She was situated in the back of a wagon, along with some of her fellow slaves. There were five of them cramped there. It was built as an iron cage, a flimsy cloth her only protection against the heat of the sun. Until recently, she heard the voices of two of the guards from Drummesburg, chatting with each other about trivial things.
Then came the sound of battle cries, the guards assigned to the convoy taken off guard by the surprise attack. She could hear the clanking of metal on metal, the gurgling of men as their throats were slit or their guts torn open and exposed to the air.
At one point, she actually felt the cage rattle as an entire man was thrown against it, eliciting cries of alarm from the slaves inside. They were younger women like her, all barely past the awkwardness of adolescence.
After some time, the battle ceased, and she heard whispers outside of her cage. She whimpered, clinging to another woman for comfort, who held her back tightly. The cloth that covered her cage was thrown off, revealing a behemoth of a man in black plate armor.
He looked tall enough to rival a bear, with the implied musculature to wrestle it barehanded and win. His armor was of a fine make, with the pauldrons being skulls that held two gems in their mouths. Every edge of the plates looked sharp enough to be a weapon by themselves, and images of war and conquest were etched into his chest-plate.
His helmet was forged in the shape of a snarling skeleton, with pronounced canines. A fluffy plume bounced with the movements of the man's head, like a pony tail. In the space where the cheeks would be was a mesh, many pinprick holes poked into it, perhaps to allow easier breathing. The sockets of the helmet were covered by a black glass.
Then he took it off, revealing his face to them. He was clean shaven in all aspects, even his head. He possessed a squared jaw and prominent cheekbones, giving him a harsh but noble look. It was offset by his soft eyes, which were a hazel brown.
He seemed to be exiting the prime of his life, for she noticed the slight crow's feet around his eyes.
"Is everyone alright here?" He asked, his voice grating with age. "I apologize if I rattled you earlier, when I threw one of the caravan workers against this cage."
None of them spoke, afraid of what their savior might do if they spoke out of turn. Though it sounded like he and whoever was with him defeated the convoy guards, they had no idea what the massive man's intentions were.
"I understand you were on your way to become servants for some of the nobility of Re-Estize, the scum they are. Are any of you injured? Do any of you require some type of medical attention?" He tried again, to much the same result.
Yet, his voice was…soothing in a way. It reminded her of the grinding of a flour wheel, a gentle sound of stone on stone, a memory from a better time. She began to tear up a bit, to which the large man raised both hands to calm her.
"It's alright, you're safe now," he said, giving them his best smile. He had excellent teeth, a sign of proper hygiene, which is more than she could say of her former captors.
Sensing he wasn't getting anywhere, he tried a different tactic. "Maybe we should start over. My name is Destrus Desmodus, and I represent a group of His Majesty. We are the Knights of the Weeping King, and we offer you a choice."
The newly named Destrus looked each of the women in the eyes, but it didn't feel invasive or predatory. His was a sincere gaze, making sure they were able to understand what he wanted to say next.
"My group and I have connections, and we can try and get you back either to your families or to the nearest safest city where our people are. They will look after you, provide work so you can support yourselves, and give you the anonymity needed to stay out of sight of the ones who captured you in the first place," he said.
"Or," he stressed the word, "We can take you into our group. We will train you, shape you into proper warriors so that you may be able to fight back against people like your former captors. The road will not be easy, and it is possible you may not be able to hold up to the rigorous training, but I promise if you do, none of you will ever be at anyone's mercy ever again."
He swept his arms open, as if he meant to embrace them. "It is your choice. We will not force you to do anything you don't want to do. Consider those days past."
Each of the women looked at each other, trying to communicate by feelings and thoughts alone. To be able to go back to their families, to be able to rebuild themselves as if nothing happened? It almost seemed too good to be true.
The offer to join the group that called itself the Knights of the Weeping King seemed risky, given they knew next to nothing about them. For all they knew, they could be led into a trap and subject to a fate even worse than what was originally planned for them.
Finally, one of the women spoke up. "I want to go home."
She scooted over, around her peers and hopped out of the back with the help of Destrus. Another of the Knights come and wrap her in a blanket, leading her away out of sight.
With the first response came others, all echoing the same sentiment. Like the first, they were let out and escorted off to be taken care of and handled.
That left only her, who pulled her knees up to her chest to make herself as small as possible. The gentle gaze of Destrus never left her, patiently awaiting her answer. In her heart, she could feel an answer forming, but she struggled with it in a way she didn't expect.
There was nothing more that she wished than to be able to go home, to be able to see her parents and younger sister. She knew in her heart of hearts, it was her end goal.
But if she returned as she was, battered and broken, could she really lead the life she once envisioned for herself? Could she go through living out the rest of her days constantly looking over her shoulder to see if those who took her came back to do it again?
No. No, she couldn't. As much as she yearned for her old life, it was now over. In her time in the Mud Pits, she was subjected to all the horror that humans could conjure up, and on a daily basis she was told there was more to come.
She couldn't do that to her family, she couldn't burden them with the weight of a life-sized shell of their daughter and sister. If she were to return, it would be once she was able to assure that what happened to her could never happen again.
In that, she decided to carve a new path for herself. She reached out a hand, which Destrus took gingerly. His hand nearly covered hers.
"If you will have me, I'll gladly join you."
The Azerlisia Mountains, Catacombs of the Weeping King
A thundering BOOM jolted her awake, the earth shaking with the power behind it. A chorus of distant cheers soon followed, clouds of dust flitting down and causing her to cough violently.
She scrambled upright as another explosion shook the rocky hallway. A trail of bodies, those of her brethren, lay scattered around her. Their eyes stared glassily at her, accusing her of daring to be the last alive among their numbers.
A sharp pain at her hairline made her gasp, her fingers reflexively reaching up to search for the source of the pain. When she brought her fingers back, warm, sticky blood came back.
Whatever remained of her armor was torn to pieces, shredded to ribbons from shards of shrapnel. She realized now that her equipment was useless, unless she managed to find some way to replenish it without going back the way her group came, or took an alternative route.
