Regisfall

[[Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iX_XfgBsuEY Put it on loop!]]


Part One: Kelt.



1 day old.


A woman is raped by invading soldiers. She is a whore, but she sees no payment other than being impregnated by one of them. The soldiers are only passing by, heading to Hapsenbran territory. The woman stays, she has no choice.



9 months old.


She ends up having the baby. Maybe she can make some coin out of her tragedy.

It's a boy. She gives him no name.



1 year old.


The war ravages the land. There is no money to be made. Famine forces the villagers to move elsewhere. The woman leaves the baby on a basket, in the same alleyway he was conceived.

The basket is found by a man. An unscrupulous farmer. A battle field scavenger. A vulture.

He smiles. He scored it today.



5 years old.


Baby grew. Unscrupulous farmer's wife gave him a name. "Boy". They had no children. They still don't.

Boy works the field and takes care of the animals. A helping hand, nothing more. He sleeps in the stables with the horses. He takes a liking to a particular mare - the closest he has to a mother.

The toil fills his hands with calluses and trains his muscles. Boy is growing taller and taller with every year.



8 years old.


War comes knocking. Boy sees it first: a small army looming on the horizon. Their banner: an iron fist on red cloth. A lone rider approaches and addresses him by the fence. Boy is not afraid. He grips his pitchfork.

"Oi! Boyo!", shouts the man. "Go call your papa, would you?"

Boy doesn't answer. He doesn't talk much. He is not allowed to.

"Oi, cat got your tongue, lad? You deaf or something? Go on. Your father. Bring him here. My men and I need to set camp for the night. We're just passing through. I've coin."

Without ever taking his eyes off the rider, Boy walks back and calls the unscrupulous farmer. The rider makes an offer. The unscrupulous farmer accepts. The army sets camp in the property.

Boy learns they are called The Iron Legion. And the rider is their leader.

Night falls. The leader sees Boy going to the stables and follows him.

"Oi, lad. Why are you sleeping here, on dry straw and horseshit?"

"I sleep here."

"Humm! Is that so? What's your name, young man?"

"Boy."

"Boy? That's your name?"

"Aye."

"No, no, no... That ain't no name! A strong lad like you needs a more imposing name, don't you think? You'll be a man soon. Can't go around calling yourself 'Boy'. That's silly. Didn't your parents give you their name?"

"They're not my parents. I'm just the stableboy. A helping hand. Nothing more."

"Nothing more, eh? Hummm! I think I see what's happening here. Not uncommon in this shitty state of Kelt. Well, Boy! Fortune has smiled upon you! Today marks the first day of your life! See, we're not just passing through, I'm afraid. We're taking the farm, actually. Fertile land is a luxury in these trying times. The coin which I gave your captor was our payment for this little mission, and I do intend to get it back. So! The way I see it--"

"He's not my captor."

"Oh, but he is! And you are his slave! Don't you see, lad? Does he pay you for your work here?"

"No."

"Do you have any possessions to your name? Clothes, perhaps, other than these rags?"

"No..."

"No, you don't. Exactly. Not even a grave to call yours. Not even a name, Boy! If I were to strike you here and now, that unscrupulous farmer wouldn't weap for you. No, he'd bury you under his farm as fertilizer. You'd be toiling the field even in death."

"..."

"Perhaps my words are starting to make sense, are they not? Then let me finish this time. As I was saying... The way I see it, you have two options: die with them, as a slave, or break the chains and join me."

"Join... you?"

"Aye. I'll train you proper. And put a weapon on your hand. Something less disgraceful than that pitchfork you keep looking at. Don't get any ideas now, Boy. I'm faster and stronger than you are. And the farm is already invaded and surrounded. All it took was some gold. Listen to reason. Many other war orphans have joined me. This is not the first settlement we visit for House Galileo."

Despite the warning, Boy rushes to the pitchfork. The leader smiles.

"Brave, to defend your masters like this. But also stupid. Let me show you what I mean, then!"

The leader dodges out of the way and disarms Boy with ease. He grabs him by an ear and pulls him, like a child being reprehended. Boy protests, but he's powerless. All he has is the anger. The leader drags him to the house.

"Oi!", he shouts at the door. "Your son tried to rob one of my men!"

The unscrupulous farmer comes out.

"What?! The little pest! He's not my son! He's my worker! He needs his hands for the fields, but he doesn't need that tongue. I'll see it cut off as punishment! No, you do it, even better! That'll teach him!"

The leader smiles again and releases Boy, who stops protesting.

"You see it now, Boy? You see what I mean? What will it be, then?"

Boy rubs his ear and eyes the unscrupulous farmer. His face contorted with ire. He says nothing. He just takes a step back, behind the leader.

"Excellent choice, lad!", says the leader, turning to the Legion camp. "My legionnaires! Torch the house! If the occupants run out, cut them! I want their corpses or their ashes buried in the fields as fertilizer!"

As the chaos ensues, Boy sits down, watching as the life he knew burns away. The screams end rather quickly. When the legionnaires take the torches to the stables, he gets up again.

"No! Please, spare Gherta! The mare! She's pregnant!"

"Think, Boy! The farm is lost. No one to look after these animals. She will perish, with her foals. Killing them now is the humane thing to do."

"No! Please! I'll care for her! Let me bring her along! She's my only family!"

"Hummm! Fine, then. She comes along. But she's your responsibility. And you're mistaken, you've a family now, lad. The Legion. We need to find you a name, a good name. You're quite brave for such a young lad. How about..."

The leader thinks, scratching his chin.

