Fantasy &nbsp; Project Grozny: Prologue IC [DISCONTINUED]

Dark cloud gathers over Saarema, where the pines swayed in the cold breeze, whispering rumors of the battle to come. Blinding streaks of lights dotted the distant sea, as the morning hues of endless blues and mists dissipates. Titanic constructs of wood and metal emerged from the glimmering horizon. The Knights of Haven were assembled on the deck of the Titan Essex, the prided flagship of the fleet, amassing the grand armada with a glorious and awe-inspiring sight to behold. A slender figure in her full set of armor made her way to the main deck, accompanied by her Companions, where a multitude of soldiers were already standing in line, awaiting her words. She scanned the looks on their faces and took a slight breath, before raising her calm, but firm voice.

"Soldiers, Sailors and Drakensreiter of Haven! I am certain that even the best among you are weary and long for home. But today, you are about to embark upon a mighty crusade, to which we have striven these many years. The eyes of Grozny is upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving folks march with you this day. As Saint Basra as my witness, we shall bring about the end of the Shadow Legion, their wickedness and to secure an everlasting peace in the world. Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemies are well-trained, well-equipped, and fanatical. They will fight savagely."

Solemn steels adorned their hands, where regimental plumes colored their armet’s apex and pauldrons. Footmen and knights attentively eyed the speaker alike, weary of battle, yet ever faithful to their beliefs. They were stirred by the firm and confident look on the Grand Commander's face.

"Haven is mother to us all. Fight for her! Havena aterna!"

The crowd cheered, raising their voices and arms of war towards the sky, echoing their spirits across the vast sea. Thunderous explosions could be heard from beyond the lingering fog, signalling the battle for Wyvern Beach.

"For the Angel of Verdan!"

The Angel of Verdan, as they called her, was an affectionate nickname given to the hero of Grozny’s deliverance.Her flowing silver hair ascertained an aura of a graceful soldier, while her firm crimson eyes commanded much of her subordinates’ obedience at her will. Many have come to respect the hero for her dedication to the cause, while others feared her for various reasons. The commander would then hand over her presentation to a subordinate officer as his hand conjured up a magical projection of the island’s layout.

"Our objective is Mount Hornet. This is the last stronghold of the Shadow Legion, and in order to get there, we’ll make our landing here at Wyvern’s Beach. The beach is filled with defensive towers, entrenched Fireblazers, and makeshift pillboxes for their marksmen. The Drakensreiter will soften up the bastards for us, but expect heavy resistance."

The officer took a brief pause, as the crowd of soldiers spoke among themselves. He then continued.

"Standard rules of engagement. Execute kill or capture orders. Keep a tight line of battle, and leave the Riesens* to the Companions. Take care of your brothers-in-arms, and you’ll get through this. All officers present, report to your ships and brief your men. Double check your equipment and get ready to move out. Rear-echelons and auxiliary detachments will be commissioned once the beachhead is secured. Dismissed!"

The multitude of soldiers scattered towards their landing crafts, as the Hero walked with her Companions towards the bridge.

"We are nearing the end. Yet, I feel as if we are in an endless cycle of perpetual battles... What are these ominous sentiments that aches my heart so..." Sylvia muttered beneath her breath. She shook her head slightly.

Sylvia eyed her Companions. Her friends, acquaintances, and perhaps the closest she could bargain for a family. Unorthodox, at times uncertain, and for most undaunted. Her mentor, Lady Nemir Cesti, has been a motherly figure to her. While rough and disciplinary at times, Sylvia looks up to the Templar as someone who did not gave up on her, even when she wanted to give up on herself. Banri Oighir, an enigmatic and poised mage that aided Sylvia's endeavors, remains a reliable ally in the face of adversity. A powerful mage, of whom Sylvia did not hesitate to believe in, despite her destructive powers. Krechetnikov Fennstrum, a Black Watch centurion, whose nonconforming words and actions are often times flammable with collective ideals. While the man seemed to be fanatical in his devotions, with daily scriptures to keep the populace in line, Sylvia viewed him to be a capable leader. Despite his stern attitude, and at times, conflicting methods with that of hers, the two shared the same cause in the war. And that, was more than enough for the hero.

Pola, a powerful creature in the form of a delicate little flower was someone Sylvia tends to cater to the most. The draconian somehow managed to keep herself free of politics and worries. Like a hyacinth sprout in a sea of daisies and grass, Pola seemed to fit in well with everyone thus far. Marcus Vik on the hand, was a peculiar case. His origins makes him a threat to most Havenites, and even more so with the diverse cast of the Company. Yet, despite his infamy at Svolensk, Sylvia have fought with the man for countless rotations and seasons. He fought as hard and earned his place among the Company as the rest. While the rest of Haven, and possibly Fennstrum's own vindications are keen on putting the Blood Knight in the Degrakes, Sylvia fought against said actions. As she bears the responsibility of keeping the Blood Knight on a tight leash, should the latter break loose, the hero would be seen instrumental to the endangerment of Havenites. For all she knew, hanging would be the easier alternative, as the Black Watch are far more thorough in their efforts.

"My friends and comrades. We make for land in ten strikes. Voice your concerns now, or forever hold your peace." Sylvia said, as she folded her arms.

A squadron of Drakensreiters can be seen taking off from the flat deck of the Titan Intrepid. Their silhouettes breaking left for a steady climb, before gliding off into the distant beach.

*Riesens: Common term for the more powerful and irregular Shadow units such as Fireblazers, Giltine Chosen, Dracomancers, and Red Guards.
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Ramjammer · Apr 10, 2020

The nightmares weren't uncommon to her, merely one of many burdens granted by a dying House. Nemir would sift through them all each day, meditating before the start of each day, and hoping to make sense of them all.

As of late, her night musings had been exceptionally bloody. That, too, was not uncommon. Especially when a woman made her living off of War. But this was different. And most pressing of all, the dream was always the same.

She stood on a shattered battlefield. Blood lapped at her boots, past her ankles and bodies floated in the sea of ichor all around her. Who they were, she couldn't say. There were soldiers, merchants and peasants all around her. She recognized the finery that only Nobles would garb themselves in. A Priest, robed in white drifted past her, face down in the near black sludge.

There were no birds. No insects. No creatures descended upon the battlefield to feast at the bounty War so graciously left them. Nemir would peer into the distance, hoping to spot something. Some movement, a marker revealing her location, but there was nothing. All that rooted her to the world was the blood-soaked ground beneath her feet.

Sounding the drums of war had historically always thrown things into chaos. Nemir would have gladly believed that her dreams were merely a reflection of that chaos had the dream merely ended there. With her standing in a sea of blood, surrounded by the victims of that chaos. War was never picky about whose life it ruined. But every time, the dream would change. And it would grow so much worse.

The sky, already darkened by clouds, grew even darker. Ashen skies stretching to infinity grew black and for a brief spell Nemir would recall the day she found Sylvia huddling in the rubble of Verdan. But this time there was no Shadow Legion. No smoke from countless fires filled the air. Waves of bodies didn't blot out the horizon, all gnashing teeth and howling voices. It was simply dark. The kind of dark that allowed no light to break it, and yet it somehow remained vivid and clear, a darkness you could almost feel. A darkness that you knew you could grasp in your hands if you but reached out.

The blood continued to lap at her boots, and she could no longer make out the bodies as clearly as she could before, but she knew that they were still there. The silence was oppressive almost as much as the darkness, and it reigned for a long time.

And then it shattered.

Something howled in the dark, low and mournful. And it grew louder with each passing second. A wind, cold and biting, descended on her and in an instant the sea of blood was wiped away. It hurled the bodies skyward. Each face was contorted in terror and agony, their last seconds spelled out as plain as day. They hadn't gone peacefully, and it had not been painless.

She always expected them to come hurtling back to the ground, but they never did. Instead, the corpses floated there, drifting limply through the air like an array of grotesque decorations.

The sight would always strike Nemir. Here, gravity held no meaning and droplets of blood would drift pass like scarlet beads strung across the expanse. The winds died, but the cold remained. But it was nothing compared to the voice that suddenly emanated from it.

'Sorrow awaits you here. It awaits you all.'

The voice wasn't just cold, but it was deep too. It reminded Nemir of winter nights far from any civilization. A cold that pierced through your clothing and settled itself deep in your bones. It reminded you that you were alive, but reminded you constantly of how easily it could take that life.

The voice was old. Older than any she'd heard, even without knowing the speaker's age. Older than the stones that made up the earth. Older than the stars long died out and who's fading light only just now reached the eye. It held endless, ceaseless wisdom. And in its wake, that wisdom left an enlightenment that only granted a gnawing madness that would consume any that dared hear it.

'The Wheel turns once more. As it always has, and as it always shall. How arrogant you are to try and halt it.'

Something moved in the dark, just past her field of vision. Something large, and something awful. Metal scraped against the ground there in the dark. The only sound in a place that only Nemir's dreams would ever take her, or so she prayed. The thing moved closer. She could hear its heavy, plodding steps echoing through the dark towards her. But she'd be frozen in place every time. Unable to move no matter how much she willed herself to.

It would always stop a scant few feet from her. And Nemir would crane her head back to stare up at the massive shape looming in the blackness. Whatever it was, she couldn't say. All that she knew was its cold, heavy voice and the scrape of metal against metal.

The last, and only thing Nemir would see was a massive hand reaching towards her. A gauntlet, gray and scarred. Each clawed finger bigger around than her wrist slowly inching towards her face. The voice would rumble again, but she could never quite catch it. And there was a small, terrified part of Nemir that was glad that she couldn't. The hand reached out, seeking and hungry.

And she would wake up every time.

Prayer and meditation did not help. Every effort to clear her mind and peer beyond the veil had borne no fruit, and Nemir was begging to grow nervous. This was wholly unprecedented. And she was desperate to find the truth that she knew existed within the confines of her own consciousness.

'Would it even be worth the heartache?' She asked herself silently.

Once more she'd tried and failed to make sense of the vison she'd been granted. Nemir knew beyond a doubt that it was a vison. Such was the nature of her birthright. Her dreams had always been a series of ever-changing vistas. Bleak and cold. And each day the Templar would attempt to sift through the rubble and seek what kernels of truth that she could. Often she would find some measure of success. Past experiences guiding her in the direction that most likely led to victory. But this was different. Uncharted waters stretched before her in more ways than one, and Namir saw no end in sight.

She remained kneeling at the foot of her bed where she'd situated herself before once more delving into her own thoughts. The creaking floorboards offered no answer, even as she stared at them hard enough to set them aflame. It had been a fruitless effort, and a small part of her wondered if the thing lurking in the dark might have been right.

'I turn the wheel. But can I ever break it?' She thought dourly. 'Can any of us?'

She flinched suddenly at the sensation of something cold and wet nudging her hand and blinked owlishly down at Ghan. The Hyena nudged insistently at her hand resting in her lap and she chuckled softly before lifting it to ruffle his mane gently.

"You're worse than Pola." She murmured affectionately, receiving only a low huffing noise and a sleepy stare from the beast. While Ghan liked Pola, or really anyone that wasn't deemed an enemy, Nemir knew how much he hated fighting for the Templar's attention. She often found herself reassuring the Hyena that he remained her favorite.

She sat in silence for a while longer, stroking Ghan's fur contemplatively. Normally, the Templar was not one to hide the nature of her dreams, or their possible meanings. The mild sight she'd been granted was a curse in many aspects. But it had proven to be a boon to her, once honed correctly. Yet Nemir could not bring herself to share the vision that plagued her recently. Not while she still toiled to make sense of it. And certainly not on the cusp of their next engagement.

'Besides that. I'll soon be up to my knees in corpses anyhow.' The thought was a foul one, but undeniable. Wyvern's Beach would be the first step in a bloody slog to Mount Hornet. Undoubtedly, the bodies would pile up obscenely high. And Nemir was positive that one of the Shadow Legion's own would mock their efforts every step of the way. With how things were, she wasn't even sure if the dream was worth mentioning.

"We will know soon enough." She murmured aloud, causing Ghan's ears to prick with interest as he stared up at her. Nemir smiled warmly at the Hyena. "Won't we, old friend?" Ghan made no noise, but his bushy tail wagged excitedly. Nemir laughed softly and gently nudged the Hyena off of her lap so she could stand. She grimaced as her knees popped audibly. Both from the pain, and the reminder of her advancing age. Most women would have boasted several Children at her age. Perhaps even grandchildren. But that had never been Nemir's fate. She did not mind the lack of a family as much as another in her shoes might have. In some respects she was grateful. Far too often, children were conscripted to fill the ever suffering ranks of Haven's armies. And they'd been recruiting them younger and younger in recent years.

It was with thoughts such as those, among others, that occupied Nemir's mind as she set about donning her armor to prepare for the day. Once again the world was staring into the face of the endgame. And once again they would attempt to halt the turning of the wheel.

'I am sick of sending children to war.' The Templar seethed internally as she placed the snarling helm of her ensemble on. 'Regardless of the dreams. Even if this so-called Wheel cannot be broken. I will halt it.'

The smell of salt and fresh air was almost enough to make Nemir forget why she was even there. Almost. In another time, and had she been anyone else, a voyage on a grand ship such as the Essex would have been a dream come true. She'd have been rendered awestruck and left brimming with grand delusions.

Indeed, looking into some of the youthful faces that gazed up at the Grand Commander, she could see that they'd allowed themselves to be swept away by her words. Sylvia's' warnings were of little value to most of the Havenites. Not when promises of glory both tangible and eternal were so close at hand. They would fight for King. For Country. For the Gods and...

"For the Angel of Verdan!" The cheers were thunderous. Booming across the deck and over the sea. Such was their fervor that Nemir entertained the idea that the mass of voices might fill the sails of the Essex and send her speeding across the waves. They were joyous. They were proud. They were devoted utterly to the cause solemnly laid upon their shoulders. Borne with righteous purpose as if it were a crown forged by the Gods.

