[b][i][u]WESSERIUS[/u][/i][/b] “Daniel,” Wesserius voice was soft, but it didn’t need to be anything more. His entire army stood in dead silence, glassy eyes locked upon the gates a few miles before them. They were at the top of a hill within the valley. They had to go down the hill. Then through the valley. Then they would reach the gates. Then through those. Then they would be in Talbor. Daniel approached, unable to keep himself from shaking just a bit. He was familiar with the general, he had no reason to personally fear the general, he had committed no sins against him nor done anything to incur his wrath. But he shook just a bit. “Yes sire?” “What,” Wesserius mused, “Do you think about all this?” Daniel hated these sorts of questions, because there was no right answer, and it was really an awful drop if he were to be forcibly thrown off the hill. Wesserius sat atop a rock, easily spotted by any Talborian scouts with looking glasses. He didn’t seem to care. The general’s greying hair was cropped relatively short, a messy, unkempt mane that reflected his messy, unkempt style of doing things rather nicely. Within a few feet of him, the temperature picked up ever so slightly-and if one caught the general in the edges of his vision, the shimmering of a mirage made things ever so murky. “Well, sir, I see no easy way through this valley.” “True,” Wesserius said. His left hand was quite unlike his right-whereas his right hand was flesh and bone, his left was…something else. His entire left forearm was blackened, horrifically scarred, and at the wrist a strange blend of steel and wood and stone functioned as a hand. He moved it with noticeably more difficulty, but white fire danced along his fingertips, begging to be set free. Wesserius watched it as one would watch a lover dance. “But, there is always a way. No matter how difficult. How would you suggest we go about attacking?” Daniel took a few moments to think over a response-Wesserius was a patient man, and he preferred intellectual thought to knee-jerk instincts. Behind them, the vast majority of Wesserius’ army stood stock still, hands slapped flat against the sides, no armor or weapons slowing them down. Regular people. Humans, orcs, elves. Idly staring ahead. Mindless. Pawns, bishops, king. Daniel finally said, “Well, sir, I would wait until nightfall, and then try and send some forces around the sides of the mountain, take out their scouts…maybe…” His voice trailed off. Wesserius waited until Daniel admitted, “I don’t know sir.” “Tsk tsk. Well, fortunately, I do.” Wesserius stood up and whistled. A single man stepped forward, sluggishly moving up behind the general. “Take thirty of you. Begin marching through the valley. Single file, horizontal. Do you see that rock right there?” A grunt of affirmation. “Excellent.” Wesserius whistled again and another man stepped up. “I want you to get…” Wesserius closed his eyes and did a few silent calculations, lips moving. “Three hundred and three. Three hundred and three knives. Distribute one to every thirtieth person.” Daniel did not fully understand where they were going with this. He remained silent. “Gentlemen!” Wesserius said energetically, nimbly getting up on top of the rock. A century and a half, but the elf still had it. “I will not waste my time giving you a rallying speech, for you will most assuredly be dead within an hour. You thirty.” The thirty men responded by way of monosyllabic groans. “You are going to march down the hill. Into the valley. I want you to take your time. I want you to avoid doing anything that might startle the enemy, I don’t want you making any loud noises, I don’t want you doing any silly chants. Savvy?” Groans. “I thought as much. Now when you get parallel with that rock, I want you to take this knife,” Wesserius took a blade from the crates of knives that were being brought forward by the drones, “And I want you to slit your throat with it. Then the next man in line will take it and do the same. You will continue this down the line until you all are dead. Questions?” Daniel remained very silent. “You will repeat this five times, a different group heading out every fifteen minutes. But the sixth time, we are going to mix things up! Gentlemen, your group has one hour and fifteen minutes. You are to find as many branches, as many disposable pieces of wood, so on and so forth, that you can. You will not receive a knife.” Wesserius handed the leader of their line a wineskin of oil and a blazing torch. “You will proceed down the line, but you will instead immolate yourselves. I want you to remain still and quiet as this happens. Savvy?” Silence. “Good. You will repeat this cycle until we get to the thousandth man, at which point I will evaluate our progress and decide what to do next. Carry on.” The men began to march out, solemnly and impassively, the Red Legion’s spell bidding them onwards. Inside, they were probably screaming and weeping. Try not to think about it too much. “Daniel,” Wesserius said, resuming his seat on the rock. “Please go and tell our soldiers to ready for battle. Assuming the wind holds, we’ll attack in about eight hours.” “…what, um, is the plan of attack, sir?” “Sunset. Sun