From the surrounding large group of trees adjacent and juxtaposed to each other; a collection of Mother Nature, swathes of stocky limbs forming from the earth beneath, bending in an array of angles, twisting and turning and standing even erect, a man, clad in his silver-grey armor, watches as his companions and allies chatter among themselves as he and they were surrounded by the crisscross of and intersecting bodies that jutted out of the earth. The morning light of the sun just barely had pierced through the small cracks that the tree's limbs did not shield with its leaves or limbs themselves.
The man cast a look over his allies and companions, clad in their own silver armor before his gaze was upon the surrounding foliage behind them. He adjusts the steel helmet on his head to block the piercing light, blinking warily, standing out in the open. It was easy to get lost in the thick jungle, and those that did not know their way around would be the helpless and lost victims unless one asked for directions to the nearest town. For a stranger or for any person who did not have the slightest clue of which direction to take; where to go, then asking directions in the nearest town with its inhabitants, who possessed knowledge of where to go, was often considered the wisest course of action. And probably only.
He nearly snorted and a scowl came onto his face instead. Nearest Town. Unless they want to visit the "Town of the Damned".
He knew, however, what others did not. His knowledge did not translate to theirs. They did not know what he possessed. And he very much knew the town and its given name.
The Town of the Damned. Ghost Town of Hoshido. Ghost Town near Bottomless Canyon. Just two of the few nicknames he overheard soldiers and even civilians calling it. The last one was, to him and a few others, ridiculous but even that name was given to it, just by the location of the two that were close to each other:
The Town of the Damned was put, a nickname after a simple town near the border of Hoshido. The name of the town, affectionately given the name, was after a massacre discovered; the macabre, gruesome sight discovered after by a few traveling townspeople. Towns near the destroyed town. The message quickly traveled then and through, like a series of circuits or water transferred between a series of pipes. The Kitsune tribe, he remembered, was one of the few last ones that received the message before it ever reached its destination. The message was sent to the king, immediately eliciting a response; an investigation put forth. A third of the barracks, including himself; he remembered he and the others gave orders, and the quick rush for the investigation had brought him and the army there in one day. With the requested assistance of the Kitsune tribe, they scanned all around and over the vicinity. No survivors. None. He grimly remembered.
There was smoke in the air. Lumps of and remnants and rivers of blood. Some charred and some not.
"Sir?"
He was staring. The sight before him had only taken his entire focus out. Streaming red absorbed into the earth below and the smell of charred and smoke filled his nostrils.
Why? Who could have done this? What being was capable and responsible for the destruction?
The simple questions formed in his mind, and while it toyed with the thought of his blindness; his inability to consider views of others, he did not think so. He was born and raised in a small quaint town edging on the border of Hoshido's massive walls. Raised by his mother, as she was single, and he had not a single clue of his father, as his mother had only simply told him a basic few, that he was just out for work.
His views were passed down in generations of the country's founding. Raised to think a way. How could it be wrong?
Who would destroy what was inside of the border of my homeland? Who would destroy the peace we had?
His homeland. Others homeland. Their homeland. All their homes are in Hoshido.
Hoshido was not a region of scarcity. Abundant and resourceful, plentiful, and beautiful, the country grew crops and crops of everything. Rich with life breathed into it. In every town inside Hoshido's territory from the east, life sang with heaviness and with it, airy cities. The scent of fresh flowers and green grass were picked up by the winds, clinging onto noses as they passed through.
It only made him furious that his homeland was being attacked. The populace was destroyed. It rankled him further that there was not a perpetrator to be found.
"Sir? Commander Radcliffe?"
He looked up. One of them under his command. He studies the face of the soldier, one of the very companions that accompanied him. The tanned skin. Hair almost entirely covered by the metal helmet that shone, reflecting the morning rays.
"Yes?"
"Should we not move our forces back to where King Sumeragi is approaching?"
King Sumeragi. Their king. Did he even retrieve the letter? Did Lelas arrive at Hoshido and deliver the message, or did he falter in the given task?
