The mountains, the mountains, they sing, they sing.
Their halberds, their halberds, they ring, they ring.
The bloodshed, the bloodshed, they bring, they bring.
As warriors struggle for wings, for wings.
-excerpt from "The Battle of Solocima" of Lorya Fox's Concerto di Ali
Greetings. My name is Alexandrouse D. Fox, a modern-day historian. For centuries, men of my field have been perplexed by the mystery surrounding the War Between Wings, an enigmatic war between the proud Arcanzians and the noble Vitrasmen that, despite being relatively short, brought about the shape of the world as we know it today. Most records of the war have been lost, whether it be to natural disaster or intentional censorship. What remains of the records are tales passed down through history, hardly enough to piece together the puzzle behind that war. However, there's one thing that could very well tie everything together: a small collection of songs written by a forever immortalized songstress, Lorya Fox. Not only is she my distant ancestor, but she is also known for her riveting and long-lived music career, having staged many an opera in her era. Most elusive of her operas was the Concerto di Ali, an opera she claimed to have pieced together in memorial of the War Between Wings, citing a first-hand account as the production's inspiration.
After spending years searching for transcripts of the opera's lyrics, I finally came across them in a ruined cathedral in Old Adrigo. After carefully analyzing said lyrics and comparing them with the bits and pieces of information other historians have already discovered, I believe I have succeeded in finally putting together the mystery behind the War Between Wings. And so, my friends, I welcome you to join me on a journey with seven brave souls who have changed the course of history forever: a questing outsider, a chivalrous sentinel, an enigmatic woman, a youthful soldier, an obtuse adjutant, a broken villager, and a lady general. If you are well-versed in the history of this land, then the end result of the war is apparent. However, if you know nothing of this land, I'd not chance ruining the surprise. Without further ado, I now present to you an historical retelling of the War Between Wings, thanks in no small part to the _Concerto di Ali_by Lorya Fox…
Prologue
! (The Lady General…)
! >! A cold frost bore its breath upon the desolate crags of the Solocima Massif. A dense fog rolled in from the north as the final hours of twilight ran their course. As if the painfully uninviting landscape wasn't enough, the warmthless darkness of the night began to encroach upon its surroundings. A low howl remained ever present as swift breezes winded their course amidst the towering crags of limestone and clay. A few patches of alpine dotted the Massif like freckles, despite the region's infertility.
! In spite of the harsh conditions, most of the trees towered into the low-lying clouds and appeared to be healthy. Under usual circumstances, they served as natural barriers against the bitter winds that shaped the area. During times of war, however, they served well as a campsite.
! One such wooded area marked the location of an Arcanzian platoon. A group of five men had settled amongst the trees, shielded from the acrid weather surrounding them. They also assumed that the trees would guard them from a Vitrasbaen ambush. Oh, how wrong they are…
! The young, red-haired woman perched herself amidst the towering treetops, far above the enemy platoon. She concealed her presence behind an abundant collection of branches and leaves. The darkening sky further assisted in her masking endeavor. Five of them, she thought to herself, taking mental notes on her targets, from their gender and armor, to their physical stature and manner of speech. She waited patiently and attentively, nested silently against the woody surface of the tree.
! "Oy, Captain," one of the five Arcanzian men whispered to the man in the center, barely audible to the woman. "What say you we make camp here?"
! "A wise idea," the captain answered. "There's no sense in treading forward under the blanket of night."
! "Good," a third man sighed in reciprocation before making a suggestion. "Shall Griego and I gather some timber for the fire?”
! “That would be best,” the captain nodded in response. “The three of us will pitch our tents and set up the camp, then.”
! The woman watched silently as the captain's attention turned in her direction.
! "Hold it," the captain interrupted sternly as the two men turned to set out. "We're being watched."
! Just a few feet away from the platoon, the woman amongst the canopy stilled her breath, letting not a single vibration escape her cold lips. Typical, her thoughts chided. She mentally rolled her eyes as she kept her physical pair upon the five men beneath her.
! "You there!" the captain bellowed loudly into the dark stillness. "We know your position. Show yourself or we won't hesitate to kill you."
! The woman fought back a laugh. She was all too familiar with Arcanzian protocol. There had been many a time when a reconnaissance team had been fooled by the enemy's bluff and given up its position. She scoffed at the thought of falling into such a trap. There were many a fool in the Vitrasbaen Army, but not her, she assured herself. Not General Alysa Brunhjart.
! After a long pause, the captain eased his shoulders and sighed in relief. "I guess there's nobody there after all. Carry on, men."
What a bunch of idiots, Alysa smirked as she rose to her feet. She silently lifted her right arm, her middle and index finger raised to the sky from her gauntlet-bearing hand. Her emerald eyes kept themselves glued to the two Arcanzian men who disappeared into the nearby trees to carry out their task. Certain that they were out of sight from their captain, she curled her outstretched fingers twice before outstretching her arm forward, as if pointing at the enemy. Immediately afterward, the sound of rustling was heard echoing through the trees.
! "Oy, Captain," the first soldier stammered. "What do you think that was?"
! The captain turned his attention away from the tent he was tending to and focused it to the east, his eyes squinting due to the stinging gusts of wind.
! "Probably a rabbit," he concluded after a pause. "Come now, Logan, lend me your aid in setting this-"
Before his orders could be relayed, his head was lopped clean off its shoulders by a sharp, ornate rapier. Alysa had descended from the treetops above and silently approached her target without a moment's warning.
! "My captain!" Logan shouted in disbelief as he watched his leader's head fall to the cold and frosted-over earth beneath it.
! As the young Arcanzian moved to retaliate, Alysa ran her blade's cold steel through Logan's chest, accurately piercing his heart. In retaliation, the third soldier rushed to stop her, but his throat was quickly met by the blade of a young Vitrasbaen soldier. Alysa removed her blade from the dead soldier's sternum and turned her attention to the captive Arcanzian.
! “Hold him there,” she ordered her subordinate as two others emerged from the nearby trees.
! "Lady Alysa," the three men bowed as one spoke forth. "We've accomplished our mission."
! She surveyed her surroundings for a moment, shaking her head. "Enough," Alysa sighed. "Once again, we fall for Arcanzia's tricks. These kids were green, unlike the large units of accomplished soldiers they've been sending. They mean to wear out our primary forces, it seems."
! "At least it was just the four of us, then," another of her soldier's pointed out.
! "Yet we were just recon," the final man argued. "General Brunhjart waits just north of here with a hundred men, ready for battle."
! Alysa cringed at just the mention of her father. She was still upset that her father did not trust her enough to be the leader of the operation, especially after the many strides she had made to achieve her current position.
! "Still, Sir Brahm won't be pleased to hear that we disobeyed orders again," the first soldier sighed.
! "Enough about that old codger," Alysa barked coldly, somehow much colder than the air about them. "The enemy is dead, end of discussion. Let us make haste to the rendezvous point.” She then turned to the captive soldier. “Bring the whelp with us. We can interrogate him once we return to Solocima."
! Without another word, the female swordsman sheathed the bloodied Freija and turned back to the north. She clenched her fists with anger, fighting back the urge to scream in frustration. I don't care if I'm a woman. I swear I'll be better than you, old man.
! (The Obtuse Adjutant…)
! >! The blonde-haired woman dashed hurriedly down the Maidenhall and past the winged statues of previous Holy Maidens, for which she harbored an indescribable unease. Perhaps it was their towering wings. Or maybe their stern (though not unkind) faces. Or it could have been what the statues meant to her, for she knew that beyond the statues was her destination, a place she was not too fond of. Romilda closed her eyes tightly until she reached the Chamber of the Holy Maiden, hoping that would be enough to expel her anxiety.
! Standing guard at the doorway was Romilda's younger half-sister, Ladygrace. Despite being a Ladygrace by birth, Romilda's sister, the twenty-ninth of her name, had all the beauty and austerity of a Romilda. This was evident in her shimmering blonde hair, her fierce brown eyes, and her elevated cheekbones. Her qualities were further accentuated by her crimson breastplate and the long, elegantly crafted spear tethered to her back. Romilda herself carried traits of the Ladygraces; her face was quite plain with no remarkable contours. She was a quiet soul, one not meant to stand out—unlike Ladygrace, who emitted a respectable and charismatic aura. Romilda felt like a dull spear compared to her mother, grandmother, and the twenty-eight Romildas that had came before her. Her sister was a treasure and a prodigy to her mothers, while Romilda was naught but a disappointment to hers.
! As these thoughts pervaded her mind, Romilda felt her heart grow increasingly heavy. She forced them from her head, reminding herself that her duty was of more importance than her childish follies. She cast a quick glance at her half-sister, the catalyst of those invasive thoughts, with a mixture of contempt and respect. Romilda then proceeded into the Chamber. Inside, the white walls were tall and circular. They were faceted by towering windows of painted glass that shone with brilliance in the sunlight. In the center of the room was a throne dwarfed by the room's high ceiling. It was blue and white and decorated with chrome feathers that fluttered majestically across its back. Romilda fell on one knee in a show of respect toward the woman seated in the beautiful throne. This was the woman the world knew as the Holy Maiden of the Holy Land of Illumadia, no less ruler of the realm than a king or emperor. To Romilda herself, she was her cousin, named for her country and the woman who founded it, Illumadia.
! Illumadia and Romilda shared a sisterly relationship, one that had begun at an early age. Both were particularly rambunctious and rebellious. They were nigh inseparable, closest of friends, accomplices in mischief. Contradicting her playful nature however, Illumadia had a dutiful and commanding air about her, traits befitting the Young Maiden, which Romilda envied. Though she often pondered about whether it was mutual, Romilda cherished her relationship with Illumadia.
! As the Holy Maiden, Illumadia adorned a shimmering gown of turquoise blue and sparkling pearls. She wore large earrings, several bracelets on each wrist, and many necklaces, all of which were strung with beads of sapphires and aquamarines. However, even her jewelry was overshadowed by the ceremonial angel wings that draped across Illumadia's back, white as snow and magnificent as those of an angel. Flowing to the middle of her back—where it met her wings—was a stream of golden strands, speckled with feather-shaped barrettes.
! The radiance that Illumadia's presence emanated made Romilda feel minute by comparison. The young woman glanced at her own clothes and sighed, recognizing her inferiority. Romilda was wearing the garb of a Ladygrace, a plain white robe laced with a dull blue trim, as her position dictated. She could not help but wonder what life would have been like wearing the crimson armor that rightfully belonged to a Romilda, the crimson armor that her sister now wore.
