers wrapped around the shaft of the weapon before she knew what she was doing, yanking it with a thick sound from the cadaver of her fallen countryman. The weight felt good in her hands; heavier on the ends, probably because one of them had a savage-looking blade curving around it, but she paid little attention. Another cursory glance of the immediate terrain displayed the nearest group of soldiers -three of them, one archer and two foot soldiers- under a bit of duress as they pushed their focus onto a particularly large creature. Another flicker of fear made Sen’s heart skip a beat, but she pushed it back aggressively, unwilling to wait to be saved again. There was no time.

Her legs broke into instinctive action and as she ran, her awareness of her surroundings intensified and grew; her long torso swiveled slightly backwards to avoid the spear that came zooming toward her neck. One of the Tutar, closest to her approach, raised its thick arm to deliver a blow onto the archer. Somehow –Sen was pretty sure she was still moving her body, but couldn’t be positive- the bladed end of the spear she had ransacked buried itself almost four inches into the leathery axillary region of the eight-foot monster, finding a slightly tender spot. Her ears welcomed the roar of pain alongside the pulse of devotion to her home, entwining with the new anger that was making itself known in her veins as she yanked the weapon free with a thick squelch. The archer spun around and twanged more shots into the beast, trying to walk backwards for distance; unfortunately, another fallen body made that difficult and he stumbled, landing hard on his backside.

The young man’s thick black bang shifted upward, the long end of his horsetail fluttering around over his shoulder. A thin brow under a high forehead caught Sen’s eyes, and as she glanced into the face of the archer her gaze met a pair of pale, emerald orbs. The green eyes widened in synchronization with her own.

“Seniré?”

“Rendir?”

A roar came from behind her, close; really close. She spun on her heel and immediately leaned backwards, an intuitive movement colored with half-training, and managed to slide under the swift cleave of a wicked axe curve. A monstrous hand came for her from the other side, but it stopped as two arrows dove into the beast’s face; Sen didn’t know the origin point for the projectiles, and at the moment she didn’t much care. She hefted her purloined spear back toward her body, instinctively going loose to avoid attacks but trying to maintain some semblance of weight to keep braced against the weapon. Her eyes stayed locked on the wounded Tutar closest to her, but she tried to keep her senses open, ready. She felt a taller, stronger back press against her own, and a flutter of a jet-black horsetail swished from her right shoulder into the corners of her vision for a half-second.

The injured savage roared again, the two sets of eyes lost to its rage and blood frenzy.

A deep breath heaved her chest. Light, don’t let me fall. she said in her own mind, the words resounding in her skull with a sense of realness, a heart-felt burst of genuine intensity, Please, Light, don’t let them fall.

The shout came while she had been berating a female recruit who had lost her composure in front of some of the men. There was no place for tears in war and she was definitely not going to be an embarrassment to the other sisters with her behavior.

“Are you a warrior or are you a child?” Ausan asked her coldly.

“A warrior…” the still emotional woman squeaked out.

“What was that? I can’t hear your pathetic whimpers. Are you going to run off and suckle from your mother’s teet? Or, are you going to suck it up and get back out there before I-”

Loud, low and deep the warning horns went out through the camp. The ground seemed to tremble as the notes carried through the area, alerting all those present that it was time for battle. War had reached their doorsteps and now was the time fight for what they believed in.

“Why aren’t you going to be on your horse again?” Cameron asked as he got the mount fitted for his armor.

“That will be later in the battle,” she said as she checked her own armor. “Foot soldiers first and then Calvary later,” she explained for what felt like the third time. “I volunteered/demanded that I be at the front lines with the others. They need my sword and shield there,” she turned to face the troubled youth and smiled fondly at him. “Worried?”

“I’m always worried when you ride off into battle; I mean you are like…my family. If something happens to you…” he began but did not finish for both knew what he meant.

“Then you would be taken care of,” she said as she clapped the young man on the shoulder and pushed back his Golden locks from his face. “No matter what happens, I promise you that you will be kept safe and sound,” the words held the passion and conviction in her words. Words, spoken with love and honesty to the young man she thought of more like a son than just a squire. “Come, let us get finished…”

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

The arrows whistled through the sky like a deadly swarm, intent on their targets and infused with the prayers of those who launched them. Even as the ground trembled beneath their feet, Ausan never felt so ready for this. It was like the long awaited game was over, now was the time for them to show these demons just what they were made of.

The pendant about her neck was taken from beneath her armor, the cool metal brought to her lips as she prayed.

Naiya, Goddess of Fire and life, hear my prayer this day and spare those I love the pain of death. Should an offering in your name be needed….take me.

A kiss was placed on the scared metal before she tucked it back away. The time was coming, soon they would be sent out to meet the enemy.

“Today will not be the day that we fail,” Ausan said aloud to those near her. “Today shall not be the day that we lose,” she looked down the line at those with her. “Today will be the day that we stand united! Stand together! Facing a foe from our nightmares we are not afraid! We will fight against the darkness! We will stand together and face our enemies! We will not let them pass our lines!” Sword thrust into the air to drive home the point, which elicited a roar from those within earshot. Together, as a unit, they began to bang their swords against their shields. The sound built and built so that when Barth called for them to run forward it was like a wave of energy and power rolling across the land.

Long strong strides carried her toward the enemy, the goal simple. Kill. Where there had once been the roar of those beside her, there was now the deafening roar of the enemy as they closed it. It drowned out their battle cries though it did little to stop their spirits. This was not just a fight over petty civil issues; it was the battle for the right to exist as a species. Man would not allow this darkness to swallow them, not without a fight.

The first Tutar Ausan spun past with a strategic slash to its tendon before she charged forward. She did not even look back to see if those behind her finished him off, because at that moment she jumped up and used the leg of another to leap and propel herself up shield first into its jaw. It was like contacting with a wall and she barely moved past that single action, but she took advantage of the bastard being momentarily stunned to stab it down into the main artery between its shoulder and neck. Its dark blood pumped out and splashed her face though she paid it no mind as she yanked her blade free and fell to the ground to continue the fight. Another Tutar at her back, she dodged with a tumble to the side, her shield thrown up to take the next down swing from the same Tutar.

“Ugh!” she grunted from the impact, her arm instantly tingling and going slightly numb from the impact though she powered through it to push back to her feet. Now she faced the Tutar who thrusts at her with his spear, the weapon dodged and her sword brought down the chop the more threatening end off. The thick wood splintered under the keen edge of her blade and she followed through with a kick to try and dislodge the weapon before attempting to stab at its mid-section. Around her, the battle raged on and she worked to defeat her current foe. Goddess willing, they would survive long enough for the Calvary to be sent in.

_________________

Farie, had organized his men into two teams. In order to make it easier, for them to allocate breaks as required. Since digging trenches was hard work, breaks were required to keep the men from succumbing to heat exhaustion. However, his men were used hard training, they were not used to such hard labor. Farie led one group while Cordian led the other.

Farie had not seen his father since the argument that had taken place before they began digging trenches. This didn't bother Farie however, as it meant he got the opportunity to get to know his companions better. Between digging trenches and training, he didn't even have time to dwell on what would happen after the war. Which is just fine, since he wasn't ready to cross that bridge, he much rather avoided at least for the time being.

Farie, worked in the trenches shirtless as all the other males were. He was proud to see how the others who followed his commands worked with the Maidens, if not completely harmoniously at least with courtesy and respect. Farie suspected that Cordian had a lot to do with this new turn of events. Seeing as he had a way of achieving his own way of thinking, no matter how much people may hate it.

Dirt covered Farie and were he not so tired he would be laughing at this fact. If his father thought that being battle stained was bad, this would have been a far worse disgrace. Warily Farie climbed from the trench he had been finishing. Cordian stood at the edge of the trench and held out his hand to Farie, who gratefully grabbed it and allowed Cordian to pull him the rest of the way up.

”Any news on the situation?” Farie asked Cordian as he wiped sweat from his brow.

”I have not heard anything for hours,”Cordian replied worry evident in his eyes. He released Farie’s hand and stepped back giving the other space to move. Cordian held out the waterskin to Farie. Farie sighed as he took the waterskin from Cordian and took a drink.

The two men made their way back down the line of trenches.

—-

Farie was exhausted, Cordian could see this in the way that he walked. He had known Farie since he was a boy. Thus it was easy for him to recognize the signs of fatigue and his friend. Cordian knew how hard this was for Farie. He had seen it in his eyes. The emotional pain that filled the younger lad, a pain that no son should feel.

Cordian placed his hand on Farie’s shoulder, concern mirrored in his eyes. ”You need to rest,” Cordian said roughly.

”Rest is a luxury no one has,” was all Farie said, before he walked away from Cordian. Cordian watched him go knowing that he would rather be alone right now. Farie with right, they didn't have time to think about other things right now. The war needed to take precedence over everything else. Cordian felt his anger rising, what Lucianus had done to his son was unforgivable. In Farie, Cordian saw a true leader. One he was proud to follow, regardless of his age.

Sighing heavily Cordian followed Farie back towards the camp.

—-

Farie had not gone more than a dozen paces, when a young man ran up to him. He had seen the young man before in the trenches, he worked for another Lord. Farie did not know the lad's name.

”They're… Coming…” the young man gasped, panting for breath.

Cordian had reached them by then. Farie looked over at Cordian his gaze was stricken. So it has begun, Farie thought to himself. He think the lad, turned and headed back towards the trenches. There would be no time to rest. His place was at the frontlines. It was his duty. As much as he may hate it. It was required. Cordian had always told him, a true leader leads by example, he does not expect his men to do what he himself would not. That is just what Farie would do, he would stand at the frontlines and he would fight. To the death if needed.

—-

Cordian couldn't help the smile that spread across his features. A hard cold deadly smile. The smile that was more akin to a wolf barring its teeth. His eyes sparkled with anticipation, with bloodlust. This was war. This was the very thing that he lived for.

They made their way back to the trenches, back to the frontlines, back to the action. Cordian was ready, willing and able to fight. To win.

As they stood with the others that formed the command. A squire arrived carrying their armour. Farie and Cordian donned on their armour quickly, preparing for the battle to come. It didn't take long for both men to be ready. Farie took his sword in his armoured fist while Cordian took up his Warhammer.

They watched as the hoards of Tutar came towards them like a swarm of death.

—

Farie felt his heart race, a light trace of fear winding through his mind. Gazing at the enemy would break most men. Keeping his breathing even Farie observed the oncoming hoard. This is not like their first attack. Then the only thought that had been in his mind was saving those innocents trapped behind enemy lines. Now he could see the beasts as they came charging towards them. Like the very death they were. It was a truly frightening sight.

Farie looked over at Cordian who did not watch the horde coming with fear but instead watched it coming with anticipation and delight glowing in his eyes. Cordian lived to kill the enemies of his kingdom, those who threatened his home, those who threatened his family, and anyone dumb enough to pass him off.

Farie watched as the archers took their turn, attempting to bring down the horde of enemies raging towards them, attempting to kill as many as they could before they reach the defender. Farie watched with morbid curiosity as the creatures seem to just run atop each other carelessly. There really was no camaraderie between them, they were beasts. The sight sickened him. What struck him more however was the sheer number of the force attacking them. Such a force shouldn't be possible. Everything he knew told him this couldn't be happening. But it was. That much he could see with his own eyes. Fear rose within him but he did not give way to it. He would use it as a weapon. To sharpen his senses, to make him more aware. Fear could be a powerful tool when correctly used. Cordian had taught him as much, and much much more.

Farie could sense the uncertainty and fear of those around him, he knew many of them had never faced something so vast and powerful. Many of the men around him are new to battle entirely. Many had never seen a fight, and never stood in front of death, and had never had to kill another. For so many in his country, being a night was more show than an actual occupation. What some of these men knew of warfare was no larger than the grains of sand at their feet. A truly frightening thought. The only comfort he had was at least a season soldier, one who had seen more bloodshed in this war, who had lost more people than should have been the case, was leading them. Farie would follow every command that Barth gave without hesitation.

Farie could see the tension rising around him, he felt that from the man who stood by his side. He could not blame them. This was a truly scary concept, and many of them were not ready.

Farie heard the call from Barth, marking their turn to attack. Sudden energy thrummed through him. He raised his sword, cried out and ran forward into the fray.

—

Cordian watched the oncoming horde, feeling a kind of excitement thrumming through him. He could already taste the bloodlust rising inside of him! He wanted nothing more than to charge the enemy. However he had to wait. Used to taking commands, this was not hard. His smile grew as his eyes glittered with anticipation, as he watched the hoard coming towards him, as he saw them dying in the trenches and crawling up on top of each other moving ever towards them.

He watched the carnage, with a kind of anticipation that only came with war. Cordian loved to hunt, love to fight, and he loved to win. He too sensed the nervousness of those around him, even though they hid it well. He was also aware that many had never seen a battle in their life. There is no better time to learn than the present.

He watched the archers work, wanting nothing more than to rush forward. Wanting to engage the enemy, to fight, to kill, and to win. He fingered his Warhammer, feeling the comfortably heavy weight of the weapon in his hands. He was a familiar with its weight, comfortable, it had become an extension of him. An extension of his will.

Cordian roared a battle cry, as soon as the command was given for the frontlines to attack. There was no hesitation as he charged forward to engage the enemy. His battle cry turned into insane laughter as he swung his Warhammer at the nearest foe.

