Heavy dew beaded on the long grass of the untamed field, reflecting the heady glow of dawn to the east. Such a wide swath of land had perhaps been a farm once, in another age, but the hands of men had not cultivated this ground in many years. A gentle breeze of early morning rolled through, sending ripples through the the blades of shimmering gold. It had rained the night before, making for muddy ground and difficult marching. The Order of the Crimson Shield rode steadily through the field in long columns, their horses trampling down the grass so that those behind them would not sink into the soft earth.

Dolores Braise, known to many as the Crimson Maiden, rode close behind the Order's commander. Dressed fully in her armor, she clenched her horse's reins tightly, fighting herself to keep from showing her nervousness outwardly. It never got any easier, despite how many battles she fought in or won. Every battle brought anxiety all the same, the expectation of some fresh, new horror. She never got better used to it, only better at hiding how nervous it made her. Turning slightly in the saddle to look at the knights behind her, riding silently, she reminded herself that it was likely they were likely feeling the same as her at that moment.

Knight-Commander Cryadmour, some paces ahead of Dolores, swore and dug his heels into his horse, sending it galloping forward. Dolores snapped back around and strained to look head of her, to see what had urged him on so. Smoke. They had been too late after all. After offering a rallying command to the knights behind her, Dolores dropped her visor and rode to catch up to the senior soldier ahead of her. They had been tracking this particular warband of Northmen for roughly a week; an easy task considering the trail of ruin and destruction they left in their wake. They had meant to circle around and ambush them before they arrived at the village that they were heading directly towards. However, the previous nights' rains had slowed them down considerably, and the barbarians had outpaced them.

The village came into sight quickly, and sure enough half of the cottages were ablaze. These marauders seemed to prefer to attack in the early morning, then spend the day picking through the remains of whatever village or stronghold they sacked. Somewhere behind Dolores a warhorn sounded, and the vanguard riders assumed their assault formation, lances drawn. Quite deliberately, the Order had attacked from the East, with the sun at their backs. They would take no chances when combating foes as vicious as these, and took every advantage possible. Such precautions were taken despite fighting alongside the "unconquerable" Crimson Maiden, at Dolores' own insistence; if her charms and visions were to fail, she would not have her comrades die due to overzealous faith in her.

Barbarians met the cavalry lines with shields and axes drawn, and the sound of clashing metal filled the air. Dolores kept near the Knight-Commander, somewhere to the middle-front of the formation, keeping ever-vigilant for signs of their formation breaking or other unfortunate possibilities. A lone Northman broke past the front line, and ran screaming towards Dolores and Crydamour. Skirting to the left, he chose the Crimson Maiden as his target, bringing his great axe to bear against her. Manuel, a graying veteran of a warhorse, did not so much knicker as Dolores wheeled him around to catch the axe on her shield. She grunted with the effort of withstanding his strength, but had the advantage of leverage against her attacker. He continued to close in, though his weapon was thrown off balance, and so Dolores sent him sprawling away with a booted kick to his chest. She bit her lip to keep herself from crying out in pain; she had taken a bolt to that leg only a few months prior, and it was not yet entirely healed. Leaning over, she gripped her spear tightly and thrust it into the heart of the downed barbarian, piercing his rusted maille. She was breathing heavily, she noticed, and licked the moisture from her lips as her breath condensed against the inside of her visor. As the savage gurgled his bloody death-cries, Crydamour was riding up ahead, and so Dolores left her spear where it stuck rather than struggle to retrieve it. She drew her father's sword, and advanced to the Knight-Commander's side.

The assault was advancing as planned. The vanguard bore the brunt of the enemy's counterattack, while the men on foot swept through the dusty streets to push any stragglers into the waiting blades of the mounted sternguard. However, Dolores felt something amiss. An impending sense of dread overtook her, leading her to cast her gaze at to the knights at her left. Golden light seemed to seep through the cottages and fences of the village, and she could sense a mass of soldiers just beyond her sight. Dolores had only ever gotten as far as she had by trusting her instincts, and this was exactly the occasion in which she did so.

"They're flanking us! To the left!" She cried out, to any that could hear her.

Some knights nearby took notice of her, and rode out to strengthen the flank, but not enough. Luckily, however, the Knight-Commander had also heard her, and echoed her with his great, booming voice. "Strengthen the left flank!"

The sense of dread did not disappear, however, and Dolores soon saw why. A hulking, nightmarish shape rounded the corner of a cottage, leading the charge of a dozen-odd Northmen. It was a mutant, at least ten foot high, an abomination of black fur and bull's horns. As was the custom among the repulsive Hyperboreans, the beastman was kitted to wear some sort of huge, crude breastplate, and carried a thick club the size of a child. It bellowed in its horrible, throaty voice (which could have been sensible in the barbaric tongue of the Northmen, for all Dolores knew), and charged the left flank, just as she had expected. The charge was met with shields and lances, but the beast did not go down. The line was holding, but it would not for long.