Her eyes flickered over to her fallen comrades, taking note of whose armor was in the best shape and which was not. With a practiced hand, she began to scavenge what she could, aiming for the special plate mail of her former superiors then the substandard chain mail and leather of her equals.
While she did this, memories of what happened previously came back to her, making her wince from the agony of her losses, both physically and mentally.
For the last few months, her group, the Knights of the Weeping King, had been besieged by a group of determined and powerful mercenaries called the Death Spreading Brigade, led by one Brain Unglaus.
The exact purpose of the brigade's raids on their mountain fortress was no secret, for they sought out some of the legendary treasures that her group wielded, relics from before the Great Schism that left some of her ancestors behind in the Forest of Tob and the others fleeing to the mountains.
What happened to cause such a split was shrouded by historic myth, at least to her. Ever since she joined the Knights, all she could really get as an answer was that an enraged forest god drove her people into the Azerlisia Mountains, where they remained ever since.
Before that point, the group itself was a splinter from another country all-together, one ravaged by the necromantic magic of a powerful undead dragon lord. They were refugees, also fleeing the grasp of a secretive organization known as the Corpus of the Abyss, rumored to be composed entirely of liches.
For many leagues that initial refugee band traveled, picking up on necessary skills and abilities along the way, given the group's unusually high affinity for magic. Some channeled that magical energy into the vastness of nature, using their magic to provide food and shelter, and to give back to the land.
Others began to channel that magic into taboo arts, like what the undead dragon lord used to destroy their home. That portion of the group would become the precursor to the Knights of the Weeping King and Zuranon.
Zuranon's desire for ultimate power, as well as their desire to subjugate and control others through the necromantic properties they had, led to a conflict of interest, one which had the then-developing druids call upon the Knights to drive out Zuranon from the refugees.
But that did not mean that Zuranon was done with their group. Over the centuries, they perfected their power, using it to attack entire cities and convert them into undead, all to complete their "death spiral". At the same time, they harassed the Knights, doing what they could to whittle their numbers down.
It was only through the arrival of their god, the Weeping King, that they were able to drive back Zuranon and establish for themselves a new home and faith, where their own branch of necromancy would be undisturbed by outsiders.
And so they did, until recently. Her brothers and sisters in arms were able to hold back the brigade and its combatants. Their leader, Lord Destrus Desmodus, clad in the blessed armor of their patron, the Weeping King, led the charge.
Nothing was able to penetrate her lord's tower shield, nor was any armor able to withstand the cruel edge of his wavy-edged sword, Flint Striker. His gear was as much a fortress as their home was, impenetrable to all manner of weapons and arrows thrown against him.
Brain Unglaus was barely able to find himself Destrus's equal. The entire might of the Death Spreading Brigade behind him, and he still could not make a dent in their defenses. When the two faced off, one-on-one, the sturdiness of her lord's gear proved a match for the quick, slicing strikes of the bandit leader.
In time, both fought to a standstill, but of the two, her lord was the less winded. His durability counteracted against the agility and slashing blows dealt against him. Every shove, every advance made against the Knights of the Weeping King was met with a stone-solid wall of blades and determination to defend their home.
It seemed like her lord was invincible, a living god cloaked in the armaments of war, and destined to bathe in the blood of their enemies. He would mount the heads of slain mercenaries on pikes leading up to the fortress entrance, not that it deterred the brigade anyways. Nothing could beat him.
But then someone else came.
In the dark of night, without warning or even a sound until it was much too late, an assassin came into their home, striking down the guards and greater warriors with little resistance.
Everyone who crossed paths with this assassin was swiftly killed, small holes being left in the vitals, like a spike was driven in to end their lives. Lord Destrus was resting then, weary from the constant barrage of fighting and out of his armor.
By the time the surviving guards were able to make it to his quarters, all of his personal entourage was dead, and a thumb-sized hole was driven into his forehead. He never had the chance to get out of bed, slaughtered in his sleep.
She never saw who it was who did the horrible deed, but many of the older members who survived believed it to be the work of their chief rival, Zuranon. Only they would be so bold as to send an assassin behind enemy lines. It was likely they were responsible for the Death Spreading Brigade's appearance all those months ago too.
Regardless, it didn't take long for their defenses to crumble. So many losses in so short a time meant they lacked the manpower to hold back the bandits. The few mages in their group that had the power to summon and utilize undead were all but wiped out, only one or two surviving and being forced to flee with the others.
What warriors were left stayed behind to make sure the women and children of their group made it through the secret catacombs to their other allies.
She was among the remaining knights, barely a squire herself. Limited training, paltry equipment, and already she was giving her life to make sure her group's future was secured.
Not that she got the chance to, as one of the bandits utilized throwable explosives to knock down a portion of the tunnel they planned to use as a chokepoint. In the ensuing chaos and dust clouds, she was knocked unconscious, it seemed, by a stray piece of rock.
How lucky am I?
Judging by the state of the bodies, it looked like Brain Unglaus himself came through, cutting down the knights like dandelions. He must have believed her dead already, passing her by.
BOOM!
Which meant the explosions were coming from the interim of the fortress. Possibly the bandits were trying to blow their way into the treasure halls. So many relics, so much history, lost because of petty greed.
When she recovered what little she could, some haphazard greaves and gauntlets, a chest plate, a shield, a half sword, and a closed-face helmet, she steadily waded her way through the bodies.
Save for the head injury, she was mostly in decent shape. Her original armor, what was left, must have taken the majority of the trauma from the rocks being knocked loose. However, her muscles felt sore, and something stung fiercely in her right thigh, giving her a limp.
Trails of blood followed her, and her feet made a wet squelching sound from the various eyeballs and pieces of viscera in her path. The clanking of her platemail made her wince but she pushed on, trudging deeper into the tunnels.
They were unfamiliar to her, meant only as escape routes in times of crisis. She knew of their existence, but not where they went, a topic that her instructor was meant to teach her on. Unfortunately, she never got far enough into her training for that, and the constant assaults meant there was little time for learning.
Along she stumbled, having to use her sword at times as a crutch. The longer she kept moving, the more pain her body began to experience.
For how long she struggled she couldn't begin to guess. It could've been minutes, or hours, or even days, though she doubted it. The cold stone indicated sparsely in the way of keeping time.
