He awoke, surrounded by a familiar thicket, neck still burning with an icy, phantom pain. The breath that had been caught in his throat was loosed in a ragged gasp— as though leaking out in frayed ends.
Gilded eyes narrowed, as he made to dust off his shoulders, expecting a spray of blood and finding nothing. Right. "Waking" may have perhaps been the wrong terminology, given what he was told. In the first place, the Stormcaller had no reason to lie of her creation.
This world was not a dream. Not exactly, no matter that it might have been very much like it.
Ahead of him, as advertised, the same cobblestone path they had trod down upon first arrival. Somewhat shockingly, he'd not had the occasion to revisit the start of it all— Where the Founders and other collected masters excelled in their lethality almost as a rule to be recorded within this world, they in equal measure excelled at controlling that prodigious ability. On some level, such was intuitive enough to be expected of anyone, like never really cracking an egg without meaning to no matter how big you got, but that game always changed when the egg flung itself at you full-force.
He drew his blade from the sheath, inspecting the edge for nicks. He had been flinging himself into bouts with many of the founders, doggedly chasing the mountain he'd been kicked down by Agrahn in the Knights' first meeting with those from beyond. His strength and speed still lagged far behind, but his eyes were getting better at tracking their movements. Incrementally, the body adjusted, the limits were pushed further out. With each loss, a lesson was learned.
Humble steel. In good condition now, but his aggression matched against the one-armed rabbit's skill poorly. He'd heard through the grapevine that Rui's singular dedication to mastery over swordsmanship allowed her to project her slashes beyond the edge of her blade. The sheer belief in the possibility of impossibility forcing it into truth, in so many words, more or less. He'd requested a few bouts and pointers, but both had seen slow going. He could work out the method, or at least a beginning of the framework, of that technique. Rolling wind up the blade's length as though painting the slash onto the canvas of the world was... working as a point of visualization. Far from pulling it off in any respect. Judging from the way the clashes had nicked his edge in their bouts, he had half a mind to wonder if his blade would even, really, hold up to the stress of whatever force he needed to put through it to get that going.
Certainly, his sword wasn't of the caliber to parry them when they were sent his way, not after it had already been tested by the strange, weighty and stiff cutlass on Rui's hip. It would be a good long while before he could replicate the feat, if botching it had parted mind from heart so cleanly.
In the solitude, he allowed himself a sigh of dismay. Incremental improvements wouldn't help them take a dragon down, not if they wanted to waste less than half their lives in here. Even as strength and speed improved, bit by bit, there was only so much ground they could cover when fighting at the weight class of a siege engine with wings. He was hunting a breakthrough, but stuck pressing his face against a wall.
Use your head.
Reon above, he'd been trying. Earnestly as anyone could ask of him, near as he could tell, but never to any avail. There was something missing here. Something he couldn't see. A weight on his ankle, shackling his perception to the narrow field of what he already knew.
Rather than continue down the path laid out for them, he instead pushed into the brush, stepping into the forest that, in a few respects, might have been his oldest teacher in the art of war. Here, beneath canopy, was where he had learned to step with care, to aim a bow, to discern the smell of blood. He was no woodsman by calling, not even truly matching Rolan... but the change in scenery felt welcome. Between excitable discussions with his peers, grilling the founding knights for every scrap of advice he could get his paws on, and the bustle of the old city, he'd not known quiet for a fair while, outside of sleep. As he continued to venture off the beaten path, descending further and further beneath the overhead cloak of green, his voice naturally began to turn, as it so often did, Inward.
The physical was improving. Of that, he could have no doubt. More slowly than he wanted, but the raw athleticism still inched forward. His body wasn't the issue, then. On that front, he was in lockstep with his peers by all accounts. That wasn't the root of this "blocked" sensation.
At some point, he sat onto his haunches, cross-legged beneath a dark point of shade. Roots of a felled tree.
If not body, then mind. Maybe it is the mind that imposes the limits. What the mind can't see, the mind can't rush the body into.
What held him back?
Time passed.
This place was not a dream. It was something very much like it. He didn't know how much or how little it had been. Maybe three hour. Maybe three days. Other than the canteen of water at his hip, he had taken nothing into himself. The forest itself was unnaturally quiet— to him more like a cave. Sound and sight had left in even measure.
In this place, he was alone. Naught but his mind to accompany him. This being the mind's realm, as dreams were, maybe everything had fallen away. He could no longer see three feet in front of his nose. He, and this clump of earth beneath him, may have detached and floated into the inky void that the canopy had painted onto nighttime stars overhead.
Even in the fugue states he would drift into at Candaeln, lost in his own circular contemplations, spirals of rote nothingness, there was still sight, sound, touch, presence of others.
Here, him.
Only, him.
Always, him.
Perfect. He was what he needed to examine.
Break down.
Interrogate.
Find truth of.
Unstick the wheel.
He had spun so long, yet still felt the same ground beneath his tread. Why.
What shackles you? Others leap. You dig in.
Straining against great stone. Trying to move it half embedded. Dull. Dim. Unpolishable?
No. Dance. Serenity told you. May not be bright, but can think just fine.
They think otherwise. Not liars. Front half too frank. Back half too honest. That isn't a difference. Yet it is.
Back further. Quartermasters. Condottieri. Coworkers. Church offered squireship.
Further. Not what we're looking for. Past is something accepted. Got us here. Taught us much. Unlearning certain things. Deeper.
What is deeper than history?
What history carves into the soul?
Feels true. Problems don't come from things that happened since it's me alone that's here. I cannot train my history. What has it left me with?
Ahh, dammit. It's getting hot. Like I'm on fire. There's ice in my gut but fire in my throat. What is this?
Oh, right. The anger. That terrible anger that always takes me. How does it rise every time? Everyone feels fury at injustices. Why am I lost in it? Fionn's blood runs hotter, but his head's cooler. Sergio's a man of passion, but his eyes don't lose their light.
Sir Agrahn himself can lid his flames. I am unchecked like a campfire set too close to summer bush. They have something I don't.
What do they all have? I spend so much time watching.
...And there's no injustice to be had here. Am I angry at those alone? Impossible.
I am a man. I am not a paragon. I am not such perfection. None can ever be.
This rises from something else. I'm stung like a poison dart has hit my neck. Why?