! “How does this morning treat you, Romy?” the Holy Maiden asked her cousin informally as she rose to her feet. She paused. “No… I mean 'Sister Romilda',” she corrected herself. “Please, pardon my lack of manners.”
! “The Holy Maiden does not ask pardon of a Sister,” Romilda stated with a false tone of humility. “It is a simple mistake to make among friends.”
! “Regardless, it is not proper for the Holy Maiden to forget her place,” Ladygrace objected as she entered the hall closing the doors behind her. She was the youngest of the three women, yet the most mature, or so she'd have you believe. She was ruthless and strict, devoted to her duty without exception. “This is our Holy Land now, due to the Old Maiden's passing, rest her soul. We would all do well to remember our formalities.”
! “Forgive me, Sister Ladygrace,” Illumadia yielded before clearing her throat, taking the formal tone that Romilda envied, a tone that could command armies. “Let us address the matter of this audience. I have summoned you to my side, Sister Romilda, to give you a task of utmost importance.”
! Romilda's heart sank at the sound of those words. She instinctively knew what Illumadia was about to ask her and she did not like it one bit.
! For centuries, the Ladygraces had been charged with carrying messages and serving as mediators outside of the Holy Land. They were always sent without an entourage, as Ladygraces were known for their agility and light feet, allowing them to escape detection of possible enemies. Some even called them Shadowwalkers. Unfortunately for Romilda, she was clumsy, and lacked the instinctive finesse and grace of the Ladygraces. Romilda had trained for years, yet she knew it to be fruitless.
! “War is coming,” Illumadia's voice echoed robustly through the Chamber. The force behind Illumadia's voice and the gravity of those three words made Romilda weak in the knees. “The Holy Land is in danger of being caught in the midst of it. Vitrasbaen already holds stake at Solocima in the northernmost reaches of the Holy Land. Arcanzia lusts for the stronghold and will stop at nothing to claim it. At this point, ff their armies were to clash, they would do so on Illumadian soil.” Illumadia paused and looked at her cousins. “Do you understand what this means? Innocent people will die. Lives will be destroyed. We need to stop this war before our people are caught in the crossfire.” Illumadia turned her sapphire eyes toward Romilda, which made the weight of Illumadia's rhetoric even heavier. Romilda felt as if her knees were about to give out. “Sister Romilda, you must travel north to Solocima. Once there, you are to act as a mediator between Generals Brunhjart and Mercado and guide them toward a peaceful resolution to their conflict.”
! Romilda knew where Illumadia was going, which led her to protest. “My lady, I cannot-”
! Illumadia raised her hand, silently halting her cousin. “You are the only person who can,” Illumadia told her with a formal smile. It was the kind of smile that, while not unkind, lacked sincerity; the kind of smile that irked Romilda. “We both know that the previous Holy Maiden's passing has brought great change for all of us. We are not girls anymore, but women. And women have duties to their country.” Illumadia paused as her words burrowed into Romilda's heart. Duties. How she hated duties.
! After a moment, Illumadia continued, unaware of Romilda's stirring anger. “Yourduty is to be my left hand, and to extend my will beyond the Holy Land. Please, our sweet Sister Romilda, do your best to remember that.”
! Despite coating them with honey, Illumadia's words still stung Romilda at the depths of her heart. Romilda had been able to restrain herself many times in the past, but the harsh reminder of Illumadia's natural ability to manipulate with her honeyed voice, in combination with the weight of her impending task, was enough for Romilda to forget herself.
! “My duty is at your right hand, Madia,” Romilda snapped back. “And rightfully so, as a Romilda.” Illumadia was struck silent by Romilda's surprising insubordination. She opened her mouth to speak, but clearly could not find the words. Where's your honey now?
! Before Illumadia could respond, Ladygrace interjected. “Barking like a bitch about your misfortune will get you nothing, Sister Romilda.”
! The disdain of Ladygrace's words stilled Romilda's fury momentarily; Ladygrace did have the truth of it. She took a step back, about to yield, but a rush of seldom-seen pride would not let her. “What would you propose I do instead, Sister Ladygrace?”, she asked defiantly, egging on the dispute. “I doubt you would simply hand your spear over to me.”
! “You can have this spear,” Ladygrace smirked, unruffled by Romilda's words. “As soon as you wrest it from my fingers. If you desire my title, words will not be enough. It takes action to be acknowledged, a lesson you have clearly never learned.”
! Romilda felt like taking Ladygrace up on her challenge, but all she could do was grit her teeth and turn away. It was futile to argue with Ladygrace. This much she had always known, even as a child. Ladygrace was a stubborn woman, not one to be disputed if you had a mind to keep your fingers. She knew all of this, yet Romilda's pride was too strong. Foolish as she knew it was, she could not bring herself to admit defeat to a Ladygrace. She turned to Illumadia, seeking her cousin's help. “Please, Illumadia, hear me out. You know that I-”
! “Enough, Sister Romilda,” Illumadia interrupted once again with her hand. “I feel for you and your plight. Were it my decision, I would uphold the tradition. But your talents are clearly suited to serve in the position once held by the Ladygraces. Our mothers have decreed it so.”
Damned old crones, Romilda mentally spat. Illumadia's words, however honeyed, were true. She could blame neither Ladygrace nor Illumadia for her ill circumstances. She had no choice but to resign herself to her task. She bowed her head in defeat, signifying that her insubordinate tirade was over.
! “You are right, Sister Ladygrace,” she forced through clenched teeth. “I apologize for my childish disruption, Holy Maiden. I will depart in the morning,” Romilda turned and left the Chamber with a hurried pace. She would not wait and grant Ladygrace or Illumadia a chance to coddle her with insincere words. She had had her fill of honey. As she walked back to her quarters, Romilda once again envied Illumadia's ability to persuade others. It would catch her by no surprise that she would one day come to fear it.
! (The Broken Villager…)
! >! Salem wiped the sweat from his brow with the wrist of his gloved left hand. The air was still bitter cold, but the sun's rays were still as hot as ever. He leaned his hoe against the wooden fence of his garden before removing his gloves. He lifted his body up on top of the fence and took out his canteen from his hip. He tilted his head back as the water's sweetness coated his parched throat.
! Salem was a middle-aged man with short, salt and pepper hair and a close-trimmed goatee. His eyes were gray with age and his skin was beginning to wrinkle. Today, he wore a green gardening vest and brown suspenders, each caked with layers of brown dirt and dark soil. His boots were brown, though it was not apparent whether that was their natural color or if it was merely a layer of dried dirt.
! Salem, a field-hardened farmer, lived out his days aimlessly in Borgocima, a small village nestled in the southern expanses of the Solocima Massif. Despite this, Borgocima was the northernmost reach of permanent settlers in Illumadia. Borgocima sat on a tract of highly cultivable soil, an oddity in the craggy region. It was only natural that the area was world renowned for its unusual crop yield. Solocima peaches, ice cabbages, and white corn were some of the hamlet's chief products. Salem had just completed planting his own patch of corn and cabbages.
! “Papa!” a voice pierced through the chilled air, startling Salem.
! Salem turned his gaze toward his house and smiled jovially as he saw that his daughter had returned. She was about fifteen years old with a head of beautiful black locks. Her face reminded Salem of her mother's, his dearly beloved wife. He had loved her with all his heart. The time he had spent with Matilda was the highlight of his life, though she had now been gone for three years, he recalled. His heart began to ache, but he would not allow his daughter to see his pain.
! “What is it, Molly?” Salem asked as he walked towards his daughter.
! “It's Scotch,” Molly explained as she pushed the hair from her eyes, oblivious to her father's false smile. Salem could not help but notice that she was fidgeting. “He came to the tavern and sent me to fetch you.”
! “Does he want to drink again?” Salem raised his brow with an annoyed tone. “That man doesn't know the meaning of hard, earnest work, does he?”
! “I think he's leaving the village,” Molly said as she twiddled her thumbs, drawing Salem's attention. “I think he wants to say goodbye.”
! “What?” Salem asked dumbfoundedly. “Why would he leave the village?”
! “I don't know,” Molly shrugged as she began to quiver. “He's your best friend. You would have a better clue than I.”
! “I suppose you are right,” he sighed. “I guess I should go see him.”
! “Papa, wait,” Molly stammered as Salem started toward the tavern, unable to make eye contact with her father. Her face blushed deeply. “There's one more thing… Papa, Scotch's son, Keban... he asked me to be his bride. I... I beg your permission to go with them...”
! Salem's eyes met his daughter's. She shied away, trying to escape his gaze. He was confused by her words, which conjured a surge of mixed emotions within him. “I don't... I don't understand, Molly,” he questioned after a brief pause, unsure whether to be angry or concerned, or perhaps something else. “You've been claimed by Scotch's foolishness as well?”
! “Please understand, Papa,” Molly murmured. “I love Keban and he will treat me well. Even you said so yourself the other day.”
! “There is no good to come from leaving the village,” Salem frowned. “You know of the state of things outside. How could Keban treat you well when a war looms on the other side of these crags? I don't know what I'd do if I lost you.”
! “You'd live on,” Molly answered flatly, trying to summon courage. As she continued though, the flatness in her voice began to waver. “When Mama died, you kept on going.”
! Despite her cowardice, her words still struck Salem like a dagger. If only she knew how I cry at night, he told himself, though he would not dare indulge her with that fact now.
! “I'm a big girl, Papa,” she continued, unaware of the pain she had just inflicted upon her father. Her words were still shaken, but she gradually gained composure. “I can take care of myself. And when I can't, I have Keban.”
! “No,” Salem answered stubbornly, raising his voice. “You are still a child. When you are older, then maybe I will consider letting you follow them. But right now, you're too young to stand on your feet.”
! “You think me weak, Papa?” Molly challenged as she began to tear up. “I am not a child! The one being childish is you, Papa! Do you not see? I am in love!”
! “You are delirious,” Salem said curtly.
! “No, you are!” she screamed before stamping her way back to the tavern.
! Salem watched as she stamped away before deciding to follow her. He wanted to see what Scotch was up to and why Molly was so insistent on leaving the village. Unfortunately for Salem, the walk to the restaurant seemed longer than ever as he grew older. His legs were losing their vigor, and his breath grew shorter with each passing year. What had used to be a fifteen minute walk now took the aging man an hour.