Eventually, faint voices could be heard ahead, a sound that both relieved her and set her on edge. She slowed her pace to a snail's crawl, listening intently for anyone familiar.
Would she hear Mother Juniper? What about Brother Josiah or Sister Seria? Could the little ones speak up loud enough for her to hear them? How many of them made it this far into the tunnels?
The closer she got, the more her anxiety solidified into dread, and ice replaced the blood in her veins. Muted light from lanterns lit the entrance into a cavernous room, harsh laughter and jeers echoing up ahead.
Unfamiliar voices spoke, joking with each other. Pathetic whimpers underlined their words, and those voices were far more familiar to her.
She halted right at the door, crouching as best she could and using the cover of the darkness to hide her well. The radius of lanterns, thankfully, did not reach her, providing total anonymity.
The room itself was a dome shaped hall, various dusty crates littered throughout the room. A variety of long tables were situated at the center, with alcoves dug into the walls, large enough to hold the cracked remains of statues.
A chandelier hung up in the shadows above, cold and inert. Torches were situated between each alcove in a similar state, though some holders were empty, their contents taken out and lit up as the source of the pitiful illumination.
At the very back of the room stood the very object of her group's worship and devotfulness: The Weeping King Himself.
Her God's image was sculpted beautifully out of a black rock she thought obsidian, perhaps from the lava lakes deeper in the mountains. Cobwebs stretched between His limbs, a sign of the great age of that particular artwork.
The Weeping King was a towering beast of a man, clad in smooth, bulky armor. The pauldrons were the screaming faces of skulls, whose canines were honed to razor tips. Inside each mouth was a bright red orb of a glittering gem.
In the center of His chest was a hole, motifs of fire painted to resemble a smoldering core for a heart. His chest plate was forged to mimic a ribcage, a smaller version acting as the belt buckle for the tattered cloth that draped around his waist.
His greaves were etched with more anguished faces, spike-studded boots fit to crush the bodies of mortals. His gauntlets were scaled with three spikes pointing up, almost like the spines of a dragon. The fingertips were claws, just as much a weapon as the longsword and shield He carried.
Upon the Weeping King's exposed skull was an iron crown of thorns and miniature shields. A pair of horns jutted out, then sharply angled upwards at a ninety-degree angle. In a stray thought, she wondered how he might've held his head up with the weight.
Some of the Death Spreading Brigade, a trio of rugged men, stood guard over a large group of the non-combatants that fled the fortress. Their weapons of choice were pulled out, one man dragging his axe along the ground to create sparks that jumped at the terrified hostages.
"Oi, cut that out," one man snapped, the leader she guessed. He was bald-headed, an old scar running down the length of his skull like an axe unsuccessfully tried to cleave it in two.
The one dragging his axe grinned wickedly. "Come on, boss. These chumps ain't nobody important. I don't see why we spare them, since they don't know if there's any treasure around here."
"I don't give a shit if they happen to have gold bars slipping out of their ass! Knock. It. Off. Brain Unglaus specifically said to let them be. We're mercenaries, not animals."
Axe grumbled but lifted his weapon, hefting it on his shoulder. He looked younger, his hair grown wildly and various knife-thin scars running up and down his face. A scratching post fit for an aggressive cat, or an overly scorned woman.
"Taking the fun right of it then," he said with a huff, "No reason we can't keep ourselves entertained, It's not like they'll be going anywhere."
The third man, covered head to toe in armor, merely grunted, thumbing his mace. He glanced back at the bald-headed man, a thoughtful look on his face.
"We do as the boss says and that's final," he said, "They're civvies, not much we can do with them anyhow. Until he says otherwise, we keep our hands to ourselves."
There were grunts of affirmation from the other two men, who returned back to watching over the captured group. The younger man grew bored, apparently, turning his gaze to stare at the Weeping King's statue.
"What's up with this guy here?" he asked in an arrogant tone, "Is he your god? Surprised none of you haven't started praying to him yet to save you all. Must be a shitty god to not care about his followers."
It was an obvious trap, meant to elicit a reaction from the assembled civilians. She, who previously was at the door and started creeping along the edge of the massive room and using the dusty crates as cover, grit her teeth to not say anything.
Unfortunately, an elder did. Father Maxon, a frail, skinny man whose beard entirely ate up his face and whose eyes were hidden by his bushy brows, stood up in outrage.
"How dare you disrespect Him?! So great is His might that He bestowed upon His descendant, the late Lord Destrus Desmodus, His divine blood and equipment! You are not fit to even stand in His presence, let alone question Him!"
Father Maxon was swiftly backhanded by Axe, a resounding crack echoing through the room, followed shortly by the thump of his body as it crumbled to the floor. Several of the children wailed in fright.
"Goddammit! I told you, do not touch any of them!" Shouted Bald-Head, grabbing the younger man's shoulder fiercely. "Brain Unglaus is going to hear about this, do you understand me?!"
Axe shook his head unapologetically. "Boss, I swear you have your head so far up Brain's ass from how much you practically worship the guy. Is he your god? Is he offering you special services in exchange for your worship? Might explain why you go and visit him so late at night sometimes."
Bald-Head's face turned so red it was indistinguishable from a tomato. He began to tear into the younger man, throwing an entire dictionary's worth of insults and slurs, Axe staring at him smugly with crossed arms.
The third man, whom she mentally nicknamed Plate, hummed quietly to himself, being the only one keeping an eye on the hostages. She couldn't see much of his face, but based on the way his shoulders tensed, the yelling was beginning to get to him.
She kept maneuvering around the crates at the edge of the room, keeping out of the light and out of direct line of sight from the trio. The constant barrage of angered words was a blessing in disguise itself, obscuring the clanking of her breastplate while she crouched.
When she got to the closest crate next to her people, she glanced around the edge, her hand gripping tightly the short sword buckled to her hip.
From the angle she was looking from, Plate stood slightly off to the left, with the civilians to her direct right. Bald-Head and Axe were behind Plate, almost hidden by his own heavy armor.
Beyond the crates, there was nothing else really in the room. The space was too open, meaning too many opportunities for her to get surrounded and slaughtered. The alcoves offered little in the way of defensible positions, and she wouldn't dare use the statue of her lord and god as defense either.
