Glass Pumpkin


Tarot VI - Lovers

The Fool comes to a crossroads, filled with energy, confidence and purpose, knowing exactly where he wants to go and what he wants to do. But he comes to a dead stop- a flowering tree marks the path he wants to take, the one he has been planning on taking. But standing before a fruit tree marking the other path is a woman. He's met and had relationships with women before, some far more beautiful and alluring. But she is different. Seeing her, he feels as though he's just been shot in the heart with cupid's arrow, so shocking, so painful is his "recognition" of her. As he speaks with her, the feeling intensifies; like finding a missing part of himself, a part he's been searching for his life long. It is clear that she feels the same about him. They finish each others sentences, think the same thoughts. It is as if an Angel above had introduced their souls to each other. Though it was his plan to follow the path of the flowering tree, and though it will cause some trouble for him to bring this woman with him, to go somewhere else entirely, the Fool knows he dare not leave her behind. Like the fruit tree, she will fulfill him. No matter how divergent from his original intent, she is his future. He chooses her, and together they head down a whole new road.


As one might expect by the original name, Valparin Peaks, known today as Deneb's Garden, lay divided into parcels by large stretches of pristine mountain range. Though none of them approached the impossible heights reported in the stories of far-off realms such as Denueve or Kali, they remained enough to hamper the passage of most divisions from city to city and made it all but impossible to form a battle line outside those cities. Outside of that, the land had a conspicously serene calmness about it that made the army's wizards mutter among themselves. Nowhere else in Zenobia had such active or exotic plant life. It was unnatural.

Twice burned now, Destin questioned both Lans and Fubuki, who had spent more time in this region than any of the chiefs, closely before developing a crude solution to the problem. "Whatever allies Deneb has aquired will have to be capable of flight, or of quick travel through mountains, or else risk being as hampered as we are", he reasoned to them in the rebel campsite, waiting for confirmation. "Two teams. One composed of all our flying and mountain-capable fighters to strike the killing blow, the other to draw out the army by seizing Deneb's outlying cities."

Noting that this division left Destin out of the final battle for once, Fubuki regarded his Daimyo with genuine concern. "I've read the reports. The witch cares nothing for the people under her jurisdiction, only for her own research like Kapella before her. What if she does not take the bait?"

"She will", the rebel leader assured him. "Deneb has spent years abducting healthy young men, taking the garden's herbs... and pumpkins, for some odd reason, from those cities. Without a ready supply of those things, her research grinds to a halt. If the army indeed appears to be too powerful, I only ask you to fall back and leave a scout there to watch them. Strike from the east, where the mountains are thickest."

"And who will compose this strike force?", Lans asked uncertainly. "You cannot expect Gilbert and the Wind Rider alone to win this battle."

"They shan't. Fubuki's people are experts in traversing mountain ranges, and Warren's pets are also capable. I've already transferred several of his acolytes to your group for the time being so that they shall not slow their travel, and I'm placing Halla and Inglesias under Warren's command, assuming they'll listen to someone other than me. Canopus and Gilbert's people act as spotters as usual. That way, even if they march east 'round the horn, you can avoid them and strike at Valparin castle, though I grant sir Gilbert the final authority in this strike force, just as I grant him the Rune Axe for the trip."

Hearing this, Fubuki offered one of his rare smiles beneath his face mask. "You aren't miffed about missing out on Deneb, my lord? I hear she's a true beauty, so much that some men are willing to work under her despite her crimes."

Destin stared back awkwardly. He had not expected such reverence from the man who had tried to kill him more than a week ago. "We're only here to bring her to justice, shai-raa, not ogle her. But if you feel that her beauty will affect your efficiency, by all means say so and I shall transfer you."

Everyone present had a good laugh at that, but Fubuki scowled. "Do not call me that, lord. That honorific is reserved for those of my Order."

He frowned. "But Blaine-"

"-Does it to irritate me. Which is one of several reasons why I dislike him."

Well aren't we the happy little band of murderers. Small wonder the samurai has no friends here. "Fair enough. I am sorry. And don't worry, he's going to be hanging back with the main force with Bors, Lans, and my own people. Strike hard and fast, and do not allow beauty to dull your blades. That will be all, gentlemen."


Since before the time of Empire, before the time of Gran or even the Order of Roshian who now considered it to be their unofficial 'home', the mystic isle of Avalon had been an object of many stories and myths, every bit as legendary a land as Zenobia.

The currents of magic ran very strong here, perhaps stronger than anywhere else in this part of the world, attracting all manner of creature to it long before humans had set foot there. Dragons were the most prevalent, and while not exactly hostile they had eventually come to dominate Avalon and claim it as their own for upwards of 700 years if the few of them who still remembered those days with clarity were to be believed. The mishmash of terrain had been perfect for all broods of the Dragonkin, ranging from lively volcanoes massed at the center for the Red brood to murky marshes closer to the shores for the Black brood. For a long time, they had been content.

Yet all good things must come to an end. Humans had come to Avalon, intent on colonizing it for its ideal position to the massive reserves of fish in Kasolat, to say nothing of the ethereal beauty the early settlers were entranced by but cared nothing for the reason why the circular isle was that way to begin with. Logging operations had kicked off in the southern forests before long, and so the Dragonkin were forced to make the choice between war, or abandoning their ancestral home to the new species sprouting up everywhere like weeds.

The Black brood, of course, had advocated the former course. Ashen scales an eternal reflection of their natural temperament, their leader would never allow any of his people to be pushed around by any being weaker than they. In the time of Avalon, that meant no species would ever take priority over Dragons. At the opposite end stood the Silver brood, who decreed that since Dragons capable of living anywhere that humans were not, there yet remained hundreds of long-lost islands which could become their new home.

But the decisive party had been the Red brood, ever passionate about all things of beauty or strength. Regardless of which decision was made, the current head of the brood had reasoned, Avalon would pay the price. As would its kin, for as the debate escalated the long-standing rivalry between Silvers and Blacks had become all the more apparent: Either decision would fragment the Dragonkin forevermore.

