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Aside: Perfume & Powder
Here, have an Omake that I planned out around the same time the Alternate Summon Aside was put together and I just inevitably didn't get started until the other day.

Perfume and Powder

He'd learned over the years that digging a shallow grave was much like every other task; if he wanted it done right, it was best to do it himself. He had to admit it was a peaceful task in its own ways. The muted ring of the iron spade driving into the earth, the weak crackling of dried, dead roots snapping as the earth was pulled loose and tossed away. In his youth expecting a nobleman to deal with such frivolous manual labor would have been outright unthinkable. There were people for such tedious and undesirable tasks.

He had not been a good man in those days. It had been a life in pursuit of power and luxurious, hedonistic extravagance at the expense of others. He understood that now. The history of the world, tarnished by the fetid dregs of society taking cruel and unforgiving power. There was no place for people like him here.

Times were too troubling for men with aspirations of supremacy. Too scarce for fattening decadence. Too harsh for those unwilling to settle their own tasks; clawing up a hard-earned life was no easy task.

He tossed the shovel aside like a scrap once the pit was sufficient.

"Throw it in." Issuing commands was in his nature. There was no need to quell a skill in being firm and direct in his statements. He was a Hunter, now. The order was less important than the man giving it; none of the others had his eye for the unnatural. It was steady in its watch as they brought the body forward.

It had taken a number of resources to dispose of properly, this one. Several pounds of salt, good cloth that could have served as bandaging for the sick and injured now tightly woven from head to toe. Chains and a solid lock, not iron made but real, proper steel that he sorely wished could have been reforged into weapons and armor. Blood shed before it was felled. That was the most damning.

"Pitch," he grunted to the others. "Burn it. Salt the earth and burn it. Burn it until nothing remains. We are not doing this again."

He stood watch as packs of salt were mixed into the upturned earth and the body smothered in black tar. Any time for theatrics and fanciful ritual was wholly out of the question. Nightfall was fast approaching; being outside the walls would be… inconvenient, if he wished to understate the inevitable. Mortal injury and death often were, he would admit that.

He was not well versed in weaponizing the unusual and occult, per se, but he was gaining a crude sort of proficiency in it.

There was a sharp clack at his waist as the impromptu pyre ignited. Habit led his hand to the handle of the crude, curved dagger tucked into his belt. The metal was warm even considering the blistering heat of the day earlier. More than that it practically thrummed with life against his fingertips.

Something was unquestionably, inescapably wrong now. He could taste it in the air, bile and copper burning against the back of his throat. The body was burning. Dead. The plan was working. It couldn't be that. Deep breath. Focus. Not the dagger, not right now, the rifle.

"Boss? What's-"

The man was silenced with a gesture as he unslung the longarm from his back. It was worn. Weathered, some people said. He'd never owned one when he attended the courts. Unsubtle, he thought he had called them. Ostentatious and overpriced. Yet here it was, his favored weapon when his iron dagger would not serve.

There was a spark of light at the tree-line and a hideous screech as a shambling, twisted form skittered and scurried into his sight. There were shouts from his men. Panic from some. Loud demands that they finish what they started come hell or high water. They struggled to come to terms with the situation and decide.

He was a man of action now. He did not think or pointlessly deliberate. Time was vital and precious.

He advanced.

---------

Montmorency Margarita La Fère de Montmorency was certain that claiming to be merely incensed by the travesty before her would be an understatement. When she'd been paired with the Zero she'd already been prepared for the worst. Obviously the ritual would fail. The girl who incessantly ruined the classrooms and studies of everyone surrounding her would be dismissed home. Then she would be paired with someone at least respectable at some less convenient time.

The sheer degree of failure, though, that was beyond her expectations. The blast had devastated Vallière's circle- typical of the Zero trying anything- and uprooted even her own, leaving a smoking crater in the middle of the Academy courtyard. Worst of all she was covered in dirt and dust and her meticulous curls were ruined. She was a glance at a mirror away from snapping her wand in two.

The sudden hysteria that erupted, piercing the embarrassing peals of laughter from her classmates, was a small distraction.

There was a warped screech from within the smoke. She would have scoffed at the notion it could have been human if it were a more pleasant occasion. Even then she couldn't imagine what sort of creature would make such a noise. It was a thought interrupted by a twisting lurch within the cloud, a series of sharp snaps that could only be breaking bone. For a fleeting instant her blood ran cold.

It was a misshapen thing covered in blood both fresh and old alike. It was an impossible form that could only have once been a man, but wrenched and forced into an array of unnatural angles, exposed wounds and flesh overgrown with some sort of vile blackness that swam through flesh as a shark through the sea. Even then in its malformed state it moved strangely, more a marionette more than a living being.

Its maw opened inhumanly wide as it awkwardly shambled from the smoke and out of the crater. She could hear the gasps of her fellow students at the sheer number of teeth it had. It looked more like its ribcage had been shattered and driven upward through its throat to give it more of them than it looked it had simply grown more.

This- this had been summoned. It was a brief consolation that the spell had at least functioned in some manner, overshadowed by the terror of seeing the thing that had seemingly answered the call. Such a hideous thing could hardly be what she would consider a viable familiar! It- It must have been what the Zero had summoned, so hideous and misshapen that only her stunted magical abilities would consider it a match!

Colbert had already brought his staff to bear when a flash of fire and a booming crack split the momentary silence. There were no Musketeers at the Academy as far as she had heard, but there couldn't have been one in the crater. The shriek of pain from the beast was nigh deafening. She'd lost track of when she'd lost her balance, of when she had begun her instinctive retreat and tumbled to the ground.

Another crack of flame and lead from the pit revealed the second shadow approaching, followed by a sharp metal clack and a third shot still as the barrel of the curious firearm extended from the cloud and its wielder followed. He was wounded in some clearly superficial manner, else he would not be standing, but surely he bled into the dark clothing he wore.

No doubt Professor Colbert would have rendered the horror wheeling to face its aggressor into an ashen dust were it not interposed with the gentleman. She felt a hand on her arm as her darling Guiche burst forward to withdraw her to safety with the assistance of his own hulking, thick-skinned familiar. It was a welcome beacon of safety as panicked students scrambled for their own around them.

Even Colbert was measuring the battle with a sharp eye and a set jaw from a safer distance. She had never seen any of the instructors in such a state, much less Jean Colbert. She had never seen a man battle a monster like this without the aid of magic before either.

In fact, as her brain caught up to her now that her horror found itself had been delayed, she'd never heard of a monster of this sort at all.

There was a brief click from the dark-haired man's weapon and a sudden frown as the beast lunged. The butt of his firearm sent chips of bone, teeth, and black ichor across the blast-flattened grass and upturned stone. As large and imposing as the creature was it fell lifelessly to the floor much like any beast shocked by sudden and substantial injury. Its time spent writhing on the ground, snapping wildly at the air with its too-many teeth, gave ample time for the man to reach into the small pouch at his belt and withdraw a number of brass-colored cylinders.

He was in the middle of feeding the handful of them into the side of his rifle when the creature thrashed, twisted, and hurtled into a standing position again by flexing its form within its own skin. She blanched at the sight of skin tearing and dark blood oozing from the fresh, self-inflicted wounds. Based on the sound of disgust and the startled squeeze from her favorite fop felt much the same about the sight.

While clearly a powerful weapon, the odd multi-shot rifle's continued use was untenable now that the beast had closed its distance. It was a show of remarkable caution that there was no misfire as the dark-clad man attempted to gather the distance to retarget, only to have the barrel shoved seemingly every which direction but toward the shambling horror scrabbling and clawing at him. The length and weight of the thing seemed to be objectively hampering his self defense.

It would explain why he seemed to let go as soon as the creature had a firm grasp on it. Wood splintered as it was wrenched it from his hands and flung across the courtyard. It struck Guiche's familiar, an affront that garnered little more than a disdainful huff from the hardy creature. If the Flame Snake had been ready for the opening, perhaps he would have been able to step forward in time.

With his stance staggered from the loss of his rifle, the creature pitched itself into the man and buried a sharp, jagged spike of bone extending from its forearm into his chest. Already it was howling and baying at its victory. Its warped animal mind failed to think he would reach for his knife anyways. Crude, dark iron, hammered into shape by an individual that would never deign to call themselves a smith in any form of the world.

A weapon for a desperate man who cared more to kill monsters than his own physical integrity.

He stood upright, suddenly, hand grasping the horror's arm firmly in place as he plunged the wicked, curved blade into its stomach- she thought that was where its stomach would be- in retaliation. In comparison to his own response of pain, hardly a wheezing grunt of a lung being suddenly and wholly punctured, the shambling thing was veritably screaming as red-hued firelight poured from its festering flesh.

It was panicking. She hadn't been sure of it at first; how could you read fear out of something so grotesque?

For having an ostensibly fatal wound he was still astonishingly swift. She hardly had time to register the withdrawal of the blade before it hacked into the spike of bone like a cleaver. There was a sharp snap as bone and sinew alike split apart. A quick tug of the skeletal lance withdrew it from his chest; a quick jab struck it through the beast's eye and staked it to the ground.

She wasn't sure if it was shrieking or if it was screaming. It flailed against the dirt wildly, screeching like some tainted swine fit for slaughter.

"Gun," he wheezed. His hand had drifted to his chest, blood pooling and spattering the ground beneath him with every breath. It was a mortal wound, she had no doubts of that. Even with alchemical assistance the finest healers in Tristain would find little to do but ease the pain. But…

"Gun. Gun! Bring it to me. Now."

He was still standing. She had been watching the fight with such rapt attention she hadn't seen the Professor rotate towards her and Guiche, as the closest students to the immediate conflict. She also hadn't seen him grab hold of the rifle to return to the wounded fighter. He did not hesitate. He hardly looked to Colbert at all as his weapon was returned. He dropped his sadistic dagger, shoved the barrel deep into the beast's chest and pulled the trigger.

There was a final, terrible squeal before the gunshot ruptured its torso and it fell limp with nary a dying twitch.

The silence was not refreshing but it certainly seemed that the battle had concluded. It was an opportune time for the man to throw aside his weapon, stagger aside, and double over with a fit of hacking, blood-saturated coughing. Eventually the exertion of the affair sent the man falling to his knees. Then, one hand numbly fumbling at his chest while the other mustered what little effort it could to keep him upright.

"Call a healer!" It was fortunate that Colbert had managed to keep his head on straight in the ensuing madness. The higher-year students too, even if their particular standard of focused and ready was to be slightly less shocked and alarmed than the rest of them. She could see one- Kirche's friend Tabitha?- rapidly departing as the first to regain their wits. On the opposite side Vallière quietly ushered yet a third figure from the crater, a seemingly shocked and disoriented red-clad peasant of all things.

Were it another time she would no doubt be volleying insults towards the Zero. She could already think of one about summoning some terrible monster and catching some peculiar nobleman and his servant in the process. She simply couldn't muster the effort this time though. She had been the one closest to the beast when it first revealed itself. Now that the shock of it had faded she still felt numb.

"Sir, you-"

"burn it, burn the body before it gets up-"

"Sir, it is dead, and you are dying. We have a healer-"

"you don't understand." The man's bloody hand fumbled weakly, reaching up and grabbing Colbert by the collar to forcibly drag him down to face him. His dark hair was wild from the rush, drops of blood spattered over his face and the dense but neatly-groomed beard. Everything about him seemed to be dark, really. His hair, his clothes, his eyes. Except for one, as he scanned his surroundings. She only met his gaze for an instant

"can't you feel it?"

One eye, iris circled by a piercingly bright silver light. Each breath cast a cold fog as though he bore winter itself in the height of spring.

"it's here, too."

---------

His recovery was nothing less than impossible. She'd heard more than enough from the faculty at the Academy- her own family, even- to know that men did not simply recover from mortal wounds. She and Vallière had even mutually appealed to Headmaster Osmond directly for a second attempt at the summoning ritual only to be struck down with his definitive proof that they had, in fact, succeeded.

Montmorency was well versed in a number of subjects; history, alchemy, and various applications of Water magic to name only a few. Even with her own extensive comprehension of the world she was wildly uncertain about the entire affair. She could have gotten a normal familiar. One that hadn't come dragging a fight with it- something that should have been impossible in the first place- or even just a base animal familiar from an independent summoning ritual. A frog, even! She would have even been fine with just a frog!

… Maybe a poisonous one.

Still, it had been a week. Vallière's familiar- Saito of something or another- had already gained whatever measure of approval the Zero had to offer. As sobering as the idea was, Montmorency still found the whole scenario frustrating. She hadn't even gotten to talk to her apparent familiar. It was still a foreign concept to her, a man that at least seemed human despite his unnatural constitution and rate of recovery as a familiar. She'd wanted a true familiar, not some gruff mercenary bodyguard or combat-ready butler.

If anything she'd spend enough time deliberating over the matter in front of the infirmary door. She was Montmorency Margarita La Fère de Montmorency! How could she possibly hesitate at a time like this? The man may have outright saved her life, and even that was surely understating the matter! She could walk in there, offer him her thanks, and… well, she hadn't quite thought far enough to decide if he would find being a familiar agreeable or not. She wasn't going to find out standing here either.

She hadn't quite mustered the courage to actually knock on the door when he opened it. It was a shock in a variety of ways. Seeing him standing, genuinely of his own volition and without extensive bandaging and a healer at his side… She'd been informed of his rapid recovery but scarcely believed it wasn't exaggerated until now. Even believing that he had recovered at all had been difficult.

Some things hadn't changed. His eye, for one, nor the subtle wisps of fog with each breath he took. But he was alive, perhaps even well, and most certainly not bleeding everywhere. All the factors combined gave him a far more imposing air than she'd readied herself for.

"I have been informed this nation is called Tristain," he began, "is that correct?" He certainly wasn't local; the hint of the accent she didn't recognize said that much. Try not to be offended that this simpleton is bypassing the fundamentals of noble courtesy, he did rescue you from whatever fate that gruesome thing had in mind for you… She nodded her affirmation. There was momentary glimmer of something in his eye as he pursed his lips in quiet contemplation. "Do come in, then. I understand we have matters to discuss." Finally she was invited in. He even held the door politely, befitting a woman of her station.

"Also, I have made tea."

She would admit she had spent a moment questioning what some sort of violent, bizarrely well-groomed vagabond's taste in tea would be. He certainly seemed full of surprises. Recovering from what should have been fatal injuries with nary a sign he was worse for wear. Well-spoken even if the fur cloak and black leather gambeson gave him a threatening, striking appearance. A taste for smooth, hand-prepared tea with a subtle sweetness that left her in a state of significant and extensive contemplation.

"The healer was… pleasant," he stated after taking pause to enjoy the moment. He seemed curiously fond of looking to the window and idling in the breeze. "I have never heard of a nation called Tristain, you know. Nor have I heard of Romalia, or Germania… Perhaps an Albion, once, though undoubtedly not yours." For a moment he looked across to her, before his attention drifted towards the daylight again. "The only Albion I have knowledge of sank into the heart of the world centuries before I was born, and history would have taken register of the surrounding nations of the time. Therefore, I cannot be in the past of my own world."

It was never a statement intended for her to have an answer to. It went beyond a number of basic, polite protocols for a stranger to prattle on as he did without so much as a proper introduction. Still, she held her tongue, in part because of how genuinely delightful the tea was and in another because of the knowledge she was gleaning of his origins. It was information offered freely. Her parents had always spoken highly of those willing to divulge such things without provocation.

"A curious place your world must be, to pull a man from another." He sipped at his tea before a moment's observation led him to add another lump of sugar to his cup. "Even at the height of Kelicho's arcane might there were no mages capable of so much as shifting to another state of reality, much less another entirely. You have something rather impressive here, though I was informed these events are thoroughly unheard of." If nothing else there was a cleverness to match his fighting talents. Even his time recovering had given him opportunity to study his surroundings. "And an academy full of Noble children and heirs, no less. That was a pleasant surprise."

A moment's silence followed. It was a welcome peace after the events of the summoning and the week that had followed. The whole endeavor seemed positively unreal. First being paired with the Zero, to nearly getting killed by what had come out of the ritual, and now having tea with a man who objectively should have been dead. There was no continuation until a sideways glance revealed a thought that had slipped by.

"Ah. Yes, I am very sorry. I have made a careless blunder, I would be greatly obliged if you forgave me. It has been… some time since nobility has been involved with my affairs. We have not even been properly introduced, have we?" It was as though a wave of tension unraveled through her form. Thank the Founder, he was civilized. He'd even recognized the social faux pas without so much as a subtle sound of admonishment or disapproval.

"Indeed, we have not!" She wasn't certain why she was feeling so chipper suddenly. Perhaps it was that damnably wonderful tea. She would have to ask him to make more of that if he was to be her familiar… "As your summoner, I feel obliged to inform you that I am Montmorency Margarita La Fère de Montmorency! It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir..."

There was a far-off look in his eyes as his ostensibly calm features faltered for the briefest of instants. He nodded to himself after a moment, just in time for her to refrain from a gentle ahem to move him along in his thought process. Contrary to the routine beliefs she had propagated amongst her peers she was not particularly patient. Guiche was difficult enough to feign an indifference towards at the best of times. She could feel the twitch in her cheek under her eye at this alleged gentleman's measured pace.

"Meridin," he finally stated. Her brow had furrowed before the thought occurred to her that it would be a gesture best suppressed. A singular name? No family name, no formal title? She was beginning to question his claim to have interacted with noble families when he rose to his feet. "I was called Meridin Alasdair Sen Keir von Karne once. I was the fourth-born son of a tyrant, and a victim of my own frivolous aspirations. It may be that you never grasp the magnitude of what you have done by calling me…"

There was an unusually intense moment as he stood there metering his words carefully. She met his moment of consideration with one of her own. She had to admit it sounded preposterous to think that she had wronged him, but still she braced for an undeserved admonishment.

"… but you have my gratitude for offering me freedom from a broken home. I would be pleased to discuss the terms of our… agreement immediately with you and whichever adviser you deem trustworthy in such a matter."

She felt a grin play across her face. Perhaps being assigned to summon alongside Vallière was looking up after all.
 
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Bronze and Victory
Guiche couldn't help but stare blankly at the monster walking towards them. There was no other response that seemed to suit the situation. Beside him Kenneth seemed to be practically vibrating with condensed fury and terror both; the dwarven warrior visibly restraining himself from charging across the distance and doing… what, exactly?

The young man had recognised the symbols on the golden airship that was descending. It was a vessel of the Holy Church of Romalia; at the very least, none would dare to fake such iconography. Yet this… he couldn't think of it as a man, no… this smiling thing couldn't possibly be from this world.

They idly picked bits of molten metal out of the visibly regenerating flesh of their arm as they sauntered over without a care in the world and look all the more horrifying for it. A good quarter of their armour was just gone; the vanquished monstrosity had ruined it when they'd torn his arm off. There it was, though… new flesh forming beneath a thick haze of golden light that had stopped his men cold at the sight.

