In the Kingdom of the Blind, the One-Eyed are Kingsby dagobahgreenChaptersA DóA TríA CeathairA CúigA HaonA DóAuthor's Note Wow, five years. A lot has changed. I’ve changed, but I still want to finish this story. Debating on whether to change this from a second person to a first person story. Let me know what you think. A Dó The bead of sweat starts from the top of your scalp, slowly beginning it’s decent, trailing down your forehead, to the tip of your nose, and falls to the ground. Your ears are greeted with the sound of a sharp hiss, as the drop evaporates within moments from its journey. You, can only give it a quick glance, before tearing your eyes back in front of you. Being able to withstand heat was always an integral part of training at the Hive’s military academy. Living in the wastland, and it’s unforgiving climate made life hard, which meant that all who called it home were forced to adapt and survive. The Great Souhthern Wasteland, Palingar, put it’s inhabitants to the test everyday, and you excelled when tested. But even you have begun to reach your limits. You feel a grimace tug on your jaw, as one of your hands clutches the broken shaft of the arrow that protrudes from your side. In hindsight, breaking the arrow so roughly may not have been the smartest idea, as the head may have caused more tearing beneath the tissue. The Bossk usually barb their arrow tips, to cause as much internal damage to their enemies as possible, and the agony you currently felt was self evident of that fact. Honestly, though, you don’t have much to compare it to, since you never been shot before. You’ve sustained many injuries during your time in the Army of the Hive, and even more since becoming the Breag Naofa, from cuts and slashes, to broken bones and a busted scalp, but nothing compares to the feeling of a Bossk barbed arrow ripping through your body. The feeling is hellish. Hell... The dead look in the private’s eye flashes in your mind for a second; thoughts of the battle and it’s aftermath linger. The screams, the smells, the blood, the shit and piss and cries of mercy are resounding through your mind. For a second, you couldn’t tell which pain, the mental or physical, was more unbearable, before the arrow’s shaft draws your gaze again. You look down, and notice the faint outlines of blood seeping through your appendages, hardening your gaze even more. “Damn,” you mutter to yourself, as a the dull throb from you side morphs into a sharp pain. You don’t have the medical supplies to tend to this wound as throughly as you would like, and the closest fort, Fort Heshen, was still leagues away. Fort Heshen. You would have stearn words with the Commander there, considering how much of a disaster this battle turned into. This wasn’t the Hive’s first resource war; you’ve fought in two of them, as well as the countless battles and skirmishes amongst the Wasteland, but it was the first conflict in years with a foreign power that wasn’t a rival Hive. You knew fighting the Bossk of the Gem Vale wasn’t a wise descision, and as the Breag Naofa of Palingar, you made your opinion known amongst the Lord’s of the war council. You pleaded with Chrissy, yourself. Chrissy....... What must she be thinking right now? News from stragglers or other survivors must’ve reached Fort Heshen by now, which would mean that word must’ve made it to the Capital. Would she think you’re dead? Are they sending others to come collect our fallen? The battle took place in sovereign Bossk territory, so word must’ve reached their land’s capital, as well. Maybe they’d come to collect their dead with an army at their backs? You sigh in frustration, as the reality of the situation dawns upon you. This wasn’t just a disaster, this was a monumental fuck up. Bracing yourself, you take a deep, ragged breath before continuing onward, using a dead Bossk’s spear as a walking staff. Having discarded your armor in favor of the torn and dust caked tunic and robes your wore beneath, you tighten the sword belt that’s strapped onto your torso, and walk towards the direction of Fort Heshen, the sun ever bright and hot, burning you as your journey begins. You can only pray that you can survive the journey. Maybe it would’ve been better if you died on that field with your soldiers. With your friends. So many good Changelings dead... You cast one last forlorn look over your shoulder, wondering whether it was cruel of you to have not buried at least one. ======================================== It’s by the seventh lick that it dawns on you that you’re only making the blisters on your lips worse. No matter how temporary the relief is, you force yourself to keep your tongue back in your mouth. Can you blame yourself, though? It’s been hours of walking under the scorching sun, with no food or water. Food, you could live without for the time being. The carnage of the battle would probably stay your appetite for days, but the lack of water was becoming worrying. Your father always told you during training that you could last weeks without food, but no less then a day without water in the heat of Palingar. You reach down, and grab your meager water flask, trying to pour the last few drops from the bottom to slate at least the tip of your tongue, but after giving it a stiff shake, you place the cork back in place, your thirst burning within you. Your back lays resting against the side of a large rock, while you lean your head back to enjoy the meager shade. As far as you know, there was still at least 20 leagues of wasteland separating you from Fort Heshen, and the territory you were currently in was technically considered frontier lands from the border. Heat aside, Hiveless Changeling marauders was a danger in these parts, as well all Bossk slavers. Your wounds, especially the arrow, would stop you from putting up a strong fight, but if you must, you’d gladly die in battle before a slaver puts chains on you. You would die in battle, just like your father, and his father before him. Maybe deep down that’s all you ever want. Bah, that’s just the heat of wasteland twisting your thoughts. A good death could wait. You have Changelings depending on you back home, a queen waiting for your return. You can’t die just yet. A noise from the distance catches your attention. At first, you think it’s just the wind passing through amongstthe rocks around you, that you barely give it any mind. The sound, though becomes sharper, the glittering of the wind morphing into a low, but distinct buzz. Now your attention is fully grasped. That’s not the wind, but the fluttering of wings. Changeling wings. Forcing yourself to a crouching position, trying your best to ignore the screaming relunctance of your body, you move behind the cover of the rock to get a good look at the horizon. Squinting, you strain your eyes to the east, the direction that which you think the noise is coming from. And then you them. A small, black cloud in the distance. Too far to determine their banners, but judging by the size And formation in the air, they were definitely military affiliated. A descion has to be made, now. Marauders or not, they probably had water or food, which without you would die anyway. Fuck it, when they get close enough, you would flag them down.You just need to see their banners. Which house, Hive or Lordship do they hail from? Turning back to them, you notice something that makes your heart sink. “They’re turning around!” You exclaim to yourself, watching as the back cloud of Changelings rotates and heads back they way it came! Damn the consequences, you need to get their attention. Drawing your sword and extending it outward, you try to catch the sunlight on your blade, and flash it towards the group! Yo wave the sword frantically while the cloud still moves away from you. It could be too late. You’re too far. They just don’t notice you. “Damnit all! Come back! Please!” You hoarsely shout to the horizon, “ by the Old Gods, come back!” Your hands tighten around the hilt of the sword, the scabs on your knuckles tearing by the amount of pressure you grasp it with, before with a long, guttural shout, you toss your sword has far as you can. It sails through the ground, slunking into the sand with a soft thud. You fall back to your knees, slamming a fist against the ground. The arrow wound in your side bleeding even more, now. You hear it again, the buzzing sound getting louder! Tearing your head back up, you notice the sword gleaming with a brilliant light, shining across your face, and towards the distance. The back cloud of Changelings have changed directions again! They’re coming straight to you at an slanting pace! For the first time in days, a great, joyful smiles spreads across your lips as a cry of laughter and fatigue escapes your mouth! You see the banners they approach more clearly. A lions head, atop a wyrms body, surrounded by seven stars. It was the seal of St. Gnosis! The seal of the Hive! As they get closer, you can identify the number and ranks of the Changelings. Three Knights, seven Privates, surprisingly a Lord Commander bearing the insignia of St. Gnosis, flanked by two Thrones were barreling towards you at an alarming pace. Your elation is so strong, you feel a faint dizziness in your head, as stumble to catch your footing. You sit back down, to conserve your strength, awaiting the arrival of the group. Within minutes the Changeling group lands mere yards away from you, proceeding towards you on hoof! “My Lord, are you alright, sir?!” The Lord Commander shouts at you, galloping as fast as he could over to you. “I-I’ll live for now, but I have wounds that need attention,” you reply, placing your hand back against your side,” do you have any water?” “Here, my Lord, take some of mine,” one of the Privates says, pulling his water flask from his side and offering to you. You take it and drink as deeply as you can, forcing you into a coughing fit. You don’t care, the water is worth the temporary discomfort. “Let me see that wound, Sir,” one of the knights says, coming closer to inspect the portruding shaft. You nod your head in thanks to the private, moving