In the end, the Red leader had chosen the less-destructive option, to abandon the isle to the Order of Roshian. The bulk of the Red and Silver broods had thus departed to find a new home out on the ocean, while the disgruntled Black brood had journeyed south with a handful of hangers-on from their kin to attempt an equivalent trade- a human land which they would purge and make into a paradise for the Dragonkin. No word had passed between that schism since that day.

All of this was ancient history to sir Galahad. Though Avalon retained its high quotient of ley lines and the unearthly beauty which drew so many to reside upon a volcanic isle despite the risks, like all things magical in this world its power was gradually fading away. For more than a century, no other species had proven powerful enough to dislodge the Order of Roshian from this paradise.

Until now.

Now, Galahad ran and stumbled over rocks and bushes in his armour, for once ignorant of their strange ennui and calm in his haste to make it to the forest up ahead. Just behind him, the rest of his comrades were in equal distress and frenzy, and one might easily mistake them for common soldiers, rather than the very best of the Order's Paladins.

There was sir Druidan, the eldest of them and yet the only one lacking in facial hair, or any hair at all. Loyal to a fault, he had worked up through the ranks years at a time between them, and now had little else to live for following the execution of his family. The exception to this would be his cousin, sir Barcelone, who sufficed for the other end of the age spectrum. True to form, Barcelone possessed a great deal of energy more than his comrades, and bent much of that towards pranks or trying to lighten up a dark moment. Now, however, he was wordless and panicked as the rest of them, fleeing towards the safety of the forest with strength in each step despite his armour.

Beside him ran sir Fabian, a child of aristocrats who nonetheless had worked to earn his golden armour just as much as the rest of them. Galahad would never admit it, but between Fabian's constant need to practice swordplay and his natural talent, he was likely the most skilled of the surviving Paladins under the Order. Certainly the best of this group, for their final member had never touched a sword, or anything that could be considered a weapon besides her opulent staff.

Despite this, she remained the most important member of the group. The Grand Monk Forris' body did not hold up well against the constant need to run. Her hair bore streaks of gray in it which she never hid with dye considering it an insult to the young, but her kindly face and manner would always be an inspiration to all the people of Avalon. Druidan had said so in jest, but he had been closer to the truth than he knew when he claimed Forris to be the single spark which kept Avalon's defenders going through years of strife. Insults never passed from the head of the Order's narrow lips, and in 39 years of life Galahad had never met a more altruistic woman than this one.

Unfortunately, their enemies had been quick to catch onto this simple fact. Hunching over to regain his breath, Galahad craned his head about the trees that now concealed them, relief and exhaustion sharing each ragged gasp equally. Another close call for the Grand Monk- closer than any other in recent memory, even- but they had done it. Forris was safe and sound, and the army of valkyries and flying creatures the Empire had brought down upon the modest city of Taljin were no doubt wondering where their prey had disappeared to.

"Thank the Gods for the Fairies", sir Barcelone rasped, equally tired as he sloughed off his shield and sword. "They'll never track us now."

"Do not tempt fate, cousin", Druidan commented behind him. "Here on Avalon, nothing is ever certain. How now then, milady?"

Forris froze up, not in indecision but simple contemplation. "I only wish they might understand", she mused aloud. "We desire no conflict here."

" Not us", Fabian growled, the least worn of them but also bearing lingering outrage towards the Imperials. "Them. No matter where we fled to, the bastards wouldn't leave the Order be. We're far too good for Zenobia to let live. Sometimes, I wonder how many times their Empress had a house fall on her."

"T'would be four", Barcelone cracked, having regained his energy and with it his wit. Seeing Galahad looking at him, he shrugged. "They do everything in fours."

"Enough", Forris admonished the men. "Our people will no doubt be anxious for news of our escape. We must journey to Tomayang, my children, and spread the word."

"Awfully close to the Imperial garrison at Amad", Galahad noted, anxious at marching towards what was surely the biggest concentration of enemy forces on Avalon. Seeing the Grand Monk's eyes, he quickly rethought his approach. "Of course, we'll do whatever it takes to protect you milady."

"Whatever it takes to stop them from discovering the hidden temple", Forris extrapolated. "With the ash clouds dissipated, that is more of a risk than ever before."

She spoke of the temple Galahad and Fabian had been raised in, built after all the others on the isle had been burned down by the Empire, and he was grateful for that measure. Privately, he wondered how much of that decision was affected by the presence of Forris' dear daughter Aisha, now an accomplished Cleric in her own right despite her short temper and a sometimes disconcerting lack of faith in the Twenty-Two.

"We'll wait until nightfall", Druidan advised at the sight of the afternoon sun. "We should be able to make it under the under of darkness, regardless of how many of the fishwives are creeping around."

Forris paused. "No, we can't", she said, at once sorrowful for the blood she knew was to be shed regardless of allegiance, too upset even to reprimand the old Paladin for such an insulting epithet towards the merfolk "We are being hunted."

Fabian's eyes went wide. "They found us? After all that? How?"

She turned and regarded him serenely. "One of them stayed in the sky, pursued us across the volcano."

Galahad breathed out his panic. "Only one, plus her mount. We can handle it."

"It's a he. And no. No, you can't."

Avalon still had its characteristic sense of timing. As Forris' pronouncement of doom resonated, a long shadow crept over the trees. A Black Dragon screeched and an impossibly heavy thump announced their executioner's arrival before his voice made it clear he knew who and where they were even from this distance.

"Men of Roshian", a low, emotionless voice belted out at them from all directions. "You have gambled, and lost. I know you've got the High Monk with you. Send her out now, and I promise we'll put your bodies to creative use."

The four defenders of Roshian each felt the other's terror at the sound of that voice. They had spent too long fighting its owner to ever forget the pride and cruelty in it. None dared speak, for their reply would likely be caught by the trees. At least, Galahad told himself that was the reason.

