Central Ruschmacht Mountains, Northwest Germania
Several weeks ago
It was just four of us.
We weren't speaking to each other the duration of our trip. The biting, freezing winds of the snowy, leviathan foothills that blew west-ward were sealing off our vocal cords, seemingly. That being the case, or rather they just didn't want to bring anything up. Despite being from a fiefdom which experiences semi-extreme weather fluctuations as dismal as this, it seemed I was struggling the most, ironically enough. Even through our faded, achromatic, wolf fur-lined cloaks, fur-lined boots, and thick, wool caps which absorbed the sheets of high velocity snow rushing our way, our naturally durable skin wasn't resistant enough to mask the fury of this nature.
I am known in Germania as Ignis Blaudgust, of the Blaudgust fiefdom. The men with me are Svelholmme DeChauer, our leader, and two men by the name of Parsons, and Ramon, whom I despise.
Just about two years ago, I was the Captain of the 28th infantry regiment in the Germanian Imperial Army, having served over 7 years. No one in my regiment had any idea I was a noblewoman, as users familiar in the art of magic, or those with the capabilities are often scorned, and mocked by my fellow soldiers.
DeChauer was originally a sword smith originating from the frozen, isolated mountainsides of Northeast Germania. Being fourty one years of age, he was the oldest out of all of us, and the most imposing, standing at a towering height, with a dense cushioning of fat and meat on his large, rigid bones. Also, the most quiet, as we knew very little about what kind of a person he may be, or may have been. Whether he has a family, what his intentions are, trivial information passed through his history unto the character who stands at the bow of our quartet.
Ramon is originally from Gallia, and used to be cutthroat bandit before he met his fate here. His careless, borderline sociopathic attitude really shines through, all things considered. It's very clear there's a strong, impenetrable tension between us. I utterly despise his crassness, rudeness, unprofessionalism and lecherousness. His reasons for being associated with us stem from matters I never bothered to enlighten myself with, but I can only assume it was for the sake of his own vanity, and sadistic tendencies.
Parsons was a strange one. The odd one out, if you didn't already know anything about me. Being originally a hewer and candle maker from Tristain, we knew not what began his affiliation with us, but given that we knew as much as his former life as a wandering bandit, and his skill in archery, we can assume he was the least experienced, and most innocent out of all of us. The bearer of the least burdens.
We belong to a notorious, large group of dangerous mercenaries known as Blachnyte, a sort of idiosyncratic coalition dealing in mercenaries, which were usually scattered, and difficult to seek after without getting hurt, at least, due to the heavy scrutiny that sort of work has garnered in Germania. Our exploits in the acts of looting, political intimidation, extorting, kidnapping, ransoming, and most poignant of all, of murder, were known from Vindobona, to as far as Nephtys.
Thanks to the unshakable political leverage offered to us by our founder, and leader Wuillame Zanhaust through his fiscal and personal connections to several senators, designated court battlemages, and dukes and duchesses in nations such as Tristain, Albion, and even our own Germania, we were a blind spot in the eye of our empire.
We all had our reasons for joining. Whether it be money, power, the feeling of comradery unparalleled to most professions, or if you were sadistic, rebellious, or simply a former of your own nations military and decided it was the next best option to pursue so you could serve alongside something with a purpose, it didn't matter. At the end of the day, we were the lowest dregs of operating servicemen Germania had to offer.
Or at least, that's how I felt about Blachnyte.
We had been trotting, nay, trudging through snow for what, as of now despite exhaustion clouding my hindsight, feels like over 4 hours.
As the fleeting winds began to slowly dwindle, we opted to make camp in small clearing, surrounded by weathered, frozen, dead-like trees, where the wind and ferocity felt still, at last.
The fire was nice, and a part of me was bursting with an anxious steam that I could barely contain, but my expressions remained frozen, as I had practiced doing over the years. Even showing any iota of emotion around men, especially since I'm the only woman out of the whole band, made me oft liable for trouble. The first time I expressed a sign of discontent during the first week I joined, coincided with my first fist-fight.