your hand out of the way, allowing the knight to inspect the damage. “Take a seat, my Lord, relax a bit,” the knight says, a concerned look on his face,” this may take a bit, and hurt a lot.” You nod head again. “Do what you have to do.” As the knight tends to your wound, the rest of the soldiers begin to form a perimeter around you, while the Lord Commander settles down across from you. “You looke beat to Tartarus, Anon,” the Lord Commander says, giving you a look over. You can only weakely chuckle, flinching in pain when the knight touches the arrow shaft. “I lived through Tartarus, Vhelen,” you mutter weakly,” did any others make it back to the Fort?” “A few, mostly message bringers,” Vhelen stated, taking a quick drink for his own water flask,” not many actual fighters, though. A defeat wasn’t the war council had in mind.” Hurt and anger well up within your heart hearing that. “Damn the war council and all it’s shit, I told everyone that this assault was a mistake!” “Please keep still, my Lord,” the knight chastises,” you’re going tear the wound even further.” “I’m sorry, Anon,” Vhelen raises his hooves in submission, is armor creaking from the sudden movement ,” you know that I sided with you during the arguments of concerning this. We were all just following the council’s orders!” “We’ll bring the council down here, and have them look at the fucking mess they made of this!” You exclaim in fury. “Sir, please settle down!” You couldn’t help but let your emotions get the better of you. Everything was coming back to you, all the previous thoughts of the battle. It infuriated you. You take a few deep breaths to gather your composure. “A lot of good soldiers died for this fools errand, I want them all buried with honors for this, Vhelen,” you say to him, averting your gaze to the horizon where the battlefield lie. “Of course, Breag Naofa,” the Lord Commander stated, “these soldiers will be placed in the catacombs with full honors.” “Good,” you say, grunting, as the knight tending to your wound retracts his hoof. “The arrow is barbed, my Lord, I’m afraid we are going to have to cut it out,” the knight says, cleaning blood from his hoof on the side of his cloak, “ infection would most likely be setting in, so I would advise that we remove the arrow as soon as possible.” “We won’t make it back to the fort before nightfall,” the Lord Commander states, casting his gaze to the sun,”it’ll be dark soon, and this rocky outcrop seems to be the best cover for miles.” “We’ll make camp here, then?” One of the other knights asks,” aren’t we too exposed out here?” The Lord Commander shakes his head. “We have no other choice.” The previous knight places a hoof shoulder while the Lord Commander removes his cloak and lays it on the ground. “Lie down my Lord, I’m sorry to say but this will not be a pleasant experience.” A grimace once again encompasses your face, as you struggle to lay against the hard ground. You lean your head back, closing your eyes, readying your body for your on coming suffering. “Let’s get this over with.” A Trí“Writhing in this skin As bullets pierce the flesh, the tears begin to flow Empty clips and desperate hands Defeat is all that I know” —Northless A scream escapes your mouth, tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes, as the cut of the blade digs deeper and wider against your side. “By Gnosis, hold him down tighter!” A voice shouts out, followed by the weight of four sets of hooves on your arms and legs. This is torture. This is hell. “Knight Cathal, you’re killing him!” The Lord Commander yells, placing his hooves across your chest to keep you in place. The Knight medic, Cathal, places the blade of his cutting instrument deeper into your arrow wound, opening it further. Blood drips across your side, as another torrent of pain washes over you. “My Lord, the arrow is barbed,” Cathal exclaims,” I have to cut deep enough that we can pull it out! To simply rip it out of him in its present state would cause more harm then good!” He reaches down into his bag and pulls out a small strap of leather, while the flickering of the firelight dances across his face, catching the glow within his pale, blue eyes. You feel sweat seeping from your pours, your mind in a delirium. Turning to and fro, you can make out the rest of the camp, you banner flickering in the night breeze, the rest of the soldiers not holding you down looking at the erratic scene happening before them. The stars in the sky are so bright, and the moon so full, you feel like you could reach out and grab them for yourself, before another jolt of hot, searing paint tears through your body. “Bite down on this, my Lord,” Knight Cathal says softly, offering the tattered, worn strap to your mouth,” it well keep you from biting off your tongue.” Shakily, you open your mouth, accepting musky, worn strap of leather into your mouth, and biting down in anticipation of the pain. “ Is there much more?” Vhelen asks, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. He and Cathal having long since discarded their armor, standing in their tunics and light robes. “There is still one spot of barbed tip that’s hooked into tissue that I’ll need to cut free,” Cathal states, pointing his hoof towards a knotted mass of flesh on the left side of your torn wound,”everyone best hold him still. The pain will only be for a moment, Breag Naofa, please just hold on a little longer.” You feel a hoof stroke your hair, in attempt to soothe you as best they could. A pained look crosses your face, your cracked lips forming a tight grimace. “I’m sorry, sir, I will try to make this as quick as possible.” You shudder a sigh, closing your eyes and nod your head. Everything happens within a quick succession. The slash is made, deep and quick, blood teaming from the wound. As the cut is made, Cathal digs into the crimson folds of the wound with a pair of iron pliers, grabbing the tip of the barbed arrow head, and giving it a solid, hard tug before it dislodged from your body. You don’t know whether to feel relieved or in agony, only whimpering behind the leather strap in your mouth. “Quickly, bring me some bandages from my bag, as well as the jug of wine!” Two of the privates rush over to grab the necessary items, while the four encircling around hold you down even tighter, trying in vain to quell your thrashing. Cathal grabs the wine bag, and begins pouring it over the wound, causing a burning sensation in the already throbbing area, tightly bandaging it with the clean white cloth. The cloth reminds you of the one you found for the dying private on the battlefield. The irony it would be if it was the same one. “F-fuck,” you gasp out, all the tense muscles in your body finally relaxing, falling back in the comfort of the cloak below you. It feels soaked with sweat and blood, and sticking to your back. Turning towards Vhelen, who was in the process of cleaning his hooves, you give him a tired, strained smile. “I-I’m gonna have to g-get you a new cloak, V-Vhelen,” you stuttter out between ragged breaths. The Lord Commander gives off a rueful chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll hold you to that, my Lord.” You attempt to sit up, before Cathal pushes you back down gently, careful to avoid the ragged hole in your side. “Easy, Breag Naofa, we still need to stitch up the hole, but for now we will have to make do with the bandages. We dont want you to tear the clotting later with any sudden movements.” Though you feel annoyed by having to remain lying down, you see the sense in what he said. Your still feel dizzy and sick in the stomach, and prefer to not vomit in front of the soldiers. You hate to admit, but you feel shamed for crying out so much, for being injured in general. You are the Breag Naofa, the guardian of the Hive and of Palingar! Guardian and Warmonger of Queen Chrysalis, head of the House Giollachríst, and Lord of Gallow Falls, your family’s ancestral home. Your shame grows even deeper. You were meant to set an example for the soldiers around you, in restraint, in conviction and screamed like a new born drone when the arrow was ripped from you. The urge to apologize is at the tip of your tongue, you can feel the words about to slip out, before you clasp your mouth shut. Apologizing for being in pain, is a sign of weakness; You are not weak. Against the protest of the others, you ignore the pain in your side and force yourself to stand up, trying your best not wobble or stumble in front of the men. “My, shirt, please,” you say in general to the amasses group, waiting for one of them to make the first move. One of the privates, young and eager, spring boys to your meager pile of belongings and swiftly pulls your shirt from the stack, hurrying it over to you. “Here, My Lord,” the young Private says, a bright smile across his face. His inexperience shows in the look he gave you, the gleam of his bright fangs catching the fire light. You take the shirt, struggling to put it on without agitating your wound. “Thank you, private.....?” “Michan, sir!” The young private Michan interjects, offering a sharp salute, his body becoming rigidly disciplined. Oh yes, he’s fresh blood, alright. His stance and posture just screamed green. He wouldn’t have lasted five minutes into the battle. Shaking the thought from your head, you return the salute, turning your head to face the rest of the group. “I want the names and ranks of all present, besides Knight Cathal, the Lord Commander, and the Private Michan. Line up!” At once, the entourage of soldiers line in front of you. A burly Changeling with heavy, ebony armor steps up, his house crest etched into the chest plate and greaves of equipment. “My Lord, I am Throne Bhan, attendant to the Lord Commander, as well as my brother,” the Changeling, Bhan, points to the second Throne standing next to him who offers a crisp salute as well, his armor and crest matching,” we are both of House Valath.” “Good to have you two here. House Valath breeds strong warriors.” The two puff their chests out in pride. Lord Vhelen steps up, pointing to the three remaining people Privates. “These