The voice came again, this time bearing a hint of wry amusement and sounding all the worse for it. "Come now. You cannot seriously be thinking of trying to resist me. I am GARES! The Black Knight! The Crown-Prince of Zeteginea! A hundred men working in concert could not kill me, but I've killed men by the thousands! Be sensible, and send that damned woman out here. It's the only way any of you will live to see the next sunrise."

"Head down, cousin", Galahad heard Druidan advice Barcelone, trying in vain to relieve his tension. "We'll answer him soon enough. What's the plan, sir?"

Then Galahad remembered that he was technically the leader of this little escort group. Throwing aside the lurking fear he thought he'd conquered back when he became Paladin, he regarded each of his bretheren closely. "Let him come to us", he whispered, "I know this looks bad… But what, I ask, if we win? There are four of us and one of him. His death would be as demoralizing to the Empire as Forris' death would be to the Order! With the rebellion in the south, it might drive away the Imperial soldiers, leaving only the fishwives to oppose us. Think, my brothers! This could be the pivotal battle of this campaign. In fact, I know it must be. Let him exhaust himself trying to draw us out. It will not work."

"I'm with that", Fabian seconded with a satisfied grin. "Always wanted to see how I'd stack up against the best."

"I suppose we have no choice", Druidan commented without as much bravado, but ever-willing to back up his friends in battle. "He's got his dragon spotting for him. Wherever we break, he'll be there."

"We'll do it", Barcelone managed to utter, not as successful as the rest as throwing off the soul-piercing fear Gares Endora liked to put into his enemies before fighting them. Forris drew close and stroked his shoulder soothingly. "We'll get him down, and then we'll win, and then, and then, we'll-"

"That was your final warning, fools", the Black Knight's metallic voice returned at what seemed twice its previous volume. "Make your final peace with your pathetic Gods, for now you stare into the true face of evil."

The Black Knight's voice stopped there, but his game of intimidation had only begun. Footfalls began ringing the ground beneath them, heavy as dragons but rhythmic enough to inure the mind to them as they steadily grew in volume.

On the third minute of this, sir Barcelone could take no more. Screaming in defiant rage and fear, the young Paladin cleared his blade and ran towards the thumping sound with all speed. Cursing the man's impetuousness, Fabian stepped forward to stop him.

Something else stopped him first. A dark shape, dragon-sized and coated in malevolent spikes and horns, steel implements of death, interrupting the rhythm to crash down upon Barcelone from above, holding a wide axe with a handle taller again than he was. The blade struck sir Barcelone at the top of his helmet, and though he was no doubt dead the moment his skull was split, the axe's momentum let it's handler continue shearing down all the way to the Paladin's pelvis before stopping.

The Black Knight Gares offered the three no verbal taunts now, only a dispassionate gaze from the thin slit of his helmet. Again working to throw off the fear which had driven Barcelone mad, the paladins of Avalon yelled and charged as one.

The great axe in Gares' right gauntlet was waiting for them. Striking back with incredible speed for one so large and powerful, he clanged the colossal weapon against Druidan's shield while blocking Fabian with his left.

The first thing that struck Galahad was his memories of fighting Hill Giants. Those wild, unkempt-looking creatures relied on their great height and strength to bully humans or other shorter beings out of the valleys or caverns they always wished to make their home, and they were never satisfied with any such home for very long before going somewhere else to take someone else's home away for fun. How they managed to avoid extinction he had no idea, particularly since most humans achieving knight or paladin level knew how to make the creature's lack of intelligence or speed work against them.

Gares might have had the size and strength of one, but he was no giant. No giant moved that fast, or wielded a weapon his own height. Even as he threw Fabian back, he jerked the weapon to send Druidan's own blade flying into the trees. Taking over, Galahad opened with a combination of high-low slashes drilled into him since he was old enough to hold a sword, not enough to defeat or even injure the massive hunk of black steel but to distract him while Fabian came around for another shot. Ten seconds.

The Black Knight swung, bypassing Galahad's shield to strike his sword and yield a tremendous cloud of sparks. Have to kill him soon, Galahad noted, gritting his teeth in dismay, or all our weapons break. Trying to take the man in the chest, his own strike bounced off, nonetheless prompting the Black Knight to leap over Galahad and slash the approaching Fabian, cleaving his shield with a mighty overhead blow and apparently breaking an arm bone or two by the way the man screamed. Ignoring it, Gares pressed on the man's unguarded side, only stopped by a frantic block by Fabian's blade. This rising blow became an overhead handle block against Galahad's jumping slash from behind.

He lost track of the next handful of seconds, but for the pain of feeling one's ribs crushed by a spinning axe strike in midair, blunted by armour but only just. Galahad felt his spine cry out from striking a tree at the end of it, and could only hear Druidan's own grief as the Black Knight kicked Fabian aside to again prevent their eldest member from recovering his weapon. Two fast chops shredded his shield and a third one took his head and shining helmet clean off.

Galahad blinked back tears, scarcely believing what he'd seen from his position against the tree. First, that tough old Druidan could be killed at all after sixty summers of life, and secondly that it could be done so quickly. It felt like sacriliege. Sir Fabian had not even had the time to cover half the distance between before the blow fell, and so what was meant to be a supportive gesture became a barrage of wild slashes intended to avenge that death.

Yet it was here that a small spot of hope warmed Galahad's dismayed soul; sir Fabian knew his craft better than he knew his own skin. He'd practiced all his life, submitted his soul to the justice of the Court of Swords more than once. What appeared to be a crazed charge was actually well-coordinated, and over the course of five seconds a dozen separate times the Black Knight's axe and the paladin's sword deflected off each other with loud crashing noises that left both weapons spitting sparks. As if sensing the rising hope in his comrade, Fabian dodged a kick and finally pierced the Black Knight's chest plating, eliciting a muffled grunt from Gares, driving him back.

That was as much headway as he would be allowed- tensing up in rare moment of concern for his life, the Highland prince swung downwards in a wide arc to force his foe to get clear, putting some distance between them before raising his axe to the air. Glinting in the muffled sun, the weapon gave no sign of an attack until a new source of light had made itself apparent beneath Fabian. What little Galahad could make of it before the strange symbol flared into sickly yellow incandesence spoke of Arcana magic, concentrated within the axe and unleashed directly at the target. And Gods knew how sir Fabian did scream before his soul was blasted out of this plane of existence.