will be in their eyes. Smoke will rise. Lower visibility. Make things difficult for their scouts in the mountains. Move ahead. Send more of the drones, en masse. They provide cover for the siege engines. Rams focus on the gates. Artillery will need time to bring down the gates. Construct catapults when you’re in the valley. Not before. Impossible to traverse the hill. Load the catapults with the drones. Live. Burning. Get them over the gates. Will occupy archers and generally make a mess of things. Did I leave anything out?” “…no sir.” “Good.” Wesserius leaned back, drawing out a pipe. He cupped his left hand around the end and it bust into flame, a fire that would consume the pipe whole in a matter of seconds. With a miniscule effort of will, the flame died down to something manageable, but occasionally, when Wesserius wasn’t watching, it seemed to try and burst up again. Daniel turned to leave, a bit paler than normal. “Daniel, wait, before you go. Another question.” “…ask away, sir.” “What do you think stars are?” Daniel was even less sure of how to proceed with this. “Um…I…the legends say they…” “I don’t care about the legends Daniel. I want to know what you think.” “….they’re…suns? Just…further away?” Wesserius raised an eyebrow. “Hmm. That would make sense, wouldn’t it. I have my own theory, would you care to hear it?” “…yes sir, I’d love to.” “I think stars are just worlds. Other planets. Out there in the void. Worlds that someone made kindling of and set to burn." Wesserius stood up, white flame beginning to course down his prosthesis. "Come, Daniel. We have a world before us. Let us set it to burn. Let us make a star." "...yes sir." [b][u][i]CALDER[/i][/u][/b] A minotaur sat in the snow. Little white specks clung to his nose and around his eyes and horns and generally settled on his black furry head and white fleshy shoulders. He didn't seem perturbed. By the crystalline river sat Calder, a minotaur who, in another realm, would've made a killing off the royalties to his autobiography. But in this one, his autobiography was still a work in progress, and still very terse. It was the very object which he was working on at the moment-a leather-bound journal, worn and for the most part, empty. A small ribbon fluttered in the winter wind, yanked every which way. Frequently, it flopped across the page, well in the path of where Calder would be writing. This didn't seem to faze him-in fact, the minotaur sat staring at the blank line, an uninked quill held firmly in his hand. He had not written a word. He had been sitting by the riverbank for fifteen minutes. Juvegol was quiet. Juvegol was serene. It was slightly chilly, Calder supposed, but a little chill never hut anyone. In fact, it made Calder feel almost alive-and given that Calder embraced every facet of every hour of every day, this was saying something. Calder snorted, scuffing some of the snow out of his nose and, after folding up his journal to prevent the pages from getting wet, shook his head, sending a small blizzard of flurries down onto the ground around him. He opened it back up. Calder was not a gifted wordsmith-he was not blessed with an eloquent vocabulary, he was not gifted with years of schooling. Most times, it took Calder a considerable while to legibly and correctly write a single line. For this reason, Calder's diary was simply an anthology of sentences. The day. The most important thing. That was his entry for each day. Calder dipped his quill in the inkwell, eyes following the serpentine coursing of the water. Pretty. Perhaps he would take a bath once he had finished reflecting on his day. [b]February 3rd. Juvegol. There is a pretty river. [/b] Calder lifted his quill to write the next word, having taken a full minute to etch the line above, when something interrupted him. While our minotaur was far from sagacious, he was certainly not the sort to be annoyed very easily-slavery and being interrupted during his quiet times were really the only surefire ways to enrage Calder, and it would seem that the Red Legion was doing both. A group had begun to assemble on the far shore of the river, armed and beared for war. It was about the only way Calder could tell-he looked upon their faces and saw none of the bloodlust or battlefrenzy or berserker rage that was common amongst warriors. These did not seem warriors. Their clothes were not full with muscle and their hair was not long from campaign. Their faces were blank and their eyes were empty. These did not seem natural. They were some unnatural aberration, an error that Mother Nature forgot to fix. Fortunately, her dear son Calder was there to fix things for him. [b]February 3rd. Juvegol. There is a pretty river. Blank people. It is time.