Even if she could face all three of them, she was injured, not much but enough to be a severe hindrance in such stacked odds against her. Her armor was mismatched and of varying quality, and her short sword would likely slide right off Plate's own armaments.
Facing them head on is not the right decision. What did the scriptures say again? 'In war, the best combat is done without ever having to fight'?
"Psst, over here!" A childish voice whispered to her. She nearly jumped out of her own skin, but restrained herself to look over at who called her.
She saw one of the younger children, a little girl, her hair matted with dirt and pieces of rock. Her dress was once of fine make, but now was dirtied and in need of a good wash.
The little girl, once she was satisfied she had her attention, pointed up at the chandelier. She followed the grubby finger upwards, noticing the chain that held the large work of metal was rusted and partially coming apart.
That it hadn't already fully was a miracle in itself, but it did provide an opportunity for her to take advantage of. The only problem was how she could possibly reach that high to sever the weakened links.
Evidently, the little girl was thinking the same thought as her, as she let loose another "Psst!" in her direction.
The little girl reached into the folds of her dress, pulling out a round object no bigger than an apple. She rolled it over to her behind the crates, also tossing two shards with the gift.
She reached out and quickly plucked them, taking note of her newly expanded inventory. The round object she surmised to be one of the bombs that the Death Spreading Brigade was so fond of. The surface felt cold and somewhat lumpy, a leather skin stuffed with gunpowder. A fuse at the top would allow it to combust.
The two shards were, suitably enough, a flint and steel to create sparks. She gave an appraising grin to the little girl, who beamed right back at her.
With the tools she needed, now she looked back at the chandelier, a much more enticing target. She was already running the numbers in her head, trying to coordinate how best to throw the bomb and hit the chains without causing too many rocks to rain down.
What was the name of that game that our lord loved to play in his free time? I believe he called it baseball? Well then, I'll throw the greatest pitch that would make even the Weeping King applaud me.
Just as she grabbed the flint and steel to spark a fire for the bomb's fuse, she heard Bald-Head finally stop yelling at Axe. The older man was out of breath, and though she couldn't see him right now, she could imagine him jabbing a finger at his younger comrade.
"When we get back, you're done. I don't give two shits what kinda talent Brain thinks you have, it ain't worth having a heart attack dealing with your bullshit."
Flick.
"Guess you'll need to make sure you're real persuasive, old man. These chumps ain't worth anything, and the fact Brain wanted them alive is beyond me. At least make sure he gives you a proper reach around tonight.
Flick.
"I SWEAR TO EVERY SINGLE GOD BOTH REAL AND FAKE THAT I'M GONNA SHOVE MY FOOT SO FAR UP YOUR ASS-"
Flick.
"Hey wait, shut up. Did you hear that?"
Both men went quiet, hearing her trying to get the fuse lit on the grenade. Finally, it went off with a hiss, letting out a tail of smoke as the fire ate up the cord. She immediately stood up from her hiding spot, pulling her arm back into a throwing position.
All three of the mercenaries jumped back at her sudden appearance, Ax shouting and pointing at the object in her hand. "Shit, little prick has got a grenade!"
They fell to the ground, tucking in their bodies and making themselves as small a target as possible, likely believing she intended to throw the grenade at them. She smirked, throwing the bomb as hard as she could at her true target.
It sailed through the air, spinning and striking the rusted chain of the chandelier, which snapped from the additional force. Right at that moment, the bomb exploded, shaking the room and causing some dust to sprinkle down.
Thankfully, no rocks came down when the chandelier did, the heavy iron work falling silently and crashing upon Bald-Head and Axe. Plate saw at the last moment what was coming and rolled out of the way in the nick of time.
She growled in frustration, having only gotten two of the three mercenaries. Plate stood up ominously, raising his fearsome mace overhead and stomping towards her.
"Shit!" She cursed, getting up and limping away from the crate she hid behind, the box smashed to tinders by the mute warrior. He grunted, raising his weapon gradually and stomping at her again.
This time, she managed to raise her shield, absorbing the impact of Plate's mace. However, he exerted so much force by himself that she was knocked down.
He strikes with the strength of a troll! And yet, he moves so slowly I can duck and weave between each attack if my leg wasn't hurt. I've got to think, what would my sister do?
Trying to recall her sister and her face before she became involved with the Knights was a painful endeavor, but it was one she knew she'd need to help her think more clearly.
She blocked again another blow, her shield becoming noticeably dented from the power of Plate's mace. She felt there were only two or three more good blocks left in it before it became unusable.
Plate's armor was air-tight. There was no gap large enough between each piece of his armor for her to even slip a dagger through. While it provided good enough protection, it contributed to his movement problems, making him sluggish and clunky.
Perhaps she could work with that.
"[Martial Arts: Agility Boost]," she said, feeling the power flow through her and into her legs, making up for her injury.
She took sliding steps back, keeping her center of balance low and dodging rather than blocking to preserve her shield. She kept getting around him, sliding her short sword along his back to get him to face her in a particular direction.
They engaged in a dance of death, trading blows or otherwise evading attacks in her case. She kept leading him towards where the chandelier had fallen, stepping inside the circular rings that composed its shape.
Special care was taken not to trip over the bodies of Plate's allies, not out of respect but more so out of the fear one of them may still be alive and waiting to grab her ankle.
Plate hesitated on the outside of the chandelier, but he stepped in once he realized his reach was not long enough to get her. He raised his mace again for an overhead strike.
Seeing her opening, she struck at him with her malformed shield, directly at his face. He attempted to stop her, but the weight of his gear was too cumbersome, so she was able to land a hit and stun him.
His helmet let out a dull ringing from the blow, the man groaning as he weakly swung his weapon. She ducked and reached around him for the broken chain that scattered around the ground.
Plate recovered, once again attempting to hit her, only to be stunned again by another shield bash. The chain she grabbed was wrapped around his forearm, the one holding the mace, and the other end was quickly tied down to the chandelier.
A continuous battle of will and speed continued between them, Plate growing more and more enraged as he realized what she was trying to do. He tried to swing faster, but his greatest asset worked against him, tying him down both figuratively and literally.