_________________

Soluunar

"Rune's balls," Haman muttered from somewhere close by, "have they emptied out the Ravine?"

Barth shook his head as he hoisted himself up onto his ashen stallion- as much as he preferred being on foot, he knew the horse would make it easier to organize the defense. "Doubtful. I see no Chieftains," he responded, careful to keep his voice low in case others were listening. The last thing he wanted to do was crush the little hope they had left, but the reality was far more grim than what many of them believed it to be. And that was saying a great deal.

Haman nodded, keeping his expression stoic, but his one remaining eye displayed the truth of how he felt- the big man was concerned, and rightfully so. With as many Tutar as they were seeing, it was nigh unbelievable to think that there were still many more where they had come from. All told, it was a force that was more than capable of exterminating mankind. Unless Barth had anything to say about it.

He urged the horse forward and left, towards the ranks of archers positioned in a long rectangle off to the side, on a raised stretch of land near the tree-line. They were firing sparingly for fear of hitting their own, but they needed to assert themselves more lest the front line infantry be overrun.

"FOCUS YOUR FIRE ON THOSE COMING BEHIND," he barked at them, making more than a couple of them jump, "LEAVE THE FOREFRONT TO THE SWORDS!"

The arrows immediately began flying higher and in greater abundance as they arched over the front lines, finding targets amongst the Tutari warriors that continued to stream forward behind those already engaging the allied soldiers.

With a satisfied nod he turned the stallion and moved back down the line, finding Lord Knight Resuran on a white horse near the front of the assembled cavalry. "Jahal, I need your eye on the lines. If they get pushed back too far, the reserve infantry will need to support a tactical retreat so the pits can thin their numbers."

"Yes, My Prince," the man replied, making Barth blink with surprise upon being addressed in such a fashion by a Lebi. Although the man still hadn't done anything about his mustache, Barth greatly valued the support he got from Knights like him and Shalerin. "Their advance is slowing, though."

Barth frowned and turned to regard the forefront, realizing that the man was right. And although the arrows raining down on the horde from above were helping to slow the tide, something else was responsible. The Tutar were pulling back, their heads swiveling around as if distracted from their purpose; behind those at the front, currently entangled in combat with the Lebis and Lindenians, the others were swarming back the way they had come.

A word was being repeated over and over, in guttural speech distorted by fanged maws, coming from every direction as the allies drove the Tutar at the point of attack back as if emboldened by new strength. Cheers reached Barth's ears from their own, celebratory shouting mingled with fierce war cries as the tide of the battle seemed to turn in their favor, but he ignored it all as he stared over the battle lines.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_


The ground beneath the combatants, already constantly vibrating from the sheer amount of armored bodies moving around on it, began trembling in earnest. A series of deep, erratic tremors, seemingly coming from somewhere far beneath Soluunar's surface, erupted in an unsteady rhythm that grew more pronounced in its strength with each passing moment.

The tide of Tutar continued its chaotic, unpredictable flow, moving back from the point of engagement and away from the battlegrounds as if repelled by invisible forces. Many of them pushed up against the forest line even though there was too little room between the trees to allow for passage given their large frames. They moved with a frenzied speed that suggested they were afraid of something, and they all began swiveling their horned heads to face the same direction. The men and women of mankind's last alliance followed suit, staring over the few Tutar still fighting to stare at what was approaching in the distance.

A heavy scraping sound, growing louder by the second, permeated the atmosphere as a series of gigantic shapes slowly came into view, moving with slow, lumbering steps as the horde of Tutar in front of them fought and shoved each other in their haste to clear a path. The clinking of chains could also be heard from where the Prince-Commander sat atop his horse, as the scraping continued to increase in volume until a man standing upon the field of battle would have said it was all he could hear.

As the hulking things drew closer, beneath the scarlet light of the setting sun, they became discernible and a number of soldiers dropped their weapons out of shock and fear. Seasoned soldiers, men and women who'd faced countless dangers, had stared death in the face time and time again, fell numbly to their knees at what they saw before them. To them, to all of them, these creatures had existed only in the nightmares of children.

Although the monstrosities were hunched over, they still stood at roughly twice the height of a Tutari warrior. Their legs were the size of tree trunks and their naked girth was enormous, covered by hairless grey skin that looked harder than iron. Their faces were vaguely apelike, but with scales around the eyes which were jarringly reptilian compared to the rest of them. Their arms were massive, thick and strong, and shackled to each wrist, at the end of a series of impossibly thick chain links, was a boulder being dragged along behind them.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
Soluunar

Suddenly the word being repeated endlessly from the battlefield became clear. There were less than twenty but more than ten of the newcomers, when just one would have been more than enough to make him question their odds of victory. Even one would have been enough to strike fear into all of their hearts, just one would have filled them all with doubt as to whether or not they would live to see the light of a new day.

Drorghans. Gods save us.

Barth watched as the monsters began their charge, the boulders chained to their wrists sending Tutar flying in every direction, tossed into the sky like they were rag dolls. The arm flails of the giants yielded cataclysmic results, but for the time being it was solely the other side suffering the consequences. A cluster of nearly ten Tutar soared through the air and crashed into the last of the covered pits, directly in front of where Barth sat on his mount. They went right through the covering, making a large hole in the planks on top; based on the screams that were immediately followed by complete silence, he presumed they all met their end on the spikes waiting beneath the surface.

As difficult as it was to focus on anything other than the horror-inspiring charge of the Drorghans and the sight of Tutari warriors raining down from the sky, Barth had eyes only for the infantry out front. The only hope they had was to thin the ranks of the giants before engaging them. With some luck, the pits would help. If not, faced with a force of so many, all at once- they might as well slay themselves right where they stood.

"FALL BACK! FALL BACK RIGHT ****ing NOW!" he screamed desperately, praying they could hear him over the sounds of thundering footsteps and of stone striking steel and flesh as the Drorghans slowly drew closer. Haman echoed the command, even as a chorus of frenzied neighs came from behind them.

Barth turned to see several riders get thrown from their mounts as the horses shrieked, fighting to get away from the approaching monstrosities. The putrid scent of old decay was reaching them now, and it became abundantly clear that while Tutar made horses nervous, Drorghans filled them with unbridled terror.

"Resuran!" Barth called, as the man fighting to maintain control of his steed half-turned to regard him. "Move the cavalry back, lest we have broken necks to contend with as well!"

The Lord Knight nodded and immediately began shouting orders to those behind him; the animals were ridden back towards the camp, many of them needing to be calmed first or led by hand as their frenzied nickering continued. Barth felt his own stallion trembling under him and promptly began whispering calming words into its ear as he turned to the bowmen once again.

"Spread out! Front and center! We'll need every arrow to count!"

They stared at him with wide eyes, as the front lines began moving back towards their position. With only a few exceptions, every face looked pale and frightened; several archers had dropped their bows and some even seemed ready to turn and flee. He saw their eyes darting back towards the camp and he knew they wondered how quickly they could run, if they could abandon everything right there and then. The scraping sounds continued to lurch closer, interrupted only by the occasional roar and corresponding thudding noises as chained boulders were swung indiscriminately. Behind the shapes of the approaching Drorghans, which had now reached the first of the corpse-filled trenches, an ocean of black steel and gleaming tusks waited, somehow looking just as big as it had before.

"THERE IS NO ROOM FOR FEAR, BROTHERS AND SISTERS! NOT NOW, NOT EVER AGAIN! WE FIGHT NOW FOR EVERYTHING WE KNOW AND FOR EVERYTHING THAT SHALL BE!"

Rune, God of the sky, who was there at the beginning. You observed creation itself- do you wish to watch our end as well? My people need me, they need their Prince, but I cannot hide my fear from you. I am afraid.

"FORGET YOUR BANNERS AND FORGET YOUR KINGDOMS! YOU FIGHT FOR NO TITLES, NOW. NO RECOGNITION, NO LORDS, NO OWNERSHIP OF LAND. NONE OF THAT **** MATTERS ANYMORE! NOW YOU FIGHT FOR THE PERSON STANDING BESIDE YOU! YOU FIGHT FOR THE CHILDREN THAT WILL ONE DAY WALK UPON THIS LAND IN PEACE, REMEMBERING THE DEEDS OF THEIR ANCESTORS! WE SHALL ALL BE REMEMBERED FOR WHAT WE DO HERE, RIGHT NOW! WE SHALL BE REMEMBERED FOREVER!"

Rune, Naiya, Lydia, Valiya, whatever Gods, whatever names, you watch this and you do nothing. We cannot win this battle. Mankind shall be wiped from the face of Soluunar. There will be no one left to remember us.

"I HAVE FACED THESE MONSTERS BEFORE! THEY ARE DRORGHANS, AND WE SHALL END THEM, JUST AS WE WILL END THE REST OF THIS HORDE! WE WILL BREAK THEM!"

I have never faced anything like this. We are all going to die.

Weapons were retrieved from the ground and the eyes stopped looking back towards the camp, but he could still see hesitation on their faces. Soldiers from the forefront were starting to stream back, and they too looked like they harbored doubts.

"WHAT DO WE FEAR?"

They didn't answer him. He kicked the horse into motion, moving it back along the trench line before wheeling it back around, his eyes fixed on them all, glaring fiercely. "WE FEAR NOTHING! I WILL ASK AGAIN," he uttered as he drew close once more.

"WHAT DO WE FEAR?"

"Nothing," came a few voices, sounding weak and timid as the giants shuffled closer.

"I SAID, WHAT DO WE FEAR, darnit?"

"Nothing!"

"WE ARE THE LAST DEFENDERS OF MANKIND, AND WE SHALL SEND THESE FOUL CREATURES BACK TO THE ABYSS! WHAT DO WE FEAR, I SAID?!"

"NOTHING!"

"WHAT?!"

"NOTHING!"

A roar rose up as the archers fanned out, covering the retreat of their comrades as they began aiming at the approaching Drorghans, still afraid, but visibly willing to stand their ground. And that's all he could ever ask of them.

"Don't fire yet," he told them as the shapes lumbered closer. "Aim for the eyes when they're in range." The pits, Gods willing, would help to slow them down and possibly thin their numbers, but the bowmen were where he placed the majority of his hopes. He prayed they would be enough. He glimpsed Verana making her way back and nodded at her- she would help to keep the archers focused on the task at hand.

He moved the horse back down the line, away from the bowmen and back towards where he could get a better view of the Tutar arrayed behind the oncoming giants. If they attempted to slip in behind the giants they could drive a wedge into the defense, which would pose a whole new prob-

A Drorghan roared, a deafening sound filled with malice and hatred, and Barth's horse reared up violently enough to unseat him. He flew from the saddle, hitting the ground hard as his mount took off, galloping wildly back in the direction of the large camp. Before the Prince could do much more than swear bitterly under his breath, three large shapes erupted from the hole that had been made in the planks covering the pit in front of him. Barth fought to stand up quickly, all while the memory of the cluster of Tutar that had been flung into the trench returned to him. All of them hadn't died after all.

With Tutar, three against one was impossible.

He drew the longsword from over his shoulder just as they reached him; with a savage cry he decapitated the first, just in time to feel a clawed hand come crashing down on the hilt of his weapon, knocking it from his grip. An arrow came whizzing past his head, embedding itself in the shoulder of the Tutar on his left but doing little to slow it down as it lunged for him with its wickedly bladed scimitar.

With Tutar, two against one was incredibly difficult, even for the most skilled of soldiers.

He dodged the blade thrust with an effort; it grazed his chest plate, and would have probably sliced his arm clean off had he not raised a gauntlet so as to jam a metal-garbed finger into one of the attacking Tutar's many eyes. With his other hand he drew his machete and slashed at both of them, attempting to create some distance, but the edge of the bright steel blade caught between two spikes protruding from a segment of crude armor and the weapon was wrenched from his grip. He dodged a scimitar slash from the one that had lost an eye, watching as the other drew its own blade, but not before tossing his shortsword aside contemptuously. The nearby archers couldn't take another shot for fear of hitting him, and he had no more weapons at his disposal.

With Tutar, two against one, unarmed, was impossible.

He dodged a thrust from his right and a slash from his left, ending up on one knee as he ducked under the latter; catching sight of an incoming downward slice from the right, he rolled back as the blade slapped heavily against the ground where he'd been kneeling a moment before. With a roar, he sprang up and onto the back of the Tutar before it could regain its balance after the missed strike. He reached around its head and seized the first thing his hand could grasp on its face; his hand closed around something, and with a grunt of effort he tore it right out of the creature's mouth. He caught a momentary glimpse of the bloody tusk from over the Tutar's shoulder before reversing it in his grip and driving it into its neck once, twice and then a third time before the warrior finally collapsed onto the ground under him.

He had only enough time to push himself up off of its back before the final combatant, blood still leaking from a ruined eye, delivered a heavy kick to his chest that sent him sprawling backward. The wind was knocked out of him as he hit the ground for the second time in the last minute, but he still had the presence of mind to reach out with both hands in time to stop the jagged blade from impaling his throat. The Tutar, its fangs bared ferociously, began putting its weight down onto the crude hilt of the weapon, leering down at him as drool and blood dripped down onto the face of the Prince-Commander. Barth's arms trembled as the razor sharp tip moved closer to his neck.

