It didn’t take too long for the two knights to reach the training grounds and arm themselves. Though real steel may have lent a greater sense of realism, it would misfortunate if either of them ended up crippling the other during a particularly intense session. Training weapons, sheathed in charcoal powder, were brought up instead, alongside gambesons and helmets to allow a modicum of protection against blunt strikes without entirely negating the pain that came from a mistake, an inadequacy. A surprise, perhaps, that the usual suspects were not present, but Fionn had his cedar mill, Gerard had a habit of ending up in the strangest places, and Renar was the type to hide what he knew.
Convenient too for her, in some ways.
Tying her hair back to accommodate the open-faced helmet she chose for the occasion, Serenity glanced over towards the assortment of practice weapons present. Memories flickered dream-like, of ancient stances from storied heroes, but if this was to be productive, there was only one choice. A kite shield, long enough to reach the beneath her knees. A one-handed sword, made of a hefty, solid oak. She took a few practice swings with it, acclimating to the weight, before settling her gaze upon Fanilly.
Right, I guess if one of the three yeet into the Elwet bush, Zeroth, it'd probably be helpful if you told em OOCly after the post if the chicken's actually there or not.
“Because we’re children,” was Esfir’s response to the martial artist runt. “We can afford to be as such.”
None of them knew yet, after all, how cruel this world could be. None of them knew where they stood amidst the creatures of the forest, and none of them knew of what laid beyond the forest. And certainly, none of them had the tools for building a home to begin with. Though a violence-based meritocracy founded by a pillager-race was not something that Esfir particularly approved of, her past experiences had formed her present decisions. One could only afford scruples after one’s present and future were secure.
And now, for those horned chickens…
Without a second thought, she passed her rock to the martial artist. Similar weapons better fit one accustomed to using two hands. The stick Esfir kept, holding it in one hand as her ears swivelled gradually. She had heard three, but three hardly made a human family. They could do three though. Three for one.
“It’s in that bush. One grab its body, the other its horns. Keep clear of the head, it breathes fire. Third break its neck or crush its throat. Do it clean, do it quick. If other chickens come out in defense, I’ll block them out while you three kill one. If you can’t do it clean, just do it quick.” She rotated her wrist. So novel, how it spun without cracking and popping. "If there's more than three of them, we need to cull them faster than they can come."
The Spirit gave her a blizzard and from experience, Esfir knew. Even a dry gust could blind and repulse.
Her breath rattled out from her lungs, her gaze heavenward.
When was the last time she drowned so deeply in that fathomless blue? Her cabin had no window when she laid down to rest. Her back had been too bent when she was out and about. Summer memories, like snowmelt stained by tar pitch, recalled with fond nostalgia those golden days fabricated through the moving picture and the songs of the proletariat. And yet, those false memories paled still to the brilliance before her gaze. So far she could fall without end. So close she could touch it if she reached out. Her vision, fading.
Not from tears of joy. Not from tears of grief. Just from the blood she was losing with every bite. A pitiful wolf, as starved as she, as desperate as she. Gnawing away at her withered flesh, gnawing away at her toothstick bones, gnawing away at her shrivelled organs. The pain chased away the dark, that pain of being consumed alive, and the old woman could only let out a whisper of a laugh.
A pitiful beast. It’d get more out of her if it knew how to boil a soup.
Her hand reached out, unsteadily. Grasped the coarse fur, felt its ends prickle her skin. Felt the cold seep in from the tundra beneath. Felt the wind scar her exposed flesh. Felt the loss numb everything that she was. Felt it all, as she lost it all.
And, in the end, once everything was lost, the thing that remained had to be her soul: spiteful and blackened, a piece of coal the size of a fist clenched in anger.
Esfir could rest, knowing that there was never the promise of Heaven that awaited her, that the cauldrons of flame could drown out the howling of her mind.
She closed her eyes. She let it go.
And found out that even the God she believed in was a lie.
She was still Esfir, even now.
Shunted into the body of a half-beast, cast into a brood of ugly little monstrosities, inheritor of a lineage of violence and servitude. Those in power remained in power, but she could appreciate that 'Auguz' figure's honesty. It was clear where he stood. It was clear where she stood. And it was clear that there would be no hard feelings if she smashed his skull open and turned his sinew into glue. Theirs' was a brutal lot, a brutality that she could understand all too well.
To work, or to die. Whether capitalism or communism, that remained the same here.
She watched. She listened.
She enjoyed, even, this scrawny body of hers that had not yet become broken from decades of abuse.
Two runts who sang. One who showed greater purpose and thought. Another with an unnatural composure. A child that practiced movements too controlled to be of instinct, and the other who approached them. That was enough. She knew she was ordinary enough that it would not be her alone who was cast into this world beyond her world, this Dark Age bereft of the fruits of revolution, the corruption of inflated capital. She knew, so she approached.