After another minute or so, Plate was gasping from exhaustion, slouching over the chandelier while trying to recover his breath. He still held his mace tightly, but the chains wrapped around his upper body ensured she was able to approach him without fear of being killed.
She grabbed the edges of his helmet and ripped it right off, revealing Plate's face. To her surprise, he looked even younger than Axe, but with the body of an ox. He couldn't have been any older than fifteen or sixteen years of age.
"Whether a mercenary or banditry, it must have been a special kind of hell back home for you to take up this line of work, and so young too," she said, placing her short sword beneath his chin.
Plate glared back at her in defiance. His dark hair had the typical messy look of wearing a helmet for too long, and though the last of his baby fat was melting away, he had the beginnings of a defined jaw.
There was also a curious lack of scars on his face, likely due to how heavily armored he was at all times, based on the short amount of time she spent fighting him. There was some stubble to complement his tan complexion, and his almond shaped, brown eyes bore a fearsome expression.
Though instinct demanded that she take the initiative and end his life right then and there, a softer, kinder side of her pleaded with her to take another path. Not everything had to end in the death of another. There had to be another way.
"I know what that's like, to be forced away from everything you know," she said, trying to relate to him, "I was stolen away from my mother, father, and sister, over a year ago. I was to become the play-thing of some noblemen, to be used and abused day in and day out."
The glare persisted, but the corners of his eyes softened ever so softly, so she kept up with her story.
"It wasn't until about three months later that the caravan that I and several other slaves were traveling with was hit, first by bandits, and then by those who would take me in, train me, shelter me, and educate me."
"Lord Destrus Desmodus was the one who lifted me out of my cage. It was he who nurtured me back to health, who taught me the ways of this world, and who ensured that my presence would never be missed by the noblemen or their associates. He was a second father to me, giving me a second chance at life."
She gave Plate the most sincere look she could muster, made her heart ache for the young man's situation, because she couldn't fathom him joining up with a group like the Death Spreading Brigade out of any other reason than desperation or anger at the world.
"Let me extend that same chance to you. We could use someone of your potential here, you don't need to do this type of work anymore. You, too, can begin anew."
Plate's lower lip quivered, like he was trying to say something, but then his brow furrowed and he turned away, a scowl on his face. She sighed in disappointment.
I should end this now, kill him and make sure he doesn't try to attack me or the others. Then again, he could still prove a valuable source of information, I just need a different angle to work from to make him speak to me.
Given he was chained up and drained from their bout, she doubted he'd escape anytime soon. It would be better for her to check up on the civilians and ask about their well-being.
She swiveled on her heel and marched over the sitting hostages, seeing that their only bonds were ropes, which she quickly cut. She gently but firmly got all of them to their feet, murmuring reassurances to those crying or suffering from shock.
When the last of them were freed, she turned to the most capable and coherent of the group. "Mother Juniper, are you alright? Is this the extent of everyone we sent down here? What is this place?"
Mother Juniper's lips moved soundlessly, and the elderly woman brought her into a tight hug, blubbering for a short moment before she collected herself enough to speak.
"Oh my dear, I'm so glad you're okay. When we heard the explosions, we panicked, stampeding in here and realizing that it was a dead end. Those men you fought were the ones who found us, ready to take us hostage. I dread to think what might have happened if-"
She shushed the elder. "There's no need for that. It's all handled now, or it will be soon enough. But I ask again, what is this place?"
The older woman stopped talking, as if she didn't understand the question. She looked at the statue and then back to her. "I-I'm not sure. There was a specific route we were to take, but I believe we got misled in our panic. Though if I had to take a guess, dear, this looks like a room of worship."
Others of the group muttered to themselves, warily staring at the statue. Though it was one of their god, something suspicious lurked about it, an unseen shadow ready to entrap them.
No, that didn't seem right. Actually, it felt more like the statue was charged with a latent energy, eagerly awaiting something to occur before it was released. Some of the younger children shuffled away from it, sensing it too.
She walked right up to the statue, making her way through the crowd to stand before it. She stared back at the lifeless eyes, reaching out to caress the cool rock and admire the craftsmanship of it.
"Yes, you'll do."
She flinched, bringing her hand back at the startling voice that echoed from the statue. The others of her rescue murmured in confusion, making a wider berth around the statue.
Black fog rolled off the back of the statue, pooling around their feet. It smelled foul, a potent mixture of fermenting flesh and musty bone, and felt like slime rolling past their ankles.
The fog collected into a singular spot near the center of the room, rising up from the ground and taking shape, molding itself into a humanoid but all too familiar form.
Those who recognized it immediately fell to their knees and began to pray, resting their foreheads against the ground. She who stood before the statue did so as well, years of sermons and scripture rising up to the forefront of her mind.
There were exclamations of joy, tears of happiness that streamed down the people's faces. The children who knew who stood before him giggled and reached out to the smoky being, who's features became clearer by the second.
"All hail our lord and god, the Weeping King!" Cried Mother Juniper, her voice muffled from being so close to the ground.
Indeed, if her eyes were not betraying her, it was the very same being. Tongues of smoke floated off his immaterial form, but for the most part, it was a one-to-one replica of the statue, or the statue was a one-to-one replica of the Weeping King, rather.
True to his name, twin tracks of molten tears fell from his flaming eyes, the trademark of undead beings. He stood above them all, an obsidian column of unholy magic and wisdom. His long sword was sunk into the ground, the Weeping King leaning against it, and his shield was strapped to his back.
"At long last, my followers come to pay homage to me," he spoke in a rolling thunder, "Long have I awaited this day, to see my beloved children. I see you flee our home, to escape an unrelenting threat."
The longsword was yanked from the earth, poison dripping from its cruel edge. Their lord pointed it towards them, his eyes blazing with wrath.
"Are you all cowards?! Have the warriors of my band lost their spines, or are they but worms from birth? Who are you to run from the beasts without defending yourselves first? I thought I raised ravenous wolves myself, not bumbling sheep!"
They cried out for his forgiveness, begging for their patron to spare their lives, to give them a second chance, to make amends. The monstrous aura of their god grew suffocating, ready to devour them all.