"Well met!" A voice split the air between them as the thing called out. It sounded surprisingly human. But Guiche only knew of one man-shaped creature that could survive a fall of that magnitude and wield magic of that calibre. This, though… it definitely wasn't an Elf, that much he could be certain of. Suddenly, the young noble realised that the… 'man' had ceased his approach and seemed to be waiting for something.

"... ah. Ah! Yes, quite. Well met, good sir. I am Guiche de Gramont, Captain of the Undine Knights and senior officer of this training camp. We thank you for your most gracious rescue in our hour of need." Which he was thoroughly relieved to find out this was. If they'd had to fight an enemy who had just taken out something even Kenneth was afraid of…

"Oh, ye can piss right off to the Depths ye misbegotten son of a Zunali goat! Take one more step towards us and ah'll finish what that Ashwalker started!" His familiar pushed him aside and stepped forward; brandishing his axe and visibly gathering power in the way the earth heaved beneath his feet. The man stopped, face still frozen in a grin that had become more of a hateful death-rictus.

"Can I now? Tut-tut, little hero. We're not on Kelicho right now and you probably don't want to start another war over your little… prejudice." The dwarf bristled at the wording of that statement and continued to glare with unbridled hatred… but, after a long pause, lowered his weapon. Then the man turned and bowed his head to Guiche.

"Iulius Caesar Aurelius of the First Divine Legion of Romalia. General Aurelius, in fact. I was dispatched by His Holiness, St. Aegis the Thirty-Second, to assist the nation of Tristain in repelling the heretics of the Reconquista." That was… unexpected. This man was a mage of unsurpassed power and yet even with the increase in strength that came with the transition to this world Guiche was certain that Kenneth had mentioned the overall destructive capabilities of his homeland's mages was… well, frankly, inferior to their Halkegenian counterparts.

It seemed reasonable to expect one to become equivalent in the transition but such a massive growth in strength was… it was terrifying. He half-suspected the man of being a disguised elf or vampire or lich or worse, given his place of origin. However, he also vaguely recalled Kenneth mention the nation of Zunal.

A fiercely xenophobic military power that was still growing in his homeland. Apparently they had been responsible for a number of massacres and atrocities in their expansion thus far but had yet to truly turn the whole world against them. Even so, their distinctly 'pro-human' policies had caused no small amount of friction. Unsurprising that this man might be welcomed here.

Guiche's thoughts of political discourse were derailed by a point of confusion. He pointed into the mid-distance, at the ground, and turned his head to where his familiar was trying to have a staring match with Iulius; the man having fully recovered his body and turned to slowly reforming the remnants of his armour into its previous shape.

"Kenneth… is that meant to happen?" The dwarf looked over to follow the line of Guiche's pointing. Across the plain the grass was slowly turning black and dying. Tendrils of dead vegetation were stretching out from where the Ashwalker had perished and a slowly expanding circle of darkness was following in its wake. To their credit as warriors both Kenneth and Iulius ceased any pretense of conflict.

"... no, lad. It's not." As he said that a pillar of black flames exploded upwards from the cooling wreckage of the Ashwalker. Moments later a hand parted it; the metal was glowing a pale white and the cracks in the surface… he didn't have the right word for it. They seemed to devour the light. The renewed Ashwalker pulled itself free of the inferno and roa-

his father's face ashen and pale brother eyes blank knife in hand montmorency with blood pouring out of her neck kenneth's face empty hole through his heart wardes coughing up blood and falling to the ground saito's spine breaks as he hits the bannister and spins away louise is knocked backwards in a hail of musket fire tabitha falls mutely from her dead dragon and strikes with a sickening cra-

A struck him in the chin and Guiche came back to his senses. He was on his knees; tears streaming thickly down his cheeks and his throat still hurt from the screaming and he was still screa-

Then a second blow the other direction and he again regained his senses. His entire body felt cold and empty, his hands were trembling and Kenneth had to haul him bodily to his feet. The dwarf was shouting something at him but he couldn't be because he'd seen him die

"IGNITE, MY SORROWS!" At the first shout the shimmering cape on his back became an inferno of white light reaching out and encompassing everything.

"BURN, MY REGRETS!" Like a thick fog meeting dawn the unutterable terror melted in the wake of the soothing coldness that came with the cloak.

"SHINE! AURORA REQUIEM!" And then Guiche was free of it. Kenneth was supporting him and he felt so very cold but he had regained his wits. Looking around he could see the men near him affected by the wave of white light pouring off his shoulders but Guiche had no idea how long he could sustain it. The cloak fed off the user in part and even if efficiency was enhanced due to the abundance of magical energy in Halkegenia it still couldn't last forever.

Outside of the circle of light cast by Guiche things were much more chaotic. Many men who'd ceased fleeing when the Ashwalker had been defeated were fleeing so fast they fell over their own legs every few feet. Others had collapsed into helpless piles of sobbing terror. The monster was still howling at the sky and Kenneth was right there with a grim expression. It can't have been more than a few seconds but it had felt…

"Guiche." The dwarf eyed him as he turned to his familiar; ashen-faced and trembling. "Are ye there, lad?" Slowly, the young nobleman nodded. He checked his forearm and found that his shield had gone silent and trembling.

"Derf? Derflinger! Can you hear me?" The animated object's 'mouth' shivered for a moment before twisting into a hateful expression.

"P-partner. Y-yeah. I'm… I'm here. That thing… I don't know what it is, but it's wrong. There's magic in it but it's twisted… tainted, even. And it's very…" His shield seemed to almost snarl and spit out the last word. "Familiar. We have to kill it, Kenneth! Right now! It's killing the very land around it!"

Guiche felt that the former sword was right on the mark. The plants had decayed and turned to a thick black ash; it was nothing like the sort left behind by a fire, though. Rather, there was a cloying smell of decay in the air like a thousand years had passed in an instant.

"We do. Kenneth, can you fight?" The dwarf looked startled, but nodded. "General, are you with us?" He looked to the golden man and was surprised to find terror written across his face. Even so, the older man nodded after a moment. "Alright. With me, then. This artifact can keep the fear it produces at bay for all of us; perhaps it will have an effect upon the creature."

"Guiche, you can't-" Kenneth's protests were cut off by a bright-bladed sword flicking out of its sheathe.

"I can. And I will. These are my men, Kenneth, and you are my familiar. The General has no authority. I am the senior officer here, and you will follow my instructions! I know you wish to protect me but this is a threat that we must face together!" His earnest outburst seemed to startle the dwarf into a brief silence. Off in the distance the howl of terror ended and the newly reborn Ashwalker burst into black flames. Guiche pointed at it.

"That monster is attacking my homeland, Kenneth. It's poisoning the land, it just incapacitated an entire army and I cannot allow it to get any further! So either help me or by Brimir get out of my way!" A thunderous noise drew their gazes to the creature; it had just taken a shaky step but seemed to be growing more confident in its movements with every successive one.

"... aye. Aye. Yer right. Let's go!" Man, dwarf and boy began to run together; all enmity forgotten in the face of their foe. As they drew closer and the thing began to charge Kenneth called out to him. "Guiche, lad! What's the plan?" The young man tightened the grip on his sword and focused on the monster as hard as he could.

"... the heat aura is gone! Kenneth, face it directly! General, keep it off balance! Give me an opening and I'll bring it down! Derf?" The shield creaked acknowledgement. "Think you can handle it then?" There was a laugh from the animated face.

"If I can't then we're all screwed anyway, partner! Let's do it!" A savage grin found its way on to Guiche's face. That's right. This was it. A pure moment of utter stupidity.

"Let's do it!" He pointed his sword forward as he ran. "For Tristain!"

Then Kenneth launched himself forward and slammed feet-first into the face of the monster.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

This particular bar in La Rochelle was known to be home to a less… legitimate breed of airship captains. In the chaos of recent events many had flocked to this place in the hopes of making a good bit of cash; either by signing on as mercenaries for whatever side would have them or by raiding both indiscriminately. All of those who survived the next few days would come to greatly regret that decision.

The doors slammed open and a young man with piercing yellow eyes stepped in. He was wearing a long red hooded coat, sleeveless, and little else; the arms of his white shirt having been torn open to reveal a wide variety of tattoos in multicoloured ink. When he spoke it was with a voice that didn't match his youthful appearance and at a tone that was highly reminiscent of a snarling dog.

"I require passage to Albion at once." There was a general chuckle from the bar and then a man stood up and sauntered towards the glaring young man.

"I think you're in the wrong place, brat. Try the po-" His sentence ended as soon as he came into arm's reach of the young man. A dagger had appeared in his right hand but it was totally clean. Instead, the fingers of his left dripped with flesh blood. Four perfectly circular puncture wounds were now present in the former human's throat.

"Who here has the fastest ship?" The tone of voice didn't change but the atmosphere had. All of them were frozen. Saito looked around with murder in his eyes until one shaken man pointed at the corpse beside him. That got a glare from the young familiar that caused the fully grown man to wet himself. "If you can fly his ship then step forward now. Otherwise, I'll kill you where you are. And if you lie to me I'll kill you slowly." He had several volunteers and, thus, took all of them. The remainder sat stock still in growing puddles of their own urine until the terrifying demon-boy had left.

Ten minutes later an airship departed. It was utterly foolhardy of them to do so given it was in the late evening and the weather was, frankly, awful. But the port's authorities didn't especially care about the movements of pirates.

Saito stood on the prow of the ship as it rose into the clouds. All of the power in his Air Runes gathered at once and he kicked out; seeming to split the sky as a blade of wind divided the water vapour before him and revealed the night sky so the unlucky new captain of the vessel could set a heading. Then he stared out into the black abyss; fist clenched.

During the sprint from the Vallière's estate, a two-day journey by horseback for reasonable people, his fury had chilled to the perfect state of icy hatred that suited his people. He was busy thinking of inventively horrible things he would do to Wardes if even a single hair on Louise's head was harmed. And if, Gods forbid, she wasn't alive when Saito found her?

Then he'd kill them all of the Reconquista. Every last soldier, every Noble, every person who'd ever supported them, sheltered them, condoned them or even so much as had peaceful dealings with them. He would raze the entire damned continent to the ground if he had to. And in the ashes he would plant the true Crimson Banner so that all future generations could learn the most important unspoken law in all of Kelicho.

Do not mess with the Bannermen.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Fighting the Black Ashwalker felt like fighting against death itself. Or at least, Guiche imagined it must be like this. His skin felt cold every time it lashed out and the dark fire that surged forth with every strike seemed to be eroding the very ground around them. The Moonlight pouring off his cloak was keeping it at bay.

Iulius had shrouded himself in the same energy and was launching bolts of golden fire at it whenever he got a chance. He had to dodge, however, as he had turned out to be far more vulnerable to it than Kenneth. An idle strike had transformed his exposed arm into a withered husk and caused his armour to rust away seemingly from the inside out.

The dwarf, meanwhile, was highly resistant to the direct effects of the unholy magic. Guiche was certain it was due to his nature as a partial Elemental. Even then this beast was tenacious. Kenneth ducked under a wild swing and smashed his axe through the thing's arm but it wasn't even slightly inconvenienced. The surface had exploded in a gout of shadowy flames and the limb had remained intact.

Guiche was having to stay back and surge his cloak every time it made a move in his direction. Without Kenneth's insane vitality and Iulius' unfair regeneration magic a direct hit would be fatal to him even if he could negate the fire. It seemed to shy away from the ethereal white light but wasn't actually damaged by it.

Iulius' golden flames seemed to eat at it for a few moments before the black fire devoured it in turn. The curious blue, glass-like energy that Kenneth had used earlier and the General was trying now seemed to be even less effective. As soon as it came close to the Ashwalker it seemed to corrode and shatter in the air.

He flicked out his wand and summoned a pair of his Valkyries to try and distract it somewhat. They didn't even get close before they collapsed into piles of black rust. Guiche could feel the magic he'd invested in them being burnt away as well; a horrific sensation indeed.

"Derf, are you alright?" The shield had been trembling throughout the battle but wasn't otherwise any worse for wear. Still, he could see a faint tarnishing about the edges of it despite his best efforts to keep the dark fire away from him.

"Holding together, partner! I've been through worse than this!" Guiche suspected that this was a lie but he appreciated it all the same. Iulius deflected a wave of black flames with a wall of Moonlight that suddenly sputtered out halfway through; the resulting shockwave smashed him backwards. The Ashwalker immediately leapt at the most vulnerable of the three; Guiche.

Kenneth was there before he could blink; swinging a forceful punch with a shining blue left arm. It shattered in a blast that was near-blinding as soon as it struck the monster's chest; sending dwarf and beast flying backwards and spinning off their feet. Guiche did something that surprised even himself; charging past his downed familiar and flicking his sword outwards.

The pale blade absorbed Moonlight and passed right through both legs as the face-down Ashwalker tried to lift itself up. This time it seemed to stick as the white light fought against the black fire and it collapsed back down. His sword flashed again; carving white lines through the body again and again. All four limbs had been removed now and the thing was writhing beneath him as it fought to shift its form. Whatever change had been made to it had rendered its body less malleable, though, and the cold-burning liquid metal was solidifying under his feet with each slash of white light.

"Guiche, now!" Derf called out his name and he immediately rammed the spiked shield into the body of the Ashwalker; loosing it from his arm right after and pulling back. He focused his mind and willpower then poured both magic and memory into Aurora Reqiuem; it exploded into a pillar of white light as tears ran thickly down his face for the umpteenth time today.

Beneath him the black fire was forced down and Derfflinger was visibly corroding as he devoured the animating force of the Ashwalker. It seemed to be almost at a stalemate; until Guiche shoved his sword through the shield and beast alike. The magic was conducted beautifully; the rose on his hilt becoming a glorious beacon in the evening light as the entire blade shone from within.

Then his footing destabilised and Guiche collapsed into a pile of foul-smelling liquid. There was no more fire, no more sense of dread, no deep chill in his muscles. It was… he pulled himself up and tried to wipe the metallic goo from his body. Then he saw Derfflinger.

The loyal shield was barely there now. His sword was gingerly removed from it with a twinge of guilt and he turned it around to hold in his hands. Even with a good half of it corroded away around the edges the remains managed to look smug at him.

"Heh… we sure showed it; eh, partner?" Suddenly the animated armament broke into a hacking couch that Guiche was pretty certain was a horrible sign. "Oof… that was a nasty tasting one. But we beat it, didn't we?" The young noble looked around. There was a slowly spreading pool of black something that still partially held the shape of the Ashwalker's limbs. For hundreds of metres in every direction the grass was more than dead. It looked like the ground itself had been transformed into a quagmire of rot and decay.

"... yeah, we did." A pained expression crossed his face as he gently touched the jagged edges of his trusty shield. "Derf… I'm sorry. I've treated you rather poorly. With everything that's happened I don't think I really appreciated you…" The shield twisted in a way that perhaps was analogous to shaking its head at him and smiled.

"Don't apologise. We had a good run, and you've shown me some pretty amazing battles! I've not had someone like you to fight with in... well, a long time. Apart from a little lack in polishing you've been a pretty great partner." There was another round of racking coughs from the metal being in his hands and part of it broke off. "Pretty sure this is it, though. That stuff did a number on me. Not sure how much longer I can hold together…"

Guiche felt… torn. This wasn't the first person he'd lost in battle. There had been plenty of bodies today to keep him company in his dreams. But this felt… worse, somehow. Closer to home. He'd known this might happen and chosen the path anyway. Derf had agreed to it, but… from the beginning he had treated the animated shield as more of a tool than a friend.

"Derf... " What could he say? This was just another in the line of his failures. One of many, as of late. The shield's face contorted into a frown.

"Don't you go feeling sorry for me, kid. I'm a few thousand years old and short more than a few screws. Your dwarf told me I might not even survive the reforging and I was still willing to give it a go! Anything to get a little more excitement in my life. This ain't such a bad way to go. Fighting alongside Halkegenia's next great hero." Derf grinned at him and Guiche felt a little better. That's right. They'd… they'd done it, hadn't they? The monster was gone and, Guiche glanced around quickly before allowing his thought to continue, there were no more threats.

… the day was won. Soldiers in the distance seemed to have recovered their senses somewhat and were gathering again. Ragged cheers were going up; celebrating being alive as much as anything else. He could see them moving to pick up the dead and wounded, pull tents back up and do what they could. Heroes. They were heroes, weren't they? He was a hero.

"Hey, Guiche." The voice was a little quieter. "Go check on your familiar, too. I'll be fine a bit longer." That startled him fully out of his funk. Kenneth! He was about to rush off when he remembered he was still holding Derf and, well, didn't want to jostle him. Nor did he want to put him back down in the… whatever that thing had become. So he tossed out one of his last few Vakyries and passed the shield to it to hold while he dashed over to check on the dwarf.

Saying that his familiar was a little worse for wear would be a severe understatement. There were burns on his face and right hand that were very slowly being healed under a golden glow from said hand and his left arm was… well, it was gone. The entire thing had been shattered down its length and rained to the ground in little chunks around them. Kenneth was grinning from ear to ear, though, and was therefore probably going to be fine.

"We did it, lad!" His beard clacked as he laughed happily and Guiche couldn't help but smile in kind. "We killed the damned thing! Ah've no idea what it was, but we… nay, ye killed it! That's me boy!" His glee was infectious and before long they were laughing together. Then Kenneth awkwardly pulled himself to his feet and examined the damage.

"Not too bad, eh? Feel like ah'm short a few years o' me life but that's what this," He tapped his semi-earthen chest, "Is for. Still… bit of a bugger about th' arm. Red made it. Not sure ah kin rig up a replacement on me own, even with Colbert…" The dwarf shrugged. "Well, 'twere definitely worth it. C'mon, lad. We ought t'see if the Zunali scumsucker is still breathing, even if he is a waste of good meat." Guiche nodded; still somewhat startled by the sheer harshness of Kenneth's invective.

Then, quite suddenly, the connection to his Valkyrie snapped. His head likewise spun wildly to face the construct as he readied his weapon expecting to see a new horror to fight. Instead the golem was merely standing still with the remains of a metal shield falling between its fingers and into the muck.

"Oh, no. Derf…" Guiche hurried over, Kenneth trudging along behind him, and knelt in the muck. The damage had finally overcome whatever magic had been keeping the shield intact and it had split in 'twain. He picked up the two largest pieces in either hand with a heavy heart and then bowed his head in sorrow.

Then…

"... partner?" The young man's head snapped up to look at his former Valkyrie. It appeared to be looking back at him and was radiating confusion. "... you know, I thought that we'd been through the weirdest stuff I'd ever seen but this?" The ex-shield held up his, or possibly her, new hand and stared at it with clear disbelief. "This tops everything else."

Guiche was too busy hugging his new old friend to listen to the rest.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

"Something not going according to plan, Viscount?" Wardes tried to ignore the hatred in Louise's voice as they hovered some few miles distant from the city of Londinium. The conquered city of Londinium. Well, it was already conquered before but now the Reconquista's banners had been cast down, or set alight in some cases, to be replaced with the former royalty's.

He wasn't entirely sure how this had happened given the entire Royal Family of Albion was definitely dead. After all, he'd seen to that personally. Their armies had been crushed by the brutal combination of Reconquista's ruthless tactics and the predations of his ultimate master's unholy servant. There shouldn't be anything left to resist.