Idly, he heard rapid footsteps approaching, along with a strange choking sound, but all he could see was the face of death above him as the blade drew within an inch of his throat.

_________________

Sen had never taken the time to wonder what a Tutar’s breath would smell like. Fortunately, it was no longer in question. Bad. It smelled… bad.

The hot wall of air and saliva washed over her as the injured beast unleashed another roar, the high note of desperation in the bestial cry giving the few mortals a little jolt of confidence. From behind her, Sen could hear the twang of her brother’s bowstring and feel the muscles of his back as the arrows were unleashed. Without looking, she knew when he pulled away to turn and fire over her shoulder, into the monster that faced them. One long arm, clad in black leather armor etched with the symbol of their house, stretched into her field of vision and arrow after well-aimed arrow whistled from just behind her. Rendir was not the monster’s only assailant and it wasn’t long before it crashed to the ground, the bristles of spent arrows protruding from its neck, face, back; anywhere that looked comparatively soft and vital.

“There’s no time,” the dark-haired young man muttered tersely, a regular speaking voice that would have been drowned in the chaos of battle save that his audience stood less than a foot from him. The ground trembled and vibrated beneath their boots, and he fixed her with a wide, intense stare, one hand grabbing her upper arm firmly. “You need to run back to the camp! Get out of here!”

Any response was cut off as he released her, the crooked short blade slicing through the air that had contained his wrist not a quarter of a second ago. Sen leapt back as well, mirroring her older sibling, but it was to Rendir that the two wicked sets of eyes turned. This one didn’t waste time with a frenzied roar, instead making another immediate stab for the man; the blonde woman’s brow darkened in a protective anger and she lunged forward with her stolen spear, aiming for an open spot on the creature’s broad back.

The point made it almost two inches into the Tutar’s leathery hide, prompting a snarl and its attention but almost nothing else. She yanked the spear free with no small amount of difficulty and scrambled backward a few feet. The beast turned toward her with agonizing slowness, the hateful eyes fixed on her own in a way that was almost mesmerizing. Lost in that wrathful gaze, her storkish legs lost their control and she fell onto her backside; the jolt brought her away from those four pits of fire, but the most she could do was fumble and scramble desperately in reverse, spear still held with a white-knuckle grip in her left hand. The mud, an unholy combination of mortal blood and dirt, seeped into her boots and trembled beneath her body. The creature raised its blade to finish her quickly, but two arrows sunk into its knuckles almost instantaneously, causing the warped blade to clatter against the fallen bodies beneath it. Unfortunately, that didn’t distract it from the blonde prize- rather, it seemed to blame her for the punctures in its hand. With an animalistic snarl it raised one massive fist and shot it forward. Sen raised her spear in front of her face in a last ditch effort for life, and she felt her elbows give as the splinters flew only inches from her eyes. For a second, she wasn’t sure if the spear or her arms had been pulverized. Her vivid optics squeezed shut as she prepared for the final blow, unable to find even a last plea or thought to accompany her out of this life.

It didn’t come.

Tentatively, she opened one eye, just a little. Her attacker had frozen, fist only a fraction of an inch away from where it had decimated her weapon, but its fiendish face was turned back in the direction it had come. Sen opened her eyes in earnest and had to stop herself from leaning forward for inspection; it seemed to be searching the distance, eyes wide and even a little nervous. The fist withdrew from her personal space and it took a step back, not sparing her so much as a second glance. The tusked maw, still dripping with the slobber of a killing frenzy, made a vocalization that was distinctly less bestial. Past the fangs and the choked accent, it said a word in a tone that was either awe-struck reverence or abject horror.

Drorghan.

Sen blinked. The harsh, mangled word sounded almost familiar, but not so obviously that she could recall it. With a wary, unblinking pink gaze still fixed on the strangely-behaving beast, the would-be soldier moved slowly to her feet, the remaining few inches of wood-and-metal that had been a spear still clutched in her right hand. It had definitely been a word, right? It had seemed articulated, intentional, rather than the blind snarls and roars that had been echoing in her skull. Before she could consider further, the massive horned creature broke into a run back to its point of origin, toward the body of the horde and away from the mutable wave of the front lines. For a second, the blonde woman blinked again and stared into the empty space where it had stood. What?

The ground shook beneath her boots, prompting her attention to snap back. Tutar, seeming to come out of the ground itself, were now running hot on the heels of the one she had just witnessed turn tail. They… were leaving? Retreating? Sen turned to stare after the broad backs of the monsters as they galloped away from the conflict, some of them even trying to claw their way into the tree-line or pushing past their injured fellows. Her brow furrowed in consternation and her lips pulled a little moue of utter confusion, head tilting. This… this couldn’t be right.

The slim almost-warrior turned, a question for her brother rising from her throat, but something froze her spine in place before a single word could tumble out.

Kkkkkssssshhhhhhh….

The long, loud scrape made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end so intensely that it could have detached and formed a dart-like projectile. She felt her heart plummet to her boots, sliding past her stomach as that organ rose into her throat. The ground reverberated with the harsh friction, and echoes of it resounded from within the lines of the enemy, accompanied by the steady, rhythmic and painfully ominous clink… clink… clink of chains thicker in width than her very body. Sen tried to gulp, but her mouth was dry and her throat paralyzed. With a strength of will she didn’t know she possessed, the Brigham girl forced herself to exhale the breath she had been holding and turned to face her oncoming demise.

The first thing she noticed was how… hunched-over they were. Giant, hulking beasts twice the size of the enemy she had been fighting, with arms that seemed to almost have been elongated by the thick shackles that harnessed each wrist. As they came closer, Sen could make out the unnatural shape of their faces and the thick plating of their skin, a dusty, dead grey beneath the coating of sunset. Even from this distance, ever narrowing as it was, she could feel the hate coming off of them in waves. Every long, echoing scrape, every clink of chain, every growling inhale and deafening roar radiated the desire for destruction. The frenzied neighs of the horses called her attention back, and though she knew her face to be a mask of uncertain terror she turned to her fellow soldiers.

Most of them were on their knees, muttering or even shouting prayers that they knew would be their last. Their faces were pale and the ones closest to her she could see sweating, the beads of perspiration on their foreheads gleaming in the red-gold light. Scarred men and women, experienced warriors, tried and true in the ways of death and experts at dealing it out, had collapsed over weak knees and eyes that were quickly filling with hopelessness. It was… not quite the reassuring sight she had wanted. The woman’s long legs took a few steps back almost without her permission, her stare returning to the behemoths that lumbered ever closer, their clinking chains and grating scrapes swallowing all other sounds. In the back of her mind, she knew that the boulders collided with many of the Tutar, but that the vast majority of the more numerous beasts had gathered behind the line of grotesque nightmares.

The leg-breaker’s voice met her ears, sounding so distant she wasn’t sure if he had truly bellowed or if her wishful thinking had blurred lines between fantasy and reality. Either way, her ears had found the two words that didn’t, for once, contradict her desires: Fall back.

Her legs couldn’t have gained any more instant energy if she had been struck by the atmosphere’s most potent lightning bolt. Adrenaline coursed through her veins so aggressively that time slowed around her yet again, fueled by a desperate need to put some distance between herself and the slate-grey giants that encroached on her senses. Terrified whinnies met her ears, her bruised and bullied muscles propelling her toward the bulk of the human force. She ran past a few individuals that were yet on their knees, or stock frozen facing the onslaught, whether from not hearing the command or a belief that they would die regardless- Sen found her arms grabbing at shoulders or hands wildly, yanking them as she ran, refusing to come to a stop but giving them a powerful jolt to follow.

The Prince-Commander’s voice finally rang in her ears, and as she approached close enough to hear him, her legs came to a trembling halt. The men and women gathered near him answered him, their voices hesitant but oddly receptive.

“WE ARE THE LAST DEFENDERS OF MANKIND, AND WE SHALL SEND THESE FOUL CREATURES BACK TO THE ABYSS! WHAT DO WE FEAR, I SAID?!”

“NOTHING!”

Oh.

Sen paused and blinked, her eyes wide with a mild surprise that permeated even the terror that had soaked through her brain.

“WHAT?!”

“NOTHING!” If there was one thing that could still the tempest in her chest, it was this; her voice intertwining with that of her fellow soldiers. The people that she had run beside, had faced death alongside, and now with whom she would surely approach her end; their blood had soaked through her armor and lay sticky on her skin, but she felt it go even deeper than that. Hearing them together, hearing them fall and rise like the tide beneath the voice of one man… it was enough to flush her cheeks beneath the mud.

As the archers spread and the bowstrings snapped, Sen found herself pulled into the crush of retreating soldiers, bumped and jostled in much the same way she had been when this had started. Still, after the recent rallying, she found her legs stiffened against running to the camp. An approaching horse pulled her gaze, but the pale grey mount rushed past her without a thought. A stubborn streak flashed across her face, darkening her eyes so that they were no longer mirror reflections of the dusk’s approach. She planted her heels and turned back, chunk of spear still gripped tightly in her left hand as her eyes scanned the ground for a weapon. There were plenty of bows lying about, but she knew better than to risk human life by picking one up. A brief scan of the archers closest to her revealed that Rendir was nowhere to be seen. A tendril of worry snaked around her throat, but she shoved it away for the moment.

A scream of pain from a Tutar –originating from far closer than she had suspected any live monsters to remain- jerked her gaze to the side. Near one of the trenches, uncovered but with remnants of boards still on the edges, jagged and broken, she saw the Prince-Commander… and two Tutar, with the dust settling around a third’s recent headless collapse. Desperately she turned to the archers closest, her eyes wide and voice holding a forcefulness that would have surprised her, had she been listening. “Do something! Shoot!”

The archers that heard looked at one another and then helplessly back to the tussle, one or two shrugging with their inability, but before anyone could properly shout the situation to the recruit the thud of massive armor against the crust of the ground shook their feet. The giant, broken corpse of the Tutar, obviously a victim of a Drorghan’s boulder, bounced from the muddy ground and rolled once before coming to a stop in front of the pale soldiers. In unison, Sen and the archers looked up.

Two more bodies, each more than enough to crush several adult humans, hurtled toward the surface of Soluunar like comets of pulpy flesh. The blonde woman’s pupils shrunk to pinpricks as the shadow of a carcass started to grow around her own figure; her mind blanked, but the fraction of a second before “too late” happened she sprang forward. It only took two strides of her long legs to clear the direct path of the body, but she stumbled as the ground shook with its impact. Her boots ate the distance as she sought escape from the patch of demonic rain, narrowly avoiding pulverization by watching the ground for hints of shadow. She wasn't even sure where she was running. Her throat constricted as she barely dodged a particularly large Tutar-comet. The crack of its remaining armor shattering was accompanied by a rush of air and a strange sense of stillness; Sen’s long strides took her a reasonable distance, but as it bounced she felt a hard shove against her lower back.


Too fast. It was all happening too fast.

Her body flew forward, feet lifted from the blood-stained ground as though she weighed no more than a ragdoll. Her mind had no time to catch up with her predicament: the unnatural boost of speed it caused found her fairly hurdling towards her target. Instinct shoved her broken spear in front of her chest, the tip cutting through the torrent of air. Sen wanted to close her eyes more than anything in the fractions of a second before impact, but they remained wide open, pinkish gleam a stark contrast to the crimson and black of the battlefield.

The prong of the weapon buried itself into the distracted monster, finding a niche in the hollow of its shoulder, near the base of the thick neck. The recruit felt her skin shiver as the metal of her broken blade scraped against the beast’s clavicle, reverberating with the harsh friction of steel on bone. A gush of warm blood washed over her hands and all the way to her elbows, and a roar of enraged pain shook her brain within its skull, ears less than two feet from the source. Of the two eyes visible, one boiling with blood lust and the other bloody and closed, the functional one’s pupil swiveled to meet her. Sen could feel her body go limp.


The massive arm reached up with surprising speed and swiped for her body, thick fingers extended for a swat that could pulverize an adult man. Before the hand could make contact, however, she felt the hard bulk of the Tutar’s triceps crush into her solar plexus, not as a blow but rather as a hard push: her location made a build for momentum impossible. Her limp body caved around the upper arm of the monster and when the limb could go no further back, Sen rolled one more time. She felt the rush of air on the top of her head and knew that the beast was standing to its full height once more, and as the ground disappeared from her feet again her instincts latched her to the broad and bleeding shoulders of the Tutar. The wide expanse of writhing muscle offered little in the way of grip, and for a second Sen was merely scrambling, desperate not to fall and be within the creature’s range once more.

Her fingers found the remaining eyes.

Squishy, gelatinous substance met her touch and a roar of furious agony, five times as loud as the first, nearly stunned her into a blackout. Buried in the monster’s four eye sockets up to her second knuckle, the recruit crooked her digits and locked them, feeling a fresh wave of blood wash over her hands and the press of the hard skull that lay beyond the orbs. The Tutar thrashed its arms wildly and stumbled about, one hand still locked around its crude scimitar that dove pointlessly for the source of its rage, entrenched in a frenzy and newly-blinded. The hot flesh of her enemy pressed against her, the sound of its bestial, pained roars having drowned out any ambient sounds of battle. The blonde woman knew if she could just reach the bit of spear buried in its collar, she could get to the neck with it.