These men know not honor, they lack the fundamental understanding of moral or ethical code of standards in any professional environment, particularly a military environment, where aggression, and brutishness are saved for the battlefield, and any particular given instance in or around our base of operations was an all-out war in their minds. They didn't fight with decency, it was more like being mauled by a hungry, bloodthirsty wolf with the temper of a savage beast. At least that's how it felt to me, since neither of us won, and all we earned were fractures, bruises, swells and bleeding. After that, I learned to compartmentalize my feelings of disdain, disagreement, or well, anything that involved voicing any sort of opinion whatsoever.
"It isn't much further onward. We'll beat the dusk, if we settle only for a little while," DeChauer said, causing Ramon to blurt out.
"Thank Brimir, I feel that urge again, and this time I don't think I can hold it back much further."
The same brown haired, small-eyed man with dark, chestnut eyes donning a casual look, suddenly gestured toward me, who sat adjacent, on the other side of the fire, the embers cracking toward me.
"Ignis. What say you to me killing you, so I don't have to do anything brash?"
This was just to tease me, as the other men chuckled, Ramon smiling in satisfaction at his joke. They knew I rarely spoke, so they enjoyed trying to get a rise out of me. If you were a Blachnyte Mercenary, usually threatening someone's life, meant someone was going to die, usually.
The sky was a cloudy, ever-present, dense smoky gray, I looked up and away, not eager for any more unnecessary banter involving me.
DeChauer was a large, intimidating man, with a full beard, who looked like a proper Norge, since he was a native son of the fjords in Daneslan. He was the most covered of the small band, and our de-facto leader.
"Not yet, anyways," DeChauer says jokingly. "Ignis is our gift-giver this time around. Our tainted blade of the hour. These mountains belong to the men and women akin to clan Blaudgust, so it's honorable she's the one to do the killing."
Parsons blurts out, smiling.
"Ehhh…? Sweet Ignis killing a man? How unheard of!"
My mind began to race with images of my ancestors, on horseback, trailing through blinding, arctic conditions, on their way to fend off invading Germanian oppositions, so that we could form our territorial fiefdom in peace, and find solace in the fact. Of the blood spilled in these lands in order to secure our rightful sovereignty from a tumultuous past.
Our mission was to find a downed griffin knight from Albion who had got lost due to poor weather conditions, extract information from, then capture them. According to the report, signed and authored by Baron Sheinhauz von Kinnte, he was loyal to Prince Wales, and had information that could incriminate members of von Kinnte's personal secondhand knights, which in turn could get von Kinnte in a reasonable amount of hot water, for his mistreatment of members of his staff under his manor. One member in particular is a close friend of Prince Wales Tudor, and of course was unacceptable to him, but he could not confront Emperor Albrecht, III and his senators directly without definitive proof. Furthermore, Sheinhauz von Kinnte Is a nobleman, and this would mean his reputation with several noble families he was connected to personally and financially would be at risk of damage, resulting in what he thinks would be his "personal downfall". This, of course, was to simply compensate for his vain, selfish, petulant behavior that most would find reprehensible, especially in the light of various other circumstances that elevated his terribleness.
He never mentioned killing anyone, however.
After about thirty more minutes of trudging through a dying cyclic wind storm, the air was near fully settled. A destitute, snow-devoured, rocky pathway emerged from the ground, indicating we weren't in sheer wilderness, anymore. We followed it accordingly, as all that faced us northbound were tall foothills, dead elm trees and various other weathered foliage such as dead branches, and more snow.
After just a couple minutes the sound pierced through the air, the shrill cry of a wounded griffin. None of us reacted as we headed toward the sound.
"Ready that blade of yours, Ignis. Remember, we don't kill him straight away, we were asked to get information," says DeChauer.
I didn't react.
Then, it came into view. On the pathway, next to a sheer, snowy hill, next to some branches, lie the massive, bright copper and blonde-furred beast emanating those shrill bellows of pain, and near it, lying against it, huddled in an elegant, Albionic sealed poncho, was the knight. A modest looking young man, fairly attractive, his hair a sienna color marked with vague hints of snow, with dark blue eyes looking us down, dressed in large, Albionic plates around the arms, and blue soldiers regalia. We approached him, and stopped in front of him. Ramon is the first one to speak.
"Hey, buddy!"