Looking about frantically, Dolores spied a broken spear clutched by a dead Northman. A strange aura surrounded it, an air of fate and purpose. Dolores knew this feeling well. She dismounted Manuel, grimacing as she landed hard on her bad leg, and sprinted the short distance to retrieve the destined spear. The death-grip of the warrior did not give it up easily, and so Dolores drew her sword to take his hand with the spear. Gripping her gruesome prize tightly, Dolores turned back around to watch the inevitability of the horrific monster breaking through the battle-lines of her comrades. She had never thrown a spear before, but she knew that it was what she had to do at that moment. Taking up the position for it was much a feeling much like tracing the steps of dance she had not performed in years, or singing the words to a song she had forgotten.

The monster upended a horse, legs flailing as it crushed its rider. Dolores gripped the spear tighter; not yet, the mutant wasn't close enough. Its hoofed foot came down on a staggered foot soldier, caving in his breastplate with a sickening groan. Still not yet. With its empty hand, the beast grabbed a mounted knight, and bit his head off, ripping cleanly through his maille. Dolores blinked the tears out of her eyes; she would need to see clearly when the moment came. Finally, after agonizing seconds of despair and horror, the golden moment arrived, and Dolores clearly envisioned the creature's downfall. She let fly with the broken spear, which sailed cleanly through the air and embedded itself in the monster's eye. It issued an inhuman screech as half of the spear's shaft was buried into its brain, and its revolting blood spurted from the mortal wound. It thrashed about, knocking away its human companions with its massive club, and finally collapsed into a twitching heap.

The morale of the Northmen broke quickly after their pet monster was felled, and the Order of the Crimson Shield quite cleanly swept the rest away. Before long, the enemy had been fully routed, and the peasants that remained emerged from their homes to repair the damage, mourn their dead, and carry on with their lives. Knights set about gathering up and burning bodies, the only sure way to keep the Scourge from spreading. It took five men to haul the corpse of the beastman into the pyre, all of whom scoured themselves with white ash and sweet herbs afterwards. Dolores stepped solemnly through the village, leading Manuel by the reigns as she tried to find a place to water him. She had removed her helm and cap, allowing her long, fiery locks to flow in the iron-tinged air of midmorning. Watching the scene of pain and loss that surrounded her, she felt as though she had stepped into a painting of some great historical tragedy.

She eventually found a trough, but it had been fouled with the arrow-ridden corpse of a villager. Not yet totally discouraged, Dolores continued on, and found yet another somber scene. A young girl knelt at the side of a man whose chest had been opened by some barbarian's axe. She wept bitter tears beside him, marking her face with dirt as she rubbed her eyes. A single scene of tragedy, lost among hundreds. A young girl, senselessly deprived of her father. This was something Dolores had seen before, only the girl was a bit older, with hair like fire.

She felt a strange compulsion, and acted on instinct as she always did. Dolores put a gauntlet-clad hand on the kneeling girl's shoulder, who looked up at her with red and bleary eyes. In a soft tone, she simply said, "There is still hope."

The armored man was surrounded. Two with swords at his front, covering his left and right sides, a third circling behind him with an axe. He turned, wary, trying and failing to keep all three of his leather-clad opponents in his line of sight.

Two of them struck at once, a blade and an axe scything through the air at him as their wielders closed, seeking to catching him from both sides at once. The man made no effort to block. He was unarmed, but the thick plate he wore absorbed the blows, barely even denting as the two weapons slammed into it. Grinning beneath his visor, he charged forwards, slamming a gauntlet into an attacker's face and prompting a collective gasp from the watching crowd.

Some distance away, from atop a raised chair with an excellent view of the ongoing battle, Rosa Mariane watched their reaction, and was pleased. Putting on an impressive show paid big dividends. Even if the sight of a man shrugging off sword blows didn't impress her buyer, it'd certainly impress the other men (and occasional woman) of means who saw it. That would mean more potential dealings, pressure on her original target from his peers, and most importantly, tales and rumors of the invincible armor spreading throughout the land.

The plate was good, of course- she had the resources now to hire some truly skillful blacksmiths, and had ensured that this armor in particular was of the highest quality. She'd also made sure that the weapons currently being used against it were not so well-made, and were of the kind that didn't fare well against armor in general. But of course, the crowd didn't know that, and when they spoke of this moment in the following days and weeks, they'd exaggerate as far as they could.