A snort, derisive, came from one of the other few feet away from the Commander. "Tch! Why is the letter being delivered anyway?! Should've burned that and told Nohr to fuck off!"
A feminine voice cut in, "Because! If the letter reaches King Sumeragi, and if King Sumeragi comes: then Hoshido can focus on a treaty of some sort with Nohr!"
Radcliffe watched as the soldier turned to the female. "Do you even believe that? Do you not see what Nohr did to one of the towns in the border?!"
Town of the Damned. Nohr. Were they connected or was it because individuals concocted for them to be? Did people believe Nohr because simply both countries could not coexist with each other? Was Nohr responsible for the attack on the lone town? He could not answer the question. He wished he knew, but he also didn't. A desire for both, yet one cannot be achieved along with the other.
Nevertheless, there were things he knew, and what Nohr and the former state of the town as topics of conversation would lead into, he decided to stop it early on before it reached its breaking point. "Enough! Both of you!"
His voice brought them into silence, and he took that as a sign to continue. "We had this discussion before." Flicking his eyes back and forth between the two, and the bystanders who watched with uncertainty. Radcliffe could not tell if they wanted to argue for one side or the other, but a narrowed gaze that cut through stone dissuaded them from ever joining in. He did not want these soldiers under his command to bicker and argue like children. The soldiers already grated on his nerves for much incessant chatter in the past, but for what topics, especially the one regarding Nohr and the defunct town, was only of the few to ever to grate him. He had already heard the conversation times before. He did not want to hear it again.
There was no argument made to be back; it would only show their immaturity and inability to let this confrontation go.
But did that make him a hypocrite of his own words? Was a part of him wanting to discover the truth yet stop others from an attempt to make sense of the problem his own hypocrisy?
He convinced himself that it wasn't. It was just a part of him not wanting to jump to conclusions. Evidence claimed relied on proof and yet there was none for the town. Whatever there was had vanished. The blame should not be put on Nohr. Not yet. He did not like the rival country, but that did not mean he resented them either.
But for now, he would stop this foolish talk. At least until later. Not until at least the king arrived, at least.
The soldiers turned their gases outward, retreating their sight and under the gaze of their commander and his words that broke through the silence of the abundance.
"Sir? If I may ask…"
A wordless gesture for one under his group, and he continued, "Should we finish breakfast and move towards northwest?"
Radcliffe pauses momentarily, a second to consider his words, then nods. He knew what the soldier was referring to. "Let's move. We make our way to the rendezvous point."
Breakfast was short and quick.
The forest Radcliffe and his soldiers were in was just of the fewest of the many foliage of densely packed trees in an area of a sea of green grass that grew like bushes. Towards Hoshido, trees grew far and in between. There were some as large and packed as the one they were just in, or they were also scattered about the open area. open areas were lightly toned faded brown, indicating pathways. Towns in Hoshido were just as scattered about in the entire border of the nation. Their horses awaited the commands of their owners. Radcliffe knew this area well. He had crossed this over and over.
But through the landscape, Radcliffe knew that he and the forces were to meet King Sumeragi westward. When? He did not know. But he knew the best course of action was to wait, and though moving back east didn't seem to hurt, Radcliffe worked with his king long enough to know him. He would accept this treaty and would want him to move westward. He had no doubt of it. A century over and he knew him best.
Which was why he told them to move out of the dense forest. Which is why he was not moving back. In his opinion and the general populace, moving back was a sign of retreat. There was nothing to retreat from, so he and his soldiers would be deemed cowards. Yet there was nothing to deem them so, not a single soul, and yet nothing to stop them, yet he wanted to continue moving forward.
Why not move back for the king to come? That other question popped into his head. His own soldiers have voiced that question that had popped into his own thoughts, borne from within.
Yes, but it would be best to wait west. The king had trusted him enough with the matter of allowing Radcliffe. Another reason why he wouldn't move back. King Sumeragi trusted him, and he would take that trust and not shatter it because the king counted on him. So did those under his command, and so did the civilians in the border of towns.
