Synopsis: The third war is over, a brittle peace rests over the Alliance and the Horde. But recent events have shaken this peace. Daelin Proudmoore's uprising, orcish incursions in Alliance territory. But how will the arrival of foreigners from a mystical gate change things?
Note: I will likely make some changes for the Gate side of things, and likely some name changes also. I mean, Pinacolada? Are you fucking serious?
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except for my OC's.
Chapter 2: An iron cage.
Waning winds blew across the open landscape, and it seemed that for nearly a league in three directions there was naught but tall, verdant grasses, the stalks arching to and fro with the morning breeze. But to the north, that perilous north… where crags and rocks and caves were strewn about as though the god or goddess which had formed the place had but tapped a finger and made it so but had left before administering the final, beautifying touches. Without such, it was an eyesore that besmirched this foreign world… which had been very pretty only a few days ago.
And with the wind, the iron-cage rattles and Lucius's legs feel the cold. There are no wraps of orcish origin that bind around his legs, alas the embrace of finely-woven wool is all that he feels against his flesh, but only towards his shoulder and against his torso to his hips and no further, for he does not wear subligaculum nor braccae, on account of the warm weather, and constantly shifted around to keep his limbs warm.
And Lucius's fate, much like the wind and the cliff and the iron in the bars that hold him, he could feel that he was well within the cool graces of the wheel of fortune… he wondered if his father would ever know, if his spirit would go to the lares to be as guiding spirit… or would there be nothing in death, would it be like closing one's eyes, entering peaceful darkness that hovers over eternity?
With his bulla gone, what is to protect him from the evil eye but for the purple stripes of his angusticlavia?
To think, a minotaur slain… a beast hewn from coiled clay by the poised hands of Proserpina herself, known in other, lesser tongues as Hardy, or so the many stories tell. Slain by the scourge of magic, of devilry thrown which cast the fatal blow.
And the men from the shadow whom had cast the minotaur down, for they were men, they were a large bunch, green and furnished with tusks like that of a wild boar… They had beset upon him with clubs and the back-end of axes, struck him once and laid him out upon the ground.
Looking at his captors now, Lucius could think only on how he should kill them.
They beset upon him with furious anger as soon as he awoke, beating him with switches as though he were cattle being lead to the slaughter. They made him walk to their place of refuge which was crested on the side of a cliff, well-situated to make it very defensible.
To assault him, the son of a General… was one thing. But, to take that which had been given to him since his ninth day on earth… to take that which protected him from the avaricious eye of envy, it was tantamount to an assault not only to himself, but to the Virtus of his father as paterfamilias and also to the ancestors and the name of the family.
The fated bulla, how they had ransacked it from his neck. How they had overturned the silken purse that lay beside it and tipped out the fascinus, the lares familiaris and lares privati and the tiny cloves and cubebs and cinnamon of the east, the appearance of the fascinus first surprised them, but then they laughed and spoke in a barbaric tongue.
Lucius would kill them, as the Cerunii had done to the Corluvenii in the days of yore, when Sadera was a young tribe amongst bold wolves, when the other tribes sought to bring her down, to rape her women, to take her cattle, to steal her crops and settle her lands. Remember well the lesson of the Corluvenii, of those who captured the daughter of Amelius Paulus Cerunii and held her down and raped her, remember those whose bodies arise'd with the mid-day sun, the squeals of those crucified, men, women and children all. So complete was the destruction that the tribe of Corluvenii was extinguished within twenty years.
How he wished for revenge.
A day later.
The sound of Decimus's tent-flaps resounded through the room, followed by the rustling of hamata. "Legatus Augusti!" The soldier stated in short-form, interrupting both Decimus and Gnaeus Septimus, whom were previously discussing on logistical matters.
Decimus flatly corrected the soldier. "Legatus Augusti Pro Praetore…" With a waving of the hand, Decimus bid the soldier to continue.
"The reports you requested from the Exploratores have come back." Having said this, the soldier handed over the rawhide-covered box which held several scrolls.
"Salvete." Decimus said, dismissing the soldier.
It took several minutes of reading before he understood the reports. What he had read, in hindsight, had seemed damning.
'If I had but focused my time on scouting, rather than reinforcing our positions…' Decimus mused in his head. 'It seems there exists minotaurs and orcs...'
Decimus turned to face Gnaeus Septimus, Who was the son of Tiberius, one of Decimus's best friend. In honour of this friendship, Decimus had Gnaeus stationed as his Tribunus laticlavius, so that he, like his own son, could learn about the management and commanding of military forces at his lap. As it was, Gnaeus was leading Legio XIII… loaned to him by Decimus, it was a strong and trustworthy legion which had few quarrels, and was thus a relatively safe legion… so long as the leader was not fully incompetent and had the trust of his centurions and tribunes, all should be well.
Decimus passed the documents over to Gnaeus, who having read it, formed an opinion.
"What are we to do?" Gnaeus replied.
Decimus sighed for a moment, putting thoughts to mind. "What are you to do?" Decimus uttered. In his mind, he felt that it was time to test Gnaeus and his current abilities. He had shown himself to be acceptable when in the field, but he had never been in charge of an 'idle' legion, for which the challenges of leading were different than among more active troops, but despite being given a lesser legion it should be a safe post, given that the world outside was entirely foreign… and god's knew whatever Decimus would face himself looking for his son. Decimus needed the best.