And they would all die.

That was the truth of leadership. And that was its terrible burden. They would die. Willingly, of course. Gladly so long as Sylvia but asked. But the bodies would pile up. Souls would either be sent drifting along the river of eternity, or condemned to rightful damnation. In the end Sylvia would be forced to answer for each one.

Nemir knew it was better that they remain convinced of their Divine purpose. Her own faith on the matter was unshakable. The end of the Shadow Legion was more than a goal, it was a purpose It was a longing that consumed the Templar's every waking moment. There was no task more profoundly right, more unquestionably pure, than what they were prepared to do. The world could be scrubbed clean of a stain that had plagued mankind for generations. Finally, finally it would all end.

But just as she knew the workings of her own heart, Nemir knew the hearts of others. Those men and women of slight wills and flimsy convictions needed an extra push. It was not enough to recite the Holy Scripture for most. Their task, long since ordained by the Gods, was one that called for great sacrifice. Of Blood, Steel, and Flesh. Those lacking the fortitude to answer the divine call needed an extra push. A reminder not from the Gods, but from a mere mortal sent in their stand. So like them all, but standing head and shoulders above everyone. Far enough so that there was no mistaking who they were.

In short, they needed a hero.

Beyond the old tales chronicling the ebb and flow of their eternal battle with the shadow Legion, Nemir had never put much stock into the thought of Heros. In her mind, there were those that did, and those that did nothing at all. Mediocrity was a choice.

The cheers abated, replaced by the bustling sounds that only scores of soldiers at work could produce. Faintly, over the sound of thudding boots, Nemir would occasionally catch the thunderous boom of explosions. Along with it, the scent of smoke wafted on the sea breeze. Every second saw them closer to battle. And that in turn put them one step closer to destiny.

At her side, Ghan wiggled excitedly in place. The Hyena loved maiming people almost as much as he enjoyed being lavished with attention and was ready to make landfall more than anyone present. The air was thick with tension. Every body aboard the Essex wound tightly in preparation to unleash unceasing violence upon whatever awaited them on the beach.

Nemir cocked her head at Sylvia, her expression hidden beneath her helm.

"I can only say peace can when we are done here." The Templar rumbled, her voice taking a tinny edge beneath her helmet.

"The only concern that I have is for the sand that's sure to ruin my armor. All aside. I look forward to when this foul business is at an end."

Rielaix · Apr 10, 2020

Pola of White Rift

Pola lent her ears to the Hero, as the crowd cheered for the latter. Shadowed by the hero due to her lack of height, the draconian can't help but peek left and right every now and then to get a sight of the distant beach. Behind her serious façade, Pola pondered upon what she would get for food when the battle was over. The sight of sashaying soldiers was common since her encounter with the Angel of Verdan. Her hands held tightly onto her magic tome, while her amber eyes eyed Sylvia with interests. For many seasons past, she grew fond of her company. Despite the bloody struggles in between, Pola was unfazed by the violence. It wasn't that she was used to it, but rather she had chosen to live with it. After all, she had made a pact with Sylvia during the northern campaign. She carries neither dislikes nor love for the battles, seeing it as a necessary evil for their grand quest. Being a Companion, Pola had seen much of the outside world, as opposed to staying in Lenino - particularly the food. A wise creature she is, bested by the mere mentions of southern steaks and fish curries. In fact, Pola was probably the only one to be contemplating food while a battle rages on.

Next to the Templar Cesti, was an affectionate hyena by the name of Ghan. During the quieter part of the conflict, Pola would play with him from time to time. At times, she would bring food to the table with his help. While his appearances aren't all that pretty, Pola enjoyed his presence when Lady Cesti is around. To those that eyed Pola, she definitely stood out from the rest of the cast. Her short posture, in addition to her childish behavior made her seemed out of place. Yet, beneath her deceiving appearances, resides a beast to be reckoned with. A beast that would only come forth when the Hero calls her true name.

When the Company settled at the bridge after Sylvia, she gave ear once again to the lady, and then the Templar. She brief a glance over to Fennstrum, the one that took her back to the Companions many years back, grateful to him. Pola then gave the man a firm double-nods of approval (

TheInsanityOfBobSemple ). Her index finger touched her lips, as she reflected on what Lady Cesti said. Pola then tugged at hero's gauntlet twice, tilting her head slightly, and looked at Sylvia intently.

"Lady Cesti, truth spoken. Sand salty. Water cold. Single beachhead, Havenites bunched up, dangerous. Land elsewhere, avoid battle, sound?" said the draconian with a soft voice, raising a question as to why they did not open up the frontlines, and had chosen to hurl themselves at a single point of the island. (

Ramjammer ) (

Pilgrim59 )

"Grand Commander Sylvia, Pola, pat. Imperative for coming fight." she continued, wagging her tail back and forth.

TheInsanityOfBobSemple · Apr 11, 2020

The Black Watcher

He watched as the foaming seas lapped up against the hull of the Titan Essex as it steamed through the cold weather. Sea sprays erupted from the sides as larger and larger waves clashed upon the steel skin of the ship. The deck was as wet as it could be and the air was brisk and moist at the same time. He stood on the bridge's observation post as he stared out. The man was dressed in the light black storm coat of his breed with red underneath and epaulets. He wore a standard officer's uniform underneath it with gold-skinned braiding along with the ink-black sash at his hip. A grey peaked officer cap sat on his straw-blond hair. He had a long and gaunt face with frightening blue eyes that stared right into the soul. It was a weather-beaten face that had seen many days in the open sun and spent many hours suffering the terrible backwash of flame projectors. It was an intense face, one that brokered no-nonsense at all or acceptance of failure.

The Black Watcher had never seen the ocean before. The largest bodies of water he had ever seen had been a few large lakes. Back then, he could only ever imagine it from tales of men who had seen it or in his seemingly impossible to grasp dreams. It seemed impossible now that such a vast collection of water existed somewhere in this world. The scent of salt in the air was so strong his nostrils felt raw and sore. He had done his best to hide his amazement, wonder, and sheer confusion at the sight. Doubt in leaders did not play well with the morale of men.

He walked down a steep staircase to the main deck of the ship, nearly slipping on the wet metal surface. Black Watcher Krechetnikov Fennstrum, Defender of Hill 3234, The Black Executioner, The Foil of all Cowards, and he who slew the cursed Heritor, having his neck broken by slipping on stairs on the eve of his greatest victory. He reflected that it was certainly not how he expected his career to go.

As he walked the deck of the ship, he passed the preparation for the landings. Shore boats were being uncovered from the lower decks and their bodies checked of any imperfections. Soldiers were wrapping their rifles into leather coverings to protect the insides from the eroding quality of saltwater and to keep the powder dry. Squad leaders examined the rifles of their men. Platoon leaders were organizing men into squads, announcing to them the plans of attack and what was expected of them.

Between them, strode the Blackwatcher, observing the proceedings. Occasionally he stopped by every major section leader, asking them on their progress and the general mood of the men. He even talked to a common grunt once or twice. They all regarded him with the highest respect that his position demanded and all hid their nervousness to the Political Officer as he spoke to them. A bit of fear was good, it reminded the men of what would happen if they were found wanting. It reminded them of who was behind them.

There were Blackwatchers that held loyalty through sheer fear and over-the-top zeal, often executing far more friendlies and foes. Others on the more extreme opposite of the spectrum lowered themselves too much to the ground, thinking they could be the lovable favorited leader of men, and therefore deranged themselves. When the shooting and dying began, they would never look at that type as someone they could depend on or respect, they would only see the class clown. The first type was often subject to "accidental" fatal friendly fire or enemy infiltrators who had somehow snuck into the camp and stabbed them a hundred times in their sleep. The second type often ended up in military court for incompetence and later the firing line.

He didn't need the type of fear the common men and low-ranking officers were applying to the tall gaunt figure that walked among them. Instead, he typically placed the right amount of fear in the leaders, the ones who would be essential to the whole deal. Men needed sound leadership and said leadership could never be found wanting. They had to know they were accountable for sending men to their deaths needlessly. Men broke most often out of poor leadership, too many Black Watchers seemed to not know that, often placing the blame on the troop. If an officer failed, then the whole structure fell down. He almost always reserved his censure for the upper-cadre.

Dark looming shapes flanked the Essex, the massive god-behemoths of Haven's fleet. Capable of wiping entire cities off the map with their overwhelming firepower and within their dark bellies, holding thousands of soldiers ready to die for the cause of wiping the dark lord off the map. He watched as their smoke-stacks belched dirty coal-ridden smoke into the air. With them, the Dark Lord and his Heretical servants would forever be purged from the world, their stain upon the land surgically excised with utter brutality. He felt the tang of anger build up in his heart as he imagined the final stronghold of Darkness they were fighting to. He would relish burning it down. Unlike the wishes of Slyvia and some of the others, he had no interest in taking prisoners to save for any who might possess any intelligence. Even after that, the Black Watch would dispose of them once they had gotten what they need. The threat of contamination was too high, the spread of the rotten ideology, their taint far too disgusting to stand. Why waste resources on men who betrayed Haven?

He heard whispers of Her come from the lips of the men as he toured them. The Angel of Verdan, Savior of Onyx Valley, and their Grand Commander.

Sylvia.

The unknown girl who had appeared at Verdan, turning the tide of the battle and was now turning the tide of the whole war, seemingly by herself. She had wounded the Dark Lord himself. Fennstrum had been there that day at her side but he never did see that almost holy duel. The strongest champion of Haven's rightful light against the heretical dark. He had heard it was truly something and it was a shame he could not have seen it himself. Many citizens of Haven regarded her as something near to god, one of His chosen apostles sent down to reaffirm the divine power of the Throne.

It was the perfect propaganda figure. Not even Fennstrum himself could imagine such an idea. Her legend blended the right amount of mysticism to plant the seed that she was so much more yet had just that sense of real flesh that you could touch her, know that she was truly real. She had some real sway in the people and therefore held power that could be misused if she handled it wrongly. That was the Black Watchers' purpose, to make sure that the so-called Hero didn't get too big for her boots, to remind her that she was not above consequences of her actions and that she obeyed the Government. As far as he was concerned he was the all-watchful eye and the dominating hand in manifest for this expedition. In fact, the High Watcher herself had come in the night and asked Fennstrum in-person to ask him to be Sylvia's leash and keep in check any dangerous, arrogant ambitions that may grow in the wake of the coming victory. He accepted the duty asked of him without doubt or hesitation as was so common among those that held his office. One did not get far in the Black Watch if they did not believe in themselves or know what was expected of themselves. Fennstrum had not told Sylvia of the meeting though he strongly suspected that she at least knew a representative of the capital had met with him.

He strode over to the side of the ship, watching the seas for who knows how long, watching the waves erupt and explode, the yellow guiding lights of the picket attack ships at the front of the fleet, until he heard raised voices behind him. A single being of white was emerging as the soldiers began to form disciplined, practiced parade lines to greet it. It was clad in immaculate ivory armor, laden with series of black and gold trims. Silver hair fell from her head, perfect and glistening like silk. Determined crimson eyes that saw all. Even if one had never seen her in person, without a moment to ponder, they would know for certain who this woman was. Slyvia of Verdan.

He joined her retinue and stood at her side with the rest of the companions, still as a statue, his storm coat flying in the terrible wind. The speech was good in the main body. It gave the soldiers the impression that all were watching, their children, wives, husbands, and peers had all placed upon them a duty to win the day. It told them their duty was the vanquish the wicked of the Dark Lord. Though, in his opinion, it began to lack in the last few statements. While it reminded them they were not done, It gave their foes too much credit without the last assurance that they would crush all that stood in their way. He had been trained in the art of speeches when he was training as a Black Watcher and it had been short with only one essential thing he had to learn: keep it short and sweet. A good rousing furious zealous single line could inspire more than any three-hour lackluster announcement. But what did he have to say, he was merely a servant of the State and of Her.

The crowd responded well, their answer to her oath of action was to swear the very same. That was all that mattered, the men were inspired. Inspired to die, that is. Yes, men would die but in the name of the Throne. He had promised to never let a commander waste lives needlessly and he would ensure this would never happen lest they face his judgment.

"I look forward to this," Fennstrum said. He let himself think for a moment to the wrath they were about to bring. He felt his heart pump and his excitement build up. This was it. This was his vengeance. He let himself sneak a smirk. "I look forward to our true victory. Unlike what many think, martial victory is not a true victory. The meaning of utter victory is not to merely defeat your enemy but to destroy him, to completely eradicate him from living memory, to leave no remnant of his endeavors, to crush his achievement and remove all record of his very existence. From that defeat, there is can be no recovery. That is the meaning of victory. I promise you Slyvia, we shall ensure that will happen."

Midrick · Apr 11, 2020

A figure could be seen in red on black armor, a dagger in his right hand and a whetstone in his left, the shape sat on the gunnell of the bow alone, the only thing distinguishing about his appearance was a shock of snow white hair that contrasted heavily with his apparel. The fore of the ship was avoided by the crew and soldiers that sailed on it. Looks of scorn and disdain followed the lone man everywhere he went on the titan, he chose to cloister himself to the point where he would be left alone instead of contending with the whispers and glares.

His thoughts drifted as he sharpened the already honed blade with tender hands, the weapons he kept were the closest thing he could call companions now. These people didn't want him here, he was as good to them as a war hound, good for a fight and the aftermath, then returned to a cage until the next battle, possibly taken out behind the kennels and shot if the effort of keeping the beast in line was deemed to difficult or unnecessary. He set the whetstone down on the deck and probed the edges of the dagger with his finger. Even through the gloved hand, he could feel how wickedly sharp the blade was. Satisfied, he returned the long dagger to its sheath that sat on the back of his hips.