"How about Magnus? It means 'migthy' in ancient Keltish. Yes, Magnus... Magnus Empyrean! That surname belonged to my Legatus, the man who raised and trained me. And now it's yours. A fitting memory. Now, go get your mare, Magnus, let's introduce you to the lot."

"And you? Who are you?"

"Oh, fuck me. Where are my manners?", the leader said, cleaning his hand against his tabbard and offering it to Magnus. "The name is Thelonious Creta. But from this day onwards, you'll refer to me as Legatus."



15 years old.


Thelonious keeps his promise. He trains Magnus and puts a weapon in his hand: an axe. It amazes Thelonious to see how the lad fights: enraged, as if possessed by a war demon. He is just a teenager, but his body count rivals even those of older legionnaires. And Thelonious... Thelonious nods his head and praises the lad for the bloodshed.

"Good. Good job, Empyrean. That rage will get you far, my boy. You and I both. As conquerors."

The mercenary band travels the land, finding work in the many noble Houses along the way, getting closer and closer to the territory of the royals - the Hapsenbran - and the heart of the war. The Legion makes a name for itself. Thelonious, despite his age, simply fails to die, which grants him the moniker of "The Immortal", a fearsome leader and strategist.

They have a prominent employer. To prove themselves, they attack a stronghold held by a rival House. Magnus' disobeys Thelonious' order and rides forth on his own, breaking formation. He returns, covered in blood and viscera, carrying the head of the House's Lord and the deserters of the House's army, to be conscripted.

Magnus isn't punished for his erratic behavior. He is promoted from Tiro to Legionarius and receives the moniker of "The Bronze Rhino" that day.

And thanks to that victory, The Iron Legion signs contract with House Cashymir.



18 years old.


Thelonious is more than a leader to Magnus. He is the father he never had. He teaches Magnus about strategy, about formation, about tactics. About war. He teaches him the old language and the barbarism of the old ways. He teaches him how to speak elven, dwarven and orcish, and even the language of animals, the one Thelonious speaks the most fluent.

"War isn't made with steel only, son. Every war begins in a man's head. This is why we sharpen ours, same as our blades. The brain is just another muscle. This is why you see me studying, reading, learning... One day, I'll have my own castle, to retire within. I can't manage a castle with a brute's mindset, now, can I? Heh!"

The one thing he doesn't teach Magnus is how to show mercy. The enemy deserved none. And who's the enemy? Well, whoever opposed Thelonious Creta, The Immortal.

Magnus is the sharp axe at the vanguard, cutting down anything and anyone that stands in his foster father's way, leaving a trail of blood and destruction in his wake. With every victory, the Legion's prestige grows. With every victory, Thelonious is closer to his castle and his retirement. And with every victory, House Cashymir draws nearer to the Hapsenbran. They are winning the race. And they know it.



20 years old.


Gherta, the mare, passes away at last. Three of her foals survived this long. Magnus rides one of them: Celeritas, also a mare. Clyde, another Legionarius, rides Haustus. Solmyr, the youngest of the three and a Tiro, rides Fiducia. Their friendship started in the battlefield, forged in iron and fire. Magnus wouldn't have given these mounts to anyone else. They form a bond, the three young warriors. Their life is fighting, drinking and visits to the brothel. They are the brothers Magnus never had.

Thelonious doesn't appreciate their proximity. Magnus is happy, which means he is not angry. Thelonious needs his Bronze Rhino to win. And he needs to win. How else will he retire in a castle?

The Battle of Carcossa comes in the morrow. Thelonious Creta will not survive it, but he doesn't know it yet. He is confident, unaware that The Immortal won't endure two years serving the Cashymir in their relentless pursuit of power.

He will not perish to a duel. He will not perish to a lack of strategy. He will not perish to bravery faltering when it matters the most. He will perish... to an accident - an arrow that will not be meant for him, but will pierce his left eye and his skull all the same. House Carcossa is known for their archers for a reason.

Magnus has a strong opinion about archery. He sees it as the weapons of cowards. He prefers to be close and personal when he fights, to look his enemies in the eyes as death claims them. Thelonious taught him that also. But comes the morrow, Thelonious won't teach anything else to anyone. The arrow will be fatal. He'll die on the spot.

His death will be hard on the Legion and the one taking his place won't be half the leader Thelonious is. Magnus will want to avenge him, above all else. It will be the first time he experiences loss. He'll charge the carcossan army, Clyde and Solmyr by his side. Despite the new Legatus' orders, an entire cohort will follow the three into battle. No conscription this time. Every single carcossan soldier will be sent to Kinarugi's embrace, following the traditions of the old ways of Thelonious Creta, The Immortal.

The new Legatus will have no choice but to promote Magnus to Centurion. Empyrean will then command his own cohort. Their first mission will be to retrieve Thelonious' corpse and give him a proper burial.

But this is tomorrow. Tonight, they drink and celebrate, alongside another friend: the mage Lucretius Seneca, who's also unaware of the arrow he'll take to the knee. He'll never again be able to fight. This is the cruelty of war - how quickly the tides change, and you never know when it'll hit you. Thelonious certainly doesn't, as he gets out of his tent and approaches the four mercenaries, as they drink by the fire. He scolds them, calls them lazy and disgraceful, says they shouldn't be drinking before a battle. He and Magnus argue.

If only they knew it would be the last time.



25 years old.


The new Legatus, whose name was forgotten in the annals of the Legion, perishes in the Battle of Bouguereau. Many believe the position is cursed, no one steps up. As Thelonious' favorite and adopted son, Magnus feels the pressure. He does what is expected of him and becomes the youngest Legatus in The Iron Legion's history. He imediatelly promotes Clyde to Centurion and Solmyr to Legionarius.

