this is my first bit of fanfiction, I will be writing about the life cycle of Havel.
The front of the east was a place of peace for once. Tents had been pitched for the men the previous night and many of them crouched in their silver armor, rolling blankets and packing poles into thin bags under the gray tint of the clouds. Last night was one of the rare ones, going without a single desertion, loss or burning. It appeared that Vinheim had its secrets after all. In the soil, some of the more eager and motivated men noticed a slight aural glow. After burning this soil, it caused an interesting effect that generated a massive cloud of black smoke, but hollowed out among the inside. The dragons floating among the air must have avoided the spot and never once saw the fires. The smoke cloud was stomped out before morning to avoid it being seen from a distance. Men bent over a table a decent distance away, toying with the fire and casting various things at clumps of dirt to see if the effect could be contained or minimized.
Havel the Rock slowly rose in the morning in his fabled red-tinted tent, discolored after he soaked it in the blood of his first dragon. He lumbered to the opposite end of the tent where large chunks of stone lay. He picked them up and began to lift quickly, pumping his arms up and down, side to side. After he did this for what he thought was fifteen minutes, he lay the stones down and found the soft silk bag that held his armor. Slowly, he undid and redid straps on the finely made equipment until only his head was uncovered. He looked his helmet up and down before tucking it under his shoulder. Havel walked energetically towards a horn by the door and removed it from its leather strap binding it tightly to the wall. Pushing the flap along the front of the door aside, he strode across the camp to Lord Gwyn's tent.
Gwyn's tent had large poles pointing high into the sky and flew flags of lightning hemmed in gold upon themselves. Havel pushed aside the flap, slightly more stubborn than his own, and stepped inside. Gwyn was inside in his armor as well, pacing across his floor of elegant carpets. On a deployable table, there were several small baubles that spun, ticked and bounced rhythmically. Havel hated the sight of magic, personally, but couldn't help but admit that it saved the lives of men less capable than himself with weaponry. Gwyn noticed Havel standing straight and performing a salute, but waved it aside. On Gwyn's left hand was an elegantly sewn glove sporting the sign of the sun. He looked distressed.
"Yes, commander, what is it that you bother me with now?" Gwyn asked condescendingly. Havel ignored his tone and proceeded with his simple errand.
"Lord Gwyn, sire, I must request that I be given my weapon permanently. I feel more comfort with it nearby and it motivates my troops."
Gwyn eyed him for a moment before stopping his pace and slowly nodding.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, you may have your weapon. However, I know what shall motivate the troops." He said. "Have you your sword?"
Havel withdrew the lengthy hunk of steel that was standard issue among the troops under Gwyn. In a fit of boredom, Havel had carved poetry into his blade. "Havel, my-" Gwyn stopped for a moment, gazing into Havel's gray eyes. "Friend." He decided. "Are you aware that many of my troops hate you and wish to remove you? They say you have turned the others from a logical path of magic." Havel simply stared forward. Had Gwyn just called him his friend? Why? Did he actually see him in some form of equality?
"Well, sir, magic is unnatural. Why would the humans use something so common with the dragons?" Havel said. His eyes warped slightly, the irises withdrawing quickly and then returning with a slight orange tint.
"Havel, why are you addressing me as sir? We are friends. We shall fight on the battlefield with jolly cooperation." Gwyn said. "After all, the dragons are a fearsome foe. However, I know how to truly inspire you men."
Havel glanced at Gwyn nervously. It was strange to see him, grand lord and god among men, lose his poise. "What could that be, si- Gwyn?"
"It's quite simple. You do not like magic." Gwyn raised his hand to the sword and, muttering with closed eyes, enchanted the blade until it was tinted a bright blue. "Do you hate that trick? My researchers have discovered how to extend the effects of my gauntlet," he raised his gloved hand, "to act as what they called a catalyst." Havel's eyes flickered again, returning this time as a strong orange that enveloped almost the entire front of his eye. The magic infuriated his disorder, made him close his eyes tightly.
"Gwyn, you've corrupted my blade." He said. "What was your purpose of this?"
"Quite simple." Gwyn said. "Open your eyes." Havel did as he was told. "Your eyes are interesting. They seem almost like the dragon's. that mystifying effect of changing appearance. Have you ever wondered what would happen in a world of perfection? Men would constantly seek to better themselves from others by going smaller and smaller, until every atom of every being would be rejected for the slightest shortcomings. But, in the world of perfection, even these would be identical. Everything would destroy everything else from jealousy. So that is why we must have imperfection."
Havel gazed at Gwyn, pondering his reasoning, when Gwyn lashed out with the blade. Havel instinctively back stepped and lunged forward, aiming to disarm Gwyn. Gwyn, however, placed his hand against Havel's chest, muttered, and sent Havel flying backwards. Havel struggled to rise from the ground but Gwyn firmly planted his foot in Havel's chest.