[/b] Calder closed his journal calmly and fastened it back with the strap, making sure his precious recordings were safe. To most, the minotaur's journal would be comical in and of itself-a minotaur, recording his thoughts and feelings? But, just as with his sketches and poetry, Calder held it very close to his heart. He tucked it within his rucksack, then he stood up. Hmm. The trees around him kept Calder a bit obscured from the Juvegol side of the riverbank-they were slavers, the Halderlocks, and Calder had no love lost for those who would take another life and put it beneath chain. Had they come for him, Calder would have thrown their spines into the river. However, he did not want to fight if he didn't have to (especially because the river was very pretty, and as a rule, Calder did not like to get blood all over pretty things), but it would seem that he had to. Calder rose to his full height, years of training and warring rousing from their slumber in the form of taut muscle, stretched across his arms and calves and chest. Calder rolled his neck, began to limber his body with deliberate, careful movements. A fairy had once taught him these stretches. He had never heard of a minotaur stretching but the fairy had been nice and he didn't want to be rude so he tried and it was fun so he kept doing it. Calder knelt and began to put on his armor, a strange assembly of bone and steel and chain that was cannibalized from the many who had fallen before Calder's blade. As he latched himself into his piecemeal protection, Calder began to talk quietly, his bass rumbling drowned out by the river. "Hello Mother," Calder spoke, speaking to...whoever was listening. Calder believed in a higher power. He was not sure what. He knew there was one but he didn't know what. He asked sometimes for forgiveness for not knowing. He hoped the Higher Power understood that Calder was faithful but just not smart enough to know sometimes. He called it Mother and also apologized in case it was a boy. "I think these people will fight soon. Please help me make well of the time I have left." The white-fur-streak and the black-flesh-scar both burned for a moment, a callous, sinister reminder that the old curse was coming, snaking its way up to its heart, and that no blade or fist would stop it. [i]Run. Calder. Run all you wish. What will your last diary entry say? [/i] It will say I did my best and that I was happy. "If I fall today let me fall with honor." Calder paused, trying to remember if there was anything else he forgot about. "Oh! And also please watch for my brothers in the mines. I will try and help them if I can." Anything else? Hm. Calder paused for perhaps a full minute, simply thinking, trying to remember. Was there something else? Probably not. "Okay. I think that is it. I love you. May this fight bring me to you or to Sylvia." Calder picked up Sylvia, a blade which, quite bluntly, was a nasty motherfucker of a sword, and slung it over his shoulder with casual ease. He had gathered his things. He had readied for battle. Calder walked out from the grove at ease with himself, a sort of strange dichotomy welling up within him-there was the hunger and the fury for battle, to test his strength against these armies and see if he would emerge victorious, but there was also the calm. He was not afraid. He already had looked death in the eye and made his piece. These men would not scare him because no men could. Calder was happy. Calder was free. He was the river and the eddy. He was the blank lines and the ink in the diary. He was the- "Bird!" Calder exclaimed happily, spotting a songbird fluttering overhead. He didn't see many up north. Too cold for the little ones. Calder whistled and it flapped over, landing on his horns. It tweeted at him. "Hello little brother. You should go. It will be bad here soon." It chirped merrily and did as it was bid. "Birdy," Calder said, watching it fly. Very pretty. There were lots of pretty things. Most people did not watch for them. Calder walked and moved over to the drawbridge. A few of the guards rather nervously glanced at the shadow-casting behemoth that had lumbered up. Attention was split between Calder and the army across the water. "...what do you want, minotaur?" Some of the condescension was lost on Calder, who was fairly condescending towards himself on general principle. "Why are those people here?" Calder rumbled. "We don't know." Calder paused, thinking things over. There were some nervous glances. A few questioned if he had fallen asleep standing up. "I'm a good fighter," Calder said somewhat modestly. "If they are bad people, I can fight them." "They are indeed. Very bad people. Extremely bad." Extremely. Hm. "You have slaves. Why should I care?" A few more nervous glances. "If I help fight will you let them go?" Calder asked. "Of course." Calder frowned, thinking things over. It was worth it. There lots of them but he did not see death in them. They would be easily broken. "Okay. Please do not..." Calder paused, remembering the word. "Betray me. It makes me sad when that happens." Calder walked up to the drawbridge, sitting down with his legs folded at it. He laid [i]Sylvia[/i] across his lap and took a few deep breaths. There was no rush. The Legion would get there whenever they did. So Calder watched the river course by, entirely oblivious to the very uneasy glances being thrown around him, or cautious whispers. They said they would let the slaves go, so Calder was willing to do this. It would be okay. There would be fighting but Calder would win. He always did. "Okay," Calder said. "I am ready. Are you going to let the bridge down or do you need me to swim?"