Marcus got to his feet and deposited the well used sharpening stone back into a pack near him. He turned and looked out at the water of the great ocean, how easy it would be to jump into the depths and just disappear, to just wish everything away. He sighed as he stared into the endless blue, this war wouldn't be the last, even if the hero was able to kill Sertek, a new dark lord would rise again. Maybe after 50 years, maybe a century, nature hates a vacuum after all.

Marcus turned from the fore section of the bow and walked down he listened to Sylvia's impassioned speech, he smiled to himself as he listened. There is no greater weapon than faith, faith that you and you're kind are the righteous, faith that whatever gods you cleave to watch over you, faith that whatever sins you commit in pursuit of that goal are for "the greater good". Faith was something Marcus was severely lacking in, he believed in only what he could see, it's hard to believe in something or someone after you had been sold to a mercenary order and slowly transformed into a mutant while being trained to fight and survive. Part of him hoped morbidly that the shadow legion would win, possibly destroy the world, most would call it heresy and have him executed in some form or another. Personally the blind faith these humans put into Sylvia disgusted him despite the fact he didn't objectively dislike her.

The Templar and Pola had joined Sylvia, Nemir was easy enough to get along with but he doubted she would ever seek his companionship, it was a bit contradictory to befriend that which you have sworn to destroy. Pola was an oddity, he doubted she would fear or even avoid him because of what he was, and seemed intent on garnering attention from anyone in the vicinity. Fennstrum was an entirely different story, if Marcus could ever truly hate something or someone it was him. The Black Watchers had advocated for the Blood Knights cleansing even before they had joined the side of Haven. They executed men for little more than fearing for their lives, they claimed to inspire courage and bravery into the lay troops. Charging a position because a gun was aimed at your back isn't courage, fighting because you feared decimation isn't bravery, and it was all in the service of the throne. Some fat prick who was 'chosen' by the gods because the cousin's of a previous generation decided to engage in some totally normal incest. The arrogance and pomp made him sick, and Fennstrum and his ilk were one of the reasons behind Marcus's growing hatred for humanity.

These words were never spoken, they always stayed within wearing him down as he drowned in his own intrusive thoughts, who wanted to hear the woes of a vampire? Something to be reviled and destroyed, there were no ears to hear him. The other Blood Knights would dismiss these statements and he would be reprimanded for speaking words that endangered them further. The blank expression and dullness in his eyes only grew with each passing dawn, there would be no helping hand for him to grasp or friend to lean on, no one wants to count a monster among the people they hold close... moths didn't belong in a world of butterflies.

Marcus secured a rather spartan helmet on his head. He was a firm believer in practicality over aesthetics, and his armor reflected that belief, there was no elegance in it and it lacked the engravings and markings that defined a knights armor. His frown deepened after he heard Fennstrum talk of true victory. "Speak for yourself, watcher." he said as he looked in the direction of the beach. "This is just another battle for another ungrateful monarch of an uncaring people, this war changes nothing." he said as he crossed his arms. He was tired of his existence, one of constant battle and bloodshed, he was done being cowed into an automaton that was used for convenience whenever a battle needed to be won for fear of death, if his miserable life ended on this campaign then so be it.

Pilgrim59

Pilgrim59 · Apr 12, 2020

Sylvia of Verdan
Titan Essex, Saarema

Uasal

Sylvia acknowledged her mentor's remark. A brief glance at Ghan, followed by a series of sentiments that seemed not so long ago when she was found and nursed back to health by the Templar and her hyena company. How quickly six years have come and pass before her very eyes since Verdan. Sylvia was the name she had been given by her distinctive hair. It wasn't of her choosing. Even now, her origins remained a mystery, one she would solve, should the war ended. When it ended. Ever since their departure from Midvale, Sylvia's journey has been one without sleep. She would spend nights on end discussing the grand battle plans and contingencies needed for this campaign.

This was the first time she had been given full authority over a sizeable force, unlike the times from when she merely led scattered Havenites alongside her Silver Company. Marshall Bukanan and Marshall Montpelier were friendly faces from which she have had the honor to fight alongside since Verdan. Bukanan was a generous man, whose services were of great advantage for the hero. Never once have he failed to deliver her requests. Even with the case of employing the Blood Knight's service, Bukanan lent his name, despite the odds of turning Vik over to the Black Watch. Montpelier soon followed, as was his personal disdains for the Black Watch. Even so, the man have little to say when Bukanan had persuaded him for most of the time.

Six years of bloody conflict, only to see Grozny fending off the Dark Lord's invasion. Even now, the young faces that scurried off towards their ships and landing crafts brought a certain gloom to her already troubled heart. Young men and women, accompanied by old soldiers and salty veterans. This was all that Haven and her allies were able to muster. How many more people must sacrifice? How many more wars? Would it be acceptable with just turning a blind eye? No, claimed Sylvia. Throughout Grozny's history, the heroes did their best, and brought peace to Grozny, but only for a limited time before the next. Never have they sailed west to meet Sertek on his own turf. Cowardice? Illusions of triumphs? Negligence? Or perhaps, the hero were only mere figures by name? Sylvia dwelt on these things everyday since Onyx Valley. It was time for a change. Sylvia knew it. Haven knew it. Embarking on a hopeful plan, Haven still followed through with the hero's wishes. After all, they were the one that made her. A girl with a lance could have went her own ways, yet, by fateful encounters, she took up the role. A role she felt to be a necessity.

The Black Watch however, was already wary of her. Bureaucracy, opportunists, or simply blind fanaticism in their cause. Yet, the hero managed to get by the days. She tried her best to veer from political issues, keen on getting the job done. She wasn't in it for the glory, only closures. To bring an end to the world's suffering every hundred years or so, when the Dark Lord intends to invade Grozny. Where her predecessors did not give chase, Sylvia would try to break the norms. She despised herself, even when she did not voice her thoughts. Sending men and women to their deaths. What makes her better than them to begin with? A special lance and a certain commendable deed? If that was the qualification for a hero, Sylvia would hate to be one. It was not fair. But she knew, like the Black Watch and her mentor Lady Cesti, that the people needed hope. Even if its a lie, a twisted truth, or a false sense of hope, Sylvia would do so. The people adored her for a time. Simply because she does not tell lies. But even the toughest pots will break. Inspiration and charisma were as pivotal as magical and physical prowess on the field. As time went on, the silver-haired girl would learn to adopt these speeches. While she hated them, Sylvia would still give her all. After all, everyone needed something to believe in, as she did in her companions and soldiers.

Her train of thoughts undid by a certain tugging at her left gauntlet. A soft sensation brushed up against her armored hand, as Sylvia eyed the delightful draconian next to her. When the latter spoke, Sylvia smiled slightly, and gave Pola's head a rub. The draconian's soft hair put her heart at ease from her heavy thoughts.

"I concur with your thoughts, my dear Pola. But Wyvern Beach facilitates suitable terrains and widths for our impending reinforcements. Where the Northeastern landing is filled with jagged rocks and swamps inland. It is imperative that Wyvern Beach be secured, sweet Pola." Sylvia replied, canvasing the map on the table.

"I look forward to our true victory. Unlike what many think, martial victory is not a true victory. The meaning of utter victory is not to merely defeat your enemy but to destroy him, to completely eradicate him from living memory, to leave no remnant of his endeavors, to crush his achievement and remove all record of his very existence. From that defeat, there is can be no recovery. That is the meaning of victory. I promise you Sylvia, we shall ensure that will happen." Fennstrum followed, catching Sylvia's attention.

As expected of the Black Watcher, Sylvia viewed him as an ardent officer, whose duties carried a certain weight. While she complies with the man's recitals of the art of war, their purpose, and his particular emphasis on "we" and "our". A poetic one, like most of his peers. Where others turned their eyes, Sylvia respected him for his passions. One thing is for sure, despite his zeal for the cause, not many shared his visions. Some would pass it off in their small talks and gatherings, but one among them would always be the one to pull Fennstrum's nerves. She complied with his words, but did not make a remark, as she knew someone else in the room would have something to say against that.

"Speak for yourself, Watcher. This is just another battle for another ungrateful monarch of an uncaring people, this war changes nothing." inserted the very voice that Sylvia expected that to come from.

She gave a slight sigh. Those two, ever since the northern campaign and the eventual complement of Vik's presence, have always been at odds with one another. If there wasn't a war on already, she was confident that the Vik and Fennstrum would be out to start one. One Blood Knight whose demeanor is less than conforming, particularly when it comes to politics, and one devoted Drakensreiter, whose zeal rivals that of the morale officers. It was a miracle they were able to stay on the same vessel for the last two weeks of sailing. Granted, Pola had probably kept the two too busy to cause troubles. But even so, Sylvia had to assert herself during these moments.

"Doubt not, good Fennstrum. We will." Sylvia said, turning over towards the Blood Knight with a certain glare.

"Perhaps you speak some truth, Sir Vik. History is violent, and we may be forgotten by the next rotation. But this is the path that I have chosen. No one have dared to give chase after Sertek. We are breaking that tradition, here and now. Everything will change. Everything has changed. No more heroes and needless deaths. The Dark Lord's reign ends now and forever. Perhaps when Grozny's fate is finally in its own hands, our children and theirs will not need to wield a blade as we did." said Sylvia.

The silver-haired lancer turned her attention towards Lady Oighir, the only one to kept her silence throughout the whole thing. As she had always been a reserved type, her direct concerns were usually disclosed with Sylvia either on the field, or whenever they were alone. A woman of subtlety, accompanied by her composed manners, Oighir only ever did what Sylvia requested of her. Before long, a runner in armor would approach Sylvia with a crisp salute, as he handed her a message. Sylvia quickly rolled out the detailed map of their landing, then began to outline the report on the map with her mana pen.

"New report from the Drags' bombing run. They took heavy anti-air fire here - where battlements meet the shingles. Reports showing at least twenty Fireblazers in the area. Some ten thousand infantry with mortars and smaller artillery pieces support. Our Drakensreiters are engaged in a dogfight to the west just offshore, so we will be on our own until we take out those Fireblazers." Sylvia briefed her companions.

"Madam Oighir, I need you to shield our landing crafts, as we make our approaches. Sir Vik will take the left flank with Pola and Oighir to destroy those Fireblazers. Master Cesti, Ghan, and Fennstrum will take the right. I will create a distraction in the middle and draw their attention. After the left and right lines are open, the rest of Havenites will clean up after us. Tie up your flanks, then work your way towards the Mana Tower here in the center, half a mile inland. We destroy it, and their communication should be in disarray." she continued, entrusting her Companions to fulfill their details.

It was a simple plan. Breakthrough and destroy their communication center - Mana Tower. Havenites will fill the gap in their lines and mop up any resistance. The Company's job was to cut down any hard targets in their path towards the Mana Tower. Fireblazers are among these threats.

Before long, two figures donning black cloaks would enter the bridge, their distinctive insignia and crests announced their presence.

"Grand Commander Sylvia, my lady. Pardon the intrusions, but Marshall Montpelier and I need to review our final deployment details with you." Marshall Bukanan announced, standing side by side with Marshall Montpelier.

Sylvia give them a look, before turning back towards her companions.

"Get to your landing crafts, I'll see you on the other side, my friends." Sylvia said to the Company, before taking off with the other Marshalls.

Soon after, the first few landing crafts would drop from both sides of the Titan Essex and Intrepid, with more joining them from the other vessels. The landing crafts glided across the foamy sea, as the thundering drums sounded them off. The Kingdom of Haven’s finest were on their way towards the end of the war. To many, it was a privilege to acknowledge the war’s end, while a chance at redemption for others. Before long, the landing fleet was met with colorful tracers from the beach, loud whistles could be heard as the sea began erupting fountains of water upon the troops, dousing them in sea water.

"Incoming! Get your heads down!"

As they got closer to the shallows, the suppressive fire became more vivid to the eyes and ears of the sealanders. Upon the splash of the landing craft’s ramp onto the sands, the first few sections were met with impeccable fires and shrapnels. A proportion of the initial wave of Haven troops fell within minutes of their arrival. The beach was filled with well dug-in trenches and a network of solid bunkers that were manned by Fireblazers, an automaton construct of a bygone era - forged by the fires of Mount Hornet and rare earth metals. Their fiery spells punched through the armored troopers, igniting chaos among the troops. Some that were quick on their feet were spared from certain deaths, the hesitant participants were less fortunate.

The sands were dyed red by the blood of the fallen, a horrifying sight to behold. Static artillery shrieked overhead, before landing among the attackers. Some have found its destination upon the bosom of several landing crafts, effectively swallowing those on board in flames. Those that jumped their landing crafts were swallowed by the dark sea, as their heavy armors quickly sealed their fate. Sylvia watched the ongoing battle from the Titan Essex, having parted ways with the other Marshalls. Her fists clenched tightly. The battle had begun. Leaping into a departing landing craft, Sylvia slid past the driver, and made her way past the group of soldiers within the small vessel.

"It's the Angel of Verdan. Havena aterna!"

"OORAH!" the troops sounded in unison.

Sylvia said naught. Her eyes ever fixed on the horizon. She had hoped that her Companions would find their way onto shore swiftly. It was time for them to earn their name like many times before. Unsheathing from her mana pocket, Sylvia withdrew her lance.

"Saint Basra. Watch over these men and women... We will see to your demise, Sertek. Grozny will finally know peace." mumbled the hero, as her crimson eyes glow with determination and commitment.

Uasal · Apr 12, 2020

Banri stood silently upon the deck of the ship, a few paces behind her fellow companions, focus drawn toward the fast-approaching beach as opposed to the words of Sylvia's speech. As awe-inspiring as it would undoubtedly be Banri had no care for it, felt no need to pay it heed. The speech was aimed toward Haven's soldiers, it's drafted criminals, those who called the kingdom their home and of course the sailors who had put in the extra effort of carrying so many men through troubled waters and rightly onto the shores of Saarema. Banri was none of these, she was a mage who had no affiliation to Haven's Army, a Mage who held no official rank, who was hailed a companion of the hero despite never once claiming to be so. That speech was not for her no matter how awe-inspiring it was to be.