Save for one.
She stood against the tide, shivering in the wake of such killing intent, a part of her wishing she would be swallowed by the earth to escape, but stood up to face her god in the face.
"Oh? It seems there is a wolf of mine amongst the sheep afterall, or are they but a pup? Remove your helmet, so that I might see your face, child."
She did as he asked without hesitation, though her fingers shook while she undid the straps of her helmet. It came off with thud, crashing against the ground to be forgotten.
The Weeping King gave an amused chuckle. "What pretty blue eyes you have, child, and your hair, so blonde. You alone stood up while the others cowered before me, you alone came to save them against unfavorable odds, and you alone displayed the ingenuity to use the tools at your disposal to even those odds."
He took bellowing steps, plumes of smoke coming off each time. He did this until she was practically snapping her neck to look her god in the face.
"These alone are not enough to survive the world, not by your lonesome. You will require resources, manpower, and cunning. You have one of these things, and will need an abundance of the other two. I charge you with a new mission."
One clawed gauntlet was raised, the palm facing upwards and a blue flame flickering into existence. The flame expanded until it looked like a mirror with flaming borders, the "glass" shifting to make a picture.
In that picture were twelve hooded individuals standing in a semi-circle, around a table laden with necromantic artifacts and scrolls. She could not see them talking, due to the heavy hoods that covered their faces in shadow.
"Our old enemy, Zuranon, works against us. They have grown bold, succeeding in their mission to create a death spiral. The city of E-Rantel was lost, its citizens used to fuel their dark arts. They grow in their influence and reach, we must stop them."
Gasps were elicited by this statement, as were grumbles of anger from the others. It was already believed Zuranon was responsible for their current predicament, so to hear that they produced results from their ultimate mission induced tumultuous emotions.
He closed his hand, destroying the image. However, the flames did not dissipate, and when he opened it again a new image was waiting to be seen. This time, it was the fortress.
"I will handle the Death Spreading Brigade. I will drive them from our home, so that you might begin to rebuild our numbers. Many artifacts have been hidden in these walls. I will show them to you, so that you might become more powerful."
Again, the flaming mirror was crushed, and again, a new one was formed, but this one confused her, she who was brave enough to look her god in the eye.
She assumed it was of her lord, but he looked remarkably different this time than what she currently saw before her. He wore large, black academic robes with edges of gold and violet. On each shoulder was a lengthy spine, a glittering red gem embedded in the middle of it right above the shoulder.
The robes at the stomach were pulled open, exposing a similar red orb hovering in the space of his ribcage. A halo-like object, likely the iron crown, hovered behind his head, giving him an angelic appearance. A golden staff composed of seven serpents with different colored gems in their mouths was in his right hand, a far-cry from his sword and shield.
But what settled it for her that it was truly her god but in a different guise was the skeletal appearance. He lacked the horns but had the same shaped skull and reddish flaming eyes. Trails of molten tears fell from the sockets too.
"Find me, fight for me, and sacrifice for me! Offer up the blood of our enemies and their skulls to me! Perform your prayers and rites at an altar of me, in this form! Spread the word of our glorious power and crush our enemies! Do all this and I can assure you, we will be unchallenged for the rest of time."
They hung on every word, greedily drinking up the Weeping King's commandments. She especially felt like she was floating right now, as he gave unto her this new mission. She could feel the strength of his words invigorating her and mending her scarred spirit.
"My own allies work to undermine our foes. A great change is upon us, new factions rising up amidst the dust of old ones, ready to assume their place upon the throne of the world. I will have that of us, so says I."
Then came an end to the Weeping King's impassioned speech, his followers shaking from the raw vision he imparted to them. She especially knew that she would do whatever it took to see it through.
Perhaps, once I succeed, I might be able to ask a boon of him. Perhaps I can ask him to lead me to my sister.
The Weeping King exuded an aura of godly arrogance and satisfaction. "Before I depart, to clear our fortress of the despicable vermin which infest it, I would know the name of the one who shall lead the charge. I will inscribe your name into my mind, forever, pup."
She looked down then, suddenly feeling a sense of shyness. She became so caught up in the moment of her god's declarations that she realized who she was truly speaking to. Humbleness and the need to bow overcame her, and she went down to one knee.
She reached for some eloquent words to put out, something to impress her god, but her throat dried up on her, and her tongue turned to lead.
The others stared at her, their eyes awaiting her response. How difficult could it be to give her own name? She finally managed to conjure what she wanted to say when she saw, out of the corner of her eye, the Weeping King's boot tapping.
"I am Tsuareninya Veyron, squire of the Knights of His divinity. I am the tool of your bidding, my master."
Fortress of the Weeping King
Brain Unglaus watched as his men laid several packages worth of explosives upon the vault door, tying up the cord that would be used as the main fuse and lit to explode all of them at once. It was a crude method, but effective, given the overall thickness of the door.
He and his men battled their way through the temple, dispatching the remaining knights who stood against them. Anytime one of them gave the Death Spreading Brigade trouble, Brain took it upon himself to deal with the errant obstacles.
"How much longer are we thinking on the bombs?" He called out to one of the lead demolition experts.
"Not too much longer now boss! The fuses are almost ready, and then you get the honors of blowing this heap of junk open!" A man with goggles and curly hair shouted back.
Brain nodded. "Good. We'll need to sweep the rest of this place, make sure nobody else is hiding. I'm not looking forward to dealing with any more surprise knights or undead today."
A thumbs up was his only response from the demolition expert. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in exhaustion.
How the hell had he and his group allowed themselves to get so roped into a single job? The original contract from their employer said that the fortress was manned by a few rogue warriors and scoundrels, not a well trained militia with a small back-up force of undead.
When they returned home with their haul, Brain would be giving their employer a piece of his mind. He didn't need to waste time treasure-hunting and nearly getting himself killed in the process. He would be especially pissed if it turned out the treasure was worthless or merely trinkets.
Although, facing off against the leader of the knights and the knights themselves was an excellent bout of combat. He was able to unleash some of his strongest skills, to practice for his inevitable rematch with Gazef Stronoff.