three are Torq, Vlenish and Gen, Frey, fresh soldiers who volunteered to assist in the search for survivors.” The three other Privates beat their hooves across their chest, a grunt salute. The armor they wore was standard issue hardened ebony plates, bare of any house crests. “At ease, soldiers,” you reply, waving your hand, before turning back to Vhelen,”where are three other Privates, and the two knights. “Currently scouting the area. Since we are exposed our here, they are doing their rounds, making sure no others stalking about the area.” Satisfied with the answer, you move over to the makeshift table assembled in the middle of the camp, grabbing one of the water bladders and taking a deep, long drink. Offering it to Michan, ruffling the top of his green mane, to share amongst his comrades, you turn towards the group again. All of their eyes are locked towards you, awaiting your next order. Drawing your sword, you plant it into the ground, leaning upon it for support. “Now please, can someone tell me what the hell the situation is back home.” ======================================== (POV change: Chrysalis 3rd person) She was pacing the room for so many hours now, waiting for any kind of word to reach her, that her attendants were worried she’d make a hole in the floor. Within the last few days, she barely ate anything, barely talked with anyone, besides her advisors or members of the war council. She would remain in her room for the most part, leaving only when returning messengers would, and departing when no new word would come from Fort Heshen. Communication with the fort had been silent, while the assault on the Gem Vale border was in motion, and every day of silence only worsened her mood. By now, she was furious with Anon! How dare he not relay word in for long, and worry his queen! Worry. That’s what she felt the most, aside from her anger towards him. Every time he went out into battle, she worried and fretted, and every time he came back with another injury, she would scold his recklessness and stupidity, but would always give a silent prayer to Gnosis for his safe return. He always came back. To his people. To her. She felt the knot grow lighter in her stomach, as the loud clock in her chambers ticked the minutes away, a constant reminder that time was flowing, and word had still not reached her. It seemed that as the seconds grew longer, the damned machine would only get louder, and louder. She couldn’t take it anymore as she released a scream of annoyance, her jagged horn flaring up, as she released a pulse of magic, causing the clock to explode into hundreds of small, wooden splinters. She huffed a shallow breath, straining to regain her composure, feeling tears beginning to well her eyes. I knew that this was a fool’s errand to accomplish, she thought to herself, her glare hardening even tighter, before her horn flared again, opening the two giant, oak doors and entering into the hallway. Three of her servants were waiting outside already, startled by the loud noise and yell from their queen’s chamber, clamoring towards her. “My, queen! Are you al—“ one of the servants only managed out before the Chrysalis shoved through them, leaving them a confused pile on the floor. I should have never trusted the damn war council! The pressure for a sustainable food source had been growing more and more dire, especially since the failed invasion of the Kingdom of Equistria ended in such a disaster as it did. The second she was expelled from that land, with a third of the Grand Army of Gnosis scattered with her, she knew her power begun to slip. The moment news reached the capital, Great Houses of ancient Changeling families separated from the Hive, taking with them precious resources and troops with them. It took Anon months, with the blood of hundreds of her Changelings, her children, to unite the Kingdom of Palingar again. Maybe if Anon has been part of the invasion to begin with, there wouldn’t have been a reunification war at all. Anon..... She needed him now. With her. At her side. She continued down the hall in a rush, passing by countless rooms and corridors of the royal palace, the destination clear in her mind. Straying from her usual path from the last few days, the Intelligence Room, she made her way to meet with who could be described as the most important, and yet, most loathed member of the Heirarchy of the Hive: the Chamberlain. For many years, the Hive had relied on the wealth that the Chamberlain and his house, Turlough, and bestowed. Their lands held some of the last fertile soil within the Wasteland, along with access to the only river running through the Northern Territory. He held a stake in providing more then a quarter of the army’s soldiers single hoovedly, and reveled in the power and control he extorted over the others under his domain. If the Unification War had gone in a different direction, he would have been the first to overthrow her, and had the power to take control of Palingar for himself. But he didn’t. Instead, he remained loyal to her, and fought with Anon the hardest to bring the Kingdom back from the brink. Why, she didn’t know. Maybe a part of him believed in the ancient laws, laid down by St. Gnosis himself, in obedience to the sovereign Queen. Maybe, the deep, cruel part of him inside enjoyed the chase of taking the throne, and saw the war as to easy. That there would be no fun in it. All she knew, was that the Kingdom was in great debt to him and his house, and he requested a meeting with her. A meeting she could not refuse. She— “My Queen!” A shout peirced her train of thought, as she turned to look down the hallway which led to the Intelligence Room. A knight was galloping towards her at break neck speeds, before slamming to a halt in front of her. “What, what is it,” she asked, a small but annoyed tone creeping behind the words. “Forgive my intrusion, My Queen, but word has come back Heshen,” the Knight breathed out between huffs. Chrysalis’s eats shot up, her eyes widening momentarily. Finally, the word she had been waiting for! The damned Chamberlain could wait, she needed to hear this news, and a not a moment later! “What are you waiting for then, soldier, tell me at once what has happened!” The nobles and soldiers within eat shot began to form by the knight, also curious of the news. Catching his breath, the Knight turned to look at his queen, his glorious queen, in the eye, seeing the reflection of anticipation within her irises. He averted his eyes, moving them to the floor, not wanting to see the disappointment within her eyes, shaking his head forlornly. “It was a massacre, my queen. Ours and their forces were decimated.” The glimmer of hope that any good news that Chrysalis held into shattered within her heart. The tears she fought so hard against before threatening to form again. “A-and, w-what of the Breag N—Naofa?” The knight had no choice, he had to look his grace in the eye. “He is feared dead, your Grace.” Author's Note Wow, another chapter is out. I think I’m getting my groove back. Please point out any horrible spelling mistakes, I’m gonna need to find an editor soon. More backstory will be explained next chapter! A CeathairConsequently, shrinking soul, turn on your heels and go back before penetrating further into such uncharted, perilous wastelands." — Maldoror,Part I, Chapter 1 The heat from the sun does not seem as unbearable as it was the day before, as you and your troop marched across the rocky terrain. Though the trip would’ve been faster by flight, the Lord Commander had his soldiers walk along the ground besides you out of respect. Even if you weren’t injured, you would’ve never accepted to be carried out of pride. You are the Breag Naofa: it was to you to carry, not to be carried. Every other step or so, a sharp stab of pain would pulse through your side, which began to frustrate you more and more as time went on. The mutations you went through when becoming the Breag Naofa should’ve, in theory, dampened your pain receptors, allowing you to keep fighting for longer periods of time despite your injuries that you would sustain, yet here you were, days after the battle, and still moaning over the arrow wound that you received. You had to toughen up, the Hive doesn’t need a weakling as it’s protector. "Are you feeling any better, My Lord?" Private Michan's voice interrupted your thoughts, as you turned to look down at the Changeling to your side. Out of most of the soldiers that you've seen an fought with on the fields of battle, Michan was easily one of the smallest drones that you've seen. While most soldiers Came to about below your chest, Michan's head came to rest just below stomach, and that was the added height of the armor that he proudly wore. Though it's wrong to assume is his worth by his size alone, you came to wonder how Michan even passed through the intense training that Changeling soldiers had to go through. You would have to see him in action to gain a measure of his worth, but in the meantime, you would give the young private the benefit of the doubt , and allow him to prove himself. "Yes, private, I'm feeling much better than before. Thank you for your consideration." "It's no problem, My Lord! When we get back to the fort, can I get you anything? Maybe some wine? Or some mead? Oh, down in the kitchens they make the best--" "Private Michan! Quit pestering the Breag Naofa!" The Lord Commander bellowed, causing the Private's ears to lie flat against the side of his head. For the briefest moments, a look of hurt crossed the young Changelings face, before forcing a stoic grimace in it's place. "My apologies, sirs," Michan stated flatly, giving a crisp salute, and marching in line with the rest of the privates, who began conversing amongst themselves at his return. You silently watch the young Changeling leave, wondering if you should come to his defense. "The boy didn't mean any offense by it," You said, as you picked up the pace, Vhelen matching the speed in your strides," He was just excited, is all. This his first mission out?" "I Know, I know, I shouldn't have snapped at him so