When had her steps become so light, her fingers so comfortable with curling and uncurling? It had taken her far too little time to catch up to the one that had approached the Head Warrior and with far too much ease, her fingers wrapped around the runt's wrist, pulling her back. Pulling her to the couple, that martial artist and the one drawn to such movements.
"We were human, once."
A statement of fact. Firm as winter wastes.
"We work together, to hunt more than we need, so we can eat for ourselves before our return. That brute spoke only of what we had to do, not what we could. And we can do far more."
Too clear to be fiction, too fantastical to be reality. Twas a plateau, the only slice of land in a world of clouds, and with only that piece of land present, it was land coveted by all. Coveted by all, as a witch watched all from an impossible height above, her form as constant as a mirage, her substance as tangible as a memory. And in this fantasy, Serenity found herself of flesh and blood, bearing nothing but herself. She felt the tension in her muscles, felt the tautness of her sinew, felt the rush of air in her lungs, the bodily stimulation that told her she existed, even when she shouldn’t have.
Land, coveted. Enemies, coveting.
She slipped beneath the swing of a chipped shortsword, wrapped her arms around the wielder’s neck, and counted the seconds before he expired.
She parried the thrust of the rusted rapier with a chipped shortsword and then stepped in, stomping upon the shambling skeleton’s knee and breaking it clean off.
She stepped back, leveraging the one-inch difference in range between rapier and arming sword to pierce the index finger of the opposing duelist.
She counter-cut in one motion, drawing the arming sword’s edge against the rogue’s stomach when they lunged for her from this shadowless arena.
She sprinted forth amidst staccato shots of a recurve bow, arrowheads grazing her skin as daggers found the flesh of her opponent.
She drew quick, fired quicker, an arrow blocked by a blast of wind that didn’t stop her fist from caving the mage’s face in one tempo later.
She twirled an ornate staff, feigning spellwork to goad a single-minded charge, before flowing into a spearman’s thrust and collapsing the barbarian’s windpipe with the tapered butt of a caster’s focus.
A brutish axe. A polished longsword. The arsenal of an outrider. A pike fit for a formation. An oversized hat and the crystal orb that accompanied it. Sword and board, chipped and worn. A curved blade that whistled with each swing. A weighty crossbow, operated with a winch. An unbalanced halberd, designed to smash and cleave. An iron ball and a five meter chain, rattling like a poisonous serpent. A zweihander of the finest make.
And with each victory, the chaff was further separated from the wheat. From mundane, timeless opponents to ones with greater history, greater meaning. Dwarven shieldbearers, clad in heavy-set armor. Hundi errant knights, fresh-faced and noble despite their world-worn garb. Orcish warlords, riding upon battle-scarred steeds. A Giant, one possessing the countenance of a mountain. Resplendent lords in regalia that existed only in history books. Bond-Breakers from Barukstead, bodies stained by the list of their sins. Swordmasters beyond the Veil, eternal youth fused with endless experience.
Some she triumphed over. The Hundi spear charge shattered upon Dwarven shieldwork, the wealth of the nations carved open by the sickle of a headhunter. Others she forced a draw, impaling herself upon the boar’s tusks to tear out the warlord’s stomach, bearing the curse of boiling blood to drive a sharpened fang into an eyesocket. Still more she was entirely helpless again, smashed to pulp beneath the giant’s warhammer, cut down in the breath of a heartbeat by a silverwood saber.
And still, it continued, her victories growing rarer, her defeats mounting up. Blood spilled upon the featureless plateau, only to be drained back into her body. Armaments changed no matter victory or loss, brilliant blades weighing upon her calloused palms. Her eyes burned, entire legacies of martial artistry seared into her retina, even as caustic agony forced her into the dark again and again, an abyss that offered only an instance of serenity before she found herself present once more. Another hero. Another legend. Another mark upon history.
Another, another, another, another, another.
Each too distinct to deserve being placed within this selfish gauntlet. Each too precious to be spent in a single bout. Each a miracle to have encountered, even if only in a dream too real to be reality.
Each, leading to a path that perhaps had been determined from the start.
Sescille Hundred-Blades, possessing a cocksure grin and blades that long surpassed one hundred. They glistened like jewels, each taken from a champion of no small renown, each of such value that a minor House would bankrupt themselves trying to purchase. And as her eyes swept over Serenity, over the armaments born by Ganelan Slowhand, over greataxe of still-living oak and half-plate forged beneath frost-scarred mounts, her fingers bounced from one haft to another, before grasping upon her weapon of choice.
A dragon-slaying claymore, reflecting the burning sky.
Serenity breathed in. Breathed out. And, as she did for the one hundred times before, advanced.