Galahad slumped, able to stand again but not seeing any reason to. Forty seconds. That was all it had taken for three paladins he'd called his brothers to be slain, with the last and best of these bursting apart from within in a manner that reminded him of an overcooked ear of corn. Only the desire to avenge this, to enact some form of justice on this metal-clad Ogre, got the man to his feet for one last attempt.

And so Prince Gares laughed, harsh and metallic and cruel behind his enclosed helmet. That laughter spread through the forest to frighten the local animals from their once-peaceful homes, so that twenty seconds of combat after, when sir Galahad at last felt an axe cleaving bone and flesh to send his soul to the realm beyond this one, there remained but one witness.


Days of marching came and went without further incident. Once the rebel army had split itself into two portions, the part headed by Destin had ample time to liberate and settle themselves among the various farming villages and trade cities of Deneb's Garden before any real resistance made itself apparent. A dozen hours dragged by at a slow enough pace that many of the rebels confessed to boredom. A new 'obstacle', to be sure. Things changed. Never had they been ordered to sit around and wait while their comrades fought.

"Right here", one of the local farmers said, gesturing across a wide plowed field after Destin had expressed interest as a way to pass the time. It was a habit he decided any leader of men would be wise to get into. "My entire crop, stolen right off the field. I tried to stop them, but they just pushed me aside, and I dared not resist further when they held weapons and we held naught but farming implements."

The rebel leader looked closely, now making out rows of small holes where he presumed vegetables had once been growing. "Why pumpkins?"

The farmer from Baljib scoffed bitterly. "You expect logic and reason from that wench? She probably did it just to mess with our heads. She's a scourge on this land I tell you, lord. Ever since she arrived here, the marshlands at the base of the mountains have slowly spread. We've no proof, but who else would benefit from having a larger crop of the herbs that grow in those blasted swamps?"

True to his word, many of the marshes running along the mountains seemed unusually large despite having little in the way of rivers to feed them, every single one dwarfing the swamp he'd passed through during the journey to the refugee city of Ba'Wahl. None were exactly stagnant, but not one pleasant to behold. The rebels stayed clear of them.

The attack came late in the evening. Small groups of mountain-capable wild men, archers and tamed animals combining into a poorly-organized legion, but it was not until seeing the enemy commander arriving at the line that Lans and Bors took it seriously.

For one, the mere fact that Deneb had thought to choose a commanding officer elevated her above the tactical prowess of her compatriots. For two, the officer's black cloak, fangs, and deathly pale skin clearly denoted him as the creature they'd initially suspected Sirius to be. One of the vile undead known as 'vampyr' even to those who had only heard the knights tell stories of them. "That was why they took so long", Destin concluded to anyone who would listen, cursing his lethargy and his borrowed knight's armour weighing him down. "They were waiting for nightfall."

"Not necessarily, m'lord", Bors offered. "I just got word from Blaine an' Yenda that there's another attack goin' on far south of us. Different commander too; a young lady named Cassandra who's said to be Deneb's number one apprentice.

"One to lead in the daytime, and one for night", Lans observed, watching the vampire identified as Letishe closely. "T'would be a difficult journey for them, I think... Ah. There's the coffin."

Destin blinked in confusion. "Coffin?"

Lans nodded, indicating a rectangular wooden shell in the enemy army's keeping about twice the size of a man. "The only way for vampires to travel in the daytime. They reside within heavily-armoured vessels that their servants must carry, otherwise, they'd be unable to cover ground in the day."

"Y'know I heard a story around here about an exception to that", Harrison Ordas piped up beside him, more outspoken now that he'd been made a second-in-command in Destin's unit. Bizarre rumours seemed to be his forte, true or not. "Some new breed of vampire in Malano that sparkled in the sun instead of crumbling to dust. Turned out to be just a family of humans putting varnish on their skin and pretending."

"Those fools", Lans derided angrily. "Vampyri are no joking matter, take it from me. They're at least as fast and strong as werewolves. They can fly like Canopus' people, and they continue to fight long after any mortal would be dead from blood loss. We should be grateful there's only one of them to cut to pieces tonight."

Digesting the dire threat presented by the enemy commander, Destin sized up the rest of them by the light of their torches on the hilltop some distance away. Worgen, wizards, pirates and archers combined to form a strange mixed force, and another Golem could be seen lumbering about towards the rear. "Someone go fetch sir Neralai", he commanded. "He should be transformed by now. A proper match for sir Letishe, no?"

Of course both the knight commanders turned away at that. Neither approved of keeping the werewolf on, just as they did not accommodate the presence of ghosts in the army. Destin could care less; if Lans were to have his way, they'd expel all the non-humans, possibly even all the women, in the name of protecting them. Small wonder he'd been defeated in the first rebellion with an outlook like that.

While sir Neralai subscribed to a similar theory, nothing in his posture spoke of a reluctance to fight, even as several of the others flinched away from the sight of his freshly transformed state. Sir Neralai had opted to use one of the rebellion's last remaining sets of soldier armour in lieu of his own, knowing that the heavier suit would be destroyed by his changes. The fur and fangs about him did not seem quite as mighty as Sirius, but that may have been because he was an ally, not an enemy. Formidable and just a little scary, regardless. "You wanted me", Tomas growled, sounding more and more animal than human despite attempts to be civilized. "Here I am."

Destin nodded. "You've seen the enemy commander, then?"

He bared yellowed fangs towards the hilltop. "I have. A vampyr. He'll be a difficult one to beat."

"Not for you. Charge him when we start; I'll have the acolytes cover you with some spells and assign Sara to heal you. Take him down, and the rest will scatter. Simple. What news of Blaine's group?"

"They hold their own, my lord", a runner said from a safe distance away from Neralai. "Cassandra used some kind of light spell earlier to blind some of sir Diwrnach's men, but Sister Yenda took care of it."

