[color=f26522]Magnumus Agoston, Centurion.[/color]

Level 3 - (03/40) EXP  (will level up and count words later, still,)
Location: Lumbridge
Word Count: 720

[hr]

Centurion parked his drill kart and was pleased with the reception. Agoston had spent many days in the spotlight, he had been called hero many a time, and he excelled infront of an audience. Needless to say Centurion accepted their modest thanks and gifts with a practiced, modest confidence that maximised goodwill for both parties. He had done it many times before and hopefully would go on to do it many more times.

He would rest shortly but in the meantime, a meal wouldn't be so bad. Unfortunately his allies mostly didn't share the same sense of victory. Most of them were shaken by the experience. True- that was a bad time overall. Centurion himself had lost his cool. Then again, he always responded with Fight, rather than Flight, when he was scared. Scared was a strange term for it, since Agoston never considered himself the type to be scared. There was nothing particularly horrifying about the creatures he faced. This whole land, everything- it was all artificial. No matter how disgusting or cosmic the threats themselves may be, all of them were conquered by Galeem. They don't truly exist anymore. Hollow shadows drudged up to plague the land. Galeem's influence was truly the most terrifying thing about this, but every day they made more progress still. The Land of Adventure was free of an evil influence, and he could sleep soundly tonight knowing he did a good deed. But he understood why some of his comrades weren't so pleased. Some of them seem to have come from lands that did not know the strife that Agoston's did. They weren't used to seeing horrific things. Those that were used to shocking experiences most likely didn't see themselves as heroes, and thus did not rejoice. But they were all independant. They would all cope in their different ways. Long gone were the days of Centurion gathering his troops around a feasting table and rousing their spirits with an inspiring speech. His authority meant nothing here. And why would it?

Agoston would still do his best. He spent the next hour or two at the tavern, eating and drinking to his hearts content, retelling the story of their victory over and over again to those who would listen. He painted his allies as unflinching bastions of courage and recounted their brave deeds during the fight with vigor and sincerity. Truth be told, he didn't need to do much exaggerating. The evil they faced was terrible, and the valor of their deeds were great.

For the first time in a long time, Agoston went up to a safe, warm room and changed out of his battle worn armor and into a tunic and trousers. He glanced at his new, dragon-boxer influenced appearence and shook his head, smirking a little. The deep scars on his bare arms were just as much memories of victories past than the bizarre influences upon his appearance now. He wondered if he would ever look normal again...still, newfound strength and power wasn't exactly the worst thing in the world. 

It was late- later than he preferred to stay up. Bad habits that would need to be broken. It felt like a lifetime since he got here- but truth be told, it wasn't that long ago, was it? He was on the verge of his greatest victory at the time. Would his army remember what happened to them? Were they out there right now, wandering the wastes? If they succeeded in their quest, and Agoston was sent home, right to where he was, he wasn't sure what he would do. Was he really just supposed to take the Jarl's Keep and pretend like none of this had ever happened? Probably. Why wouldn't he? 

While Agoston may not have been shaken by the events of tonight, there was a different kind of fear corroding his soul away. He lay in bed, the lanterns off, and stare up at the dark ceiling. A kind of fear that was hard to shake. The kind that beckoned Agoston in, the one that he couldn't- or rather, wouldn't- ignore. The kind he couldn't shake off with a charismatic smile and a pounding of his fist against his chest.

The fear that he was small, and the universe was big, and his many victories meant very little at all.