But he could see the corpses of the rebels piled up outside the gates, a massive stone golem collapsed against one of the walls and what looked like a black cloud above the city turned out to be, upon use of magic to enhance his eyesight, a swarm of literally thousands of birds; of prey or otherwise. Many still had bloody talons and it was fairly easy for him to link that fact with the lack of eyes in many of the corpses.

Then there was the Wolf. For some reason his brain just added the capital letter on its own. The thing was the size of houses, plural, and it had been roaming around the outside of the city when he'd come into view. Now it was looking straight at him and he could have sworn it even met his gaze. From where she was tied to his saddle Louise couldn't see it but she could tell he was dismayed.

"..." He opened his mouth to reply to her but it felt… pointless. Londinium had been his main hope. Taking her to the Reconquista and staying there for as long as he could in order to keep her away from the Mad King. Now, though… there wasn't much of a choice. All of Halkegenia would be converging on Tristain to help repel Zharaqui's insane assault and if they defeated it they'd be coming to Albion next. Saito wouldn't be far behind him either.

Hating himself for the choice he was making Wardes spurred his exhausted steed to turn and head onward. There was another base to the North where he could commandeer an airship. Then he'd head to his last… well, his last point of retreat, he supposed. It was a bit of a stretch to call it either a 'haven', or even 'safe'.

But, as things stood, Gallia was all he had left.
 
Crimson & Slaughter
Captain Alden of the Reconquista airship noted, with some relief, that their target slowed as they approached and even began to fly their own colours; the familiar red flag easing some concerns. Of course nothing remained of the Royalist fleet but with the recent events in the Capitol he'd feared, as they all had, that a secret army was lurking in wait somewhere to sweep them from the isles.

That said army had yet to materialise, leaving the fall of Londinium a terrifying mystery, did nothing to ease the spirits of the rebels. Still, this looked to be a much needed supply run by one of the many airships sufficiently mercenary to be willing to sell to whomever could pay. Right now, that was them.

After an awkward minute or two the two ships were brought alongside and boarding planks lowered peacefully. No armed resistance materialised; indeed, the crew seemed entirely unarmed. Perhaps as a show of good faith, or perhaps they didn't expect much trouble.

"Captain." Alden inclined his head to the leader of the other ship that stepped forward to greet him; noting with a faint sense of trepidation that the man seemed somewhat nervous for some reason. His gaze was fixed firmly on Alden's face and he seemed disinclined to look anywhere else. The crew, too, were similarly oddly tempered; those on deck were few and far between, merely the ones assigned to essential stations, and they all seemed to be pointedly staring away from his own vessel.

A quick glance back at his ship showed all in good order and he frowned before turning to the other man. "Are you alright?" The other captain swallowed heavily and nodded slowly.

"Aye. Just, ah, my first time doing the route, sir." Well, that made some degree of sense. For all he knew he was about to have his supplies taken by force, without payment, and that wouldn't do at all. Alden wasn't a Noble by any stretch of the imagination and he'd joined the Reconquista specifically because of things such as that.

"No fear, my good man. You'll be on your way soon enough. I just need to warn you that the delivery point for goods has altered; some fighting has broken out in Londinium and it's not safe right now." The other man looked quite surprised by this news, and even more nervous if anything.

"Oh aye? What happened? If I may ask?" There was a noticeable bead of sweat dripping down the captain's face as he kept his gaze staunchly fixed on Alden and a growing sense of discomfort was starting to build in the pit of his stomach.

"A few traitorous elements remained. Inciting unrest in the populace." That was the official line, anyway. In reality they'd just lost communication and been unable to penetrate the impossible blizzard surrounding the city. "As soon as the weather clears we'll have it well in hand. Until then you need to go to the encampment in York for delivery."

"Thank you." The voice was soft and harsh, coming from behind him. Alden turned and saw, very briefly, a tableau of horror; all the men on his deck slumped in place with blood pouring from their cleanly necks. An apparition in red stood before him and he saw their hand flicker for a moment before feeling a heat spread across his throat. Then a hand grasped his shirt and casually shoved him into open air.

Fortunately for Alden, he passed out from blood loss before he hit the ground.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
It had taken all of Jakob's willpower to not let his eyes flicker across to the events happening behind the Reconquista ship's captain. The thing that had dragged him here in the first place had sort of just appeared over the side of the other ship and set about methodically murdering every single person on deck.

None of them had seen it coming as he'd leapt silently from kill to kill; cutting nearly all the way through their necks from behind with inhuman speed and delicacy. At this point, Jakob was utterly convinced that the boy was a vampire, an elf, or possibly some unholy fusion of the two. It was the only thing that made sense.

The last thing that he'd done was to go back to the other ship, severing the boarding ramp in the process, and for a moment Jakob thought he was free. That had been foolish of him. Instead, the monster had just torn through the mast with one arm, neat as you like, and then leapt back to their own ship before it had even hit the deck.

"Go." Orders were called out before their master had finished going belowdecks; they swung away from the listing Reconquista ship as the living streamed up to the deck and cried out with confusion and dismay as they discovered the carnage. They had no idea how lucky they were to be merely stranded, floating in the middle of nowhere. With his power surely the boy could have sunk the whole vessel.

As they pulled away Jakob found himself wondering if he'd survive this trip. Things continuing as they had it was likely that they'd all be executed by their cargo at the other end; or upon the return. Maybe they should make a run for it when they dropped him off? Yet even that thought conjured up images of a furious spectre draped in red calmly explaining to his broken self that he'd have died much more quickly had it not been for the imposition of having to track him down.

It was almost a liberating feeling to resign himself to his fate. Perhaps, if all went well, he'd die quickly. Right now that seemed to be all that any of them could hope for.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Agnès carefully finished drawing an outline of the enemy camp under the light of Matilda's wand. The bulk of the enemy forces were arrayed there and the two of them had left with the wolf's blessing to survey the enemy. Although the creature itself seemed near-divine it clearly was confident in dealing with an army only up to a point.

She could see why. The enemy forces looked formidable. There hadn't been all that many guarding Londinium and the nature of their attack had given them a strong advantage. This would be much trickier.

"Do you have everything you need?" Agnès glanced at the green-haired woman and frowned. Her history was a colourful one, and not in a good way, which made her hard to trust. Knowing they were working with the former 'Phantom Thief' Fouquet was a little hard to stomach. Still… Tiffania trusted her, and Agnès owed that girl so much.

"More or less. I wish we could get a more accurate reading on their overall unit compositions but this will have to do." She'd sketched the layout of their fortifications and taken notes as best she could as to the rough number of troops as well as the location of the command posts. If they could blitz them under cover of night and storm, take out the leaders…

Her thoughts were interrupted by spotting something; a ship floating in from the East. The camp had noticed it and a few of the traitor Nobles in their ranks seemed to be readying themselves. Matilda frowned and stared at the ship; she'd been using 'Far Sight' to pass details to Agnès until a moment ago and had yet to deactivate it.

Suddenly the woman turned pale and began to tremble. One hand seemed to move involuntarily to her throat and the other clenched her wand tightly. Agnès stared at the ship with her own inferior sight and tried to see if she could grasp any sign of what had startled the poor woman so. Then Matilda began to laugh.

"It's over. We win. The war is over." That brought Agnès up cold and she looked from Matilda to the ship; still slowly passing by the encampment as it circled around to the landing site. It was flying the Reconquista's flag, but was it not theirs? The older woman was still laughing; sounding almost deranged in her vehemence.

"I don't know what they did… but they're all dead. Every last one. They brought him here." Before Agnès could ask who was being referred to there Matilda pointed at the ship. A figure in a flowing red cloak had just appeared, strangely visible where he stood on the prow of the vessel. Even more visible as they stepped off into open air.

They dropped like a stone; falling like a bloody comet with a ruddy red-brown light suffusing them as they did so. When they hit the ground it shook and the entire plain trembled. Alarms were sounded, men being rallied and roused as the figure walked calmly out of the massive crater left by their landed; apparently unconcerned by the several hundred metre drop to the ground they'd just made. Matilda's laughter had reached an insane fever pitch but, for the first time, Agnès realised she was also crying.

"It's over…"

And then it began.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The soldiers guarding the gate to the camp just had enough time to recognise the figure walking out of the billowing dust as a young man in a red cloak when, suddenly, he was gone. There was a moment of confusion as their minds rebelled against them; struggling to recall what they'd just seen as more than an impression of colour.

Then he landed between them and swung out with the two long knives in each hand; the force of his blows enhanced to the umpteenth degree by the shining white light on top of his hand. Their light armour wasn't even able to keep their heads attached to their bodies for more than a second. He kicked the gate and it shattered inwards; spraying splinters over the startled Reconquista trying to rally inside.

Of the first to die none of them saw how it happened. There was just a flicker of red flashing towards them; an already inhuman level of speed multiplied by the power given to him by the familiar runes into something that defied comprehension. Heads sailed into the air with a single dash and a few leisurely swings. They were the lucky ones.

A Noble stepping out of their tent mid-cast found a dagger sprouting from their eye socket. Jeirazh began his work in earnest then; keeping a weapon in his weaker hand and leaving the stronger one free. Screams finally began to ring out as he charged the largest group of men he could see.

Impossible speed or not he could only kill them so quickly and there were thousands of them. He was not invincible to blade or shot and would, in the end, be brought down by a hundred grazing strikes from a thousand desperate men. Thus, he made sure to attack on two fronts at once.

Before him the first group of five were hit. He struck their armour and punched it inwards; trapping men in their own defensive accoutrements and stealing their breath away. This, however, was ineffective. The other dagger was discarded and swapped for a knuckle duster; the boost was necessary but free hands worked best for what he was going to do to them.

Working to his advantage was the curse of his people. Like this, in his true shape, he was like a wisp of fog both physically and mentally. The further he ranged the more confusion spread as those who had seen him attack their allies and friends desperately tried to hold on to their mental image of him to no avail. If he had been Saito in that moment they would have been able to recall him clearly and bring the full might of their army to bear. As it was…

A company was already under arms and starting to move into battle formation within the encampment; perhaps they'd already been prepared when he attacked. Still, they were his first target. As he moved between the tents he didn't hesitate. A babyfaced soldier boy, barely sixteen if Jeirazh was any judge, weakly lunged at him with sword in hand; the clumsy strike effortlessly dodged and turned against its origin. He left the boy disarmed behind him and screaming at the pain of it.

The next one to clearly see him was armoured more heavily and tried to bring him down with a sweeping mace stroke. Jeirazh sidestepped clearly and then tentatively stomped on the mace where it hit the ground. To his glee the metal sank deeper and held his weight just long enough for him to push off it and kick the soldier in the head as he did so; the momentum sent him hurtling through the air with cloak flared behind him like a gigantic crimson bat. This drew even more attention and the army began to spread the word and converge.

There was the company. One hundred odd men, armed and armoured and with shouting Sergeants trying to bring them into order and rally them against him. He stepped up behind the nearest one in a blur of motion, wrapping his jaw around the man's neck and applying pressure until his teeth met in the middle. The dislodged head went flying into the midst of the horrified troops who, at last, got a good look at him.

He stood taller than any of them right now; blood dripping from his muzzle and eyes glowing yellow in the dark. The claws weren't all that effective as weapons, and didn't register the rune benefits in any case, but they helped complete the package. To these men he looked nothing less than a monster. None of them wanted to act or charge; even as fires began to break out behind him and the screams of those he'd crippled on his way began to finally sound out.

It had been less than a minute since he hit the ground.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Sitting in the forest overlooking the encampment, Agnès and Matilda watched the carnage in silence. It was hard to talk through all the screaming. In the few minutes since the red man had landed he'd cut a visible swath of destruction through the camp; marked by scores of dying men. Mostly dying, in fact. It was hard to see from here but even though he must have injured several hundred by now most of them were still moving.

Crawling, in most cases, admittedly but… even so. The only ones that seemed to die quickly were the Nobles that tried to confront the attacker. Their magic was negated with almost contemptuous ease and they themselves were rendered into no more than meat in an instant.

Just then he repeated a pattern he'd done twice already; shooting into the air and leaping sideways, in total defiance of all logic, to land outside the encampment. Then he circumnavigated it in a bloody blur of pain. The purpose of this was clear to see. Many had already tried to flee; running out through the front gate or the two holes in the wall he'd made with his re-entry the previous two times.

"He's crippling them..." Agnès watched the man solidify beside a fleeing soldier and remove one of his legs at the knee before blurring into invisibility once more. He moved too fast for her eyes to follow reliably and in the moments between sightings she felt disoriented and confused. What was she even watching? That confusion faded quickly when she caught sight of him again but even so…

"No." Matilda wordlessly reached out and offered a scrap of red fabric to Agnès. As soon as she took it she could suddenly remember everything. More than everything, even. The disorientation faded as she was able to recall the man between his moments of visibility. Beyond that, though, she could remember on several occasions spotting him in the past; out of the corner of her eye, watching the Princess from a distance. Yet when she'd thought to confront him she'd broken off in confusion as he slipped out of view and she'd just… forgotten.

"... what is… he?" The last word was tinged with a sort of horror as she stared at Matilda; who obviously knew about this abomination already. To her surprise the older woman laughed again, and then sighed.

"I don't know. He saved me. Snapped my neck, then healed it and brought me back. Convinced my former masters I was dead. Gave me the mission; find Osmond, rescue my sister, and return to him. But I…" At that moment Matilda's face went white as ash while she realised something clearly horrific. Then she swallowed heavily. "I disobeyed… I stayed here, and…"

Agnès saw the former thief trembling like a leaf in the wind and looked back to the camp. It took her a few moments to locate the blur of red that indicated the passage of the man once more. He'd just slammed headlong into a shield wall and broken it with sheer force; scattering the overlapping defence like dandelion seeds and literally leaping from flying body to flying body; kicking them down to the ground with bone-shattering force.

It all happened so fast Agnès felt she must be imagining what she was seeing, or confused. They'd moved as close as they dared to, given the distraction of the devastation being wrought before them, but even so…

"He's not crippling them." Having recovered some semblance of sanity, Matilda finally elaborated on her earlier point. "Their wounds are mortal. They'll all die. Slowly. Painfully. Screaming in agony. Every new scream is a blade thrust at the heart of this force." She pointed at those trying to flee despite the screaming wounded littering the plain around them.

"Look at them run. Even though they can see what will happen. Once enough are routing all at once he'll let them go. They'll never be soldiers again. He's broken them." In the midst of the enemy forces a change occurred. The flickering death that had been whittling through the ranks piece by piece ground to a halt. He stopped and faced the largest group of survivors, head on; standing there and waiting.

They gave it all they had. Crossbows unloaded, javelins and spears were flung, even a handful of spells unleashed. It was all pointless. With a slow, calm stride he gradually crossed the twenty metre distance between him and the line as if it was a casual stroll. Maybe it was, for him. Each incoming shot was deflected, dodged or negated without incident and with what looked like minimal effort.

Finally, as he reached the front lines a massive soldier in heavy plate with a two-handed sword broke ranks and charged him; swinging their blade in a brutal overhead cleave that split the air and then, quite suddenly, stopped. There was silence among the soldiers save for the screams of their dying in that moment as they all stared at the same possibility.

The monster had caught the falling blade between forefinger and thumb. It was held there, not straining at all in either direction no matter how the giant of a man tried to pull or push it. Then there was a loud crack as the surface of the blade splintered. Following by thumb and fingertip coming together; punching through the steel to meet in the middle.

That did it. Whatever semblance of morale might have remained was broken by that display. They all turned and ran every which way, as fast as their legs could carry them. Whereupon Matilda's predictions as to the path of the battle were proven to be terribly, horribly misguided.

For the man had picked up a discarded blade of his own, a two-hander he wielded as if it were a butter knife, and begun to work. Circling around, chasing down the fleeing soldiers and striking them down in twos and threes with massive swings that bisected them horizontally, diagonally and in a few rare cases vertically.

These ones weren't left to bleed slowly to death. It wasn't a rout. It was a massacre. Once he was done nobody was standing on the entire plains except for him. He then began methodically moving to the Nobles that had yet to bleed out; cauterising their wounds and forcibly bringing them into consciousness in the process.

"... we'd best go see him." Matilda stood and began to weakly walk out of the treeline. Agnès agonised, but eventually stood and began to follow her. As they slowly approached he paid them no mind whatsoever; merely crushing the throats of the Nobles he spoke to one by one as they gave him answers he clearly didn't like.

As they picked their way through the bodies Agnès couldn't help but pick up one of the discarded blades. She paused here and there to deliver a swift end to some of the more agonised soldiers in their path; going to all of them would have taken so long they'd like as not be dead by the time she reached them. Even so, she couldn't just leave them…

"Matilda." Now she was closer Agnès could see the inhumanness of what she'd originally taken for a man. It looked more like some painter had tried to draw a wolf walking on two legs and wearing human clothing. However, that image was shattered again as, with a crackle of lightning, the shape changed. Fur vanished, eyes stopped glowing, and proportions altered until an oddly familiar young man stood before them.

"... Jeirazh. Sir. I-" A blood-soaked hand was held up to forestall any further comments from her. Matilda stared at the ground, shaking in place.

"Save it. I will admit, I am blindingly furious right now," A statement which, combined with the sudden murderous tone that contrasted the curiously polite voice and mannerisms, made Agnès freeze up on the spot, "That isn't on you. Whatever you have done, you did it for your family and your people. I can't fault you that." Then his gaze fell on Agnès.

"You must the Princess' former guard, Agnès. I'm sorry to say that you've been charged with the murder of Prince Wales, in absentia, and stripped of your rank as a traitor to the crown." The words stung more than she'd thought they would, but weren't unexpected. After this was all over she'd have to present herself before the Queen and beg for whatever mercy she might get. "But, given your accuser has kidnapped the Royal Playmate and proven himself a traitor I suspect you'll be fine." There was a moment of relief, and then…

"Louise?"

"Miss Vallière?"

Her voice and Matilda's had rung out in unison; her own incredulous and the other woman's horrified. At last the link in her head clicked and Agnès couldn't help but point in horror. "You're! That boy familiar! But… how… you're… what are you?" Saito, that was his name. He seemed to take it in stride and smiled coldly; gesturing for them to follow as he began to walk toward the command tent.

"Viscount Wardes asked for Louise's hand in marriage, then kidnapped her after she got cold feet at the wedding. He also tried to kill myself and her sister in the process. An investigation of a number of private letters I'm sure he thinks he burned will demonstrate that he has been a traitor for… some time." Matilda turned a little red at that and Agnès glowered at her.

"This whole time, you knew?" The older woman seemed a little affronted and looked away.

"Well, we haven't exactly been talking about what happened with you, have we? You rather glossed over it all. And I didn't exactly want to tell my little sister what I've…" She broke off and stared at the ground once more; clearly ashamed. Agnès felt anger cooling slowly. It was hard to hate Matilda when she'd been as much of a pawn in this as anyone, by her own admission.

"Regardless, I thought he'd come here. I only just learned of the fall of Londinium and this encampment. No sign of him… your doing?" Saito looked to Matilda, who perked up and nodded.