harshly," Vhelen replied, regret in his tone, "He's a fresh amongst the rest of the troop we had here, as well as numerous others who have joined us at the fort. You know, since the....ill tidings of the battle that's just passed. Then again, you're already aware of the situation at hoof." Yes, you were. The amount of bad news that you had received last night was enough to sour your appetite this morning, as well as leave a pit in your stomach. The attack on the border of the Gem Vale stood to gain nothing in it's hopes of returning any sort of good investment to the Hive. The gems that the War Council thought could be used to artificially store Love, your people's main source of nutrients, were present at the village that you intended to sack. There wasn't even a village, or mine at all. What should have been a small mining town, home to Storage Crystals used in the preserving of magical energies, was instead a well armed and manned fort, home to not just ordinary soldiers, but King Ector's personal host of Knights of Arkon. What should have been a quick pillage, escalated to a minor siege, one that your troops were not prepared to make. So, knowing the odds of besieging a fortified fort with such low numbers, far from a fort of your own and it's supplies, you were forced to do one of the things that you hated most: Fleeing. And so you fled, with a host of Knights in pursuit, due to shitty planning on the Council's part. Or maybe, was it sabotage? The location, the planning, the execution, none of it seemed to sit well with you, the more that dwelled on it. You knew that the Queen was not as favored as she once was in the prime of her rule, but to openly sabotage plans and instill a massacre on their own soldiers? "My Lord, we are approaching the fort." Your musings are interrupted by Vhelen's voice, taking in the sight before you. Fort Heshen, though not the biggest, was still quite large. It's surrounding landscape held some the most trees that could be seen this far south of the Wasteland, though a good portion of the trees were either dying or petrified. Large walls of stone, blackened with an outer coating of steel and battlements, encircled one of the few frontier Sub-Hives in the area, with a small collection of homes and shops etched into the various cocoons embedded in the stone clad landscape. Towards the center of town lie the barracks for the soldiers, with various house banners adorning its walls, and at the top of the small hill within the fort, stood its keep, a giant, black, gnarled building of ebony, with three jagged spirals protruding from the sides and centers. Within the keep sat the Commander of Fort Heshen, Risteard Sorley, the head of House Sorley, one of the traitorous houses during the Reunification War. At one time, you stood in Fort Heshen covered in Sorley blood, leading an endless wave a troops cascading through the burning gates of the city. Half of the dead trees in this valley were due to the fires you and the army caused when besieging the fort. Looking at it now, it seems as though the city is still trying to recover from the loss and bloodshed. You know that you were not the most well liked person in this fort. But with an attack by the Bossk almost inevitable, you had no choice but to come to the city that you nearly destroyed not so long ago, whose people you put to the sword, and return to see to it's defense. Within an hour's time, you and your company arrived at the large, black gates of Heshen. Carved into the iron gates were different murals and carvings, showing the history of the Sorley House, depicting battles, celebrations, important times of note. The freshest carving showed the city burning and alight, destruction abound within the buildings and keep, with a host of Changelings entering through the destroyed gate. And faintly, yet still noticeable, a bipedal figure was carved in the front of the army, a sword poised to strike down a Changeling mare and child. The carving was a testament to all that entered this city that they will never forgive and forget the Burning of Heshen. Vhelen noticed your gaze lingering on the fresh carving, shaking his head with a sigh. "Don't dwell on it, my Lord. Once we see to the defenses, and collecting the wounded, we'll be back in the capital in no time. We won't have to remain here long." "I never killed children, Vhelen," You mutter distantly," I may have killed traitors and soldiers and all manner of other things, but I've never once killed innocents. This mural is a lie.” Vhelen lays a comforting hoof on your leg. “I know, My Lord, I know. I was there, too.” You turn to look at the old Lord Commander, understanding in his eyes, an understanding that you appreciated. In those dull, blue orbs spoke years of experience, of heart ache and suffering; suffering that you could hope you would never have to know. You may be the Breag Naofa, but you were chosen. The Lord Commander earned his title, through immeasurable suffering. “Hark! Who goes there!” A voice hollers from the top of the gate ramparts. Drawing both of your attention upward, you notice that a line of Changeling soldiers stand at attention upon the battlements, numerous spears and crossbows aimed down at the group of you below. Though they are Changeling soldiers, most of the company had crests of House Sorley engraved on their helmets or breastplates, and did not look happy at your arrival. Glaring at the disrespectful display in front of you, you shout back at them. "This is the Anonymous, The Breag Naofa of the Palingar Hive, Warmonger to Her Majesty Queen Chrysalis, Ruler of the Changelings! With me is Lord Vhelen, Lord Commander of the Army of St. Gnosis, as well as his entourage! WE demand entry into Her Majesty's Fort Heshen, and to speak to Lord Risteard!" A long silence followed your outburst, as the tension seemed to be so thick in the air, that you could cut it with your blade. Though they were no friends of yours or the royal army, they still held your wounded, and were bound by Queen's Law to obey their summons when called. A Large Changeling Throne, clad in the same dark ebony armor that his comrades wore, yet adorned with further etchings and carvings across his plate, stared down at you and your group, matching your glare with a harsh one of his own. You place a hand on the hilt of your sword, almost daring the Throne to challenge you. Eyes locked for moments, the Throne tears his gaze away from you, before hollering to the group of Changelings behind him. "Raise the gates, let 'em pass!" The large iron gates rumbled like distant thunder, causing the ground to shake beneath your feet, as they began to separate, grinding against the hard, rocky ground. As the gates parted, you and your group stood at the attention, ready to take action if it was required. You And Vhelen did not trust the House Sorley, and the feeling was a mutual one. As the dust settled from the opening, figures emerged from behind the gate to greet you. A fat Changeling, in flowing robes of black and crimson, lead the procession. Like all other Changelings, his eyes glowed with a luminous pale blue, harboring a deep resentment for the group that stood before him. His mane seemed longer then most Changelings, dangling down the sides of his neck, adorned with gold ornaments, in attempt to advertise his wealth. Though he was fat for a Changeling, his underlying appearance and aura to you reeked of danger. This was Risteard Sorley, Head of House Sorley. Flanked on his sides were Knights of his choosing, each more heavily armored then most other Knights you have come across, with jagged, black helmets concealing their faces. Their abnormally large horns jutted from the tops of their helms, glowing a faint sickly green as their weapons were levitated at their sides. Risteard gave you and your companions a look, sizing you up, as you stood to face each other. "So, the Breag Naofa still lives," He said in low ton, devoid of any empathy or compassion," Word is that you fell in battle." "I'm still very much alive," You retort," And we come with grim news." "Oh? Do you intend to sack my city again, Anonymous? I would advise a bigger host with you next time." You feel your jaw clench at the insult, suppressing an urge unsheathe your sword and ram it through his goddamn skull. "Its not me that may besiege your city, Sorley," You reply with a tight grimace, causing Risteard to cock an eyebrow at you in confusion. "And who may be laying siege to my city?" He asked, a curious tone in his voice. "The Bossk, due to the shit plan that you and the War Council concocted. We're here to collect our wounded, and see that this city isn't set ablaze again." On that note, you brush past the Commander of Fort Heshen, leaving him in a stunned silence, as your companions follow behind you. There were wounded to attend to, plans to formulate, and Queen you needed to get in contact with. Author's Note Already working on the next chapter, which should be twice as long as this one, as well as finally introduce Celestia. Next chapter should come out this week, as well as an upate for Black Tar and The House of Sleep A Cúig"Man is the God of Earth, the answer to every question Given to generation and birth by a God who is the Man of Heaven" --Thou The room you were in was bustling with movement and activity, as Changeling medics and nurses rushed from bed to bed, checking on the various soldiers that lay groaning on the small medical cots. The sounds of shouting, moaning and the shuffling of the wounded Changelings filled the medical chamber, and you could only watch in deep shame and hurt at the sight of your soldiers in this situation. This room was filled with the only survivors of the Battle of Heshen Moor (so the name of the battle that was going around amongst the other soldiers and civilians), who numbered less then fifty souls. And though you never gave the order to march into the borders of the Gem Vale, you still felt a grim responsibility for those who lay in agony. You should've fought harder, you should've been stronger, you should've killed so many more Bossk. You should've