Was it a matter of pride then?
He supposed it was.
"Sir?"
Ah, yes. Time to move west. They took a break for way too long back in the forest.
"Let's go."
It was a silent being.
Composed of dark matter swelling in him. It's lidless, blank eyes, devoid of anything save for coal orbs that matched only the purple and black. It ambled onward with a slow, rugged pace, lacking any semblance of identity in its movements. It watched the group approach into a cove and disappear out of the void of trees. With its wordless gaze, its eyes traveled to the departing sound, and then nothing.
The being was perched on a tree; the branches covering every inch and hiding it. A being hidden, branches, leaves, and then some more covering it. The being did not want to be seen, and that was it.
A simple thought. It did not want to be discovered. That was its only thought. Ingrained in its memories.
Without a word, without any sound, the being perched disappeared, leaving behind no trace, and the empty forest.
It had only been a few hours. They moved at a brisk pace. Radcliffe only knew the time in between when they traveled was exchanges of chatting and discussion. Something he only joined in occasionally. Too busy was he thinking about the meeting. Seriousness filled his head.
But with the trees, watching the field as the wind passed through his and his allies' faces, something had caught his gaze. Squinting to focus on the object, which only barely improved from the blur in his line of vision and the speed they were moving, he shouted a warning.
"HALT!"
The soldiers held the reins in and the horses neighed, front legs kicking about the open air for a brief instant before they were on earth.
"Commander? What's with the pause?" The sudden command had halted them, their horses, and the conversations.
"Hold." It was his only reply. "I saw something. I'm going to go back. Go on ahead without me. I will catch up later."
The soldiers, fresh faces and old, obeyed. Their assumption was that it must be something of nonimportance; a quick check by their commander and nothing more.
Radcliffe departed from his comrades, approaching and approaching the area that the object was from. Inquisitive narrowing and he pushed through the thick foliage that covered once more. If there was one thing he could only not be proud of his country, it was trees, bushes, and everything that were plants and grasses.
He was beginning to hate them.
The bask glow of sunlight shown through. Radcliffe was glad; it only meant for the object to shine through and unveil.
With a final push aside of the trees and another area crossed, he unveiled the object to his eyes.
The being watched the group again. It had followed the group for quite a while, stalking them unknowingly. It did not want to be discovered, and so far, it had succeeded in that endeavor.
From a shout of warning from one of the group members, it stared with emptiness. A command from one, and then it moved away from the rest. The being watched as the single from the group traveled further and further away.
Turning slowly back to the group, regarding them with nothing but it's gaze, it followed the singular man into the denseness of the forest.
If the being could, at this very moment, laugh, the singular person would never be seen again.
The group would be waiting for a dead man.
What?
He could not think now. His thoughts went haywire as his gaze was torn to the object.
What is this?!
A question he could not answer.
No…
He could.
He was staring at a dead person. No.
A dead townsperson.
In another way, that he hoped for, that he wished for, that he was not staring at a dead person but he was.
The person wasn't moving. Lying down in the patches of grass, a darkened pool of red. Blood still fresh.
Oh Gods…
His eyes went blank. He saw nothing. No. He wasn't staring at the body. He was staring at bodies. There was more...
Ghost Town. Massacred. No survivors…
Ghost Town. Massacred. No survivors!
Ghost Town. No survivors!
GHOST TOWN! NO SURVIVORS!
No. That was not related. This body and the incident were not related. It had to do with something else! Even as his thoughts inexplicably formed this because of a singular word. The blood was fresh even though it began to dry. How…?
His thoughts turn to the singular word presented:
MASSACRE.
MASSACRE…
MASSACRE!
Massacre meant…
They were walking into a trap.
AMBUSH.
A sound of rushing wind. Radcliffe's eyes widened as he quickly turned around, instincts taking over and years of battle, unsheathing his sword. He raised it up, and it connected with a ringing sound as metal met another metal.
The being struck.
Its target. The lone person leaving its group like an animal to its kin. a sheep wandering away from the herd. Finding the corpse of the person. It was time.