No Banri paid it no attention, her gaze and thoughts were entirely focused on the beach and as she stared out onto its sands several things began to stick out to the mage. Mainly how many lives would need to be lost as cannon fodder in the lead up to attaining an actual foothold on the beach as well as how such a large amount of death could later be justified before the royal court who undoubtedly would have their 'concerns'. The more the mage thought on the matter the more complex it became, there were several ways to storm the beach but each came at a great loss to the army and in almost every scenario the mage though up the Drags' would suffer the most and be most pivotal to the success of the landing as a whole. The enemy was dug in tight for defence and there was no easy way to smoke them out.

Brought back from her train of thought by Sylvia's request for feedback, Banri remained silent on the matter. Nothing she had to say would come as a surprise to Sylvia anyway, with Haven's top strategists working restlessly on the plan there was little place for a mages input to begin with. Instead, Banri listened to the words of her comrades and did so carefully as her eyes followed the climbing drags'. Nemir was first to speak.

Nemir was a companion Banri had come to trust, her intentions for Sylvia were clearly not sinister in any way, shape or form. Although the woman was a templar Banri actually very rarely held it against her, the beliefs she held in a god that is. No, Banri hardly if ever so much as mentioned the subject around the templar which was odd considering Banri nearly always had something to say when Fennstrum started yapping about his divine mission. None the less Banri had time for Nemir and that was something Banri gave out very sparingly indeed. That and her hyena was quite an interesting specimen to study.

Nemir didn't have much to say on the matter, she made what Banri assumed was a jest before Pola interjected. The small Draconic girl spoke like a child and every time she did so Banri couldn't help but smile, Pola was adorable and so very interesting to study. Her behaviour was absolutely all over the place, being so childlike on one side yet wiping out an entire vanguard without so much as trying, actually most likely by complete accident. When it came to Pola one thought had crossed Banri's mind several times but she always brushed it aside, the very thought was that she may spoil Pola too much. Alas, there was no way that was true! Right. It wasn't like Banri was anyway hurt that Pola asked Sylvia for a head pat over herself. Don't be absurd.

Next to interject was the one member of the group Banri openly despised. A man by the name of Krechetnikov Fennstrum. A Blackwatcher that was so painfully obviously an embedded spy for the court it actually physically appalled her. The man was also a religious fanatic, or more correctly put- a man who used his religion (and position) as an excuse to do whatever he so pleased without hurting his reputation in the court. An absolute barbarian and the definition of scum as far as Banri was concerned.

Lastly, Marcus spoke. Marcus was a Vampire, a creature of the night brought into creation by a preumable the same twisted magic used in her own time. Not that Banri would ever divulge such a note to the very man who hated everything to do with magecraft. Knowing Banri had access to cures of the like wouldnt do him any good. Banri had no reason to give the man any more of a reason to detest her than her skills with magecraft. Banri was very interested in Marcus when he first joined the group, being a Vampire Banri was more than curious to see how they had evolved over time. How the spell weave had twisted and changed over generations. But alas she was forbidden from so much as looking at the Vampire with curiosity by Sylvia herself. But still, the interest lived on.

Once everyone had voiced their opinions Sylvia responded. After she deescalated the situation a messenger cam running by and promptly after reading his report Sylvia issued her orders. Banri was specifically tasked with providing cover for the landing vessels as well as then taking on the left flank with Vik and Pola. The second half of the task was easy enough but landing 30 ships worth of men was not. Not at all. Yes, Banri could do so but at the cost of an enormous amount of mana. Sylvia really was a slave driver and she damn right knew it too.

While securing her hat Bari gave her response to Sylvia while simultaneously luring Pola away from the woman with a cookie in her free hand "I'll land as many of your men as I can but I can't promise their safety following that. If you run into trouble signal me right away if you don't and you somehow manage to survive. I'll kill you myself! I will not have a repeat of Oryx, do you understand me" Without giving Sylvia time to respond Banri turned to Vik and gave Pola a pat on the head "I'll meet you two on the beach once I've finished landing the troops, stay safe". As Banri finished speaking she disappeared from sight. Anyone who proceeded to search long enough for her would have noticed her in the near distance hovering above the sea halfway between the fleet and the beach.

The troops soon mounted their vessels and began sailing for the beach. Banri had guaranteed their safe passage and safe passage they would receive. As the enemy began raining down fire on the ships strong winds and currents that normally spelt doom for ships even bigger than those landers began to pick up out of the blue. Ships that were in the line of fire found themselves swaying in and out of currents that whisked them away from danger and further on toward the beach with great speed. Arrows and smaller artillery found itself blown off course by swirling winds that seemingly knew no mercy. As the ships finally made landfall The protections faded and projectiles soon started to find their marks. A true shame but Banri cared not. Defending a force this size would only drain her mana dry before any real need for it arose.

As Vik and Pola made landfall Banri would appear next to them just as quick as she had vanished. "Pola, I have a special mission for you... would you like to help?"

Pilgrim59

Rielaix · Apr 14, 2020

Pola of White Rift

The draconian took a glance at the map, as Sylvia roughly reasoned their purpose of Wyvern's Beach, instead of circling around the Malevolent Osprey coast and onwards to Kaen. But most of the time, Pola tends to concede to Sylvia's plans anyways. She had already obtained a headpat from the hero, and that was good enough to keep her occupied. (

Pilgrim59 )

"Uwwaaaa." she sounded, happy to have her way met. She was spoiled by Sylvia to the core with these headpatting routines. Not a day goes by where she doesn't get one from the hero.

When the vampire knight spoke his uncensored thoughts towards Fennstrum, Pola gave the white haired knight a long stare. Stepping towards the man, she slammed her book against the blood knight's thigh. It didn't do any damage, but enough to get his attention.

"Vik wrong. Everything change. War concludes, grand commander free time, feed Pola. Sertek no food. Sertek bad." (

Midrick ) Pola exclaimed waving her arms about. It was quite obvious whose side she was on. While she did not know it, Pola was lending a hand to soothe things out between Fennstrum and Vik. To her, the vampire never wanted to get along, but was taken in by Sylvia anyways. One of the reason why Pola loved Sylvia, was her ability to keep the crew together. Pola detested violence, but throughout her long journey with the hero, she was able to realize that some things are necessary to do good.

Sylvia's words acknowledged both Fennstrum's and Vik's remarks. Despite their differences, she managed to reel them in again. (

TheInsanityOfBobSemple )

Then a runner came rushing into the bridge, gave his report, pulling Pola's attention towards Sylvia. She circled the map table, then settle alongside Sylvia as she explained their new situation and battle plan. Sylvia's face was always serious and grim. Pola always wondered what she had hidden beneath her strong resolve. Even Pola had a weakness when it comes to food and headpat. The hero showed no sentimental weaknesses, aside from when it comes to her Silver Company. And that worried the draconian. It's always the ones with the strongest facade that tends to fall the hardest. But Pola listened on, memorizing her mission.

It didn't take too long before Banri lured her away with a cookie. Being a prided draconian, Pola obviously chased. Like a predator, her eyes fixed on the cookie in the background, circling around Banri. When she finally caught the cookie, Pola nibbled on it.

"Uwaaaaa..." she purred, as the mage lady patted her head, after they were given their mission details. Then Sylvia was already taken away from them by the two tall generals. A head pat is still a head pat.

Pola looked at the others in the room after miss Oighir took her leave.

"Lady Cesti, Ghan, Sir Fennstrum, divine wind bless ye. Vik, Pola, Lady Oighir do our best." (

Ramjammer ) Pola said, petting Ghan, before running after the mage lady. For a draconian that spent most of their life in an isolated forest, Pola's continental tongue is quite limited. While she can read and decipher a lot of ancient and modern languages and dialects, she never had a chance to talk to non-dragons before meeting Sylvia. Even in Lenino, she only gave nods. She learned a lot from Banri, who was also helpful like the hero.

Pola got into a landing boat with some soldiers, as they rowed towards the beach. For Pola, her small figure gave her an advantage, as most of these knights would be her tall stacks of sandbags, shielding her from the incoming fire. That was one way to look at it. Pola got to work, still. Flipping her tome, she chanted and casted a spell upon those around her - enhancing their speed and natural regenerative capabilities. When the ramp opened up. Some soldiers took fire, but kept crawling forward. Thanks to her buff, they were able to withstand the pain, and went most of the way, before falling.

"Take Pola left, iron man." Pola commanded, as she hopped onto a soldier's back and piggybacked it towards the left flank.

The mage lady appeared before Pola, where they were supposed to meet. Pola hopped off the soldier, and patted his pauldron, letting him go about his objective. Pola listened to Banri's question, before raising her temporary mana shield to block incoming fire.

"Pola ... special mission... Pola listen. Pola do her best." the draconian replied, yawning a bit. That little piggyback ride made her somewhat sleepy, but her drowsy eyes still fixed on Banri. (

Uasal )

TheInsanityOfBobSemple · Apr 19, 2020

The Black Watcher

Pilgrim59

Fennstrum never held anything towards the Blood Knights, save for the fact they were made of beastmen who he believed had little control over their bodies. All he really cared about was the question of if they were ready to fight and die in the name of Haven, as was the duty of all in its borders. His only doubts had been their lack of discipline and bloodlust, which was over-the-top, even for him. They were Dogs of War but like Dogs, they often bit back at their handlers if misused. The Black Watch had been ruthless towards them in the past, some of the more extremist elements, containing much of the old guard, of his organization had openly demanded their extermination. To be honest, Fennstrum could understand the reasons. They were vampires whose very nature was to prey upon man. Disgusting mutations of the human force. A speck that fell from the stirring pot of humanity and left to fester. They could not live without the blood of humans and to let them do so endangered the order that the Throne had fought so hard to maintain? In the eyes of many, they were by their very existence, a threat to the good peace.

But Fennstrum had privately opposed them while keeping himself publically neutral. The old guard still held substantial power within the Watch and their approval would be what he needed to move through the ranks and make some real change. This expedition was his chance to win some reputation to hold sway, finally breaking free from the chains that had been placed on him.

This Blood Knight, however, troubled him greatly. He was a great warrior, there could be no doubt about that, able to easily cut down most Cultists with ease. Even so, he lacked discipline and, in the Black Watcher's eyes, loyalty. He was a true beast, one that he knew that even the Hero would struggle to keep on a leash. And his out-loud insolence was testing him, there was a fine line between valid criticism of the now-aging systems of Haven and unquestionable treason. This brat was pushing the line very hard and he would have reprimanded him, his only saving grace was that the Black Watcher had some faith that Slyvia chose him for a reason. She chose all of them for a reason.

He held his tongue, only to keep himself above this petty squabble and the fact it would look bad if the men saw the commanders bickering on the eve of the great operation.

The court mage generally troubled him. Whereat least he could contain Vik - he would have to be careful with her. She certainly knew her way around politics and was a multiplier for Sylvia in that field. Already in that way, she was making his job harder than it had to be. She had made little secret of her dislike of him and in the Black Watcher's eyes, all of it was unfounded slander. After all this, after the war was over and the people of Haven were forever safe, he would have to deal with her. One way or another, she was too radical and a threat to the good peace of the Throne.

Nemir was in many ways a mother to the Hero which Fennstrum found incredibly interesting. He had not made any attempts yet, but he realized that she held massive amounts of influence over the Hero. She almost followed Nemir's advice like a good daughter would. Anything she would say, Slyvia would take as the truth and obey. As far as he was concerned, if the Hero ever got too big for her boots, the Templar would be his way to peacefully convince her to step down. He knew he had to be careful with her though if he ever tried that. He could tell that if she even got the sense he was trying to manipulate her, she would behead him without a second thought.

Pola was nothing more than a pet but was an adorable one at that, even the cold-hearted Black Watcher had to admit it. She was seemingly everyone's emotional support had a childlike-mind. And childlike-minds were the easier to mold. If he could convince her to his cause he would have cases to that core that everyone leaned on.

He hesitated to involve her in his schemes but a Political Officer like him considered every single option to gain the advantage, no matter how morally repugnant it was. This was a game where you couldn't get too attached to your pieces and view everything coldly. He reminded himself that this was all in service to the Throne and that the Throne had placed this great, important duty on his shoulders. His whole purpose was duty and he would do so at any cost, to himself or others. If he failed here, the results could be disastrous to the common people.

"Your will be done, ma'am. I shall oversee the right flank alongside Templar Cesti." Fennstrum clicked his boots together and saluted sharply. And with that, he spun on his heel and marched towards the preparations in a swirl of black storm-coat, back ram-straight and boots clanging on the deck.

The preparation ground of the landing boats could best be described as organized chaos. The landers creaked in the heavy winds, waiting to be lowered down into the tumultuous seas below, before launching off towards death. Staging officers held up metal poles with stenciled number plates on the end so that the Knights could form up in the right platoon, at the right ship, at the right moment. There were still a few minutes to wait for some squads. They sat down on the apron next to their appointed craft, chatting with each other -hopeful for the imminent victory - making the last few equipment checks or just sitting still, their minds far away.

Fennstrum boarded his designated carrier, belonging to the command platoon of a Captain Isaacs, in charge of C Company. He was a man in his late forties with an entirely bald head. "A pleasure and honor to have you on our craft, sir." He thrust out his hand, a sign of friendship

Perhaps it was the cynical side of Fennstrum, far too used to hearing the whispers behind his back because of his uniform, but he knew that was a lie. The Captain was just brown-nosing his way, either out of bone-shaking fear or a political move to make friends with a Black Watcher. If it was the latter, the Captain was sorely mistaken for it was the duty of all Black Watchers to rise above such temptations. They were the third party, the unbiased party with only the Throne in their mind.