The young man looked at us with confusion in his eyes. Who were these mysterious people, where were his fellow Gryffon Knights to come to his aid, or his infantry men he looked over as did he upon his massive aerial steed, soaring above? We probably looked like scary foreigners, or people native to these lands who lived tribally.
Ramon says, "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"
He spoke up.
"I… I am…"
He shivered between nearly every word.
"I am Samuel Longston, Gryffon Knight of Albion, loyal to His Majesty's aerial forces. I request you assist me. Please."
Ramon says, half-seriously, "Is that so, eh?"
"Correct. My Griffin is wounded, I landed here two hours ago, I thought I was going to freeze to death. Please, if you can, I cannot just leave it here."
I decided to speak, I felt genuinely terrible about his situation. That way he could have a chance at living.
"Why not go out and seek help?"
"I… I can't… My ankle is dislocated," he says, with a pained groan.
Ramon blurts out.
"Eh? Pathetic! You're a damn mole against von Kinntz and now we learn you're also a weakling?"
His eyes widened in fear, as it slowly crept up on him, what we were really out here to do.
"M-mole?"
Ramon stomped on the man's limp ankle, causing him to brace and scream into his teeth in pain, letting out a whimper to cap it off.
Now it was even worse… A moral dilemma had overcast over my sense of judgement, and now I needed to act quickly, and take control of this situation, before this inevitably spirals into the traumatizing brutality I've wholly witnessed these men capable of unleashing.
I kneeled down at the man, next to him, very close, and removed my right glove, then set it down on the man's thigh, as gentle as I could. He was wincing in a stew of emotions comprised of pain, and anxiety. I put my hand over his cheek, and pulled his face to face mine, hopefully to meet my gaze.
My face was completely covered, except my eyes. He looked at me with wide, deer-in-magelight, blue eyes, now illuminated brighter, and more a mineral washed bright blue as I got a closer look at them. His expression resembled fear, until I removed my mask fully, and my cap, revealing my long, purple hair, and exposed face. Was it a look of sudden shock, or was he dazzled by me? I don't really know, and I don't care. I looked at him intently.
"No one is coming to save you. We know your alliance with Prince Wales, and we don't care. You may try to sway your protectors to give you their grace, and swear fealty to your lordship as you like, but just know this, Samuel. You're not making it back to Albion."
His eyes shook as I stared at him intently, possibly trying to read my emotions. He must have known a look of regret when he saw one, because he un-tensed shortly after, or maybe this was just his way of accepting his fate. He was much braver than any of us, or maybe just I, thought.
"Go ahead. We've got time," DeChauer says, eyes closed.
The young man braces, before he speaks.
"I… I have nothing to regret. If this is how I die, then so be it. At least I die with honor, and not frozen to death, and eaten by hungry animals, in this godforsaken land."
"Very well. Ignis, he's yours."
I stood up, gazing at the man, whose eyes were now shut, awaiting his doom. I shifted my cloak, and pulled it over, revealing more of my arm. I began to pull off his shoulder armor, and tossed them aside. I lifted the man up, and slumped him over my shoulder. I've carried men before, so his average sized, fit frame wasn't that big of a deal, but certainly wasn't the easiest, what with his light armor on various points along his body, not to mention the sword sheathed near his hip. Everyone stared at me, confused.
Ramon blurts out.
"Eh?"
"A man facing his death such deserves to die with some dignity. Wait here."
I pull out his sword from his sheathe, and begin walking for several minutes toward the dense trees just south of where he lie, down a narrow, snowy downward sloped path.
Once far enough, Ignis looks around her, making sure the others are out of view, and she lies him down, flat on his back.
She kneels close to him. The man props himself up a little, looking at her in surprise, the look of fear in his eyes extinguished not yet.
He says, confusedly, "What are you doing…?!"
"Give me your hand."
He reluctantly, hesitantly extends his hand towards her. Removing his glove, she slits his palm with the sword causing a little blood to gush out. He winces.
Curiously, she twists the sword around in his bleeding hand, pulling it, rubbing it up, and down, and bloodying it thoroughly.
The young man winces and grimaces on in pain, and finally belts a shout at her.