He also demands guarantees from the Cashymir, something his predecessors never cared to do. The nobles promise them lands and farms - the retirement the warriors dreamed of. They know far too well that, as a soldier, you either retire in your prime or live long enough to be bested in the battlefield by someone younger.

They are now in the borders of the Hapsenbran.



28 years old.


Under Magnus' leadership, the Legion successfully invades the territory of the royals, something thought to be impossible for an independent army. They conquer an important stronghold and turn it into a base for themselves.

And then it happens. The event that changes it all.

The scouts return with the news: an army of ten thousand men marching in their direction, arriving before the week is through - the royal brigade. Mighty as they were, the five hundred in the Legion cannot possibly defeat an army of that size. Magnus writes the Cashymir asking for reinforcements or for a secure retreat route. No answer returns. He realizes the Cashymir abandoned them to their luck in enemy territory. Their promise revealed to be false.

Unable to defend the stronghold, the Legion is forced to flee with the royal brigade on their trail. "Disgraceful", says Thelonious in Magnus' head. Many desert the group. And twice as many fall to the lances of the brigade.

The Legion is no more.

Amidst the chaos, Magnus searches for his friends. He finds none. He is by himself again. Mounted on Celeritas, he rides off. But he has nowhere to go.



35 years old.


He goes back to the farm. To his old life as Boy. Where else could he go? He finds the village and the farm restored, now that the war moved elsewhere. He finds an old comrade there: Lucretius, working as a blacksmith. He helps Magnus find work in the farm, the very same one in which he grew.

"Disgraceful", says Thelonious in his head. "You're no stableboy. You're no slave. You're my son! A warlord! A conqueror! And you'll always be!"

He was 30 when he arrived. He is 35 now and a married man. Who would have thought.

Delilah is his world. She's everything to him. In the morning, her smile. At night, her smile. Not the retirement he expected back in the day, but Magnus is happy.

When he receives the news of her pregnancy, he cries for the first and only time in his life. He will be a father.

A girl. They name her Victoria - "Victory", in ancient Keltish.



43 years old.


The civil war still rages on. News from afar speak the unspeakable and reveal the decay and dehumanization caused by war at its peak: a noble House resorts to necromancy, employing an army that feels no pain or exhaustion, an army of the dead. And with every victory, their army grows. Magnus and Lucretius are shocked to hear the exploits of House Risencrantz.

Still, they believe they are safe here in Pallas. That the war cannot find them. That those days are over.

"Are they really?", asks Thelonious in his head, almost seeming to mock him. "Face it, Magnus. This isn't your life. A bloody farmer... This isn't what I raised you to be! Don't you miss it? The taste of iron on your palate from the blood of your enemies? The fear in their eyes? The roars of battle? The thrill of death and the glory of victory? I miss it. I miss it all. And, if you're still my son, so do you."

Magnus wakes up at night, drenched in sweat. Another nightmare with the Legatus.

"What is it, love? Another dream?" asks Delilah by his side on the bed.

He kisses her forehead and whispers: "Go back to sleep. I'll check on Victoria."

He stops by the door of his daughter's room. He spends the rest of the night watching her sleeping and swears he'll protect her at all costs from the hell he lived in the past.



45 years old.


Magnus and Lucretius spend a few days in the woods, hunting deers and bears before the winter comes. They move slowly because Lucretius limps of his left leg. That damn carcossan arrow.

They pass by another hunter, who is seemingly moving elsewhere. He tells them the war is here, that he saw an army advancing into the territory at alarming speed.

"Believe it or not, they were unliving, the soldiers", says the hunter. "Damnest things. You should hear the wails."

"When was this?", asks Magnus.

"Three days ago. They probably reached Blackhollow or Pallas by now."

He and Lucretius exchange a glance, their eyes wide.

"I can't run", says Lucretius. "Go. Go!"

He doesn't think. He just runs. He must find them. He must find them unharmed and untouched. He made a promise.

"Loyalty and emotions, Magnus, they make you weak", mocks Thelonious, running next to him, swords in hand. "You feel it, don't you? I know you do, because I do too. It is here, Magnus. It missed you. The war."

"Shut up, you old fool! I moved on! This is my life now! I have a wife and a daughter! I have things I care for! This, you'd never understand! Because this isn't something you can possess or conquer!"

"Don't be silly, Magnus. There is no such thing as the unconquerable. All it takes is one swing of that axe. You still have it, don't you? I know you do. Why do you keep it? Didn't you move on?"

"Shut up!"

"Fine, fine, lie to yourself all you like. But deep down, we both know, don't we? Had you truly moved on, you wouldn't be here talking to a dead man!"

Magnus attacks him. But there is nothing.

For two days, he runs without rest.

He falls to his knees upon arrival. Pallas is no more. Ash covers the ground. The torched buildings still cough fumes as the last fires die down. No sign of anyone. A feeling of dread washes over him as he realizes the fate of the villagers. The fate of his family.

He failed them.

Celeritas' foal - Invictus - finds Magnus on his knees. Somehow the fucking horse survived. He is truly invincible.

Magnus doesn't think. He acts. Between the rubble and debris of his old house, he finds them: his old axe and his old bronze platemail. They're still hot from the embers, but he doesn't care.

"Here he is again", says Thelonious. "My Bronze Rhino."

He follows the tracks of the undead army. But he is far too late. They're gone. He never sees Delilah or Victoria again. The terrifying idea that they were turned into undead cannon fodder will torment him for the rest of his life.



55 years old.