Unfortunately, whatever gear the leader wore was beyond anything he ever fought against. His blade merely slid off the surface of the blackened metal, meaning he mainly had to rely on martial arts to do any meaningful damage.
The fight ended in a stalemate, yet Brain suspected that the leader was less tired than he was. It was a shame he suddenly turned into a coward and kept hiding deeper in the fortress, he would've loved a rematch.
"Alright! Everything is hooked up and ready to blow, boss!" A man said, running up to him to get his attention. He snapped out of his musings to see what was done.
Large barrels of gunpowder were stationed next to the hinges of the door, and smaller boxes were done up on higher levels, held on by a special type of adhesive. They wouldn't come off until the fuse reached their intended target and combusted their contents.
The vault door those explosives were attached to was a marvel all on its own. The height of them reached up to the ceiling, which was about three men tall at its peak. The door was forged of the same type of metal that many of the knights wore, a black-stained material that was resistant to blunt force trauma, as well as slashing, unless one utilized a martial art.
Scenes of knights kneeling before much larger figure were etched into the door's surface. Rather than colors and light, the shadows from the windows high above served to provide the contrast needed to differentiate shapes and objects in the door.
In one of the giant knight's hands was, of course, a double-edged sword, and in the other was, strangely, a round-shaped object, like a ball. On the outskirts of the image appeared to be skeletons and thorn bushes, mingled together and the former appearing strangled.
Brain wouldn't muse on it for long, being handed the fuse box that would light the bombs and open the path to, hopefully, grand treasures.
"As promised, boss," the demolition expert said, doing a dramatic flourish with his hands.
He grinned at his subordinate. "And as promised, here comes pay day."
The switch was pushed down, igniting the cord and sending a wave of sparks running up its length to the assigned explosives. Many of the men who previously helped to set up the arrangement jogged off, finding cover of some kind.
A sizzling hiss dominated the room as the men waited with bated breath, watching the minuscule flame make its way up to the barrels and boxes. As a precaution, the men readjusted the cotton in their ears to prevent hearing damage.
One second, then two seconds, then three…
"Um, should the explosives take this long to, I don't know, explode?" A younger man asked, to which his partner shrugged.
Brain raised an eyebrow, seeing that the fuses were burnt and the light reached their destination, but there was no blast, no earth-rumbling KA-BLAM like he expected. It was… quiet.
His men looked between him and the door, like they expected he would have an answer as to why the explosives failed to do their job properly. He had none to give them, if only because he himself didn't have one.
He stared at the fuse box. "Did somebody cheap out on buying some proper equipment for this job?"
An echoing laugh bounced off the walls of the Vault Interim, forcing many of the men to jump into position, back-to-back, with their weapons drawn and their awareness high. Brain made it a point to make it to the front of the group, pulling out his katana and hefting it into position.
"Damn it, I didn't think we'd have to deal with anything else until we got deeper into the fortress," one of the men exclaimed.
"Deeper? We're in the middle of these guys' home base, how much deeper do you think we could get?" Shot back another.
"Cool your heads, and stay on track," Brain said, his eyes darting around, "We can argue about how big this place really is after we finish off the last of these foolish bastards."
"Foolish bastards? After all the hospitality my children gave you while you visited our home. Your manners are…pitiful."
From all directions came a terrible voice. Upwards, downwards, left, right, behind, and in front it came. It shocked them to their bones and made Brain's teeth rattle from the vibrations it caused.
Shadows all across the expansive room deepened, a horrid-smelling fog pooling into the center and rising up, molding itself into a new shape. At first, he couldn't tell what it was, but soon enough he could make out the humanoid features.
Out of the coiling mist stepped a being who bore a resemblance to the figure on the door, the one with the sword and ball in his hands. One of the men next to Brain swore.
"Fuck! It's just another goddamn undead! What the hell is with these guys and their skeletons?" The man said.
The creature tilted its head. "Just another undead? Oh, I beg to differ. You'll find I'm far worse than any ordinary undead you've come across, you little shit."
Its wrist twisted, facing the palm outwards towards the assembled Death Spreading Brigade. A tendril of inky darkness shot out so fast there was no time to react, no time to block or deflect the substance.
With a clatter, the man dropped his sword, choking on the shadows as they invaded every orifice on his face, sucking in like a whirlpool. The man started to wave his arms around, trying to swat away the offending power but failing to do so.
He floundered out from the protection of the group, collapsing to his belly and squirming, his pleas for help being replaced by a strange whistling squeal.
Brain and the others could only watch as more shadows dug into their comrade, steadily inflating him like a leather skin, his eyes and tongue bulging out of his face. His limbs were forced out to either side, unable to move any longer.
There was some desperate squealing from the doomed soul, inflating bigger and bigger…
SPLAT!
Pieces of guts and gore flew all around the room, sailing right through the shadowy monster and splattering Brain and the rest of his men. There was the distinct smell of urine from amongst their number.
"Screw this! I'm out!" Screamed one of the men, creating a rippling effect throughout the rest of the mercenaries. Half of them began to wail in anguish and horror, covering their eyes at the simple but terrifying display of power.
Others turned tail and ran, but their fates would be the same as those who gave themselves into despair at the sight of such a fearsome beast.
"Stop, you idiots, you won't be able to escape-" Brain attempted to rein in the panicking mercenaries, but he was too late by then.
More tendrils of the same material shot out from all parts of the shadow warrior, finding their marks with absolute precision and accuracy. Like the first, those who fell under the spell were inflated to absurd proportions, and then exploded.
SPLAT!
SPLAT!
SPLAT!
A few times, Brain reached out to grab one of his comrades, to stop them from sprinting into certain death. They ignored him each time, eventually bursting like overinflated mosquitos.
Their screams turned to whistling cries, suddenly cut off by the cracking of bones and tearing of skin. Splatters of blood painted the room to such a degree the original color couldn't be remembered anymore.
Blood found itself in Brain's mouth, to the point he had to close it completely to not take in anymore than he already had. He closed his eyes to shield his vision from the nightmaric scene, even though his Necklace of Eye would protect him, and he stilled his feet so that he didn't slip. His ears could not be covered, and the screams of his men assailed his hearing.