"WHAT THE HELL ARE Y-"
With great force and speed, the mysterious red-eyed woman grips the man's mouth with her strong un-gloved hand, and forces his head back onto the snow, hard, staring him in the eyes. Her small, black pupils shook as she gazed into his eyes marked of teal. Her tone as she spoke awestruck the young man.
"Do not move. Don't breathe."
The three men stand by idly, looking bored, DeChauer with his arms crossed, hunched slightly, Ramon looking irritated, and sulking. The griffin breathed heavily, no longer emitting vocalized sound, but more-so lain motionless, as if accepting his fate.
"What the hell do you think she's doing? You think she let him escape?" Questions Ramon, causing DeChauer to respond.
"Maybe."
"Uragh… She pisses me the fuck off!"
Parsons looks onward, reflectively.
"Eh, part of me doubts it. I've never heard her say anything that cold, before. Let alone much of anything at all."
"Agh! I just want to kill this son-of-a-bitch and be done, already! Why's she got to be so dramatic about everything?"
"She isn't like us."
They both stop, and stare at DeChauer in moderate curiosity.
Parsons responds. "Not like us?"
"She's a noblewoman. That's why she doesn't behave as crass, and belligerent like the rest of us. She's calculated, and obviously so. It's as if her pedigree, and everything that makes her a righteous noble doesn't apply to her."
Ramon spits.
"A god damned noble?"
DeChauer ignores him, and continues. "That's what Zanhaust sees in her, after all. He's willing to let any commoner in ready to throw their life away. But a woman, let alone a noblewoman, one with a purpose… It intrigues him."
Parsons gawks at the remark.
"Intrigues him, huh? She's pretty scary for a noble."
Ramon responds, "Hah, she isn't scary. She's too forgiving. One day she's gonna release the wrong guy, and he'll drive a blade through her heart, mark my words."
DeChauer shuts his eyes, and begins slowly walking toward the trees, where Ignis headed off to.
"Wait here."
The imposing man turns, but is stopped before he can begin his trek at the sight of Ignis's frame popping into view, walking begrudgingly towards him, carrying a bloodied longsword, the one the Albion warrior had once wielded.
DeChauer pauses, and leans, as if about to walk back, eyeing the sword, followed by a closing of his eyes, and a satisfactory half-grin as she throws it to the ground in front of the three men.
"Let's go."
That wasn't the first time I noticed something strange about DeChauer.
All things considered, he was a hulking, beast of a man, and a brutal architect of all things you fear the most about a man on the battlefield. Chilling, unforgiving eyes, the way he would cut through a man and take no respite in encountering the body of another with his blades, axe in hand, like cutting through weeds. Just numbers in his head, then he moves on seamlessly to whatever he may be about to do in the next moment.
A man who seemingly had absolutely nothing to lose.
Unafraid, and indifferent to any dangerous circumstance he throws himself at, but passionate in the heat of the moment even in the face of the death he so reaps.
I felt a strong hand push on my butt, perhaps intentionally, but gentle in the act, and I awaken. Despite being completely naked, I didn't feel offense as the seemingly lecherous gesture. We've already acknowledged each other directly in the form of intimacy, and sex on multiple occasions. That's to say, we had no romantic affiliation with one another, but what else can you expect from two lonely people who share the same cabin with one another for months and months on end to do? Especially a man, and a woman. Granted there was a twenty-year age difference between us, but we're both consenting adults.
DeChauer was someone I knew I could trust, every fiber of my heart and soul. Before, when I slept amongst my own ranks in the garrison bed halls, I was constantly under the threat of lewd, crass mercenaries looking to make sexual advances toward me.
Being the only woman in any of the multitudinous bed halls, it was just a given. DeChauer, however, was the only one who sought to shield me from this, and with the permission of Zanhaust himself, allowed me to live with him.
"Ignis, come on, wake up."
We slept in a claustrophobic wooden cabin on the outskirts near the Blachnyte garrison located in a dense covering of forest midmost between the border of Duchelhorf, and Vindobona.
It was previously used as an apothecary storage and living area, but was long abandoned, before DeChauer had discovered it, ransacked it and established it under his own name.
I peered up at DeChauer, who was already starting towards the door, cracking it open and gesturing with his neck, his red, twirling beard floating in the air softly, war ax already at his belt.