"Good. Keep me updated." He failed to mention the fact that the nervous-looking runner would have to find him in the middle of a bloodbath to do so, but no one protested. No putting it off any longer. Gods help us. Striding up to the front line of knights, he watched as Letishe did the same with his own bunch. The vampire looked eager to go, not offering a chance to avoid battle or any communications at all beyond staring longingly at Destin's bare neck with red eyes. The pale skin both leaders shared only distracted for a moment, for any man could yet recognize which of these two fighters was more human.

More out of routine than any belief it would help, Destin held out his sword in the cross-guard 'parlay' position that Bernard had taught him. "I don't suppose we can convince you to take your people and leave? There's better blood to be had in the Empire."

Letishe chuckled, unusually well-built for his kind, and possessed of a voice more eloquent than Sirius or Tomas Neralai's werewolf state, but no more comforting. "Mortals. You still persist in the belief that some types of blood are superior to others. It's the age of the victim that counts, human, not whether the line is 'royal' or 'noble'. In any case, I've never wanted for young blood here. Shall we forgo the pointless chatter then, and get down to the feast?"

"Gladly." Destin craned his neck back toward the others, noticing the smiles of recognition that many of them wore even while they fought against the urge to break and run as usual. Routine, as he had come to learn, was comforting, and no time required such comforts such as the brink of a battle. For better or worse, the more accustomed the men and women Warren had brought together became to it, the easier and more proficiently they could do what must be done. Seeing their leader in such good spirits would be the crowning touch. No visible fear. Never allowing a telltale waver to be seen, even for an instant. For the average man, he decided the best commanding officer was an eternal warrior who laughed at death and killed as casually as a farmer might thresh wheat. Small wonder Blaine serves that purpose so well. Gods help us.

"Well. You heard the bloodsucker, people! Looks like he wants to..."

"-FIGHT IT OUT!"

On cue, he stepped to one side before charging the archer nearest Letishe, making room for their own secret weapon to charge alongside him. The rest of the rebels followed, weapons raised and voices piercing the breezy night air. All in all, it reminded Destin most of the rebel's first battle, where he had first met Bernard.

It seemed like lifetimes ago, and the changes between then and now became readily apparent. The heavy plate armour of a knight in place of his own custom. Only a flinch as he struck down his first target, slicing her bow in two and driving the Mystic Mace into her rib cage, ignoring four arrows' worth of retaliation bouncing off his armour. No tears, and only the innermost of regrets at the death. Gods help me.

Changes in the length of his own muscles, his skin colour, and weight which had not been there at Sharom. Nearly dying from a ghost's chill touch had left him in a day's euphoria with blood cold as ice, and in that he dreamed of the future.

Fubuki and Kapella's attacks only threw further evidence against whatever barriers of logic an unconventional education on the Tor wrought in him. There was a sense of incredible freedom taking his breath away. The idea, cold to the touch yet inflaming his imagination, that the physical laws of mortals no longer applied to him. Saying exactly the right words had become routine as breathing, as did cutting down all of those who stood in his way, just as he now drove his sword into a beast tamer's hides and withdrew it covered in dark red. Blood. So much blood. Everywhere. He still flinched, but the rest came as easy as breathing. He was an instrument, only partly in control of something apart from himself.

The enemy had come here looking to kill the rebel leader, Destin of house Naught. A rookie human commander, young and uncertain, having never bloodied his hands with another before now. Weak. Easily killed.

Yet somehow, the man they had come to send to the next world no longer existed. The proof was all around him now, forcing itself upon him as the battle exploded into its full horror. Like Tomas Neralai beside him, Destin was no longer fully human. And like sir Neralai, that meant a struggle between the two sides of him for as long as he lived. The human who grieved for the lives lost on both sides and the merciless warrior who demanded more and organized the slaughter so that one side- their side- would always prevail over the other. It was the mind of Kapella's executioner. So be it.

By the time the sun returned, every last one of the Imperials who had gathered on the hilltop lay dead, only memorialized by the rows of scratches on dozens of warrior's cuffs.


Castle Valparin lay nestled in a long valley in the southernmost reaches of Deneb's Garden. Though it appeared smaller than the brazen monoliths occupying Zenobia's other districts, a sheen of lighter-coloured stone throughout its walls did much to better reveal an elegant and clean setup closer to Parcival than Jindark.

The majority of its current function truly lay in the in floors beneath the main structure, and so the rebel strike force did not meet with any resistance from the castle's gates or fortifications as they swept from the mountains across a field to the small castle's tower. Even had the gates been hard iron in lieu of easily-destroyed wood, no gate could keep rebel fliers such as Canopus and Garla out. Tired and hungry from their long journey, they nonetheless assailed Deneb's home with a renewed energy before simply battering down the door to the stairway descending into her private 'labs'.

The witch made an excellent show of not appearing to know of the intrusion. Only a handful of guards were cut down, and when Gilbert led Canopus, his fellow Hawk clanner Arbalow, Fubuki, and Liat down these steps, Deneb did not look up from the cauldron she had been working on.

This, they noticed, was her only concession to the stereotype of the cackling, wart-ridden hags from the stories. Deneb the Witch wore naught but lurid pink on a revealing dress and her wide-brimmed hat, and even from the back her youthful beauty made itself evident to the rebel party; a voluptuous woman straight from the most wicked fantasies of any man of less than 30 summers.

Beyond that, the lab was surprisingly tidy, with everything organized into cupboards or the strange tubes of glass the width of a Worgen running from floor to ceiling. Sure enough, several pumpkins, dead lizards, mushrooms, and herbs lay on spare tables until the time which the castle's lord saw need for them in her experiments.

"Deneb Rhodes, governess of Valparin Peaks", Gilbert called to her from across the room, weapons at the ready. "We've come to end your reign of terror. Surrender and you shan't be harmed."

"Jeigan, I told you not to interrupt me when I'm working", she called back without looking up from the cauldron. Her voice was sharp but lacking in anger. "Wait just a second...! Ah. Silly me. Jeigan's been gone for 40 years. Or was it 50? Well, never mind then. Who are you?"