Secondary effects aside, however, she appeared to have won over the man she'd hoped to. A young lord of a small domain of Thule, whose father had died on the battlefield some months earlier. According to rumor, he was itching for vengeance, and showing off shiny armor and weapons for him practically guaranteed her a deal. It wasn't the main reason she'd come here, but it was a nice bonus.

Noticing that her gaze had drifted his way, the young ruler shifted in his seat, and nodded to her. "I cannot deny it, the craftsmanship is excellent."

She flashed him a smile for that. Not the wicked kind, but a genuine one, or a least a very good imitation of it. "Good eye, my lord. Plate of this caliber is hard to come by- and men to match it, harder still. The armor is a powerful weapon, yes, but its true value lies in the warriors it may serve to protect."

A ploy of sorts. If this man knew his generals, his captains, the men who'd proven their worth in battle, he would be thinking of them. Or perhaps thinking of his father. The lives of heroes were far harder to dismiss than a shiny suit of metal. It made her offer more enticing, while at the same time painting her in a more positive light.

She could see his eyebrows rise, as he considered the implications, and noticed that the merchant of coins and death was extolling the value of human life. "I cannot deny that." She had his full attention now, as he turned further towards her, raising one hand to his chin and making eye contact. "And your arms? They are of similar quality?"

"Certainly, my lord." She gestured gently at the crowd, who were cheering now as the armored fighter rounded on his last standing opponent. "Ask anyone who has heard my name, and they'll tell you of the kingdoms carved out with my blades." She was exaggerating about the quality, perhaps, it would be far too expensive to produce masterworks en masse, even with the prices she could get for them. However, she was betting that what she had was better than anything they could easily get their hands on around here, and anyone clever enough to tell the difference between a good sword and a magnificent one would also be clever enough to know how much good ones were needed. "When you succeed in your conquests, I can return here, and offer further weapons. It is in my interests. Besides..." Her tone and expression grew a little more tender. "I do have a certain affection for this place and its people. They're hardy, and kind at heart. A strong army and a good ruler would do them well."

That last part was utter bullshit, but it was a lie she could sell. For one thing, her earlier words concerning the armor would have induced doubt as to her supposed ruthlessness. For another, she was a woman, and men liked to believe that women were kind and filled with emotion. Especially pretty ones. Another thing she'd learned to be good at feigning.

Sure enough, he was smiling at her. "You are right indeed, this kingdom shall prosper with every battle won. Perhaps our contract could ensure that this occurs..." He was thinking again, remembering the offer she'd send to him, all the numbers and goods and prices, laid out on paper. "I must say, however, the amount you ask for may be... taxing, for my domain, and its people."

Exactly as intended. She'd put together a rough estimate of how much he'd be able to afford, and had gone slightly over that. "I understand, my lord." She let slip the tiniest bit of concern in her voice. "There is more to governing than winning wars, even in these hard times. Perhaps I should have given more consideration to this." Submission, letting him feel like he was in control. "However... perhaps we can strike an alternative bargain, my lord?"

He gestured. "Do tell."

"I can cut the amount in coin by one-fourth, my lord, if you would grant me a small gift. Do you know of a man named Rantham Darrow?"

Her buyer nodded, frowning. "The alchemist. I know of him. You wish to recruit him, then?"

Rosa smiled. "Indeed, my lord."

"The man is not without value. His kind produced great devices, war-winning creations of fire and thunder. He has knowledge, valuable knowledge, and it is my hope that he could craft such weapons in my service, given time."

"If I may ask, has he, my lord? No doubt you have given him resources, but what has he produced in return? Perhaps a few fiery tricks, perhaps even useful ones, but nothing like you hear about in the tales." Based on his expression, and the slight shifting of his fingers, she wasn't far off the mark. "There is only so much one man can do. Give him to me, however, and I'll pair him with his fellows, give him all the books and powders he needs. He will produce alchemy of pure lightning, the kind of weapons no barbaric foe can possibly stand against- weapons that I can bring to you and your allies."

It was a dangerous choice, for him. If he gave her the alchemist, there was a chance the weapons the man produced in Rosa's service would one day be used against his armies, by others who had dealt with her. On the other hand, if he didn't, it was likely that her alchemists would make her something devastating regardless- and she'd sell it to his enemies, rather than the man who had spurned her offer.

"Very well," he said after a while, "I will consider this. You are certain the alchemist will go with you?"

Rosa smiled. "I'll make sure of it, my lord."

A reading from the Book of Armaments, Chapter 2, versus 9 through 21.