I rub my eyes, getting a better view of him. He isn't what you might consider an attractive man, in fact, he looks more like a 198cm tall dwarf. Huge, and scary, but with a strange look of remorse in his eyes at all times.
I rub my eyes, and shift around on my side as I speak.
"What's going on? I thought we were off post for another week, or two."
"Gallows."
I close my eyes, not looking surprised.
That meant someone was being executed. Something Zanhaust took great pleasure in doing, and would publically showcase it any chance he got. We simply called it gallows, since hanging was the traditional method of execution used throughout most of Halkeginia. In reality, they were done upon gallows, but the executions were always something different. Something to keep Zanhaust original.
He walked back out to await me, with that same aura of listless un-surprise I had.
The trek to the Blachnyte military garrison was an ugly, muddy one, and the path was rather thin. The sky was densely overcast, which fit the circumstances perfectly, or so I thought. It certainly was very different from the place I was brought up in.
It's times like this, walking alongside DeChauer in these conditions I reminisce about the times I was truly content with my life, much unlike how it is for me now.
My mother, Valynn, until I was five, lived in an estate in the Ruschmacht mountains in a remote, high-altitude region, and so for the first five years of my life, I was utterly isolated, and it was just us. It wasn't all bad, however. She regularly received shipments directly from Albion due to her financial connections to the palace. And since it, oddly enough, was safer to travel aerially to her estate than general passage across Germania as a whole, it was never pushed under scrutiny and dismissal by any authority within Albion.
She was eventually coerced into moving to Vindobona, as a dear friend of her, and someone I've known most of my life, Beatrise Friedmann, a Germanian aristocrat, invited her to move in with her, as her and her husband's manor was very close to the capital city, and was very safe, warm, and welcoming especially for an adventurous little girl like I was. Or so she said.
The manor was nested on top of a somewhat steep hilltop in the rolling, green farmlands of Vindobona's Grünspitze lands. It was a tall, fenced off manor, not too big, but enough for the very little my mother and I brought along with us from our one-way journey. The backyard was where I spent most of my time. A massive, crooked elm tree with bright gray branches surrounded by a floral overtaking of dozens of different kinds of flowers launched and stimulated my newfound interest in flowers. Mom was taken aback by how much time I spent back there, she bought me a Floriography encyclopedia, with big pictures of different kinds of flowers in it, and I would keep a big, purple anemone in my hair at all times.
With that impression of the kind of child she raised, she never understood why I gave it all up to wind down the path I did.
All my life, she wanted what was best for me, and even though she couldn't herself understand what she wanted, she knew deep down, what I wanted, and needed.
I'll never forget that look she gave me, that day in her bookroom, when I mentioned I'd rather lay down my life for my country in war, than lay it down for the sake of pursuing magic and nobility.
And of course, that's all gone to me now. There's none of that here anymore.
The area itself was formerly a housing for Imperial military forces to convene and recuperate after long-form fighting had taken place, but since our countries military might, and economy had grown exponentially over the years, it was no longer necessary to continue using such an outdated area, so thus it was seized by Zanhaust, since it was long abandoned, regardless, and the Germanian statesman who had originally appointed it were either deceased, or not interested in reclaiming it.
Passing through the open entrance into the fenced off grounds, large numbers of our might were convened, standing before something not immediately visible as we break through the crowd, me in tow as Dechauer has my wrist grabbed ahold in his strong, rock-like hand like a father leading his daughter, and members of the crowd let him pass with ease. He was a Captain, after all, and Zanhaust preferred those with higher authority to be front-most during his violent spectacles.
Once we passed the crowd of mercenaries who flocked to witness the execution, as was ordered by command, I raised an eyebrow in surprise and exclaim.
"Parsons?"
Sitting upon his knees, hands bound upon the shortly elevated wooden structure was Parsons, the man who just the other day, was eager to journey with us, and was now shaking with anger. It was surreal, I couldn't possibly think of any justifiable reason other than maybe cowardice, but Blachnyte mercenaries are supposed to be tough, fierce, so I felt perplexed. Why Parsons? How?
Zanhaust, and a few Sergeants at attention fully armored in dark, ebony shaded armor, their hands indefinitely attached to the longswords sheathed at their sides, stood by.