How are we still here? It was supposed to be me keeping my mind that would unlock my growth. Sir Agrahn stands upon a pinnacle and has no need to lie in how I may get close. Knowing where my head is, what I can do, how I can fight best, surely that's the answer. Instead of running in like an untethered bull, I should be the cunning wolf.
He was a common soldier that rose to this prominence. I always wanted to do the same. Who he is and has been are abundantly clear, right?
Soldier. Mercenary. Farmer. Man. Knight. Who I am and who I have been should be just as much.
What am I, then?
...
...
...
Scared.
I think I'm scared.
I always call what propels me "courage". Courage is the overcoming of fear. No matter what, I'm fearful.
It's why I consistently talk through circles as the day goes on. Why I always eschew rest. Why I fight like I'm cornered, no matter the setting, no matter the foe. What am I cornered by, to become so insensate?
Fear is normal in battle. Not dying is something everyone wants.
But everyone will die. Have I not accepted that?
No, I have. I had to, or else war would have broken the boy I was. I throw my life on the line in a way nobody scared of simply dying should.
What, then?
Jeremiah. The Boars. You fought like you were wounded. What went through your mind?
I'm not afraid of just dying. I've told myself I'm ready to die for the mission.
Renar's lust for power. Fleuri's overcoming the past. Fionn's mastery of the blade. Serenity, for so long at her age, election of Captaincy.
Am I ready to die for my dream, the way they are?
...
I should think so. I've wanted to be a knight since I first heard the tale of the Demonbreaker. Even though I knew it was never to be my birth's station. I still grabbed sticks and played at swordfighting, in woods so very like these.
...
...
And I hated when he told me we would never see the real thing with our own eyes. Such a small thing, but it did make me mad. I knew he was probably right. I think I wanted to prove him wrong this whole time, deep down.
And here I am, regarless. Clinging to that dream like he's still right there at my back, reminding me how impossible it is to reach for those of us so humble. How nobody, not even today's knights, could do what the Demonbreaker or Sword Saint or the Mighty Hammer did.
Have I not proven my ambition's worth following, on this one-in-a-million chance I got lucky enough to hit it big on? I'm here, humble-born and knight nonetheless. This isn't something I have to die to achieve.
I've already done this much. If I was going to fail, I'd have failed long ago.
We were kids. Not like he meant to shatter the ground beneath my feet. Kids are wrong about shit all the time.
I fear living to see myself fall short? What was everything before this, if not that? I still got here. I'm still breathing.
Everyone else here has something they're chasing with just as much fervor. Every fiber of their beings, centered on a goal. They'll make anything happen to get there. They've been here for so, so much longer. They haven't crumpled under the weight, or driven themselves mad. They just keep pushing forward. They know they'll get there. They just need enough time.
I've been acting like I have none, and it's in turn made me take the most.
Damned fool you are, Gerard.
Yes, yes. A knight is a symbol of hope and victory, that good triumphs over evil. You've died for that cause a dozen times over, if you rolled the dice just a bit different.
Try living for it. Impossible dreams are being chased all around you. You've been sent to a plane where you can speak to those who dared to be extraordinary to such extremes they are immortalized in legend. None of them threw themselves away to get there, like they didn't value anything they carried in their hearts.
Be selfish. Live on.
Quit trying to drag yourself along. Run forward to the you that's ahead. Allow yourself to stumble, you can just keep getting up until you get it right. You've proven this much.
Can you keep up with him?
His canteen was empty when he arrived at Candaeln next, raccoon-eyed but alive nonetheless. Coal-colored hair wild as ever, his bearing was haggard yet, somehow, sturdy as ever. The time away from food was impossible to avoid, but he'd marched through much worse. The eagle-eyed would note a whole lot of wear on leather grip of his sword— the ghost of a tight grasp, and thousands of swings. His voice was an uncomfortable rasp. Were he not as alert as ever, one would be easily forgiven for believing the man to have just awoken.
The path ahead was clear now. He had observed it in his vigil. Didn't really expect any surefire methodology for it from even the founders, it'd be an insane thing to ask anyone to teach, but he did have examples of what he needed to achieve, a preliminary to his grander design.
Don't call it that. Don't get a big head.
He knew how to think, but he wasn't terribly bright. He wasn't the quickest study by any measure. Casting aside a fear was only half of the equation, at least for somebody like him. He needed more time, even when freed from desperate fervor, when faced with the towering threats they'd run into. More time to rise to their ranks. Changing the way he fought would be slow already— he was far from out of the fire. Maybe he'd never fully leave it. He needed to ensure he could grit through it, instead of praying his luck didn't run out.
There was one such man here, infamous for bargaining from the Lamplighters all the time he needed to end up crushing Maglad's throat no matter what had hit him.
"Huh... no preparation or bargaining? Is your arrangement a set rate? You're definitely getting something out of it."
Gertrude lazily swung her legs over and got up from the chair, approaching the Demon to better appreciate her height. She tilted her head and frowned as she looked up at the woman from her full stature.
"Or do you just know that when she summons you, there's a worthwhile fight to be had?"
Gertrude crossed her arms under her chest, her frown becoming a smug smile.
"I know that crazy-ass grin of yours. You like a good brawl? I get it. Crushing people is fun, but I honestly can't imagine there being anything enjoyable in a world where no one really dies. All games with no stakes. Does that really get your blood boiling?"
"Notes. Memorisation. I can't have you relaying findings if your brain won't hold them," the alchemist said, moving away from the door to grab an already heavily-covered scrap of something and start adding to it. "If you can manage reading those and being careful with your hands, I won't have to watch you every step of the process for actual alchemy.
"Just get that proof first."
Some Hall
"That's how summoners work, you know. You'd have to be very desperate, or very stupid, to draw up a circle and make a deal in a hurry," the red-skinned demon answered, "It used to be that Gisela promised battle and would make up for it in other ways if we went too long without a good fight. Now..."
The demon's smirk turned back into a grin and then a laugh at the second question. "Are you kidding? This place is great, all these legends that I'd never have reason to fight on my own, and that Gisela never tangled with, and if she takes a little break here I can try and hit them up? Much easier than trying to butter up the goddesses and get to the afterlife."