saved more of them. "It's quite the sight isn't it?" Risteard asked, as he made to stand at your side. You don't acknowledge the Commander, keeping your gaze fixated on the group of broken Changelings before you, your heart aching in pity for the suffering. "They started coming in two days ago, some dying at the gates before they could enter, some barely making it to the medical chambers, due to the extensive nature of their wounds. The Bossk are truly fierce warriors if they could decimate the forces of Gnosis himself." "And you point is?" You reply gruffly, noticing the underlying insult he made towards your wounded soldiers. An insult you did not appreciate in the slightest as your fists tightened. The fat Commander hoveled in front of you, the jewelry hanging from his body jingling in an almost deafening manner, his eyes steeling as he met your look. "Well, you say that retaliation may be an impending occurnece, and since my lands are the closest official Palingarian settlement wthin reach of the border, I can trust your word when you say that we may be attacked soon,” he states, barely audible above the moans of the wounded, “so would I expect my people to be subjugated to the same mistery the as this miserable lot here?" An incredulous look expresses upon you, as the Sorley commander looked to the broken Changelings with apathy. "You speak as if you don't care for these Changelings!" "Maybe it's because I don't, my lord," He retorted with a shrug, voice laced in a subdued tone of bereft of sympathy, causing you to look at him with fury at his statement," You say it was the War Council, and therefore I, that ordered this slaughter, but keep in mind that I voted against this stupidity long before any other alternative methods could be come up with. Yet still, after burning my city and killing my family, I have no love for Gnosis or His soldiers.” On that note, he turned on his hooves and made to exit the hallway that you both stood in, flanked by his two Knights at his side, ever vigilant and silent. Tilting his head to the side, he called out to you one last time. "The Old Way and the Queen's orders bar me from tossing you from my city, but I advise you to collect your wounded and leave as soon as possible. Any siege here will be won by Sorley hooves, and Sorley hooves alone, without the aid of your ilk, Breag Naofa. Also, be sure to check in with the dungeon master, he has an interesting matter to discuss with you that our Queen may wish to know about." The fat Changeling Lord departed, leaving you to ponder on the words he left you with. Some day soon, you would come back and personally kill that loathsome heretic and the rest of his bastard house, but today, you would, for the time being at least , supress your murderous desires back down as much as possible. After all, you were guest in the House of Sorley, and a representative of your glorious queen Refocusing your attention to the task at hand, you walk down the small, stone steps the lead into medical chamber and begin to walk into the chaotic fray. Upon examining the rush of the medics and nurses, you notice a familiar Changeling moving from bed to bed, offering help and healing to the afflicted soldiers lining the room. Seeing the devoted Knight brought a smile to your face. "Sir Cathal," You call out to him, moving towards the bed that we was currently residing at. Cathal turns towards you, as well as many of the nurses and medics who noticed your arrival, and offers a swift bow. You wave of their courtesy with a flick of your hand, appreciative of their gesture. It felt good that some in this damn city still showed you the proper respect that your title was owed. "My Lord, how ails your side?" The Knight asked, as he placed his hooves in a wash basin, removing the blood that stuck to them, "My apologies for attending to you earlier, I just got caught up in working here that--" "It's fine, Sir Cathal, I understand," You reply, reaching over and patting the Changeling’s back in comraderie, “I never properly thanked you for work you did on me. You saved my life, Sir a Cathal.” “Please my Lord, Cathal is just fine,” he stated modestly, offering his hoof up to me, “it was an honor to treat you, sir.” Various other Changelings in the beds all called out to you, weakly raising their hooves, or the stumps from which their hooves were once attached to, in weak, tires salutes, each trying in their own way to show their respects to you. “Go to them, my Lord. Speak with them,” Cathal said softly, “Some of them won’t survive the night, so it would do them well to know that you shed your blood for those Changelings, just like they shed theirs for you.” A deep sadness Wells up inside of you, as you gazed at the battered,beaten, defeated troops; some who had only mere hours to live. Nodding at Cathal, who smiled back at you before returning his attention to the wounded Changelings at his side, you move from your spot and begin approaching bed by bed. The ones you that were maimed and injured, you would sit with and exchange stories and accounts of the a Battke of a Heshen Moor, you would hold the ones who would break and weep at the suffering they had went through, and the dying, you would tell words of comfort too, holding their hooves, trying anything you could do to help with their pain. “All of you,” you say to the collected group, “each and everyone of you were the finest band of brothers and sisters i’ve ever fought with. All of you are going home, even if it means I have to fight all through Tartarus to get you there. You will all go home. I promise.” The broken soldiers eyes light up in a dim, but smoldering hope; a hope that they would return to their homes, see their families again, and held trust that you would see it through. A part of you wanted to remain with them, and talk with them further, but there was still much to do before you and the others could return home, and in order to make good on that promise, you had to leave them. Turning back to Cathal, he stares at you with a look of appreciation at your words you spoke to the soldiers. "That was a good thing you did, My Lord. Just the fact that they know you care about them places their hearts at ease." Sighing, you tilt your head at the Knight, beckoning him to follow you as you turn your back and head down the corridor leaving the infirmary. Cocking his head questioningly, the Knight checks his patient one last time before following closely behind you. The corridors of the Sorley castle are surprisingly well lit, contrast to the dark and jagged architecture of the building itself. The walls were lined with stained glass and paintings, showing past scenes of Palingarian and Sorley history, while servants and guards marched throughout the hallway. "So few survived, Cathal. I can't seem to wrap my head around it," You say, as you walk towards your destination, "I know I should be used to it by now, but this was a tragedy that should've been avoided. All those damn, wasted lives. I'm still finding it difficult to wrap my mind around it." "My Lord-" "Please, call me Anon, Cathal. You've earned that right." The Knight looks at you in surprise at the notion, a look of uncertainty crossing his features, before responding. "Alright, er, Anon," He struggles to get out, before clearing his throat to respond properly, "Those soldiers were doing their duty, to Hive and to the Queen, as were you. The loss of life was a tragedy, we can all admit that and sympathize with that. Several of my own friends were killed in the battle, but when we joined the Army of Gnosis, we knew what we were signing up for." "I'm sorry for your loss Cathal. Who were they, your friends?" The Changeling Knight gives a small smile in remembrance as you round the corner towards a stairway, leading downwards towards the dungeon below. "There was Lonan. He was a Knight, A Hospitaler like myself, yet far younger. He was always a character, that Changeling, always joking and poking fun at the others and trying to make us all laugh, yet he was damn fine medic. I remember staying up late into the nights during our times as squires, studying the medical books, and talking and laughing all through the evening. Those were good times." The fond smile of remembrance on Cathal's face slowly begins changing into a small frown. You notice the pain creeping into his gaze as he recalls his friends. Friends that you fought with, and died all around you. "Then there was Niall, a Throne that I met during the Reunification War. Gods, he was huge," He released a dry chuckle at the thought of how big, yet how soft his dead friend could be, "I remember when I first met him, he was in the infirmary, screaming and hollering as if he was on death's door, only for us to find out that he just had a small splinter stuck under his hoof. It was so ridiculous, and yet so endearing to see this giant brought low by a small splinter, that we became fast friends. We served in the same unit for the remainder of the war." By now, you begin to notice the distressed look of the Changeling Knight, and wonder if it was a good idea to bring the thought of his deceased friends up in the conversation. "Cathal, if it pains you, you don't have to speak of it anymore." "No, its alright," Cathal replies, waving his hoof to clear the tears threatening to emerge from his eyes away, "I want to talk about it. I want you to know about them, who they were. That they weren't faceless drones in the army. They were unique, and individuals.....and people, just like you and me." "I know, Cathal, I know," you respond, halting in your steps and bending down to meet the Changeling face to face, "I lost friends, too. I've sent countless to their graves, by my sword or by my orders, and many died because of me. It's hard, what we do, and pain and grief follow where we go, but all these lives lost were for the Hive, for the Queen, for our families living here. I won't say that I knew your friends, Cathal, but I will say that they did not die in vain, but in glory." You knew that wasn't true. There wasn't glory in battle, and the hell that followed with