[center] [b] Marmon, The South [/b] [/center]

 The forest was alive as dark emerald leaves and pine bristles rustled in a cold wind brought forth from the surrounding white capped mountains. The soft chatter of a squirrel could be heard in the distance, challenged by the songs of the woodland birds and the shriek of a hawk. The natural woodland theater gave a sense of serenity and awe that only the gentle hand of nature could sculpt so masterfully from such simple and basic necessities of the land. A pure medium, and an even purer masterpiece. Such a work of art that never grew withered or was outgrown, and was looked upon with the same, soft, sympathetic eyes by a playful child as well as a brutish thug, or pessimistic old man. This quality was certainly appreciated and revered by creatures and man alike for its unduplicatable unique taste. 

The scent of pine and icy wind was strong, and aroused a sensual pleasure to the chilled men who walked through the dense wood. Beams of golden sunlight fought its way through the thick canopy and rested its warm hand on their fur covered shoulders, giving sanctuary from the chilly mountain wind. The feel of autumn was prevalent despite the sun being high in summer, and the trees a vibrant green, but such was the mountains, unreachable by complete summer as well as the powerful corruption of the cities, or so the village folk of the South liked to say to themselves, but this group men who now trudged their way through the woods, kicking up mulch and leaves would disagree, and disagree strongly.

Swords hung idly on their belts, the mark of The Bull was burnt into the leather scabbards that held the sharp instrument, they were not here to further the cause of peace, but here to persuade the Duke of Cholerny to join in on the massive corrupt and festering orgy of crime and deceit that had so swiftly devoured the rest of the country with ease and gusto. 

Ragged laughter and illiterate stories drowned out the peaceful song of the forest as the men belched sinful limericks and spat terrible anecdotes. Unkempt beards collected on their cheeks and surrounded their chipped yellow teeth, the same as crude and intimidating leather and mail clung to their bodies. For a criminal delegation they looked as if they were about to go to war on everything decent and pure, and rightfully so. 

 An arrow whizzed into the scene and tore its way gruesomely through one of the men's throats, ending his corrupt story with a bloody gurgle. It took only moments for the survivors to react to their fallen comrades grisly demise, and proceeded to shout with taunts and evil cooes as if to draw the murderer of a murderer from the wood. The forest fell silent as the taunts slowed and eventually ceased, not one more arrow nor archer made show of his presence, creating an uneasy calm.

 Suddenly an answer. Another stray arrow found its way to the group of men, piercing the pupil of one of the unlucky thugs, popping his eye with an audible snap, and burying it’s bodkin point deep into the man’s skull. The man collapsed with a loud thud. The thugs had enough, and some began to flee, not willing to die one by one at the hands of an unknown executioner. The escape was cut off by quickly appearing men closed in together behind a wall of towering shields that bore bosses in the center of the Marmon sigil, the thugs turned on their heels to try another escape but they met sight they had feared, a calm and collected figure, bane of any thug. This man wore segmented articulated steel strips on his shoulders and torso, a proud yet tattered banner was held behind him. Such a sight hadn’t been seen by many in the matter of many years, however here the ghost of the past stood before these terrible and sinful men. The Commander in steel’s piercing eyes paused the retreat, and his strong authoritative voice rumbled from his throat and out of his stubble surrounded mouth, “ By order of the Lost Cohort, and I, Commander Mikus Dominum, I arrest you, I witness against you, and I sentence you to death by our own hands.”

 With final echoes of the order a flood of royal soldiers spilled from the trees, banners of old stitched upon and over their armor of chain and gambit as the once prestigious infantry made an easy slaughter of the corrupt delegation. Swords of wars past slashed, decapitated and thrusted their way through the flesh of their enemy. The thugs stood little chance, and those who fled were knocked back into the fray by bone shattering shield bosses, or humiliating kicks of studded boots. Sounds of bones crackling and the dead man's final scream bounced off the trees and into the ears of all in the bloody skirmish. Skin was ripped and blood was drawn as the thugs attempted to fight back but were easily confined and forced against each other, huddled and ready to be slaughtered by the superior force. The air was polluted with a mist of blood the open mouth would so strongly taste, as the final enemy was disemboweled by a tactful slash, effectively spilling his innards onto his already fallen comrades that lay eternally by his feet.

Mikus picked up one of the scabbards, making quick notice of The Bull’s mark, and wiped the gore off his blade with it. A disgusted look carved its way across the cynical man’s face as he took in the sight of the aftermath.

 “Take what we can use, let the scavengers of the wood take the rest,” Mikus called out to his once more victorious troop, “Then we march.”

His last words were words spoke often, as the last Marmonite cohort in existence, their vigilante agenda was never completed, and every victory they scored was little compared to all the battles they couldn’t find, or make it to. It was a cycle they could not win, but one everyone of Mikus’ soldiers would walk it for an eternity despite such odds. They were the Lost Cohort, the Last Cohort, they were [i] hope [/i].