I ask DeChauer, standing next to me, "Did they give us a reason, yet?"
"Not yet."
DeChauer's small, beady, bear-like eyes were adhered to the scene at hand, unmoving, as if he was awaiting something to happen that which he had deep foreknowledge of.
"As all of you were! Everybody. Move your attention to me."
Zanhaust was wearing his signature black infantry issued overcoat complete with epaulettes of gold, and draped over his shoulders was a long black, and purple cloak which reached down to his black boots. He's a tall, frightening looking man, with long, oily, disheveled curled hair, very thin facial hair, and looked to be about middle aged.
The most peculiar aspect of him were his eyes. Small, sharp, black, soulless, as if no light ever met his gaze. Pure-blooded psychopath, not only in his actions, but the way he moved about, carelessly, indifferent, as if any sort of situation whether it be an execution, or a full-on war broke out, moves listlessly and casually as if nothing matters, his tone of voice never changing. The way he looks at you as if he was looking right through you, with shallow, dead, fish-like irises. Yet he commanded respect, not through forced intimidation, but because he was the type of man who naturally drew that sort of attention.
With those words, the crowd of troops falls silent.
Seconds pass.
A minute.
Nothing.
This was Zanhaust's way of instilling fear into ones psyche. He was a man nobody could predict, whose thoughts were a spiraling, black miasma of careful considerations nobody but he could possibly aspire to understand.
His voice broke out, booming, a few wandering eyes snap to him, as they jerk in fear.
"As you all may know, three days ago, I sent out four of my most ambitious, and trustworthy out to the Ruschmacht. It was quite a simple task, you see. There existed, at a time a small matter, that of which, many of you are unfamiliar with. A mole deep within one of our fellow nations I authorized to be extinguished. Under any circumstance."
He parts his uneven, scraggly hair back from his face, looking on dramatically. He speaks in a remarkably casual cadence and tone of voice, but still eloquent and clear in his speech.
"Of course, I'll spare you the messy details."
Without hesitation, the man casually walked backwards a few steps, and held out his hand, the scraping of metal could be heard behind Parsons, as the soldier unsheathed the longsword and handed it to Zanhaust. Parsons began screaming.
"IT WASN'T ME GOD DAMN IT! YOUR INFORMATION IS OFF! IT WAS THAT PURPLE HAIRED BITCH!"
"What do moles do? They cause problems. And what would soldiers do, especially ones I personally saw to as the ones to take care of such a matter do, upon seeing a mole?"
Before anyone could have a chance to react, the crazed man plunged his sword deep into Parson's chest cavity, cutting clean through, then used his foot and pushed him down onto the ground.
Seamlessly, he hands the sword back to the stunned soldier, who re-sheathes, and walks off, as if nothing had happened. Out of the view of the rest of us, as the soldiers drag his lifeless corpse away. The rest of the mercenaries barely made sound as they awkwardly scattered, back to their original posts, some freaked out for the day.
I looked at DeChauer, stunned. Parsons was a young man, he certainly didn't deserve to die like that, regardless of whether or not he had anything to lose. I yell out to DeChauer, half-hushed.
"How could this have happened?!"
The tall man breathes out a large sigh.
"Are you actually surprised at this?"
I rebutted forcibly.
"Why Parsons?!"
He walks off, unamused, seemingly back to our cabin. I run after him.
He was silent for the remainder of the night. It made it awkward to think. Usually when something as memorable, and traumatic that would typically bother any average individual occurred within our lives, we felt it necessary to talk about it all night long. DeChauer was surprisingly wise, and choosey with his words. He was much older, and lived through the most out of any of us, being from Northeast Germania, a land close to the Great Unknowns of the east. Every sentence he spoke was poignant, concise, and original, which made it very easy to speak to him without getting bored.
He never mentioned anything about Parson's execution.
He didn't mention a word about anything that entire night.
The next morning, however, he was gone.
And just outside of the window of our cabin, was a familiar figure I knew all too well, his oiled hair floating in the wind and dead silence outside.
Zanhaust.
A/N: This chapter is going to be a part of a small series of chapters detailing Ignis's situation, character, and what led her to be inducted into the TAoM.
FoZ-canon characters will return eventually :)