Gilbert stifled a chuckle at seeing the confusion on several of his comrades' faces. None of them, not even Canopus, would be familiar with the witch's absent-mindedness or her tendency to lapse into the past. "It's Gilbert Oblion, miss."

She stopped reaching for the pumpkin and whipped around, all smiles. "Gilbert. Oh, Gilbert! It's so nice of you to come and visit! It seems you hardly ever get your hiney out of Parcival these days." Seemingly oblivious to the weapons they all held, she walked over and gave Gilbert an enthusiastic hug. "And you brought your friends, too! I'll have to prepare breakfast for you all. You should have called, but anyway I'm glad to see you again. It's been far too long. You look so old, dearie."

This is the evil witch of Valparin?, Canopus Walf mused to himself in absurdity. This is the one who tried to bribe Blaine to kill Destin?

"The job ages one terribly, I'm afraid", his human friend managed, prying the witch free. "In fact, I've now found a task I enjoy far more- liberating Zenobia from those who unjustly occupy it. That includes you, 'dearie'."

Shocked, Deneb stepped back, at once looking very sad and lonely. "Oh, no. You want to fight? Now? Before breakfast?"

"Sadly, I have orders", Gilbert said, his features duplicating the witch's dismay. "Unless you surrender yourself into our custody, we have no choice but to fight."

She sighed. "Well, I guess there's no other way. I can't leave until my experiments are done. Your commander's a real meanie, you know?"

Finally losing his patience, Fubuki brandished his katana. "Enough foreplay, wench. You're clearly outnumbered, and I see you have no weapon. It would be futile to fight us."

"You're right", Deneb agreed, raising one hand. A white flash lit the chamber, leaving behind a simple looking wooden cane the length of a sword. "This is hardly fair at all. Guess I'll have to play rough, then." A second flash burst upon the rebels, this time blinding all five of them for a handful of breaths- enough for the witch's own reinforcements to shatter the glass tubes which held them. With moans that reminded Gilbert of the undead, four green-garbed figures strode from the wreckage, skinny and devoid of arms. But the strangest thing about these men was not their attire or frame, but the fact that all four bore diabolically grinning pumpkins in the place of their heads, with strange flames illuminating them behind the frozen holes.

"By the Gods", Liat exclaimed, recoiling despite years of experience. "What in Gran's name has she created here?"

The four pumpkin men- or perhaps women, for it was impossible to tell for sure- did not answer, at least not verbally. One leaned forward, its head coming off from impact with a table and flying directly into Fubuki's face before exploding. Before he'd gotten back to his feet and cleared his blade, the tiny bud left behind had already grown back into a pumpkin one third the size of its original one, and would be ready to fire again in moments. "Gran's bones!"

"Do you like them?", Dened asked innocently of her four servants, as if showing off a work of art. A tiny white spark leapt from her stave, flashing into a room-filling flare and momentarily blinding all the rebels equally, giving the pumpkin-creatures time to strike Gilbert and Arbalow head-on. "You won't believe the number of mistries it took to get them to live. A little too much Dachi herb, a stray pinch of salt, and you just get an explosion. A messy explosion."

"B-brilliant work, dear", Gilbert managed to cough over the pumpkin head's impact on his ribs as he stood. "Such a pity we must destroy these 'samples' now. Wind Rider!"

The fourth head never reached its target, intercepted by a bolt of golden lightning projected by Canopus' club. Not wanting to be outdone, Fubuki slammed his katana down, generating the Iainuki wave again. Upending tables and shredding all in its path, it tore into one pumpkin-soldier, stunning the abomination of science long enough for Liat's katana to bisect it.

Another pumpkin knocked him off his feet, but now the rest of his comrades had recovered from the initial shock, knowing to focus on the pumpkins. The one who had fired its head at Liat was blasted by Canopus and whipped into submission by Gilbert before it could grow a new one, and now the bird-man Arbalow flew in to take the next flying head, somehow swinging his club around in a circle and launching the flaming sphere back to sender, destroying it as well. The final foe continued to hurl its own weapon in vain until Fubuki and Liat's blades found it, after which a deathly quiet descended on the six remaining fighters. The fight was over.

Surveying the wreckage they'd made of the basement lab with satisfaction, Canopus turned to his old friend. "Were those...?"

Gilbert scratched his beard but did not let his eyes stray from Deneb. "Possibly. If so, they were already too far gone to ever be made human again. Though, perhaps the witch would care to share the details?"

Seeing the others with their weapons drawn, mean and twitchy from repeated applications of exploding pumpkin, pierced the veil of childishness Deneb preferred to project, and she sat down on the last remaining stool to have a sulk. "...Bah. Poopy-heads. They took so long to make, and you guys shredded them in less than a minute. I'll have to make some improvements if they're ever going to be considered for real combat conditions."

Seizing her by the arm Gilbert finally got the message across. "That will have to wait, my dear. Come up with us now- we must wait for Destin."

"Goody", she nodded eagerly. "So now I get to meet Destin. Is he handsome?"

Gilbert sighed.


As it turned out, all the tales of the renowned strength of the Dragonkin were accurate, at least if the dragon who had attacked them on the way through the mountain pass was any indication. Crouched along a ridge almost as though it found such a position comfortable, the green-skinned reptile loosed streams of flame from its snout, as commanded by a wizard upon its back that seemed to be its handler. These blew many of Destin's people back and set young Sara Ellgwyr's blue robes alight. Impressing Destin, she ignored the pain quickly and rolled around to put it out.

One day while marching, Gilbert had explained to him why it was that Dragonkin were the single most difficult creature to tame and train as a mount or pet or even an equal. "Intelligence", the beast tamer had surmised simply. "The Dragonkin are closer to human-level intellect than any other quadruped in the world. They have their own customs, their own means of communication, and legends say there's a great many secrets even the most loyal brood will keep from it's human master."

"But the Empire possesses a great number of them", the rebel leader had reasoned. "How? If they treat them anything like they treat their low-level troops..."