Magnus spends the better part of the last ten years untying old knots. He forms a new mercenary band. Lucretius arms them.

"Magnus, my friend, you know this is suicide", says the blacksmith. "There are better ways to die."

"Fix my axe, Seneca. I'll need it tomorrow."

War beckons him and welcomes him back like an eager lover. Ten years. Ten years in the pursuit of the bloody necromancers, assaulting and destroying their every advanced post and stronghold. He knows he's leading these young soldiers to their death, but he doesn't care. He's blind.

He's angry.

"This is the Magnus I know!", says Thelonious, riding next to him. "Feel that anger, my son. Let it boil, let it boil. You belong here. You know this, don't you? Go, now. Fetch me that castle."

When they arrive at Fort Risencrantz, however, they find the keep torn apart, seemingly by an explosion of immense proportions. What the fuck happened there? Corpses and skeletons all around, rotting, a feast for the crows, the flies and the worms. That was obviously the undead army, no longer animated, as though whatever hand controlled the puppets was severed. His revenge taken from him.

Magnus looks at the cadavres and wonders if they are amongst them...

"We'll keep going west, to the coast", he announces to his men. "The Risencrantz are no more. But the Cashymir still live."

Vengeance is a frail thing. Without a target, it ceases to exist. And Magnus needs it. Without it, he has no purpose. He has nothing. So he does the only thing he can: he finds a new target.



57 years old.


It takes him two years to finally get his revenge. It costs him the entire mercenary band, but he was ready to sacrifice them since day one.

"Listen to me, Lucretius. This is a ticket to the mainland. All my savings went into this piece of paper, so you better not lose it. You go. Start a new life in Mercadia."

"Magnus... Thank you, but... What about you?"

"I'll find a way. Don't you worry. But... If we never see each other again, you better light that lantern for me. Goodbye."

The siege of Fort Cashymir happens at night. A mere distraction, really. Magnus sends the troops to their deaths, no different than the noble House, which he now seeks to destroy, did to the Legion. He uses the distraction to break into the palace. He kills everyone. Elderly, women, children, no one is spared. Thelonious is there too, fighting by his side, bathing in the corrupt blood of the Cashymir.

When the cashymiran guards take notice, it is too late - the palace burns. Magnus escapes to the docks, where he manages to steal a keltish glider. He pushes the boat into the water and jumps in.

He takes the vessel along the coast only to get Invictus, then departs. He watches the fires in the distance, as the first snows of winter begin to fall.

"Good bye, Kelt", he says. "Good bye, war."

Thelonious stands at the docks, grinning, and waving to Magnus. The old Legatus slowly vanishes, like fog dissipating in the wind...



58 years old - present time.


Two months later, he is anchoring the boat in the mercadian docks. Funny coincidence: it is his birthday. He feels like a newborn, as the airs of the new world blow on his face.

A new beginning. Away from war and bloodshed.

He holds the old axe in hand and looks at it. They've been through a lot together and somehow survived one another. He wonders if he'll be able to put the weapon down now and finally retire.

Yet, a laughter in the back of his head booms. His laughter. It is the last time, though.

He'd never hear Thelonious Creta again.

In front of him, the gates of Edana. And a new life.

May it be a calmer one. He enters the city, then, and disappears amidst the passers-by...

[[Music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iX_XfgBsuEY Put it on loop!]]

Part Two: Mercadia.



Emberfade.


His first impression of Mercadia isn't the greatest: a defenseless Kingdom, whose protectors and caretakers still smell of their mother's milk. Children who never felt the faintest sting of war.

The land and the people are warmer for sure. Perhaps too much for his liking. The umidity, the constant rains, the stench of horseshit everywhere, the grass blades sticking to his boots and armor... He hates all of it.

But, at least, this isn't Kelt.

This rich and fertile realm, emaciated by a lack of conviction and by everlasting peace - what place does a warlord have here?

Then... He catches rumors about the Southlands, about the fall of Tilverton and about a fort named "Risencrantz". Coincidence? He is too old to believe in coincidences. He rides south, but finds nothing but rubble and decay.

And it is amidst the ruins of a freeport unknown to him that he sees a familiar sight: a red cloak. Like the one he wears. Like the one all legionnaries wore. He commands Invictus to give chase to the red cloaked rider.

The rider notices him and turns around, arming himself as if he expects trouble. He wields a mace - a crimson mace. Magnus can barely believe his eyes. He would recognize that weapon anywhere.

It's Natasha. Clyde's favorite mace.

"Clyde?", Magnus asks.

"Who wants to know?"



Fallendusk.


In the calm streets of Edana, someone calls out to him. Not by his name, but by a title he hadn't used or heard in many years.

"Legatus?"

He turns to find yet another familiar face. He almost doesn't recognize "young" Solmyr behind the gray beard.

"Well, I'll be damned", Magnus says. "I'd assume you were dead by now."

"There was no such order, Legatus."

"I'm not your Legatus anymore, Solmyr. The Legion is dead."

"But we aren't. So long as we live, it lives in us."

They catch up. Magnus mentions having found Clyde and that Lucretius should be arriving soon, with their cargo. Solmyr seems much more excited than he is with this unplanned reunion. The past is still a sore wound for the old Legatus, one he had been avoiding to treat.

Nonetheless, Solmyr convinces him to arrange a meeting between the four of them. In the blink of an eye, there they are, drinking again, laughing again, reminiscing, immersed in nostalgy. And for a moment, they are young again, sitting around the fire in the camp of the Legion, being scolded by Thelonious Creta, because there is a battle waiting for them when the sun rises...