When all the noise stopped, he took a few seconds to steel his nerves and open his eyes, dreading what he might see in the wake of the carnage. Instead, he was met with a pitch surface, not realizing what he was looking until he was smacked and sent flying into a wall.
He felt his spine crack, shoving the air from his lungs and causing him to spit blood. He fell to the ground on his knees, his sword clattering next to him.
"A pity that none of your 'family' were able to hold my essence for long. I wished to experience the world through their eyes, to see the end as they saw it. They were unable to hold my soul."
Brain roared, grabbing his sword and swinging as hard and as fast as he could. Even when injured, he possessed speed only men of his caliber could keep up with. He was certain he'd cleave the beast in two, to avenge the others!
CLANG!
His eyes widened, his arms shaking as he tried to push with all his strength, but meeting an insurmountable obstacle. The being pinched the tip of his blade, having caught it between his index finger and thumb.
"Ah, so it seems you still possess your warrior's spirit yet! Might I interest you in a wager?"
"To hell with your wagers! Die you monster!" He replied, unleashing more of his strength but making no new headway.
The creature cackled. "Look at you go! A lion among wolves, if you were the one leading the others who fought my children. Though if I guessed, you're only, what, level thirty? Maybe a little higher than that."
"What? What the hell are you saying-"
"Here is my wager. I let this flimsy little toothpick you call a weapon go, and I will grant you one chance to use your most complex and devastating attack. I wager that you will not lay a single scratch on me? Sound fair?"
A vein on Brain's forehead throbbed. "I'll show you fair you undead abomination! I'll take your stupid wager!"
Right as he said that, the beast dissolved, rematerializing further away out of his sword's reach. The swordsmen nearly toppled over from losing the indirect support. He regained his footing, his hair damp with sweat and drooping over his eyes.
He took three steps forward, not close enough to touch the being directly but close enough to land a hit with what he would do next. He calmed his breathing, taking deep breaths in and out to slow his heart rate and prepare mentally.
The tip of his katana pointed towards the creature's neck, who watched him with a subtly amused but interested glance. He recalled the martial arts he would need, the ones that would unleash the strongest attack he developed.
"[Martial Arts: Field], [Martial Arts: Ability Boost], [Martial Arts: Greater Ability Boost], [Martial Arts: Severing Strike], [Martial Arts: Cutting Edge] ," he said, loud enough for the monster who killed his comrades to hear him. The wind began to swirl around him, gathering speed while he exerted his force of will and innate abilities.
"Ah, a martial arts user then? Some of my followers are quite adept with this. I'm curious to see the extent of your abilities," the monster said casually, which fueled Brain's animosity.
He thought about how satisfying it would be to sever the monster's head from its neck, how it's hideous blood would stain its own home. In a primal, secluded portion of his mind, he hoped the survivors would see the corpse and despair, as it nearly made him.
One breath in, one breath out. One breath in, one breath out. All for the perfect moment to strike.
[Field] allowed him to perceive everything in a three meter field, raising his awareness, focus, and accuracy to the uppermost limits. Absolutely nothing would escape his perception.
A combination of his other martial arts allowed him to use a specially designed martial art he developed himself, as a result of his intense training and numerous hours of dedication: [God Flash].
With the two previously mentioned martial arts combined, he would be invincible himself, able to defeat any opponent in a single, uncompromising blow. No opponent thus far was able to withstand it, so he was confident this monster would be no different.
He noticed the ever so slight change in the beast's posture. It leaned forward, not enough to be noticed by the naked eye, but enough to be noticed by Brain's enhanced senses.
Given he was in range, he lunged, his body moving with a grace and agility few would ever match. He struck with a force that would cleave a troll in two, all without getting a single drop of blood on his blade.
He felt the thunk of the katana's impact, a cocky grin on his face as he dug in deeper and awaited the familiar crunch of steel on bone.
Only it never came, and his smile fell when he tracked the edge of his sword and saw what his weapon actually struck. It was caught between the teeth of its skull, like it was trying to take a bite out of it. Being undead, the thing couldn't smirk, but Brain could imagine it trying anyway.
With a crack, the monster snapped his katana in two, sending shards of his beloved weapon flying in all directions. His Necklace of Eye worked to divert the flow of shrapnel, but he might as well have been hit anyways from how he winced.
He let go, not caring for the shattered weapon anymore as he sank to his knees again. He stared blankly at the one before him, who took the sword tip and began picking its teeth with it.
"Was that all you had? I expected more from the man who successfully led the charge against my followers and nearly won. Alas, you could not get past Destrus Desmodus, so perhaps I am at fault for believing you could do more," it said, tossing the shard away.
Brain said nothing, his mind not comprehending the power he witnessed. His best attack, his trump card… thwarted?
"Have I broken the toy already? Are you going to beg for mercy? You'll find that I'm fresh out of mercy, given how you and your band of fuckers waded into my home, slaughtered my children, and attempted to steal my treasures."
It crouched down, grabbing the former katana user by the neck and effortlessly lifting him up in the air. Brain began to choke, grabbing the offending limb to loosen the titanic grip on his windpipes.
"Beyond the obvious, do you know why they call me the Weeping King? Can you fathom any reason at all why I have this little nickname?"
Brain's mind fogged up, his thoughts sluggish and incoherent, his legs kicking in a bid to knock him loose so he could get away. He made no purchase.
The self-proclaimed "Weeping King" leaned in closer, eye to eye with the swordsman. "It is because of the types of fuckers I have to deal with, like you. I weep knowing the idiocy I must face, the mediocrity I must tolerate, and the weakness of sheep. But there is another reason I have this name."
The undead's flaming eyes intensified, red streaks right beneath flaring to life, pooling a steaming liquid that appeared suspiciously like molten metal.
"It is because of the brand I place, upon those I wish to leave a message to."
Tears of burning iron dripped onto Brain's face, searing his flesh and cooking it from the overbearing heat. For the first time in his life, Brain screamed. He screamed and yelled and cried his lungs out, begging for someone, anyone to come and save him.
But no-one replied to his pleas of agony and anguish. There existed only the cackling of a shade, one whose body dissolved into the shadows long ago, and whose home his spirit inhabited.