This was when the hundi came bustling back in, carrying reams and reams of paper... and sticks of charcoal. Lots of charcoal. "As Krysia isn't explaining, the boundaries of the world hold a lot less of a meaning for demons than they do for mortals," she brushed a hair behind her ear and knelt, drawing out one design, "Fairies have an odd relationship too, for all they live within it. And summoners, too, with enough experience. Normally, this place would be impervious to demonic interference but as long as it's only Krys, Miss Stormcaller won't take offence."
"Now," the mage said, brushing some dust off her knees as she rose and gesturing down at the pile of supplies, "You'll need to start by copying that circle."
"Perhaps they did not know the exact limits of their gift. Or perhaps this is simply more amusing to them," Erich ventured--obviously, whilst he might be able to discern the origins of this particular magic... it was hardly like he knew Fiadh, although the overall logic of the fey was quite consistent.
The trek took them out of the gardens and back up to the very same building that Fionn had previously visited... and he seemed overall less concerned about the courtyard here being damaged or magicked in some way. The same butler had been sent away to gather wood, flowers--anything that seemed marginally relevant to Fionn's experimentation.
Over their walk back, Fionn fell silent, striving to remember each instance he'd witnessed of Fiadh's magic being used. Given that he hadn't been given any direct instruction from her before Merilia decided to steal him away, and given that Fiadh's own contribution seemed to have overwritten any memory he had of what little else he'd learned, this seemed as good a method as any to try and piece through what new knowledge he did have. From there he would at least know where his new skill floor was and plan out how to work from it.
Better that than waste the time he might be able to work with Erich on simple discovery of his new collection of spells.
What Lilia had managed to show him so far, and what he'd seen from Tyaethe and Amy, seemed to lie in a more esoteric direction; summoning forth a sourceless light, creating a barrier to render a blade nonlethal for a time, generating illusions, things of that nature—even including Tyaethe's own manipulation of her body to take on the appearance of what she would've become as a full-grown woman. While he doubted that such effects and others were outside of the realm of fey capabilities—he was sure he'd seen some make illusions to rival Amy's own at the least—what he had most directly witnessed tended more towards the real, direct, and elemental.
Something that many other mages had access to, as Lilia herself had shown multiple times, but coming from a nature spirit like Fiadh it seemed somehow more primal.
"Aodh, aodh...how did she say it? Aidu. So...no, that won't work..." Just finding random words and saying them wouldn't work, after all; a spell was inherently a command, pulling from one's own energy and issued forth into the world to generate an effect. Or something of that nature...he'd barely had time to skim the book of magical theory he'd found in the library. At the same time, hoping for random bursts of inspiration as memories hit him to pass on into a spell was far from a workable solution, especially in battle.
"Daw...dau...no, that's not it either." He'd figured that as soon as all the materials were gathered Erich would have some sort of a method to follow, but as they waited for his manservant to assemble everything—and as Erich likely worked out what his own plan was going to be—Fionn had contented himself with his own quiet experimentation. Sword set aside, an unlit torch in hand. "How did she light it?"
Of course, the more one struggled to remember something, it often was the more it tried to slip away, though Fionn wasn't inclined to give up in frustration. "Indaw...no. Indetou!" He felt a small jolt as the energy flowed through his hand into the torch he held, before the pitch-soaked burlap wrapped around the head suddenly came alight. And with what still felt like less effort than what he'd done earlier out in the garden, despite the amount of thinking he'd had to do to find his way to this end result.
One simple spell down.
He twisted, lit torch still in hand, turning his head back to where Erich was standing. "Not waiting on me, I hope?"
"A sound beginning, memorization will go back with me when this is said and done. It's a deal then, I will return once I have proof."
Rolan would excuse himself at that point, the next task already being considered. Proof he was not just another copy floating around this whole dreamscape, which was something that he, quite frankly, could not simply provide. Possibly a request designed to be impossible by design, but there was one way that came to mind as he brainstormed, heading for the outskirts of the city, someplace comfortable he could wait at for awhile. After all, there was no promise nor guarantee that this was going to even work, let alone work in a timely manner. Seating himself in a quiet, isolated location he could be confident in not being interrupted at, he unslung his crossbow and begun performing routine maintenance on the weapon, starting with restringing the weapon and going from there, speaking out loud to, at least to appearances, to no one in particular.
"Witch Merilia, when you have a moment please."
That was his best, frankly only, bet to proving he wasn't just some copy, at least well enough to appease Silenna. He could make all the claims he wanted, say whatever he pleased, true or not, but it wouldn't prove anything from a pragmatic point of view. Quite simply, he needed someone to back up his claims. And finding another copy to claim he was not also a copy wouldn't accomplish much of anything. Now, should he get the one maintaining this to state otherwise, well, that would be far harder to argue. Now, whether or not Merilia would even humor him was another matter completely, and he would brainstorm as he worked, considering other methods of proving he was real while waiting and performing maintenance to pass the time. It was long overdue anyways, as far as he could tell at any rate, and he wasn't going back empty handed, not yet.
One moment, outside, the next--dropped upside down in the workshop, the witch's lack of height quite apparent now that she wasn't high in the air. Even the alchemist seemed somewhat stumped by the thud, looking up from... okay, she wasn't working, this appeared to be her dinner.
"Yes, I brought him from the outside world. I trust this counts as proof?" After the nod, she continued. "Excellent. But remember, there are still some secrets in this place that shouldn't get out, and if he learns them..."
For a moment, there was all the magical weight and presence that could be expected of a Witch, a feeling that the world was fraying around them--
"Well, he'll just have to stay here with you until the rest of the world catches up. Can't say how long that will be~"
With that, she was gone again, leaving Silenna blinking at her temporary apprentice. "You want some soup?"
“A-ah, er, yes, I was, I just… we’re done now, you see…”
Fanilly coughed awkwardly, scratching the back of her neck. Somehow, it was harder to talk to the founding knights when they weren’t trying to train. Faced with Sir Cyrus, alone, she found it a little harder to talk, a little harder to get her thoughts together.
Though, at least it wasn’t as difficult as with Dame Sescille.
Ah, that’s right. That’s what she wanted to ask about. Or perhaps it was more accurate to say it was one of the things she wanted to ask about. There were all sorts of questions running around in Fanilly’s head, and since these replicas of the founding knights retained all their memories it was the perfect opportunity.
Focusing on that question in particular, Fanilly took a deep breath.
“Is… is it true that Dame Sescille joined the knights like that? By being defeated by Saint Elionne, after collecting hundreds of weapons in duels?”