"Yes. I found Osmond, per your instructions, and explained the situation. Then we came to collect my sister. However, I found Agnès with her and… something else." Saito looked interested, so she continued. "She seems to have summoned a familiar. A rather tremendous wolf, with extraordinary abilities." That brought him up cold and he turned to look at her.

"A wolf… vast size?" She nodded. "Power over the weather?" Another nod. A look of grim, nasty satisfaction filled his face and he began to smirk. "Of course. Of course. This is… haha… too perfect. Let us go and retrieve your sister and the Headmaster. I know exactly where Wardes must be. And Asilah, in her wisdom, has granted us exactly what we need." The name was unfamiliar to her, but by his tone…

"You're familiar with the creature?" Saito nodded, his expression still fierce, as he looked for thing to carry them. It seems he'd startled off all their cavalry during the fighting.

"Of course. He is the First Wolf of Kelicho. Rejoice, my dears. That creature is the closest you'll ever get to seeing a god in the flesh. And my people have a very cordial relationship with his woman." He began to chuckle then; low and dark and full of malice.

And although Agnès knew they probably deserved whatever was coming to them she couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the fools that had made this man their enemy.
 
Zero and Remorse
Louise de la Vallière truly had to wonder why any person would have built a room like this. She had no idea who could possibly own the castle, given there was little way for her to tell where they had been going from above, but the art and architecture appeared to be Gallian to her unprofessional eye. Still, even with the peculiarities of that nation this was…

The room was evenly divided by a wall of iron bars; her side furnished as if it was a normal room. She had a bed and a dresser and even a window, also thickly barred, as well as a small area with a curtain for privacy. A large table extended across the barrier, bars running right through it, and had a rising slat in the middle. It was unerring to think that Wardes had known to bring her here in particular. Equally so was the very low number of servants they'd seen as he'd dragged her in here; all of them had seemed quite skittish as well.

There had been an overwhelming urge to stab the traitorous bastard on many occasions but reason had stayed her blade. Firstly, Louise knew she would only get one shot in and she was not very confident in her ability to kill her ex-fiancé regardless of how much she despised him right now. Secondly, she had no idea where she was or how far away she was from safety. Lastly…

Sentiment. Perhaps Saito would have chided her for it. But she still had faint memories of Wardes from when she was much younger; where he was smiling and kind and gentle to the girl that didn't really understand what 'engagement' meant. Then more recent times. Sympathy and pain alongside hers. He had helped her so, had he not? Which is why it hurt so very much to remember those dreadful moments at her estate.

It had happened, though. For all that kindness it had happened. Which was why when the door opened and the man himself stepped in with a covered tray she fixed him with stare full of every ounce of venom that she could muster. However, his reaction was not what she had expected. If anything it hurt her heart all the more to see the faint pain in his face before it forced itself back into a dispassionate mask.

"I don't know how long we can stay here before… before I'm called to my master. Enjoy what freedoms you have while they last." Though she deeply wished to scoff openly at his words the better part of her was chilled by them instead. Some weeks ago she might have insulted his choice of words, but now? Louise knew from the tales of Saito and Kenneth that there were worse fates than mere imprisonment. Worse fates than a simple death.

"... so you are a traitor after all. I had rather hoped you had just taken leave of your senses, Viscount, and decided to force an elopement. A far more romantic notion than treason." In that moment she was every bit her mother's daughter. Sitting calm and firm in the face of her adversary and letting him know just how far beneath her he was. Her particular emphasis had him visibly wince and yet he didn't defend himself.

"I brought you soup." After a long silence he finally laid the tray down; uncovering it. There was a steaming bowl there, with appropriate cutlery, and he pushed it up to the middle of the table. As he opened the slat to push it through the bars he continued. "I asked the cook to leave out the onions." Louise stared at the soup and then gave him a withering look.

"I am very nearly a grown woman, Viscount, and for your information I stopped refusing to eat onions when I was nine. Tell me, has your understanding of me always been so shallow?" She stepped forward and shoved the tray roughly back. The bowl upended itself and soup spilled all over the table before starting to trickle on to the floor. Wardes sighed heavily.

"Louise, you really mus-" But whatever she 'must' do was to remain an unknown as a fire lit in her heart and eyes. Louise stormed up to the bars and grasped them; glaring at the man who would have been her husband with naked hatred.

"You shall call me Lady Vallière or you shall not address me at all, Viscount! I for one can think of no remaining bond between us that would allow you such familiarity with me." Then she spun away and stormed off to stare out the window. The weather outside was dreadful but it was a sight more pleasant by far than that man's face.

"Louise…" She heard Wardes sigh when she didn't respond to him. There was a muttered incantation and then a slosh of water as he presumably cleaned up behind her. Then the sound of wood dragging across stone. "Louise. Please. I didn't want… I don't want… you have to understand, I had no choice." She continued to ignore him for some time. When she did spoke the tone was as if she was speaking to the air itself; devoid of any emotion for any potential listeners.

"My mother says that only cowards lack choice in their actions. It doesn't surprise me in the least that you would count amongst their ranks." He didn't seem to have a response for that. Louise remained thus, staring into the dark sky beyond and pointedly not turning around, for as long as she possibly could. Eventually, however, curiosity got the better of her. She turned around.

Wardes wasn't even looking at her. He was staring into the middle distance between them; transfixed by something visible only in the recesses of his mind. She frowned and stepped gingerly closer. There was something off about him. He'd cast his hat aside and even removed his cloak; both were laying on the ground with no further thought given to them. Now that she really looked at him the man looked simply awful.

His eyes were red and puffy, his face pale and gaunt. She hadn't noticed that during the ceremony. In fact, she was sure he'd looked much healthier then. His breathing seemed to be slightly heavy and the way he sat indicated he was favouring his right side. As if some pain suffused his left.

"You're right. I had a choice. Once. I made the wrong one. Now there are no other paths left to me, and I am rapidly losing value to the one I serve. Once he has you…" Wardes let out a mirthless chuckle. "I suspect I will not be long for this world, my dear. He'll have what he needs then. The legendary Void Mage." Then he looked her in the eyes and she felt her stomach drop into the floor.

"You… what do you mean? Explain yourself at once!" Yet the infuriating man merely chuckled and slowly shook his head.

"I'm not surprised you never figured it out. I wouldn't know the details either, but they were explained to me a few years ago. There are two main factors for identifying a Void Mage." He held up his wand, not the swordwand still sheathed at his side, and waved it vaguely. "First; their magic always fails in some way. They definitively have magic, of course, but they cannot perform normal spells of the Four Elements."

Thoughts were churning like waves in Louise's head as he spoke. How had she never thought of it? Well, because it would have seemed heretical to even entertain the notion. Clearly she was magically able, if not entirely capable, but her spells all failed spectacularly. Why? There was no reason. Unless... "And then the second interesting feature. They always summon a humanoid familiar." What? That made no sense… yet, Guiche... of course, their spells had been intertwined. It was a miracle they had succeeded at all.

"Naturally, my master was, heh, ecstatic when I informed him that two individuals at the Tristainian Academy had summoned humanoid familiars." Part way through the sentence Wardes had let out a curious little laugh that Louise couldn't understand. "Process of elimination meant it was you. Congratulations, Louise." The words seemed to ring hollow. She could see it in his eyes; even he didn't mean them.

"... you said you made the wrong choice. What was it?" If nothing else she desperately wanted to understand how the kind and noble man she thought she'd known had really been this pathetic wretch all along.

"It's… no, it's not a long story, exactly. My mother was a magical researcher, much like…" He shook his head and grimaced as she glared at him. "In any case. She fell into madness. Took her own life. I searched and searched, desperately trying to find out why. All I could find in her journal was the last thing she'd written. A symbol scrawled in her own blood." The story had taken a turn that Louise hadn't expected and she couldn't help but feel some pangs of sympathy for him.

That didn't mean she would show it, however. Much as Saito did she kept her gaze impassive and level. An effect slightly ruined by the fact that Wardes seemed unwiling to look at her; instead appearing engrossed in the ceiling as he leaned back and continued with his tale. "I sought that symbol for so long, Louise. Then, by sheer chance, I found it. A tattoo on a woman's hand. A servant to the King of Gallia." There was a faint trembling that seemed to be filling Wardes; a barely perceptible shaking was moving through his body as he spoke in a soft, dispassionate tone.

Louise found a chill running down her spine with no apparent cause. Something about his manner was putting her on edge. "I spoke to him. And he told me what my mother had found. What he had found. There was a calamity coming that would destroy all of Halkegenia. One which he could save me from. Not only me; but also those I cared about. More than that, he…" And here Wardes' mask finally cracked just as emotion choked up his voice. "He showed me her. My mother. Brought her back to life right in front of me. Perfect in every detail. And promised me that nobody I loved would ever need to die again if only I served him."

Such a blandishment… Louise's heat was torn. If someone told her they could save her mother, restore her to the peak of health immediately… would she be able to say no? Yet Wardes' expression was decidedly not that of a man that had received everything he wanted. "I agreed. And that was a mistake. It had all seemed to make sense at first. There was such an elegant plan… control the nations from within. At first it was just information. But then he asked me to act. At first it was fine, until…" Wardes sighed.

"He asked too much of you, didn't he?" Louise had guessed this part already, yet when he nodded she felt an odd sense of relief. Even so, clearly he still referred to that man as his master. Therefore… "What did they do to you, Jean Jacques?" He was very still for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he unbuttoned his shirt halfway and opened it to show her a small black spot on his skin just above the heart.

"It's called 'Blight'. A magical malady of some sort. Held in check entirely by the willpower of my patron. If he releases that will then it will expand. The effect…" Wardes' face went a little green at the memory he had to recall for this. "Is variable. Either I will become a shambling, undead thing that still acts at his behest. Else my flesh will essentially gain the consistency of weathered glass. My own heartbeat would kill me then." The almost innocuous spot did seem to have a strange reflectiveness to its surface and merely seeing it was making her feel rather ill.

Louise's head was reeling from all of this and the sensation didn't help. She stood and stumbled to her bed; collapsing upon it. There she lay for a time as she tried to sort out her thoughts and feelings. Willingly or no, he'd still threatened her family. Still hurt people. Ones she cared for deeply. He'd tried to murder Saito; who, she now knew, was clearly far more than he appeared to be. That was an entirely different breakdown for an entirely different time.

In the end she sat up and faced him with a sort of melancholy resolve. Because in the end there were plenty of reasons for what he had done, yes. But no excuses. None that Louise could accept from him. Not after what he'd done. What he'd been a part of.

"I understand you quite well now, Jean-Jacques. And I do pity you greatly. Nevertheless." She fixed him with her most steely gaze and stared straight into his eyes. There she saw hope and pain and sadness beyond measure. None of which swayed her in the least. "I cannot forgive you any of your actions. You are as much a coward as I first thought you and when your master kills you for delivering me it will be no less than you deserve."

Nothing else passed between them after that. Wardes eventually broke eye contact first and stood; leaving the room in silence. There was nothing for him to say. He must have known he was damned from the moment he chose this path. Even so; he had to have known it could never end well.

And yet, as Louise collapsed upon her bed and cried into her pillow, she still wasn't sure if she had told him the truth.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

"Evidence from the wreckage seems to indicate, your Majesty, that the fleet was not from Albion. It appears to have been Gallian in design; though flying the flag of the Reconquista." General Tréville relayed the results of the report to the war council with a heavy heart. If this news were true it made them all the more fools for it; voices had cried out for war with the Albionese rebels and Germania in equal measure but nobody had foreseen this madness. The Queen pursed her lips with genteel dignity.

"I see. Details for which we have independent verification?" The Royal Messenger himself, Count Mott, nodded and stepped up with a letter in hand. Its gold-leafed wax seal had been broken of course but he still handed it over reverentially; as he did so the Cardinal Mazarin made the holy sign of Brimir across his chest.

"A letter from Pope Aegis Thirty-Two, your Majesty, delivered by General Iulius of the First Divine Legion. The Holy Church of Romalia has declared a Crusade against the Reconquista in light of past events." Some of the older men in the room groaned heavily and more than one person looked outright ashamed. What an embarrassment this was turning out to be. "He verified the findings before returning in his personal vessel to Romalia, where he will be petitioning his Holiness to change targets."

"A small grace, but not a short journey. With their fleet gone Gallia will be at a disadvantage but they may well have unloaded troops before releasing their abominations upon our troops." Lord Dampierre grumbled out his pessimistic opinion but nobody could contradict him here. The Queen did not sigh but still looked to one of the younger men in the room; the Viscount de Aumal and, to his misfortune, current leader of the Manticore Knights.

"How are young Gramont and his familiar doing? I understand they were instrumental in turning the tide of the engagement." Aumal nodded and glanced at his copy of the repot for a moment.

"Indeed, your Majesty. With the help of a local by name of… 'Jeima', he was able to retrieve some mystical artifact that had been concealed in the town of Tarbes for safekeeping by said man's ancestor. It was inordinately effective against these 'Wights'. As for the pair, they are currently at convalesence within the castle" The Queen nodded and looked over to the Maquis de Turenne.

"Henri, that town falls within your lands, does it not?" The man nodded slowly, unsure of his Queen's point. "Are you especially attached to it?" That made the rotund man scoff slightly and shake his head.

"Not particularly, Majesty. I had to be reminded it was mine when we picked the plain for the muster point. You may do with it as you will." The Queen smiled at him and then gestured for Mott to approach.

"Take note, Count. I hereby grant the village of Tarbes and all the associated lands along with the title of Baron to one Jeima of Tarbes. Unless his family line ceases with no heir apparent they shall retain the rights in perpetuity, regardless of magical capability. Are there any objections?" There was some muttering of discontent but nobody could muster up any true complaints. While the man was common as muck to their mind he had still volunteered a truly powerful item that had indeed saved a great many lives.

"I have heard that the young ladies of Tarbes are possessed of a particular beauty. With a title available, perhaps some of your younger sons might like to join the family?" Mott's suggestion brightened their expressions somewhat; a potential title, however minor, for their second or third sons that came with land of its own that didn't need to be carved out of their own estates would be quite welcome. The Queen nodded, evidently pleased, and continued.

"In addition, I shall be granting the title of Chevalier to Guiche de Gramont and Kenneth Manson alike. I realise that the latter is neither a citizen of Tristain nor even human; however, I think we can agree that they deserve this and more." According to the report the dwarf had managed to lose an arm in the fighting, though it was a little unclear on the details for some reason, which was proof enough of his ferocity.

Although there were a few dark spots in the events that had unfolded which needed to unravelled, particularly regarding the execution of allied soldiers mid-combat, by all accounts both had conducted themselves with immense valour. A vast majority of the tainted dragons had been slain by Ser Manson, and Guiche had ended the initial battle almost single-handedly.

"Very good. Now then, it is clear that we are facing an enemy with grave and unholy power at their disposal. I suggest we reach out to Germania for assistance in this conflict." A titter of consternation filled the room but the Queen silenced it with no more than a quirked brow. "Gentlemen. We face a crisis unlike any in the history of our fair Tristain. As it stands, it seems unlikely that whatever plans King Joseph has for us will stop at our borders. He has demonstrated a willingness to attack without provocation and in a time of peace. There is also good reason to believe he is responsible for the death of Prince-"

She was cut off by a vigorous knocking at the door. Frowning, Count Mott went to open it and berate the servant on the other side for their interruption; only to find that it was no servant at all but a Knight red-faced and gasping for air.

"Y-your… Majesty…" He wheezed and stumbled into the room; grabbing on to Mott for support much to the man's clear dismay. "There's… troop… Knights… approaching gate… Albion flag…" The Queen's expression grew even darker at that word and her response practically dripped with malice.

"Ah, the Reconquista shows their hand at last I see. Aumal, take wing with your best men and apprehend these impost-" Then, much to everyone's clear surpise, the Knight cut off his own Queen with a frantic explosion of words.

"No, your Majesty! Their leader is… it's Prince Wales, ma'am!"
 
Despair and Hope
"Ah, you must be Francisque. I've heard a lot about your talents." The King of Gallia was smiling at him. They were standing in a courtyard in the Royal Palace and there was a King shaking his hand. Of an entire country. Who'd brought him here. To do a portrait.

"We have a great many things to talk about." He could hear his father's voice but couldn't see him. The sunset behind the King made for a beautiful image, but the darkness of the light was hard to paint by. For some reason he couldn't move his hand properly; the chains around his wrists were making it difficult.

"Tell me what you see, boy. Does it bother you?" Francisque cast his eyes about the throne room and frowned. Everything seemed normal. The court stood around; blood from their eyes staining their fine garments. Behind the Black King his throne was pulsing like a beating heart.

There was a dagger in his hand and his father was collapsed in front of him and he was smiling as the servants tackled him to the ground and dragged the weapon out of his hand father wasn't moving but he couldn't stop smiling the sun was burning black screams echoing inside him and everything was fine because he'd done as he was told and now they would let him out.

The desert was endless and the sun was burning black. It pulsed with waves of cold heat that beat down on him. There was… somewhere, an exit but he didn't know where it was. None of them did.

Her mother was hurt. That was impossible. Mother was an untouchable giant. Nothing could hurt her. Éléonore's thesis was on the table and they were discussing it over wine. He stared into her eyes and in his she saw the death of worlds.

Cold skin. Clammy and rubbery, no heartbeat underneath. Too strong to get away. Whispers in her ears. Standing in front of a hole in the ground. Being dragged into the mine but slowly walking as she got closer. Seeing the body growing in the depths. The scale of it all makes her mind rebel.

There's a pistol in her hand. She remembers loading it, but doesn't know why she has it. Her mother is here and she's happy but for some reason she feels tired. When she's hugged the gun goes off. Why? She didn't fire. Her mother is invincible and she's dying on the ground.

The cavern was endless and the sun was burning black. She couldn't see the sky but the unlight from above permeated everything. They were trying to find the way out but nobody could remember how they got here. If you don't know where you were how can you escape?

There can be no light in darkness if the darkness is the light.

Warmth flooded Francisque's body. He looked up and saw that there was a desert in this cavern and the cavern was the desert. His arms and face hurt. Blood was caked under his fingernails but there were a pair of soft hands holding his wrists. Gently, tenderly, but somehow holding him back without any force at all.

A warm light was flowing in from an old-fashioned lamp hanging on the end of a wooden staff. It was set in the sand beside him and the one that presumably owned it was holding him. They were hazy, though; hard to see in the darkness that was constantly trying to consume the light.

He tried to talk but his throat burned. They seemed to understand something, though, and leaned forward; wrapping their arms around him. Whoever they were they were soft and warm and Francisque felt tears running down his face; stinging the scratches on his cheeks and moistening the blood caked there.

Then they stood and took the lamp in one hand and his hand in the other. They gently tugged at him and lead him into the darkness with lamp-staff outstretched. No matter how hard the darkness tried it couldn't penetrate the little bubble of warmth that they carried with them.

Another shape welled up in the darkness. His guide planted the staff in the ground again and walked up to it. Now he could get a good look at both of them. The figure on the ground was in much the same state as him; a blonde woman covered in thin cuts and with blood dripping from their fingertips as they had to be stopped, with that same curious lack of force, by the one who'd stopped him as well.