Perched on a tree once more, it lept off.
And then it struck.
Heart drumming, eyes lit, and adrenaline rushing through him. Radcliffe, through the converging emotions that threatened to tear into him, and the small blade of the figure that attacked him, his suspicions were confirmed:
He was being ambushed.
The figure lept off, its twin blades held at its hands unsuccessfully meeting its mark. Landing meters away from him, it gazed at him with its soulless eyes, before it lunged at him once more.
Radcliffe slid into a defensive posture, waiting. Parrying the first extended blade with his sword as it slid past, he slashed at the being the next instance only for the second blade coming up to block.
It became nothing more to Radcliffe than a blur. Possibilities weave in and out of his brain. His focus was entirely on this dark figure who attacked him, its clothes black.
A demand tears through his lips. "Who are you?!"
No answer. The figure does not let up, striking at him with fervor. Radcliffe worked long enough in the army, had seen fights; conflicts made by individuals, to know that whoever this was was intending to kill. Intentions were clear as the daylight and yet Radcliffe struck again, turning his defense into offense.
"Are you with Nohr?!"
A parrying block into a kick. Radcliffe grunted, the force of the blow pushing against his stomach and moving him back. Unfazed, Radcliffe lunged and the figure did the same, falling into a pattern of blocks, parries, kicks.
"Answer me! Who are you?!"
A wordless lunge again and Radcliffe knew that he was solely being defensive. His offense was to make this figure speak and coerce but that approach failed. He noticed that the blades were much larger in length than a usual pair. But that was only just for a brief instant of notice as those blades went to cut into flesh once more, only ever failing with the prevention of it by Radcliffe's long but singular own.
Fine. He would make this figure talk. Whoever they were.
He channeled every bit of energy within himself. A blue hue of an outline flared around his body. With a glare that peered into the vacant eyes of his opponent, he lunged.
The sudden burst of speed caught the figure completely off guard. If there was a surprise reaction, the figure did not show it.
A slash and the figure stumbled back, the sharp edges and tip only a graze across the chest, as the figure jumped back to avoid the horizontal slash aimed, attempting to form a hasty defense. Radcliffe did not let up his assault, swinging with a fervor. He kicked the being in the chest the next instant, the blow knocking aside the two blades, the force of the kick sending the being flying. Raising his sword above his head, he shouted,
"IGNIS!"
The blow never came. In all accounts, it should have. But it didn't. Radcliffe knew why. Perhaps the blow would come through and he would severely wound the figure, but it never did. That had been his intention. All he knew the next instance, there was screaming. His blade was stopped solely because of the noise.
Such a terrible sound. Screaming was caused by a factor of reasons. One was in pain. One was in fear. One was in shock.
This was a combination of all three.
From his soldiers.
The trees did absolutely nothing to cover up the noise. It pierced through every object and into Radcliffe's ears and his soul. Ringing out from the silence of the forest, his heart plummeted as he heard the screams; the wails. His swing stopped for the moment. He went back to his earlier thoughts.
Ambush.
His soldiers were being ambushed.
He realized in his foolishness:
It wasn't just him.
The proud commander of his army never had time to think for the next instant. A slash across his arm and he cried out. Pain blossomed and exploded. A splash of blood.
He clutched his sword arm as the man feebly stumbled backward in pain, nearly dropping his weapon in the process due to the immense pain. Radcliffe only cursed and hissed as the source of the pain went numb from near his wrist. There was no time to even check the origin of the wound, how deep it was, or even dwell on his own foolishness of dropping his guard or even that he was alone, because for the next instant, the figure was back up and slashing at him again with its twin blades. Radcliffe lowered into a defensive fighting stance, his blade in front of his chest, blocking the blow and then the next. He was back on the defensive.
"You Nohrian bastards!"
A scream tore from one of the soldiers as he barely managed to block the knife aimed at him. An arrow flashed by, missing its mark as he twisted his body to the side.
Another shriek, this time as one of anger as one thrust her lance into the belly of the beings that converged.