The bottom of her boot swung up to brace against the leathery back, her own long spine arching for resistance and barely-trained muscles pulsing with adrenaline as they hauled her upward. Her other foot found purchase when levied and she was able to stretch her knees, her head coming up to be level with that of the monster. Her eyes lit on the broken prong of spear, still deeply embedded in the hollow of the shoulder. Just a little further and she would be able to –

Pain.

Searing pain flashed over her face, sending sparks and splotches of bright white into her vision. A cool rush of air immediately rolled over the flesh around the tear, blood spurting and then falling back like warm rain against her face. Time and sound returned in a sensory overload and the sharp intensity of the wound lifted her hand from the skull of the Tutar, the palm automatically going to cover her right eye. Her body slumped from the shoulders of the creature to hang against its back again, one foot still braced but half-heartedly as the pain overwhelmed her concentration and balance. Her teeth grit and she blinked rapidly to clear the blood from the eye that wasn’t on fire, the fingers of her left hand still locked tenaciously in the sockets of her enemy.

As she looked up through a single-vision curtain of red, the beast shuddered beneath her body and fell to its knees with only the hilt of a longsword protruding from the fleshiest part of the neck. Her feet slid to the floor of the battlefield and her left hand finally loosed, sliding from its purchase within the skull almost reluctantly before meeting its counterpart over her face. Sen’s shoulders hunched forward, almost protectively over her wound, but she managed to catch a glimpse of the Prince-Commander as he easily removed the long blade from the fresh carcass.

Blinking back the blood from her dramatically decreased field of vision, Sen’s gaze met his. A half-beat passed, and the roar of a Drorghan broke the air around them like one of their boulders into a hand mirror. The pain evaporated under the fresh burst of adrenaline and the recruit spun around, spine straightening and hands dropping from her face. The circuitry in her brain snapped and fizzled into action, telling her to find a weapon, find something for cover, find a group of people, find a weapon, watch for incoming, find a weapon…

… but she remained where she was, blood running down her face and soaking the collar of her armor and tunic. She couldn’t see. Her hands were down and her bangs were back, there was light yet in the sky and from her left eye the vision was clear save for the occasional drip of red, but the right… the left gave her nothing but darkness. Sounds came from both sides of her, the deafening scrape of the boulders and the echoing ring of chain links as thick as her body, but her orientation was almost shot; Sen yanked her head completely around to see what was happening to her right with her left eye, then faced the blindness of the goings on her right and spun in a full circle, still standing behind the kneeling corpse of the eyeless Tutar.

For a second, she stayed rooted to the ground, indecision wracking her slim figure. What should she do? What could she do?

Another roar snapped her back, echoing in her head on a deeper frequency than that of the slain Tutar. Her heart thudded like a galloping horse in her chest, but there was no time; there hadn’t been any time before, and it had gotten significantly worse since then. She gave a rapid swipe to her face, clearing more of the blood away and leaving a clean streak through a mask of red. Gulping air to fuel the adrenaline and postpone any light-headedness, she started backing away. It was half falling-back, but half a strategic search for arms; she rapidly scanned the ground with exaggerated head movements for some kind of weapon. A useful one, not a bit of wood with a sharp chunk of metal at the end, something that could actually be useful to cover her as she sought to rejoin the bulk of the soldiers. There were bits of splintered spear and broken blades everywhere, most of them still wet with blood of friend and foe alike, but she needed something she could use. Sen was positive she would die today, but she wouldn’t just lie down for it. She wouldn’t welcome them with open, weaponless arms.

A thick chunk of bloodied hair unwound from its braid, dropping in front of her sliced eye. The other one flickered with the steely resolve of a cornered animal.

“ARGH!” another grunt and slash of her sword and Ausan was bathed in the blood of her foes. The dark blood nearly covered her from head to toe now as she cut her way through the battlefield with a company of Sisters. The unit worked like a well-oiled machine as they dance through the enemies, cutting down those who came to them. It was beautiful in a morbid sense that would have terrified another foe. These though, barely batted one of their many eyes; instead they just kept coming and coming, no matter how many of them they dropped.

“There is no end!” Krista shouted to Ausan in a brief moment of pause before they were rushed yet again.

Ausan feigned left, the Tutar lunged for what he thought was an open spot only to find the waiting shield of Krista whose deflection threw him off balance and gave the opening that the other needed to end him quickly. A slice up his thigh made him drop down to their level, where his face was promptly met with the edge of Ausan’s shield across his jaw which sent of his tusks flying up into his on face. The howl of pain muffled by the brutal pin job was cut short when the clean strike of a sword slit his throat.

“Then we fight until we are nothing but ghosts!” Ausan said when she turned to face her sister. “Then we fight some more!”

Their shields were brought together in a symbol of sisterhood, though the moment was ruined by the trembling of the grounds and an outcry through the lines.

“By the Goddess…no….not Drorghans…” she whispered and looked with panic at the Krista whose eyes held the same panic. “Fall back…” Ausan said even before she heard Barth’s orders get carried down the line. “FALL BACK!! FALL THE **** BACK!!”

Her command was shouted down the line to all who were within earshot and carried further by a pair of sisters who ran to ensure all followed. Even as the unfortunate Tutar began to plummet to back to the ground she shouted and commanded the line back. It was as the ground quaked further from the falling bodies that she glanced in the direction of the last place she saw Barth and her heart sank as the blood drained from her face.

“GO!” someone shouted to the side of her. “GO TO HIM!”

Krista had already begun to organize the other sisters when she too saw their prince fall. She knew Ausan would be no use to them now, not until she knew Barth was safe would she be able to focus on anything else. “GO!!”

And so she ran.

The world around her began to fade completely into the background, her focus singular and all-consuming she ran. Fallen bodies, both human and Tutar alike where cleared in leaps and vaults of athleticism that she would likely pay for later once the adrenaline left her system. Though she cared not for that or anything else save for getting to her Prince; even if it looked like she was not going to make it.

“ARGGGH!” a violent roar from her right drew her attention, a Tutar that had not retreated with the rest of its kin. The spear in its hand was swung with that ungodly strength just as Ausan had jumped over another body. There was nowhere to go, no way to avoid the swing so she did not even bother. Instead she tucked in behind her shield as best she could. The old, worn, battered and abused armor already on its last leg cracked and splintered to the point where the top came off on impact with the ground. Air knocked from her lungs, Ausan laid there a moment as she tried to just remember how to breathe. Even as the Tutar loomed over she did not move, mere stared up at the beast whole raised its spear to put an end to her.

“Not today!” she said on her first full breath as she took up her broken shield, sat up and slammed down the jagged end into the groin of the giant beast.

There was no moment to savor the scream of utter pain as it ripped from its lungs; instead she scooped up her sword and ran once more. Another mound of bodies was cleared and finally she caught sight of something that put her somewhat at ease. While Sen rode the back of the beast for all she was worth, Ausan dodge a final hurtle, snatched up the Prince’s sword, tossed it to him and moved to flank the beast.

“See what happens when you leave my side?” she joked to Barth with a tired smile.

In a rush, everything came back to her. Sounds and smells, the fatigue in her body and the sting of what she could only guess at being splinters from the spear attack dig into her body with each ragged breath. The look on Sen’s face was one she was familiar with; one many wore after they faced death more than once and came out on top.

“Sister!” she called to her and waited until she had her attention. “Well done!” With just her sword in hand she looked to Barth, “What now?”

_________________

Dig trenches he says.

Alistair had never been so sick of digging in his life. Sure, this would help them immensely in pushing back the Tutar savages, he saw no reason to disagree with that, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be the one digging amongst all of these people. He was a knight, and his duty was to fight, this did not suit him at all. Leave the digging to the people who were not as important as a knight was. That’s what should have happened.

But no… this had to be a group effort, didn’t it? They were supposed to band together and all that.

He grunted as he plunged the shovel into the soft earth, muttering something unpleasant under his breath. It felt like he has been at this for ages. This had to be the most tedious thing he has ever done in his life. It was dirty, tiring, and he wanted to just walk away and do something else. In fact, he would be happy if he didn’t have to look at a shovel for the rest of his life. They should be resting up. What good would they be once the Tutar decided to strike, and they were all exhausted from digging?

Sighing heavily, Alistair stopped digging and rolled his shoulder and the wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. His hands were too covered in dirt. He glanced around at the others, who were putting everything they had into these trenches. Well, some of them anyway. He noticed there was a group of soldiers talking amongst themselves nearby. Alistair narrowed his eyes and frowned, tempted to shout at the group. If he had to dig, so did that lot, he thought. But then he got another idea in his head.

Alistair examined his progress, and estimated he had dug good few feet. Earlier in the day, he had helped to finish one trench. He decided this was good enough. Though the ‘trench’ he was working on now looked like he had been digging for some kind of buried treasure than actually digging a trench, it was better than nothing. Hey, digging these trenches wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.

He walked over to one of the men and tossed his shovel in his direction.

The man, taken by surprise, was nearly hit in the head with it, “What the hell?” He arched a brow and looked at Alistair with mild confusion and irritation.

“Your turn,” Alistair grunted.

“What?”

“It’s your turn to dig.”

“Excuse me? I we just got done digging out our trench. The look on the man’s face, as well as the faces of the men around him, were filled with irritation. “You’ve barely put any effort into what you’ve done,” he said, pointing to where Alistair had just been.

Alistair just shrugged, making a face as he dug his index finger into his ear, “Sure I have, put forth effort. I’ve been digging all day… I don’t appreciate being accused of being lazy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take a nap. Wake me in a few hours.” As he started to walk away, stretching, he let out an exaggerated yawn. The men he left behind looked on with glares of indignation. They muttered something under their breath, which were more than likely unpleasant things, but Alistair had moved out of earshot and their words had fallen on deaf ears.

As soon as he was a few feet away from the tents, he could see the scout team returning. Judging from the looks on their faces, the news they were bringing was not anything good. Of course, it was to be expected that they wouldn’t bring any good news he supposed. But he wanted, for a moment, to be hopeful that their moment of peace would last a bit longer.

However, that was shot down he got close enough to hear what news the scouts were bringing the Prince.

"The Tutar, My Prince. They come. From the northern reaches of the Ravine, as you predicted."

"How long?"

"A few hours at the most. They will be here before nightfall."

"How many?” Silence, then, receiving no response, the Prince continued, “How many, Ayala?"

"Many thousands, My Prince. I would say it is nearly twice the size of the force that sacked Linden and stormed Castle Krinwulf."

“Are you sure?"

"I… I've never seen anything like it."

Well, so much for that nap. Alistair frowned a bit, looking around at the startled faces of the soldiers who had been standing around listening in.

“Alistair!” A voice called out. He looked up to see a knight on horseback approaching him. “Don’t just stand there,” the man said, sounding impatient and irritated. “We need your help getting ready.”

“Now? But we’ve been digging trenches all day! Can’t I get a nap first?”

“Absolutely not. Get your ass back to work. We need to move faster, and then gear up.”

The ‘few hours’ had seemingly flew by in one huge blur. Before long, the Tutar were on the attack before he had a chance to blink; their war-cries seemingly shaking the very foundations of the earth. If the trenches weren’t suitable already, there were sure to be more cracks in the earth from these roars alone. It didn’t take anyone long to realize what was happening. The Tutar were out for blood, here to kill. Here to put an end to everything, and destroy what remaining forces there were until they were all that remained on Soluunar.

Alistair quickly grabbed his axe, and mounted the nearest horse. He watched as the soldiers began charging toward the seemingly endless blur that was the Tutari army. His heart was racing.

Once the cavalry was on the move, he wasted no time charging into battle at full speed.

Arrows from both sides flew past him as he urged the horse to barrel toward two Tutari soldiers, axe raised. He let out a battle cry of his own, amongst the thousands of others, to him a symbol of the will to live, and swung as hard as he could at the soldiers. His axe hit the mark. The Tutari soldier had their head taken clean off before he turned to strike the other. That one had managed to avoid sudden death but had suffered a major blow to the temple that he probably wasn’t going to recover from any time soon.

Despite his whining over being exhausted earlier, he was putting in a lot of effort and enthusiasm now. The adrenaline running through him kept him focused on the battle. was hard to maneuver on horseback, due to the sheer number of soldiers on either side, and the trenches that had been carved into the earth, but he was managing well. Well, at least for now. He knew he shouldn’t get too comfortable otherwise he would lose focus. He was still needed out here on the battlefield, where he truly felt alive.

There was nothing but the clash of metal and the smell of blood and sweat out here.

Alistair let out another yell and swung his axe at yet another Tutari soldier. This one was particularly burly, with large fangs and a hideous snout-like nose. He, too, was wielding an axe. The two weapons collided, and it became a battle of force, which caused Alistair to be thrown from his horse. The Tutari soldier kept coming for him. He barely had time to block the attack and prevent being chopped in half.

He put up both hands. One hand grabbed the handle of the axe, the other grabbing the Tutari’s wrist, desperately trying to steer the blade away.

The horse that threw him off was seized by another one of the Tutari and had its throat ripped out. Great. It was thing horses were expendable, but he would have liked to have saved the energy he needed for fighting on foot for a later time. That was just how war was, unpredictable. He had no choice but to go with the flow.

That was until the Prince’s voice boomed over the sounds of battle:

"FALL BACK! FALL BACK RIGHT ****ing NOW!"