! Inside the tavern, the smell of fire and soup coerced Salem's nostrils. The aroma of alcohol and boiled cabbage also pervaded the air. To some, the smell would be repulsive, but to Salem, it was rather enticing. In the corner at his usual table sat Scotch, whose brown hair flowed past his shoulders. Scotch's son, Keban, sat next to him. The youthful boy was the splitting image of Scotch in his prime, but where Scotch possessed an unevenly-trimmed beard, Keban was clean-shaven.
! “Ah, Salem,” Scotch jollied in greeting as he took another swig of mist. “The mist here is to die for. Shame, I will miss it.”
! “Enough idling,” Salem interrupted with a stern face. “What is this nonsense about you leaving the village? What kind of tales are you weaving in my daughter's head?”
! “Tales?” Scotch questioned as he gulped another drink. “There are no tales, my man. Only truths. The Massif is crawling with ants, you see. Ants that intend to make it theirs. You see, Salem, my man, those ants will eventually come here for our crops. And we can't do a thing about it. We have hoes and rakes, they swords and shields. They'll pillage us and murder us and rape us just to get their hands on our foodstuffs. I don't particularly fancy being raped by ants, you see. That's why Keban and I are leaving in the morning.”
! “You hear too many fairy tales,” Salem scolded. “That or the mist has clouded your senses. All that Vitrasbaen and Arcanzia care for is the fortress. They wouldn't dare pillaging a village on the Holy Land, lest they wish to incur Illumadia's wrath. So you can rest easy without worrying about ants raping you as you sleep.”
! “Ignorance and denial are poisons, my man,” Scotch snorted as he slammed his shot glass to the table. “Molly, more booze!”
! “No more poisons than mist and tall tales,” Salem quipped. Molly approached the table quickly and silently, offering Scotch another glass. She did not acknowledge her father's presence, and Salem could still sense her anger. “Enough nonsense. You're polluting my daughter's mind with your whimsical stories. I will not have you take my dear Molly from me.”
! “Mister Tranquilla,” Keban spoke up as he stood, bowing in respect. “Pardon me for speaking out of place, but I believe my father's 'tales' are necessary precautions. We do not know what will happen, but my father and I aren't planning on sticking around and finding out.”
! Keban was a respectable man, unlike his drunkard father. Nineteen years old, the boy was rather charming and attractive, but he was the object of Molly's affection, which muddled Salem's judgment of him. He was not about to hand his daughter over to this man. He didn't trust men that were prettier than women.
! “Do as you will, Scotch,” Salem yielded, though not entirely. “But my daughter stays. I've had my fill of your silly fables. This village has never been attacked, and our enemies have held Solocima for centuries. We have nothing to worry about.”
! “First time for everything, my man,” Scotch sighed as he guzzled the rest of his glass. “This village will burn. I can feel it in my bones.”
! “The only thing filling your bones is alcohol,” Salem quipped back as he turned to leave. “Molly,” he said without making eye contact. “You will come home tonight after work. You had best not disobey me.”
! As he left the restaurant, Salem sighed. It's what's best for her, he told himself. If I set her free, she's bound to get killed. At least here, I know she's guaranteed to live a long, healthy life.
! (The Lady General…)
! >! A radiant light slipped through the holes that lined the thick, stone walls of Solocima Fortress. Despite the light appearing to give off a warm glow, the halls of the fortress were colder than ever for the soldiers taking residence there. Many were bustling about in quest for blankets, while others huddled together for warmth. Such were the hardships faced by those inhabiting the fortress.
! In one of the rooms within the fortress, Alysa sat alone on a slab of stone that jutted out from the wall, a glimmer of impatience in her emerald eyes. Under the cover of darkness, her appearance was concealed. Yet when bathed in light, one could see her physical features in a clearer light.
! Her hair was crimson red, combed to the sides and flowed like water to her shoulders. Her eyes were a piercing emerald green, yet her stare was as cold as an icy blue. Her skin was soft, and quite pale, giving off a cold aura, one that clashed with her hair's fiery glow. Both of her ears were adorned with elegantly crafted emeralds, a gift from her late mother.
! As a soldier in the employ of Vitrasbaen, Alysa naturally wore armor. However, while her peers dressed in a single plate mail, Alysa's armor was oft considered peculiar. Her chest was adorned with six or seven sheets of light but sturdy plate armor. Each layer was painted either black, silver, or maroon. Her shoulders were protected by a sheet of black steel. Her arms were bare, aside from cuffs of armor on her elbows, and a pair of fingerless gaultlets on her hands, all connected to her chestplates via leather straps.
! Despite her voluminous bosom being heavily armored, she bore a single layer of chainmail upon her abdomen, as well as a set of straps which connected her chest armor to her cuisses. Much like her arms, her legs were bare with a set of straps connecting her cuisses to a set of plated greaves.
As she sat upon the stone slab, impatience bloomed across her face. After a few moments, her eyes darted their way to the room's entrance in response to the sound of footsteps growing ever louder. Sure enough, a man stepped through the door and into the little room. His face was warm and his long, shoulder-length hair a golden-blonde. His eyes were a calm blue and his armor, painted blue and silver, appeared thick and heavy.
! Upon entering the room, he nodded towards Alysa and took a seat on a wooden slab opposite Alysa.
! "How is your father?" the man asked, his voice calm and patient.
! Alysa rolled her eyes at the mention of her father before sighing, "He's still bedridden, as you are already aware."
! "I see," the man nodded quietly before clearing his throat, as well as the empathy from his voice. "There remains the matter of your recent rebellious phase, Lady General. I'm afraid I must-"
! "Spare me the trivialities, Christophe," Alysa interrupted with a scowl. "I know precisely what His Majesty insinuates. I've been here by my father's side in this fortress for three years. Now, my father falls gravely ill, and they send you to take his place?"
! "Lady General," the man sighed. "Firstly, I am General Claymore to every soldier in this army. That includes you.”
! Alysa snorted audibly at the thought of Claymore being her superior. Claymore took note of her insubordination, but continued.
! “Secondly, your conduct has been less than desirable. Just last month, you attacked that enemy camp, when your only mission was reconnaissance."
! "Hmph," Alysa scoffed. "If it were any of the male Generals, you'd be showering them in accolade."
! "Lady General, 'tis not the issue at hand. There is protocol that all soldiers must follow and-"
! "Your lies are as shallow as your skull," Alysa interrupted. "I know His Majesty sent you here because I'm a woman. He thinks me unfit to lead this country's men, does he not?"
! "Lady General," Claymore repeated tersely. "You would do well to rend your tongue. You've been naught but trouble, and His Majesty grows fatigued with your reckless behavior.”
! Alysa rose to her feet as her face hardened. “Excuse me, General Claymore. You neglect to remember that I hold the rank of General myself. I am no longer your subordinate, but your equal. I will not allow you to continue belittling me.”
! “You may be a General in this army,” Claymore persisted, appearing to try Alysa's patience deliberately. “But dare I say the only reason for that is because of your fa-."
! "You will speak no more!" Alysa screamed, slamming her fist on the oaken table between them, as if warning Claymore that he'd do well not to finish that statement. "This conversation is done. Whether I be woman or not, I shall prove myself worthy. I will claim my father's head, mark those words. I am General Alysa Brunhjart, not 'Lady General'. You will recognize the weight of Freija in time, Christophe."
! Claymore sighed in futility as the young woman stormed out of the room, her face red with fury. She stampeded through the frigid halls until she came to a doorway leading to a large balcony. She stomped toward the balcony and slammed her fists against its railing as she clenched her teeth in spite. Alysa was no fool. She knew very well why they thought her not worthy of the title of General. She put the thought to rout and determinatedly fixed her attention on the sight before her.
! The view from the balcony was spectacular. Crags of limestone and clay surrounded the fortress as trails of cloud and fog seeped around them. Far off into the horizon, one could see beyond the Solocima Massif to the lay of the surrounding land. To the north was a large gulf connected to the ocean. To the east lay the tundra and icy mountaintops of the Vitrasbaen Kingdom. To the west, the rocky, desert terrain of Arcanza could be seen, its reds and yellows distinguished against the grays and whites of the Massif. To the south, one could see the gentle green fields of Illumadia far into the distance, beyond the dense forests that circled the base of the Massif.
! Taking in the scenery allowed Alysa to be at peace with herself, at least for the time being. Her troubles and qualms shuffled to the back of her memory as she absorbed the panoramic view. For just a moment, all of her anger subsided, whisked away by the gentle yet chilling breeze.
! (The Enigmatic Woman…)
! >! Stella… wake up...
! The first thing she saw when she awoke was a lake. Perhaps a pond, she wasn't sure. She could not even tell the color of the water at first, though he senses were slowly returning to her. The ground around her was sparsely covered with grass and the occasional tree, but for the most part, the terrain was of limestone. A dense fog prevented her from seeing far into the distance, serving to further disorient her. Nevertheless, she rose to her feet and surveyed her surroundings.
! “Who… said that?” she asked aloud, surprised at the sound of her own voice. “Where... am I...? … Who am I...?”
! She took a glance behind her back to see no one there. She knew she wasn't crazy, she had heard the voice, clear as day—well, clear as a clear day, at least.
Stella… wake up... The enigmatic words rang through her head as if a distant echo.
! “Stella?” she questioned, hoping the voice would respond. “What is 'stella'?”
! The woman wrapped her hands around herself as a bitter cold wind caught her by surprise. It was only then that she realized she was naked. She blushed as she began to inch toward the lake. She shivered profusely as the breeze rose to a gust, but something kept her moving toward the lake.
As she reached its sparkling water, she took note of its blue complexion. As the temperature gradually dropped, she realized that she could see her own breath. She shivered as she cupped the water in her pale hands and raised it to her blue lips. However, her hands shook violently, preventing her from successfully drinking. She dropped the water from her hands as the shivering intensified. She began to weep in frustration as she struggled desperately for warmth.
! As if jesting at her tears, a light rain began to fall from the sky. She began to cry harder under the stinging daggers of ice-cold water, but the rain only grew in intensity. She found herself in a cycle of misery: the rain only served to depress her further; the rain only grew stronger with her sadness. She felt almost as if her tears were connected to the rain, though she quickly shook the thought. She was cold, wet, and without a clue as to what was going on. She cried out in confusion, though her shout was drowned out by the wind's howl. As she shivered, she felt almost as if she was going to die.