it. Most died screaming. The glory of battle, of the fight, of honor amongst warriors, in truth, it was all a lie. But that's what you were, as the Breag Naofa: The Holy Lie. It was up to you to shatter the truth of war, and to reinforce the belief in Honor, of dying for the Hive. Cathal didn't need to hear the truth, he probably knew it already; what he needed was to be reassured that their sacrifices meant something. It was a moment of doubt, that you wholeheartedly understood, and would be there to reassure. You would be that lie. Cathal cleared his throat, brushing the remaining moisture from his eyes in an attempt to regain his composure. "Thank you, Anon, I needed to hear that, and to get that off my chest. I find it Uncomfortable to talk about it with mate back home, I don't want to hear about all the death, but sometimes, it's hard to keep it bottled up. I try not lose myself in front of my family." "It's fine Cathal, we all need to let off steam every once in awhile," You say, placing a comforting grip on the Knight's shoulder, before resuming your steps and continuing down the dark stairs, "If you ever need to talk, seek me out, and we can air it out of drinks, eh?" "I would like that, My Lord," Cathal replied, a small smile returning to his lips, exposing the tips of his fangs. The two of you continue onward before reaching a large, wooden door, with torches mounted on either side of it. Surprisingly, at the door stood Risteard, with his guards and what appeared to be another noble of House Sorley, accompanied by Vhelen and Michan, as well as one of Thrones that came with the Lord Commander. "Well, this is a surprise, I thought you would've joined us later," Risteard sneered, as he watched you and Cathal approach the small gathering. You greet the Lord with a grimace, resting your gauntlet on the pommel of your long sword; it seems that every comment that leaves this insufferable Lord irks you more and more. "I decided to investigate the Dungeon Master's summons before attending to the other articles of business," You reply, curtly, eyeing the Sorley noble that stood besides Risteard, "And who is this, if I may ask?" "This is my son, Lorcan," Risteard stated, "I asked him to accompany me with the Lord Commander, here." Vhelen offered a smile and a nod in greeting, in which you return in kind. Michan and Throne offer you a crisp salute to you, which you wave off, as well, and greet them with pats on the back. The guards with Risteard, like the rest of the Sorley soldiers, remain quiet and passive, yet the ever present animosity peering at you from under the metal helmets. His son, though, walks up to you and offers a hoof to you in greeting. "It's an honor, Breag Naofa," Lorcan says, which honestly throws you and Risteard off guard, "it's an honor to meet the Chosen of Gnosis." "Um, thank you, Lord Lorcan," you reply awkwardly, "I appreciate the kind the words." "Priest Lorcan, actually ," He replies with a chuckle, reaching into the bellows of his robes and producing a medallion, carved with the Image of St. Gnosis's sigil upon it, "I am a servant to the Powers That Are, just like you. Someone needs to bring religion to these heathens, am I right?" That gets a chuckle out of you. So far, this was the only Sorley you've met with that you personally didn't loathe. "If you're quite finished," Risteard interrupted, glaring at you, "We were just about to enter. Care to join us or preach amongst yourselves out here?" "Sorry, father," The young Sorley mutters, before shifting back to Risteard's side, before the pair as well as their guards enter the dungeon. "Come on, Anon," Vhelen says, tapping your thigh to get your attention, "Lets see what's so important down there, shall we?" Giving a curt nod, you head through the door after the Lord Commander, followed closely by Michan, Cathal, while the Throne remained outside to guard the door. You're interested, or at the very least intrigued, to see what the Dungeon Master wanted to show you, but a part of felt that it would be nothing good. As your heavy footsteps echo against the hard, stone floor, you could only pray that you are walking into a trap by the bastard Lord of House Sorley. =================================================================================================== (POV Change: Celestia 3rd person) The cold, night breeze of Canterlot fluttered through the Solar Monarch's flowing, rainbow mane, as she gazed out at her sister's handiwork from atop the balcony of her room. While the day, and in turn her sun, were of glorious magnificence that she was proud of, Luna's nights always seemed to hold a profound beauty that were unrivaled in their dark, mysterious depths. Releasing a sigh, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the mountain air that encompassed her, breathing deeply from the soothing crispness of it's icy nip, in an attempt to let the stress of the day wash away from her. It had been almost a month now, with no word back from Nightingale, Luna's Night Guard captain, and she was beginning to feel very worried. She sent the young, experienced mare out for assignment months ago, with her sister's blessing, and within the last month, she had gone completely silent. Usually, Celestia would receive reports and word from the Guard Captain biweekly, and being the punctual mare she was, she would never miss a letter. When the first two weeks went by, and a letter wasn't received, Celestia did not dwell on it, assuming that mare was deep in her investigations. When another week had passed with no word, he began to worry about the Nightingale. Now that it had been a full month, Celestia had begun fearing the worst. What if the Minotaurs had found her, and imprisoned her, or worse, killed her? Celestia was a kind and benevolent ruler, and never wished to send any of her subjects towards any kind of harm, but the Minotaurs to the west, especially the Empress, were beginning to concern her heavily. They had already expanded into Griffonia, and several other smaller kingdoms, by swift and brutal force; by now, only the Gem Vale stood between Equestria and Minotaur Empire of Sanfaran, and she began to fear heavily for her western allies. Something, though, had halted the Minotaur advance at the Gem Vale border, and now the two lands were in a bitter stalemate. And the monarch wanted to know exactly what. Luna, her ever affirmative sister, suggested sending a spy to Sanfaran, to seek what troubled the Minotaurs enough to halt, and the young Night Captain volunteered. The fact that Nightingale had disappeared was just another sorrow to add to the mountain of bad news that flowed from beyond her borders. Before Celestia could dwell on it anymore, the doors to her bedroom burst inward, as her sister rushed into the room. "Sister! I have news!" Turning from the balcony, Celestia entered into her room to meet her sister, noticing the look of urgency upon her face. The news must've been dire for Luna to leave Night Court to personally show this to her. "Luna? What is it? Is it word from Nightingale?!" "Nay, dear sister," Luna replied, her tone in distress, as her horn flared up, levitating a piece of parchment towards Celestia, "It's from them, Celly. From the wastelands. They have her. They have Nightingale." Taking the letter from her sister, Celestia began to read the message, each line causing her heart to sink further and further as she took in every word. By this time, she thought that she would never hear from the those....creatures ever again, since they were last expelled, never mind the fact that they actively were seeking her out, but the question stood: How did they acquire Nightingale? How did the Changelings get her, when she should've been miles westward?! "Did you read what they wanted?" Luna asked, staring at her sister, a silent fury burning in her irises. "Yes," Celestia responded, floating the letter to the nearest table, "But why would they want to meet with us? Why would they be holding Nightingale, just to have a meeting without a ransom. It doesn't make sense." "A better question, sister, is who is this one called The Chamberlain? If I could, I would banish that pest to the moon twenty times over, for the next thousand years, if he harmed one hair upon her mane!" "Bronach Turlough," Celestia replied, her gaze hardening to a thoughtful look, "That's his name. He's the head of a Changeling noble house called Turlough, and supposedly the most powerful over there. From my recollection, the Turloughs are an ancient house, forming a century after your imprisonment, sister, and have been a power house there ever since. They're dangerous, Luna." "Well, are we going to meet this Chamberlain, than?" Luna asked, tapping her hooves against the tiles of Celestia's floor, "Or shall I obliterate that pitiful excuse for a kingdom off the face of Equis? Dangerous or not, she has my child of the night, and I will not have her a captive of that wasteland longer then I have to! Could we not send Twilight and the Elements to rescue her?" Celestia shook her head at the idea, "No, sister, I don't want to risk losing them over there, with the situation with Minotaurs so close at hoof; it would be best to leave them out of this. This was our decision, Luna, we must fix this mistake ourselves. We will meet Chrysalis and this Turlough Chamberlain-" "And the Breag Naofa." Celestia cocked an eyebrow at that name. It was a name that she was nor familiar with. "Who?" "It's at the bottom of the letter," Luna replied, scanning through the letter again, "It says that with the convoy of representatives, one called the Breag Naofa would be attending as well at the Queen's behest. Who is that, Celly?" Celestia pondered on that. Though she and her sister were old, she was not as versed in the Changeling society as she should have been, considering they were one of the few races they were not in contact with much. "I don't know, Luna, but we will have to do some research before a letter is sent in response. I want to know more about this new Turlough, and I want to know who, or what, this Breag Naofa is." A Haon"Reasoning