"The very same can be said for me as well, Captain." He took it, he would play nice, he would prove all of them wrong.

He climbed over the edge of the boat and had his first look of the troopers of C Company. Many were pale in fear, the hope and jubilation they had on deck with comrades was now ended as they were placed into what was basically a cramped thin can. It was always like this on the eve of battle, even happening to the most veteran of soldiers. It was at this moment that the seeds of doubt were planted. The Black Watcher would make sure that he would smother such seeds before they even saw light.

He took his place near the front of the boat, just three rows behind the ramp, though Captain Isaac's and his second officer had taken their place at the back of the boat. Fennstrum did not question it, they're roles were different. They were to lead. He was to inspire.

"Heroes of Haven! Yes, I am addressing you all. For twenty centuries, we have been besieged on all sides by the forces of Darkness. They have attacked our Holy Lands countless times in the past. Rejoice! For you have withstood the evil savagery of the Dark Lord and his pathetic servants, and they have nothing left for you to fear, only to hate. So raise high our black banners of vengeance - for now, is our time! Let none stay our wrath! Let none survive!" He bellowed as the boat began to lower. There was real anger to his voice, he wanted it as much as all of them.

The men cheered hard, hard as they could. Because they desired the very same vengeance that the Black Watcher did. The hordes of the Dark Lord and his animals had raped and marauded their way through the Motherland without mercy for countless centuries. They deserved none in turn. There were some who did so out of fear, not daring to be the first one to stop. Fennstrum saw this and was displeased.

The Black Watch in recent years was starting to grow more extreme to his liking. Too much reliance was now placed on fear to keep the grunts in line. Most of his generational fellow cadets followed his ideology of leading by example, that if they could show their zeal and bravery on the frontline, they would show that the troopers could do so as well. But it got them killed and those that knew the true way of the Black Watch were slowing fading away, replaced by young men far too willing to prove themselves by any means and by spiteful aging men desperately clinging onto their positions.

He saw Captain's Isaac's hands shaking as he struggled to open a flask. Both their gazes met for a moment and Isaac's looked sheepish. Fennstrum didn't really mind save for his small concern that it wouldn't look good for the men to see their leader so nervous. Isaac's gave up and stashed his flask back into his pouch, instead of taking the time to examine his rifle.

Almost everyone saved the impossibly still Black Watcher, were fidgeting heavily and doing anything to take their minds off what was about to happen. The boat's motors began to rumble into life and with a heavy jolt, they were off. The common grunts in the bay of the lander couldn't see anything but the packed comrades to their left, right, front, and back. Only the pilots had any semblance of what was going on.

For the men, it was the worst. The lack of information or understanding of one's environment bred doubt in the minds of soldiers. If you didn't understand something, you began to speculate, you began to imagine and guess with little information to back it up. With their line of profession, it was almost a certainty that such rumors would be horrifying. As much as Fennstrum hated it, he couldn't really do much to help with this because he was starved of information as well.

He was in the same boat as them.

The Black Watcher, known for his lack of humor, nearly chuckled out-loud at his joke.

"Look!" One of the troopers in the boat pointed up the grey overcast sky. Fennstrum squinted in the direction. The underbellies of the cloud were being lit yellow before fading out, before being lit again. It was like a miniature sun behind a thick cloud. Fennstrum knew that currently, his Drakenreiter brothers were fighting against their Heretical Dracomancer counterparts. He could still remember their harsh training before he was chosen as a Black Watcher that had shaped the man he was today.

He gave out a silent prayer to wish his comrades in the sky the best of luck.

"Look!" The soldiers said, this time there was some real worry in his voice. Something was dropping like a stone out of the sky. Just before it touched the sea, it opened up its wings. With amazing speed, it began to fly towards the boats. The men cheered loudly, believing it to be one of their own.

But Fennstrum knew better.

Drakenreiter mounts didn't fly like that. The wings were too jerky and forced. Along with fact with the question of why it was heading towards them. He knew exactly what it was. His heart stopped for a moment.

The Dracomancer and it's mount swooped in low. The undead corpse dragon beat it pockmarked rotting wings with such strength that a lander that had the unfortunate luck to be just under it, was tossed and turned in the water like a child's toy. Men were ripped from the lander by the force of the wind and sent flying into the water.

Somehow thinking they could somehow down it, some of the neighboring landers had their troops unravel their weapons and fire randomly at Dragon. Not a single shot hit its mark. Not that they would ever affect it.

As if, insulted, the Dracomancer and it's steed swung back around and barreled around. This time it was much lower, almost touching the water. And much faster, moving at such speed it was almost a blur. And Fenntrum knew what that meant, for he had seen it before a hundred times.

An attack run.

"Get down!" That was what Fennstrum believed he said anyway. It was lost forever when the Dragon let out a terrible howl that grazed Fennstrum's hearing and sounded like consumptive lungs exploding under deep pressure. Then it unleashed its impossible fury.

It breathed violet fire so hot that despite behind one hundred and twenty meters away, the steel walls of Fennstrum's lander warmed noticeably. Men ducked down and covered their faces. The five front landers were utterly swallowed up by the raging fire. Borne only by their momentum, the melting wrecks carried forward like skipping stones, their occupants utterly vaporized from reality. The intense heat threw up a thick mist from the evaporated water, an embankment of steam five hundred meters long and twenty hundred meters high that washed forward across the beach.

It worked both for and against them. The cloud of steam and fog shielded their advance but the pilots couldn't see anything, yet they continued to push the landers forward as fast as they could, plowing through the waves. Blinded by the steam, the defense emplacements on the boat began to fire randomly into the cloud, pouring out a red snowstorm of bullets. The armor of the landers held, barely. The hull of the lander began to dent as more and more shots found a home but most of the shots just whizzed off as they deflected off the light armor.

Heavy guns from the beach began to roar. Water all around them erupted in huge tall spouts. It began to rain but the clouds had not broken. Dozens of shots narrowly missed the charging, blind boats. Their luck was running out.

A craft just barely fifteen meters to their right was directly hit causing a huge explosion of fuel, fire, metal, and flesh. Red-hot metal shrapnel fell like rain onto their boat and several men had their exposed skin badly scaled. There was also something else in the rain. With a meaty thump, a badly burned torso landed on their heads and bounced off onto the deck. Fennstrum, with a grunt of effort, picked up the still-warm torso and with the help of a trooper, cast it off the side of the lander. Flaming oil burned all around them on the surface of the water.

Their pilot held his course. More and more shells fell all around them. Suddenly, a burst of fire from the guns of the foe found their mark. Bullets smashed into the bow of the lander, men dropped down as low as they could. The pilot at the back of the boat was ripped to bits. Blood and fleshed showered the men just in front of him. The co-pilot mate quickly pushed the ruined body into the sea to make room and took control of the wheel.

The soldiers around did their best to just stare ahead, the blood of the pilot sprinkled on their uniforms. But the fear infected them and began to spread through their minds like a fungus colony.

It was too much for the young soldier next to Fennstrum. He had been covered with the remains of the former pilot. He began to lose it, shuddering and beginning to weep. He was pale as snow.

He averted his eyes from the Black Watcher but Fenntrum gripped him by the jaw and forced him to lock eyes with him. Fennstrum put on his most confident face and his eyes were intense, staring straight into the soul of the young trooper. He simply smiled. The soldier was utterly terrified.

"Sir, are we going to die?" He stammered out.

"Hell no, two-thirds tops," Fennstrum said rather nonchalantly.

"Oh, god." The soldier gasped out.

Fennstrum turned backward to the men in the boat who had to be just as scared as the young trooper. He continued his wide smile. "I want every one of you to look at the man on your right. Now, look at the man to the left. Then back and front. Fell sorry for those sons-of-guns, they're going to get it, you're not going to get a single scratch."

A few, including the young trooper, managed thin smiles. Fennstrum released his grip on the trooper's jaw who moved his jaw as if to see if it's broken. Fennstrum patted him on the cheek and laughed heartily.

"Stick with me, kid. I promise you'll see glory at my side. And that goes for every single man of C Company here."

"Yessir."

"Ten seconds!" The pilot suddenly yelled over the sound of the straining motor. There was a noticeable jolt as the boat began to slow down.

"C Company, this is the moment of truth. You will not fear. You will not falter. You will not give them any respite or mercy!" He yelled as the co-pilot held up five fingers, each one slowly dropping. "Portus Magni!"

When the final finger dropped the boat came to the complete stop.

He took in a deep breath, there was no need for his vocal inspiration because the situation gave it. It was now do or die and there could be no retreat, only forward. The ramp dropped down and water began to flood onto the floor of the lander. He could see nothing beyond the men closest to him and the solid atmosphere of mist and smoke created by the artillery strikes. The first squad ahead charged right into the unknown, yelling oaths of battle at the top of their lungs.

He could smell salt and blood, burnt flesh, and vaporized sand.

Then nothing.

Rushing silence, roaring dullness, a coldness all over him, enveloping him, dark grey blurs in his eyes. He was underwater, floundering in the chilly, muffled dark of the sea, writhing black bodies struggling and flailing around him, each one bejeweled with trapped baubles of silver air.

Black Watcher Fennstrum couldn't swim. He never had to swim before, living far-away from any major sources of water and had only done shallow river crossings before, where the water only went up to his thighs. Stupidly, he had never bothered to try to learn on the eve of the operation and that would be something that would kill him sure as sure. He was going to do the last thing he had ever expected to do: drown. Momentarily, he realized he had not yet released the deep breath he had instinctively sealed into his lungs before he ran into the unknown. Most of his kind would have yelled something, a threat of the price of failure or some banality they had been educated during training. He almost laughed at the fact he was surviving because he wasn't doing his job, almost releasing the air. Instead, he held on to it, felt it burning and exhausting inside him as he rose slowly to what seemed the surface. It saved his life, where others had gone screaming and exhaling off the ramp. Sinking, blundering, black shapes thrashed around him: figures in heavy silver armor, with faces, pale like phantoms or ghouls in the terrible gloom.

A body sank beside him, arms frozen in claws, mouth open to emit a dribble of bubbles, eyes glazed. Fennstrum kicked upwards again. Something struck him stunningly hard on the back of the neck and he lost his precious saved breath in a blurt of silvery air pebbles. Men were still coming off the ramp-end above, right into the dark water like sheep herded off the cliff. If he had chosen to be at the back with the Captain instead of the front with the men, he could have stopped this, he reflected sadly. It had been his duty to be with the men and it was costing them their lives.

A boot had hit him. The man it belonged to was inverted in the water behind him, panicking, dying as he sank like a stone in his heavy armor. Fennstrum kicked away, trying to rise and not breathe in to ease his emptied, screaming lungs. He saw men explode into the grey, dreamy world from above, fighting the water as they hit and sank. But that at least told him the surface was only a few meters away.

The man who had kicked him on his way down had become entangled with another by the slings of their rifles. One of the growing Knights in his mania managed to fire his rifle through the leather seal. The shot punched through the nape of a desperate swimmer next to Fennstrum. He spasmed like a puppet and went limp. Blood fogged the water like tar.

He surfaced in a gasping explosion, retching, treading water, blood streaming from his nose. He looked around to see Knights surfacing all around, kicking towards the shore or just panicking. Some were floating in the surge, lifeless, already lost. Noise rushed back to him, the momentous noise of combat now unfiltered by the deadness of the sea. Screaming, the fire of rifles, the distant chatter of Gatlings, the shrill scream of mortars as they came down before a sucking explosion, the roar of the sea that had swallowed up so many lives. He could smell blood, water, and smoke, but was thankful because that meant he was breathing. The thick soup of fog and mist here was still as thick as ever and he couldn't see more than fifteen meters in any direction. Stray enemy fire barely whizzed over the head, falling into the water and killing the drowning men. The water had now turned from foaming blue to crashing red.

Fennsturm paddled forward, hacking up each and every slop of sea-water he accidentally swallowed. Around him, other Knights made their way forward, many had stripped pieces of their armor or kit off, some even abandoning their weapons in a bid to survive. Fennstrum couldn't fault them, rifles and gear could be replaced, experience veterans and manpower not so easy. He had heard of Black Watchers who had executed men on the spot for the loss of their guns, thinking them useless without it. It was true in a sense, a Knights relationship with their weapons was symbiotic, they were nothing without their rifle, and their rifle is nothing without them. But he would have to make do, he needed manpower here and now.

He felt gravel or sand under his boots, a slope. He felt weight and momentum return to him as he churned up through shallower and still shallower water, falling twice and choking. Streams of bullets whipped and stitched the shallow water around him, cutting down the Knights beaching next to him. A bullet missed the side of his head by a thumb's width, actually feeling the distortion of the air as it passed. Instead, it hit the trooper behind him. The man fell face-down, his body lifted and pulled back, lifted and pulled back again by the choppy waves.

A trooper erupted, gasping like a fish out of water, floundering and screaming loudly for help. Fennstrum swore loudly and made his way to him, grabbing him by the collar and hoisting him out. It was the young trooper, somehow surviving the landing. Fennstrum realized that he wasn't yelling in alarm but in pain. He looked down and saw there was a growing circle of blood around the man's submerged leg. The saltwater was burning right through the wound. Without saying anything, he slung the wounded boy's arm over his neck, feeling him lean against him to themselves support.

They waded as fast as they could, blundering through the foaming shallows. The trooper fell several times and it was agonizingly long. Men on all sides were falling as they charged forward, laden down with their heavy armor and weapons. Bullets danced all around the pair, miraculously missing them but he knew that their luck would soon run out. Fennstrum considered just dropping him here and now in the open. As horrible as it might sound, the trooper's life was nothing compared to the Black Watcher.