Before she could react, a nearby tree burst into flames with no provocation. The sudden burst startled her, but the warmth calmed her down, extinguishing her curiosity in the process. She was no longer too concerned with why the fire started. She had a source of heat now. She was still scared, but she was at ease now. Luckily, the wind stilled and the rain ceased and all that remained was her and a flame. Silently, she laid her head on the earth beneath her and drifted into slumber, though she feared waking up without memories once again.
Stella… You must keep warm... If you do not, you will surely die... You must avoid that... Fear death... Fear... Fear...
! The woman awoke abruptly, though it was now daybreak. She was thankful that her memories of the day before were intact, yet she couldn't help but wonder why she was without her prior memories in the first place. The voice she had heard last night disturbed her. She looked over to the tree and saw that the flames still burned, despite the tree being a smoldering pile of ash. She rose to her feet and took in her surroundings. The thick fog had cleared, though it was still rather cold. She noticed a stone structure in the distance, just below the horizon. She decided that it would make a good starting point for her, though she was not even sure where she was going. A gentle wind began to blow as she doubted her intentions, but she pressed on anyway. She had no idea who she was or where she came from. She had no idea how she had gotten there or where she was going. All the woman knew was that, if the strange voice were correct, her name was Stella.
! (The Questing Foreigner…)
! >! Osterhamn was relatively quiet that day. Even without the fog, Osterhamn was a quiet port, but today especially, the wharves were empty and devoid of ships. The blanket of fog and the hollow port, not to mention the dreary rain, made Osterhamn appear gloomy. When Halley's ship arrived, the landing felt especially awkward. The few people on board shuffled off onto the soggy wharf as Halley trotted behind, gazing at the sad sight of the glum village that stood before him.
! Halley was a young man of twenty years with a messy head of brown hair and gray-brown eyes. His face was smudged with dirt, some from the trip across the sea, some dried and caked from long before. His clothes were mismatched and appeared to be a bundle of rags sewn together. Despite his age, the boy was rather short and his face burst with the fierceness of youth. One would assume, at first glance, that he was but a boy. But Halley was wise and rather learned for his age, albeit a little unkempt.
! “So, this is Osterhamn,” he said to himself with a distinct Moiterran accent. “Pretty unsettling place if I'd say so, m'self.”
! “This place is usually filled with ships,” an elderly native man told him in response. “But they've all gone away for the day. Just come back in the morrow. You'll see.”
! Halley could tell just looking at the man that he was overcome by madness. The man had seen better days. Halley felt sorry for him, sympathizing with the man's unsaid wish for Osterhamn to bustle again.
But Osterhamn would never bustle again. Osterhamn was the only port on the eastern side of the Ostervinge, the piece of land that Vitrasbaen sat on. Back then, Vitrasbaen and Moiterra were particularly friendly with each other and traded regularly. However, a war broke out between the states and the two nations cut off trade, killing Osterhamn in the process. Not to mention the fact that Vitrasbaen was particularly dangeroues as of late with the impending war. Halley shuddered as he thought about the coin he had to salvage just to purchase his ticket.
! As he reached the town's only running inn, he looked to his north, at the towering mountains of Vitrasbaen. This was Halley's first time traveling, and the dizzying peaks made him uneasy. They looked rather uninviting. He hoped his search would not take him over them. He did not want to stay in the region for long, so he had to be swift, but rest was of the essence.
! Unlike the gloominess outside, the inn was warm and welcoming. The aroma of fluffy bread and sweet cakes made Halley's mouth water. The warmth of the men who drank so jovially was a pleasant sight. These folk aren't much different than those back home, he smiled. His opinion of the region was still a bit conflicted, however. He had not wanted to linger long. He wanted to only return home. Home with those two.
! “Oy there, young man,” a jovial voice hooted for his attention.
! Halley turned to see a middle-aged man tending to his bottle of mist a few tables over. If one thing is certain, Halley said to himself with a grin. The mist around here is still the same. The man was balding and clearly wasted on his booze, but his aura was still warm and inviting.
! “You calling for me?” Halley asked as he walked to the man's table.
! “Yeah, you,” he said drunkenly. “Do you mind doin' an old man a favor?”
! “I guess not,” Halley shrugged. “Just know I've got my own worries to think about too.”
! “Don't worry, boy,” the man laughed as he pointed. “I just need you to get that young lass's name over there for me.”
! Halley followed the man's stubby finger to see a young woman with lovely brown hair. She was barely a year older than Halley by the looks of it. She was, however, the person in charge of the inn. He turned back to the old man and scoffed. Well, the old men here aren't much different after all. Still, this only makes me dislike this place even more.
! “Do it yourself,” Halley said bluntly before walking up to the young woman. He meant to get a room, and the fact that the innkeeper was young, pretty, and a little gullible-looking made his plight a little cheaper. “Excuse me, miss.” She turned around and smiled.
! “Can I help you?” she asked as she glanced at Halley's rags. “You don't look like a local.”
! “That's because I'm not,” he responded. “I'm looking to stay the night. Got any rooms?”
! “It depends,” she said with a devious smile. “You look a little swordless.”
! “I'm a peaceful man. I've no need for sharp objects.”
! “Then you wouldn't mind if I took your tongue as payment?” she grinned. Halley couldn't help but be attracted to her.
! “Depends on how savory yours is.”
! “You mean to woo me?” she asked as she twirled her hair. She's playing hard to get, huh? “Don't think you'll get a free bed from me. I'm rather fond of swords, you see.”
! “Then let me remove my rags.”
! “I mean coin, you lech,” she laughed as she pushed against his chest forcefully but playfully. Just a little more and he'd have her singing a different tune. “Fifty swords. Not one less.”
! “My dear, you wound me,” Halley sighed, feigning disappointment. “I sail all the way from Moiterra just to see you, and you want my purse? I regret to tell you I am without a single pebble.”
! “Then you will sleep with the dogs.”
! “Oh, but that was my intention,” he grinned as he rubbed her cheek. Her skin was warm, despite its paleness. “What's your breed?”
! “I'm a full-blood bitch,” she replied as she pulled his hand from her cheek. She had a strong grip for a woman.
! “My favorite. Do you have a name?”
! “Ivory,” she smiled, trying hard to not look amused. She was fighting hard to resist his charm. “Look, this is my father's inn and I'm a busy woman. You may continue to woo me, but it will get you nowhere. You either come up with the coin or leave.”
! “Your eyes betray your tongue,” Halley smirked, taking full advantage of her internal plight. Almost there.
! “And your odor betrays yours,” Ivory exchanged as she waved her hand in front of her nose and giggled.
! “That's why I need a bed and bath,” Halley sighed, moving closer once more. “And I'm rather lacking of company when it comes to both.”
! “I'd say you're rather lacking of both entirely,” she chuckled as she pushed him back a second time. “I don't know whether to be impressed with your tenacity or to pity your desperation.”
! “Either would be fine, so long as it gets me a free bed and a woman to come with it.”
! “You'll find your inn in another village, then.”
! “You wound me, Ivory,” Halley sighed, turning away. She's a tough acorn to crack.
! “What's your angle, anyway?” she asked him, caving in to his advances. “If you want my services, I'll have the reason you've come to Vitrasbaen.”
! “That's all? It's a date, then,” Halley replied as he turned around, silently reveling in his victory. “You see, miss, I'm looking for someone.”
! (The Lady General…)
! >! A single tear escaped Alysa's eye as she touched the symbols that spelled out Barron Brunhjart's name. His tombstone had been left untouched over the past three years; even now, the grave looked lonely as ever. Even with the passage of time, it would not do for her to leave it unkempt. She gently placed a wreathe of Salgrawood lilies upon her brother's final resting place; it was the least she could do. She sighed heavily as she turned her focus to the large group of people a few graves over. Alysa stared coldly from beneath her black bonnet as Brahm Brunhjart's casket was lowered into the family's private cemetary in Osvarden.
! Alysa was upset, but would not allow herself to reveal it. That day on the balcony some three weeks ago had been the last time she ever spoke to her father. He had fallen unconscious that night, and finally passed sixteen days later. General Claymore managed operations in Solocima as Alysa and Braig attended the funeral.
! Alysa remained detached from the circle of mourners as she leaned against a tree, a good amount of distance between them. She slid to her knees as tears began to well up inside her. She thought back to her final conversation with her father- the things that were said, the anger she had felt, her father's smug face. As she recalled that day, it began to dawn on her that her goal had been snatched away from her by the Goddess. The one thing that had kept her going for three years had now been forcefully wrenched from her grasp. For the first time since her brother's death, Alysa pushed aside her unwavering desire to appear strong and wept in sorrow. Her life no longer served any purpose. She was now a woman without a goal, a warrior without a dream. She told herself that she was crying because her dream had been shattered, not because of the loss of her father. She even unconditionally believed this lie.
! (The Chivalrous Sentinel…)
! >! “The war is won. Brahm Brunhjart is dead.”
! Never before had such a somber set of words been sung with joviality, Cortez thought, as he lounged comfortably next to the fire. He longed to return to his tent and make sleep, but his men were as boisterous as ever with their celebration. It would not do for General Cortez to dampen their spirits.
! Cortez was a fearsome man, with rigid features that complemented his soothing disposition. His black hair was cut short and his face was specked with a field of black stubble. Cortez's eyes were orange and danced like flames. His armor was crimson and scarlet with black chain-mail. At his waist, he kept his blade within a crimson sheath. It was called Platasangre, his red-stained broadsword. Those who set eyes upon Platasangre say that the sword appeared to be made of blood itself.
! Cortez took a sip from his wineglass and watched his men drink the night away. If ever there was a perfect time to strike, Cortez thought to himself, it would be now, while the Vitrasmen weep. It would certainly prove fruitful, especially if he capitalized on his unit's high spirits.
! “Ortega,” Cortez called out to one of his men, who broke from the partying to answer Cortez.
! “Yes, General Mercado?” Ortega replied politely as he kneeled. Cortez shuddered, thought not visibly. He wasn't fond of formalities, especially when the roughest of men bent their knees so falsely. He could not trust a polite man. It wasn't his style.
! “Ortega, rise,” he commanded with an annoyed tone. “Fetch the lieutenant for me. There are matters we must discuss.”
! “Right away, sir,” he bowed as he rose and scurried off. Cortez sighed before remembering that Ortega used to serve under Nightsong. No wonder he was always so courteous. Nightsong was rather self-indulgent, or at least the few times Cortez met him he was. He'd heard gossip amongst his men of Nightsong's narcissism.