"Where the hell is Commander Radcliffe?!"
The frustration, fear, anger, hate. All converged into the scream that echoed out into the forest of their new battlefield of gore.
A question formed by one of them cut through the sounds of ringing and clashing metal, with the occasional sound of rushing wind by arrows and thunks as arrows failed to meet intended targets.
Fear was prevalent, but also desperation. The will to fight and kill was keeping the soldiers alive but even mistakes were made. One that only cost lives.
A fresh, newly admitted, recruit only manages to block one strike, a sword just about raised to block in time, but the force of the blow, powerful, knocks his weapon out of the way, leaving him exposed, and with a blur of the metal blade, slashes his neck open. He cries out, choking as copper instantly flooded his mouth and large streams of fresh blood spray from the open wound. He dies not a second later as his body hits the earth.
"NO!"
Watching a comrade die was only a nightmare in and of itself. For those few that had seen the Ghost Town, it was not far from what was shown. But for those new, they only screamed in horror, fear, and rage.
A few who disengaged with their enemies for the briefest of moments as one of their comrades died, looking only just to catch a glance. Not even a reprieve was given later, as the enemies attacked again.
Grief was making for a weapon. In grief came rage. Rage was a deadly weapon presented, visible on the facial features of a person and in the swing of their weapon. From this case, a few lunged and attacked with renewed vigor, rage pushing them to the limit.
It wasn't enough. Three recruits rushed at one. The black figure dodged the first, kicking the first attacker back, sending him flying and crashing against a tree, dazed. It thrust before the second could ever make his attack, spraying blood open with a stab to the chest, and the third only managed to parry one stroke before with its free hand struck its foe across the face before shoving the blade deep into the skull, fueled by power.
The figure then crouched, before kicking off. Black matter began to coalesce around its weapon. The first target was too late to block. With its weapon raised, it struck its foe down, his cries only ringing out the battlefield, joining in the growing death of his comrades.
New scores of arrows went past as Radcliffe's forces attempted to fight back against their foes. Only more and more had been struck down, bodies dropping as blood gathered and absorbed into the soil of their homeland. One horrific realization only came to them as they continued to fight:
They were losing.
Radcliffe blocked the next set of strikes as sweat dripped off his forehead and hair. The insulation of heat that his helmet was providing did nothing as he tore it off fluidly, throwing the offending headpiece off to the side and lunged at his foe again. As they continued, Radcliffe continued to analyze his opponents movements, and it became clear to him.
His opponent was fast. Faster than him. Without the strikes fueled by Bonfire, his opponent had no strength of any sort. He knew the tactics well enough. A hit and run mixed in with blindingly fast strikes that left the foe with no chance to counter and forcing them on the defensive.
Radcliffe's only advantage was strength, but also speed. Just barely, those two were his deadly combination. However, the latter began to tire him out. Stamina was a factor that played into speed and Radcliffe, having traded blows with this unknown opponent, began to wear down on him. He did not know if his opponent was feeling the effects of fatigue, but it seemed like there was none. His opponent kept attacking without falter.
There was no use in anymore defensive fighting. He was going to abandon his defense into offense.
Unknown to any that would see, minus the figure of his foe, Radcliffe's eyes narrowed, anger and resolution in them. Useless was attempting to keep the foe alive, just for questioning, but perhaps he abandoned that resolve when he casted Ignis and had the chance to kill his foe moments earlier.
Now he was abandoning everything. His morals, his beliefs. It did not matter.
Radcliffe thrust himself into the heart of battle once more.
Is… Is this it?
She looks up to the surrounding trees and sky. Her eyes water and she blinked back tears.
I-I don't want to die.,,
A sword pierced her stomach entering and exiting out, before it was ripped from her body. She laid, bleeding.
M-mother. S-sister...
Memories form. A goodbye from her to her family as she eagerly went to follow in her father's footsteps that day when she was just nineteen.
Had Nohr been responsible for this?
She weeps, tears and coughs viciously. Blood and spit stained her chin and lips. She can barely hear her allies as one by one they began to fall.
