The Eastern Front, Puvalon *Crowlen Occupation*
Central Square of Puvalon City
Darin finished pushing the remaining rations into his knapsack, spotting Orinn heading towards the stables. Clasping the latch, he shut the sack before making his way in the same direction. The hairs in Darin's nostrils had started to singe the closer he got to his broad-shouldered friend. Darin squinted, his face contorted in disgust.
"Tsk-AFUCK," Darin was waving his hand in the air around his face. He stood behind as his companion tended to his steed. "Gracious, brother, you smell more of a beast than man! Since when was the order to cut the main line reinstated?" The massive, rust tinged, pauldroned shoulders of the Commander shifted heavily, indicating a chuckle. Darin continued. "Either that or you've stumbled yourself into a mound of Ravenbeast shit. Be honest, it's okay I won't judge you."
"Oh," Orinn pulled the lead from the reins along the saddle, before throwing it atop the back of the horse. "If it were only that simple, my brother." The large man's face portrayed a look of embarrassment for a brief moment. Fighting for next words in his mind. "Puvalonian faculties and their respective facilities.." Orinn trailed off. Darin raised an eyebrow, slowly beginning to understand. This amused him. "Have been steadfast in remaining foreign to me. Although this doesn't affect all things, it does cause others to become rather… tedious." The massive warhorse shifted its weight, its hooves squelching in the mud as Orinn finally hoisted himself into the saddle. The leather creaked under his armor's bulk.
"Just... stay downwind," Darin sighed, a smile cracking his crossed features. He mounted his own horse, spurring it forward. They rode out of the central square, the hooves of their steeds clattering against the cobblestones that transitioned into churned earth. The occupation was already in full swing.
Vultures were scrambling near the makeshift command tent, handing off scrolls case-stamped with red wax. A platoon of Gold-ranks marched past them in rigid formation, saluting Darin with a sharp, unified clash of fist against breastplate. Darin offered a lazy wave in return, his eyes scanning the horizon where the smoke of the siege still painted the sky a bruised purple. Once they cleared the city gates and the noise of the occupation faded into the rhythmic thudding of galloping horses, the silence between them grew heavy again. The road to the rendezvous point for the coastal journey was long, stretching out through the scarred countryside.
The Eastern Front, Outskirts of Puvalon
"Ravenport," Darin said finally, his voice cutting through the wind rushing past them. "Never thought we'd be going back there for a Noble funeral. I always assumed Jace would outlive each one of us. Revolutionizing the merchant's life and all."
"He never shut up about it being in his blood." Orinn slowed the pace, but kept his voice steady. "The news of his early retirement came as a surprise to no one." Darin's horse snorted as the road space steepened. "Well, besides maybe Sienna."
"It was more what happened next that was surprising.." Darin muttered.
Orinn glanced to his left to see Darin staring down at the road. Orinn huffed a laugh, turning back, "She never had eyes for you, Vos. Even a blindkin could see that."
"The reason Halloway retired wasn't to chase his family's trade." Darin said plainly. "He retired to take care of her." The steed picked up pace. Whether it was Darin's doing, or the fact the horse craved the space of a single lane, remained unknown. Darin continued, "Jace was the only one who refused to believe the lies we were fed."
"I've gathered," quawks of the scroll birds flying above the men echoed, reaching the horizon. Acres of the former farmland lay in smoldering cinders, stray billows of smoke wisping up to the emerging stars. The Empire's talons carve yet another claim to its Divine Rite. "Steady as the tides.." Orinn breathed, his voice somber. Taking a moment, inhaling the field's metallic air. "When was the last you've heard from Brent?"
"Huh? Brock? Dunno.," The rendezvous point could be heard before seen as the cloaked admiral and armored commander reached the summit of the hill. "Twenty years at the very least since he's sent a personal message. That bastard's too stubborn to fucking die, so I assumed he's moved on from us."
