Chapter Text
The hollow sound of blades striking against armor and sword alike pounds in your ears as Horkos and Chimera's lines crash into each other like waves of blood and iron. Screams, the sickening sound of flesh giving way to a blade, then… a burst of mad laughter. Where from?
There.
A flash of a bloodied cape, blowing in the wind. She fades back into the chaos, claws ripping open a man’s stomach.
There.
Men fall like stacked paper, coughing as they choke on their blighted blood. One reaches up to her, and she kicks them in the jaw, before turning and dropping back into the melee.
Where is she? Your eyes scan the chaos of the field, head still ringing from the bash you took from one of those samurai giants. He’s dead now, throat slit by a panicked slash you made with a dagger when he had you in his vice-like grip. As your eyes come back into focus, the mad laughter rings out across the battlefield again. She reminds you of a creature one of the outlanders told you about, a hyena. A wild dog that laughs like a madman.
Found her. Driving her blade into the chest of a man you’ve known for years, with whom you ate and joked and did nearly everything. The sounds of the battle fade away, as your feet begin to move without your command. All you can hear, all you can see, is HER. She kicks his body from her wicked blade, and you can hear the blood rushing through your veins as the heart in your chest threatens to explode out of your ribcage.
She turns to you, canting her head to the side as she wipes his blood from the cruel curves of the weapon.
Your eyes meet. You realize you’re screaming.
She laughs, mocking your charge. She moves up to catch your blade with her own, but you quickly smash your pommel into her helm. She slashes at you with her claws, then her blade, trying to end you. But you do not care that she is winding up a lunge that would pierce your chestplate. You swiftly plunge your own into her side as hers slides between your ribs.
As you drive your swords into each other's abdomens, the world slows down to a crawl. Color seems to fade, and you begin to wonder if this is what dying is like. A raspy voice, like a sword dragged across stone, speaks from behind you.
“You are truly a wolf… Color me impressed.” The voice is like Valkenhime snow down your back, or is that the blood loss?
You turn and see not the warmonger you just ran through, but HER. The queen of wolves. Apollyon. Every knight of Ashfeld is taught of her, especially the wardens. She used her blade to destroy instead of protect, although her influence in the church of Ignis is strong. St. Apollyon, the Destroyer Saint. The chainbreaker.
She is made of smoke and iron, a wraith from beyond the grave. You are sure you are dead at this point, as you see your body remain in its place, impaled by the warmonger.
“What do you want.”
The words tumble out of your mouth, unbidden and unsteady. A cold sweat rolls over your brow, as your shoulders raise, old instinct telling you to make yourself as large as possible.
“Straight to the point I see.”
She clasps her hands together, violence just emanating from her form in waves. She reminds you of a predator, her stance commanding respect. You kneel without thinking, her gaze burning into you.
“I want you to be my messenger. The warmongers, Astrea…”
She spits out the name like it’s venom. You can swear that she snarls, her visor looking more like a sharp maw.
“Have betrayed my vision. She seeks to be a tyrant. No wars are fought in a dictatorship, and wars are what makes humanity strong. Wars root out the sheep, little Warden. Don’t you agree?”
Something in you clicks. You try to remember the reason you became a warden in the first place. Not honor. Not protecting the weak. Vengeance. Vengeance, and the thrill of the fight. Working to show that you can fight better than anyone else in your squad. It makes sense now.
“Alright. What do you want me to do?” You look up to her, a smile spreading across your face. Time to purge all those bastards.
She chuckles and walks up to you, placing her hand on your shoulder in an almost motherly fashion. It’s cold. So cold you feel it through your coif and paldron.
“Fight, little pup. Grow an army. Push Horkos and Chimera alike off-balance. Be the true inheritor of Blackstone.” Apollyon pats your cheek, leaving a patch of frost on your paldron. “Show them what it means to be a wolf.”
You nod as you rise to stand, removing the sword from your gut.
“I will, mother Apollyon.”
“Good. Time to wake up, pup. We’ll talk soon.”
Your eyes flutter open as you haul yourself to your feet, drawing the warmonger’s sword from your chest. She staggers in disbelief as she falls to her knees.
“Wolf? Or sheep?” You snarl, frightening her to submission.
You trace her blade across her neck as you slowly circle her to the left.
“Sheep.” Her eyes widen as you stomp on her leg, then pull the blade back.
You swing the blade. Bright red arterial blood sprays across your tabard and helm as her body falls, crumpling and spasming as the muscles strain to hold onto the life that is already gone.
“Today begins the ghosts of Blackstone.” You declare, to nobody in particular. You look to the men and women around you, and decide to sort through them later.
You look at the keep above you and begin to jog towards it.
You have an army to assemble.
And every army needs a castle to call home.