But he couldn't let him drop, not now, not here. It would look bad to the other soldiers. They glanced his way as they made their way forward, seeing one of the black uniforms they had feared all their service, risking life and limb to save someone who he really shouldn't. It motivated them to go on, more than any speech laden with fire and steel.

"Follow me!" Fennstrum yelled, pulling the boy closer to him, making him yelp in pain. "We can make the beach!"

A body that he had thought was gone suddenly came back to life. The Knight rose quickly, breathing heavily and looking around in confusion. He ripped off his helmet, gasping for air, and saw the Black Watcher and his wounded companion. Fennstrum saw that it was Captain Isaacs.

"Captain!" He growled. "What happened to the boats? What is the situation? Where is the Company?"

The Captain's mouth opened and closed like a fish, searching for an excuse that wouldn't get him reprimanded. He was about to say something when a mortar round went off behind him. He turned to the source of the noise with a jump and suddenly let out a slight, sad sigh as he slammed over onto his back. As Isaac's landed, his limbs juddering, Fennstrum could see that the Captain's skull case had been forced out through the back of his shaved scalp in thick, white splinters. There was a small red hole, barely larger than a coin, on the ghastly, slack flesh of Isaac's forehead where the demolishing shot had entered.

Fennstrum continued on and a large shape loomed out of the mist in front of him. It was the burning wreck of a lander that had come onto the beach at full speed, beaching itself nearly fifty meters through the shallows just before shore proper. That had also been the moment when a shell hit it dead center and killed every single occupant, reducing them to meat chunks barely larger than a fist. A platoon of Knights was huddled close behind it, barely having any room for all of them. Amongst them were three soldiers that had died of unlucky shots that had penetrated the weakest parts of the lander's hull and went straight through. Bullets spanked loudly off the side.

"Thank you, sir!" The boy spoke for the first time ever since they landed, as they finally made it. "Thank-"

He was cut off when a round went straight through his heart. Blood welled out of his mouth and he dropped onto the receding water. He would lie there for an entire week until someone found his body. Such was the amount, such was the scale, such was the death that it would take months to even find a portion of the bodies. Even longer to identify and ship them home. Many were never be recovered, washed out to sea. Dozens would be found years later, buried under the sand.

The Black Watcher swore loudly and ducked quickly as a spray of lead tore through the air where his head had just been. He crawled on his knees and hands until he was under the full cover of the wreck. There was no room for him so he rolled away one of the dead bodies off to the side. The moment it was out in the open, nearly thirty-seven rounds perforated the corpse until the gunner realized that his target wasn't alive anymore and switched to the soldiers in the open.

"Who's in command? What happened to the boats?" Fennstrum demanded. To say he was in a foul mood was an understatement

One of them, a lieutenant judging by the markings on his pauldrons yelled over the din of battle. "I am, sir. I'm Lieutenant Creed. It was the fog! The pilots couldn't see and we dropped us on a reef of some sorts."

"They've drowned the front end of gakking landing forces!" One of the bellowed with legitimate fury in his voice.

"They were blind… This spray-” The lieutenant began.

“Gak them in the ass for not doing their damn jobs!” The soldier spat.

"Do we have a wind talker that can get me a connection with command?" Fennstrum asked, keeping his head low as more bullets smacked into their cover. The fog was beginning to clear and he could begin to see distant flashes of the defender's positions. Constant small red flowers that rapidly strobed. Tracer lines swept the beach, cutting down any who stayed in the open. More and more men were beginning to crowd against the seemingly only shred of cover on the beach. Unoccupied space was beginning to run out and soldiers were pushing for the smallest shred of safety, swearing colorfully at each other and on the verge of actual fraternal violence for survival. The only thing that stopped them was the steely gaze of the Black Watcher and the heavy pistol in his leather holster.

The wind-talker unstrapped his set and checked it for any damage it might have taken during the landing. Apart from a few dents and scratches, it was operational. He extended the signals wire as far as it could go and unwound the mouth-horn, handing it to Fennstrum. It took a few moments of fidgeting the controls until he gave the thumbs up. The wind-talkers eyes began to glow yellow as he amplified the set's power. He began to chant the Litany of True Transmission. Sweat was beginning to break from the effort of having to break through the massive amounts of interference in the air. He was already at his limits and as Fennstrum placed the set's headset on, he could barely hear what was going on. He knew any harder and the wind-talker would begin bleeding from his orifices before his mind was fried. He would have to pray that it got through.

"This is Black Watcher Fennstrum on the right flank. C Company's leadership is devastated! I repeat, devastated and completely ineffective. Per order 227 it is my authority- what? Hello? Hello? Damn it! Are we back? Per order 227 I have the power to take direct command of C Company, effective immediately. We remain combat effective. I repeat, still, combat effective. Shit! Get your heads down. Down! What the... will continue to carry out orders as instructed and will advance up the beach to secure targets as per instructed. Spread the word to Slyvia and ground commanders."

The windtalker wiped the blood creeping out of his tear-ducts and stowed away the set.

"Thank you," The Black Watcher said sincerely as the wind-talker began to pant loudly from the effort.

He drew his Calvary Saber, feeling it flow with power as he activated the disruption field. Water on the blade sizzled loudly as the extreme heat evaporated them. A weapon whose mechanism's few still had a true and proper understanding of. Only the most elite of the Black Watch were every granted these and Fennstrum had earned it with fire and blood after his first encounter with the cursed Heritor.

"Ready yourselves men! We are moving up and taking their positions under the cover of a bombardment. On my command, run towards to the sea-wall and regroup there. Do not stop, do not fall, do not hesitate, until you have reached the sea-wall. Not even if your comrades fall. Do not bunch up, one target is a waste of ammunition, a group is a shiny medal for them. God is watching, do not disappoint. Let none shirk, for I will find them wanting and find them!" The men looked shocked but they nodded. It do or die. There was also the issue there was a gun at their backs so there could be no retreat. This was where the Black Watchers did their job for the good of everyone. Fennstrum's black uniform and silver skull insignia gave no room for resistance.

"We'll be cut down if we charge!" Creed still protested.

"It's not like we have a choice. They can see that we've crowded here and as I speak they are ranging their heavy guns on our position. We stay, we die! But we have a chance if we advance, even if it's against their guns." There was real steel to the Black Watcher's voice. Creed knew he couldn't disobey an order from Fennstrum, lest he kissed his career and life away. As if to support Fennstrum's argument, a mortar shell fell nearby, showering them all in sand and water. Then another, this time much closer.

Still, he couldn't hold it in. "You're insane, sir. Insane, I tell you. You'll get us killed."

"That's the job, lieutenant. That's the job. If we don't move, we'll certainly be pummeled." He said as a wide smile began to creep across his face. It was a devious smile that made Creed uncomfortable. One might even describe it as unhinged. He stood up and shrugged, lifting his Saber aloft so all could see. "Anyway, lieutenant, do you want to live forever?"

"Men of Haven, let us show them Imperial might! No doubt! No fear" He bellowed.

"For the Throne!" One of the soldiers cried out and left cover, dashing out of cover and right into the open. The gunners of Gatlings spotted the sprinting soldiers and turned, firing wildly. All around the open soldier, bullets crisscrossed the sand but miraculously every single round missed him. Everyone was frozen in sheer amazement before the Lieutenant broke it.

"God has blessed our holy mission. He is indeed watching!" Fennstrum yelled as he charged. "Portus Magni!"

"Follow me!" Said Creed and followed close behind Fennstrum. At the same time, the scattered and mauled soldiers nearby who were cowering behind any patch of safety they could find witnessed the glorious charge. They all cheered, some popping out of cover to try to get a look, only to be picked off by the enemy's marksmen. Leader's shouted commands they joined the push.

They charged or staggered in with them, a ragged line of Knights making landfall on the fog-washed shore, some falling over barricade crosses or halted by coils of wire in their path. All of them had a single target, the shingle, barricaded by twisted wrecks of rusting metal that the foe had dragged up to shore. Just behind him, on a small ridge, were the grey pillboxes of the foe, raining death.

Despite the level of firepower falling onto them, the advanced. The fire-storm fell amongst them and dozens dropped silently or screaming, or in minced pieces. A trooper screamed loudly as he was entangled by rusting rolls of barbed wire, the more he struggled the more the razor edges dug into his skin. Two troopers broke from the advance to try to save their comrade. A heavy-duty mortar shell ended their attempts, erasing them utterly from existence, leaving only a red mist where they should have been. A whizzing piece of shrapnel from the shell struck Fennstrum. He stumbled forward a few steps, nearly falling over, before he righted himself and kept moving, shouting encouragement and rousing statements to the Havenites as they died in droves. Red-hot blood flowed down from the gash in his head. It would certainly scar.

Stampeding over a hundred meters of open ground, they took losses. Men left, right, and center fell under the withering barrage of bullet's that cut into them. Some of the guns had halted, either cooling off their brass barrels, turned red hot by the constant firing, or were completely stunned by the impossible bravado of the Havenites below. No-one could have the courage to do that, surely, they thought. Little did the servants of the Dark Lord know that there was a Black Watcher in their midst. Five soldiers had managed to unfurl their banners during the landing and now held them up and high, displaying upon their cloth the deeds and victories of the various forces of Haven during their long war against the Darkness. Of course, the banner carriers were targeted most of all. Every time one of the carriers would fall, another trooper would pick it up and take their place. They knew they would die if they held it but they did so anyway to carry the honor of Haven.

The front of the advance, mostly made out of the thirty troops that had cowered behind the wreck of the lander. Crashed up against the shingle, pebbles flying from each footfall. They all dropped as low as they could. Bullets slammed against the shingle or the scrap barricade, making whistling sounds as they traveled through the air, most often before a loud, meaty thump that singled a hit. The windtalker, struggling with his heavy gear and already tired efforts, flung himself down before growing so limp that Fennstrum was afraid he had been hit. He rose, groaning loudly and crawling forward towards cover. He had barely dodged death. A bullet had barely scraped his face but he was now missing an ear and yowling like a cat as he dabbed his salty hand at the bloody hunk of cartilage on the side of his head.

Behind him, more and more men were throwing themselves into cover, grabbing what little there was as withering fire came down at them. Fennsturm looked behind him and saw the hundred-or-so open meters of the ground was littered by bodies. Nearly half their advance had been cut down as they moved up. Three hundred bodies sprawled in the sand, torn to shreds or reduced to nothing more than disemboweled body parts.

"Satchel charges!" Creed demanded. "Get me satchel charges and he the pioneers to find the weakest points. Dash! Down! Crawl! Low!" He bellowed, repeating the training chant they had first heard on the training grounds.

"Lieutenant," Fennstrum grabbed the man's shoulder to turn him over to his side. "We have to get off the shingle before they range it in with artillery."

"You don't think I know that, idiot?" He blurted out loud, ducking low as a burst of fire raked the front of the shingle. Two men were hit and were crying out in pain. Medicus personnel kept their heads low as they tended to any and all wounded. Despite the fact they wore clear white helmets and arm-bands to signify they were not armed, the disgusting servants of the Dark Lord seemed to direct their fire more towards them.

"Remember who you're talking to, Lieutenant," Barked Fennstrum before he turned to the wind-talker. "Contact high command again, tell them that we have reached the shingle, attempting breaching."

"Lieutenant, what's our composition? What forces do we have?"

"We've got the mangled remains of K, B, and D Companies. Most of their leaderships dead or they have no idea what's going on."

"How many troopers?"

"Maybe a hundred and twenty or so, I think! More and more are coming on, they'll be no more room."

"Continue to plant the charges. Make sure everyone gets back and gets ducking when those things do off."

Fennstrum turned to the wind-taler. "Tell command I am assuming command of whatever is left of B, K, D Companies. If anyone questions that, tell them they'll have me on their ass and remind them that I am a Black Watcher. We will be advancing again in five minutes once I regroup them."

"Creed, do you know where we are?"

"I'm not sure! Nothing matches the maps or intelligence. I think we still might be at Oynx point but I can't be certain of that."

"Pass it on to the squad leaders, ask them where we are. One of them should know." Fennstrum said.

"I've got the charges, I've got the charges!" A pioneer panted heavily as he collapsed behind cover. He was carrying a heavy brown sack lashed on his back. He unstrapped the bag and opened the bag. Taking out several small canisters, he tossed several out to other soldiers, sharing them like schoolboy shares stolen fruit. Fennstrum caught his charge. "Shove them under the barricade! I've set the charges to-

A whinnying explosive round ricocheted off the top of the barricade's rotting metal and took the pioneer straight in the face, exploding his head. He flew back onto the shingle, full length.

"Shit!" Creed cried. "How long did he say the charges were set to?"

"I don't know!" Fennstrum yelled. He was holding the charge in his hands as if it was it... well, a bomb about to explode.

The worst time for his humor to rear it's ugly again.

Without thinking, Fennstrum stuffed the charges in a space between two rusting hunks of the barricade.

"Down!" He threw himself down and covered his head.

The charges blew.

Fennstrum's thoughts guttered out like a candle flame in a hurricane.

Ramjammer · Apr 30, 2020

It was astonishingly easy to mistake composure for confidence. Sylvia in her dignified bearing possessed those qualities that would make her seem nigh untouchable. Stern, austere, and with the refined wit one would come to expect from a woman of her station. Outwardly, she seemed unflappable. Unshaken by the looming danger that crept ever closer to them all. Eyes affixed firmly on the future. Their future. Did she really have the time and energy to commit to such a mundane emotion like fear?

Perhaps not to the casual observer. Not to anyone that didn't know her. But Nemir knew better. It was the Templar's job was to see that which none could. And to untangle the web of secrets that such a task normally entailed.

Sylvia wasn't quite as mysterious as the general populace liked to presume. Reserved, most certainly. But the number of secrets that the woman kept were no more or less than anyone else. Well, those that she could remember, anyway.