! “You call for me, General?” a woman's voice asked, interrupting Cortez's thoughts.
Cortez looked up at his lieutenant and smiled. She was a beauty with glowing olive skin. Her hair was a deep violet and her eyes were a greenish teal. Her armor was emerald and yellow, and her mail a dark green. She was a loyal soldier and one of Cortez's closest friends. But she could not replace Dimitri.
! “What do you think?” Cortez asked his lieutenant. “Brunhjart's dead and his children are in Osvarden. Claymore's got three hosts at his feet. We've been sending in our greenest in hopes of wearing down their front-line men. With two Vitrasmen generals out of the way, I doubt little Claymore can organize the might of three armies by himself. Even better, he's like to think that we've nothing but moppets left in our ranks. So, Vicaria, what say you? Shall we strike on the morrow?”
! Vicaria listened attentively to her captain's words and paused briefly before she spoke. “Sounds like a plan. Have you asked General Dimitri what he thinks?”
! General Dimitri. Cortez found it a little strange that his former lieutenant was now his equal, Dimitri Blackdrake had only been among Cortez's ranks for a month before becoming his lieutenant. Three months later, the young Blackdrake had become General Blackdrake, though it wasn't entirely a surprise. Dimitri was a tactical genius. He might be a boy, but Dimitri's brains were beyond that of even a wise man. He was not one to try and outwit. Cortez had no doubt that if given the opportunity, Dimitri could outfox the Wyvern Emperor himself.
! “I have not,” Cortez replied after his moment of thought. “But do send a raven to Adrigo and tell Dimitri to bring his host here. I'll set loose two thousands blades for Solocima at dawn.”
! “Dawn?” Vicaria asked as surprise blemished across her face. “Wait, you're splitting our host?”
! “That's right,” Cortez replied. “Send our greenest two thousands men we've got and dress one up in crimson not unlike mine. Make it appear as though I've personally led one final strike in desperation. In the meantime, our remaining fifteen thousand will combine with Dimitri's forces when he arrives and march together on Solocima with all our might. If we play our cards right, Claymore will believe the war to be won and lower his guard. Then it'll be our thirty-five against his disorganized fifty. We'll easily take Solocima in a single fell swoop.”
! “Interesting,” Vicaria grinned as she drew her blade, Espinameralda, wielding it as though she were already in battle. “Dimitri's genius seems to have rubbed off on you.”
! “Genius?” Cortez scowled. “Just common sense.” He watched as she admired the thorny decals that lined Espinameralda. “Why are you so excited? Lady Brunhjart's attending a funeral. She won't be on the battlefield.”
! “It's a shame, too,” Vicaria sighed with animosity. “I wanted to slit her pretty little throat so badly, but I guess I've got to wait.”
! “Do you mislike her that much?” Cortez questioned, despite knowing the answer.
! “Of course,” Vicaria spat as she swung her sword angrily. “She gets accolades and the title of General out of sheer luck. I bet she offed her brothers and her old man herself. She makes me sick; gives us swordswomen a bad name.”
! You're one to talk, Cortez thought, amused by the irony. If it weren't for Dimitri, you'd still be a nameless sword in my unit.
! “Still,” Vicaria continued. “I suppose I should thank her.”
! “Oh? And why is that?”
! “When I rip her open and drain that bitch's blood,” Vicaria answered with a twisted smile, “then Espinameralda will glow a radiant red like Platasangre!”
! That old rumor, Cortez sighed. The most notorious rumor surrounding his Platasangre was the idea that she glowed red with old Cohlen Claymore's blood. The common folk often sang about how Platasangre was proof that killing your sworn nemesis would stain your sword with your enemy's blood for eternity. My blade was stained red long before that, child, he mused.
! (The Youthful Soldier…)
! >! "Five… six... seven... eight... nine... ten..."
! "Put your back into it, boys!" the sergeant bellowed as his men continued their push-ups.
! Jorvan poured his energy into completing them, but collapsed at fifteen. Damn, he thought bitterly. I can't even get to twenty.
! "Svardlass," the sergeant scoffed. "Back inside, boy."
! Jorvan sighed resignedly as he wiped the sweat from his brow with his shirt. He rose to his feet and hung his head and shame as he walked back into the barracks, clenching his sweat covered shirt in his left fist.
! Jorvan was a young man with shoulder-length brown hair and a rather large nose. His eyes were brown and a deep scar danced above his left eye. He groaned in self-loathing as he put his shirt back over his lean trunk. Jorvan sat on a stone slab in the commons area and rested his head in his hands. I'm a failure of a soldier.
! The air surrounding Solocima Fortress was warming as spring entered its third week. No longer were the soldiers shivering and huddling for warmth, instead opting to train outdoors. Yet the sessions were short due to the chilly winds that still zipped through the craggy Massif.
! Jorvan sighed as his fellow cadets entered the Barracks shortly after he did. They did not look the least bit tired, which dragged Jorvan further into depression. He wasn't cut out to be a cadet. Where some of his comrades had blood and some had skill, he had neither. He sometimes wondered why he was here.
No, he told himself, catching his defeatist thoughts. I came here for a reason. Jorvan was determined, even if he had to die fighting. He was a blacksmith's son, nothing more, but he wanted to make his father proud. Jorvan's goal was to become a soldier and bring honor to his name, Svardlass. He wanted to show the world that he meant something. And most of all, he wanted to meet her.
! “Jorvan Svardlass?” a fat man asked as he entered the commons, startling Jorvan.
! “That's me,” Jorvan spoke up, trying to appear confident.
! “You've received summons from General Claymore,” the fat man explained dryly. “Do follow me. I will escort you to the meeting hall.”
Meeting hall? Jorvan thought as he hesitantly followed the fat man. Could it be he's deploying me? Am I getting a promotion!? Jorvan immediately shook the thought, remembering how badly he failed at even basic training. They can't be, it dawned on Jorvan. Are they sending me home? Am I being kicked out of the army?
! Jorvan entered the meeting hall, where Claymore awaited, seated behind a wooden table. Claymore was a rather soft-looking man, though his eyes betrayed his beauty. Jorvan tried to shy back, intimidated by the General's stern eyes.
! Also in the hall were a handful of other cadets. Two were from today's failed training session, and only a few more were familiar. He hadn't recognized any of the other boys.
! “Have a seat, boys,” Claymore commanded, though not unkindly.
! Jorvan followed the general's commands and took a seat. Everyone else did the same. No one said a word for several seconds afterward until one boy spoke up.
! “We're no good, huh?” he asked. “Get it over with. You're sending us home, aren't you?”
! “Quite the contrary,” Claymore replied with a light smile. “I'm sending you to war.”
! Jorvan was confused and spoke up himself. “Why me? I don't have lineage or talent.”
! “No, but you have the blood of Vitrasmen,” Claymore beamed. “You've all taken up swords, and as decreed by the Goddess, you will use them. Our intelligence reports that Arcanzia has deployed another unit to march on Solocima. Your goal is to intercept them. This will be the perfect chance to put your skills to the test.”
! “Hold on,” Jorvan interrupted. “Why only twelve of us? The Arcanzians have thousands in their ranks.”
! “That is true,” the general explained. “But Mercado's men have been reduced to men beneath even your talents. It's certain to be another entourage of four green men.”
Certain? Jorvan's gut tightened as a foreboding feeling took root in it. War is never certain, he thought to himself. Then again, Jorvan knew little about war. Claymore was a general. He knew what he was talking about. Besides, why complain and worry? Jorvan was certain he could win and use his victory to meet her. The only problem was that she was still in Osvarden and not due back for several weeks. Knowing his luck, Jorvan's victory would already be old news by then.
! “In any case,” Claymore continued. “I will have you leave at sunset. If our spies tell us true, you will meet their entourage by midday tomorrow. Do not fail me. Do not fail His Majesty. Do not fail the Goddess. I wish you all luck. And do take the old saying to heart: 'There are no losers in battle. The survivors will live to see another day, and the slain will receive their due Deth'skaling.'”
Deth'skaling, Jorvan snorted. He remembered those words from his youth. Meaningless words to a blacksmith, that was certain. Jorvan knew that if he died in battle, the so-called Goddess wouldn't come for a craven like him. Goddesses don't come for those who don't believe in them.
! (The Lady General…)
! >! Spring was setting in and the air had grown somewhat warmer as Alysa returned to the fortress. After navigating its long halls, she waltzed into Claymore's room to announce her arrival.
! "Ah, good morning, Lady General," Claymore greeted as she entered. "Just the woman I wanted to speak to."
! "Are you going to lecture me for returning early?" Alysa snapped with cold eyes.
! "No," Claymore answered flatly, somewhat annoyed by her routine accusations. "The Arcanzians have entered the Massif again."
! "Oh?" Alysa inquired, her interest piqued. "Are you finally going to let me lead a squad into the forest?"
! "No need," Claymore cut her off. "I sent about a dozen cadets."
! "Cadets?" Alysa questioned as her eyes widened. "Are you mad?"
! "The enemy has been launching their own cadets," Claymore sighed condescendingly. "There's no need to send our highest ranking soldiers after a bunch of green children, wouldn't you agree?"
! "You fool!" Alysa shouted in retaliation as she slammed her hands on Claymore's desk. "And if the Arcanzians send a General, what would you do? You'd have cost us the war!"
! "Lady General, I can assure you, the Arcanzian's numbers are dwindling," Claymore answered calmly. "Why else would they be sending moppets? We've already exhausted their main forces."
! "They intend to ruse us!" Alysa burst. "Lord Father would have never fallen for such a childish trick!"
! Claymore opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a voice in the hall.
! "General Claymore!" a red-faced messenger panted heavily as he barged into the room. "The Arcanzians… they've deployed two thousand men under General Mercado!"
! "You jest..." Alysa stammered as she and Claymore realized the gravity of the latter's mistake. She turned to face her “superior” as rage brewed inside of her. "Christophe, you damned fool!"
! "I...," he tried to speak before rubbing his temples. Alysa could see the color flushing from his skin as he carefully contemplated his words, unwilling to make another mistake. "Take a thousand men, Lady General. Intercept the cadets and take charge of the situation."
! "I only need a hundred," Alysa scoffed, having already fastened her blade to her side. She flicked the red hair from her eyes before cocking an illuminated smile. "Just for the record, I'm holding you responsible for this, 'chief'.” Her final word dripped with jest, which caused the on-looking messenger to wince.