Alistair wasted no time in obeying the command. It was difficult to see anything, there were so many soldiers, so much fighting, hell Alistair could hardly even think straight beyond the fighting. But he could feel something sink into his gut. Something even more sinister had fallen over the battlefield. A cold sweat was building up on his brow, and on the back of his neck. He really should not look at what was coming.

He didn’t want to know... He was a knight, he was out here fighting the enemy, no matter what… He was not supposed to feel fear.

Oh… but he looked anyway.

Drorghans.

He felt his jaw tense, “What the ****? Oh… Gods have mercy…”

They were hideous things, worse than the Tutar. If he was not afraid of this battle before, he was now.

“THERE IS NO ROOM FOR FEAR, BROTHERS AND SISTERS! NOT NOW, NOT EVER AGAIN! WE FIGHT NOW FOR EVERYTHING WE KNOW AND FOR EVERYTHING THAT SHALL BE!" The Prince shouted. Alistair just felt more afraid at these words. "FORGET YOUR BANNERS AND FORGET YOUR KINGDOMS! YOU FIGHT FOR NO TITLES, NOW. NO RECOGNITION, NO LORDS, NO OWNERSHIP OF LAND. NONE OF THAT **** MATTERS ANYMORE! NOW YOU FIGHT FOR THE PERSON STANDING BESIDE YOU! YOU FIGHT FOR THE CHILDREN THAT WILL ONE DAY WALK UPON THIS LAND IN PEACE, REMEMBERING THE DEEDS OF THEIR ANCESTORS! WE SHALL ALL BE REMEMBERED FOR WHAT WE DO HERE, RIGHT NOW! WE SHALL BE REMEMBERED FOREVER!"

“If we do make it out alive…” Alistair had commented under his breath.

"I HAVE FACED THESE MONSTERS BEFORE! THEY ARE DRORGHANS, AND WE SHALL END THEM, JUST AS WE WILL END THE REST OF THIS HORDE! WE WILL BREAK THEM!"

He let out a shaky breath. As much as he wanted to be encouraged, this royally sucked. He wanted to crawl someone and remain out of sight until this whole thing was over.

But the Prince was right about one thing: this was going to be something to be remembered. That thought alone, though probably taken differently than intended, was enough to keep his morale up enough. He could still fight this battle. Whether he would life and see new generations walk upon a peaceful land, or die here and remain trapped in this endless battle, did not matter. This was history in the making, the future of Soluunar. He was not going to lay down his weapon and not take part in something like this. No, he would fight.

"WHAT DO WE FEAR?"

“Nothing!” He cried. It was uncertain whether he was crying out to give himself confidence, which in that case worked rather well, or if he was just doing it to help boost the morale of the others.

He charged into battle again with the others, axe raised. These monsters were just glorified Tutar, nothing more. These things could be killed. If it bleeds, it dies.

But all of that resolve was washed away as soon as he had come face to face with one of the advancing Drorghans. As soon as it laid eyes on him, he suddenly felt very small. The thing was huge! It looked even bigger up close and personal. There was no way he could fight these things… There was no way anyone could fight these damned things. What the hell were they thinking even attempting to fight these things?

“**** this…” Alistair turned around and tried to run away, back toward the camp. He fought his way through a throng of Tutari, putting every last bit of effort in getting the hell out of there. But he had been too slow. One swipe of the Drorghan’s claws had sent Alistair up into the air just like the Tutar soldiers earlier. A searing pain erupted in his shoulder, all the way to his torso. He flew a good few feet before crashing into a Tutar soldier, which had only added to his discomfort.

Alistair he was seeing stars for a few seconds and was brought back to reality only when he caught the stench of something foul.

He was in a trench, and the Tutar he had been thrown into had been impaled on a spear. There were other dead bodies as well. The best way to describe the scene was something like stumbling upon a sea of death. Mortals and Tutari alike. They were all dead; the expressions on their faces were frozen as if continuing to fight even in the afterlife.

An idea suddenly struck him. Despite the awful smell of blood and mud, he could stay down here. He wanted to live, not die. If he played dead down here there was a chance he might see another day.

It was brilliant!

_________________

”Gods bellow,” Farie cursed as realization hit him of just how many of these creatures were swarming them. He didn’t have long to dwell on this fact as he raced into combat his sword held ready. The sound of thundering feet all around him, the harsh breathing of comrades in arms just barely audible over the roar of the battle that drew ever closer as they ran forwards. To Farie it seemed like everything was slowing down becoming a slow action movie in which every action took ten times too long to happen. It seemed like an eternity before he reached the first ranks of the charging hoard of Tutari. However, it was only a few scant minutes. He could see Cordian by his side running with a giant grin plastered on his face, sword held in both hands ready to fight. The gleam of battle in his eyes. This was what Cordian lived for.

Cordian reached the hoard a moment before Farie did and dived into the fray momentarily lost from Faries sight by the melee. He only had the briefest moment of worry for his friend and mentor before he found himself surrounded by the Tutari. The press of bodies was atrocious. Large melee’s like this are pure and utter chaos. They are not beautiful or elegant or anything of the sort. They are not one on one fights with swords in an elaborate dance. They are pure hacking and slashing. Attempting not to die while killing as many enemies as possible. While the ground beneath their feet runs thick with blood turning soil to mud. Overall the dangers of being crushed or falling are just as great as the dangers of blades and arrows to one’s health in a battle field.

Battles are odd things for the way that things become distorted. The way that the roar and dine become somehow muted and strange almost undulating as though far away when in reality it’s right next to you. Farie’s senses were like that as he took in the monster before him for just one quick moment. The moment before it’s blade came crashing down towards his head that is. The blood thundered through Farie’s ears dulling his ability to hear, though unfortunately it didn’t dull his sense of smell which was overwhelmed by the stench of the creatures before him. It was quite fowl and odor and made him cringe.

Farie dodged the blow which barely missed taking his arm off at the shoulder. The stink of blade grazing flesh through leather and male made him cry out. He swung up with his own blade catching the soft spot on the creatures side. His blow wasn’t strong enough to penetrate more then a few inches into the hide and only succeeded in maddening the beast further. It’s attack became more frenzied and it took all of Farie’s skill just to stay alive. He knew the beasts greater strength would make any counter with his sword against it’s blade almost impossible and tire him quickly so he dodged the blade of the Tutar’s sword whenever possible rather then fence against the blade as a knight usually did in tourneys and demonstrations of arms. This was no time for fancy. The deadly dance kept pace with the rest of the battle. However, to Farie it seemed an eternity was captured in this one moment.

The Tutar came at him again, Farie was tiring, both were bleeding now. Though Farie took satisfaction that his many strikes seemed to have wounded the creature more then it had him. One of it’s legs was barely holding it’s weight from the large gash in it’s thigh that Farie’s low thrust had caused. A larger cut ran up it’s side crossing over the one he’d made earlier in the fight. A few light scratches covered it’s arms and one large hole penetrated it’s belly. Farie himself had half a dozen wounds along both arms and one particularly annoying narrowly missed cutting into vital areas cut that ran over his ribs and burned like hellfire. The beast lunged head lowered weapon flying down towards him. Farie dodged and the blade landed with a thump and wosh of air and flying chunks of dirt and mud to shower them both right next to Farie narrowly missing him. Farie pivoted on one foot brought his sword down hard pressing all his weight and the momentum of the charge into the blade. The beast had charged forwards in it’s attack and it wasn’t quick enough to dodge the blow that took it right across hits lowered head cutting into the neck down one side. The beast bellowed in rage and die at Farie’s feet. Farie had no time to feel pleased with the kill as more beasts came to take it’s place.

Breathing heavily he charged the next one. Adrenaline and the desire to survive this fight were all that kept him moving. As he reached his next target he lost track of the rest of the battle purely focused as he was upon this one monster. He couldn’t afford not to be the last encounter had proven almost more then he could take on.

--- --- ---

Cordian raced into battle beside Farie his eyes blazing with delight and laughter. Not that he found the battle funny, but he was always a little unusual in that he could laugh during a fight. Some ingrained part of him caused by years of training and hardened by true war. It always unnerved your opponent when a grinning, laughing sword wielding madman came running at you.

Cordian ran by Farie’s side the whole time until they came close to the advancing hoard. Then he put on a burst of speed and charged ahead diving into the fray sword swinging wildly and screaming in delight. He lost sight of everyone as he pushed into the mass of bodies and attacked. Unable to keep track of anything as his fury and battle rage turned his sight red and focused. He slashed at everything that moved uncaring what he hit since he was safely away from the other members of the defense. He kept screaming as he did so until no breath was left in him to scream. Then he just panted and kept right on slashing and hacking at the bodies before him.

So lost was he in his frenzy that he could not have told you how many he took down or how badly wounded he might himself be. He always stirred himself up like this for a battle as it helped his nerves. Not to mention it made him a terrifying fighter to behold. Blood covered him along with mud and other unseemly things he didn’t quite know or care what they were.

--- --- ---

Caught in the fight Farie dodged the blade that fell just shy of his left shoulder, but he didn’t see the beast coming up from behind him and felt more then saw the blade bite into his shoulder causing the limb to go numb. He screamed out in pain. Misstepped and fell. He sprawled into the mud on his back. The sticky substance coating his already disgusting self. Blood both his own and Tutar made his armor stink and his leather outfit stick to his skin. The new wound on his shoulder burned like fire and even more so now that mud was seeping into it and his whole weight lay upon it. He screamed. It was all he could do for the pain held him down unable to move for a few deadly heartbeats.

Aldorian had been a few stops behind Farie fighting his way towards his lord. He was one of the nights of the Shalerin household a few years older then Farie, a head taller and quite a bit broader of chest and shoulders then Farie. Aldorian was one of the man who had stood with Farie in the first battle and who had deferred to Farie over his father during the confrontation. Aldorian had vowed to keep Farie safe and had made it his personal mission. Aldorian had trained under Cordian and he had been Farie’s partner during that time.

Aldorian delivered the final fatal blow just as Farie went down and he caught the man’s scream like a fist to his guts. He ran forwards and saw with wild terror the beast raising it’s weapon to finish Farie. Farie couldn’t do anything more then stare at it in abject horror. Aldorian charged screaming and the blow caught him across the chest instead of taking Farie’s head. Farie cried out in an inarticulate manner screaming out his rage and anger over the needless loss. His life spared at the cost of a friend and comrade. And in a blink of an eye a life was lost and it sank into Farie like led. The beast roared in anger, but more fighters pressed in from all around as the hoard was beginning to thin and draw back. They made quick work of the beast as they outnumbered him and drove forwards.

--- --- ---

Cordian heard a scream that managed to penetrate his battle frenzy for just a moment. He knew that voice, knew that sound. Farie. That one single name reverberated in his empty thoughts and he finally took a moment to look around. Blinking he noticed Farie on the ground Aldorian dead atop him and the distinct lack of enemies pressing forwards. What the hell? He thought looking around for a moment catching the name being repeated over many beastial throats.

Drorghans

Cordian went cold at the words. He didn’t know anything at all about them except that they were the deadliest things imaginable, he had heard old bardic tales of them and he half remembered one, but really the only thing that stuck with him was their deadly nature. Far worse then Tutari they were. He ran. Back away from the fighting towards Farie. He didn’t fallow the others pressing the advantage forwards.

The ground shook beneath his feet and he slid to a stop next to Farie. His face ashen beneath the bloody gore and muck that covered it. He reached down and pulled Farie up to his feet dislodging Aldorian’s body. A quick prayer was spared for the fallen comrade, but it was all he had to offer right now. He couldn’t allow himself to even feel the remorse and loss coursing through his system.

”Can you stand?” Cordian asked not releasing Farie who panted for breath in quick pained gasp.

”I think so.” Farie gasped in earnest his eyes closing for a moment as he tried to gather his senses and dull the pain by a degree at last. Cordian released him and he staggered a moment. Cordian bent and retrieved Farie’s sword. He handed it to Farie who took it wearily. Before either man could speak again their attention was pulled towards the far side of the field where both knew worse was to come. They watched with the rest of the mortal defenders as the literal nightmares of mankind walked forth. Both man watched the carnage the new beasts wroth amongst their own kin with not a care and it was clear that their chances of victory where nigh on impossible. Fear overwhelmed so many around them. Cordian himself felt that fear and knew what it would mean for the defenders.

He heard the cry from Barth and screamed out his own cry of retreat ”FALL BACK. RETREAT! NOW!” He screamed out grabbing the nearest man and pushing him backwards away from the advancing hoards. repeating the gesture as Farie finally tore his gaze away from the horror grabbed Crodian’s arm and pulled him backwards. Farie added his own cries of retreat into the din and both man knew as they turned tail and ran back towards the lines that many would not make it. If they did they would be lucky.

Cordian attempted to get more to retreat as he ran a step behind Farie, but the exertion of running through the twisted corpses of both friends and foe, navigating the paths across the trenches they had dug earlier and avoiding the falling Tutari from the sky took up all his concentration. On more then one occasion he was forced to slow to pull someone from a near death in a trench or pull them up from the ground before they could be trampled. He himself skidded here and there. Tripped once and had to roll and run on even as he felt the tell tale pain in his ankle telling him he’d done some form of damage to it. There was no time. He could tell from the way Farie ran staggering back and forth that he was quickly tiring and losing track of where the dangers lay. This was not a good day.