She would never live to know, and that was so much worse.
Her family promised that when she did her duty, their family would go to visit the Kitsune tribe. She had always been interested in different species. Now that would never happen.
Fa-father…
The father she never knew she attempted to follow in his footsteps.
Has that been a mistake? Was all of that a mistake? Had not demanding reparations from Nohr was a mistake? Was the whole treaty nothing but a trap?
Perhaps all of that was, but it didn't matter to her anymore. Only one thing mattered, and she sobbed as the full brunt of the realization hit her as she laid attempting to breath:
She would never get to see her family again.
The Hoshidian cried until darkness filled her vision, and then nothing more.
He was the last of them standing.
He knew it, as his eyes scanned the area wildly trying to find allies and comrades alive among the battle. An arrow lodged into a few. A large cut across another group.
He fought. Panic filled his being and drummed in his heart full of fear. And yet, not only that, but also anger and hate. Anger at Nohr and hatred for them.
They were the ones responsible.
His comrades dying to them.
Had they been responsible for the town's destruction? Yes they were. His comrades dying now were proof.
He hated them. He hated them.
Through his mind, jumbled in a mess of multitude of thoughts, he thought of Commander Radcliffe.
Of course Nohr's obviously the one responsible. The treaty's damn useless! It's a fluke!
Commander Radcliffe had been wrong. His judgement had been wrong.
He hated his commander at the moment. They were going to die because of his foolish belief.
In his last moments of fighting, a slash went across his knee, cutting it open, going through the artery and rendering it useless. His meager defenses provided him nothing as he was assaulted by multiple foes with daggers, their sharp tipped blades sweeping through his openings. He fell to one in agony, yet determined hatred on his face. If he was going to die, then he was taking as many of them as he could with him.
With only one leg, he pushed off, lunging at one of the black figures. He only swung at empty air as the figure sidestepped the mad rush and slammed a fist to the back of his head. A cry escaped his lips. His eyes blurred with tears of rage and hatred. Hatred at these Nohrians for killing his comrades, hatred at Nohr himself, because they were the ones responsible. He and all his comrades and allies, those he knew and worked with, were going to die. They were going to die alone.
He screamed profanities and cursed at them, spit flying from his mouth as salty wetness dripped down his face.
A slam of a sharp-tipped lance down his stomach, digging into the body with only the meager armor barely providing protection to stop the object. Lodged into his stomach, he lets loose a gargled scream.
With blurred eyes, he looked up as more weapons descended upon him. He cried in desperation, anger, and above all else: fear.
Just end me already. Just kill me…
A knife lodged into his chest. Many other varieties of killing tools are stuck within him, sticking out like a macabre sight of a porcupine with its quills. Torture in only a few seconds from his victorious, cruel, harsh enemies. A clear intent to draw out his pain. Or perhaps they just looked to cause any injury until he died. It didn't matter.
As his breathing began to falter, as it began to silence, he only wondered about the treaty, Commander Radcliffe, and Hoshido.
His final thoughts as his eyes fluttered shut, beginning to permanently close to signal death, he wondered about King Sumeragi. He hoped, prayed, that the man did not accept the treaty. Nohr would be hostile towards them, and he only wondered that Hoshido would just plummet into war with them. It was a trap, and it would be nothing but remain that way.
If only….
Radcliffe knew his weaknesses. He fully knew them. One was that he tended to falter in tasks given. But not as this, the sound of screams was not to be blamed on him. He only heard more and more screams. Adrenaline rushed his person and yet he attempted to flee out of the small opening and back to his soldiers, yet his opponent seemed to be aware. His lagging and decreasing speed took even a further toll on the Commander, as his chest heaved with the effort of filling his lungs with inhales and exhales of oxygen. His stamina was draining even further and forced to use every bit of his reserves in order to keep up with his nimbler foe, who made up for lack of power with such speed that even Radcliffe had to focus entirely on the next strikes that threatened to slice into flesh, armor notwithstanding.