A remnant of a massive catapult bearing lay obstructing the road, oil still blazing furiously. Darin lifted a hand as he spoke, producing a small vortex of wind in his palm, his hand wrapped in an exhale of pale green aura. Rearing back his elbow, then sharply forward, he blasted the wind pressure at the bearing, simultaneously snuffing the blaze and powderizing it in a crackling explosion. All without breaking the pace of their steeds. Orinn grunted, shielding his face from the debris as the two rode through the settling dust. Darin's expression darkened, the pale green in his eyes dimming slightly. The wind picked up, carrying a cacophony of screeches that drowned out the rhythmic thud of their horses' hooves.
Ahead, the Scroll Tower pierced the gloom of the twilight. It was a jagged spire of wood and reinforced steel, looking less like a building and more like a dead tree infested with parasites. Thousands of scroll-crows lined the perches, a shifting mass of black feathers and beady eyes. The sound was maddening, a constant, low-level drone of caws and fluttering wings that vibrated in the chest. Though it wasn't the birds that made the horses whinny in terror and refuse to go further. A shadow loomed behind the tower. A massive shape, darker than the coming night, shifted its weight. A beak the size of a siege ram clicked shut with a sound like splitting stone. Feathers, black as the void, rustled with a heavy, metallic sheen.
The two men left their steeds with the stable hands who looked terrified to be anywhere near the colossal avian. As they approached the base of the tower, the temperature felt like it had dropped. The air grew sharp, biting at their exposed skin, carrying a chill that seeped through armor and tunic alike. Frost began to creep along the mud at their boots, hardening the slush into jagged ruts. Standing by the Ravenbeast loading ramp was a man who looked as if he had been carved from a glacier. He stood tall, rigid, his armor a polished matte grey that seemed to absorb the little light remaining in the day. His aura flickered around him, a ghostly, frigid teal that made the air shimmer with cold.
"Admiral Vos. High-Commander Tallow." The man's voice was smooth, lacking any warmth, like water flowing under a sheet of ice. He didn't smile. He simply stared them down with eyes that matched his aura.
"Brigadier General Ymir Jokaltyv," Darin chattered, his breath misting heavily in the sudden cold. "Must you always make a show wherever you go?!" He shouted as he began to rub his arms against himself for warmth.
Ymir's expression didn't change. "The Crown demands efficiency, Admiral. The city of Puvalon is to be stabilized within the fortnight. Your methods, while… effective… were deemed too chaotic for the occupation phase." Ymir stepped aside, gesturing to the massive rope ladder dangling from the Ravenbeast's saddle-harness. "A party of Grace awaits your arrival. For the time being, you are relieved."
Orinn bristled, the orange heat of his aura flaring instinctively against the biting cold of Ymir's presence. "Chaotic?" Orinn rumbled, stepping forward. "We broke the siege in three days upon arrival, and bled for it six fold—"
"And now you will bleed elsewhere," Ymir cut him off, his gaze shifting to Orinn with disinterested boredom. "The Halloway estate expects you. Do not keep the beast waiting. It has a foul temperament."
Darin placed a hand on Orinn's pauldron, feeling the heat radiating off the metal. "Let it go, Orinn. The smell alone is reason enough to leave." Darin shot a look at Ymir. "It's all yours, General. Try not to freeze the locals. They're already cold enough."
Darin grabbed the ladder and began the ascent. Orinn lingered for a second, locking eyes with Ymir, the frost and fire of their auras clashing invisibly in the space between them, before he turned and followed Darin. The Ravenbeast let out a low, resonant croak that shook the tower's foundations as the two men climbed onto the massive saddle.
The Eastern Front, The Scroll Tower
The world dropped away with a stomach-churning lurch.
The Ravenbeast didn't so much fly as it did assault the sky. Muscles the size of siege engines bunched beneath the saddle, coiling tight before snapping outward in a violent, thunderous downstroke. A singular, explosive crack of air being displaced by wings that spanned the width of a galleon.
Darin gripped the leather harness, his knuckles white, as the G-force pressed him into the saddle. Beside him, Orinn let out a hoot that was half-battle cry, half-terrified laughter, the sound immediately ripped away by the gale-force winds battering them. Below, the Imperial War Camp, a sprawling city of tents, mud, and misery, shrank rapidly into a chaotic smudge of grey and brown. The smoke from the Siege of Puvalon, which had choked the horizon just moments ago, was now just a dirty smear against the darkening earth. They punched through the cloud layer a moment later, the grey mist blinding them for a heartbeat before they broke into the twilight above. Here, the air was thin and biting, the temperature plummeting instantly.