That one was small. Wearing a plain green cloak. An utterly unassuming young lady with a gentle smile that hugged the blonde and delicately pulled her to her feet. For some reason, he wasn't sure why, Francisque stepped over and supported the woman as she tried to stay standing. She quickly clung on to his side they walked arm-in-arm behind the lamp-bearer as she lead them onwards.

They found more in the darkness. An old man weeping and clawing at his chest. A young girl rocking in place and digging her nails into her cheek. An exquisitely dressed boy gnawing on his own hands. Yet for each one she just took their hands and hugged them close. Francisque watched as they stilled and then began to cry. Not with the pain and anguish they'd had moments ago; but with relief.

He and the blonde separated to offer an arm each to the old man. He left her again to help the young girl. The old man took the hand of the young boy. Together they helped each other like she had helped them. Two had become three had become four had become six, had become ten, had become dozens. Each one holding another; walking together at the edges of the light that held back the endless darkness.

Then something changed. They had found another one, an old woman with torn clothes and streaks of blood running down her head, and their guide had helped her up like all the rest. But then she hadn't continued on. Instead she just stood still and stared into the dark. They began to grow restless. Fearful.

Was the dark a little deeper, or was it in their head? That echo in the distance, was it real or imagined? Francisque tried to speak and found that he could, after a fashion, his throat burning as he forced the word out.

"Why…?" The girl who had been leading them turned around. Her smile seemed strangely sad but still so very warm and her eyes glowed with the green of fresh summer grass.

"It's time to leave." Her words caused a ripple amongst the lost. The blonde woman, carrying a trembling little boy in her arms, pushed forward with a stern yet nervous expression.

"We… we don't know how. There's no way out." Yet their guide just shook her head and sighed.

"You all know the way. It's been with you the whole time. You just couldn't face it." Ice poured into Francisque's veins. Face it… what he'd done… how could he? How could any of them? Everyone was shaking in place, but the girl just walked up to them and took the hand of the nearest person then placed it in that of the person beside them.

"You can do it. What happened was never your fault. All of you helped each other stand. Now walk free. People need you, and you need them. It's going to be alright." She smiled then and raised her staff; the light shining brighter and brighter until it was like a new star, a new sun, burning away at the darkness around them.

Just sand. Just a cave. No horrors. No monsters. No terrors in the dark waiting to ensnare them. "There's never been anything here but you. That's why it worked so well. Nobody can hurt you more than you can hurt yourself. Now you have each other, but that's not what you need. Let go. Forgive yourselves. Be free." Tears were flowing freely down a dozen faces. Regret and pain were freely visible every way you looked. And yet..

"... I'm sorry, Father. I'm so sorry."

Francisque tried to sit up but his muscles weren't working properly. Someone was beside him; pushing him down and calling for help. He looked blearily at them and realised it was their family butler. The old man was restraining him with a single hand. How was that possible?

More servants arrived. One of them passed the butler a small jug and he held it up to Francisque's mouth; pouring water into it. Tomas. That was the man's name. Mister Tomas, when they were boys. The water was cool and soothed the fire in his throat. His head felt like it was stuffed with wool.

"Fa… father… how is…?" The old man looked troubled and glanced at the servants. One shook their head slowly and Tomas sighed; taking Francisque's hand and helping him up with a palm at his back.

"Master Armand is not in a good way, sir. I think we'd best take you to him." Two of them took an arm each, the old man to his right and one of the young to his left, and they helped him out of bed. He looked miserable; cuts and scratches on his arms and ragged fingernails. It felt so familiar, and yet not. Like a bad dream…

Adrien and Maximilien were in the room when they arrived. The former was crouched by the bed, head bowed in prayer, and the latter was holding their father's hand. He was speaking softly, yet loud enough for the man in the bed to hear. He didn't look well at all.

"... and they made Guiche a Knight Captain, father. Head of his own Knightly Order, now. He's overtaken me. They repelled an invasion attempt by Gallia, I heard, and we're to go to war soon. I'll have to leave you here. But Adrien will take good care of you and…" His brother trailed off as Tomas cleared his throat. Both brothers turned at once to see their sibling supported between two servants.

Francisque's heart was pounding. He'd done this. Surely they must hate him. He'd… he'd stabbed… and now their father was… Adrien but Maximilien stood and strode over at once. Before he could try and say anything, though, his brother was hugging him and burying his face into Francisque's shoulder.

"We thought we'd lost you, too. I'm so happy you're alright, brother." His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst. Like it was trying to rip its way out of his chest. "It wasn't your fault. You didn't do this. It wasn't your fault." That mantra, repeated in his ear, was like a bucket of cold water. Weakly, Francisque raised his arms and held his brother in turn. They didn't blame him. They didn't hate him. So why did he want to cry so badly?

"Francisque…?" It was a quiet voice. So weak that it broke his heart all over again. Maximilien released him and took over from Tomas; helping his brother desperately hobble over to the bed. Their father had opened his eyes. He was staring blearily at his sons, and a faint smile touched his lips.

"You're all.. no… Guiche is... " The old man's brow furrowed in concentration. "Knight Captain… that fool boy… he didn't need… to do that…" One trembling hand reached out and was placed on Adrien's head. "Your wife… treasure her, boy… if you have a daughter, name her Rosalie. It was… your mother's name."

"Yes, father. Yes. I will, I promise." Adrien cried and bowed his head; wetting the blanket beneath him as he shook and dripped in place. Armand just smiled at him and then reached a hand out for Maximilien. His son took it; dropping to one knee as Tomas came from behind to expertly support Francisque once more.

"My son… be a General, if you wish… but only follow that path for your own sake… not for mine… you should be your own man… not my shadow… no matter what you choose… I will always love you…" Silent tears ran down Maximilien's face and he nodded; unable to speak. Then their father reached for the last son and Francisque reached out; only to hesitate at the last minute.

"Ah… come here, Francisque… it's alright…" He stumbled forward and nearly fell as he went to his knees; bent double and laid down over their father's chest. The old man didn't say anything at first; merely putting a hand on his son's head and gently patting it. Then he gently pushed at Francisque's chin so he looked up.

"I never got you… to paint my portrait… I regret that… I regret… so many things… but not any of you. Francisque… please… don't give up… you must live on… live the life… you dreamed of… with your father's blessing…" He was trembling and he couldn't stop crying. Staring at the pallid visage of their father brought it all back.

Armand reached out and wiped away Francisque's tears with a friendly smile. Though he looked weaker than any of them had ever seen him he also spoke with a quiet resolution and seemed to possess a curious aura of peace. "Tell Guiche… that he can be a hero… tell him that… I will always be proud of him… of all of you… my boys… you are… my finest…"

His hand went still, and then slid down Francisque's cheek. They all sat there in mute incomprehension; staring at the still form of their father where he lay, blankly gazing into space with a smile still on his face. The healer pushed Maximilien aside and put a hand to Armand's neck; shouting at the servants while his sons just sat there.

After a moment Francisque stretched out his hand and gently closed their father's eyes. Beside him Adrien had started openly sobbing. Maximilien was stoic but his sorrow still flowed freely. And yet Francisque had no tears left. His face just ached. He didn't understand.

Thus it was that General Armand de Gramont, known as Armand the Quake, passed away at peace with his life; surrounded by what he considered to be his life's greatest failures and, at the same time, in the company of his finest successes.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

Karine Désirée de la Vallière née Maillart opened her eyes. There was already a startled healer babbling at her as she sat up but she ignored the man and forced herself to her feet. Her legs tried to collapse out from under he but she refused to let them. Instead she grabbed the man by his collar and dragged his face up to hers.

"Where is my daughter?"

Mere minutes later she was in Éléonore's room; checking her condition. The girl had a mild fever but that was pretty much it. They had strapped some padded gloves to her hands, though, and the scratches on her face and neck explained that. She seemed to be fine. Relief flooded Karin and she finally allowed her screaming body to fail; collapsing to her knees and flopping bodily over her daughter's bed.

The door slammed open behind her and then her husband was picking her up and holding her in his arms; immediately moving her to the second bed in the room. Why it was even there Karin had no idea but Pierre put it to good use fussing over her.

"I'm fine, my love, I'm fine. You know it would take more than that to kill me. More importantly, how is Éléonore? How is Louise? How is Cattelya? What's been going on?" His sudden stillness filled her with a terrible dread and she grasped her husband's arm tightly. "Pierre… what has happened to our daughters?" He was shaking, his face a sudden rictus of terror with one hand covering his mouth.

"They… Éléonore hasn't woken up, but… Viscount Wardes, he… he proposed to Louise and… and I agreed. There was a wedding, but she turned him down at the altar…" Karin was startled by every step of that statement past the first bit, but a growing sense of dread told her the worst was yet to come. "Wardes was… he attacked Saito and took Louise. Cattelya was injured in the fighting, but Saito he… he had magic, and he killed the soldiers and healed Cattelya then went after Louise."

Her mind was reeling. The Viscount was… a traitor? And he kidnapped Louise? She just couldn't reconcile the images in her head of a polite, loyal and talented Knight with a traitorous kidnapper. Pierre wouldn't lie to her. Then there was Saito using magic… she'd always suspected he was hiding something but that hadn't been high on the list.

Still. Two daughters injured and one taken from her. That made for three unforgivable offences in her eyes. Karin clenched her fist and began to tremble as anger overcame her. How dare they. How dare they! In all her years, with all the monsters she'd slain, all the enemies she'd made, not a single one had ever attempted to hurt her family because they just knew better.

Her anger was quickly deflated for two reasons however. The first thing to draw the wind out of her sails was that she had no target for this rage. Wardes could have been working for any number of nations or even none at all; for all she knew he was simply so grotesquely enamoured with Louise that kidnapping her was all his own design.

Secondly, though, was that Éléonore was suddenly stirring in her bed and all of Karin's attention was focused on this single fact. She impotently smacked her husband until he let her up and supported her as they quickly moved to their daughter's bedside.

Her eyes flickered open and Pierre, bless him, shouted behind him for the healers to come at once. They were there just in time to support Éléonore as she sat up; pushing pillows in behind her, giving her water and carefully checking her vitals. He'd clearly spared no expense, the wonderful man, and each and every last one was a consummate professional.

"... mother?" Éléonore seemed dazed and confused; staring at her own covered hands as well as her mother's face in turn. She was trembling slightly and fear was gathering in her expression. Before she could ask anything more, though, Karin squirmed out of her husband's grasp and wrapped her arms around her daughter.

"Thank the Founder… I thought we had lost you. I'm so glad you're okay." She could feel the girl shaking in her grip but didn't let her go. Éléonore started crying and her mother shortly followed suit and then Pierre was hugging both of them and he was crying as well and it was all just too much.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry, mother… I didn't want to… I tried to stop myself, but… it was like I was lost in some dark place and I couldn't find my way out…" Karin shook her head and pulled back; wiping her tears on her sleeve and trying to smile for her daughter's sake.

"I know. I know you'd never want to hurt me, my dear. I'm just… I'm so happy you're alright." They held each other for a time until the healers finally pried them apart so they could keep examining Éléonore. Fortunately it seemed that she was in more or less good health aside from being a little malnourished. They also healed the scratches that had been left on her as they hadn't wanted to use magic on her when she was in an unknown state.

Then, with great care, Karin set about finding out exactly what had happened to her daughter before the attack. The more questions she asked the more her blood began to boil once more. All that Éléonore recalled was a servant of the King of Gallia coming to obtain her services for some academic project. That meant one of two things; either the culprit of the attack was the King or else he had allowed her daughter to be attacked under his watch.

Her suspicions, however, pointed towards the former. King Joseph's brother had died under suspicious circumstances, normal enough for Gallia, but then his rule had become unstable and erratic. A number of the upper Nobility had left the Capital for their countryside estates and dark rumours had abounded of strange goings on in his court.

In the light of the Reconquista and the usual agressions from Germania this had all rather fallen by the wayside but now Karin had a horrible feeling. Albion's revolution had come out of nowhere; falling in line behind an apparently charismatic leader and turning the nation against its masters. Only what if that wasn't true? Somehow, her daughter had been made to return home and try to murder her own mother. That stank of magic of the foulest sort.

They laid Éléonore to bed and, at her request, Pierre helped Karin to her study. She fumbled with her desk until she found the hidden button and pressed it; a secret panel concealed in the woodwork opening up to reveal a small black journal. He looked at her with an air of concern as she pulled it out and began to flip through it; reaching for a quill and pen.

"Many of them came when you were injured. I can remember who." She nodded; writing lone names on paper and then starting a fresh sheet. Picking out those whose debts to here were still outstanding, and those who she could stand to owe a debt. Even some of those she normally wouldn't care to be indebted to. This was important.

Over the years Karin had accumulated an awful lot of good will from a lot of dangerous people. Now someone had attacked her nation and her family both. So she was going to call in every favour she could, and then some. Whether or not Gallia was ultimately responsible someone was going to pay for this.

She would make sure of that.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

In this one room were gathered the most skilled Elves in all the Holy Land. They called upon the Spirits' aid and together wove their power into a mighty wall that circled around It. The last and most terrible remnant of the horrors wrought upon their nation by the Wielder of Void.

Even if the thing had long since been neglected their traditions had dictated a watch be maintained over it at all times. When the alarm had been sounded none had truly believed it was real yet all had answered immediately. The alternative was unthinkable. When it had last opened the things that spilled out had nearly ruined them all. They were determined not to let it happen again.

Shaitan's Gate was barely visible behind the web of protective magic they had woven around it. Everyone could tell, however, that they hadn't managed to prevent it from opening. Such a thing was beyond even their combined power. Hopefully they could contain the outbreak long enough for a resistance force to be assembled. Yet even that hope was faint as some indistinct shape from within stepped forward and, to their collective horror, effortlessly rent their barrier asunder.

What stood before the now-closing Gate was not, however, the collection of horrors they had been expecting. These things had the expected number of limbs and faces, the correct amount of hands and torsos. They weren't already twisting to form living weapons nor leaping forward to vivisect the assembled Elves. Instead they seemed to be regarding the gathering fairly dispassionately.

Seven of the group were dressed nearly identically; clad in red cloaks that caused a strange sense of unease to look upon and wearing a wide variety of masks. The one at the front's was adorned with curious red and black markings; they were sheathing a strange dagger that all the Spirits present were recoiling from.

Then one of the Elves noticed the eyes. They were golden, and glowing, and even that description fell short because they looked like they were made of molten, shimmering gold. The light pouring from them left a trail as they turned their head and gazed rather conspicuously at the unseen Spirits all around.

The eighth member of the group was not, however, content to wait. They stood some three full metres tall and were armoured head to toe with heavy plate over their arms and legs and a brigandine with extra lamellar plating over top. Their full helm was embossed with the visage of a snarling wolf but lacked any additional adornment that would have affected its protective value.

They also carried a vast warhammer with a head easily comparable in size to an anvil. This weapon was pointed at the assembled Elves as they barked out something in an unheard-of language, then turned to speak in turn to the golden-eyed one beside them.

"... it's a trick! Capture them, quickly!" One of the Elves broke the tension with a shout and either the group could understand their language or they sensed the sudden hostility in the air because six of seven immediately leapt forward with a speed and ferocity that eclipsed the Elves' own.

Coloured lights glowed on their bodies as they flew forward. Shards of ice formed but then struck invisible barriers and shattered instantly; only Elves capable of using 'Counter' were present in this room as only that magic gave one a fighting chance against their ancient foes. Likewise, bolts of fire or blades of wind were dispersed and spikes of stone bursting out of the ground ceased mid-motion and split apart.

Though the Elves were relieved to see their defences so effective their nerves had still been damaged by the near-instantaneous assault. When they struck back moments later their blows met only empty air; the attackers almost melting away as they retreated to their original positions and seemed to be forming a defensive line. Snarling loudly as they went the giant in front stepped forward and swung their massive weapon with two hands directly at the Elf who had called out.

The attack's force was dissipated by 'Counter', but even the dispersed impact caused the ground to crack around him. It had come out with such speed and force that he'd been utterly unable to react to it; even with the six before the Elves had been caught mid-dodge but this was on an entirely different level. Although his spell was still going strong he'd felt it tremble in response to the impact and that was an utterly unique sensation.

Then the titanic figure raised their maul above their head and roared.

"ZAL-MARIK!"

The head of their weapon had, on the striking surface, the impression of a monstrous face. Its 'eyes' lit up with a golden glow at the strange war cry, and runes inscribed on the sides of the hammers began to shine with an ethereal blue light that formed curious flames about the weapon that seemed to solidify into a glassy shape for only an instant before shattering into an new position.

When they swung it again a clear, beautiful sound rang out in its wake. The Elf did his best to leap backwards and this was all that saved him. That tremendous blow met his protective barrier and something flowed into it. An instant later he felt it split open and the hammer passed neatly through the space his chest had been occupying only a moment before. He was just barely clipped by it at the zenith of the swing and even that sent him flying backwards and spinning sideways with what felt like a shattered shoulder.

Another Elf turned to cry out a command as the titan recovered from their swing yet fell silent when they felt a faint pricking sensation on their neck. Unseen and unstoppable the golden-eyed one had appeared behind them at some point. Their bizarrely-shaped dagger had passed through the 'Counter' field like it wasn't even there and was now pressed against their neck.

Then they began to speak; quietly, calmly, even in a friendly tone as they cycled through language, after language, after language, after language. Everyone had gone very still at this strange attempt at diplomacy. Finally, on the tenth attempt, they spoke in a tongue that the Elf recognised; it belonged to one of the human nations across the sea.

"How about this one?" They swallowed heavily; restraining the urge to nod and instead weakly replying in kind.

"Yes… yes, I understand it. Who are you? What do you want?" The titan shifted forward and everyone tensed; but they only laid their maul down on the ground and pulled their helmet off. Underneath was a furious looking woman with thick red hair that had somehow been contained within the depths of that helm. When she spoke it was with a thick accent that didn't suit the language they were speaking at all and with a barely restrained rage that chilled the blood.

"My name is Red, and I want you damned heathens to tell me one thing!" She reared her head back and roared so loudly that every single Elf within nearly a mile of the Gate could hear it. Even her own companions covered their ears.

"WHERE IS MY HUSBAND!"
 
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Bronze and Resolution
"Thus I suffer love's inconstancies, and when I think the pain is most intense, without thinking, it is gone again." Guiche de Gramont was leaning on parapet of his room's balcony within the Royal Palace of Tristain; reciting with quiet surety a particular poem he remembered from his verses. There was a letter clutched in his hand that he idly stroked the surface of while he stared into the evening.

Behind him the door to the balcony opened, but he paid it no mind; simply continuing to orate into the empty air. "Then when I feel my joys certain, and my hour of greatest delight arrived, I find my pain beginning all over once again." He chuckled then but still didn't turn his head. "I always found it curious as a child that Lady Labé didn't use a traditional rhyming meter. You know, it was one of the first poems I remember encountering that didn't."