Magnus doesn't mention Delilah or Victoria. He wants to, but he doesn't. Too painful. Lucretius, seemingly noticing that, also keeps the secret to himself. Instead, they speak about Tilverton and about Zoma, The Unmade. When Clyde mentions an attack to the necromancer's lair is being planned, Magnus doesn't hesitate; when he realizes, the words jump out of his mouth.

"We should be there. We should join this effort. These younglings need guidance. I mean, look at them. They barely know how to hold a sword. We're not that old that we can't fight anymore, are we?"

"I've never stopped fighting", says Clyde.

"I'll go wherever you command, Legatus", says Solmyr.

"My fighting days are over", says Lucretius. "I quite enjoy the peace and quiet of Mercadia. I'm a pacifist now, Magnus, as you know. I won't join and I beg you, all of you, don't either. Let's leave the warring days behind us, in the past where it belongs. We're old. We're lucky to have gotten this far."

Before the week is through, their weapons are sharpened and their armors and shields polished. Despite what he said, it is Lucretius himself who takes care of their equipment. Like the old days. Solmyr still has the Eagle of The Legion. Magnus feels his heart racing when the golden bird of prey is, once more, raised high, catching the sunlight in its wings.

No one knows who they are when they arrive and join the forces to combat the necromancer.

No one knows the meaning behind that battle cry.

"MORS!"

But they do. They didn't forget. They never will.



Frostfall.


Their performance in the necromancer's lair is noted, which prompts a meeting with the mercadian Councilman - Cedric Warren - the Voice of King Narindun. The idea is Solmyr's, but, truth be told, he didn't have to insist a lot; it takes no effort to convince Magnus to reinstate the Iron Legion. There is a lot a warlord can do here.

They sign contract with Mercadia. The Legion is now tasked with the Kingdom's defense. And their payment? Lands, to build and plant upon: the retirement that House Cashymir denied them.

Solmyr convinced Magnus. Magnus convinced Clyde. Clyde convinced Lucretius. They are back. The red cloaks fly in the wind once more. The Golden Eagle spreads its wings. In a flash, it all comes back to Magnus. The thrill and glory of war. He feels young again. He makes Clyde and Solmyr his first Centurions and Lucretius, their Artifex.

He can barely believe Councilman Warren is keltish himself. His eyes bear the glint of someone who never endured the horrors of war. Magnus sees the way Cedric holds a sword, his armor practically new, his skin not marred by scars. And he sees how Cedric tries to prove himself, to show the world he is capable of the heavy task thrown on his lap. Magnus sees how the man tries to please everyone, permissive, unable to say no, and Magnus sees how Cedric's subjects take advantage of that. And it sickens him.

His comrades take notice too. One of them points out the Kingdom's current frail state and how easily it could be conquered from within. Why settle for lands, when they can have it all? Magnus looks at the castle over the walls and remembers the honorless man who would do anything to be inside those blocks of marble.

"No", Magnus says. "We're not here as conquerors. We're here as guardians. We gave our word, we took an oath. This means nothing in Kelt. But this isn't Kelt. And the sooner we realize that, the better. If you want to follow my command again, fair enough; this is it: I want to turn this Kingdom into a better version of itself. And I want to turn that keltish boy into a man. If you or anyone tries to seize this nation, you'll have to get through me first."

"Spoken like a true father!", Clyde jokes.

Lucretius looks at Magnus, who doesn't say anything...

By the morning, posters are seen all over Edana: the Iron Legion is hiring.



Deepfrost.


In the span of a month, Mercadia gains an army. A new generation of Tiros joins the old men, most of them also keltish imigrants. Magnus sees to their training personally and has Lucretius arm and equip them. The Kingdom isn't so defenseless anymore.

Magnus wants the world to know. He wants the world to recognize Mercadia as a force, as a potency. He wants the world to fear it. Under his command, they recover lost key resource locations, becoming the nation holding the largest quantity of such nodes. He sees that guardsmen, legionnaires and knights alike are well equipped and trained. Lucretius lives by the forge now, working day and night with no rest or relent. A Bastion is built in front of the city gates, as a stalwart shield and first line of defense. If invaders dare to come, the first thing Magnus wants them to see is the banner of the Legion: the iron fist of Thelonious Creta.

But the invaders never came. There is no war in this civilized continent. He doesn't realize it yet, how this peace, this unbearable peace, gets him restless. At night, Magnus revisits the keltish civil war, as the nightmares begin to visit him again. Funny; he no longer views Thelonious in his dreams. Instead, he sees a beastly warrior clad in black armor, bloodthirsty, unable to contain his rage - a fury so great, so impossibly great, it threatens to swallow the entire battlefield, the entire continent, the entire world. More often than not he wakes up in a puddle of sweat, screaming, with his hand reaching for the axe, the taste of iron stinging his palate...

Then came the necromancers. A whole wave of them. And Magnus is forced to remember his failure.

He swears he won't fail this time. He organizes the patrols and issues a call to arms. With the timely reports sent from Arandor in the East and with the Legion behind him, they locate and hunt down each of the defilers. All save for one: Rudyard. The very apprentice of Zoma, The Unmade. They never see one another, despite playing a game of mouse and cat. Magnus cannot get over the fact that tilvan fort was named Risencrantz. Coincidence? No. He's still too old to believe in coincidences.

Following the elven prerogative, the Councilman decides to legalize necromancy, as a means to an end, that end being control. A controvertial decision that causes dissent among his peers. Magnus doesn't like it either, he knows far too well deceivers cannot be controlled. Necromancy cannot be stopped with bureaucracy. He uses his influence to try and change Cedric's mind. When that fails, he uses pressure. And pressure always makes a weak stick snap.