! Claymore sighed for a moment before hesitantly nodding. “Do whatever you want.”
! Alysa smiled as victory flourished across her face. “Now then. Let me show you how this Fortress is run. The Brunhjart way."
I
Told through the eyes of the Lady General
! http://apforums.net/showthread.php?t=31360&p=2254765&viewfull=1#post2254765
Excerpts Prologue: The Obtuse Adjutant http://apforums.net/showthread.php?p=2185961#post2185961
Prologue: The Broken Villager http://apforums.net/showthread.php?t=31360&p=2207908
Prologue: The Enigmatic Woman http://apforums.net/showthread.php?t=31360&p=2207908
Prologue: The Questing Foreigner http://apforums.net/showthread.php?t=31360&p=2207908
Outdated Chapters
! Records of the Dragon's War, Chronicle Zero: Prologue
by Alex Nielsen
! Prologue- Alysa
! >! A cold frost bore its breath upon the desolate crags of the Solocima Massif. A dense fog rolled in from the north as the final hours of twilight ran their course. As if the painfully uninviting landscape weren't enough, the warmthless darkness of the night began to encroach upon its surroundings. A low howl remained ever present as swift breezes winded their course amidst the towering crags of limestone and clay. Despite the region's generally uncultivable earth, a few patches of alpine dotted the Massif as if they were freckles.
! In lieu of the harsh conditions, most of the trees towered into the low-lying clouds and appeared to be healthy. Under usual circumstances, they served as natural barriers against the bitter winds that shaped the area. During times of war, however, they served well as a campsite.
! One such wooded area marked the location of an Arcanzian platoon. A group of five men had settled amongst the trees, shielded from the harsh weather surrounding them. They had also assumed the trees would guard them from a Vitrasbaen ambush.
! A young, red-haired woman perched herself amidst the towering treetops, far above the enemy platoon. She concealed her presence behind an abundant collection of branches and leaves. The darkening sky further assisting in her masking endeavor. Five of them, she thought to herself, taking mental notes on her targets, from their gender and armor, to their physical stature and manner of speech. She waited patiently, yet attentively, nested silently against the woody surface of the tree.
! "Oy, Captain," one of the five Arcanzian men whispered to the man in the center, barely audible to the woman. "What say you we make camp here?"
! "A wise idea," the captain answered. "We've got no sense if we tread forward under the blanket of night."
! "Good," a third man sighed in reciprocation before making a suggestion. "Shall Griego and I gather some timber for the fire? I suppose you three can handle the matter of pitching the tents."
! The captain nodded in response. The woman watched silently as the man's attention turned in her direction.
! "Hold it," the captain interrupted sternly as the two men turned to set out. "We're being watched."
! Just a few feet away from the platoon, the woman amongst the canopy stilled her breath, letting not a decibal of vibration escape her cold lips. Typical, her thoughts chided. She mentally rolled her eyes as she kept her physical pair upon the five men beneath her.
! "You there!" the captain bellowed loudly. "We know your position. Show yourself or we won't hesitate to kill you."
! The woman fought back a laugh. She was all too familiar with Arcanzian protocol. There had been many a time when a reconaissance team had been fooled by the enemy's bluff and given up its position. She scoffed at the thought of falling into such a trap. There were many a fool in the Vitrasbaen Army, but not her, she assured herself. Not General Alysa Brunhjart.
! The captain eased his shoulders and sighed in relief after a long pause "I guess there's nobody there after all. Carry on, men."
! What a bunch of idiots, Alysa smirked as she rose to her feet. She silently raised her right arm, her middle and index finger raised to the sky from her gauntlet-bearing hand. Her emerald eyes kept themselves glued to the two Arcanzian men who disappeared into the nearby trees to carry out their task. Certain that they were out of sight from their captain, she curled her outstretched fingers twice before outstretching her arm forward, as if pointing at the enemy. Immediately afterward, the sound of rustling was heard echoing through the trees.
! "Oy, Captain," the first soldier stammered. "What do you think that was?"
! The captain turned his attention away from the tent he was tending to and focused it to the east, his eyes squinting due to the stinging gusts of wind.
! "Probably a rabbit," he concluded after a pause. "Come now, Logan, lend me your aid in setting this-"
! Before his orders could be relayed, his head was lopped clean off its shoulders by a sharp, ornate rapier. Alysa had descended from the treetops above and silently approached her target without a moment's warning.
! "My captain!" Logan shouted in disbelief as he watched his leader's head fall to the cold and frosted-over earth beneath it.
! As the young Arcanzian moved to retaliate, Alysa ran her blade's cold steel through Logan's chest, accurately piercing his heart. In retaliation, the third soldier rushed to stop her, but his throat was quickly met by the blade of a young Vitrasbaen soldier. Alysa removed her blade from the dead soldier's sternum and turned her attention to the captive Arcanzian.
! “Hold him there,” she ordered her subordinate as two others emerged from the nearby trees.
! "Lady Alysa," the three men bowed as one spoke forth. "We've accomplished our mission."
! She surveyed her surroundings for a moment, shaking her head.
"Enough," Alysa sighed. "Once again, we fall for Arcanzia's tricks. These kids were green, unlike the large units of accomplished soldiers they've been sending. They mean to wear out our primary forces, it seems."
! "At least it was just the four of us, then," another of her soldier's pointed out.
! "Yet we were just recon," the final man argued. "General Brunhjart waits just north of here with a hundred men, ready for battle."
! Alysa cringed at just the mention of her father. She was still upset that the King would choose her father to be the leader of the operation, especially after the many strides she had made to achieve her current position.
! "Still, Sir Brahm won't be pleased to hear that we disobeyed orders again," the first soldier sighed.
! "Enough about that old codger," Alysa barked coldly, somehow much colder than the air about them. "The enemy is dead, end of discussion. Let us make haste to the rendezvous point.” She then turned to the captive soldier. “Bring the whelp with us. We can interrogate him once we return to Solocima."
! Without another word, the female swordsman sheathed her bloodied sword and turned back to the north. She clenched her fists with anger, fighting back the urge to scream in frustration. I don't care if I'm a woman. I swear I'll be better than you, old man.
! * * *
! >! A radiant light slipped through the holes that lined the thick, stone walls of Solocima Fortress. Despite the light appearing to give off a warm glow, the halls of the Fortress were colder than ever for the soldiers taking residence there. Many were bustling about in quest for blankets, while others huddled together for warmth. Such were the hardships faced by those inhabiting the Solocima Fortress.
! In one of the rooms within the fortress, Alysa sat alone on a slab of stone that jutted out from the wall, a glimmer of impatience in her emerald eyes. Under the cover of darkness, her appearance was concealed. Yet when bathed in light, one could see her physical features in a clearer light.
! Her hair was crimson red, combed to the sides and flowed like water to her shoulders. Her eyes were a piercing emerald green, yet her stare was as cold as an icy blue. Her skin was soft, and quite pale, giving off a cold aura, one that clashed with her hair's fiery glow. Both of her ears were adorned with elegantly crafted emeralds, a gift from her late mother.
! As a soldier in the employ of Vitrasbaen, Alysa naturally wore armor. However, while her peers dressed in a single plate mail, Alysa's armor was oft considered peculiar. Her chest was adorned with six or seven sheets of light but sturdy plate armor. Each layer was painted either black, silver, or maroon. Her shoulders were protected by a sheet of black steel. Her arms were bare, aside from cuffs of armor on her elbows, and a pair of fingerless gaultlets on her hands, all connected to her chestplates via leather straps.
! Despite her voluminous bosom being heavily armored, she bore a single layer of chainmail upon her abdomen, as well as a set of straps which connected her chest armor to her cuisses. Much like her arms, her legs were bare with a set of straps connecting her cuisses to a set of plated greaves.
! As she sat upon the stone slab, impatience bloomed across her face. After a few moments, her eyes darted their way to the room's entrance in response to the sound of footsteps growing ever louder. Sure enough, a man stepped through the door and into the little room. His face was warm and his long, shoulder-length hair a golden-blonde. His eyes were a calm blue and his armor, painted blue and silver, appeared thick and heavy.
! Upon entering the room, he nodded towards Alysa and took a seat on a wooden slab opposite Alysa.
! "How is your father?" the man asked, his voice calm and patient.
! Alysa rolled her eyes at the mention of her father before sighing, "He's still bedridden, as you are already aware."
! "I see," the man nodded quietly before clearing his throat, as well as the empathy from his voice. "There remains the matter of your recent rebellious phase, Lady General. I'm afraid I must-"
! "Spare me the trivialities, Christophe," Alysa interrupted with a scowl. "I know precisely what His Majesty insinuates. I've been here by my father's side in this fortress for three years. Now, my father falls gravely ill, and they send you to take his place?"
! "Lady General," the man sighed. "First, I am General Claymore to every soldier in this army. That includes you.”
! Alysa chided audibly at the thought of Claymore being her superior. Claymore took note of her insubordination, but continued.
! “Second, your conduct has been less than desirable. Just last month, you attacked that enemy camp, when your only mission was reconnaissance."
! "Hmph," Alysa scoffed. "If it were any of the male Generals, you'd be showering them in accolade."
! "Lady General, 'tis not the issue at hand. There is protocol that all soldiers must follow and-"
! And then Kaze appeared.
! "Your lies are as shallow as your skull," Alysa interrupted. "I know His Majesty's reason for sending you here is because I'm a woman. He thinks me unfit to lead this country's men, does he not?"
! "Lady General," Claymore repeated tersely. "You would do well to rend your tongue. You've been naught but trouble, and His Majesty grows fatigued with your reckless behavior.”
! Alysa rose to her feet as her face hardened. “Excuse me, General Claymore. You neglect to remember that I hold the rank of General myself. I am no longer your subordinate, but your equal. I will not allow you to continue belittling me.”
! “You may be a General in this army,” Claymore persisted, appearing to try Alysa's patience deliberately. “But dare I say the only reason for that is because of your fa-."
! "You will speak no more!" Alysa screamed, slamming her fist on the oaken table between them. "This conversation is done. Whether I be woman or not, I shall prove myself worthy. I will claim my father's head, mark those words. I am General Alysa Brunhjart, not 'Lady General'. You will recognize the weight of my blades in time, Christophe."