Exhausted and only partially able to breath both man made it to the ranks to rejoin their comrades. Farie’s face was white with fear and pain. He leaned heavily against Cordian who stood panting watching the chaos unfold. Waiting for it to reach them. Farie’s eyes were closed his lips moving soundlessly and Cordian knew he was praying. They didn’t have long to wait as the battle renewed with fresh fervor. Cordian took one look at Farie’s face and knew if the the young lord was to life to see the next dawn he would need all the help he could get and Cordian would be damned to hellspawn before he would move from Farie’s side without death taking him first. Drawing his sword once more which he had sheathed before dragging Farie to his feet a while ago he stood ready for the next wave of death. Neither man saw the threat to Barth or the ensuing fight as they were now getting ready to defend against the Tutari and Drorghans swarming towards the lines. Farie staggered when Cordian released him and drew his sword up from where it had rested at his side. He looked weary and exhausted and felt every inch of pain flooding his body, but the drive to live kept him upright and adrenaline soon did the rest. Farie screamed in incoherent anger and rage and attacked the closes Tutar with Cordian right by his side. The two fought on like brothers who where so used to each other that they could fight side by side blindfolded.

_________________

Soluunar

One second Barth had been preparing to die right there, laying in the mud, with saliva and blood dripping onto his face from a fanged hellhole of a mouth, the next, he was being saved by someone he couldn't see.

There was a roar of pain and outrage, and the scimitar moved away from his neck so swiftly that he would have lost two sets of fingers to it if he hadn't let go in time.

He collected himself and sat up, expecting to see Ausan tussling with the beast; the woman had a sixth sense for when he was in trouble, and it was entirely plausible that she'd have hurdled half a battlefield to get to him in his time of need. He was surprised, then, to see a lanky woman with a familiar face hanging onto the Tutar for dear life, her fingers embedded into its eyes as it swung frantically over its shoulder at her with the same weapon that had nearly parted Barth's head from the rest of him.

That… that's the pitchfork girl!

Before he could do much more than register his astonishment at the fact that he'd been saved by the same girl Verana had been putting so much of her time into preparing (evidently the Maiden was an effective teacher), the Tutar landed a hit on her with the blade.

Fearing the worst, he sprung up from the ground and began the process of finding his weapon, in time to catch movement at the periphery of his vision. He caught the hilt of his longsword deftly, instinctively, as he locked eyes for a brief instant with Ausan who was moving to flank the demon that had nearly taken his life.

“See what happens when you leave my side?”

He smiled, knowing she'd have killed him if he'd died (it would have seemed impossible, but not when it came to the Shield Maiden), as he drove his blade into the Tutar's neck in a single fluid motion, bringing it down. He withdrew the bloody steel and met the gaze of the woman who had saved him. He feared she had lost one of her eyes, though she seemed to be handling her injury rather well for one that was so unseasoned. It would hit her harder in a moment, though- the bigger injuries were always like that.

'Sen', the Maidens had told him she was called. He owed her his life, and he wouldn't forget it. Ausan wouldn't either, as was made clear when she referred to the woman as a Sister. He grunted with approval as Verana's protégé began backpedaling, apparently searching the ground for a new weapon.

"What now?" Ausan asked him, and Barth stared out over the battlefield to see the Droghans continuing to draw closer to their position even as the tide of Tutar behind them began advancing slowly and carefully behind the living battering rams they were using to clear their path for them. They still gave the Drorghans a very wide berth, which was no surprise given how many Tutar had already been sent flying through the air by the boulder wielding beasts.

Before he could answer her, Barth watched in disbelief as a lone Knight attempted to engage a Drorghan singlehanded. Did his speech, intended to embolden the soldiers and keep them from fleeing to the camp, cause this soul to rush out there?

He was either the bravest individual he had ever seen, or the stupidest- it was then that Barth recalled seeing the man riding out on his horse earlier, mistakenly believing the cavalry to have been called in. He'd been the only rider, and he'd quickly lost the horse to the Tutar, but it said a great deal for his fortitude that he survived as long as he did.

But fighting a Drorghan head-on?

Just as he was convinced of the man's idiocy, he watched as the Knight turned and attempted to flee (a demonstration of good sense, that), before being stuck by a Drorghan's claw and sent flying right into a trench.

"Well, he's definitely dead," the Prince said quietly with a sorrowful shake of his head before realizing he still hadn't given Ausan a response.

"We keep on," he finally replied as he watched the now horseless cavalry unit rushing towards them from the direction of the camp, led by Resuran with Borim Garth somewhere behind, hanging back with some of his personal guard. The Drorghans made horses an impossibility, but they still needed every ounce of manpower they had.

"We stand our ground," he said, hoping his voice only sounded hopeless to his own ears. They were at the end now, it was all over and he knew it. The Gods were not coming.

"That's all we can do, Ben. We stand our ground."



Terror and fear wafted through forests like a thick musk that set the animals on edge. Prey and predator alike gathered around the Elder God in fear of the demons that had invaded their woods. “This has gone on for long enough,” he said aloud to no one in particular, though the wolves seemed to shy away from him now as if they could sense the rage that boiled just beneath the surface.

“Protect them and watch the lines,” he instructed one of the Alphas. “Do not engage because you are not strong enough to do so on your own, but do not let the other animals come to harm. We have to protect the balance. We must preserve the hunt or all is lost. Understand?” The grey wolf gave a yip and turned to the rest of his pack and soon groups of wolves shoot off to do as commanded. This done, Weylyn took up his spear, slammed the butt of it down three times and felt himself leave the mortal realm to journey to the home of the Gods.

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_


In the area lying between the army and their camp, a group of soldiers stopped in their tracks, shielding their eyes from a blinding flash of light that appeared in front of them without warning. Once it passed, they blinked dumbly, staring in disbelief at a group of people standing before them who hadn't been there a moment before.

These were no ordinary people.

The Mortals stared, stunned, as a bearded man in a riotously colored robe raised a staff into the air, the entirety of his body beginning to glow with a dull blue light that surrounded him as well as the 4 intimidating soldiers standing around him.

A second later the silvery soldiers in the winged helms were brandishing their immense halberds, soaring through the air, straight towards one of the closest of the Drorghans.

"For the Gods they call," shouted one of the Skyknights, as he slashed a blade across the face of the beast, causing a spray of dark blood to cover the dull silver of his vambrace even as a gust of wind rushed forth from his weapon, giving the creature momentary pause. On the other side of the Drorghan, one of his fellows drove a halberd point into the neck, raising his voice in song to match the pitch of his comrade.

"Aye, and mountains fall!"

"And the demons perish no matter how tall!" yelled the third of their number, one of the two that lacked the long dark hair spilling out from behind the helmets of the other two. He recited his line before quickly dodging a boulder strike delivered by a flailing, chained arm as the Drorghan screeched out in agony and rage. Before he could counter with an attack of his own, the final Demigod reached the others and thrusted his halberd into the monster's open maw, the blade stopping shy of bursting out of its the back of its head by the thick flesh that protected it.

"This thing needs more iron in its diet!" he called joyfully as he withdrew the weapon, looking like he was going to drive it into the mouth once again, but instead pulling away just in time to avoid being slammed to the ground by the other boulder.

"Roth, your weapon is steel," called the first Demigod, as he landed on the ground in front of the Drorghan, his flight at an end for the time being. "And you ruined the song."

The monster was grievously injured, but still it remained on its feet as the others alighted around it in a semicircle. "There are plenty more of these things," the accused man replied as he readied his weapon. "Lots of chances to sing. My jokes, on the other hand, are priceless."


"Your boys have a lot of fun, don't they?"

Gaius Stormbreath glanced at Lydia, locking his eyes onto the light brown ones he could see beneath her hood. "Too much. The outlook is already bleak, even without their nonsense."

The Elder Goddess of Luck smiled softly at him and threw her dice, even as he swept his staff out in front of them, sending a sheet of powerful wind surging over the heads of the Mortal soldiers and into the Drorghans. It served to slow them down a great deal, even stopping a few of them, just as the 6 hooded, slender individuals that had been standing around the Goddess moved forward, their quick feet picking easy paths through those assembled ahead of them. They, like their mistress, were outlined in a blue glow that began fading slowly from the moment it appeared.

The dice skimmed over the ground and returned to Lydia's gloved palm, where they glowed with a bright golden light for several seconds. Just as it happened, the injured Drorghan lost its footing and fell back, urged backward by the wind gust, and a massive flailing arm sent a boulder smashing directly into the skull of one of its fellows, killing it instantly.

As the injured Drorghan began fighting to regain its footing, the hooded individuals reached it and immediately sent a flurry of knives flying into the face of the beast, with several embedding themselves into its eyes. Finally, it dropped to the ground with a massive thud, and was still.

"That was ours," one of the Skyknights called after them as the newcomers moved forward, their thrown knives already back in their grip. "Sorry, didn't know you'd taken a liking to him!" yelled back one of the hooded females, her crimson hair just barely peeking out from under the fabric covering her head. "Next time give em a kiss so we can tell!"


Standing just behind the other 2 Gods, Yorinth calmly surveyed the field before him. His dark eyes narrowed on the approaching Drorghans, before turning to regard the Mortal troops assembled against them.

It was clear that while the last alliance of men still stood firm, their morale was at a very low point. He could see slumped shoulders, injuries, and people on the brink of fleeing for their lives. "Not a moment too soon," he muttered as he raised both hands and sent out a wave of rejuvenating energy to everyone arrayed in front of them. Spines straightened, eyes brightened, and soldiers who looked like they were ready to give in suddenly stopped what they were doing and looked around, surprised to find themselves feeling new resolve.

The Demigod at Yorinth's side was the only one of his kind that hadn't rushed forward; Lagaan, resembling a tightly wound spring, stared around the vicinity as if expecting an attack from every direction. It was only when the Elder God of Enduring moved forward, his eyes fixed on some injured individuals nearby that would need closer attention, that Lagaan did the same.

Another movement of Gaius' staff, another roll of Lydia's dice.

As if connected to the tip of the twirling cane by an invisible string, the sky above roiled and spiraled, and with alarming speed a funnel cloud touched down right at the center of the Drorghan formation, pulling several monsters into it and spitting them forcefully back out, causing their immense forms to collide and disrupting their charge. They scrabbled at one another, momentarily forgetting who the enemy was in their affront and confusion as their powerful, hateful roars shook the air itself.

The dice returned to Lydia's hand once again, glowing gold as before, and a spear that had been picked up by the tornado came hurtling out of the spiraling column of wind, impaling a Drorghan through its head through nothing but sheer luck.

Gaius, Lydia and all their Demigods glowed blue once more, and once more the Skyknights, took to the air, seeking their next target, even as knives from the hooded immortals continued to rain ceaselessly on the large targets that continued to present themselves. The tornado dissipated, but the Elder God of Wind was far from done.

Cheers rose up from the Mortal forces, though many could only look on in awe at the display before them. Most were simply standing there, watching with gaping mouths as the Demigods continued to wreak havoc and the Drorghans fought to recover from the sudden cyclone.

"Your prayers were heard," Yorinth said loudly as he moved towards the Prince of Linden, making sure his voice could be made out over the commotion. Lagaan dogged his steps, glaring at anyone within arm's reach, but he was silent as always when they reached Barth Krinwulf.

"They were heard," he repeated. "And now we fight."

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
Upper Regions

Rolyn stood alone in the quiet garden, staring into the fountain's waters, gazing down at his own reflection. He had never aged, never lived a mortal life like the others, and yet to him it seemed that the face staring up at him was much older than it had been in the past. As if the light brown skin was beginning to show signs of wear after all the millennia that passed since he came into existence. As if the silver hair was losing its shimmering qualities, becoming dull and deadened as if to suggest that the years were finally taking their toll.

It wasn't just because of the recent struggles with the Circle, either- no, this was something he'd taken note of before, even before the Tutar emerged from the Ravine to launch their war on all of mankind. This was something he noticed long before any of that occurred.

It's not just my appearance, though, he thought as he clenched and unclenched his fists as if to test the strength of his fingers. No, it wasn't only the reflection peering back at him that made him think it.

It was the way he moved, the way he seemed to be getting slower, mentally as much as physically. He couldn't help but think back and remember a time when he wouldn't have struggled quite so hard to get through to the Circle, a time when he was capable of coming up with solutions as opposed to walking around in the same loop over and over again until finally electing to turn renegade and skirt the very laws he implemented in the first place.

There was the matter of power as well; long ago he had been stronger than anyone else by a mile, head and shoulders above every other denizen of the Upper Regions. Then Malinar surpassed him, as others grew as well; Galaia was close when she died, and Lorkhan had grown strong enough to be the third most powerful of all of them.

Rolyn, though, he never grew stronger, and the gap between him and the others kept lessening in size as the centuries went by. The eternally present Rolyn Skyhand did not gain in power, and if anything he believed he was changing for the worse, growing weaker, fading away.

It made sense- he was supposed to be Creation's guardian, and it was clear he was no longer suitable for the job he had been given. He had no purpose, no reason to exist, if he couldn't perform the task with which he'd been entrusted.

He sighed, but then his forlorn thoughts were interrupted by something new.

