[sub][h3]Nikolai von Krähenvald:[/h3] [indent] S P R I N G W I N D K E E P - 1 5 T H D A Y O F S U M M E R [/indent][/sub] [hr] In between rainfall, the warmth of bodies was quickly pressing together in the muddied area as a strange sense of unity captured the air, but even with the warmth, it was clear that a pale grimness was what weaved each body and soul tightly in one hold as every creature began to settle himself in an anticipation of wait to hear the Duchess’ words. Despite the starkness of the times, the young and naive excitement inside of Nikolai was only beginning to burn brighter under the pulse of his beating heart. He assumed in his mind that he was not the only one feeling the yearning for battle as his narrow eyes began briefly scanning the area around him as a safe way to pass the time. A loosened grip on [i]Kursiv’s[/i] staff allowed the morning star to slide gingerly into a more rested position for more comfortability in his standstill posture. His muscles relaxed, letting the prospect from the freedom of space that he had learned to know while living in the small village and tending to the horse farm was lacking on the campgrounds—the backdrop of what he was expecting to take place. He was indeed quite innocent in the wake of war. The Duchess’ words cooed a safety net, a doable and possible retrieval of the lost honor for his family’s name. Even the wounds his father had been dealt in the War of Perseverance seemed like a fairytale the way she spoke. He was not at all wrapped around the Duchess’ fingers, but he was not entirely dismissed of her needed inspiration and final warning of the likelihood of death, either. Masculine lips tensed, thinning into a dull, stoic frown of concentration. Drops of rain trickled down his cheeks, not to be mistaken for tears of cowardice or absurd excitement. He would rather die on the battlefield than return to his home having gained nothing, and in the wake of the Duchess’ tone, he was willing to hold onto the thin silver string she was dangling in front of such a large crowd of creatures ready or not for whatever was awaiting their arrival at Nubina. His emotions were on standstill, and crying had never been a trait he exhibited in public; embarrassing as it was to display in secrecy. No, he could not liken the falling rain to the tears shed of the living who mourned the death of loved ones who had fallen in what seemed as in vain during the Wars, but instead, it was likened to the fallen souls trying to remind the men be women about to enter battle for what they were about to regain. And, the Duchess’ voice parted the weather with her unwavering voice as the trumpets had earlier. It was clear on to which side was the weather. Although his emotions had been carefully buried before he embarked on the journey, to not engage in a pre-battle mantra of chants seemed dishonorable in Nikolai’s perspective, and so, with the likeness of the many around him, he was cheering for the promise of victory, heated in the fists of the Duchess offering the frailest of hope as a feast to a starving army. The presence of honor was at his fingertips with knuckles retightening around his weaponry and launching it into the air with noble cause. [i]Kursiv[/i] had yet to slay a thing other than a lesser creature, and the delicious taste of imaginary visions of cracked skulls and ribcages elegantly splattering the ground in front of him was turning the stoic frown back into the half-smirk as his voice rang out towards the Duchess and her court. If there was an ounce of distrust or doubt, he covered it by letting it mount with the hidden emotions. His trust would have to be aligned with Belias if he was to win his honor. Without her, he was nothing, and so forth, he took the first steps into envisioning what the Duchess so needed. [sub][h3]Nikolai von Krähenvald:[/h3] [indent] M A R C H I N G O R D E R S ; R O A D T O N U B I N A - 1 5 T H D A Y , 8 T H H O U R [/indent][/sub] [hr] The tanzanite gem, gently shifting underneath his garments of cloth, leather, and armor, provided light trinkets of invisible glow in his expectancy. Magic powers nestled inside of him were stirring as did the flickering flame slowly growing and snaking through his human shell. [i]Kursiv[/i] was a fine instrument of compatibility when paired with his use of Arcane Magic, and with the godly mercies and blessings of Belias, the power inside of him would not wilt away under the pressure of the enemy but would stand firm as a mountain raging war against a giant flood— A murmuring of voices slowed the pace of the war procession, and as any cautious soldier, Nikolai’s footsteps began retreating in speed with the awareness of muddied defeat clenching to his leather boots in a weight of tragedy. Unmasked faces drifted from hope and desire as that pale grimness began twisting its band of dead tunes into sunken eyes. It wasn’t for another several hundred yards when the matter of the sudden sunken hearts began blowing on Nikolai’s once raging flame. The heel of his boot crushed the boney hand of a corpse, decaying in the muddied field and not before he could look down to see what had been broken did his other foot crunch into the bones of another corpse. There was a pause in his footsteps, and his pause caused several others to do the same—maybe they had been on the same thought at the same time, but for Nikolai, it had been the pungent smell still lingering after all these years in the abundance of dead things lining the forest like a carpet of agonizing memories, warnings, trials. There was no avoiding the sound of crushing death of once friends to the three kingdoms. Several distraught breaths began drifting through his lungs as the memories of his wounded father, lying in the hands of Belias’ mercy, began resurfacing. Reality was often a hard thing to comprehend, but Nikolai was determined not to let it slow his pace, again. The precious victory chalice awaiting his lips to press against its rim and partake of the sweet honorable taste was too strongly envisioned in his determined mind. War was never meant to be a pretty affair, and the glories of knighthood or any other such position in regards to offering one’s life for the sake of something else was not a physically aesthetic pleasure for the eyes. And so, his thoughts automatically turned to the beautiful strength of Belias. His mind should be as unmoveable as the mountain she abides. The dropping in his facial features was hidden by his leather helmet. A calm mind, not a scattered one — as the bones and bodies strewn across the earth’s floor — would get him through the first wave. A mountain may be buried by an ocean, but that does not mean it dies. He was vaguely disappointed in himself for being affected by the gray fog embodying the path, for the time was drawing nearer, closer. He could hear the guttural moans breathing undead noises into the air. Hesitation could very well be his downfall. His eyes shifted to-and-fro, scanning the men and women who would be fighting by his side. Getting injured this early in the movement was impermissible. His reputation had yet to be established, after all. [i]"O, Holy Queen of the Mountain, Belias! Look down upon me, your humble and faithful hand servant. by granting me thy strength and power to resist the enemy’s hands and corruption! O, merciful and all-powerful, Belias! I turn my eyes to your Holy Mountain, and in thy honor, may each swing of my staff and wield of my magic, be my offering of sacrifice to thee!"[/i] As the prayer pressed glimpses of holy alignment in Nikolai’s mind, his tongue gently untucked itself from a pursed mouth and brushed the rain from his lips like a medicine. His focus continued onward with each footprint pushed into the unkept graveyard. An unnatural craving for the starting words took over where the fear had fanned itself. Belias had heard his prayer. She was on his side.