Ellarian considered the man before him. Grizzled in the way that only veterans were, he refused to make eye contact no matter how long the former stared. For a long, agonizing moment, Ellarian said nothing, simply gazing at the close cropped black hair of the Captain and then to the soldiers behind him who each averted their gaze as his stony brown eyes swept across them. He looked back down at the captain as he stood up to his full height. In the intervening time between the conscript running off and the gaggle of soldiers returning, he had managed to fashion himself a primitive loincloth from a burial shroud that had been under him so that at least he had some dignity as he left his stone capsule. 

"Stand, Captain," he croaked as he stood before the man, his tone harsh with the grating of a partially atrophied larynx, "I am no-one's lord. I am but a mere soldier, like you." In response, the Captain stood, but still refused to meet his gaze, instead staring at the floor. "Meet my eyes, Captain," he demanded, leaving no room for argument. After a brief moment of hesitation, the man looked up and gazed into Ellarian's dark brown eyes. Where most people would be ambe to divine some sort of meaning from this, the Captain could not pierce far enough into his eyes. Those windows into the soul, usually so vulnerable, had become walls in their own right and yet they possessed a fierceness unmet by the most fiery of barbarians the Captain had met in battle. After a few seconds of intense eye contact, he broke away.  At the same time, Ellarian closed his eyes and lightly shook his head. It wasn't that the captain was a bad man...he was a captain for a reason, but apparently they had lowered their standards. In that single moment, he had weighed, measured and analysed the captain. And he had been found wanting. Looking up, he examined the other soldiers that had gathered at the door, each of which refused to meet his gaze. He felt the bile rise in his throat. Had the empire grown this weak in the time he was gone? He looked back to the captain, who re-established eye contact.

"That I should be ripped from my eternal slumber," he said, his ire beginning to become palpable, thickening the air to the consistency of molasses, "and be cast back into the forge of war..." He stroked his beard, letting out a heavy sigh, "The empire must have dire need of me again." With that one single sentence, all the pressure in the room dropped. What was that old term that had haunted him for so long? There was no rest for the wicked? Either way, it seemed that he would not receive the peaceful end he had always hoped for. He disliked, nay despised being back in the realm of the living, the time of war, endless death and greed. But if he could alleviate some of that suffering by his mere presence...then let it be done. "Show me to the armory," he said as he began to walk towards the exit of the crypt. 

At the doorway, he paused and looked behind him as a flash of red caught his eye. Draped over another grave was a tattered banner, its colour rapidly fading but the symbol unmistakable. Walking back towards it, he stopped at the foot of the grave. 'Here lies Dorian Crosser, banner bearer of the 12th Imperial Legion.' 
"We meet again, old friend" Ellarian said fondly as he brushed the dust off of the engraving. There was a certain sadness about him as he ran his wizened fingers over the stone, but it was soon replaced by professionalism. With something akin to reverance Ellarian plucked the banner off of the grave, releasing a torrent of dust. "Allow me to bring our Legion glory," he said as he draped it over his arm, "one...one more time." Turning back to the door, he pointed out. "Lead the way, Captain." On their way up, a thought occured to him. "Captain...what year is it?" he asked as he continued up the stairs.
"Approximately 1023 seasonal cycles since the unification of Ansus," he replied. Ellarian's eyes widened momentarily. It...was done? It was finally united? A smile crept its way across his lips. People had finally come to their senses and realised that there was no point killing other people..."I see..." he mused as he took another step, a small bound appearing.

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Pulling violently on the leather strap, Ellarian tightened the pauldron onto his shoulder as he geared up for war. He had to say, what these men lacked in discipline and grit, they made up for in metallurgy. They wore armour of polished silver, though they claimed it was something called 'Steel'. It mattered not though, if they did not have the power to back it up they might as well have just been walking containers of meat. After venturing deep into the armoury, despite the captain's protests, Ellarian had found what he had been looking for. The familiar weight of black iron was comforting in a way despite its obvious drawbacks. Brushing a bit of dust off of his breastplate, the stocky man lumbered out of the armory bedecked in full ancient black iron, surprising many of the other soldiers who resembled the metal barrels that the coopers had been churning out. A large black shield dominated his left side, its mere size making it look unwieldy. Unlike the Captain's armour he was usually depicted as wearing, this one was much more plain. But he liked it better this way. Apart from the red ranner draped across his shoulders, he was the spitting image of his murals.

"Men!" he shouted, as if he had become the new leader already, "Form ranks!" Turning to the captain beside him, he looked down. "NOw tell me captain, what do you mean by sub-men. Give me the details."