"No. I didn't know that." Montmorency moved to stand beside him; joining Guiche in watching the sun slowly descend toward the horizon. "I fear there's a lot I don't know about you, Guiche." There was a certain sorrow to her tone and a vague melancholy on her face. She looked at the black cloak he still wore even now and shivered slightly. He'd taken to wearing it in place of his blue one as of late. Nobody knew what had happened to his hat but he hadn't been seen wearing it since…

"Perhaps it's a misunderstanding. Surely Sir Wardes would never…" She fell silent a moment later, however, on seeing Guiche clench his suddenly at the mention of that name. The letter was crumpled a little more before he could force himself to relax. Those words had felt hollow even to her. It was difficult to reconcile the charming, fatherly manner of their former instructor with the news brought in by Duke Vallière's letter.

"It's funny… a few things make sense, now." There was a wry grimace on Guiche's face as he began to reminisce; mocking his current self for his past self's naivete. "I had wondered about the mission he'd failed; particularly once I learned the details later on. How a mere common soldier could have murdered the Prince of Albion right under his nose. Now I know." He allowed himself a humourless chuckle; still not meeting the gaze of the girl beside him.

"... Guiche?" Now he did, though, because it would be criminal not to grant a lady his full attention when she spoke to him with such a nervous, even fearful, tone. The concern was writ large across her features and though they were somewhat marred by it she remained as beautiful as ever. Which made her next words all the more heartbreaking. "Do you… love me?" He sighed and fought the urge to look away once more. That would have been… unfair.

"I don't know, Monmon. I just… don't know." Her face didn't fall any, as if she had been expecting the answer, but she still broke off her gaze and bit her lip. He reached out and took her hands in his; gently squeezing the delicate fingers with his own. "It is not that I don't care for you, my sweet flower, but… I can only admit now that I first sought you ought for truly shallow, utterly boorish reasons." Guiche looked down with shame; only for Montmorency to pull a hand free and lift his chin for him.

"I understand, Guiche. Believe me I… I understand. I fear I only accepted your advances because you were handsome and outwardly charming. At the time I even knew of your womanising nature and overlooked it because of the sweet words you spoke to me… yet I never truly entrusted you with my heart. I even tried to claim your affections by force…" She trailed off after metaphorically punching him in the gut a few times. Not that the shots weren't well-deserved, of course.

"Truly, we are but strangers, are we not?" His laugh this time was more genuine if still rather self-deprecating. Fueled by the irony of realising the young woman he'd expressed his eternal affection for on multiple occasions was someone he knew as much about as some of the Academy's servants.

"I suppose we are, at that." Poor Monmon seemed a little less amused by the situation than he did. Then again, he'd developed a somewhat unique perspective on the notion of remorse after inheriting the Aurora Requiem. "And the situation somewhat precludes us growing any closer, doesn't it?" The dear girl looked to be on the verge of tears, in fact.

"I fear it does. However…" Guiche allowed one last little indulgence and moved forward to take her into his arms; feeling her trembling against his chest like some timid forest creature. "I told you, didn't I? The cloak uses my laments as fuel for its power. It showed me every moment of regret I had when I wielded it." He pulled back; holding her face between his hands and gently wiping her tears with his thumb. "Whatever it was that we had, just know that I didn't see a single moment of it in the Aurora. You have my word on that."

He returned to holding her after that and, much to his surprise, the moment was allowed to be and pass without interruption. It was a rather unusual moment because of that but he didn't let that stop him from enjoying it. When it was done he patted Montmorency on the shoulder and saw her to the door with a smile on his face.

Once she was gone he returned to the balcony door and resumed his wistful staring without stepping back out just yet. It wasn't that he wasn't going to miss her, because he was, and it certainly wasn't that he didn't like her, because he did, but rather… he'd come to realise more and more, as had she, that they had very little in common except for their mutual attractiveness.

"Do you think I did the right thing, Derf?" In the corner of the room what could have easily been mistaken for an ordinary suit of armour creaked into motion. With Kenneth's arm lost it had fallen to Guiche to make the necessary modifications to his friend's new body. The work hadn't been too hard, actually, since he'd long ago abandoned a lot of the original design of his Valkyries.

After Kenneth had made some scathing points about what their extremely obvious, ah, 'femininity' had said about Guiche's level of maturity he'd toned that down significantly in the first set of changes. His final design still had a sense of grace and delicacy to them whilst still being significantly more functional. For Derf, however, he'd replaced the chest plate and face plate so that the newly animate armour could be a bit more expressive while also feeling a bit more like the masculine self-ideal that he had.

"None of my wielders were ever particularly great with the ladies, partner. Even my maker was pretty unlucky in love." Derflinger shrugged, clattering a little as he did so, and then briefly grinned at the mere fact that he'd been able to express himself as such. "That said… I liked the girl well enough. She was a dab hand at polishing and all. But you're the only one who can make the call, in the end.."

Guiche nodded. Ever since the incident with the love potion he'd had… doubts. With all the events unfolding, however, there hadn't really been time to address it. After following him had put Montmorency into unnecessary danger he'd decided he needed to bite the blade and finally talk to her. There were a few things he wished he'd said already. That he was proud of her for being willing to follow him, for one.

"After this is all over I'll see her again. Perhaps we can have a proper go of it then." The words sounded hollow to him, though. He shook it off and turned with a renewed smile on his face. "Come along. I think I saw riders headed for the gate. Perhaps the delegation from Germania has arrived. Shall we go see?"

"Sounds entertaining, partner." The sentient golem picked up a tabard and slung it over himself; the symbol of House de Gramont proudly emblazoned on the front. There had been, initially, a small amount of fuss regarding his status as a person as well as whether or not he fell under various religious restrictions regarding 'unholy beings' that had all been rather pointedly settled by Guiche forthrightly declaring that Derf was his personal squire and offering to duel anyone who cared to disagree.

For some reason the delivery of that particular ultimatum, distributed as it was by the still-singed and battle-worn Guiche with one-armed familiar standing at his side, had put an end to the debate regarding the potentially heretical nature of his friend.

They strapped their swords on as they left, Guiche's rose-hilted blade at his side and Derf's far less delicate broadsword in a special Kenneth-approved sheathe on his back, and together departed for the entry hall downstairs. As they approached there seemed to be some measure of chaos growing in the halls; people rushing to and fro like headless chickens and screaming calls to action rising. When an actual alarm bell began to ring Guiche finally acted; dashing up to and catching a passing guard by the arm.

"Good heavens, man, you look a fright. Whatever is going on?" The panic-stricken warrior gave Guiche a look of shock that morphed into great relief.

"Sir! I mean, Lord Gramont! The Queen has been murdered, and the Princess has been taken hostage!"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The approaching Prince was received in the throne room by Queen Marianne and Princess Henrietta, along with most of the court and a plethora of guards. He had not come alone but with soldiers of his own; men armed and armoured with the garments of the former Royal Guard of Albion. Yet the party as a whole assented to turn over their arms before entering the palace and were pointedly escorted inside not at musket point.

That is to say, the members of the Princess' Musketeer Corps were keeping up the rear at a respectable distance with weapons loaded but not actively aimed at the backs of the visitors. There was a distinct air of distrust in all those who saw the party; one that the Prince regarded with a dignified aura of melancholy.

When they entered the throne room itself he moved to the appropriate distance, paused and then bowed; first to the Queen and then to the Princess. When he righted himself he looked at her with an expression of pained longing but shortly returned to a polite smile.

"Your Majesty, Wales Tudor, Prince of Albion, and retainers, presents themselves to your court. I humbly beg your forgiveness for not sending word of our arrival." The mannerisms and tone of voice, the way he stood and smiled, they were all… perfect. Marianne quite deliberately did not frown, and glanced at her daughter. Henrietta was similarly tense.

"We forgive you, Prince Wales. We are most relieved to see that the rumours of your demise were greatly exaggerated." For some reason her words caused the Prince to chuckle and slowly shake his head.

"Ah… Unfortunately, Your Majesty, while Viscount Wardes did lie to you about a great many things that was not one of them." A ripple of murmured conversation passed through the few members of court in attendance and every guard suddenly fell into readiness. Wales continued with a calm, crisp voice and a faint smile on his face. "The Viscount struck true, when I least expected it, striking me in the heart with a bolt of lightning."

He looked to Henrietta; pain and concern writ across his features. "Fear not, my beloved, I died instantly; there was no pain. I swear, my last thoughts were of you." That caused as much a stir as the revelation that the Prince was some sort of unholy revenant. The Cardinal in particular was growing quite red in the corner.

"How comest you to be standing before us, then?" The Queen felt her wand concealed in the sleeve of her regal gown and allowed the impropriety of a frown. Whatever foul shade he might be this visage of the Prince had yet to offer any actual hostility towards them.

"Ah, now that is a grand tale, Your Majesty. Firstly, it must be made clear to you that Wardes was acting not on the orders of the Reconquista, but on the orders of King Joseph of Gallia." Harsh mutters of vindication abounded. "Likewise, the Reconquista itself was created entirely by His Majesty. I'm sad to say that there was nothing mystical about it, though. Cromwell was merely given the resources to act on his ambitions. Rather shameful to think we had such an abundance of traitors."

The entire thing was confounding the Queen. Such effort had been put into so perfect a replica that hadn't hesitated to out itself, yet continued to keep up the act so perfectly. "In any case, my remains were secured and returned to King Joseph. Then, when he had need of me, he restored me to life in full." By way of demonstration Prince Wales placed his hand in his mouth and bit down hard on one of his fingers.

When he held it out visible red blood dripped to the floor while the Prince smiled at them. "Though, it seems some of my perspectives have been altered by the process. My former self would have been unwilling to give so obvious a demonstration due to how very painful it was, but I find I'm not especially bothered by pain any more. Likewise, as you may have guessed, I have come here on the instruction of King Joseph to carry his words to you. Perhaps my loyalty to him should give me cause for consternation but it doesn't appear to."

Marianne could see that her daughter was trembling in place. Wales seemed to notice that as well and he looked to her with sadness in his face. "I'm sorry for upsetting you, my dear. Rest assured, my feelings towards you have not changed at all with my new lease on life." That didn't actually help any, and Henrietta began to freely cry. The Prince sighed and looked away.

"Well, since you have come to bring us word of your new master then you may as well do so. Speak your piece, revenant, and then begone from our sight." She had humoured the thing that wore Wales' face for long enough now, and she wouldn't distress her daughter any further.

"Oh, very well. Thus speaks Joseph, Black King of Gallia." Wales drew himself up, eyes shining with the light of a true zealot, and spoke with conviction and zeal that could put a fire and brimstone preacher to shame. "I address you, o Queen, as a fellow ruler of a doomed land. Struggle if you will, surrender if you wish, attack if you must. Be they yours or mine, every death shall merely fuel my victory."

The Prince smiled sadly. "His words, I'm afraid, not mine. Though, given I am technically meant to be King of Albion, I'd have to echo them. No matter what you do at this point, Your Majesty, you can't beat him. He's won. In truth, it was only a matter of waiting in the first place but he grew tired of that."

He shook his head and shrugged with a half-hearted sort of devil-may-care feel. "Germania will go to war because the Emperor's son is delivering a similar message to myself. They'll slaughter our troops and we'll slaughter theirs and it will all add up. And it doesn't matter that I've told you that, either, because you'll go to war too. You have to, don't you? I know well enough how nations work, Your Majesty." The worst bit was that he wasn't wrong.

Founder damn him, but he wasn't wrong. There was too much momentum, too many aggrieved parties, too many bruised egos and worse besides. Word of Tarbes was spreading through the commonfolk and as much as they had grievances with the Nobility, be they legitimate or not, they were already enraged by the idea of some foreign power having tried to kill them off.

The Reconquista had only worked because it had looked internal. If a foreign power had tried to incite a similar rebellion they would have utterly failed. Similarly, the Tristanian public had been infuriated by an attack on their Lords and Ladies. Even if you resented your taxes and hated your master and would gladly see them run down in the street you'd lynch the foreigner that dared to speak against them because it wasn't their place, it was yours.

That was how it worked. Marianne knew that was how it worked. Here and now, though, it was working against her. If what Wales said was true and she tried to stop the war then the people would turn on her just as quickly as the Nobles. Those who hadn't been here, hadn't seen the confidence in his eyes, heard the certainty in his voice, would tell her she was a fool for believing him. Even some of those who had might do the same.

"Especially given my last order, which I must now carry out with some regret." Wales bowed to the Queen and then raised his hand; a dozen muskets and half a dozen wands all pointed at him the moment he did. Yet he paid them no mind and closed his fist. When he did so the six retainers all collapsed at once like puppets with their strings cut and flopped on the floor.

This so shocked those assembled that they weren't able to, for the most part, properly respond to what happened next. Wales held out his palm, a symbol that was painful to gaze upon appearing on its surface, and black fire burned its way into reality. The air itself seemed to bubble and crack and flake away as the evidently unholy energies came into being.

It formed a fist-sized ball in an instant that struck across the distance and struck Queen Marianne in the chest; a ten-centimetre circle of her gown becoming dust and the pale skin underneath blackening as flesh went instantly from healthy to a state of ancient putrefaction.

As the Queen fell forward out of her seat and rolled down the throne's stairs everyone else caught up with the moment. The crack of a dozen muskets sounded in the room and a moment later a dozen bullets caught Wales in the back while two small balls of regular flame, a hand-sized shard of ice, a streak of lightning and a needle of wind struck him in the front. Henrietta stared, frozen with abject horror, as he bounced back and forth between the forces for a moment before collapsing himself.

The only other Water Mage in the room, Princess aside, rushed to the Queen and began to cast spells. Everyone else just milled about in mute, useless shock. Some of the Musketeers moved up to check on the Prince's body when, rather startlingly, the bodies of his retainers started to shake.

Then they rose; skin falling off in black flakes that hit the ground with a sound like raining glass. Flesh bubbled and twisted and curled as well; the bones beneath becoming very distinct as cords of muscle unfurled from their mooring points and realigned themselves. Something like obsidian was growing from their fingers as the bones visible grew and lengthened and fused together.

It wasn't a slow process but the musketeers had long since opened fire to no avail. Their bullets struck true and then nothing much happened at all after that; they seemed incapable of damaging the new bones of the things and their muscles just pushed out the lead balls as they rearranged themselves into something better.

Magic was similarly ineffectual; fire in particular struck and took hold and then turned suddenly white, or possibly black, as it burned itself up from the inside leaving only faint wisps of smoke. In the eyes of each creature was a pitch black flame that burned up the light around it; creating the impression of a yawning void in their sockets.

Then the Prince stood as well and although he seemed quite normal still the unholy sigil that he'd shone before had replaced his right pupil. He turned his gaze upon the nobles one by one and from the matching sigil on his palm gifted each with a rather more bountiful torrent of the same dark fire that had struck down the Queen. They screamed as it burned at their flesh and yet at the same time did not; their skin became taut as year after year was seared out of it.

Each one fell in turn as the musketeers died behind him. His minions had finished configuring themselves and leapt upon them quickly enough. The newly formed blades on their forearms or fingers were tinged with black fire that caused the chainmail armour to rust away with a single slice. Death came with a second; their internal organs being perforated and then immediately festering.

Wales glanced at them for a moment and then nodded to himself; turning back and walking toward the last remaining Noble in the room. Princess excepted, of course. She was pale and frozen in place; petrified with fear. The Noble, to his credit, paid the carnage no mind whatsoever; focusing utterly on the spells he was working on the Queen.

The Prince ignored him; stepping around him and walking up the shorter stairs to Henrietta's seat and holding his hand out to her with a smile. "I'm terribly sorry, my love, but I'm afraid you must come with me now." At last, still trembling, she managed to force out words.

"How… how could you… you profess to love me still and yet you do this? You are not my darling Wales, but some monster that has stolen his body!" Her words seemed to hurt the abomination and its expression twisted for a moment. She shook as it reached for her and stroked her chin. The fingertips were warm, not cold like she had expected, and the touch gentle.

"My dearest Henrietta… before the lake I swore an oath to you in the hope that I would one day have the bravery to take your hand in mine, and show our love to the world." She cried freely as the Prince, her Prince, spoke to her with a soft and delicate tone. "I fear that, in my heart, I knew I never could. I had not the courage, and it was such impropriety… yet, now, I am freed of such concerns. I've no intention of harming you, but I am afraid I must take you now."

He pulled away from her and walked towards one of his monsters which now approached him. Each one had one hand with sharp fingers and another well and truly weaponised; either formed into an obsidian-bone sword or else with knives in place of their fingertips. Yet this one hand a long blade growing from its arm as well; Wales grasped it just above the wrist and calmly snapped it off and flicked it through the air a few times.

"Excellent. Now then, my dear, let us be away." The disarmed monster began to regrow its hand as two walked up and grasped the Princess by her upper arms; dragging her roughly off the throne but taking care not to dig their sharp talons into her skin. As the group walked away he glanced to the last Nobleman, still desperately pouring out every last ounce of his Willpower into his monarch. "Good luck with Her Majesty, Mott. I do hope you can save her!"

The Count didn't even look up as Wales left with his Princess.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Guiche sprinted through the halls, a loud clanking marking Derflinger following his path, with one hand on the sword at his waist and grim determination on his face. That was his only support at present; Kenneth was in town with his smith supplier trying to cobble together a new arm and Saito was still unaccounted for.

The sounds of battle were growing more vigorous as the soldiers attempted to slow the egress of the attackers. They'd started in the throne room and were boldly advancing now towards the castle gates, yet had taken several perplexing detours along the way. It seemed the attacker was Prince Wales, somehow returned from the dead with unholy powers, and a cadre of undead monstrosities that apparently defied description.

Earth-Earth; Flesh of Bronze. He cast as he ran and felt the weight settle into his muscles. Air-Air; Wind Enhancement. The burst of speed negated the slight stiffness to his body and sent him hurtling forward even faster. Fire-Fire; Burning Heart. Now his muscles bulged and bunched up as a warmth settled into his chest. With the addition of his Bronze Body spell he could push the extra muscular enhancement to the limit.

Others were heading through the halls; trying to set up barricades or even collapse corridors to keep the invaders inside. Guiche was not. Lessons from Kenneth and Saito both had been burned into his skull. They'd taken a strange route to leave and were making a massive commotion as they did so. Which meant that they wanted everyone to know where they were.

He came out onto a battlement but didn't cast Levitation on himself; fighting while flying wasn't something he'd practiced enough to feel comfortable with that and cancelling the spell would be finicky at best mid-fight. Derf didn't follow him directly; he leapt up on to the rooftops while his friend jumped down instead. Splitting up was a calculated risk, but an important one. He didn't have to win here, merely buy enough time.

The young Gramont scrambled over the roof and slid down the other side; dropping into a smaller rear courtyard that lead to the Royal Stables. He hit the ground with a thunderous impact that even he felt through his protective spells but was within the limits he'd practiced for. Cobblestones cracked and splintered underneath him and caused the three figures on the far side of the courtyard to pause and turn around.