Darin squinted against the stinging cold. He could feel the frost already trying to creep into the seams of his armor, a parting gift from Ymir's presence below. "Fuck me," Darin hissed through clenched teeth. He released one hand from the harness, his fingers splaying out against the rushing air. His aura flared, pale green light that snapped to life behind his irises. Green wisps warped wildly across and around the creature's thorax. Darin expanded it, creating a pressurized aura sphere around the saddle. The roar of the wind vanished instantly, replaced by the rhythmic, heavy thrum-thrum-thrum of the beast's massive wings and the creaking of leather.
The silence that followed was deafening.
"Better," Orinn grunted, shifting his bulk. His armor groaned in protest, the rusted orange metal scraping against the saddle. "Was about to freeze my tip off."
"You?" Darin shot him a look, smoothing his wind-tousled hair. "You're a walking furnace, Orinn. The only thing freezing up here is me. And..." Darin paused, his nose wrinkling as the wind-shield trapped the air inside with them. He stared at Orinn. Orinn stared back, blinking his magma-orange eyes innocently.
"And the smell," Darin finished, his voice flat. "By the Throne, Orinn. It's worse in an enclosed space."
"It's the smell of victory, Admiral," Orinn retorted, leaning back and resting his head against a massive luggage roll. "And maybe a bit of horse shit. But mostly victory."
Darin sighed, pulling a flask from his belt and taking a long, burning swig before passing it to his friend. Orinn took it with a nod, draining a significant portion before wiping his mouth with a gauntleted hand. They sat in silence for a while, watching the stars begin to bleed into the sky above the cloud floor. The Ravenbeast beneath them was a steady, living island of black feathers, its metallic sheen catching the moonlight.
"Ravenport," Orinn said, repeating the capital city's name, his voice having lost its earlier humor. He stared at the flask in his hand. "Jace's city."
"Yeah," Darin replied, looking out over the endless sea of clouds. "Jace's city."
"Do you think..." Orinn hesitated, swirling the liquid. "Do you think he suffered? Jack didn't say much in the feather. Just that he was gone."
"Jace was retired, Orinn," Darin said softly. "He wasn't on a battlefield. He was probably in a bed, surrounded by silk and coin. It's the death he wanted. The death he chose when he left us."
"To take care of Sienna," Orinn muttered. "Fat lot of good that did him. She's gone. Now he's gone." Orinn took another swig, his expression darkening. "We're the only ones left, Darin. The old squad. Just the two of us walking into a room full of nobles and politicians to bury the best of us." Darin felt a pang of guilt strike his chest. He pushed it down, replacing it with the icy resolve of an Admiral.
"We aren't just walking in there to bury him, Orinn," Darin said, his green eyes hardening. "We're walking in there to make sure his House stands. Jack is... young. And..." Darin trailed off, shaking his head. " High Command talks of the ports more and more. The Empire might be breathing down their necks about port agreements, and with Jace being gone... the leeching-gulls will be circling."
"Let 'em circle," Orinn growled, a flicker of heat radiating off him, warming the small pocket of air. "I've still got plenty of fight left after Puvalon. Anyone tries to muscle in on Jace's boy, they'll have to go through this 'beast shit' commander first."
Darin actually smiled at that. A small, tired thing. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that. It's a funeral, Orinn. Try not to punch anyone unless they deserve it."
"I swear no oaths," Orinn grunted, closing his eyes. "Wake me when we hit the coast. Or if the bird decides to take a shit. I want a warning for that."
Darin leaned back, watching the moon rise higher. Below them, the world continued to turn, indifferent to their grief, indifferent to the war they had just left, and indifferent to the trap they were unknowingly flying toward. He took the flask back from Orinn's sleeping grip and finished it.
It was going to be a long flight.