from the common course of nature, and without supposing any new interposition of the supreme cause, which ought always be excluded from philosophy; what is incorruptible must also be ingenerable. The soul, therefore, if immortal, existed before our birth: And if the former state of existence no wise concerned us, neither will the latter." [David Hume] She's waiting for you...... It's only the faintest sliver of light that your eyes enclosed in blackness see. A small line that grows before disappearing again. You're not yet fully conscious, that much is apparent, but slowly your senses are returning. The ground feels hard, rocky, sandy. The land around seems deathly still and quiet, besides the caw of carrion birds, it would appear It's the smell that really gets to you, though. It's a repulsive smell, that stings your nostrils as it invades your nasal cavities, washing over your unconscious thought, bringing with it a stench foul and spoiled, decay and rotten. And familiarity. You've smelt this smell many times throughout the last few years of your life. That odor was the stench of death, and it was all around you. As your hearing begins to clear up further, you notice the sound of flies buzzing all around you, in every direction, mixing with the stench of rotting, sun baked flesh. The sun.... Why did it take you so long to feel the burning heat of the sun as it sears you and the ground below you? It has to be at least one hundred and ten degrees if not hotter, and boy is your body beginning to feel it. You have to get up. Yo have to open your goddamn eyes! But you can't. You just can't. Even through your semi-conscious state, you can feel your head throbbing and pounding against your skull, as well as a sharp, soul deadening pain erupting from your side. Oh god, you just want to keep your eyes closed forever. To just die. "S-sir...ar-are y-you al-alright...?" The voice is faint, weak, and strained, but it was loud enough to pierce your clouded mind, and, at least briefly, take your subconscious thoughts away from the pain that absorbed you. Someone was alive. Get the fuck up! Slowly, reluctantly, agonizingly, your eyes slowly begin to open. A sliver, at first, then a little more. And more. And more. A ll at once, your eyes burst open with a surge of brightness as the sun's light shines upon your face. Everything is blurry at first, you only being able to see strained images. But the smell..... As you eyes focus, a brown and red shape before slowly becomes clearer and clearer. Finally, you're able to make out what the hell is laying in front of you. The mangled corpse of a Bossk (Diamond Dog in the common tongue). What's left of its mangled face stares straight at you, it's one, lifeless eye boring holes into yours. It's once brown fur is matted with it's red blood, as it leaks from various wounds across it's body. Flies hovered in droves over the corpse's pink flesh, making a buzzing sound that pierced your ears. And the smell....the fucking smell.... You've seen enough. You try to lift yourself up from the scorching ground, but at once you drop as pain erupts from your side. A soft, agonizing groan slips through your clenched teeth as you tightly shut your eyes, Almost afraid to look down at the source of your misery. Cracking a teary eye, slightly, you move your gaze slowly to your left hand side. At the midway point, an arrow is jutting from you. "Sir....ah-are you oh-ok, s-sir?" The voice calls out to you again. That pain filled voice. "Y-yeah, I....I'll live," you reply weakly. You touch he shaft of the arrow before deciding against pulling from your body. You may bleed out if you yank out. What you need to do now is figure out what's going on, find the voice that is calling to you, and find help of some kind. Any kind. Now you have to stop being bitch. You have to stand up. Stand up! Placing one hand on the ground and one hand on your side, slowly you begin to rise to your feet, the plate armor your wearing creaking as you rise. God, it's like a fuckin' oven in there. Standing on your two feet, you finally get a real glimpse of your surroundings. It takes your breath away. There are dead. Dead everywhere. Diamond Dogs and Changelings. Your Changelings..... It seems for acres and acres the dead littered the land, why flocks upon flocks of crows and other eaters of deceased flesh circled the remains of a battle. A battle you fought in.... Clutching your side again, you slowly scan the corpses of the rocky plateau, searching for the source of the voice that called out to you early. "H-hello? Call out so I can find you," you cry out hoarsely, your throat dry and parched. Amongst a pile of cadavers, a small, black hole filled hoof rose. "I'm......here," the feminine voice replied, weaker than before. Looking around, you pick up a Diamond Dog spear that lay on the ground, leaning on it for support, before limping slowly over to the Changeling that called out to you. "Hold on," you call out, "I'm coming." Picking your way through the dead is almost impossible without stumbling, with bodies piled on top of bodies, weapons, limbs, blood and waste scattered all around the battlefield. But you see her, at last. Shuffling as fast as you can, you kneel before the only other apparent survivor of the conflict. And it doesn't look good. She's a small Changeling, her black chitin dulled by the dust of the battle. The black armor around her was dented and scuffed almost everywhere. And a large gash lay bloodied and open across her stomach. Her breathing was labored and shaky, while her vibrant blue eyes lay half closed, trying their best to look at you clearly, tears forming around their brim. "It....it's g-good to see a f-friendly face, s-sir," she stutters weakly, her forehoof weakly extending towards her forehead in a salute, before falling weakly to her side. Slowly, you take off the gauntlet on your left hand, revealing it to the scorching sun, tanned, scabbed and bruised, and lifted a shakey finger to her eyes and wiped the stray tears from her face. "You're going to be alright, private," you try to reassure her, "I just need to bind your wound." She nuzzles your hand gently, clenching her eyes shut. "Am....am I going to die, s-sir.?" You can feel your heart breaking, your stomach churning. "No," you hastily say, rubbing her neck gently, "you're not going to die, private. Y-you're going to be ok." You slowly rise to your feet again, a new determination in your mind. Fuck the heat. Fuck the pain. You need to save this Changeling's life. Just this one life, out of all the hundreds of dead around you. Please, just this one. "There has to be a medic bag around here," you tell the wounded Changeling, who meekly stares at the arrow protruding from your side," I'm going to find one and I'm going to patch you up. I promise that you and I are going to make it back to the Hive alive. Just, please, hold on." "Only you need to make it back, sir. You are the Breag Naofa. I-I'm just a drone. You must live, my lord." You can only stare at the broken Changeling mare. "Just wait here." Once again you shuffle through the corpses that lay strewn all about you, as you pick through the dead in vain hope of finding a medical bag, a bandage, something. Anything! You search until sweat pools from your forehead, your wound screaming out in sheer agony. This search will kill you. But you don't care. You pick through bodies under the scorching sun until you're forced to crawl upon your hands and knees. Your amour is weighing you down, but you're too tired to take it off. "Please," you cry to the sky, to what ever deity could hear you, "please help....anything, anything at all. Just please help me help her....." You stumble forward, collapsing upon the ground, a cloud of dust forming around you. Just give up. Accept your fate. Die. You clench your fist in anger. No! You won't die here! Get up!! Get up and save her life! Struggling, shaking, slowly but surely, you rise up again, and search, through blood and bodies, all things foul. You see it. A clean white cloth, resting by the corpse of a Changeling commander. Snatching it up, ignoring the hurt, you bound back to your wounded companion as fast as you can. "I'm coming!" You hoarsely cry," hold on private, just a little bit longer!" You leap over the body of a dead Diamond Dog as you race to the spot where the Changeling is. "I'm here! Just hold still private, I.....I....." You stare, taking a long moment to take in what's before you. Her eyes are dim and hollow. Her chest is quiet and still. She's dead. You failed again. The cloth falls from your hand, and is taken up in the breeze, fluttering away to god knows where. Failure. She was right though. You are the Breag Naofa of the Changeling Hive Trust, ruled by it's queen, Chrysalis, in the heart of the Great Wastelad. Your hive needs you. Your queen needs you. You must live. You look from the dead Changeling, to the arrow in your side. Lifting a hand, you reach for the shaft, and break the arrow. You are the Breag Naofa. And you must live. Author's Note New story. Hope you guys enjoy. Breag Naofa is Irish, by the way. Until next time. Ps the god of sleep is not dead