Two monsters holding the Princess Henrietta limply between them, and one well-dressed young blond man with bloodstains marring his otherwise lovely clothes. Guiche smirked and straightened up; drawing his white-bladed sword and trying not to think about how incredibly cool that must have looked. The young man, who must have been the Prince, casually twirled a longsword that looked like black glass with ease that belied its weight.

"Prince Wales, I presume! I'm afraid I must ask you to immediately surrender and release the Princess." That seemed to amuse the Prince because he chuckled first, and then reared back with a laugh that seemed it would have been more at home coming from an asylum resident. When he looked back down it was with an expression of smug contempt.

"Apologies, young man, but I have no time for you." He flicked his sword up, black flames pouring off of it in a line and surging towards Guiche. There was no way for him to see the Prince's expression when the Aurora Requiem burst into life; a pillar of cold white negating the unholy inferno heading towards him. Yet when he stepped forward he was able to gain satisfaction enough from the look of utter shock on the revenant's face.

Guiche flicked his sword through the aura of his cloak and it came out of it burning pale. Then he raised it to point imperiously at his gobsmacked opponent. "I say again, 'Prince'. Surrender. You have met your match."

Wales' face twisted into a mask of hatred as he chose to decline Guiche's polite request by launching himself forward to attack.
 
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Bronze and Progression
Guiche stepped deftly back; barely escaping the range of ex-Prince Wales' powerful horizontal slash. The strength was well beyond that a normal man might bring to bear and was followed by an arc of black flame that brought with it the horrible and familiar feeling of death and age settling into one's very marrow. Yet even as it approached he burned his regret and forced it back by the force of his tears.

Extensive practice meant that even his vision wasn't significantly impaired. A sort of calm fury had settled into the young Nobleman; the existence of this shade wearing the face of one who had, by all accounts, once been a generous and kindly Prince was offensive enough in its own right without knowing that his presence here was undoubtedly the work of his erstwhile mentor.

This served to focus him into an ice-forged blade that now twisted to the side to avoid an impossible returning stroke. Wales had managed to twist his arm and wrist down and around to cut upwards at an angle. The awful sound of cracking bone and snapping muscle made it clear as to why no mortal could have managed it.

Once more Guiche was only just clear of the scything tip of the obsidian blade. Close enough that the dark fire almost licked against his skin and most likely would have had it not been for the aura of Moonlight surrounding him. Rather than take advantage of the Prince's self-damaging stroke Guiche instead retreated back a few steps; eying the limp arm with an air of skepticism.

To nobody's surprise Wales smirked and twisted his arm again. There was another horrible crack and the material of his sleeve bulged as the muscles repaired themselves in a matter of moments. He flourished his sword, black flames trailing after it, and began to slowly circle his opponent. Behind him his other monsters were retreating with the Princess in hand; clearly realising their master would have to take some time for this. Or perhaps he had given them an order somehow, Guiche couldn't know which.

"Impressive. You've survived three more strikes than anyone else thus far. Well, except for Henrietta's mother, of course. Though, she may yet survive. My King didn't say I had to kill her, fortunately." The smile that was on the monster's face was all the more terrible for how genuine it seemed it might be. "I'm afraid, however, you're just outmatched here, boy. I could have beaten a dozen of you before my transformation."

This time as he lunged forward and stabbed out Guiche was just able to turn the blow aside in time; the force of deflecting the strike causing his bones to reverberate. Shock danced across his face for a moment before the cold mask of the Aurora returned. Once again he declined to press forward; giving way to the Prince instead as Wales' continued the momentum and spun to cleave through the air that his foe had occupied merely an instant ago.

The ability to near-immediately turn his strokes back, even at the cost of his own joints and muscles, was terribly unfair. Each time he did it there was that horrific crack of shattering bone and the equally unpleasant snap of muscles and sinew tearing as they were subjected to force no human was meant to experience. The movement it engendered was also difficult to deal with as the whip-like motion of his broken arm changed his reach in unpredictable ways. That Wales could keep his grip under such conditions was a testament to how changed he was.

Guiche kept his stance and circled both to the side and away as the Prince consistently advanced upon him with a blistering flurry of strikes. He'd strike from above then ruin his limb to bring a blow down from below or the side; twirling the twisted arm to then either repeat either of the former strikes or even bring one in from yet a third angle. Each time Guiche barely cleared the blow by using his sword to negate enough of the momentum that he could slide clear.

Confusion was breaking through his otherwise impassive mask; a growing lack of comprehension showing on Guiche's face. Wales smirk had long since transformed into the calm, easy smile of a man enjoying his work. As his arm cracked back into place he made use of a brand new technique; a strike from below transitioning into a strike from below by way of continuing his momentum, shattering his own shoulder to perfectly twist his arm around and restoring it in time to drive his own obsidian blade through the stone ground itself; seemingly without losing any force in the process.

This time, rapidly crumbling stone shard rained down on Guiche as the blade nearly kissed his chin on its second pass. He skidded back and pushed himself to open up a distance of several metres this time; unable to disguise the abject stupefaction that now filled his face.

A hand rose and fingers snapped as understanding suddenly dawned on the Prince's handsome face. "Of course! You're Guiche de Gramont, aren't you? I see, I see. No wonder you've held out so long. That familiar of yours was very nearly a major setback to my King's plans, you know. I wonder what will happen to him when I kill his master." Wales' tone was relaxed and could have been mistaken for kind if not for the air of condescension. "After all, we both know that's where this is headed, don't we?" Guiche quirked an eyebrow and became very still, slowly lowering his sword until it pointed down.

"Ah, yes. I see you finally understand, don't you? The difference between us." "It's only natural. In my previous life I was already skilled enough. Now I have transcended what few flaws I had." He stroked his chin and grinned companionably at Guiche. It was rather amusing, in a way… apart from his own rather wild hair it was easy to see himself in the abomination that now spoke down to him. "Don't take it too hard. From the very beginning, you were outclassed in every way."

Then something happened that the former Prince clearly hadn't quite expected. Guiche de Gramont began to crack. First, he lowered his head for a moment; head trembling, chest shaking. That hadn't been strange in and of itself, of course. In fact, he looked rather pleased by this turn of events.

Until, that is, Guiche reared back and burst into laughter.

At first it had started as a low chuckle as he raised his head but had soon transformed into full-bodied, hearty laughter that broke the silence that had fallen between them. Wales was so taken aback by this development that he didn't even think to cross the distance between them and cut his enemy down. Fury still danced across his face as Guiche wiped his eyes, the light of his aurora dimming for a moment, and his indignation quickly boiled over

"Have you truly lost your mind, then? Pathetic. I think it is time to put you out of your misery." Yet as he raised his sword and tensed himself to step forward and put an end to this farce of a battle Guiche held up a hand. For some reason, unknown to his current self, Wales paused in place.

"I do apologise, Prince Tudor, for my conduct. It is most unbecoming of me to show you such a display. Yet, I find I must also express to you my deepest gratitude." Confusion now fell upon the monster's features as Guiche gave him a genuinely grateful smile and a humble bow with only the tiniest bit of flourish.

When he stood up his eyes were unclouded by mirth or sorrow and the white light shining off him was brighter than ever before. Wales had to step back and nearly raised a hand to block it out before scowling and forcing through the pain. Guiche continued, his tone a mixture of amusement and self-deprecation; "You see, you have helped me more than you can possibly understand."

"Helped you? I think you have cracked, boy. You've failed to withstand me at every turn save the first." Wales gripped his black glass sword tighter, reinforcing it and himself with even more unholy flame, but was unwilling to step any closer to the soothing pyre Guiche was burning on his back.

"Not so. You see, until now I have been much like a man climbing a vast and might mountain. All I could see before me was the peak; forever staring up at the distance I still have to tread." The tone of reverence in Guiche's voice lacked the same zealous tone that Wales himself had displayed earlier. It was deeper than that. Wrought with more meaning than mere words could convey.

"These past few weeks I have felt… insufficient to the task before me. Every time I look to my future I see only that lonely summit which I aspire to one day reach. Yet now, thanks to you, I have at last had the occasion to look back upon my journey and see just how far I have come." Guiche raised his sword with a practical flourish; coating it once more in a layer of moonlight and dipping his head to his foe. "And I shall show my thanks by taking this fight seriously now."

The sheer magnitude of the insult dealt to Wales in that statement set his blood to boiling. Immediately the abomination surged forth with hate and power and unholy flames that left a thin layer of black ash wherever they passed. This time, however, Guiche advanced into the face of the assault. His blade flashed white, parting the darkness, and calmly slapped aside Wales' with a well placed rap near the tip before using the momentum given to his blade in the other direction to calmly carve a line into the Prince's chest.

This time Wales recoiled; flailing wildly with his black glass sword to ward off any follow-up while the dark fires within him attempted to force out the cold, unforgiving light of the distant moon that filled his wound. He couldn't help but feel dismayed by the grace and skill in that one maneuver; two traits that Guiche hadn't shown in any great degree in this fight until now.

"You're fast, Wales." As he spoke, the young man stepped forward; heedless of the blisteringly quick and equally unpredictable slashes. "But my favourite sparring partner is much faster." To emphasise his words Guiche totally ignored the wild flailing; diving in between two slices not to cut but to strike. His forceful kick sent the monster Prince skidding backwards across the stones of the courtyards with palpable disbelief radiating from him.

As soon as he regained his balance the Prince snarled; his expression turning fierce and bestial as he attempted to recover some semblance of control over the duel. He charged forward and forwent all finesse in favour of gripping his blade with both hands and bringing it down in an almighty blow with all the strength he could muster.

"You're strong, Wales." Guiche matched it perfectly; supporting his sword with one hand on the handle and the other on the flat near the tip as he formed a perfect line with his full self and caught the blow in the middle of his sword. The stones beneath him buckled but the line of his body did not. "But my familiar is much stronger." Then, adding further insult to insult and injury both he kicked out again.

Only, this time Wales' knee took the brunt of the blow and immediately gave way. As it twisted backwards the Prince went down only to find that Guiche had taken instant advantage of the reduced pressure on his sword to free up one arm and grab him by the face. Before Wales' could even think he was quite literally flung across the courtyard by his head to slam directly into a stone wall; face against it and head down.

"O stones 'neath my feet, reform thyselves and reach out to smite my foe; Stone Spear!" The chant was completed with speed that would have rivalled what was once Wales' own; finishing moments after he hit the wall and pinning him there by the resulting spike that launched itself out of the courtyard's paving from near Guiche's feet. "O stones 'neath my feet…" As Guiche rapidly brought his sword about to touch it to the ground again and began his chant anew Wales desperately tried to pry himself free.

"Reform thyselves and reach out to smite my foe." The Prince managed to get his arm around behind his back and snap off the first projectile just in time to drop off it, "Stone Spear!" … and have the next one narrowly pass between his legs; tearing at his leather riding pants in its passage. If he hadn't fallen to the ground it would have punched through his skull instead. "Stone Spear!"

Wales rolled sideways and leapt to his feet just in time to narrowly catch the incoming bolt of rock with his non-sword hand. Casting it without a full chant had reduced the strength to nary a tenth of the original but it still delayed him for yet another instant as he had to devote attention to pulling it out of himself. This gave Guiche time to chant yet again.

"O bones of this land I hereby plead to ye! Buckle here and tremble there; Linear Quake!" A modified version of his father's signature spell rippled forth; cracking flagstones and thoroughly tearing up the courtyard in a metre-wide line of shifting stone that caused the merest stumble in Wales. That was enough of an opening for Guiche to simultaneously chant and reach into the pocket of his vest to retrieve one of the items stored there for occasions such as this one.

"From stone not made by mortal hands, to tin and copper shaped by man, then form the serpent of the land! Bronze Hydra!" The name was his own, and the spell itself was woefully incomplete. He still needed to test it, refine it, improve on the chant and the mental image. But the Earth Stone he'd just tossed out, one of only three he'd been able to find and purchase, filled in the difference.

The paved stone beneath the gem rippled like water and then flowed upwards into it as it flew towards Wales. It was already practically liquid under the effects of the Linear Quake and this was just one step further. As it poured upwards parts of it changed to a silvery colour, parts to a more metallic orangey-red. These fused as it took its final form and immediately slithered across the unstable ground towards the Prince with the aim to encircle and constrict him.

It was really closer to one of the detached serpents that his father had used than the true Hydra that he'd created for his duel with Kenneth. However, the spirit of it was in there. More importantly, Bronze's innate resistance to corrosion meant that the unnatural aging effect of Wales' magic wasn't showing its full effects. Of course, his dwarven familiar had assured him that the legendary black flames could burn even mountains to dust given enough time.

He didn't intend to allow the Prince enough time.

"It's funny, Wales, but you were almost right!" As he set to work he took a moment to half-taunt his foe. Only half insofar as he felt a genuine regret, of sorts, at having to do this. "You could have beaten me, once." A quick and whispered incantation passed the spell into the stone where he stabbed it. Wales was still wrestling with his bronze snake and not having a great time of it; though he surged forth with such volume of dark flames that it was starting to tarnish the untarnishable.

"I can see it in you. Your opening stroke is that of a master. If you sustained that, then you'd win." Another quick whisper and press into the ground as he continued to calmly circle the swirling black inferno in the middle of the courtyard at an odd angle. "But you can't. The certainty you possess in your new 'king', and in your invincibility, are what defeated you." He continued to circle and pressed another point; muttering quickly and precisely.

"What do you even know… you spoilt child!" At last the dark flames overcame the animated metal and destroyed the Earth Stone within the Bronze Hydra. Wales tore through it, tossing the flakes of metallic ash to either side as he did so, and rushed for his weapon. Guiche didn't stop him at all; allowing him to pick it up and turn to face his adversary with hate burning in his eyes as clearly as the fire burned on his skin.

"I spent my last days fighting every minute until I was born anew. This blessing gave me the chance to correct the failings of my life. What could you possibly understand about that!" Yet his impassioned cries brought only a slow shake of the head from Guiche. Then he raised his sword, the last two Earths that made up the trigger to his work held within him.

"Imprison." The three spells that had been laid at equidistant points around where Wales' sword had come to a halt all triggered at once. Dozens of pillars of stone burst out of the ground from three directions; each on its own small but all together proving quite formidable indeed. They crashed not into the Prince himself but each other; forming a triangular set of bars that surrounded Wales on all sides.

"It's funny. Three Line spells together and I'd say it barely equals a Triangle spell in form, let alone force. But this will be enough for you… won't it, Prince?" As Guiche said that, walking towards the sealed monster, dark fire burst forth. It was the work of a moment to focus on his freshest regrets; the last meeting with his father, never being able to show him how he'd grown, his inability to protect his family.

These burned in his heart and on his shoulders as a wave of moonlight flowed outwards in response. It hurt… so very much. Yet that pain was nothing compared to what might have been had he failed here. If it was just this much, then Guiche could take it.

"Two things, Prince. Two things. First, you let your real skills slide past the first blow. Each time you aimed to exchange with me; trusting that you could take every strike I could deal out and, equally, that any blow you landed on me would be fatal." The darkness was forced back under the cold light and retreated first into the prison and then into the unholy sigil that had replaced the Prince's right eye.

His entire demeanour changed as the light washed over him. He quivered and collapsed against the bars; clutching at his chest and wheezing in pain. Guiche sighed and shook his head. "Kenneth told me it was true mystic darkness fused in full with elemental fire. The Aurora Requiem is mystic light fused in full with elemental cold." He looked truly sad as he explained; waiting patiently while bathing the Prince in harsh white light.

"The light of regret chases away the darkness of denial, while the chill of the grave overwhelms the flames of unlife. You're dying again, Prince. For good, this time." Wales clenched one hand into a fist and pounded the other against the stone. He couldn't swing his sword properly in the prison but even if he could his strength seemed to have left him. "I didn't expect this to work so well. I'm glad I was right."

"What… what was the second thing?" The skin of the Prince was darkening slowly and he croaked out his words under the barrage of frigid light. "You said… two things… what was… the second? Why am I… dying?" It was clear that he was truly begging for answers. Guiche understood his confusion. Even against the inferior versions of what Wales had become, the Wights, his cloak had never show this level of efficacy.

"Your first strike in each combination had the essence of a true master in it. I know well that level of dedication and skill. Yet, they were also flawed. You hesitated with each opening if only for an instant." Guiche raised his sword, wretched in ethereal white light, and readied it for a thrust as he spoke. "Moonlight is the cold light of memory. The Aurora is fueled by regret. Mine, yes, but even yours. I believed that you were fighting against what you had become. Now, it seems I have been proven correct."

"I see…" Wales chuckled weakly, and shook his head. "Unfortunately, the dedication I feel… it remains unwavering... even now. Perhaps you are right, Guiche… but I shall never know." He looked the young Gramont directly in the eyes, then, with fresh intensity. "Whatever happens, know that I did it for Henrietta. Please tell her that." Guiche nodded.

"I shall tell her."

His sword flashed forward and described a line that passed right through the sigil in Wales' right eye. As it penetrated the once-dead Prince's brain there was a surge of negated darkness that passed through his body. When Guiche pulled the blade free he could see that Wales Tudor had returned to death with a smile on his face. It was a strange comfort to see that.

In truth, there was more than he'd had the time or inclination to say. Wales' transformation had empowered him with inhuman toughness, but cost him much. He hadn't cast a single Halkegenian spell in the entire battle; perhaps he'd been rendered incapable of doing so. Or perhaps Guiche had been correct and some small part of him had been resisting the power of the King.

Leaving the body where it was Guiche calmly turned and walked towards the path that the strange blackened glass zombies had taken; allowing the Aurora Requiem to return to its quiescent state in the process. He was in no particular hurry to rush after them or the Princess. The reason for this was revealed when he had calmly strolled through the archway they'd passed through and caught up with what was left of them at the stables.

Two inanimate corpses were strewn across the stable yard; each missing several large chunks of themselves and totally devoid of any animating magic. Standing nearby, delicately checking on the fainted Princess Henrietta and grumbling irritably about bad tasting magic, was the armoured body of Derflinger.

As of yet Guiche had only had the chance to spar with his former shield once. He'd been extremely surprised by the result. Despite being unfamiliar with his own body Derflinger had, without any apparent effort, wiped the floor with his young partner in arms. As it turned out, one couldn't be wielded by a few thousand years worth of swordsman without picking up a thing or ten.

"Hey, partner! Took care of the minions. Wasn't much of a challenge. They're worse at this then you. Can't stand the taste of this magic, though. It's just the worst. And every time I have some I feel…" Derf trailed off and scratched at his helmet; turning to face the Princess instead. "She seems fine. Just fainted. Never get why damsels do that so often. How'd it go on your end?"

Guiche didn't respond at first; checking first that the Princess was both breathing and in possession of a pulse. Then he gave her a cursory examination for any wounds. Finally, he reignited the Aurora for a moment to pour Moonlight into the dismembered bodies, just in case. At last satisfied that the situation was resolved he lifted the Princess in a bridal carry and began walking.

"It was… a satisfying, yet unsatisfying conclusion." Derf nodded; apparently completely understanding Guche's meaning. Defeating his opponent and understanding how much he'd grown had been very satisfying. Yet for all the joy there had been to find in the fight itself the resolution had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

He looked down at the unconscious Princess in his arms and sighed. "Come on, Derf. We need to get her back to the Queen." The ex-shield nodded and began to trot along behind Guiche.