! Claymore sighed in futility as the young woman stormed out of the room, her face red with fury. She bolted through the frigid halls until she came to a doorway leading to a large balcony. She slammed her fists against the balcony railing as she clenched her teeth in spite. Alysa was no fool. She knew very well why she wasn't good enough for the title of General. She put the thought to rout and fixated her attention on the sight before her.
! The view from the balcony was spectacular. Crags of limestone and clay surrounded the fortress as trails of cloud and fog seeped around them. Far off into the horizon, one could see past the Solocima Massif and examine the lay of land surrounding them. To the north was a large gulf connected to the ocean. To the east, one could see the tundra and icy mountaintops of the Vitrasbaen Kingdom. To the west, the rocky, desert terrain of Arcanza was visible, distinguished reds and yellows against the grays and whites of the Massif. To the south, one could see the gentle green fields of Illumadia far into the distance.
! Taking in the scenery allowed Alysa to be at peace with herself, at least for the time being. Her troubles and qualms shuffled to the back of her memory as she absorbed the scenery. For just a moment, all of her anger subsided, whisked away by the gentle yet chilling breeze.
! "My daughter," came a raspy voice from behind her, interrupting her quiet solitude. "What brings you out here? You'll catch cold."
! "Lord Father," Alysa replied coldly without turning to face the man. "What keeps you from bedrest?"
! Brahm Brunhjart placed his gloved palm upon his daughter's shoulder, and joined her at the railing.
! "General Claymore spoke ill of you," the older gentleman replied, his eyes affixed to the crags towering from beneath them. "He said you had another tantrum."
! Alysa stared blankly at the clouds beneath her, not willing to look the man in his eyes. She would not answer his questions, either. The old man sighed before turning his gaze towards his daughter. She could feel his eyes as they gazed at her hair.
! Brahm sighed once more as he ran his rigid fingers through his daughter's hair. "Even as my flames turn to ash, your flames still burn as bright as ever."
! "What do you want?" Alysa interjected, annoyed by her father's small talk. "Go lie down, you old fool. Do you wish to die?"
! "I've served my purpose," the old man murmured thoughfully. "I'm no longer partial to the thought of death. What happens to me matters not."
! "So, you'd go so far as to pluck my dream from my grasp?" Alysa barked, her attention now belonging to her father.
! "You still want to kill me yourself?" Brahm challenged his daughter with a respectfully sarcastic tone. "Then draw your sword and do it now."
! "You old crone! Do you think killing a dying man will prove my superiority?"
! Brahm let out a hearty laugh, which infuriated his daughter, who did not pick up on her father's subtle commendation.
! "I will claim the head on your shoulders on your best days," she declared passionately. "Not when you're awaiting Dethskal'ing."
! Brahm stood before his daughter, silent yet stern, until a gentle voice beckoned to him.
! "Come, Lord Father," the voice encouraged. "You need rest."
! General Claymore and Brahm's son, Braig, came out to the balcony. Braig was tall and muscular, and wore a full suit of armor, sans the helmet. His hair was long and red, much like his sister's, only parted at the center. He looked much older than his elder sister, despite being eight years younger.
! "Ah, Braig," Brahm greeted. "I was just stepping inside. How goes the training?"
! Alysa watched as the three men went back inside the fortress. She sighed as the thought of Barron crossed her mind. Braig and he were identical, so it was impossible for her to not be reminded of that fateful day three years prior. The incident between her and Barron in the Salgrawood would forever leave a stain of guilt on her conscience. She turned her head away, but the vivid images imprinted into her mind, pouring out like words on parchment.
! >! "General Brahm!" a soldier cried as he bolted through the barracks' doors. "The Arcanzians have seized the ports! They make for the Salgrawood!"
! Salgrawood Fortress was especially turbulent as news of the impending Arcanzian invasion swept throughout the stronghold. Soldiers clamored right and left, searching for suitable armor and weapons. Inaudible shouts echoed acoustically as the voices of high-ranked men barked orders, futilly trying to contain the madness that had erupted.
! A young and warm-faced Alysa glanced at her father as she walked past his room. His hair was losing its last glimmer of red, and his eyes were slowly becoming solemn and distant with age. Worry spread across his face like wildfire, spreading across every ridge of his wrinkling skin. As he marched outside to rally the soldiers, Alysa frowned in concern before turning to return to the cellar. As she turned, she walked right into a tall boy with the same locks as fiery as her own.
! "Hey, be careful," he beamed as he put his hand on her shoulder.
! "Oh, Barron," Alysa replied with a smiled, her surprise dissipating. "It's you."
! The young boy smiled. Despite being five years younger than his sister, he was relatively larger and broader than her. His red hair parted in the center as Alysa's did and his eyes were the same glow of emerald.
! Alysa was the third of seven children. Her eldest brother, Brahm, had died pf illness at two months of age. The second child, Boris, had been killed by political extremists when he was seven. The fourth child, Bikks, died shortly after birth, while the fifth child, Berrick, had been murdered at the age of nine. Alysa was twenty years old. Her eldest surviving brother, Barron, was fifteen, of military age. Braig was twelve.
! "Looks like it's time for battle," Barron sighed as he slipped his hand into the gauntlet he was carrying, competing his suit of armor.
! "Can I come along?" Alysa asked with a devious smile.
! She would always sneak into Barron's training regiments and watch him grow, cheering him on. She sparred with him on occasion when no one was around, but never was allowed to fight properly, due to her being a woman. Despite being a woman, she was enticed by swordsmanship and the concept of war. Due to her adventurous nature, she longed to witness a battle first-hand and saw the upcoming battle an ideal opportunity.
! "Are you mad?" Barron scoffed as he adjusted his gauntlet. "This is a battlefield, Alysa. You'd be in danger."
! "Oh, come on," Alysa pried. "I'm good with a sword, aren't I? I can handle myself."
! "Alysa," Barron stated sternly. "People are going to die. 'Tis no place for a fair maiden. The sights you would see, they'd drive you mad."
! Alysa sighed as her brother grabbed his sword and swung it to get a feel for it. He pat his sister's head with his gauntlet-wearing hand before looking into her eyes once more.
! "Take care of Braig," Barron smiled. "Just in case."
! His words were foreign to her. Just in case? What does he mean by that? She pondered on it a bit as she saw him off, his platoon of warriors charging into the recesses of the Salgrawood. She just could not shake the awful feeling that lodged itself in the bottom of her stomach. She feared for Barron's well-being.
! He's not coming home, Alysa. He died in battle, I fear.
! The words danced around her being, prying at her like fingers, pinching away at the fabric of her sanity.
! "Lady Alysa?" one of the family maid's inquired, breaking her from thought. "Are you all right?"
! "I… I'm fine," Alysa responded, forcing a smile. “Prepare me a bath, if you would.”
! "I see," the maid nodded before attending to her request. "I will come for you when it is ready, my lady."
! That evening, Alysa buried herself in the warmth of the water, which seemed to melt all of her worries away−or rather, most of them. She could not quite shake the sensation that resided in the darkest corner of her conscience. She closed her eyes in concentration, trying to put the feeling to rout. She sighed as the feeling evaporated, but when she opened her eyes, the feeling rushed toward her, claiming every ounce of her being.
! She screamed as the warm liquid thickened around her skin. She watched in terror as the murky white wash faded into a deep scarlet. She found herself bathed in a pool of freshly-spilled blood. As she clamored to escape the tub of glistening blood, what she saw solidified her fear. Barron's corpse surfaced from the pool and bobbed on its surface, face down and lifeless. Alysa's scream reverberated throughout the barracks before she fainted in shock.
! "Lady Alysa!" cried a maid as she burst through the door. The sound of the maid's shriek tethered Alysa to consciousness. She struggled to open her eyes, but they betrayed her. She could not bring herself to glance upon the terrible sight that awaited her. "Lady Alysa, are you okay?" the maid asked as she touched Alysa's shoulder.
! Her body jerked upon the maid's touch. Her eyes rolled open in response as her hand instinctively reached out to her . What lay before her was a lukeworm bath, somewhat murky, but still colorless. "What?" she whispered in confusion. She stood up and dazedly cupped the water in her hands.
! "Lady Alysa, you were screaming," the maid explained as she wrapped the petrified woman in a towel. "What happened? Can I get you anything, m'lady?"
! Alysa was motionless as her chest heaved, forcing air in and out of its cavity. "No…," she whispered, still shook up from her hallucinations. "I... I'm fine..."
! "Are you sure?" the maid inquired, not fully convinced. "Something appears to be troubling you. Come now, you must be starving."
! "I said I'm fine!" Alysa shouted, betraying herself. She heaved a bit before finally calming her nerves. "I... need to lie down."
! Despite the maid's assurances, Alysa still could not shake her worry. As the maid escorted Alysa to her room, the image of a tombstone bearing her brother's name pushed its way into her mind and refused to leave. She saw herself standing over his grave with a bouquet of withered flowers hanging from her hand, tears running down her face. She could feel real tears welling up in her eyes, so she hastily blinked to prevent their escape.
! “Lady Alysa, can I get you anything else?” the maid interrupted, breaking Alysa from her ominous train of thought. They had reached Alysa's room.
! “No,” Alysa answered softly. “Thank you. You and the other maids are free to take the evening off.”
! The maid furrowed her brows, visibly concerned. “What of Young Master Braig?” she questioned. “I appreciate your benevolence, m'lady, but our duties are to ensure the Young Master's well-being in addition to your own. Besides, I worry for you, Lady Alysa. I am not privy to leaving you unattended in the barracks.”
! “Very well,” Alysa sighed, too drained to protest. “I will summon you if necessary. Thank you for your concerns.”
! The maid nodded respectfully and departed for the kitchen as Alysa turned to enter her room. She cracked the door a little and then quietly shut it.
! “I knew I'd find you here, my brother.”
! Alysa sighed as her memories claimed her.
! “Alysa, what are you doing here? These are the training grounds for the military! This is no place for a girl!”
“But I wanted to watch you train. You should know your place, Barron. I'm the elder child, after all.”
! Alysa turned and made sure the maid was out of earshot before silently sneaking away.
! “Hey, Barron?”
“What is it?”
“Do you think you can show me how to handle a sword? Father refuses to teach me.”
“Perhaps he has good reason, Alysa?”
“Come on, I can do it! Just show me, then I'll be as good as you.”
“I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, my sister. Swordsmanship takes years of practice.”
“Well, start showing me!”
“You aren't even supposed to be here!”
! Alysa arrived at the armory and quietly entered. None of the armor was suited for her body structure, so she tried to make do with sheets of steel, but she found it uncomfortable.