"This blade is imbued with a force almost unmatched by the power of miracles. It is fueled by the power of the dragons, power I now hold in my hands. The spell- sorcery, I've taken to calling it- puckers and roasts the skin and tissue. However, I've never seen the effect on something so sensitive before. You will be the imperfection this army needs!" With that, He kicked Havel in the chin, loosening a tooth, and scraped the blade slowly across Havel's face and into his left eye. He pushed until the blade met Havel's hairline and released. Blood seeped from the skin and through Havel's covering fingers. Gwyn bent down, set the blade aside, and pried the hands away from Havel's face. The blood had left trails across Havel's face. However, the eye entranced Gwyn.
Havel's eye was warping intensely, constantly shifting colors. Everything from bright red to pale blue flashed by in moments. The pupil, seemingly sliced apart, had thinned out, becoming a black sliver in the display of color. Havel finally let out a blood-curdling scream and the nearby guards rushed in to investigate. Gwyn turned to the men, mouths ajar, and gestured to Havel. "What are you waiting for, you fools? Heal this man!" The soldiers quickly clawed at their sides for their talismans, but as soon as they got close, Havel lashed out with his foot. He caught one man and the other jumped back, drawing his sword. Havel rose to a knee and bent over. "No- no magic!" He rushed. "I can, I can-" he reached into his belt and drew out an array of herbs. He drew one along his face and began to slowly chew a root of a blue hue. The bleeding stopped and the wound sealed quickly.
By the time Havel's breathing returned to normal, he looked up to see that one guard had rushed out and the other had his blade placed against Havel's jugular. Gwyn slapped the man across his helmet, his head whipping around, and ordered him out. The man rushed away. Havel looked at Gywn with fake rage, but knew he respected him. The man was concerned about his troops and would make a man a symbol to keep them inspired. It was actually fairly impressive, the way the man handled himself. Gwyn handed Havel back his blade and Havel held it at a distance. He would give it to who he thought was worthy of such a thing. Gwyn had tarnished the blade with his "sorcery".
After a few minutes, a knight rushed inside and told Gwyn they would be packing up his tent, gazing cautiously at Havel. Havel gazed back, his eye still putting on a light show, his face covered in streaks of blood. Before the knight left, Allfather Lloyd pushed his way inside and gestured furiously for him to exit. The knight almost ran away, but only after bowing. Lloyd looked at Gwyn, rage burning in his eyes. Finally, he simply said, "Dying screams aren't good for morale." Gwyn simply gestured to Havel. Lloyd looked to him, something like disappointment in his eyes, before seeing the eye. Lloyd leaned forward and retreated almost as quickly as he did. "What is this? What abomination have you created?"
Gwyn grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him up. "I have created a man less pure than Nito himself. The troops need to see this man as a monster, his men need to see him as a symbol. I have done that."
"That's too bad. The Way of White can not have such a putrid thing populate its ranks. He shall be properly removed, but exiled."
"Like hell he will!" Gwyn shouted. "This is still the mighty Havel. If I decide not to kill you, I will have him break every bone in your body. He stays."
Lloyd cowered and exited the tent, fury burning within him. Havel looked at Gwyn. Perhaps he really was a friend.
Gwyn strode to a far wall where a lengthy trunk lay along the ground. He opened it and lifted a massive object from it. He set it at Havel's kneeling form and Havel grabbed it slowly, hefting it with one hand. Gwyn advised him to keep it in his personal quarters and Havel nodded. As the walls of the tent fell down, Havel rose and grabbed his helm, donning it. No man saw his face. One of his soldiers rushed to him, a massive plate of stone in his hand, and handed it to Havel, who recognized it as his shield. The man saluted and rushed off. Havel looked around to find the highest point, which happened to be a steep hill with a narrow ledge leaning out from it. Havel realized while climbing that he still had the blade in a concealed pocket in his armor. He decided to keep it for now. No one deserved it.
Havel reached the top and blew his horn, lifting his helmet only slightly. When his knights stopped ebbing in, Havel silenced them with a wave of his shield. He set the massive thing down, and, saying no words, set the Dragon's Tooth next to it. Slowly, with both hands, he raised his helmet high into the air, but turned around before they could see him. He placed it behind him and lifted the Dragon's Tooth. Finally, he turned around to a sea of masks, each soldier identical to the one next to him, each with a ring around their finger, blades in hand. They all gasped, every soul in the crowd. Havel stood tall upon a rock, face covered with blood and soot, scar fresh, and eye blazing its lights. Wordless, Havel slowly raised the Dragon's Tooth before slamming it high above his head. The crowd roared with pride. General Havel Had become a symbol.