"Right you are, partner. Hopefully she's still okay…" With those words hanging in the air the two of them shared an unspoken understanding and broke into a smooth run together.
 
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Red and Ruin
Heavy clouds in the Germanian sky match the pall that seems to hang over its capital city. The gates are closed and guarded, soldiers stalk the streets and the people are afraid. There had been some sort of commotion in the Imperial Palace the day before and shortly thereafter the death of the Emperor had been announced; followed shortly by the date of his eldest son's coronation.

All of this was unknown to those aboard a sleek skycraft that drifted through the rough weather above the nation. The elves manning it were tense enough without knowing of the chaos they were sailing towards. Their 'guests' had made sure of that.

Now the vessel's captain had the distinct displeasure of having to speak with one of said guests; arguably the most unpleasant of the lot. The giant woman was, if acerbic, at least somewhat honest in her nature. She did not like them and made no secret of it; not stooping to any name-calling more detailed than 'heretic' and avoiding socialising with them as much as possible.

This… woman… was different. Where the rest of her people were guarded and cautious she seemed perpetually amused by him and his fellows. She was constantly at ease as if they couldn't even hope to pose a threat to them. It was… vexing.

"This is as far as we shall take you.* He'd stopped what he felt to be a safe distance from her where she stood; near the ship's prow with one foot upon the railing as she leaned over the edge and stared down at the clouds. "Any closer and we run the risk of our ship being detected."

When he didn't get a response he cleared his throat and continued. "We'll stay at this height until nightfall, and then put you down." Even then, for a time she said nothing. Then, just as he was considering speaking up again, she snorted and shook her head.

"Honestly, what fool granted your kind the name of Álf?" The horrible woman turned to stare at the ship's captain; contempt burning golden in her gaze. Almost literally, in fact, as the unholy light that took form in her gaze moved and flowed like liquid metal rather than actual illumination. "Clearly, they had never met ones truly deserving of the moniker if they would say it of cowards such as you." Fearsome or not, the insult still caused the elf the bristle with impotent indignance. He did not seek to stoop to her level, however, and merely rebuked her with a polite tone.

"We do not fear the humans in the least. Conflict with them is beneath us." Something about his statement must have greatly amused the otherworldly visitor because she grinned nastily at him and shook her head; turning her back to him again with nary a care in her stance.

"And that is why they shall ruin you, in the end. You seek neither to destroy them, nor to make peace with them; relying on fear and old stories to keep them at bay, and your old magic when that inevitably doesn't work." And now it was his turn to be a little smug. Regardless of what the witch-woman thought, their 'old magic' had proven effective time and time again at repelling even the greatest assaults that humanity could bring to bear against them.

"It has yet to fail us in that service." Although he was forced to recall that, not a few days hence, it had failed twice in rapid succession; once before the warhammer of the armoured titan standing on the prow, and once beneath the abominable blades of this hateful harridan. Once more, however, she seemed to only find amusement in his attempt at rebuttal.

"Well then, as thanks for transporting us thus far I shall leave you with these parting thoughts." Her tone was conversational, yet dripping with disdain as surely as her eyes dripped with golden light. The smile she wore was openly mocking but somehow threatening as well.

"Fear is more powerful a motivator than your kind can scarcely imagine. And old magic?" She spun the dagger she'd been playing with all this time around in the air, its strangely shaped blade drawing an impossible line in the air as it dropped straight into her forearm sheathe. Then she stepped up onto the railing and looked him dead in the eyes.

"Old magic shall always abandon you, in the end." And at that, Yas'dei the Farstrider let herself fall backwards from the rail; dropping like a stone towards the ground below. The captain, aghast, watched her drop; only to realise that her crimson-cloaked fellows were doing the same all around him. Wood creaked and the door to the lower decks opened to reveal the armoured titan stepping forth with purpose in her stride.

The captain watched in stunned silence as she too, perhaps a half-ton of metal and muscle, walked up to the edge of his ship and jumped the railing with nary a glance back at him. Around him his crew were equally disoriented. They'd been warned by the huge woman that this would happen, but knowing about it was nothing compared to the reality of having their memories so viciously clouded. Eventually he managed to compose himself.

"... turn around. We're going home. They can… find their own way back." And as he said that, even with the fine details of almost every exchange he'd had with the strangers aboard his vessel already beyond his reach, not one bit of him doubted that they could.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

A farmer examining the thunderous crash he heard the night before would later find one massive and inexplicable crater in the middle of one of his fields. There was no way for him to locate the similar, much-smaller markings around it as they were no more than crushed grass. Although he could have followed the clear and heavy footprints out of the crater he was far too shocked by its presence to do so; and in any case, the one who had made it was already long gone by the time he'd come to investigate.

Hours before he'd even got out of bed, yet mere minutes after the sound that had caused him to awaken earlier, its maker could be found sprinting across the landscape; more or less unencumbered by her massively heavy armour. That, Yas'dei mused, was one of the benefits of being one of the Blooded. While her own position certainly carried benefits the impossible advantages afforded to Red, the Iron Wolf, were certainly to be envied.

That thought aside, they were all at an advantage here. Her own runes were recharging at a blistering pace compared to home. All of the little tricks she'd normally squeeze out of them in a desperate flight from a murderous creature could be used with impunity. Her speed had increased noticeably as she realised this; with her compatriots accelerating soon thereafter to match her in kind.

Amusingly, the slowest one of their group was Red herself; though from seeing the horrifying turn of pace that the Holy Warrior was pulling off one wouldn't think so. In the end, Yas'dei slowed to keep pace with her and told the others to spread out. One took lead, one the rear, with two to each side for a diamond formation. Another two, meanwhile, roamed afield and returned to report back while replacing two of the others in a rotating sequence.

This way, the Entitled One received information about the landscape from her followers that more than made up for the delay of reducing their speed to match their charge. Their movement rate was exaggerated enough by the high-magic environment that such a loss didn't particularly bother her.

Yas'dei slowed now and then as they ran; taking a moment to sniff the air and stare at ground and sky both. The other Ki'rai paid their leader no mind; too focused on watching their sides as the group moved quickly across the unfamiliar terrain. Red, however, noticed as keenly as anyone could.

Perhaps half an hour after landing they stopped on a hill overlooking the city that was their target to discuss their entry. It was there that the topic was at last, as Yas'dei predicted, broached by her main travelling companion.

"You seem ill at ease, Farstrider." The Entitled One glanced at her titanic compatriot and fell into an easy smirk. Obfuscation came so easily to her that it could be said to be her first nature, rather than her second and so she diverted the concerns with nary a moment's hesitation.

"It is our way to be so, Iron Wolf. Relaxing is for the dead." Such a response clearly didn't put Red at ease. Her stance, already guarded, tightened up. She was a consummate warrior through and through; clearly ready to shift to battle at a moment's notice and, judging by her tone of voice, more than willing to do so.

"Do not keep secrets from me." Yas'dei snorted but nodded; looking away from the other woman and to the city below them. If it came down to it the group of Ki'rai could kill the woman, albeit at a grave price; though, that would be somewhat like slitting the throat of a prized laying hen just because it scratched at you when you got too close.

"There is something here. So much magic, so thick, but behind it I can feel something... foul. It is on the air, and below the ground. Foul... and, perhaps, familiar." Concern filled Red's face at those words. Anything familiar to a Ki'rai could be nothing but bad news for everyone else.

"You suspect something." That drew a laugh from the smaller woman; as sharp and mirthless as her hollow grin.

"Always, Red. Always. But this... what I suspect ought to be impossible." Her smile faded into a dark frown as she continued to regard the city below; eyes burning with molten gold as she saw it for what it really was. "Unfortunately, my experiences with impossible things tell me they rarely care about the fact that they are so."

Red nodded, but didn't respond. She was one of the chosen of the Gods themselves on top of all of her other accomplishments. Her life was nothing but a series of what lesser men may have called impossibilities; particularly the specific one that had brought them to this world.

"... Kenneth should be in there." She inclined her head towards the city beyond in lieu of continuing their discussion. Most likely, Yas'dei thought to herself, she was unwilling to pry into anything that could visibly rattle the Entitled Ki'rai. "From what those 'elves' knew of the human lands, it sounds like this 'Germania' would most appeal to him."

Yas'dei nodded. From what little she knew of Kenneth Manson, which was obviously far less than his wife, he was liable to gravitate towards a country that had a language he was particularly comfortable with. It would be eerie how similar this 'Germanian' was to the Dwarvish tongue she was familiar with if it weren't for the simple fact that Yas'dei found almost nothing to be so these days.

She'd seen far too much for low-class linguistic contrivances to unnerve her.

"Let's go." Red started down the hill; unslinging her warhammer and holding it near the head as she broke into a run again. One hand gesture from Yas'dei brought her Ki'rai to her side. As the hero drew away from them she pointed them at different targets and gave instructions with her other hand. One by one they flickered away as crimson blurs towards their appointed tasks and the Entitled One nodded with a faint smile. Then she pulled on her own mask and set off behind the crusader.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

It was the noise that first roused the gate guards. At the time it was still within the early hours of the day; dawn was imminent but not yet arrived and their shift had been a long one. Anyone, save perhaps their rather demanding Captain, could have forgiven them for being a little slow on the draw.

Could have, but would not have to; for the first cracking sound from down the road brought both of them quickly out of their stupor and into a ready position with muskets in hand and bayonet-spears fixed. Yet neither man was prepared for what he saw approaching them from down the road.

A titan of steel was descending upon them. Their first thoughts were that one of Halkegenia's increasingly rare giantkin had descended from the distant mountains to attack their city. Yet this was impossible for a number of reasons; chief amongst which was the aforementoned steel that clad this figure from head to toe.

Heavy plate armour on their legs and arms. Brigandine and lamellar adorning their chest. A snarling wolf's head embossed on to the full helm. All topped up with a massive warhammer held lazily in one hand. The cracking noise that had roused them was plainly seen in the surface of the road; the huge, land-devouring strides of the thing approaching them shattering the paved surface at every impact.

A shot rang out; surprising even the guard who fired it. He'd only meant to level his weapon at the potential foe and call out a warning. The reverberation underfoot had unnerved him, however, and his unsteady hand had accidentally pulled the trigger. Even more shocking was that his errant shot was, even at the great distance the figure was approaching from, still on target.

Yet the greatest surprise of all was that the shot struck the figure's suddenly outstretched palm and ricocheted off it into the road below. Followed by their rate of approach inexplicably increasing. Before either man could think to shout and sound the alarm the titan had arrived; skidding to a semi-halt as they quickly adjusted the grip on their hammer and, rather than swinging it, thrust it forward.

The head hit the closed gate top-first and exploded in a blast of blue light. And yet at the same time not light but fire, not fire but glass, not glass but water. Flowing and shattering and burning all at once as it translated magical energy into raw kinetic force that saw the momentum of the strike pass beautifully into the wood of the gate until it reached its limits and then, rather unceremoniously, surpassed them.

Inside the city the confused guards at the first watch post, who had just started to prepare for their day when they'd heard some sort of commotion from outside the gate that had culminated in a shot being fired, suddenly heard a tremendous crash upon the gate; followed by the foot-thick wooden beam used to secure it cracking loudly and then snapping in the middle. The gates exploded open with enough force to cause the massive hinges to warp; thus bringing each huge door to a screeching halt almost as quickly as they had jerked open.

Stepping through them, flagstones cracking beneath their feet, came a three-meter tall figure clad all in armour and pulling a hammer back into a rest position on their shoulder. Outside the gate were two guards standing still with their weapons slipping from their hands; each as broken as a man could be while his body was still whole.

"Ah… alarm! Alarm! Open fire!" The soldiers lowered their muskets and shot as best they could at the already departing figure, to little effect. Those shots that were accurate seemed incapable of piercing the armour worn by the monster. Bullets bounced off at sharp angles if they hit the plates, or else struck the lamellar to no discernible effect.

Nevertheless, the cries spread faster than even the monster assailing their city could run. Guards were mustered, Knights were rallied, and the forces of the city sallied forth in defense of their home.

When the metal behemoth reached the inner wall, and with it the gate to the palace, they were confronted by an armoured pike hedge. The sound of hoofbeats could be heard from the streets to either side; still some distance away but maneuvering for a charge from the rear to drive this foe into the waiting pikes. Yet more important still were the Nobles.

They were not amongst the rabble; having used their various magics to acquire higher ground from which to bombard this most curious foe. One chanted in the ancient tongue; calling upon the elements and their founder to incinerate their enemy. However, nothing would come of it. Just as they were finishing the spell there was a flicker of movement, a memory of colour and then a thick spray of blood from the man's throat.

His fellow Nobles who had happened to be facing him felt suddenly disoriented; a memory of something moving incredibly quickly in their minds that lasted a moment before a similar fate befell them. Not a one among them was able to get a spell off as crimson spectres descended upon them like the shadows of death.

Below them their target had not even slowed its stride. It sprinted directly into the waiting polearms; shattering their shafts under the force of its charge as it went directly through the obstacle. Men and weapons alike were pushed aside with contemptuous ease until, at last, it reached the doorway.

A wave of flaming blue light exploded outwards from the roaring figure. It moved like water and shattered like glass and cleared a wide circle around its origin by literally flinging men out of its way in the manner of a far more physical wave than its appearance would imply.

The Germanian soldiers could only watch in horror as the thing adjusted the grip on its greathammer and swung it in an almost lazy arc that nevertheless made a sharp whistling with its passage. When the head struck the wood the sound was thunderous; force transmitted down the weapon's handle into the armour, down the arm, down the body and straight into the ground. The stones beneath them snapped outwards in a spider-web pattern just as surely as the middle of the gate was rendered into so much kindling.

And there, standing beyond the gate, was their new Emperor.

None of them had seen the Crown Prince in weeks. Longer, even. He'd left to 'find himself', as many knew, and returned only a few days since in a fine carriage yet concealed from the public eye. Then his father had perished suddenly and the palace had been sealed to visitors save the most loyal courtiers and nobody knew what was going on.

Now that they saw him the assembled soldiers, and few remaining Nobles, wished they had not.

His appearance was frightful. They'd always known the Prince to be a somewhat homely lad with a certain fondness for baked goods that had lent him an almost porcine appearance that was, in its own way, almost charming. In spite of this, or perhaps because of, he was known to be studious and more-or-less kind and at the very least rather earnest.

What stood before them was sallow-faced and sunken-eyed; wearing the ceremonial armour of his station but without any of the gravitas of his father. There was a dark coldness in his eyes now, and he looked like he'd lost a great deal of weight very quickly. In his right hand was a long, thin-bladed sword that looked to be an estoc made of black glass while in his left hand burned a fire so dark that it seemed to create shadows in place of smoke.

"Who dares trespass upon this domain?" The voice was familiar to those who'd met him before. Familiar while being so very wrong. Surely their Prince had not been that sharp of tone, that harsh of manner? "If you bend the knee, savage, I shall ensure your death is a painless one."

No. This was not their Prince. But now it was their Emperor and they were duty-bound to serve; mustering as best they could to surround the figure from behind. The Emperor's own bodyguards, wearing full-helm and plate, stood ready at his side. They were wielding the same unfamiliar weapon as he did; swords of black glass that looked sinisterly serrated. Like instruments of cruelty rather than weapons of war.

"No quarter to heretics. No mercy to the unrighteous. No parley with evil." To their great surprise their silent enemy spoke; with a voice full of power and pride and even for all that, recognisably female. That this titanic being was a woman of some sort did nothing to soothe the wounded egos of the soldiers. Indeed, many bristled even harder with the knowledge. For his part the new Emperor frowned and then raised his flaming hand.

"So be it!" He gestured, and searing flames leapt the distance betwixt them; eating up the light to form a swirling vortex of ruin. His expression of disinterested contempt faded in an instant when a curious golden light shone from the woman's eyes, when the blue glass-fire surged forth and coated their armour and when she swung the hammer in a wide arc that harmlessly dispersed the incoming darkness.

She said nothing more in the moments that followed. They were mere moments; the Emperor's guards utterly unable to react to the rush that further broke the stones beneath her feet as she pushed forward. That wide swing was brought to an impossible halt and redirected into an overhand smash that shone with azure light and golden energy. The last thing the Emperor saw as he stared in mute disbelief was the monstrous face inscribed on the hammer's head before it introduced itself to his skull, brain, spine, collarbone, rib cage, pelvis and feet.

In that order.

While the soldiers stared mutely at the bloody, metallic smear that had been, seconds ago, their Emperor his personal guards reacted with fury. Black fires leaked out of helmets and on to their weapons as they moved to attack; only to find that they could not, in fact, move.

Figures in red cloaks were standing around them; each one having neatly pierced one of the six Royal Guards through the heart with a weapon of some description. Nobody could really say where they had come from, nor where they went to afterwards, nor if they had even truly been there. All they could really recall where that there had been someone in red, and then the Royal Guards had all collapsed while the titan made her way, unopposed, up the stairs to the palace.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -​

"He is not here." Red spoke again as soon as she'd finished kicking open the front door to the palace. Yas'dei could tell she was frowning under the armour. Honestly, the Entitled One was doing the same behind her mask; but she wouldn't let Red know that.

"How do you figure?" She asked with only the vaguest hint of curiosity as she dropped down from above; having already entered the room through one of the now-broken windows above. The same scent she'd gotten from the Wights and that… whatever the 'Emperor' had been was thick here.

"Kenneth would have killed all Wights already." There was a note of pride in her voice as she spoke of her diminutive husband, but nobody present would disagree with her. For all his many, many, many flaws as a dwarf, a husband, and a person in general nobody could gainsay Kenneth Manson's combat record.

This was, after all, the same individual who had decided to propose to the foremost smith in all of Kelicho by presenting her with the severed heads of a dozen Ashwalkers.

"Fair enough." Her eyes burned golden again as Yas'dei stared at the ground, then back to where the Emperor had died. That distinctly unpleasant theory was getting stronger and stronger the longer she stood there. "So, now what?" Red hoisted her hammer on to her shoulder and strolled calmly through the entry hall; eyeing up the finery with an air of distaste.

"Ask if anyone has seen him. If so, I will go there. If not, the next capital city. In the meantime, kill anyone who tries to stop me." For all that she said that, it was notable that she'd not slain anyone yet. Well, except for the so-called 'Emperor'; but the Ki'rai didn't count unholy abominations as people.

"... we'd better hurry, then. Because I think I just found my impossibility." The tone of Yas'dei's voice was notably higher pitched and made Red pause for a moment. She then turned to see what the Entitled had seen and let out a low oath to her Goddess.

There, on the banners hanging from the wall on either side of the doorway, was a brand new image burned overtop the Germanian symbol. One that filled both women's stomachs with thick knots of rising dread as they took in exactly what that meant.

For there, clearly inscribed, was the sigil they knew as the Dawn of a Dying Sun.

The profane mark of the First Grave of Kelicho.

The unholy seal of the Death of Old.

The Symbol of Kormat: Dead God of the Dead.
 
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