! “Ha… ha... Alysa, no more...”
“I beat you! Ha! Now I'm as good as you!”
“I hate to say it, my sister… But you are quite good with a sword... ha...”
! "I am good with a sword," she affirmed herself, deciding she was good enough to not get stabbed on the battlefield. “No need to weigh myself down, then.” She passed over the armor and pulled a sword from a barrel full of them and quietly left the barracks. After being certain that she was out of earshot of the barracks, she bolted into the Salgrawood, zooming past the lavender-leaved trees.
! "Please be alive, brother!" she cried as she pumped her legs forward with all of her might. “I'm coming to save you!”
! After running for many hours, Alysa happened upon the clearing that served as the battlefield. She smiled excitedly as she grabbed her sword, prepared to charge in.
! The adrenaline was quickly lost as her eyes fell upon the truth. The color drained quickly from her face. Expecting a romantic portrait of valorous men clashing steel with boiling conviction, what she found was a blood-painted canvas of their frozen corpses. She was paralyzed in fear at the sight of severed limbs and blood-soaked blades that littered the clearing. The stench of blood and gunpowder pervaded the air. The sounds of ringing metal and low moans hummed a requiem of sorrow. She was confused. She had grown up believing that the Vitrasbaen Army were proud, mighty warriors, unyielding even against gods. The fragile bodies of those infallible warriors lay before Alysa, mangled and maimed by the likes of lesser men. Her vision of dignified men pushing forward through a sea of opposition was crushed by the imagery that she beheld.
! "Barron!" she cried as the severity of the situation bore into her psyche. "Where are you?"
! "My sister?" came a voice to her left.
! She gasped in relief to see her brother among the survivors. He had fended off the Arcanzian soldiers that pursued him before turning his gaze towards his sister, who dashed towards her brother with tears of joy and relief filling her eyes.
! "No!" he shouted in horror. "Don't come!"
! It was too late. Alysa had tripped an unseen wire which triggered a trap that consisted of several shards of shrapnel. Before she could react, the entire area was met with a flurry of razor-sharp material raining down from the trees above them. While most of the armored units were unaffected by the trap, the unprotected Alysa was met with several shards of cold steel tearing into her skin, in several places throughout her body. The intense pain and the feeling of blood escaping from the newly-created orifices served as a catalyst for shock. Alysa let out a piercing scream as she fell to the ground, writhing in pain.
! "Alysa!" Barron shouted in agony as he ran to her side. He held her in his arms as she felt her consciousness fading. He glanced up and down her body worriedly, hoping she wasn't fatally injured. To his relief, he sighed. "Thank the Goddess. They're mere flesh wounds. Nothing fatal. But you're losing a lot of blood."
! "Brother," Alysa struggled to gasp. "I… came to protect you. Now, let's... go home..."
! "You speak nonsense," Barron chided. "It's my duty to protect you! I'm the soldier here!"
! An Arcanzian soldier had caught sight of the preoccupied siblings and tried to take advantage of their lack of attention, charging forward to deliver the killing blow upon them. Alysa noticed his approach, and struggled to her feet, pushing her brother to the ground.
! "No, brother," Alysa said insistedly as determination glazed her eyes. "I will protect you this time. I may... be a woman..."
! Barron shouted, his words inaudible to her, as Alysa grasped her sword and pointed it forward. She breathed heavily and writhed in stinging pain from the shards of metal that shredded into her flesh, yet she kept composure as she concentrated upon her foe.
! "Alysa, no!"
! "I may... be a woman..." she struggled to say as the Arcanzian soldier charged forward.
! "Alysa! Cease this! Your sword will shatter!"
! His pleas had met with deaf ears.
! "But, I can still fight!" she screamed as she fixed her eyes on the charging enemy. "Watch me, brother."
! She tightened her grip on her sword and locked her elbows. She tried to recall her brother's lesson on sword-fighting posture, but her focus was on her charging enemy. Her heart thumped heavily as time began to slow.
! As the soldier swung his blade, Alysa closed her eyes, bracing herself for impact. She heard the sound of steel as it clashed with steel. She heard the sound of armor crumbling under the weight of her enemy's blade. She felt the warmth of her blood splash her face. Yet, she felt no pain. She could not even feel where the sword tore through her body. No... the sword hadn't pierced her at all! She opened her eyes to witness what had truly happened.
! "I... will... prote..." Alysa stammered as the sight before her sank in.
! Her brother coughed up blood as he fell to the cold earth beneath him. The soldier fell not far behind him, his abdomen having met the icy steel of Barron's cutlass.
! "Brother!" Alysa screamed, her voice piercing the heavens themselves as she fell to her knees in anguish.
! A light drizzle began to drop onto the battlefield as Alysa crawled over to her brother's lifeless body and wrested his sword from his cold hand.
! "But... why?" she gasped as tears flooded from her sullied face. "I'm the... eldest child... I should be the one... protecting you! Is it... because I'm a woman...?"
! "Alysa..." Barron managed to gasp. "I'm..."
! "Brother!" Alysa gasped, tightly clenching the hilt of his blade. "You're still among us?"
! "...so...sor...sorry..."
! Time stopped entirely as Barron Brunhjart received Dethskal'ing from the Goddess. Alysa buried her tears into her brother's chest. Her “rescue mission” had ultimately been her brother's demise. She sobbed for several minutes as the rain intensified, soggying the earth beneath Alysa's knees. She weakly raised her brother's sword to the sky as her hand shook violently.
! "I'm not deserving," she said with an unnatural calmness. "I'm not deserving of this."
! She closed her eyes and thrust the sword downward. It penetrated the fragile layer of soil that was now muddied with moisture. She lifted herself to her feet and pulled the sword to eye level. An intense wave of determination splashed into her from every angle. She felt the need to change.
! "I am not deserving of being treated a woman," she shouted with new-found willpower. "I will learn the sword and carry your burden, my brother. I will prove my hand is as good as any man's! I will prove that I am capable of protecting what I must! Even if I have to rend my own father's head from his proud shoulders to prove myself to His Majesty, I will. Even when the Goddess comes bearing Dethskal'ing, I will not accept it unless I have proven my hand is worthy of a blade! Mark my words, Barron! I will protect Braig. I will protect this kingdom.” Alysa paused as she wiped her tears and gritted her teeth. “I... I... will make you proud, my brother."
! By the time her vows were complete, the rain had intensified to a heavy downpour as she raised her face to the sky above. The rain fell upon her face like daggers as she welcomed them uncaringly. She would bear any pain, wear any shame, to fulfill her vow. She washed her old face away as a new Alysa burst forth.
! >! A single tear escaped Alysa's eye as she touched the symbols that spelled out Barron Brunhjart's name. His tombstone had been left untouched over the past three years; even now, the grave looked lonely as ever. Even with the passage of time, it would not do for her to leave it unkempt. She gently placed a wreathe of Salgrawood lilies upon her brother's final resting place; it was the least she could do. She sighed heavily as she turned her focus to the large group of people a few graves over. Alysa stared coldly from beneath her black bonnet as Brahm Brunhjart's casket was lowered into the family's private cemetary in Osvarden.
! Alysa was upset, but would not allow herself to reveal it. That day on the balcony some three weeks ago had been the last time she ever spoke to her father. He had fallen unconscious that night, and finally passed sixteen days later. General Claymore managed operations in Solocima as Alysa and Braig attended the funeral.
! Alysa remained detached from the circle of mourners as she leaned against a tree, a good amount of distance between them. She slid to her knees as tears began to well up inside her. She thought back to her final conversation with her father- the things that were said, the anger she had felt, her father's smug face. As she recalled that day, it began to dawn on her that her goal had been snatched away from her by the Goddess. The one thing that had kept her going for three years had now been forcefully wrenched from her grasp. For the first time since her brother's death, Alysa pushed aside her unwavering desire to appear strong and wept in sorrow. She told herself that she was crying because her dream had been shattered. Her life no longer served any purpose. She was now a woman without a goal, a warrior without a dream. That was the reason for her tears, not the loss of her father. She even this lie unconditionally.
! >! As Alysa returned to Solocima, spring was setting in and the air had grown somewhat warmer, though it was still chilly. She waltzed into Claymore's room to report her return.
! "Ah, good morning, Lady General," Claymore greeted as she entered. "Just the woman I wanted to speak to."
! "You going to lecture me for returning early?" Alysa snapped with cold eyes.
! "No," Claymore answered flatly, somewhat annoyed by her routine accusations. "The Arcanzians have entered the Massif again."
! "Oh?" Alysa inquired, her interest piqued. "You finally going to let me lead a squad into the forest?"
! "No need," Claymore cut her off. "I sent about a dozen cadets."
! "Cadets?" Alysa questioned as her eyes widened. "Are you mad?"
! "The enemy has been launching their own cadets," Claymore sighed condescendingly. "There was no need to send our highest ranking soldiers after a bunch of green children, wouldn't you agree?"
! "You fool!" Alysa shouted in retaliation as she slammed her hands on Claymore's desk. "And if the Arcanzian's send a General, what would you do? You'd have cost us the war!"
! "Lady General, I can assure you, the Arcanzian's numbers are dwindling," Claymore answered calmly. "Why else would they be sending moppets? We've already exhausted their main forces."
! "They intend to ruse us!" Alysa burst. "Lord Father would have never fallen for such a childish trick!"
! Claymore opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a voice in the hall. "General Claymore!" a red-faced messenger panted heavily as he barged into the room. "The Arcanzians… they've deployed fifteen hundred men under General Cortez!"
! "You jest..." Alysa stammered as she and Claymore realized the gravity of the latter's mistake. She turned to face her “superior” as rage brewed inside of her. "Christophe, you damned fool!"
! "I...," he tried to speak before rubbing his temples. Alysa could see the color flushing from his skin as he carefully contemplated his words, unwilling to make another mistake. "Take a thousand men, Lady General. Intercept the cadets and take charge of the situation."
! "I only need a hundred," Alysa scoffed, having already fastened her blade to her side. She flicked the red hair from her eyes before cocking an illuminated smile. "Just for the record, I'm holding you responsible for this, 'chief'.” Her final word dripped with jest, which caused the on-looking messenger to wince.
! Claymore sighed for a moment before hesitantly nodding. “Do whatever you want.”
! Alysa smiled as victory flourish across her face. “Now then. Let me show you how this Fortress is run. The Brunhjart way."