“Mostly true!” Cyrus answered, leading Fanilly on towards the kitchens, “It was only a hundred weapons. Still enough to cause us a little bit of a problem but not quite enough that Sescille could outfit an army on her own.
“See, the big problem after the captain had won was what to do with all the weapons she’d already collected. Most of the people that they’d been won from where nowhere in the area even if we could make Sescille give them up and she refused to consider it–she’d gotten attached and given every last one of them a name.”
The blond man quickly ducked his head into the kitchen and called out for… something meaty? It wasn’t a dish below their station, Cyrus had been a knight of the crown even before the Iron Roses, but it was definitely something out of fashion now. Then he took a seat, gesturing for Fanilly to sit opposite.
“So, we had a hundred weapons and a redhead that promised to kick up a fuss if she didn’t get to keep them, and no way to get them to their original owners. There weren’t even that many of us there!”
Fanilly wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It sounded almost like the behavior of a very ill-behaved child being told that they had to give a borrowed toy back.
“What… what happened next?”
He gave a shrug. “In the end, we just carried them back. We couldn’t hang around forever and there was no way Sescille could lug a bundle that awkward on our own. A hundred weapons is more awkward and pointy than heavy, after all.”
For a few moments Fanilly stared. A hundred weapons was still a lot, how did she even carry them all herself? Maybe she just stored them somewhere. At her camp, maybe? Beating a hundred people in single combat in a relatively short period of time after simply appearing out of no-where, too…
“Did… did she ever say why she did it?” Fanilly found herself asking.
She couldn’t help her curiosity, now.
“Oh, she gave some story about how it was to show up the nobility especially, and even the common soldiers in general, and it was probably true for a while,” the blond man shrugged, “‘Cept that by the time we showed up, she was just fighting anyone who came her way with a weapon. She probably just had way too much fun with it; I’m surprised anyone ever kept her on a leash after the captain disappeared.”
It wasn’t exactly a secret that Dame Sescille was a particularly aggressive person. But the idea that she had been fighting so many people just for the sake of her own amusement was stunning. It wasn’t as if Fanilly didn’t understand how duels that ended without a fatality were fun, but so many?
As far as she understood, it hadn’t even taken very much time for her to win that many challenges.
And yet—
“That… that makes sense, honestly, eh-heh…” Fanilly responded. Truely, base on what she knew about the knight, there wasn’t really any other explanation that made more sense than that.
“I suppose being half-Serokai might have motivated her at first, but after that…”
The Serokai were loosely-associated clans of hillfolk associated with Thaln’s northern borders, and the border between Velt and Ithillin. Due to some of their clans associating with historic enemies of these nations, it wasn’t exactly uncommon for all Serokai to be painted as ruthless barbarians.
Thinking through historical anecdotes she recalled, there was one that she hadn’t asked Dame Tyaethe about, one that was shrouded in enough mystery that many people weren’t even sure it had happened in the first place.
“Is it true you once faced down the Midnight Hunt?”
“Ahahah…” the man scratched his head, about the same time that their food was brought out. It mostly seemed to be meat, and bread, along with some sauce that was thick and sticky but at the same time not quite familiar. Not that it tasted bad, and he took a bite before continuing.
“It’s true, though the start of the story wasn’t a heroic one. The Hunt had been seen around the Veldt border more often than normal but there were enough churches that it wasn’t a real concern. And what were you going to do, anyway?” Cyrus said. The Midnight Hunt–a motley assortment of angry spirits and the unseelie fey–was the sort of thing where one just had to survive, or seek sanctuary on blessed ground. “But Tyaethe and Sescille had been talking, and not just arguing about cultural grudges for once, and thought that trying to fight the hunt sounded like fun.”
Fanilly stared in mute silence for a moment. Putting aside the comment about cultural grudges, of all the reasons to face the Midnight Hunt—
“It sounded like fun?!” she found herself exclaiming. Certainly, she did enjoy dueling, that was something she couldn’t deny after her extensive training throughout her childhood. But at the same time there was a world of difference between that and facing the cavalcade of wicked spirits and unseelie fey that composed the Midnight Hunt.
“You have spoken to the shorty, right?” he laughed, “Really into slaying or driving off dragons, goes after big monsters all the time?”
“...”
Fanilly considered Dame Tyaethe’s demeanor for a few moments before responding.
“O-okay, you have a point,” she said, finally. If there was anyone in the world who would do such a thing, it was probably the diminutive vampire. And given what she’d heard about Dame Sescille, maybe that wasn’t too shocking either.
Fanilly took a deep breath.
“But, what happened?”
“Someone had to make sure they’d actually run away if it came to it, so I volunteered to go along too. Sescille was happy, since it meant having more weapons available. We spent a while traveling and fixing some minor issues…” Cyrus continued, pausing for another bite, “... and then we found the Midnight Hunt.
“They actually seemed a bit confused at first. They’re a Hunt and aren’t used to their quarry looking for them for a fight. But it’s not like the Knights of the Hunt don’t know how to battle when it calls for it.”
The Knights of the Hunt; unseelie fey with bronze armour, too tall and lanky to ever pass for human, and eerily silent. Not quite the worst of their kind to meet in isolation, but when they all gathered together to form the majority of the host…
“It’s easier to fight back than you might think. The Nithyr tagging along think it’s hilarious to switch sides and ‘keep things interesting’, which at least kept things a lot more balanced. Of course, you’re also fighting fairies, so staying in any one place too long will give them a huge advantage. We spent half the night fighting and half of it just running before the wilds themselves overran us.
“At the least, those two were satisfied with lasting the night, even if we never managed to pin down Lord Rozenalt long enough to defeat him and end it early. Didn’t have to retreat all the way to a church, either, but I was feeling it for weeks,” he concluded.
Through a combination of historical and fictional sources, it wasn’t as if any of this information was all that surprising to Fanilly, at least in terms of the nature of the Hunt. It was relatively well-understood that the most numerous of the hunters were the Knights, though there were other beings making it up. It was well-understood that the Nithyr, the petite yet dangerous and unpredictable female forest-dwelling fey, would tag along with the hunt.
But—
“L-Lord Rozenalt?!” Fanilly cried out it shock when the story concluded.
The Bloody Lord Rozenalt was a stock figure popular as a villain across all sorts of historical fiction. Fireheart included him as a major antagonist. But there was considerable debate over if he was ever real in the first place.