Speaking of which…
Radcliffe quickly looked down into his armor. Having received some blows, thick enough just to take a few hits. Large damage from one of them presented itself in the form of a cut that ran deep, cutting through steel but not enough to reach flesh.
A quick assessment of his armor and his eyes were back on his opponent.
Parry, thrust, dodge, block.
Then it came at a sudden and inexplicable warning. A loud scream, piercing and horrible, filled the air, flooding his ears and filling his body with the terror, then silence.
His soldiers, were dying.
At that moment, Radcliffe was filled with rage. Molten hot lava and he screamed his soldier's names. With his stamina heavily depleted, he all but no longer cared. His reserves were dangerously slim to none, but it didn't matter.
"Hey, Commander! Check it out!"
The man sighed in response as they were imbued with the light of the crackling fire in the middle of the circle of figures. "What is it?"
That moment a few months back was a bad joke from one of them under his command. A blue shimmering outline began to glow on him. Another scream from the depths erupted.
"Commander, I apologize."
The recruit looked down, her eyes with shame and unable to meet his own. There had been an incident involving her and four others. She had supposedly been the instigator, or the very least played majorly into the part if not all.
Radcliffe sighed, "It's fine… Just… next time, just don't do it again."
The man glanced at his foe. Resolution filled his eyes.
And at that moment, Radcliffe rushed at him. His foe crouched low, holding up both blades parallel. His foe swung one at him, hoping to force him to react defensively.
In any case, Radcliffe would have blocked. He would have raised his blade up to block the swing of the weapon of his opponent.
It would have been his intention from what his opponent was expecting.
The moment his foe swung, Radcliffe, in the last moment, pushed off, flipping over his foe, vaulting over him. Without skipping a step, the man rushed into the dense abode, hurrying past his foe.
Pass… That was what he used.
It had expected the Commander of the group to attack him from the front. The use of Pass was to bypass an opponent's guard, or attack from behind when said opponent was from the front. Pass was also used to escape in a battle that either resulted in a person's loss or draw, the latter of which where no clear victor can be decided. It was not only efficient but also deadly in a trained individual.
However, the use of Pass required enough energy and reserves to perform. Not only on that fact, but Pass can be predicted and effectively countered. The use of Pass could also work in conjunction with several other skills, though it required immense reserves.
The Commander was quickly fatigued in the fight, it had noticed. The broad, powerful strokes, leaping strikes, flips. It knew the form what the Commander was using. The form was a fighting form in between melee opponents that were meant to last only for a short and quick duel. Acrobatic and it was extremely effective against a single opponent.
The weaknesses were, however, exactly what it had been looking for: Weak against prolonged combat and drained heavy stamina and reserves. The Commander had quickly done that, using every bit of reserves up for a notion he believed that he could quickly defeat it.
Foolish. Forgetting the weaknesses of his form. The arrogance of man. The heavy reliance on that form left very little for the man to fall back on. It didn't expect the man to still have some energy for the Pass and to sprint past it at it, but no matter.
It sheathed its weapons to its belt, quickly taking to the trees again. It didn't matter to it anymore. The Commander escaping did not matter. The battle was already over, and it had won. Separating the Commander was its only mission, stalling him out with the prolonged fight, and it had worked. Out of all the forces, only the Commander had been a true threat amongst all of them.
If the massacre of the Commander's forces had played out correctly, then the Commander would meet the dead forces of his soldiers very soon.
Radcliffe rushed past the heavy dense forest, his boots crunching grass and bushes as he sprinted out of it, sweat pouring down his face. His stamina returned to him somewhat, allowing him to run at a moderate but quick pace.
"Go on ahead without me. I will check it out."
That was a mistake. That was a terrible mistake. It never should have happened. Why did he order it?
Why?
He recognized a pair of arrows lodged into a bark of a tree. Past that… a river of blood...
No…
No…
Radcliffe stared in horror, for there was no other word to describe the sight that he was currently seeing. There were no other words to describe what was in his sight.