Something… furious.



“WHAT DO YOU HAVE TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?!” Weylyn practically snarled as he strode up to his friend, mentor and patron God who stood by the fountain. Clad now for war he was beyond waiting for them to do what must be done and was prepared to do what he knew was right where the others would not. “You of all people!” he snapped as he rounded on the other God. “People are dying! The lands are dying! And you stand here looking into a fountain like there is nothing wrong in the world? Are we Gods? Or are we cowards that sit up here and wait for the Monsters to go away?!”



Rolyn sensed the approach of the Elder God before the enraged voice even had a chance to erupt from behind him; he didn't turn away from the water as the tirade swept over him, listening without a visible reaction. Once the man had finally paused, probably only to take a breath before beginning another enraged onslaught, Rolyn turned to face him with a small smile.

"Weylyn, it is good to see you after such a long time," he replied calmly, his pale, serene eyes locking onto the other individual's furious ones. "I would ask what brings you up from Soluunar, when you are so seldom seen away from your pack, but I believe you've already made that quite clear."

He scanned their surroundings, finding them to be in relative privacy for which he was grateful. Being overheard was not an option.

"I am aware of those who are dying, and I know very well what the Tutar are doing to Soluunar. To your home. I have long been embroiled in talks with the Circle- you know this. You know that others oppose intervening, but that I would not willingly stand idly by and allow all of Creation to fall into shadow."



The calm that met his rage only seemed to frustrate him further because it just was not the reaction he wanted. It was not the reaction he thought that everyone should have and experience. Instead, he just stood there a moment as his chest heaved with each deep breath that did nothing to help him with his rage.

“Talking? What is there to talk about?!” he growled and paced away and in a sudden rush of energy he threw the spear and watched it land with a satisfactory thud within a tree trunk. “The Circle be damned!” he spat out, his fingers snapped and his spear returned to his hand once more. “If none of you will do what must be done then I will do it all on my own!” he paced back to the other God, his friend and the closest thing to a Father he had known save for the Alpha that raised him. “Will you rat on me for this? Tell me I should not?”



Rolyn's smile widened; the sight of the man's passion, as always, was a refreshing change of pace. If not bound by the Sacred Oath, he would have visited the Elder God on Soluunar if only to remember what it was like to see such unbridled intensity. The man cared, he cared a great deal, and he never held back, never concerned himself with such trivialities as protocol, never bothered to observe appearances.

Some would have expected the oldest, and one of the most highly respected Gods in existence to demand some form of reverence from those in his company, but the reality was that Rolyn would never have asked Weylyn to change, even if it earned him shocked glances from others in the Upper Regions. The man was who he was, and the God of Time loved him for it.

"The time for talking, for waiting, is over, my friend. It has been some time since the Star Wolves visited me with tidings from their master- when next they came, I planned to tell them of what I have done. I have gone around the Circle, Weylyn, and perhaps some will be angry with me, perhaps I shall draw the ire of my peers, but I find that I no longer care."

He paused for a moment, considering what the man had last told him.

"I will not try to forbid you from taking action, but I will say that you need not do it alone. There is work to be done, and you can help me do it."



This news did cool his temper and cause him to relax, to some degree as he came closer and for the first time probably ever, spoke softly.

“Not alone? We were planning a hunt?” There was a hushed excitement in his words that carried over to his eyes, which made them shine from within the shadow of the helm he wore. “Tell me what we are to do and it shall be done!”

Already he could feel the familiar itch that he got before it was time to hunt. That anticipation that made him feel so alive, mortal and thrilled to have been born. A hunt, an adventure anything where there would be a chance to test his skills and his metal against a worthy prey, it made the world worth living.



The silver haired God could see the light in Weylyn's eyes, could see the mounting excitement as he spoke of a hunt- if the man craved a challenge, he would not be disappointed. But Rolyn also knew that no matter how dark things turned, no matter how bleak the road ahead, the man would never turn aside. He was true of heart, a valuable ally and a deadly enemy- those who compared him to a wild animal never did so when he was within earshot.

"This shall be a hunt, but it will be unlike anything you have ever faced. There will be other Gods at your side, those who also wish to aid the mortals and in doing so save Soluunar, but it will still be both difficult and dangerous. The Tutar are relentless, tremendously powerful, and their horde is seemingly without end. They have grown much stronger in recent years, though the cause is unknown to me. There are other monsters within their ranks as well, beasts that shake the very foundations of the ground beneath them with every step they take."

He twitched his head, shifting a lock of hair from in front of his eye as he continued to regard the man.

"The Mortals you will fight alongside are the last chance humanity has- there are many among them who are brave and strong, and who will not falter, but they face destruction if we do not help them."

He moved closer and placed a hand on Weylyn's shoulder.

"I told you, long ago, about the Law of Protection. Akryanus cannot go to the mortal realm, for if the Star God is involved things will quickly go amiss with the Circle. With you, the number of immortals in the fight shall allow me to invoke the law. You are the missing piece, Weylyn, and the stakes have never been higher. You hunt now for the fate of mankind itself, and for the fate of the world you love so much. The world we both want nothing more than to protect."



There was nothing else that he needed to hear, nothing else that they needed to discuss. This was what he wanted; it felt like what he had been waiting to do his whole life. Almost like this was his whole purpose for being. Full respect was returned to the God of Time and in a rush of sudden emotion he embraced the Circle God in a mighty bear hug.

“Point me and I shall be your arrow!”

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
Soluunar

It was like something out of a dream. Flying men in silver armor with giant halberds, hooded figures throwing knives and retrieving them with superhuman speed and precision, jovial songs and hearty jokes being shouted as a bearded man wielding a staff created a tornado right there on the battlefield- it made Barth question whether or not he was awake any longer.

Perhaps that Tutar really did take my head off, he thought numbly as he reflected on the series of lucky turns that occurred even as a sudden feeling of wellbeing assailed him, his weariness fading along with the innumerable aches and pains that had been plaguing him for about as long as he could remember.

Barth could only stare blankly at the man, at the God who stood before him. It was surreal.

"Is something the matter, Prince Barth?"

"..."

"Ah. Well, the Gods have come. And we are here to-"

"Well it's about damn time," Barth interrupted, though his lips still curved up slightly at the edges as he looked over the God's shoulder to the other two as they continued to help turn the tide of the battle. "Any later and you'd have been fighting over our corpses."

"My Prince!"

Barth turned, just as the God he'd been speaking to seemed to have had his attention caught by something else, and saw Haman approaching him with a stocky man he did not know. He was wearing Lebi armor, though it was as dirty and dinged up as anything he'd seen on the people from his homeland.

"Haman?"

"The Tutar, sir," the stranger said before the giant, eyepatch wearing man could speak. As the words spilled from his mouth, Barth could see that his eyes were wide with urgency. "They have begun chopping down the eastward trees. Trying to cut a way through the forest."

Barth looked from the two of them, to the area beyond where the Drorghans were charging. He could see activity near the tree-line down at the southward border of the woods. It made sense; if they could cut through, they could flank the defenders, and what better time to try for it than when the Mortals were busy fighting off the giant boulder-swinging demons?

"We'll need to stop them. We cannot fight them on two fronts. We'll need-"

"I can take a regiment of archers."

Barth glanced past Haman's enormous frame to see Verana watching him closely.

"Very well. But you'll need support."

She opened her mouth, the argument already visible on her lips, but Barth raised a hand to cut her off. "No arguments." Her pale face beneath the vivid red hair twitched with annoyance, but she knew further discussion would get her nowhere. They'd been together long enough for her to know that for a certainty.

The Prince turned and caught sight of a familiar, if unfriendly face.

"Lord Garth," he said as he gestured the man over. "Verana will be leading a battalion of archers in fighting off the Tutar at the tree-line. You will lead her escort. You have good soldiers in your company, I want them there to help cover her in case a retreat becomes necessary."

Borim's beard bristled indignantly. "I'm a Lord Knight. I am no bodyguard, and the men of my retinue are there for my protection. Look elsewhere for your escort," he finished haughtily. Barth glanced around, but as Resuran was nowhere to be seen, the bald Knight would have to do. Verana could handle herself; the additional protection was just a formality, and as such he couldn't spare any of his own men for the job. Garth's blade had yet to be drawn, and the Prince decided that he may as well let the man and his people be of some use.

"That was not a request. It was a command, which will be obeyed without further commentary."

He turned dismissively, before the man could attempt another counter. Verana was already gathering whichever bowmen could be spared, and he knew that the Knight wouldn't try to argue anymore with Ausan so close by.

His mind already back on the field, Barth quickly reached a group of infantrymen mingled with horseless cavalry and Knights. He would be sending them back out there, but not before providing some instruction based on what he'd seen of their new enemies.

The Drorghan's thick hides wouldn't be penetrated by the stakes waiting in the trenches, but their weight meant falling all the way to the bottom and crushing whatever was already in there. Which, combined with the help they were receiving from the Gods, revealed itself to Barth as a tactical advantage.

"Wait for them to fall into the trenches," he told them, even as one Drorghan tripped over one of the pits, sprawling out in front of it but the drop entirely. He hoped it wouldn't become a regular occurrence, though their apparent stupidity made such a thing seem rather unlikely.

"Once they're in them, they can't attack while they climb out. They'll leave their heads unprotected! Work together and remember, even if you blind them they're still dangerous."

Haman boomed out the same orders to another group of foot soldiers, just as a third rectangle of swords and shields moved forward to swell the assembled ranks, Lord Resuran among them. There was a grim look in his eye and his sword was drawn; when Haman echoed the Prince's words, he nodded curtly before looking back to the forefront with no change in expression.

The Tutar were still moving in behind the Drorghans, but as they were doing so very slowly and reluctantly it seemed that they wouldn't charge until they were out of the larger creatures' range. Either that, or they were waiting for a path through the trees to be cleared. It seemed to Barth that he could hear the sound of axes chopping at wood in the distance, far away as the Tutari lumberjacks were. His mind touched once again on Verana, and he turned to see she was already gone, along with Borim and the others.

"Do not over-pursue! The Tutar behind might flank you. Handle the Drorghans, and keep your heads on straight," he barked at the backs of the advancing soldiers.

As they moved forward, he watched yet another tornado touch the ground, picking up dust and bloodied dirt, turning dark as it towered over the foes it seized. The flying Knights, the Gods, took back to the air, landing on the Drorghan that had tripped even as the new cyclone began tossing Tutari warriors around like rag dolls. Many of them got right back up, but some didn't and others seemed to be losing their weapons judging by the fights that were breaking out as some tugged spears from the clawed hands of others.

"The Gods would not be here if they did not believe we can win. Fight now, knowing that our victory is at hand!"

As he shouted the words, it occurred to him that this time he actually believed them.

It was a most welcome change.

_________________

The glint of dying light reflected off the metal greaves strapped to a body at her feet, attracting the gaze of her one functional eye; it lay mostly beneath the corpse of a Tutar, one riddled with so many arrows it more resembled a grotesque hedgehog than a monster. Sen paused her somewhat frenzied search for an offensive tool, tilting her head at the armored legs contemplatively. Surely a man so well-plated would have had a decent weapon on him. Her eye lingered over the outline of the massive enemy cadaver until she saw it; a hilt, and the barest glimmer of exposed blade. If any of the Gods still listened, the thing wouldn't be snapped in half by the bulk on top of it. She knelt down, painfully aware of the growing discomfort on her face, fingers wrapping around the leather-covered hilt. Sen gave a solid heave, expecting to meet more than a few pounds of resistance; unfortunately, the sword came free with almost none, having been embedded in the flesh of the creature itself rather than beneath it.

She stumbled backward, trying to stand for equilibrium's sake and very nearly failing.

"Sister!"

Still on the finishing fringes of her imbalance, the bloody-faced recruit jerked her head in the direction of Ausan's voice. Of course, there was no way the woman had been calling her, but the voice had been close and in her general direction. Before she could consider the embarrassment of her misstep (odd how such things would still occur to her, at a time like this), Sen realized that the mohawked warrior was, in fact, referring to her. She blinked- well, her left eye did. There was a dull ache beneath the surface of her right eye, but the rent and torn skin itself had gone rather numb and she wasn't sure what bilateral movements were doing to it, if anything.

A Sister, then. Well, at least she could count that as her first and only success before her final breath. Still... she could not prevent the pulse of pride that came with her next heartbeat. She inclined her head briefly toward the older woman, something that was only little more than a nod; a gesture of subtle respect and acknowledgement, an informal salute.

As the Maiden turned back to the Commander, Sen glanced at her new weapon- it was unbroken, thank the Light, and though it was smaller than she had expected it to be that only meant it would not be too heavy for her. The thick, half-congealed blood of the Tutar still coated it almost entirely, but she didn't bother to wipe it off or even spare it another thought. Rather than continue her scramble to rejoin the bulk of the mortal forces, the newly-promoted Sister took a step toward Ausan, remaining close even as the unmounted cavalry approached.

She wanted to bolt back, of course, seek immediate assistance for her sundered socket and potentially scream from the pain and plunge into a world of half-darkness. What she wanted, however, hardly mattered any longer. In the end, not much at all mattered any longer. The pain would be gone soon enough, and she wouldn't be dealing with this bisected-shadow world for very long, either. Her corpse would be added to the heaps of her fellows before the hour was out, regardless of whether she stopped the flow of blood from her face or recovered from the exhaustion that begged and pulled at her muscles. Somehow, here, facing certain death between the backs of her Commander and Lieutenant... her resolve was solid. She was doing all she could do for something that was worth the effort; even if she couldn't do much, it was also well worth the eventual price.