T'ulis, Halis
(30 years ago)
Town of T'ulis, Year 224 V.C
(Viridian Calendar)
It was an early morning. A much younger Darin was sitting at the kitchen table, quietly eating breakfast. He winced as another horn blared in the distance. The third in the third set of announcement horns that morning. Announcements of another Divine Revelation. Announcements of yet another promised conquest. Darin wondered how his squad members could even sleep through this. This was supposed to be their sanctuary. This cabin that they had all purchased together here in this quiet little village. Even Sienna, who hated practically everything, agreed that T'ulis was the most gorgeous town they have ever visited. All the better that the neighboring city of Lu Beu'tani was only within a day's journey.
Darin refilled his lychee nectar, grabbed another loaf for the stirring squad members breakfast, then helped himself to another serving. It was Brenton who actually suggested T'ulis as a location for leisure, the first time they had been stationed in Halis. Having a friend in his youth that hailed from here. A girl with beauty to match as Brenton claimed.
Darin sipped on his drink as he gazed out the paned window to the trodden wheat roads below. While it was still fresh in his mind, Darin contemplated his stubborn Captain. The journey that man had walked was paved with shattered stone and broken bodies. The hills and mountains he's had to overcome. Captain Brock gave the term 'loose cannon' a different weight entirely. Darin thought back to their early days post-basic training. The scorching deserts of Henneya. The brutal, chaotic raids of Ika I'borus. In every engagement, Captain Brenton Brock's rage had nearly cost them their lives.
He had gotten better over the years. Grit and sorrow, mixed with the heavy mortar of grief, would grind down any soldier eventually. Everyone loses a part of themselves to war. You either chose to rid yourself of something to save what matters, or you let the war take it all. Though the part that Brenton chose to divest himself of was his temper. What he had come to know as his fuel. He had realized, perhaps too late in some instances, that there were things too important to lose to a blind red haze.
That restraint lasted only until the decree of The Divine Rite. Since then, Brenton had stopped trying to divest the rage. Instead, he embraced it. He gave it purpose. Fueled by faith. A faith of domination and fury.
The floorboards in the hallway creaked as slow heavy footsteps made their way towards the kitchen. A pale, muscled man emerged from the corridor's shadow, his jaw cracking in a deep, cavernous yawn. His bed ruffled hair was as dark as night. He scratched his chest from under his loose tunic, revealing his athletic abdomen. He smacked his lips groggily, eyes still shut tight against the morning. To a stranger, this man did not invoke a commanding demeanor, nor did he seem capable of the violence Darin knew lived in his marrow. Upon first meeting him, one might mistake Brenton Brock for nonchalant. Even lazy.
"Food's on the table," Darin said, tossing a slice of loaf through the air.
Brenton's hand snapped up. He caught the bread inches from his face without opening his eyes. He took a bite, chewing slowly, before finally peeling his eyelids open to peer at Darin. Obsidian black irises, reflecting no light, stared out through slitted lids.
"When did you get up?" Brenton asked between his various munches. His gaze drifted past Darin to the large kitchen window. The town square was visible from their little cottage. Dozens of villagers were scurrying below, rushing to purchase the last goods from vendors who were frantically packing their supplies. Who knew when they would return? A village lying in the cross-section of a brutal Imperial campaign was bad for business.
"Right at First Horn," Darin said, slurping the rest of his lychee. A drop of pink nectar dribbled from the corner of his mouth. "No way I was going to sleep through three sets of that without my ears popping. Didn't think I'd be alone in that measure, though. The furnace went cold sometime last night without any of our drunk asses noticing." Darin gestured to the spread. "Ended up having to make breakfast cold and alone. Thank the Throne for Sienna and her meal prep. Made things a bit easier for me—erm, us, I mean."
Brenton pulled out a chair, the wood scraping against the floor. "You were gonna make breakfast just for yourself—"
"—I was gonna make breakfast just for myself, yes," Darin finished for him, grinning. Brenton finally cracked a smirk, collapsing into the seat beside his second-in-command. Darin returned the smile, and for a moment, the horns outside faded, drowned out by the sound of two brothers-in-arms laughing in the now quiet morning.