And so did the Legendary Hero advance upon his foes, blade in hand. Held low, did the warrior carry his blade, felling countless foes with his stroke, broad yet controlled. Unwavering was his approach, faltering not from the sheer number of his foes, trusting in the swiftness of his arm and his discipline of the craft. Thus he-

"I... I can't make sense of any of this." a frustrated voice interrupted.

The voice belonged to a young boy, borean in appearance, his fair skin dirtied and tanned from weeks of travel. The boy was no older than 18, with roughly hewn brown hair, and slate gray eyes. The boy wore tough, hardened leather over a sturdy green tunic, and impatiently drummed his fingertips on the pommel of a plain, steel longsword, whose point had been thrust into the ground. The boy regarded his instructor, with a frustrated, almost impatient sigh. The two of them had spent the better part of the afternoon merely standing in an open patch of dirt, just off the overgrown and unkempt remains of one of the former kingdoms' many great roads. Their shared beast of burden, stood not too far away from them, content to graze in the grasses as the teacher and student studied.

"I just don't see how these... stories have anything to do with fighting." the boy continued.

The youth, Emil, had had a rough time as a child, knowing only that he had to push, shove, and fight for survival. Emil was hardy and perceptive, but impatient and headstrong. Many of his qualities made him seemingly unsuitable for a student, but Hadar found himself drawn to the student's similarities to his own situation. Even so, Emil had proven exceptionally resistant to many of Hadar's teachings.

"Where is your sense of intellectual curiosity?" Hadar replied casually, his voice almost humorous. "Even veterans need to understand theory and fundamentals if they are to become masters."

"With all due respect master, it sounds more like you're telling me a story." Emil said rubbing at the back of his head. "Besides, I've already learned the fundamentals."

"I always thought that the best lessons were learned from stories." Hadar retorted, before he drew his saber from its sheathe. "And no one ever truly finishes learning the fundamentals, my impatient pupil."

Hadar sighed, "Very well then, if you wish to fight so badly, let us begin."

Eyeing the saber warily, Emil drew his own blade. Emil had been studying under Hadar for a bit over a year now. Hadar had noticed marked improvements in the boy's technique. No longer did he plant himself on the ground and swing as wildly and forcefully as he could with hopes of battering an opponent into submission- while that technique certainly worked with the common soldier, as he fought the plain bandit or desperate conscript, it had no place when facing off against skilled warriors and armsmen. While some of his old self-taught lessons remained ingrained in his stance, Hadar had seen Emil slowly begin to pick up the idea of outmaneuvering one's opponent, and wearing them down with accurate, precise strokes.

The two swordsmen cautiously rounded each other, Emil slowly stepping forward while Hadar held his blade in front of him, the edge and point of his saber slowly dipping towards the ground. Surging forward with a quick upwards cut, Emil recoiled as Hadar quickly slapped the longsword away with the flat of his saber, the sound of steel on steel ringing. "Too predictable, you telegraphed that swing long before you closed the distance." Hadar called out, stepping to the side as he did. Hadar replied to the opening attack with a quick thrust through the air that Emil barely manage to vacate before the blade connected.

Emil grunted in acknowledgement before he struck again with a vertical chop, followed by a horizontal one, and a series of thrusts. Hadar side stepped the chop and danced away from the rest of Emil's attacks, rewarding the pupil with a slap to the back of his forward leg with the flat of his sabre, sending the pupil stumbling forward. "Watch your balance." Hadar commented as he leaned out of the way of a haphazard counter. Lifting up his foot, he brought a quick push-kick to Emil's now exposed chest, sending him sprawling. "If I had used my sword instead of my foot, you'd be a dead man."

This continued for the next hour or so, Hadar calling out Emil's faults, or applauding his technique as the master and pupil sparred, the ring of clashing blades echoing throughout the open field. Hadar had stopped using wooden training swords after Emil's 3rd month of training, saying that the only way to learn swordplay was to use the weapon you intended to fight with.

Returning to Clavat, their burden-carrier after the sparring session- Emil panting hard, and Hadar with only a slight glisten of sweat on his brow, Hadar pulled a waterskin off of the beast and tossed it to his pupil. Taking a generous swig from the waterskin, Emil glanced at Hadar, and shook the waterskin upside down a few times. It was empty. They had been on the road for a few weeks now, so it was only natural that their provisions had started to dwindle.

"With luck, the next town won't be abandoned, or stingy with their supplies." Emil commented, as he tossed the empty waterskin at his teacher. "Are you sure we should be heading this way, Master? From what I hear the only thing this way are barbarians and feuding city states."

"Have heart, young Emil." Hadar replied as he caught the empty leather and returned it to its place on their beast. "The winds of destiny have not failed me yet. There is a reason we must go this way- what that reason is, we shall discover soon enough."