"Ah", Gilbert had cut him off knowingly as they walked. "But they do not. In fact, there is a special Order in the Empire dedicated solely to the befriending and taming of Dragons, which are called the Dragoners, and the higher-ranking members Dragon Masters. They build mutual respect by providing vast sanctuaries for the Dragonkin under them, promoting their welfare at every opportunity. Some of their members even genuinely believe the Order's principles, I've heard tell."

This wizard showed no signs of a member of that Order, but it was just as clear that he was the Dragon's handler. Without waiting for the huge lizard to direct another blast their way, he directed the division's remaining archers in a salvo towards the green-hooded enemy, one of them sticking in his throat before he could muster a spell or order his Dragon to strike again. The Dragon continued to make halfhearted efforts to kill the rebels until the moment its handler died, at which point it simply flew off, ignoring Destin's raised hand.

A silly notion, really. As though a Dragon could be persuaded to listen so easily. The creature would either return to the wild or to one of its other handlers. Taking a moment to shuffle the wounded to the rear, he led the division onward.

Valparin castle showed little sign of the sieges that had been conducted towards the fortresses of Goyas and Parcival as the rebel leader's unit marched out of the vale after several more encounters with Imperials and wildlife. Canopus and Liat waited for them at the main entrance- strong evidence that the fight was already won. He felt Harrison Ordas slump next to him and chuckled. "Better that than to find our comrades dead, sir Ordas."

"Of course, sir. Just annoyed that we carried our weapons and armour all this way for nothing."

The samurai walked up to greet them with an unusual warmth for one of his profession, showing them into the lobby in case Destin had wished to use the castle as their next staging point. It was then, observing the handful of defeated guards and still-intact dinner tables where many of the other chiefs were already seated, that he saw Deneb Rhodes.

His sword clattered to the ground, and he did not kneel to pick it up for many breaths. He had come down through the north vale expecting a fair maiden out of some fantasy storybook, the kind who possessed exterior beauty and nothing else of merit, helpless in the face of anything more threatening than a large rat.

The witch was nothing like that. There was attraction, certainly, but a calculating mind beneath the childish expression. Beneath that... was someone Destin felt like he'd known forever, every gesture or turn of the head yielding familiarity. Kneeling down to pick up his weapon, he made sure to peel his gaze away from that youthful face, and closed his eyes.

No. His mind wasn't being fooled by some enchantment. Even without looking directly at her he could feel his heart pounding, and if that were the case the rest of his people would have been similarly affected. In fact, Gilbert had made sure to keep a firm grip on the witch's stave arm, forcing her down on her knees as he walked her up to them. "Lord Destin, meet Deneb Rhodes, governess of Valparin Peaks and the one responsible for all the terrible crimes that have been going on in the district."

He halted a moment, mustering some words that wouldn't sound like he'd left a piece of his brain back in the vale. "She surrendered to you?"

"In a way", the beast tamer admitted grudgingly. "But don't think for a moment this is anything like my situation. This wicked witch has never known regret in her life, and she only helped the Empire so their soldiers would steal resources from the people, letting perform her experiments down in the basement."

Without any hints, Deneb shifted and dropped one pink slipper onto Gilbert's foot, the heel leaving him howling as he let go. "That's not true!", she pouted once Destin had firmly grabbed her by the shoulder, stopping Liat from cutting her down. "I never took anything they couldn't replace. Pumpkins? Herbs? Newt eyes? They're everywhere around here."

"And what about lives, wench?", Liat chipped in, his missing eye a grotesque counterpoint. "What the poor folks you turned into those pumpkin-creatures, eh? What about the people you threatened to get what you wanted?"

"Pumpkin-creatures?", Destin asked skeptically. He did not relax his grip.

"In the basement, lord. Four of 'em and the start of many more in glass coffins. Abominations, the whole lot of 'em."

But Deneb refused this charge as well. "They were already dead, you samurai poopy-head. I wouldn't kill people just for my research, not when there's so many corpses around these days." She winked at Destin as if to say 'thank you'.

"Don't listen to a word she says, lord", Gilbert insisted once the pain in his foot had subsided. "You can't trust her. You can't even bring her. Don't forget the army she sent to kill us. Is that the act of an innocent woman?"

Withdrawing his grip, Destin pinched his nose bridge hard. He knew what came next. "So just what are you suggesting, Gilbert?"

"Death", the tamer said simply. "It's the only way to ensure she won't harm any more people. Leave her here, and it's back to business as usual. No one in the district will ever forgive you if you pass up this chance to slay her now."

Amazingly, this decree did not make the witch become any more agitated or desperate. She looked over at Destin, her best puppy-dog eyes noticeable but ineffective at disputing his resolve. "Oh, no... Please don't. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't realize how much everyone hated me. I didn't know!"

"Kill her now", Liat breathed into Destin's ear. "She'll spin however many lies it takes to get out of this. Kill her now, and every Imperial governor from here to Allamoot will think twice before abusing their people again."

Destin looked around. He saw how all the nearby rebels were glowering at the witch's attempts at sympathy. Many would be glad to do the deed themselves, particularly those who had family or friends in the Valparin Peaks district.

"I'm sorry", Deneb was continuing to plead, now down on her knees of her own accord. "Please. I know I've been bad. Punish me. Punish me however you wish. Anything you ask of me, but not death. I can't go out that way, not now."

Destin stared back, for a moment wanting more than anything to be lost in those crystalline eyes forever, and so escape this horrible decision. His sword felt like it had somehow transmuted into adamantium, yet he would never force one of his people to do something he was not willing to do himself.

All eyes in the grand hall were watching him. Waiting for him to do the right thing. But the Gods were silent. For the first time in his life, he had absolutely no idea what the right thing was...


From the highest tower of Zenobia Castle, Deva-General Kaus Debonair could finally comprehend how it was that governor Darian could allow the spread of hundreds of buildings all around them here in the capital to become the infamous 'Slums of Zenobia'.