The fact he was verifiably fought, the legend of his shade leading the Midnight Hunt actually true, meant—
“He really existed?!”
Memories of the vivid description of the Red Antechamber, of the Unshackled Men, and the Nine Honored Ones rose in her mind. All of them appeared in Fireheart, and all of them were considered part of the Lord Rozenalt ‘character’. And on top of that, on top of their already legendary nature, Dame Tyaethe, Dame Sescille, and Sir Cyrus had nearly defeated someone she hadn’t even thought existed until now?!
“Well, the name, the armour, the antlered helm–those were real,” Cyrus said, having gone through his food at a lightning pace and now mopping up some of the sauce with the bread, “I can’t say how many of the stories about his life are accurate, he was a malevolent ghost by our time.
“Of course, that’s not to say there might be nobody around here who can tell you more. Erich Cazt is a bit too old for it, and you’d really want someone from Veldt or Ithillin anyway… you might be best off asking Prince Erion, he tends to keep track of everyone. Or Sescille, if there’s any warriors from around then, she’ll have fought them.”
Given how she already felt about speaking to the legendary founding knights of the Iron Roses, speaking to Prince Erion by herself felt like a completely overwhelming task. She couldn’t even imagine it.
But on the other hand—
Dame Sescille…
Her cheeks reddened. She’d already tried to circumvent having to speak with her for a few reasons.
Taking a deep breath, the Knight-Captain tried to steel herself.
“R-right, thank you, Sir Cyrus,” she began, “I-I’ll… I’ll ask D-Dame Sescille!”
“Don’t worry, she won’t bite. Probably. Unless you ask?” the blond man said, laughing and ruffling Fanilly’s hair… well, as much as her hairstyle allowed for it, “You can come find me as much as you like.”
…
At least, if nothing else, Sir Cyrus really did feel like a comforting presence. No wonder Dame Tyaethe liked him so much. No wonder all the stories spoke about him like that.
Rolan was expecting a lot of different outcomes. Being dumped upside down in Silenna's home while she was eating her dinner was not one of them, grunting from the sudden impact and lack of time to brace for it. Getting himself righted and at least on his feet, he was just in time to see Witch Merilia throwing all that magical weight that a Witch was implied to have, at least in presence, before being gone again just like that. Picking himself up fully, and getting the rest of his personal effects in order, he looked back at his newfound mentor and gave an almost apologetic shrug. His nerves felt frayed from the brief exposure to what felt like everything slipping away, at least for a moment, in a way he couldn't put to words, but it wouldn't do to show that.
"Easiest way to prove things. Soup would be nice, actually, thank you."
Seating himself across from the woman, he had to give thought to what the Witch had said. Certain things he was not supposed to learn, or else be trapped here as well. Rolan wouldn't admit it out loud but that immediately had piqued his curiosity as to what was so important that it couldn't leak back to the real world...yet. Being here until it caught up implied that there was things to come that would bring knowledge here in this place in line with what was out there. If the Witch had found knowledge from ahead of where, no, when they were currently, that could be useful. Not 'trapped for an indeterminate amount of time' useful, mind, but if there was a way of learning it without being stuck might just be useful. Something to keep in mind if the opportunity came up, unlikely as that was.
Gertrude had thought she understood the Demon, but she wasn't getting it at all. Without stakes, a fight wasn't really a fight. Who could try their best if they knew there were no lasting consequences? How could you prove you're better than other people if they weren't giving it their all? No, Gertrude didn't understand it. Even with legends to fight, could it ever be more than a friendly spar?
Gertrude frowned as Gisela rushed in with a bunch of paper and charcoal, and began feverishly drawing a circle. Though Gertrude recognized the contents, the arrangement was utterly baffling. She assumed it had to do with a formula she wasn't familiar with, since summoning was one field in which she had very little experience. Gertrude sighed, and knelt down.
It was easy enough for her to copy the circle perfectly just by sight, but without knowing the underlying formulas of this school of magic, she was unable to make modifications like she liked.
"Mind explaining what I'm looking at? I'm pretty good at copying spells, even if I don't understand everything about them, but I can't do my own thing unless I understand the underlying theories."
Gertrude dropped the piece of charcoal, having quickly and easily completed the circle. A perfect copy.
"A circle that summons Niyar and only Niyar," the hundi said, inspecting the sheet of paper, nodding, and then handing over another blank copy. "The difficulty in modification is the point."
She stood up, leaning against the demon and tapping her fingers on the staff. "Modifying summoning is dangerous. The traditional circles are designed to be augmented by all sorts of ritual to provide the power needed, and the beginner summoners there are protected by their own lack of power. If they modify something without understanding, taking the broad instructions given and pointing to something else... it will probably take no notice. But even then, you must know the stories--a weak apprentice tries to summon a fey for help, but botches it and calls forth the unseelie and a far higher price...
"Someone with the strength to be a true mage is even more in danger. They can skip all the ritual, the strength of their call no longer limited by knowledge. The stories of a foolish child who hastily modifies a circle that barely described a sex demon in a search for vengeance, and calls forth something far... more. Something the meagre protections they created cannot hold, or maybe they thought that through and instead make a deal at a price far too high," Gisela shook her head, pacing a little. "So, I created these circles. Without intimate knowledge of what you hope to summon, then they cannot be modified successfully. Even if far more mana is used than they require, it only strengthens the bindings.
"Anyone who learns enough to change them is someone I would be happy to call a colleague rather than an apprentice. We have nothing so formal but the same principals apply," she finished. And, in the case of this one, maybe the experience would teach her how to negotiate with powerful entities without offending them. "Until then... well, I have circles prepared for Niyar, Lamplighters, Sylphs, Imps..."
She paused. "Oh, and incubi are mostly safe. Or succubi, whichever you prefer."
The night their collective teachers had decided that the knights were sufficiently trained in whatever talent they had been honing--from Cyrus's enthusiastic endorsement to Silenna's begrudging acceptance that maybe Rolan wouldn't blow his head up--there was a party at Candaeln. The guest list was mostly as expected, although the grouchy alchemist showing up before ultimately throwing herself at Florian as the knight went on probably came as a surprise.
And Gisela didn't attend, but there was no way for that to be particularly unexpected.