It was an eternity, her brain boiling within her skull as she scraped away everything that did not contribute to the fight. The world beyond the five meters that the lioness engaged in faded away as the greataxe of a greater warrior swung tempestuously in her hands. Sparks scattered against the edge of the claymore, like meteor showers that came and went far too quick, but each blow left not a single mark upon the length of her foe’s weapon. Sescille Hundred-Blades was not known for defensive talent and yet, the flurry of strikes delivered, one that utilized the entire breadth of Serenity’s knowledge, one that pulled from martial styles that could not have existed two hundred years ago, failed to leave a mark.
It was an instant, the moment when bemusement fell into disappointment fell into irritation, and with a singular strike, the hero from two centuries past cleaved through the haft of the hero from three centuries past, leaving behind only a knight with no fame, only a dreamer amidst the plains, only a child in armor that wasn’t hers.
“You.” The first words that had split the silence of samsara. “What the fuck are you playing at here? Wearing a greater man’s armor, bearing a greater man’s weapon, yet lacking the weight of even an aspirant?”
A hiss escaped Serenity’s lips. She changed stances, recalculated distances, brought the headless axe, the quarterstaff, back into the form of an Ila-Nem warrior-monk.
“Florian had an eye for this, but you’re not even trying to copy him, are you? Gods above, and spare me that look. You’re far from skilled enough to…oh fuck off.”
Her advance was cut short, her quarterstaff insufficient for parrying a blade that could cleave through dragonscale, her armor insufficient for blocking a blade that could rend a wyvern from skull to tail. Her right arm dropped to the floor, still clutching one half of the severed staff. A familiar pain. Her left arm remained though, and she swapped stances once more. A Veltian single-dagger style, improvised with what could only be considered a stake of wood now. The pain, familiar. The pain, keeping abyss at bay.
“Right, you get points for being a stubborn bastard, I’ll give you that, but c’mon. You’re not trying to be like Florian, you’re not trying to be like Lilette, you’re nowhere close to Agrahn and Cyrus, you don’t have anything you seem to treasure like Parvan and Edwin, and you sure as hell aren’t ever going to become a saintess like Elionne. How did you become a knight when you’re so bloody nebulous?”
She lunged forth, lunged before her blood had drained entirely out of her body, lunged with a wordless fury, a petrified spite. Her opponent didn’t even deign to respond to the blow from the dying knight, allowing the stake to be warded off by the chainmail beneath the joints and gaps of ancient plate. A sigh escaped the founding knight, irritation gradating into pity.
“What are you trying to be?”
And with a flick of Sescille’s wrist, Serenity became two halves of a hollow whole.
But there still was no end. In her hands now rested the weight of a great claymore, dripping still with her own viscera. Within her gaze now was the Demonbreaker, fully restored of body and mind, his words of encouragement lost upon a knight who so deeply thought of him as an enemy. Will alone did not dissuade a sword wreathed in the fire of the stars though, dragon-slaying steel meaningless against a figure too perfectly human to be considered as such.
And what laid beyond that, as plateaus fell to night, as clouds melted into shadow and the moon shone with its alabaster allure, was a beast to surpass a demon. Volkstraad, born in craven times. Volkstraad, an evil as immaculate as blood diamonds. Volkstraad, the calamity upon which the Iron Rose truly proved their valor.
Volkstraad, the end of the path, obscuring what laid beyond.
Its throat rumbled, the pulsing of its blood alone sufficient to cause the world to ripple.
And Serenity, clad once more in another warrior’s legend, advanced.
The sun was too high up when Serenity opened her eyes. When was the last time she had dreamed so deeply? When was the last time she had slept so well? When did she have the time to be so relaxed?
She got up. Her room was barren and yet crowded, a small armory consuming all available space, the windows open to air out the stench of iron flecks and blade oil. Memories lingered still, memories of mysterious and forgotten techniques, of tactics and strategies from long-gone eras and her gaze lingered briefly upon a small desk, upon the quill and inkwell, the parchment and manuscripts.
Recording it would be left in the evening. Right now, however? The lioness needed to move. The warmth of her blood matched not the tepidness of her body, the dreamscape demanding to be actualized in a realm where blood spilt stayed spilled. Damon Cazt remained, and so did the demon he had favored. Doubtlessly, they had some involvement in the Lightning Witch’s escape, but whether or not she’d appreciate it was another question.
It didn’t matter.
It took five minutes to get dressed, another three to arm herself. A green-and-grey tunic, spritzed with a pleasant scent. Dagger and longsword, modest blades for casual traversal through Candaeln. It had been far too long, and yet may have been no time at all.
She grasped the doorknob and twisted, leaving her room.
She grasped the doorknock and twisted, entering the library.
“Captain Fanilly.” Her voice broke the peace of turning pages. “Reon’s grace will soon reach its apex, and the westerlies have brought a favorable temperament. I will leave for the training grounds.”
The line between request and command were ever blurred, but her tone sounded with the cadence of statement.
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