Blood… So many dead bodies… What remained of children and even adults, were maggots and flies still feasting. A skull and guts around the bones… Rotted flesh…
He was back at the Town. Watching the macabre sight, unable to move. No. He was paralyzed. Whatever demon had taken this town now took him. His soul was taken by the demons of hell.
No. It was not the same, but it fit the description. It fitted whatever hellish sight that beheld the town years back.
A collection of bodies, blood that was still spraying from open wounds forming a river that continued to grow and grow; the earth unable to absorb or soak itself in the crimson liquid fully.
"Commander Radcliffe?"
"Yes?"
"I need help with… something, if you don't mind."
"Not at all. What is it?"
Yes. Right there, where a gaping wound in his chest, was one of the recruits that asked him the question. His body up against a tree where blood streamed out of his wound, staining his clothes, armor, and the ground with crimson.
"Hey, Surik. Does Commander Radcliffe ever take a joke? Has he ever joked once in his life?"
That day, when his soldiers under his command questioned why he was so serious most often of the time.
"No. I'm afraid he does not. He is from a family that has served in the Hoshidian Army."
"That doesn't answer why he's so strict most of the time! Can he ever relax for once?"
He decided to interfere at that time.
"Relax for once on what?"
The soldier nearly jumped, swiveling around. "C-commander! How long have you been standing there?!"
Surik stood idly by, watching from the sidelines with barely contained amusement.
"Long enough to hear what you have to say about me."
The soldier looked nervous. "U-umm, you're not mad about that, sir?"
Radcliffe took that time to study his soldier's look of nervousness, and then he smirked. "Why would I be?"
Both Surik and that soldier were adjacent next to each other. Both bodies riddled with a multitude of arrows lodged into them. Surik's shield also lodged with arrows, along with his owner.
Surik. He had been one of the older and the soldiers he respected among the contingent. He extensively studied his family history and now he was…
He gasped. He was gasping, and then he sobbed. He fell to his knees and cried.
Commander Radcliffe, proud leader of the Hoshidian forces and under King Sumeragi, wept as fell into the pool of the bodies of his soldiers.
Fool. And the reaction of him was quite to behold, it noted. It took enjoyment, yet felt no happiness, as it had none to even feel. But the Commander's reaction was what it expected. This was what it expected, and so did its companions.
The being nodded to its companions, its face betraying nothing, feeling nothing. Just a simple gesture to strike.
And so they did.
There were two fighting forms in this chapter that I may have taken inspiration from Star Wars that were based on lightsaber dueling from the universe. Guess.
I didn't understand Fates, or FE in general, to have the skill Pass only learned and obtainable by certain classes. So I decided while Pass is a skill-based move of sorts in keeping with the turn-based RPG of the game, I also decided that Pass could basically be learned by any person that trains enough. Radcliffe is Sumeragi's trusted commander, and Commander is a high position, and with training, he would learn this skill at some point.
And Heroes has units that have infantry and calvary (if memory serves me right on the latter), that can learn Pass. So screw whatever the mainstream games say because Heroes kinds of shits all over that.
Pass is used to move behind an opponent in Fire Emblem. Because of that, it also works offensively. But you guys already know that.
As another side note, the first fight scene. Yay. I hope you enjoyed that between Radcliffe and his soldiers. I hope it was to your liking or what you expected it to be.
Yeah, so forget whatever I said earlier about long chapters. I'm consistently or at least attempting to consistently make shorter chapters, totaling 10,000 or less words. I cannot keep you guys waiting for at least two months because I had this in my head for at least a month after the last chapter, forgot about it because Arknights being my latest obsession, which is why I invested in Amnesiac Doctor, and me being lazy at my finest. It has been the same as The Shepherds's Uchiha
I hope you guys enjoy shorter chapters because I realize that longer chapters just break me to pieces. Puts less of a stress on me, and you guys will get a more consistent update. Looking back now, I don't even understand how I managed part 2 of chapter 2. 25000 words right?
So this will be the last long chapter. After that, it will be much shorter.
That's all and I'll see you next chapter.