The castle had, after all, once been the seat of power for King Gran Zenobia and his vassals. Whatever ill-use it had seen since then, the magnificence of the structure made the handful of lesser castles built for the district governors look feeble by comparison. There were halls and quarters and ballrooms located here which Debonair would never see, not if he devoted an entire day to exploring.

Privately, he wished he could in fact do so, for architecture was a close second to his main interest, particularly foreign architecture which did not subscribe to the minimalist aesthetic of his home country Here, the builders had their king's permission to get fancy and create unique, thought-provoking designs on the walls and windows for their own sake.

But duty, as always, came first. Debonair forced his gaze away from the sight over the balcony rail and regarded the Empire's chosen governor. An older man devoid of hair anywhere but the tip of his chin, Darian looked understandably fitful at having his command structure knocked out from under him, but also bore an impudence towards the very idea that he required assistance from his masters. Clearly, someone hadn't been paying much attention to the other districts' plight.

Governor Darian cared nothing for duty, Kaus Debonair recognized sourly. The only role his mind understood was that of the tight-fisted tax collector, occasionally breaking a citizen's reluctance to pay with threat of force but no combat experience beyond that. That money was spent on himself or on the castle's upkeep, almost never on the people who yet lived within the capital's enclosed walls.

The results were visible from the balcony- signs of structural decay throughout the city and obscene graffiti made from blood or ink or other liquids he preferred not to dwell on decorating multiple surfaces. Down on ground level, the men and women of Zenobia strove to eke out a living in a city with no law or effective government to help them, prevented either by guards or their own stubbornness from leaving. Zenobia's once-grand capital city was now also the prostitution and murder capital of the country.

And what did this matter to the governor? He ruled through fear and by virtue of his noble blood. By staying up here on the top floors of the castle, he could remain safe from vengeful citizens and appease whatever scraps of conscience yet remained in his soul. Out of sight meant out of mind. Seeing the man hunched over a table counting Goth coins one by one, the general forcibly told himself that this horrible situation was more due to the governor's excesses than the Empire's. Certainly it would not be out-of-place for them to replace Darian with someone more competent before departing this country. By the Court of Swords, if necessary. He swore to Freya it would be done.

For now, though, Darian remained their chief source of information on the situation. Forcing his mind away from the destitute denizens of the Slums, he paced forward with his long blade drawn. "Now, then. To business. We've received word that the rebels have seized Valparin Peaks as well, placing all of the major districts within their control save for this one. From where shall they strike?"

Darian looked up from counting his Goth, confused and uncertain of who the general spoke to. "Oh. They dare not strike us here, m'lord. No amount of rebel scum can get past these walls, and our gates are a great deal stronger than anything at the district fortresses. There is no need to worry."

Unable to restrain himself, Debonair grabbed the man's throat, lifting him high. "Do you see it NOW, governor? The lands beyond these walls? You do remember that they exist, do you not? That they provide the resources that this city needs to struggle on? Should we fortify here, the rebels will possess a weapon no force of arms can stop. Hunger."

"You... how... dare... you...", Darian forced air back into his system once the general dropped him, brushing off his blue noble's tunic contemptuously. "It's of no concern, general. This castle's cellar holds food enough to last us for weeks if need be, and if they linger then they must face the rigours of hunger as well."

Which of course means the people in the slums shall suffer even worse during a protracted siege. He grimaced. As useful a boon as the great walls of Zenobia were, he could not simply hole up within them and expect the rebel army to expend themselves against it. Never. Any army, no matter how weak, could resort to that coward's tactic, and the vanguard of the 12th Legion would be following him here soon.

"I'll ask once again, governor. From where shall they strike?"

Darian spoke judiciously, aware as anyone else now that the towering general would not even require a weapon to crush his skull. "There's... there's an abandoned Zenobian garrison far southeast of here. A path junction that... leads to the rest of the district."

"Then that is where they shall strike from", Kaus decided out loud, staring out at the world beyond the Slums, trying to make out the aforementioned barracks. "The ocean shields us to the west, north, and the southwest. We shall venture out and engage them."

"Good", the governor echoed from behind him, relieved. "Then in less than a day, this idiocy will all be over."

Debonair clutched his sword hilt tight. Indeed. Many idiotic things shall be. "All I require from you is use of your runners and supply lines. My people shall take care of the rest."

He had not expected a screech of greeting from the Imperial force's opening squadron of fliers, but the timing of it made him seem even more the walking God to Darian's people. It was a role he'd been forced into too many times not to understand, snarky jokes about his blood name notwithstanding. Rare was the time when he ever felt truly 'Debonair'. Coming from around the castle tower, a handful of troops he recognized and many others he did not flashed a lens as their ready signal. "The rest of the air cavalry are but hours away, Lord Debonair", one of the sub-commanders informed him from his perch on a silver-feathered Cockatrice, the evolutionary ancestors of the Griffon species. "The others will be arriving by boat tomorrow morning. A good thing, as the witch's district has already fallen. Likewise the bandit lord Sirius."

The Empire's youngest Deva nodded. He'd expected nothing less from either side of the conflict. This vanguard possessed many such fliers and nearly an equal number of ground troops designed for fast travel in other types of terrain, including a great many domesticated dragons. Dozens of valkyria, some of them low-ranking Einherjar. He shook his head in something like shame. All of this awesome firepower under his command, thrown against a band of scarcely a hundred men and women. It sounded unfair even to him. How could such a force fail to strike fear into Destin the Valiant's heart? It couldn't.

"Freya watch over us." Thoughtfully, he raised his own weapon over the railing, watched it sparkle in the afternoon sun. "It's such a beautiful day. And tomorrow, we shall ride forth and demonstrate to this infantile rebellion how a real war is fought. I am certain they will find it a harrowing experience before...ah. What is the phrase, Darian? That charming phrase which your people use? Ah, yes. 'Embracing the Thirteenth'. From here on in, it matters not what they say or do- the absolute end awaits."


Author's Note:

Well well, look who's getting a remake (Tactics Ogre). The trailer spells Zeteginea differently but I'd prefer to stick with the original spelling for the duration of this story. Hope you all liked Deneb.