An undeniable cult of personality surrounded the chosen Hero. She was a figure so crouched in myth and speculation, had she not been standing before them all, Nemir was positive that none would even believe her to be real. It was an odd experience. To stand before the Angel of verdant. Untouchable, unapproachable, and bear witness to the smallest fissures in her composure.

They were minor things. The slight pinching of her brows and the subdued tightness that crept into her voice as she spoke. Her back remained ramrod straight while she addressed them all, but the Templar noted the barest slump in her shoulders. Sylvia carried an impressive deal on them. The full brunt of the Kingdom's expectations. Failure was beyond merely not being an option. It was a logical implausibility. Something that did not and could not exist within the same time the as they did. Hers was a terrible, punishing and utterly relentless burden.

"One that she is far too young to be bearing." Nemir thought sullenly.

Had the Templar been given the time and resources, perhaps she'd have been able to mold Sylvia into a Hero more prepared to shoulder her responsibility. She undoubtedly did a well enough job of it as things stood. But a few more years and several more campaigns would have made a world of difference. Those forced into service too young usually died just that way. Nemir cast the barest of glances at Krechetnikov and Marcus.

"Either that or they become nothing more than the title dictates." The Templar mused.

In some fashion, Nemir could not fault the pair for being who and what they were. They two were the breed of men who were molded by their environment in such a way that she couldn't fathom either of them being anything but what they were.

Marcus was a man composed entirely of hard edges. In voice, ideals, and in visage. The Blood Knights had a fearsome reputation in Haven, and Marcus exemplified that unshackled ferocity ten times over.

Krechetnikov like Marcus was a man that by all accounts, Nemir should have gotten on well with. Unyielding fervor, and unshakable convictions tempered by a level of self awareness that kept him from tipping over into the realm of blind fanaticism.

On a base level, she did. The two were the exact caliber of soldier Nemir had mentored, fought beside, and expected from the King's armies. Their eyes, trained ever forward, saw only a future for Haven in which it was free of Demonic taint. But Nemir could not say if either of them saw much farther beyond that.

Marcus was easy to understand in that regard. A man made a monster. Nothing more than a slavering hound of war to be loosed upon the fields of battle whenever the need arose, which was uncomfortably often. The man knew death intimately. He delivered it, sought it, embraced it. Perhaps in the eyes of a Blood Knight there was no actual future to consider. Not when the Church and Black Watchers alike called for their heads. Not when the common folk spoke of them in only hushed whispers, huddled in fearful little groups as if they might be safer that way. The Blood Knights were a burden on the moral fiber of Haven. One that the people longed to finally lay down. Their fate was almost pitiable to Nemir. Almost.

Krechetnikov was a conundrum. Nemir saw in the Black Watcher all the ideals and qualities that would have made him a fine Templar. But he was tainted, having submitted himself fully into the wretched grasp of bureaucracy. The words of the King, no matter how profound or mundane, were held in the highest regard. As one of his Majesty's many, many fists, Krechetnikov lived and breathed for the sake of the Crown and little else.

Nemir might have found it within herself to forgive the Black Watcher's ceaseless politicking had its sort not bled into nearly every facet of Haven. There had been a time, before hers, and her father's, and still before his, that crowns and the heads they rested on could be removed forcibly. The words of the Gods came first, as they rightfully should. A King was only a mortal chess piece sent to govern his own, not by Divine right, but Divine responsibility.

That time had long since passed. The words of the Gods were no longer the backbone of society. They were a convenient supplement to the Laws of man. Scripture, no longer an undeniable truth, but a series of inspiring quotes delivered in those times when courage, grace, and humility were most needed. Like fine silverware, they were brought out on special occasions and no longer considered fit for day to day use.

Nemir didn't doubt Krechetnikov's faith in the Gods. It was as tenable as hers. But the Black Watcher's gaze seemed trained no higher than the King's boots. The eternal glory of the Gods were but a fine addition to a life of service to the Crown.

It was not their fault; she knew that. They were soldiers, and they were at war. Results won wars, and it was mortal men that delivered them. Or sometimes, the undead. Murderers, thieves, rapists. It did not matter who held the sword these days, so long as they pointed the sharp end at the opposing side. Whatever the affront, both tangible and spiritual, Nemir would have to endure them all. Haevana Aeterna. It was the only verse worth singing these days.

"War is nothing but a series of moral concessions." She thought bitterly, only half listening as Pola berated Marcus in the stilted manner of speech that she was known for. It endeared the Templar to the child as much as it left her bemused. She wasn't sure if Pola's manner of speech wasn't sheer ignorance as it was laziness on her part. She got her point across with only half the words another might use after all.

"Be nice to Marcus." She chided gently before affectionately ruffling Pola's hair. Ghan, ever attentive, raised a paw to set it awkwardly on the girl's forehead in a clear mimicry of patting her. As far as the Hyena was aware Pola was a good girl, and good girls got pats.

Nemir audibly snorted as Sylvia laid out her orders. Not out of disdain for the younger woman, merely in amusement at the concept itself.

"Two Zealots and a Hyena climb into a boat. It's like the start of an awful joke." She chuckled. "But we will secure the right flank easily. You can count on it." Nemir offered Banri a cart nod of acknowledgement.

"Lady Oighir's magic never fails. We're in expert hands. So long as you can get us to dry land, we can do the rest."

Her partner wasn't quite so willing to engage in idle chat, as she was. A smart salute and a few short words were all that Krechetnikov offered before he went strutting off. Nemir shrugged, but understood well enough that they did not have the luxury of wasting any more time and promptly took her leave after him.

"I'll do what I can to avoid dying." She said with nary a backward glance. "I expect you to do the same. Ghan, come." The Hyena nearly fell over scrambling after his mistress with a hoarse bark.

Nemir made her way across the deck easily enough. She wasn't exactly hard to spot, and crewmen scurried out of the Templar's path with all the haste they could manage. Nemir was not a harsh woman. But a Templar hot on the heels of a Black Watcher was not the time to be getting caught underfoot.

It came as no surprise then, that the men and women crowded into the transport she'd be sharing with Krechetnikov all looked like they'd rather be anywhere else. The fact that they were potentially staring into the face of their own demise might have also been to blame, but Nemir wasn't one to deny personal responsibility.

She ignored Krechetnikov's nice making with the bald Captain of their group. It was best to let the more Politically inclined to build bridges. Even better to let them write and make the speeches. Nemir didn't consider herself near clever enough to captivate crowds with her words. The Black Watcher was far better suited to the task, and he took the reins with all the surety she expected from him.

His words, carefully chosen and delivered with just the amount of fervor needed to light a fire under the troops It was a meticulously cultivated act, like so many others put on into the hours and moments leading up to battle. A process repeated and refined over countless generations. They were but a small number of players on the stage. A single spoke in the wheel. Doomed to repeat the cycle once more unless they could break it.

The soldiers, most of them, seemed to believe the Black Watcher's words. Their eyes shone with a familiar hatred. She'd seen that look often. On the faces of Haven's sons and daughters. Their mothers and fathers. The Shadow Legion was no more than a scourge on the Kingdom. Like a tide of Locusts it washed over any and everything, all gnashing teeth and ceaseless hunger. The minions of Sartek did not merely take lives. They took souls; they stole hope from the very hearts of the people and left only the icy dread of finality. Hatred kept the people warm. And for most, it was all that was left to them. Krechetnikov was right to invoke that hatred. Bleak as things were, the burning rage that rooted itself in their guts would act as a beacon through the grim times ahead at them.

Nemir hummed softly to herself and left them all to their cheering, instead preoccupying herself with digging through one of the pouches hanging from her belt. Despite her disinterest in speaking to anyone, the Templar still had a job to attend to.

The matters of the soul were best attended to before a battle. She knew that many of them would not be returning home, either on their own two feet or in a casket. Corpses would litter the field and their bones would be forced to bear the indignity of chewed upon by scavengers. Such was the haste of their operation that Nemir would have no time to administer any rites after the dust cleared, provided she survived to do so, anyway.

Finding what she was looking for, Nemir held up a glass jar for inspection. It was ash. Outwardly mundane by all appearances, but it was of great spiritual importance. The work of a Templar extended far beyond the battlefield, past the realm of physical expectation. The Black Watchers also ensured that there were enough Law keepers on hand to keep the peace, freeing Nemir's time to engage in more spiritual activities.

Blessings had to be applied and reapplied near constantly since she'd boarded Essex. Swords, shields, axes and staves. It didn't matter the weapon. Only that they were effused with Holy Light and empowered by righteous intent. She blessed the oils used to maintain the armor, burned incense in near every corner below deck. She scattered sacred flowers and recited every scripture, mantra, and hymn that she knew. It was fortunate that the Essex was a marvel of Naval engineering. Sinking it would prove a titanic effort for the Shadow Legion, and after blessing the damn thing from Prow to Stern, Nemir wasn't sure she could live with the embarrassment of watching it disappear beneath the waves.

The myriad of ceremonies she'd preformed often required burning something. Be it wood, herbs, or incense.This left her with an abundance of ash, sanctified by countless prayers and ceremonies.

She uncorked the jar and stood somewhat unsteadily as the carrier plowed through the choppy waves.

"Heads down. Sword arm raised, fist out." She nearly had to shout to be heard our the constant roar of the carrier's engine and the rush of the wind. To their credit and Nemir's unspoken gratitude, every man and woman aboard heeded her immediately.

'A pinch between your thumb and forefinger. That's all you need.' She could not help but to remind herself internally. She approached the first of the Havenites, smearing ash along the brow of their gleaming helm.

"May you be blessed with clarity and presence of mind in the coming hours." She murmured before dabbing ash along the knuckles of their outstretched gauntlet. "May you be blessed with strength and sureness of hand." She said before moving on to the next.

It was no easy feat squeezing herself between rows of packed soldiers on a rocking boat, but she had no choice but to make due, swaying back and forth to keep her balance while she smeared sacred ash on every head and fist present. She saved Ghan for last, dabbing ash on the Hyena's fuzzy head despite his obvious protests. The large beast jerked his head away and Nemir huffed loudly as she wrestled him into place.

Once she'd managed to anoint Ghan, Nemir righted herself and moved to scattering the remaining ash over the entire transport, allowing the brisk ocean winds to carry away it.

"Holy Light, eternal beacon of the Heavens, in this darkest of times we call to you for aid. Illuminate us, the unworthy, the fearful, the forlorn, that we may bask in your glory. We who march upon the shores of the eternal damned beg that you embrace us here and now, our weary souls offered freely, gladly. We beg humbly that you shield us from the dark machinations of our eternal foes. Our lives, our souls belong only to you. Gracious Light, we meet you with open arms here upon the cusp of eternity. Honor us with your almighty grace. Lux aeterna."

The squadron mirrored her words, quietly. Some holding prayer beads in hand, others small tomes containing scripture and verse. The air was much more subdued. Then it had been earlier. The reminder of their own mortality was one that almost any soldier could endure. Everyone met their maker at some point. Few could reconcile with having to justify how they'd spent their lives to that maker, however. Nemir and all Templars represented this grim fact.

Nemir seated herself next to Krechetnikov, taking care not to jostle the man while Ghan took his place at her feet. The Black Watcher seemed consumed by his own musings, and she left him to them. He'd be wanting for a small measure of silence soon enough as each second drew them closer to the landing point. Even from the transport, Nemir swore that she could feel the thud of artillery fire even from such a distance. The sound was worse up close, harsh enough to make her teeth rattle in her skull.

"The Wind-talkers will have their work cut out for them in this mess." She groused aloud to no one in particular.

A sudden shout from one trooper drew her notice and Nemir craned her neck to look at whatever he was pointing at. The slate gray sky was thick with clouds, allowing no sunlight to get through. But now and then they would become alight with an orange glow. In those brief bursts of light she could make out the winged silhouettes of Dragons. The Drakenreiters were battling the Shadow Legion's Dracomancers for dominance of the skies, and she could not say who was coming out on top.

Something plummeted from the clouds. They watched in dread silence as the large shape hurtled towards the water like a stone tossed from a careless child's hand. Wings unfurled moments before it crashed into the waves and the surrounding soldiers cheered in exultation that one of their own had just barely cheated death.

Ghan's head snapped up, and he stared at the oncoming dragon with pricked ears and bared teeth. Nemir understood that the Hyena knew something she did not. The Templar glanced back at the Dragon, bewilderment overtaking her. The beast's movements seemed forced, and she wondered if it might be injured.

"But why fly towards us? Perhaps its rider is injured as well, and it's seeking allies for help?" She wondered. But Ghan's growling increased in volume, and Nemir could only consider the worst.

"It cannot be. "She whispered.

The Dragon swooped low and fast, tearing over the waves in a furious blur. One transporter, caught in its path, had no time to react, much less maneuver away and it was sent rocking and rolling amidst the waves as if caught in the path of a hurricane.

Several of the other landers opened fire on the rotting husk swooping past, bullets whizzing harmlessly past the undead dragon and its Heretical rider. Spreading its wings like a pair of tattered banners, the dragon slowed its speed to wheel back around, swooping ever lower and sped back towards them. Next to her, Krechetnikov shouted something, but his words were lost in the panicked chorus of voices around her. Yet even over the noise, she could hear it. The deep, sickly inhalation of a beast long past the end of its life. The Templar threw herself down onto the bottom of the boat along with anyone smart enough to do the same. She yanked Ghan down with her by the scruff of the neck just as the dragon exhaled.

She felt, rather than heard, the bellowing roar of the beast, her ears ringing from the noise. The air grew uncomfortably hot, a small and unwelcome consolation that they themselves had not been caught in the blast. Screams sounded all around her, some cut chillingly short as they'd most likely taken the full brunt of the gout of flame the dragon spat.