The unofficial duty as advisor is one Magnus learns to appreciate. He and Cedric grow closer. And Magnus starts to notice a bit of him in the young Councilman. Cedric is hardening. Just as Magnus starts to notice a bit of Cedric in him. Magnus is softening. Without realizing, he grows fond of the lad. He wants to protect him and guide him and show him the world beyond the walls.

To surprise Cedric, Magnus orders Lucretius to craft a new suit of armor and a new weapon - an axe with keltish design, no different than his own. Magnus puts that axe in Cedric's hand and teaches him how to use it, much like Thelonious Creta taught him...



Newglow.


The warrior in black armor visits every night, in every dream. Magnus combats these visions by extending his waking hours, sometimes avoiding sleep altogether. He doesn't allow himself to feel tired. He cannot. Mercadia needs him. And so does Cedric.

The lack of rest wrecks his already limited patience and tolerance. He grows irritated, which reflects in his harsh orders to the Legion. He tries to recreate the keltish discipline and commitment of the golden days. And watches as the new sticks under him, one by one, begin to snap. They occupy themselves with trivial tasks or concerns: crafting, medicine, religion, music... everything... everything but war. What's wrong with this generation of fools? Solmyr is the first to warn him.

"They're not ready", he says. "Some of them never will be."

And deep down, Magnus knows Solmyr is right. Deep down, he knows there's no going back. The Iron Legion was truly dead. This which they have now is but a carcass tied to Invictus' saddle, being dragged behind him across the Kingdom. He realizes, with accurate certainty and inevitable dread, that he misses it - he misses the war. He tries to combat these thoughts, but he's unable to. He doesn't even need the unwelcome memory of The Immortal to tell him now. He knows it. He feels it.

When the Beatrice incident occurs and tension between Mercadia and Arandor arises, Magnus feels hopeful. He'd never admit it, to himself or the world around him, but he does. He craves the battlefield, the place where his true self can come out, no bridles. This violent energy pushes him to write an unsolicited letter to the elven Magistrate, without the Councilman's permission or knowledge. Moved by that impulse, he sends off the pidgeon carrying his letter, hoping the reply will be an elven battalion marching into the mercadian plains.

Vain hope. Other than heated words exchanged, there is nothing else. Diplomacy and politics see the issue resolved. Are these the wars of the new world? Is this what the old warlord is reduced to? An intimidading hound, ready to bite whenever his master releases the leash? A mannequin with an ugly face?

This night, the warrior in black armor speaks to him for the first time. "Disgraceful", he utters. And Magnus wakes up in terror, from realizing he heard, muffled as it were, his own voice coming from that closed helmet.



Stillhearth.


As predicted by Solmyr, many of the new legionnaires desert the group. Some without any notice; a total and complete lack of consideration for the training and material support bestowed upon them. At night, the warrior in black armor finds each one of them and chases them across a grassy field. He catches up to each deserter and unleashes his unbriddled rage with no restraint. And when he is done with them, there is nothing left - just the good and old crimson, painting the world red.

To avoid the nightmares and because there are fewers soldiers, Magnus works double hours, triple hours, sometimes he just goes on for several days straight, not even caring to remove the armor, to eat or to bath. He has a duty. The Kingdom needs him. He made a promise. He took an oath. He can't fail.

Not again.

Despite the disbandment of the Legion, Cedric promotes Magnus to Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He is now a member of the mercadian council and the leader of the mercadian army, in an official capacity. Big boots to fill. Since his arrival, Magnus tries to conform to the new reality and this new sense of honor, as opposed to the barbarism of the old ways preached by his foster father. He feels divided - split in half. And somewhere in the middle, he buries them, Delilah and Victoria. He barely thinks of them now. The painting of his daughter gathers dust on the wall of his office.

And then came the orcs.

Ameresh Mines - their mines - is taken by Burz'kal. This is it. He is certain this time. The red muse will be back into his life - Mistress War. They march together, he and Cedric. They fight side by side. And together they repel the orcish invaders. The War Shaman flees with his tail between his legs, his companion's head carried back North in Magnus' hand. Magnus can't stop looking at Cedric. He is so proud of the lad. He witnesses the transformation, the metamorphosis that glory causes in a man. Yes, a man; no longer a boy reeking of milk. Cedric had his baptism of blood and Magnus was there to witness his rebirth - the rebirth of the son he never had. Tales of their victory run from mouth to mouth and the monikers of "The Wall" and "Empyrean Fury" gain the streets of Edana.

The orcs don't give up, however. Magnus hopes they don't. Yet... Here it is again, the malady of the century, the weapon of the new world: bureaucracy. Diplomacy and politics. Cedric seeks negotiation with the swamp swines and offers to pay them, for a whole year, to have the mines returned to Mercadia. In spite of the fact Mercadia owned the mines before. Magnus cannot believe his eyes when he sees Cedric slashing his palm to bleed for the War Shaman and Grummsh. In front of everyone. Like a damn coward. And against the decision of the Council. Magnus is the one supposed to bleed, not through a self-inflicted wound, but in battle versus an orcish champion. But the orcs name no champion, they refuse the challenge, much to Magnus' surprise. And then Cedric ceeds, the stick snaps under the pressure of the single red eye of the War Shaman. Cedric cuts his hand and bleeds for the enemy.

Someone from the mercadian formation steps forward; a warrior in black armor. He walks up to Cedric's blood on the ground and shakes his head.