Prince Erion attending, along with some of his guards? That definitely caused a stir, even amongst the legendary knights--it wasn't like the prince to attend these things rather than throw them. But he seemed interested in speaking to them a little, starting with their captain.
Eastwards Road
In the morning, it was time to make their way through the city and out of the eastern gate. As promised, the Talderian prince had assembled his retinue--row after row of gleaming silvered armour, deep red half-capes edged in gold thrown over their left arms. The uniformity of their equipment was quite a contrast to themselves; their armour identical, every soldier outfitted with a straight sword, a dagger, and even a shield.
They were also outnumbered, even after half of them had bowed and moved off far to one side, where they wouldn't possibly get in the way.
And behind them, seated on an out of place carved throne, waited the prince. Their goal--as he had been quite happy to clarify in detail--was not to defeat his knights, and least of all himself. No, they merely had to get within striking distance of Erion. That was their first challenge.
Hidden
19 days ago
→
19 days ago
Post by
VitaVitaAR
Apprehension was the best way Fanilly could describe the feeling grasping at her heart.
It was little better than the nerves that had plucked been plucked at when she spoke to Prince Erion himself. This was an almost incomprehensible legend, the one responsible for the birth of the modern world after the fall of Talderia.
What was she supposed to say? What was she supposed to do?
The conversation had been a mess, and Fanilly knew it.
But she was Knight-Captain. It was her duty to put the best foot forward.
Just as it was her duty to seize victory in this trial.
Not to defeat Prince Erion's Knights. That wasn't their goal. It was to secure victory by simply getting into striking distance of the legendary hero himself.
It was foolish to ever think that something like this would be easy, no matter how simple it may seem.
Fanilly inhaled deeply.
The plan she'd concocted was flexible. It had to be.
They were outnumbered, which meant they couldn't engage Erion's Knights and keep them away from the throne on a one to one basis.
But what they could do is pull them away as best they could by making feints, by drawing as much attention as they could.
That was their duty. To distract them. To make so many possible attacks on the throne that they could eventually push one through.
A wide-ranging assault from multiple angles that would spread their defenses as thin as possible. This was the attack strategy she discussed with her knights in the leadup to the first trial. It had to be composed so that any one of them could be the one to reach striking distance. Relying on just one person to reach Prince Erion would make it that much easier for them to be bogged down and held back. Any one of them could perform as a distraction, just as any one of them could become the tip of the spear.
A flexible attack with the single purpose of reaching the Prince. The only one she'd been clear about their role to was their new mage. She was undeniably best served to staying further back and using ranged spells in order to disrupt their opponents' formation. On top of that, she could coordinate with her sister(?) to keep on further pressure.
They were up against legends. Fanilly had no idea how well they'd perform.
But they had to try.
The young Knight-Captain's cape fluttered in the wind as she smoothly drew her blade from its sheath.
Rolan knew he was far from an expert, let alone master, of alchemy by the time Silenna had finally admitted he wasn't going to blow himself up, at least probably. While it wouldn't show by the time the Knights escaped this place with their newfound training and experience, he had more than his fair share of burns, even attempting to be showing due caution when appropriate. He had filled his journal with a fairly dense volume of recipes, notes, and musings when he hadn't been busy preparing various mixtures and practicing techniques he never had use or knowledge of prior to finding another teacher. Still, he had focused his efforts as much as he could, spending as much time as he had available to learn and focus on just that, learning and cramming as much information into his head as possible. Eventually he had been informed that there was a celebration to be held back at Candaeln, something that he was going to pass on until he was, metaphorically, dragged out of the alchemy lab by Silenna.
Spending some time at least observing those who came along, Silenna practically throwing herself at Florian was understandable, frankly. If Rolan had to pick one of the knights, Florian was probably up there among the top choices, though he wouldn't be saying that particular comment out loud. Instead, he would be taking the opportunity to leave the party early, ideally with little notice. With the challenges ahead, he needed to prepare ahead of time, and would spend a great deal of time brewing and bottling a variety of concoctions that he had learned during his training. Knowledge of them would be useful once back in the real space, but better to put them into practice now. To do that, he needed to prepare, and that would need focus, so better to let the others who had more earned their celebrations proceed.
Eastwards Road
The plan wasn't great, despite its flexibility. Get past the veritable regiment of Knights, the personal retinue of the Talderian Prince being a veritable regiment of identically equipped, no doubt skilled, knights. Even after a portion stepped aside and out of the way, they were still hopelessly outnumbered. The plan was distract, scatter, and whoever had an opening breach forward and reach the throne. Easy to say, at least, and Rolan was near the back of the band of the Iron Roses, considering the options. Light breeze wasn't strong enough to worry him about throwing off his aim, and for once he was confident in not referring to his crossbow aim, although that would be vital as well.
Plucking a bottle from his pack, knowing that they wouldn't be coming with him once they made it, Rolan hurled it high, the arcing bottle well above the ranks of the Talderian knights. At a glance, it would sail harmlessly past both knights and Throne, but without wasting a moment, Rolan brought his crossbow to shoulder, and loosed a bolt to shatter open the lobbed flask. The plan was to loose a caustic cloud of acrid smoke, something he had learned in a mistaken mixture while learning. Rather than remember it to avoid making the mistake again, he had weaponized his missteps in learning, keeping the formula as a way of disruption. The mixture wouldn't be killing anytime soon, not with how soon the heavier than air cloud would eventually disperse, but it would hopefully scatter and disrupt the center of the formation. More importantly, the disruptive effects of the acrid smoke would hopefully distract those unaffected by the vapors by helping their allies. That was his plan, you couldn't do much for a dead ally, but a blinded and coughing one, that one a tightly knit group of fellows would be quick to not leave behind. Still, as he reloaded, Rolan kept a wary eye out for targets of opportunity or, if he was particularly lucky, an opening to rush the Throne, warning the other Roses of his actions.
"Mind the smoke while you advance, it won't last long but the side effects will."
Gertrude frowned. She understood the safety precautions, and was rightfully at least a little impressed that Gisela developed these insanely complex and accurate circles (she had enough damn time to tinker with the things, so it wasn't that impressive), but it still felt like she was being treated like a child.
And Gertrude hated being looked down on.
"I get it, I get it, but I'm not some idiot kid, OK?" Gertrude growled as she quickly memorized each circle, "I'm a damn prodigy. Didn't get any formal education, but I've learned from the best, and I've humiliated plenty of the losers at the Mage's College who paid their way into relevance with daddy's money."
