([color=f26522]Holden d’Alnharte[/color], Training Yard, Paline, Praelium)

Motions honed to perfection by over a decade of constant usage sent plumed messengers of death across the range; the arrowheads piercing the red of a bullseye. Where one landed, another joined in tight grouping. If the archery range was the forests, jungles and deserts Holden was accustomed to, the targets would have been the patrols he took by surprise. The first arrow always took the rear guard; the second the point man. The Exile would have ducked into obscurity, as the enemies would scramble for cover. However, this was not the ambushes that costs countless soldiers their lives. This was simple target practice. 

“[color=f26522]Were it that the targets could [i]move[/i],[/color]” Holden muttered, before examining his bow. The grip was not too foreign to him, but it would take some time before his hand adjusted. A thought crossed his mind, and he looked to the soldier – who had taken to accompanying him around the training yard. “[color=f26522]My knife,[/color]” he said, patting his empty sheath. “[color=f26522]Where is the man who I gave it to?[/color]”

Holden set his bow against the wall, as he motioned for the soldier to follow him. He had not bothered to learn the greenhorn’s name. It was not out of disregard, but his experience in the various conflicts he was thrown in. The more names he knew, the more it hurt to see them lost. He approached the target, studying his handiwork. While he was greatful that his marksmanship had not been ruined by his time in the dungeons, he would not give anyone the satisfaction of his glee. “[color=f26522]Find the Sergeant. Tell him to meet me for sparring.[/color]” He drew [i]Yusil[/i], and ran his thumb across the flat of the blade; eliciting a soft, pleasant ring. When was the last time he engaged in a duel? A fight was common enough, but a [i]fair[/i] fight was rare. He looked at the soldier, and gestured for him to go. “[color=f26522]Go on. I’ll find my way there.[/color]”


([color=fff79a]Alon d’Trilith[/color], Waters of Daradium, Territory of Benaduza)

A meaty [b]thunk[/b] mixed with the flavor of wood elicited cheers from the Sea Tigers manning the [i]Spectre[/i]. The headsman kicked the small, headless body into the waters, before turning to Alon. “Lieutenant, are you sure you don’t want any part in this?”

“[color=fff79a]I’m sure. Get back to work.[/color]” The Lieutenant glanced at the next Benaduzan they captured during the swift attack. Of course, the defenses around Daradium still stood, and it would not be long before reinforcements came. Or so he had hoped. The human had steel hooks through both of his lips; a crude device designed by the pirates to keep prisoners from running or struggling, and to let the heads drift behind the ship as they sailed across the seas. Part of him was appalled, but he knew better than to protest it. These men were not just following orders. They were fueled with rage. 

He turned to look at Daradium, and the smoke stacks surrounding it. With minimal casualties, they had taken the shoreline. The sounds of battle carried out across the waters, competing with the ever-strong winds of the open waters. “[color=fff79a]I hope the General-Kings know what they’re doing,[/color]” he muttered. This was a strong declaration of war; one that left a good portion of Erelith open to invasion by smaller nations. Change was heavy in the air; what terrified him was the uncertainty of the outcome.