"Disgraceful", he says. "Is this why we trained him? We cannot change him. It was a mistake to think we could. In his craddle of gold, he never faced the tests of war. He is a spoiled kid. He is not our son."

Magnus takes a deep breath. Visions? For fuck's sake, what a time to lose it.

When the negotiations are done, the orcs retreat into their volcano. The Councilman bandages his hand and announces he has business in the capital, leaving the Lord Commander behind with the other soldiers, to recapture the mines in his stead...

And Magnus... Magnus follows his order. He recaptures the mines. Being bombarded by the people's protests against paying orcs for what's rightfully theirs. Under the constant questioning of the Councilman's decision. He defends and protects Cedric's honor and repels every accusation, every criticism, despite agreeing with all of them.

When he rides back home, his blood boils in his veins. His mind is clouded. He erupts into Cedric's office.

"What were you thinking?! You bled for them! You bled for their god!"

They argue and fight for the first time. The Lord Commander accuses the Councilman of despotism and threatens to leave the Council should Cedric pretend he's the only member in it again. Magnus warns him about the concerns of the people and advises him to write a notice explaining his decision. He feels it's a must now. The people are outraged. Cedric agrees to write a public letter, but never does...



Endrise.


A new threat looms in the horizon. The spymaster returns with grave news. The group known as Knights of The Mist harbor a necromancer in the mercadian borders. How could that have escaped his vigilant eye? Well, he knows the answer. He is too occupied in the city, with paperwork, interviewing and enrolling people in the Kingsguard, making equipment inventory, building a barracks and, of course, keeping the castle secure and safe, so the King can continue to peacefully warm that golden chair with his golden arse.

The Lord Commander feels stagnant, undervalued and sedentary. Peace nails him to a chair in an office between walls of stone. This is not where he needs to be. His place is out there, with an axe in his hand, baring his teeth, shouting at the enemy's face as he watches them succumb to his rage.

Rage.

Old and sweet friend.

"We miss it", says the warrior in black armor, pacing around Magnus' office. "You know we do. Why do you deny it? How long can you hold it back? You know, don't you? This necromancer... He can dance with the dead in front of Cedric and he'll still let him go. We're the only ones who can stop this menace. You know this. With steel and violence. There is no other way. There is no other way but the old way. We know this."

"I'll talk to him... He'll have to listen... These people deceived us and broke every law in this land by walking our strees with a necromancer. I'll talk to him. He'll have to listen."

Silence. He looks around the room. There is no one. He is talking to no one. He is all by himself.

"We made a promise", the now disembodied voice insists; his voice. "Don't forget. We gave our word."

He wants to assemble the Kingsguard and raid the keep of the Knights of the Mist. After all, they fooled Mercadia all this time, while knowing far too well their stance on necromancy. The Councilman decides to invite the group over, instead, to confront them with the discoveries and give them a chance to explain themselves, or to try to prove the accusations false.

The Council and the Knights meet. Cedric conducts the interview, masterfully so, and gives their leader, Neeva, a rope with which to hang themselves. During the interrogation, disguised as conversation, the pretense Knights lie to their faces, denying everything they know. It is Magnus to confront them with the truth. He spits it on their face. And they continue lying. He expects nothing else from those who would protect a necromancer. Defilers and deceivers all.

At the first sign of an unlawful conduct, Magnus lunges at them, the beast is unleashed. It suddenly hits him: his armor is black, his weapons are black, all of it dark as night. He blinks his eyes and shakes his head, and the bronze returns.

And in that instant of confusion, the criminals escape. The Knights end up exiled. But the Lord Commander feels that's not enough. They released a known necromancer into the world. The equivalent of moving a flea to an unseen part of the body. You can't see it, but it'll bite you all the same sooner or later. Magnus and Cedric argue again that day. The Lord Commander reminds the Councilman that, when that necromancer and that group start causing problems, it'll be him and his men on the line. Innocents will die. Spirits will stir. While the King and the Councilman remain tranquil and untouched in the confines and safety of the walls.

"He won't understand", says the warrior in black armor, as they walk back to the Bastion. "He doesn't know. He didn't live it. We did. We know. If we don't act, who will? If we do nothing, order will be subverted. And without order, the Kingdom will crumble."

"There is order. Mercadia has laws. And we.. I am subject and sworn to them."

"Nonsense! We're a warlord. There is only one law, the true law that trumps over all: strength. We don't kneel to paper and ink. We are forged in blood and iron in the fires of war. The scum of this world care not for documents and decrees. They must be corralled and overpowered through fear. This is how we win this war."

"What war? This is Mercadia. There's no war here."

The warrior in black armor laughs.

"Isn't there? Everywhere there's struggle. Everywhere. So long as we draw breath, war will follow us wherever we go. We can't hide from what's bred in our bones. And very soon, you'll see it for yourself. You'll see how I'm right."

Two weeks later, the Council is summoned again. Magnus knows not what this meeting is about. He expects for the worst, usually that's the case. And maybe, deep down, in a darker and sinister corner of his mind, he secretly hopes for the worst. As they say, one should be careful what they wish for...

Cedric informs the Council that Zarnak, the necromancer of the Knights of the Mist, requested an audience to have his case reviewed. A letter arrived two weeks ago. But this is the first time the Council hears of it. Cedric has it. Magnus asks to read it. In the letter, Zarnak mocks them, demanding an apology. Magnus passes the letter along to the other council members and looks at Cedric, waiting for an explanation.

"Zarnak will arrive within the hour with his witnesses. He pleads innocence in the accusation of necromancy", Cedric says.