Gertrude stood to her full height, and towered over Gisela, looking down at her.
"I'm no one's apprentice, and no one's colleague, but I don't mind showing you how a real mage does things. I know your circles, Gisela, and I'm not only going to modify them perfectly in the future, but I'll make them even better," Gertrude announced smugly.
Then blushed a little.
"T-that said... I mean, not that I'd even need it, because I'm ridiculously beautiful, but... well, you understand. Knowledge is power, and all. What kind of idiot would relinquish yet another option? You never know when you'll need something. So, y'know..."
Gertrude reached out her hand.
"Uh... there's really no harm in learning to summon a succubus, yeah? Obviously, you understand what I'm talking about. You developed it."
---
Gertrude had an overwhelming desire to glass the entire road ahead of her. To call down a Meteor Fall and just kill everyone indiscriminately. The knights were all bunched together in that pleasing way people get when they wish to protect something precious.
She wanted to shatter that unity.
However, that was not the mission, and Gertrude had no faith whatsoever in their opposition not to revive from point-blank annihilation and say 'but you didn't get within striking range'.
And Gertrude was not about to have to do this test again.
The Captain (her name was Fanny or something) had told her to stay in back and disrupt. Gertrude didn't want to follow orders, but she also didn't want to get too close to the pointy sticks and was more than eager to let the others do that. Well, as basic as it was, the role the Captain gave her suited Gertrude just fine. When Fanilly gave the order to advance, Gertrude poured mana into her broomstick. The catalyst, which carried a portion of her soul, was able to immediately read her intent to cast a fireball, and just as quickly as the mana was supplied, a fireball shot out. And then another. And then another.
Gertrude's aim was to completely bombard the opposing force with terrifying, rapidly-fired explosions, which would likely be made even more disruptive with the smoke that was now descending over the formation. As Gertrude enjoyed the chaos, Gretchen began reciting an incantation behind her.
No one else mattered, because Gertrude was in perfect concert with herself, and she could never let her down.
The vaunted retinue of the last prince of Talderia. Now this was a challenge worth their time. Renar grinned savagely beneath his helm as both parties took the field, his poleaxe hefted up in his hands. They had their orders from the Captain, and they were sensible: attack from as many angles as possible to maximize the chances of breaching the defensive cordon and reaching the prince. It was a sound strategy for the parameters they were working around.
A quick glance around as they mustered. Renar found himself stationed near Gerard, Fionn, and Fleuri in particular. No time for concerns such as camraderie or attitude. There was a goal to be met.
"The lot of you, form up with me." Renar commanded, already running through tactics in his head. "Sir Fleuri, we'll form the van and break what lines they have to meet us. Sirs Fionn and Gerard will provide support behind us and capitalize on the threat we pose. Ready? Break!"
Renar surged forward, trusting that Fleuri was at least competent enough to follow up and charge alongside him. He already knew the other two were. His speed had improved drastically after training with Edwin and Parvan, and he took full advantage of it as he whirled his poleaxe around, smashing the hammer head towards the first helmeted knight he faced.
The drums of war thundered ahead in symphony of smoke and flame, Gertrude's saturated bombardment quickly shellacking the mass of Talderian troops, softening their lines and cloaking the approach. Behind the screen, Gerard brought his longsword to bear, breathing deep and letting the black tint touch his lungs as Renar barked snapped off a quick plan of attack. Break their lines beneath the long weight of sword and poleaxe— the tip of the spear, crashing into them. He and Fionn close behind, the weighty haft to drive the point through, to mop up those displaced by their shields being smashed aside from further range.
The ghost of a smile flickered across his face. Familiar in excess, but all the smarter for it— Renar knew as well as anyone that this was the role he and Fionn excelled in. Could hardly find an older hand at it south of Velt. "Understood. I'm on you. Fionn, you have Fleuri."
Smoke to conceal their approach, blast to force the Talderians to dig in their heels. Stuck in and blinded, they'd be slow to react.
He was calm. He knew this. He could see it, in his mind's eye. Even if his judgement erred...
Renar a loosed arrowhead. Gerard the quarrel, following as a matter of course. The coal-haired swordsman kicked down onto the tiles and let explosive force truly open up from within, bulging calves, quads, and trunk working in concert— and much the same as his peer a step and a half ahead, the difference was night and day from the man he'd entered this realm as. He needed this speed in order to even hope of surviving his seasoning period underneath the wing of the mighty Hammer. If that goliath touched him once, he died. If he didn't find a higher gear, he died. If he let anything take his presence of mind, he died. Ride the flow. Don't let it swamp you. You have your mission. See it done.
These men were not Cyrus.
As the first unlucky foe's comrade darted to the side, set to encircle Renar from the open side and attack his weaker flank, golden eyes flashed as Gerard emerged from the smoke, checking the blade against his own in a tight parry. Same armament as he'd seen previously— arming sword, shield, dagger on the hip. Half cape wasn't long enough to step on—
A burst of arcane fire filled the space between them, be it by chance or by Gertrude's design. Didn't matter, he had a second of cover, and was now used to a hell of a lot more force inches away. Tiny pops compared to the pressure front behind a founder's full swing. He'd thank her later.
He pressed in behind the point of his blade as the orange sunburst faded, lead leg breaking the center of the silver-clad man's stance. Heel met heel, but Gerard had forward momentum— whether blade met throat or pauldron met lorica first, breaking his base like this would see the other fighter tumble to the Earth.
Unable to accost Renar and break their wedge. Easy pickings for those behind them. Good as done.
"Don't get too comfortable with that, now," Fionn muttered just after Renar finished speaking. He'd been about to suggest a plan of attack himself, but between the interruption and Renar's peremptory tone, whatever it was had quickly left his mind. At least Renar knew what each of them were best at in this sort of scenario. "Shame we don't get double pay for this."
Not that they were actually risking their lives this time.
Renar and Gerard sprinted forwards, driving into the Talderian knights like a nail in a board. Fionn fell in next to Fleuri, mumbling some half-recognizable words as he ran his hand along the blade of his sword. "Nu, wird grōz," he finished, mana flowing as unmistakably into the sword as it came flying in the form of fire out of Gertrude's broom. Green light eneveloped the weapon, the longsword remaining at its core as it shaped itself into a great two-handed blade of a size with Fleuri's own. Fionn felt his own grasp pushed slightly wider to accomodate the larger hilt of the weapon, his free hand grasping near the ephemeral pommel to control the suddenly increased weight.