Gnaeus seemed dumb-struck. "What am I to do?" he repeated, his 'I' being elongated to give emphasis.
"Yes, What are you to do…" Decimus stated. "Until I say otherwise, henceforth… I am passing Legio XII Firmus into your hands. You will control my Legion, that is what you will do."
Gnaeus tried to decline. "Data Venia!"
"It is decided." Decimus stated in a decisive manner. "You will sit back and manage the Castra that borders the Gate. You will not fail me." Decimus then slammed his fists into his oaken table.
"What are you planning to do?" Gnaeus stated.
"I shall reconnoiter these strange villages and towns as stated in the reports, with Legio XIII and my Orcish auxiliaries in toe…" Decimus paused for a moment. "Not so much for conquest… but to show that I hold Imperium… I shall have a likeness of my son drafted by those with the art to do so… And I will nail them to every town, every village, to every damned tree… until he is found!"
Decimus calmed himself down after a moment. "I will find my son again…" He said, more for himself than to his guest. "And if he is not found, I will have vengeance on those who would commit the act, on the Individual who has done so, or on the tribe or town which has willed such to be done, or to a nation if it be so." It was not so much a display of outward anger, but rather he was voicing the honest truth that came from his soul.
"Salvete, I had best leave you." Gnaeus replied, giving a salute before retreating. Upon reaching the end, however, he turned around with a sudden thought. "I shall send for some of my funditores to assist you, then. Quick of the foot are these men and their cast stones of lead, indivisible as though they were air itself in flight… injures men quick as the strike of the asp."
Decimus smiled in reply, before reaching for a sheaf of wheat.
Having left his tent a moment later, Decimus plaited the strands of wheat in a seven-stranded braid whilst he walked, the legionaries watching on with veiled curiosity and interest as he walked past the soldiers tents.
Once he had reached the centre of castrum, where the two pathways intersected, he stood before a tent that was off to the right side, this he entered. Before him laid the Lars militaris of Legio XIII, the scent of incense wafted through the tent, aiding a mysty air to the room.
The Lars militaris of Legio XIII was of a military man, riding astride his warhorse. What made him different than others, was that the man, rather than wielding a sword held upright, he held a cloth-wrapped child, an infant minotaur in his left arm, presenting him out to the world whilst his right hand held onto the imaginary reins of the horse (For as the statue was made from wood, it was impossible to depict the reins).
The Lars was painted with all the finest powdered paints that could be acquired from all across the Empire. Vivid reds made up the cape, vibrant whites made up the horse, lapis lazuli blues made up the eyes of the Lars and also of the man's military ring. So many colours made up the rest, mixed and matched by skilled painters.
With the plaited straw band, Decimus approached the lars and presented the band towards it. "I offer you this band, made from the wheat of this new land. If you promise to return my son to me, I promise to lead you to victory after victory in exchange, This I vow to you, Oh Lars of the XIII'th, protector of the Legion, bestower of fortune. Please accept my leadership over your men, As I pass from the Lars militaris of the XII'th, to you."
Having said this, Decimus tied the ends of the straw band together around the forehead of the Lars.
Turning from the statue thus, he walked out of the tent.
Approaching one of the soldiers outside a nearby tent, Decimus gave him an order. "Call assembly."
They spat in his food, the phlegm raising to the surface in frothy gobs, and they dared to think he would eat it.
For however long he had been captured, they had done this repeatedly, starving him thin… his dignitas bade him not to eat, nor to drink from his captors, not because they were his captors, but because they, through their actions, were his mortal enemies, who sought to humiliate him and drag him low.
'Oh, impenetrable suffering,' He thought to himself. 'Prudentia, I bid you hold… before I go insane of thirst.'
For an hour, Lucius sat there, silently glaring. He could take no more and thus he recited. "Oh gods and goddesses above, I shall sacrifice ten sheep each to all the prime gods on the nearest kalends, or the one after if I cannot find enough to hand... if you shall set me free, this I vow as sacred truth."
The monster-men looked confused, each and every one. Five sets of eyes that Lucius wished he could gouge out, staring at him balefully.
"Bursga!" One of them shouted, before he walked up to the cage and rattled it with his fists.
-Thrrwwrchh-
Lucius watched in complete silence as a javelin was hurled into the brutish monster's right shoulder. He slouched down low and shouted in anger as his companions quickly reached for their arms.
"Lok-Narash!" came the shout from his captors… the sound was frightening, yet the volume faltered before the shout that came from the ambushers.
"Lok-tar ogar!"
It was at that moment that a blue-skinned man jumped out from the side and thrust a spear into the man who rattled his cage… the impact of the weapon imparting it into his ribs, to which the blue man kicked the spear out and thrust it again and again to the man's sternum as the green monster was laid down on the ground.
A minotaur was next to enter the fray, using a large tree as a cudgel, brutally mauling one of the green-men to death.
Several of the large hulking green men, so much like his captors, threw themselves into the fray at the next moment, fighting against his captors. There was little form to their fighting, bashing and hewing with swords or axes they went about the field, it seemed as though it were more for show than effectiveness… and they exceeded in a brilliant showing of aesthetic might… like gladiators in the ring. Lucius wanted to recoil with fear and terror, those outside were ridiculously large… though to his eyes he thought that most of the combatants seemed to telegraph their attacks far-too-much, and yelled too many 'Wraaghs'... though Decimus himself was hardly a fighter and could not complain all that much. He was in awe.