"What's the meaning of this, Councilman?", Magnus asks. "This letter arrived two weeks ago. Why are we hearing about it just now? And why was the Council not consulted about this trial you seem so eager to grant a known necromancer?"

"It's the law, Magnus. Everyone can request to have their case revised. As to why I didn't consult the Council... Oh! My apologies. My mind has been so full as of late, it might have slipped me."

Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

At first, Magnus assumes he hears the drums of war. It takes him a moment to realize it's his heart pounding on his chest against his breastplate. He cannot believe what he hears.

The warrior in black armor standing in a dark corner, arms crossed, shoots an accusatory glance to Cedric and nods in Magnus' direction.

"This is the law you defend", says the warrior in black armor. "But this is not order. This is folly."

Magnus doesn't know whether that last sentence was said by himself or by the warrior in black armor. Maybe it was said by both at the same time.

No member of the Council knew about the letter or the trial. No member of the Council seemed to agree that a trial was needed. And yet, no member of the Council was consulted. This was the second time Magnus had warned Cedric about.

He reaches for the mercadian insignia pinned on his cloak and plucks it off, tossing it on the table before Cedric. The Councilman looks at it then up at Magnus.

"Lord Commander?"

"Do you remember what I said during the orc situation? I'm no longer your Lord Commander, Cedric. I refuse to serve a coward."

It breaks his heart to say it to his face. But it is true. Clyde was right - Cedric lacks a backbone. He doesn't have what it takes to make the toughest calls. He is too passive. Magnus knows Zarnak and his ilk would play them again, mock them again, and then be allowed to leave again. Because the Councilman is weak. Porcelain.

"We can't let that happen now, can we?", asks the warrior on black armor.

The words of the Black Knight start to make a lot of sense to the warlord. How could he have been so blind? How could he have ever looked at Cedric as a son? Perhaps it was his fault. Perhaps he failed him as a father. Again.

Enough. No more pretending. No more holding back. That's not who he is. He is the son of Thelonious Creta. He is the Legatus of The Iron Legion. He is a warlord and that's all he'll ever be. He'll do things his way now. The only way.

The old way.

He exits the keep, the Black Knight following him like a shadow. First, he goes to the arcane sigils in the southern peninsula, expecting to find the mage before he arrives in the capital. He sees the vessel there, sailing north, so he makes his way to the docks, riding Invictus at full speed, demanding everything from the old bones and muscles of the stallion. The world moves around him in a blur. He sees nothing. There is nothing.

Nothing but rage.

At the docks, he sees the trio: Zarnak and the two criminals from last time, Lotus and Tobias. Walking into Edana like they were not wanted people there.

"See?", asks the Black Knight. "They don't fear this Kingdom. They don't fear us. They must die. We'll make an example out of them."

Zarnak is speaking. Magnus can barely hear him over the drums of war. Or was it his heart? He can't tell the difference anymore. He hears the Cohort shouting behind him, "MORS!". The Centurions raise the banner high. And his Legatus, Thelonious Creta, right there at the vanguard, commands the attack.

It feels good to be back.

"Take us to your Councilman", the necromancer demands.

"Yes, I'll take you to him."

Without another word, Magnus lunges at them. A hail of blades. A crazed behemoth. A berserk beast.

A Bronze Rhino.

He returns to the keep afterwards, covered in blood and exhilarated. The Council members look at him in shock. Cedric stands up.

"Here they are, Cedric", Magnus says, throwing the three heads at Cedric's feet. "Go ahead. Judge them."

He leaves the keep. Cedric follows him. And they fight for the last time, at least, using words. After this moment, the fate of these two men is murky. These men, so different from one another, yet who somehow formed the strongest of bonds, look at each other as comrades, as friends and, who knows, as father and son, for the last time.

"You are a despot, Cedric. You don't need a Council. And soon, they'll too realize it, as I did."

"And you are a tyrant, Magnus. Who knows only the language of violence. And my mistake was not realizing it soon, despite the warnings."

"I don't expect you to understand. How could you? You're a weakling who never knew war. Who fled from it!"

"And you never left it, Magnus. You're trapped there still. Your body is in Mercadia, but your mind never left Kelt!"

Magnus takes a step forward. Cedric doesn't flinch.

"Strike me then!", Cedric says, provoking him. "An unarmed man. Do it, show me who you really are!"

"You know I wouldn't. That's your armor right now. And the reason you talk as you do. But in those tight pants of yours, I know your balls are shrinking into nothingness."

"Leave, Magnus. And never return. You're a murderer. You're exiled from Mercadia."

"You can no longer command me, Cedric. The power you had over others was granted to you by me and my axe. Answer me now: do you still feel in charge? If I refuse to go, what will you do?"

Cedric turns to leave. Magnus spits on the ground.

"Coward!", he shouts.

It feels like a cold blade pushed slowly into his guts. And he savors it. He knows what will happen next. Cedric will conduct the trial, he'll be made a fool of by these so-called Knights, and then they'll leave untouched. Magnus refuses to be around to see it.

He writes a few letters and leaves them with Lucretius, with instructions. The quartermaster is absolutely confused.

"What's happening, Magnus?", he asks. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going back, Seneca."

"Going back? Where? To Kelt?"

"No. I'm going back home. From where I never should have left. I'm going to war."

"Magnus, you make no sense, my friend. Calm down. War? There's no war in the mainland."

"Isn't there?"

Lucretius is shocked by the look on his friend's face. He's never seen Magnus like this. He was known for his temper, but nothing like this. This is another man. Lucretius doesn't know who this is.

As he rides off, the drums of war booming loudly still, he looks down at himself to see his entire armor taken by the black.

It takes him a while to find bronze this time...