'A useful trick,' Erich had basically described it as. Forming a greatsword out of the ether in case a normal blade wouldn't be enough, the energies making it up anchored to the actual sword. Less to focus on to try and maintain it; good enough for Fionn, as trying to consider just how a blade made of little more than light and energy could have such real-feeling weight and cutting ability was beyond his understanding of magical theory. "Change of plans," he grunted to the taller knight off to his left, rushing forwards with his blade held low and back. "Split around Renar. Wedge formation, Gerard will keep them from breaking our center!"
As Gerard moved to either stab or tackle the knight that had slipped around behind Renar, Fionn came off to the other side; a swift rising cut colliding with the blade of another Talderian and sending it wide off its target in a cutting parry. Unwilling to sacrifice any energy whatsoever, Fionn let the momentum carry the tip of his blade up and round, loosely guiding it with his hands around into a crushing overhand blow aimed just above the Talderian's left ear within the blink of an eye.
Helmet or no, that much force being transferred would still leave the one suffering it crippled or killed—and with no edge to worry about damaging but all the weight and strength behind the strike as though it was a true greatsword, Fionn had no qualms about aiming at the hard targets.
At the falling cloud of smoke, the retinue fell back and away--thinner in the centre, now, if someone were to make a direct charge for it... but that would also mean that the Iron Roses themselves would be hampered by its caustic nature, possibly too much to effectively fight through where the line was weakest. It was at least doing more than the fireballs, where they were happy to thrust their shields in counterpoint, the attacks breaking and streaming around the individual knights to no effect.
In the melee, there was was a curious revelation: for all they were figures of story and legend, it was the Iron Roses that had the advantage here. After all the training, they were stronger, more skilled--and yet, still outnumbered, and the reason why this retinue was so famous became clearer. Even for all they could be overwhelmed, capitalising on it to actually injure one of them was proving to be difficult--
For all that many of their number had stood aside, they hadn't sent so many to the wings that their teamwork was compromised. It was less akin to fighting a larger team, and closer to a single enemy with many limbs. Where normally it would be impractical to step in so closely, these knights were able to intervene to deflect the blows aimed at their compatriots, even allowing them to regain their footing and have the original aggrieved part strike back. Being hemmed in so closely didn't seem like it was hampering them to any normal extent, which meant trying to break them in detail like this was only playing to their strengths: the Talderians could use their superior numbers to fend off damage, and then rely on the limited space to further restrict the Roses' options.
Although, seeing them strain against the heavy blows despite this ought to be gratifying.
Rolan kept a careful eye on the formation of the Talderian Knights, noting the fluid way they moved and responded to each threat. The center was weakened, but in a manner that couldn't be exploited, withdrawing from the smoke in good order to limit exposure and use it for cover. Clever, his tactic both working and being unable to be exploited was an interesting feeling to recognize, to say little of watching the seemingly indiscriminate barrage of magic accomplish even less. He had a feeling that they would have a means of protecting themselves from ranged barrages, but watching the magic simply split and scatter around the shields was not what he would have expected. Watching Renar, Gerard, Fionn, and Fleuri crash into the ranks of the opposing Knights made it clear that brute force wasn't going to work alone. The danger in the enemy was becoming apparent. Individual skill didn't mean a damn thing in regimental warfare, not until said individual skill could fell regiments on its own. The Iron Roses had grown, yes, but not a one of them was going to fell a regiment on the backswing, not even Gertrude, who's magic had been rather unceremoniously scattered, though it gave him an idea. An idea that would require the aid of the Gertrude, unfortunately, but needs must as he stepped back alongside the mage.
"They seem determined to insult you, Lady Gertrude, might I recommend a more focused, potent strike just ahead of the advancing Roses? A demonstration of precision and power would surely be in order, and create openings to exploit in their unity."
While speaking, Rolan swapped to a bodkin tipped bolt, but rather than immediately load it, grabbed another flask from his pouch, this one looking bright orange and ready to escape at a moment's notice. Alchemist's Fire, one of the oldest concoctions put into service in combat as far as he had been taught, using the bodkin tip to pierce, but not open, the stopper on the flask. With that, he had created an impromptu flaming bolt that would splash copious amounts of intensely burning reagent over the unfortunate Talderian Knights who would get caught in its impact. Alone, their shields could block it rather readily, even if it wasn't magical, which is where his plan came in to play. Gertrude, ideally stoked by his prodding of her ego, forced enough of the second rank knights to form a shield barrier to stop the attack, and the front ranks were distracted by the advancing Iron Roses. Rolan would, at that moment, send the Alchemist's Fire bolt straight into the ranks guarding against Gertrude's magic, and create a far more useful gap in the enemy ranks than his fading smoke screen had. Assuming everything fell into place, of course, relying on a mage's ego was not something he would consider doing lightly in any other circumstance. Readying his crossbow, a more religious man might pray, but Rolan was not terribly devout, focusing himself to make a very narrow shot through the melee when, and if, the magical strike came down.
It was clear how Prince Erion's retinue had gained their fame.
The Last Prince of Talderia's personal knights were nothing if not disciplined. Individually, Fanilly was certain they were at a disadvantage, but their formation held tight. They swiftly compensated for weaknesses and closed off any clear points of attack, aside from the caustic mist that had been deployed by Sir Rolan.
But they weren't able to take advantage of that, either. Not without exposing themselves to the mist themselves.
Fanilly took a deep breath.
Attacking individually was foolish. That much she'd known from the beginning. But putting that aside, the trick had to be to pull them apart from one another. To force them to thin out their formation.
Gertrude's assault wasn't breaking past their shields, but it was forcing them to a halt in order to defend themselves.
In that case...
"Sir Rolan is right!" Fanilly called, as she sprinted towards the Prince Erion's knights, opting to take the flank nearest her own knights' assault to try and pull a little attention away from the attack, "Follow Lady Gertrude's attacks! Strike right after they'd blocked one of her spells!"
But that wasn't all.
"Lady Gertrude, once we've attacked, follow our assault with another spell as soon as you have a clear line of fire!" she called to the mage, before hesitating a moment. It seemed as if the caster responded to praise, so---