The blue light came from her left periphery, shooting forward in the sky like a small, dull comet.

The braided woman raked her already-coated arm across her face again, trying to clear as much of the crimson leakage as she could, left eye fixating on the single- wait, there were four of them! Three more similar cerulean comets flew from the sky behind her and a spray of dark blood sprang from the face of an approaching Drorghan, an arterial splatter that signaled a deep cut. Another of the comets dove into the thick neck of the behemoth, and a yet a third blue figure embedded a point deeply into the cavernous maw. It happened almost too quickly for her to keep up. She knew she should be shouting questions, maybe panicking, but she could do nothing except watch with a mind so blank it was a wonder her heart didn't stop.

A gust of wind fluffed the bits of bang and hair that had come unbound from her braids and she finally yanked her gaze away from the scene and to its suspected point of origin. She could see a blue glow that matched that of the comets', a light that shone dimly from behind the mass of unhorsed fighters, but she could see nothing over their helms; before Sen could turn back, another blue-glowing figure slipped through the the front lines and fairly flew past her. It had been close enough to touch, had she extended her arm... or rather, he had been close enough to touch. Black-robed and hooded, the man had been so quick she would have doubted his existence had she not been able to follow the pale cobalt glow as it joined the others. The injured mortal couldn't tell how many blue comets had converged on the battlefield, exactly; they moved too quickly, too seamlessly to count. Less than fifteen was her best guess.

Before she could even begin to consider further, a Drorghan stumbling backward (from the same gust of wind that had ruffled her hair?) promptly decimated the cranium of one of its fellows. The blood-stained boulder flew back and Sen found herself unable to look away as the rock pressed the skull into an unnatural shape, caving the bestial face. Bits of thick, plated bone and what she assumed to be its brain splattered away from the collision in a moist, foul-smelling hail as the body collapsed.

Thoroughly overwhelmed, the blonde woman very nearly choked on the bile that rose in her throat. This could not be happening. It didn't feel like a delusion borne of blood-loss, it was very real as far as she knew, but... it simply... it couldn't be. The sheer implausibility forced itself over her mind and wrestling with it almost made her physically nauseous. The injured Drorghan that had killed one of its own sprouted a veritable armory of knives from its small, vicious eyes, then fell alongside the exploded melon that had once been the head of its fellow.

Just like that, two of the Drorghan were finished.

Sudden, intense discomfort and a blackness encroaching on the outer reaches of her limited vision reminded Sen that she should continue breathing. She quickly exhaled the stale breath and drew new (if fetid) air deeply, and though her lungs no longer burned the darkness seemed unwilling to fade. Warm blood continued to run in rivulets down the right half of her face, some of them coursing all the way to the nape of her neck and collarbone; she reached up to wipe them away again, noticing for the first time how heavy her arm had become. She was unable to stop it from shivering, and her fingertips were very cold. Sounds were starting to fade, losing the sharpness that marked them as real and turning into a blended constant. As it came away from her face the arm dropped immediately, deep scarlet dripping from the fast-numbing extremities. She couldn't fall, not yet. Not now.

Please, not yet.

The lead that lined her limbs was replaced with cotton. Shadows that clouded the outskirts of her vision pulled back as though they had never been and sound came rushing back to her ears, as though someone had removed a pillow from around her head. The ache behind her mutilated eye sharpened closer to the surface of her skin, but seemed to recede slightly in the depths of her skull. She inhaled deeply, noticing with increased clarity the acrid smell of her own blood and the rotten stink of the corpses, the feel of her stiffened leather armor against her body and the weight of her purloined sword in her hand. For a moment, she was almost positive that she had died.

But then... why would she still be standing in this carnage?

Her head snapped around to her right as she tried to see her fellow soldiers as much as she could (requiring almost a full circle, again). They looked as though they had experienced something similar; many of them were straightening armor they hadn't even noticed to be askew before, their shoulders re-aligning and eyes opening with renewed fervor. More than a few had a confused (if grateful) expression on their faces, some even questioning the ones next to them about the bizarre mass sensation- no one had answers, from what Sen could tell.

Just when she was ready to fully accept this as the peak of the totally-impossible, a fierce whirlwind sprang from nothing in the calm skies above the Drorghan's advance. It sucked the giant plated monsters into it effortlessly and regurgitated them equally so, slinging them into those lucky enough to avoid its swirling vortex. The sounds of armored backs crushing into leathery bellies, skulls colliding and chains tangling echoed in Sen's ears, the ground shaking as the massive forms crashed back to the surface of Soluunar and making her unsure if the booming intensity had more effect on her brain or her balance. If the shaking grew any more violent, she wasn't sure she could keep her footing even at a stand-still. A thick shunk sound abruptly cut off a Drorghan's roar, a heavy spear neatly puncturing its cranium.

Three down.

The cyanic shooting stars -the glowing people, Sen corrected herself- turned their attention back to the horde as the tornado faded. Deadly knives caught what little light there was to catch as they flew, their precision and speed finding any vulnerability there was to be found and stabbing it mercilessly. The flying ones, larger in their heavy armor, continued to attract most of the attention from the beasts and nimbly avoid any retaliation to their provocation and lethal thrusts. Sen felt her breath coming easier, and she unconsciously wiped the blood from her face for the umpteenth time.

What is this? Her single-eyed gaze fell to the two people still in front of her, all of her questions shining in the luminescent pink-gold depths.

"Your prayers were heard."

The voice, coming in clear over the din of the battleground and the astonished babble of the soldiers, caused Sen to nearly jump out of her skin. She spun around to the side in an instinctive maneuver to avoid the trajectory of the speaker, but her good eye remained fixed on him. Glimpses of a metallic, brown-gold set of armor peeped out from beneath dark, deeply blue robes and a long, tawny horsetail trailed in his wake... along with a heavily-plated man in a full helm, armed with a quarterstaff and a glare.

"They were heard," came the voice again, quieter now that he stood directly in front of the Prince-Commander, and resonating with a sort of calm that Sen was hard-put to identify beyond that imprecision, "And now we fight."

Wait. They were Gods? The meaning behind the blue-robed man's words hit Sen like a smack in the face and her eye darted back to the figures still dealing destruction to the horde, then to the two strange figures only a few feet away, then back to the battlefield. Her feet felt rooted to the blood-soaked ground and her breath started to come faster, anxiety seeping in to bolster the remnants of adrenaline. The God spoke to the Prince again, but when silence answered him he started to continue. Sen hardly blamed the Commander. To even witness something -someone- like this was nothing short of impossible, let alone to actually be addressed by such a -

"Well it's about damn time."

Sen choked. Audibly. It wasn't clear what she had choked on -tongue, spit, air- but a loud, sputtering and quickly-smothered cough erupted from her figure as the Prince-Commander sassed the God. She knew he was continuing to speak to the divine presence in front of him, but she was so thrown by the tone of his voice and choice of words that she could scarcely understand them. A well-hidden piece of herself wanted to laugh, but it was covered by the wave of incredulity. A battlefield full of Gods, and for at least six seconds the only thing she could do was stare, disbelieving, at a mortal man with a thick beard over a smart mouth.

Sen's idea of the Commander altered in that moment- he may have no longer been on his obscure, noble pedestal of leadership reserved for those of royal blood, but she felt a little knot of personal loyalty form in the depths of her chest.

The knee-smasher approached Barth, and though she wanted to keep a wary eye (her only one) on him whenever he was within ten feet, she was promptly distracted as the God turned toward her. Ordinarily, the braided woman would have shrunk back as though physically struck by the thick-set immortal, but she found herself fairly frozen by the nature of her situation. The God took only a few steps toward her, and with a jolt of remembrance she instinctively stepped to the side to avoid his path, almost identically to how she had only moments before. This time, however, he turned with her and stopped less than two feet away. Automatically she dropped her head, not in a bow but merely a maintained acknowledgement of what he was. A beat passed, and he didn’t move. Sen knew she was going to start trembling soon, if she hadn’t already. What was he doing?

A finger’s width of cool plate mail gently touched beneath her chin, tilting her head upward, timed with a corresponding palm that pushed her bloody bang upward and rested lightly on her forehead. The one-eyed woman found herself staring into the God’s face, a face that was very close to her own and focused on the chaos that had taken over her right eye socket, the lips a contemplative line. Her jaw tensed above his light touch, functional optic wide- she was sure she would forget to breathe any second now, but it hadn’t happened yet. The divine figure’s smooth, rather blockish jaw and heavy brow gave his face a steady, immutable appearance, and whatever shone behind the glassy black of his eyes was nothing that she need fear. Quite the opposite- Sen could feel some of her anxiety melt into the mud beneath her boots. It was like… she struggled to find something to compare to the God’s aura. It seemed almost like she had been trudging through a storm, a wild and vicious hurricane, and after being buffeted by brutal winds and piercing rain had finally found a strong, stone wall behind which she could take refuge. The wall would not bend beneath the gale-force winds, would not disintegrate beneath the stinging cold of precipitation. The Brigham woman would have been hard pressed to decide if this was actually the feeling she got from the immortal himself, or simply from the fact that any immortal was there at all. Any port in the storm would have given relief… but something about this particular port was even more steadfast, reassuring. Perhaps it was simply something that came with being a God.

“That’s quite an injury, soldier,” he finally said, dropping his hands from her face and leaning back very slightly. Sen remained as he had left her, her tongue still just a little too shocked for words. “I will close it, but I fear the sight may be lost already.”

Her tongue snapped awake and without even thinking, she answered, “Many have lost more than that today, Sir,” she started, her voice lacking the characteristic hesitance and displaying a smoothness in its place, “If it will keep me fighting even one second longer, then -” the rest of the sentence died abruptly, un-cut eye widening and cheeks flushing as she realized she had been speaking so conversationally with a God. Should she apologize? Would that make it worse? The proper etiquette for this situation hadn’t exactly been covered in any of her lessons as a Brigham… not that she could maintain proper etiquette in situations that had been covered.

A faint smile tilted the corner of the God’s lips, the warm tan of his skin creasing slightly around the side of his mouth. Her anxiety melted away again, like snow in a tropic- it tried to pile up but could not last beneath the heat of the sun. A soft smile of her own curved in response. Without another word, the bronze-plated hand came up and set its palm directly over her disheveled socket. The rush of feeling that invaded her bloody wound was like ice- except that it was not uncomfortable. Colder than the coldest of winter snows but carrying only that intensity, that deep soothing, healing iciness that could almost be considered a burn, except that it wasn’t hot. It instantly pervaded her skull and seeped around her face and even down her shoulders, as though spilling over from where it filled the mutilated eye. Numbness receded from the surface of the injury but there was never pain- only an increase in the intensity of that frozen heat, and the dull ache that had been building behind it was smoothed over as easily as a wave would smooth a mound of sand. There was light coming from the God’s palm and Sen was forced to close her left eye against the brightness. She could not help but notice that he smelled distinctly of caves; it called to the back of her mind scenes of ancient rock and unchanging well-springs, of snow-capped mountains and old, stone ruins.

She felt the change. The ice faded and was replaced with a tingle, an almost harsh tingle that filled her orbital depression- it was like when her foot fell asleep, but such a feeling was hardly as expected anywhere above the shoulders. Not pain, not quite, but not comfortable and certainly not as soothing as it had been. Sen winced despite herself and stuttered “Ah, it-it… s-something is…”

In the blackness behind her right eyelid, an image appeared- it was only there for a second, but it was as clear as if it had been drawn in stars on a moonless night. Three lines, curved at the ends, colored a deep golden-bronze.

Then it was gone, as well as the invasive sensations and the God’s palm against her face. She opened her eyes, feeling both lids flicker as she did so- instinctively she reached up to touch her right eye. Her fingertips came across unbroken skin, the tissue of a smooth scar distinctive and running in a thick line from her temple to the bridge of her nose. Vision returned to the repaired orb, nothing more than a shadowed blur but clear in the promise of more.

“Look at me,” came the gentle command from the immortal, and Sen turned her face up to his. He leaned forward with a scrutinizing expression, and unless Sen was very much mistaken he seemed just a tiny bit surprised. Only for a second, though- as it faded, the young mortal thought she heard him mutter something about “Lydia’s influence” to himself. Regardless, he straightened and she promptly inclined in a slight bow.

“Thank you,” she said quietly as she raised her head once more, feeling the dried blood crack on her right cheek as she spoke. To her surprise, the God merely gave her a slow nod and a reassuring, calm smile before turning smoothly around and heading toward the rest of the soldiers. The entire interaction between the two of them could not have taken more than a few minutes, but the feeling that it left within the gawky Sister made her wonder if time had not been frozen, or extended somehow; everything had been quick, and yet it had seemed so… unrushed. Leisurely, almost.

Shame it couldn't stay that way.

Her focus honed in on the Prince-Commander as he spoke, his words reverberating with honest passion, then to Ausan. Her right eye may still have been giving her little more than dark shadows and vague shapes, but the expression that faced the Lieutenant was clearer than words: with you.