Nemir hazarded a glance up and found her vison obscured on all sides. The heat of the dragon's flames had called up a cloud of steam, obscuring them from friend and foe alike. The pilot urged their craft on through the cloud, guided only by a base understanding of their location and the will of the Gods. From beyond the fog, Nemir heard the roar of guns and bullets streaked past the blindly charging transports without end.

"Well, it looks like we're going the right way." She said humorlessly.

Their luck, what little they had to begin with, ran out soon after. Another craft that she could just make out sailing next to them was struck head on and Nemir instinctively raised an arm to shield her face despite wearing a helmet. It kept her safe from the rain of metal shrapnel and fire, but the rain of gore that fell on them was not so easily avoided. Something struck their craft with a wet, heavy thud and Nemir looked up in time to see Krechetnikov and another trooper heaving some poor bastard's torso over the side of the boat.

The rain of artillery would not relent. Not for anything. Not with so many fresh targets fumbling blindly in the tide. Their pilot, bless his soul, kept their course steady. But eventuality thrived on routine, and a spray of bullets struck the poor man. Reduced to nothing more than a pile of shredded flesh, he wasn't even mourned as the co-pilot pushed the remains of his corpse overboard and took the wheel.

"And that's why we do the rites beforehand." Nemir thought grimly.

Fear infected the remaining soldiers despite their attempts to remain calm. It was plain on their faces. In their eyes. None had fired a single shot yet, or drew their blades. And yet they were covered in blood, in soot. Death greeted them far sooner than they'd prepared for and was only drawing them ever deeper into its embrace.

She listened dully as Krechetnikov first got a handle on the inexperienced man next to him. The poor boy had been reduced to a gibbering mess in the span of minutes and hung on to the Black Watcher's every word like a lifeline. They all did, and Nemir did not begrudge them what minor comfort they had in the chaos.

The man's joke, though welcome as it lightened the atmosphere somewhat, caused a few troopers to shoot Nemir nervous glances. The Templar did not bother to look at any of them. Instead, staring straight ahead as if fixated on some point on the horizon none of them could see.

"If I die." She began startling the Havenites closet to her. "You all have express permission to start worrying about your odds."

The pilot yelled sharply and Nemir's words were left hanging in the air as they all braced for landing. Krechetnikov rallied the troopers once more. Men in the middle of war needed constant encouragement and simply telling them "Don't die." Would not cut it. At least, that was what Nemir had been told.

She stood slowly, amidst the metallic creak of her armor and slung Raumspalter, wrapped in white cloth, over her shoulder. Ghan scrambled to his feet and Nemir watched as the men ahead of her surged forward into the mist. She could see nothing. All that she could hear was the splashing of water and the dull roar of gunfire in the distance. The men shouted and raced towards the shore, and she followed silently down the ramp behind them.

She stepped off confidently, expecting to find firm sand beneath her feet. Instead, she had a brief flash of awareness before sinking like a stone.

"Too far!" She thought in a wild panic. "We're too far out."

Something inside of her furious and petty, wanted to blame someone else for her predicament. The dead pilot who'd left his less experienced mate in charge of the craft upon his death. The Dracomancer and the loathsome wyrm they called a steed who'd obscured their vision. Krechetnikov, who'd whipped the men into a frenzy and sent them hurtling overboard like a tide of brainless rodents. Nemir wanted to blame someone, had to blame someone.

"But." whispered another voice insider of her. Kinder, calmer. "That won't save your life, will it?" The Templar felt her rage melt away, the stark reality of her situation hitting her head on.

"Come on, you old fool. You can swim." She chided herself. Nemir regained use at her limbs as her shock wore off and desperately paddled towards the surface. Above her, she could make out the murky shapes of soldiers flailing desperately as they hit the water and sank. Burdened as they were by their gear many of them wouldn't resurface and Nemir's chest tightened at the thought.

"Keep moving. You can't save them." The small, baleful voice in her said.

"They'll die if you don't attempt to." The Kinder voice whispered back.

"And they'll die the second that they step foot on that beach." The first voice hissed cruelly.

She was close to the surface. It was the right thing to do. The men who could not swim were as good as dead anyway. Better that they find peace in the Light.

But that little voice kind, and relentless would never grant her a moment of that peace.

"Try anyway."

Nemir stopped paddling and allowed herself to sink once more into the cold darkness. It was impossible to save them all. That was a fact undeniable. But even one was worth the effort.

The Templar clenched a fist and dug deep within herself, internally pleading with the higher power she'd willingly given herself over to. Power surged within her and the dire importance of her task quelled the woman's excitement. There remained no time to consider. Only to act.

The power suffused her and was made manifest. The Light seethed around her clenched fist. It did not warm the soul, too harsh, too unyielding to suffuse the body and mind in a comforting embrace.

It was solid, heavy. Fueled by righteous fervor and unbreakable conviction, the Light was as solid as the woman that called it forth. She snapped her wrist and a gleaming chain shot forth into the shadowy depths. First one, then two. Another three from her other hand and Nemir's lifelines wound themselves around those who she might still save. She tugged, and the chains grew taut as she surged once more towards the surface. Her head broke above the water and the Templar gasped loudly as she sucked air into her burning lungs.

"Find the shore." The gentle voice urged. "Drag them all the way there if you must."

It was the most hellish swim she'd ever endured. Inch by painstaking inch the Templar struggled towards land with her cargo. All around her, troopers did the same. Surfacing into a storm of enemy gunfire. It was, in some way, a boon. It told her which way dry land was, and the Templar struggled mightily against the crashing surf to get there.

She struggled onwards. Even as soldiers were cut down around her. The waves were dyed red with their blood and the gory froth lapped insistently against her armor. Nemir refused to stop. Even for a second. Despite every muscle in her body screaming at the abuse she heaped on them, she kept swimming, and then blessedly as her feet found the beginnings of land, walking. She dragged her cargo a little ways behind her, all of them sputtering and floundering wildly as they breached the shoreline.

Nemir's knees buckled, but she continued to teeter through the waves, shouting hoarsely to be heard over the rattle of gunfire.

"Get up! I spared you the effort of swimming. The least you could do is walk the rest of the way." The little gaggle of troopers struggled to their feet and stumbled after the Templar towards land. In their hunched and exhausted state they avoided enemy fire, bullets zipping harmlessly over their heads. She knew that their fortune would not last forever and Nemir urged them towards land and hopefully cover.

She spotted Ghan, dragging something through the surf and upon her approach she could see that the Hyena had one hapless man's jacket collar in his teeth and was dragging him towards land along with everyone else.

"Good boy. Let's go." She grunted before shooting a look down at the terrified trooper laying in the sand. "You too. On your feet."

Being on land wasn't much better than being in the water and the small group had to dodge not only enemy fire but the bodies of their allies that littered the beach.

"Where the hell is Fennstrum?" She seethed internally. He was at the head of the company when they'd disembarked, meaning he'd have been one of the first to hit the water. The man was smart enough and talented enough to avoid death in every other instance, but talent wasn't enough to stop a hail of bullets.

The mist was no closer to clearing, but a large, hulking shape just ahead caught her eye. She could see movement huddled at its base and just make out the sound of voices shouting to be heard over each other. They were far too desperate to be anything but fellow Havenites and the Templar pushed the survivors she'd gathered towards it.

"You, there!" She shouted, drawing startled looks from nearly everyone huddled around. Nemir wasted no time in ducking behind the remains of the beached carrier, taking up rapidly dwindling space.

Calling their rapidly degrading hideaway cramped was a definite understatement. Six troopers, a surly Templar and a Hyena made for an unwelcome addition. One soldier, in what was undoubtedly a mix of frustration and fear for her own safety, gave Ghan a harsh shove out towards the open air and away from the relative safety of the carrier's hull. The Hyena snarled loudly and snapped at the trooper, causing her to flinch back in fear.

Nemir grabbed the woman by the back of the neck, the metal claws of her gauntlet digging into =unprotected flesh as she dragged her close. The cold, damp metal of the Templar's helmet pressed into the trembling soldier's forehead as she stared her down.

"Pull something like that again, and I'll execute you on the spot." Nemir shoved the other woman away before she could babble out some half assed apology. The Templar huffed irritably and several troopers averted their gazes quickly in a bid to avoid her notice.

Shouting, sharp and irritable, drew her focus and Nemir felt an unknown weight lift off her shoulders as she caught sight of Krechetnikov. He was shouting into a mouth horn while a Wind-talker struggled visibly to maintain a connection beside him. Things were looking dire and only growing more so by the second. A quick head count revealed that they had barely enough hands on deck to form a single company. Their numbers scattered and dwindling under the constant barrage.

It was no way to die.

Indeed, the Black Watcher felt the same way as she. But as ever, the man knew exactly what words would spur the troops to action. Naturally there was the ever present threat of court marshaling and execution that loomed overhead if any were inclined to disagree, but that remained beside the point.

It did not matter however. Whatever words, promises, and lies needed to be thrown out in order to get the troops moving, they'd be offered on a silver platter. And the men would cheer, they would rise, and they would hurl themselves into the maelstrom, screaming bloody murder all the while.

The ragged line dashed across the sands, spreading to avoid making themselves a larger target. Many were cut down in mere moments into the first leg of their sprint. Either too zealous and pulling far ahead of the pack, or too slow to spring to action and being cut down as they fell behind the rest. The firestorm reached a fever pitch as the forces of Sartek rained metal down on their heads. If they were driven by fear, or desperation in the face of the Havenite's mad dash for glory Nemir could not say. Their soldiers died by the dozens and yet there were always still more behind, leaping over the lifeless bodies of the fallen to further close the gap.

In her typical fashion, Nemir brought up the rear of the line. She wasn't as fast as the rest. Certainly nowhere near fast as Ghan, who raced ahead of her to nip at the heels of those who'd lagged behind. The snapping jaws of the Hyena was good at keeping them from faltering in their duty. None of them were keen to test the blade of his mistress either.

Their marathon was but a scant hundred meters. A distance of meaningless proportions. And yet beneath the crippling hail of artillery it seemed to stretch on forever. Their destination, a mass of rusting metal serving as a makeshift barricade for the Legion, seemed so far beyond their reach that it bordered on fantastical. A thing of dreams. That did not stop them. It should have. The reality of their situation, the cloying smell of blood and hot metal. The spray of sand that fell down in an endless rain as missed shots hit the ground. Theirs was a task that was foolish, impossible, utterly inconceivable.

As it had been for those who'd gone before them,

Theirs was also a fate undeniable. The wall of bodies charging towards certain death was but another turn of the wheel. They were no more, but never would they be any less.

They surged towards the shingle, cowering once more behind cover as artillery rained down on their heads. Looking back across the stretch of sand, Nemir could see countless bodies littering the shore. Few, if any, would make it home where they might be laid to rest. Instead, they'd be forced to rot on a foreign shore for the rest of time. Near half of their soldiers had been cut down during the charge and the Templar's mind immediately drifted to one of many tenants beaten into her during her training.

'Kill five, ten, a dozen, a hundred of the bastards for every one of your comrades they cut down. They only take and take. Never asking, never giving. All you are ever to show them is the same courtesy.'

Her mentor, long dead, had been an odd man. Less a Templar and more a surly swordsman. But he was practical and never minced his words in all the years she'd known him. Nemir knew it was best to heed his teachings.

But she could no sooner do such a thing until she had a better idea of what the hell was going on. She'd once again become separated from Krechetnikov, but she knew that the stubborn man wasn't dead. The charge towards the shingle would have fallen apart if anyone had seen him fall. Panic spread like a sickness. And there was no greater cause of panic than watching one's own commanding officer bite the dust.

The Templar kept herself low and pressed close to the shingle as she set off in search of the Black Watcher.

"Just follow the sound of his shouting, like the last time." She chuckled softly.

A hand suddenly gripping the back of her tabard and yanking her down forcibly drew an outraged shout from Nemir, but it was drowned out by the thundering roar of an explosion.

"Breaching charges." Was the only coherent thought she could form amidst the panicked shouts around her. Rusted debris rained down amidst the cloud of dirt and smoke kicked up by the blast.

"Forward. We have to move forward." The Templar repeated this to herself like a mantra as she shakily pushed herself up off of the ground. Her hand clasped the nearest shoulder, presumably that of the man who'd heard the cry for cover before her, and she gazed at him intently from beneath her snarling helm.

"If you survive this, you'll be rewarded." She said sternly as a way of thanks.

The young man seemed shaken, either from the blast or from being the focus of the Templar's attention, it was hard to tell. He merely nodded dumbly, and she grunted before shoving him aside and scrambling off to find Krechetnikov.

"Fennstrum? Fennstrum, you'd better not be dead, you sour faced bastard!" She shouted.

Uasal · May 6, 2020

Banri stood aside Pola gazing out toward the vast battlefield that was the left flank. With every second that passed, another soul was claimed be it ally or foe. Discord was the only word that came to mind when the mage attempted to summerise it all. There was no order to this landing, it was merely a case of rushing forward with the hope the enemy misses you as you attempt to find cover further up the beach. So many were dying and even more were already dead but Banri wasn't the mage she used to be, she couldn't protect everyone while advancing herself. She couldn't take on this army alone, she needed help from her allies which brought Banri to her plan.

Placing her hand on the small draconic girls head and rubbing it softly Banri moved to crouch down to better make eye contact with Pola. Still rubbing Pola's head Banri offered a smile before speaking "Our friends in the sky are fighting really really hard right now. They're fighting both dragons in the sky and taking fire from the fireblasers here on our flank. If we were to help our friends in the sky they could help Sylvia take over the beach and she'd be super duper happy! So happy she might even give you cookies for a week!" Raising from her crouched position Banri moved to pit toward the cloud layer the fireblasers were actively shooting toward "So Pola, your super-secret mission is to take to the skies and help our forces take on the dragons. I can get you up there but I'll need to stay here and push the fireblasers while you help up there. Can you do it?"