A DóAuthor's Note Wow, five years. A lot has changed. I’ve changed, but I still want to finish this story. Debating on whether to change this from a second person to a first person story. Let me know what you think. A Dó The bead of sweat starts from the top of your scalp, slowly beginning it’s decent, trailing down your forehead, to the tip of your nose, and falls to the ground. Your ears are greeted with the sound of a sharp hiss, as the drop evaporates within moments from its journey. You, can only give it a quick glance, before tearing your eyes back in front of you. Being able to withstand heat was always an integral part of training at the Hive’s military academy. Living in the wastland, and it’s unforgiving climate made life hard, which meant that all who called it home were forced to adapt and survive. The Great Souhthern Wasteland, Palingar, put it’s inhabitants to the test everyday, and you excelled when tested. But even you have begun to reach your limits. You feel a grimace tug on your jaw, as one of your hands clutches the broken shaft of the arrow that protrudes from your side. In hindsight, breaking the arrow so roughly may not have been the smartest idea, as the head may have caused more tearing beneath the tissue. The Bossk usually barb their arrow tips, to cause as much internal damage to their enemies as possible, and the agony you currently felt was self evident of that fact. Honestly, though, you don’t have much to compare it to, since you never been shot before. You’ve sustained many injuries during your time in the Army of the Hive, and even more since becoming the Breag Naofa, from cuts and slashes, to broken bones and a busted scalp, but nothing compares to the feeling of a Bossk barbed arrow ripping through your body. The feeling is hellish. Hell... The dead look in the private’s eye flashes in your mind for a second; thoughts of the battle and it’s aftermath linger. The screams, the smells, the blood, the shit and piss and cries of mercy are resounding through your mind. For a second, you couldn’t tell which pain, the mental or physical, was more unbearable, before the arrow’s shaft draws your gaze again. You look down, and notice the faint outlines of blood seeping through your appendages, hardening your gaze even more. “Damn,” you mutter to yourself, as a the dull throb from you side morphs into a sharp pain. You don’t have the medical supplies to tend to this wound as throughly as you would like, and the closest fort, Fort Heshen, was still leagues away. Fort Heshen. You would have stearn words with the Commander there, considering how much of a disaster this battle turned into. This wasn’t the Hive’s first resource war; you’ve fought in two of them, as well as the countless battles and skirmishes amongst the Wasteland, but it was the first conflict in years with a foreign power that wasn’t a rival Hive. You knew fighting the Bossk of the Gem Vale wasn’t a wise descision, and as the Breag Naofa of Palingar, you made your opinion known amongst the Lord’s of the war council. You pleaded with Chrissy, yourself. Chrissy....... What must she be thinking right now? News from stragglers or other survivors must’ve reached Fort Heshen by now, which would mean that word must’ve made it to the Capital. Would she think you’re dead? Are they sending others to come collect our fallen? The battle took place in sovereign Bossk territory, so word must’ve reached their land’s capital, as well. Maybe they’d come to collect their dead with an army at their backs? You sigh in frustration, as the reality of the situation dawns upon you. This wasn’t just a disaster, this was a monumental fuck up. Bracing yourself, you take a deep, ragged breath before continuing onward, using a dead Bossk’s spear as a walking staff. Having discarded your armor in favor of the torn and dust caked tunic and robes your wore beneath, you tighten the sword belt that’s strapped onto your torso, and walk towards the direction of Fort Heshen, the sun ever bright and hot, burning you as your journey begins. You can only pray that you can survive the journey. Maybe it would’ve been better if you died on that field with your soldiers. With your friends. So many good Changelings dead... You cast one last forlorn look over your shoulder, wondering whether it was cruel of you to have not buried at least one. ======================================== It’s by the seventh lick that it dawns on you that you’re only making the blisters on your lips worse. No matter how temporary the relief is, you force yourself to keep your tongue back in your mouth. Can you blame yourself, though? It’s been hours of walking under the scorching sun, with no food or water. Food, you could live without for the time being. The carnage of the battle would probably stay your appetite for days, but the lack of water was becoming worrying. Your father always told you during training that you could last weeks without food, but no less then a day without water in the heat of Palingar. You reach down, and grab your meager water flask, trying to pour the last few drops from the bottom to slate at least the tip of your tongue, but after giving it a stiff shake, you place the cork back in place, your thirst burning within you. Your back lays resting against the side of a large rock, while you lean your head back to enjoy the meager shade. As far as you know, there was still at least 20 leagues of wasteland separating you from Fort Heshen, and the territory you were currently in was technically considered frontier lands from the border. Heat aside, Hiveless Changeling marauders was a danger in these parts, as well all Bossk slavers. Your wounds, especially the arrow, would stop you from putting up a strong fight, but if you must, you’d gladly die in battle before a slaver puts chains on you. You would die in battle, just like your father, and his father before him. Maybe deep down that’s all you ever want. Bah, that’s just the heat of wasteland twisting your thoughts. A good death could wait. You have Changelings depending on you back home, a queen waiting for your return. You can’t die just yet. A noise from the distance catches your attention. At first, you think it’s just the wind passing through amongstthe rocks around you, that you barely give it any mind. The sound, though becomes sharper, the glittering of the wind morphing into a low, but distinct buzz. Now your attention is fully grasped. That’s not the wind, but the fluttering of wings. Changeling wings. Forcing yourself to a crouching position, trying your best to ignore the screaming relunctance of your body, you move behind the cover of the rock to get a good look at the horizon. Squinting, you strain your eyes to the east, the direction that which you think the noise is coming from. And then you them. A small, black cloud in the distance. Too far to determine their banners, but judging by the size And formation in the air, they were definitely military affiliated. A descion has to be made, now. Marauders or not, they probably had water or food, which without you would die anyway. Fuck it, when they get close enough, you would flag them down.You just need to see their banners. Which house, Hive or Lordship do they hail from? Turning back to them, you notice something that makes your heart sink. “They’re turning around!” You exclaim to yourself, watching as the back cloud of Changelings rotates and heads back they way it came! Damn the consequences, you need to get their attention. Drawing your sword and extending it outward, you try to catch the sunlight on your blade, and flash it towards the group! Yo wave the sword frantically while the cloud still moves away from you. It could be too late. You’re too far. They just don’t notice you. “Damnit all! Come back! Please!” You hoarsely shout to the horizon, “ by the Old Gods, come back!” Your hands tighten around the hilt of the sword, the scabs on your knuckles tearing by the amount of pressure you grasp it with, before with a long, guttural shout, you toss your sword has far as you can. It sails through the ground, slunking into the sand with a soft thud. You fall back to your knees, slamming a fist against the ground. The arrow wound in your side bleeding even more, now. You hear it again, the buzzing sound getting louder! Tearing your head back up, you notice the sword gleaming with a brilliant light, shining across your face, and towards the distance. The back cloud of Changelings have changed directions again! They’re coming straight to you at an slanting pace! For the first time in days, a great, joyful smiles spreads across your lips as a cry of laughter and fatigue escapes your mouth! You see the banners they approach more clearly. A lions head, atop a wyrms body, surrounded by seven stars. It was the seal of St. Gnosis! The seal of the Hive! As they get closer, you can identify the number and ranks of the Changelings. Three Knights, seven Privates, surprisingly a Lord Commander bearing the insignia of St. Gnosis, flanked by two Thrones were barreling towards you at an alarming pace. Your elation is so strong, you feel a faint dizziness in your head, as stumble to catch your footing. You sit back down, to conserve your strength, awaiting the arrival of the group. Within minutes the Changeling group lands mere yards away from you, proceeding towards you on hoof! “My Lord, are you alright, sir?!” The Lord Commander shouts at you, galloping as fast as he could over to you. “I-I’ll live for now, but I have wounds that need attention,” you reply, placing your hand back against your side,” do you have any water?” “Here, my Lord, take some of mine,” one of the Privates says, pulling his water flask from his side and offering to you. You take it and drink as deeply as you can, forcing you into a coughing fit. You don’t care, the water is worth the temporary discomfort. “Let me see that wound, Sir,” one of the knights says, coming closer to inspect the portruding shaft. You nod your head in thanks to the private, moving your hand out of the way, allowing the knight to inspect the damage. “Take a seat, my Lord, relax a bit,” the knight says, a concerned look on his face,” this may take a bit, and hurt a lot.” You nod head again. “Do what you have to do.” As the knight tends to your wound, the rest of the soldiers begin to form a perimeter around you, while the Lord Commander settles down across from you. “You looke beat to Tartarus, Anon,” the Lord Commander says, giving you a look over. You can only weakely chuckle, flinching in pain when the knight touches the arrow shaft. “I lived through Tartarus, Vhelen,” you mutter weakly,” did any others make it back to the Fort?” “A few, mostly message bringers,” Vhelen stated, taking a quick drink for his own water flask,” not many actual fighters, though. A defeat wasn’t the war council had in mind.” Hurt and anger well up within your heart hearing that. “Damn the war council and all it’s shit, I told everyone that this assault was a mistake!” “Please keep still, my Lord,” the knight chastises,” you’re going tear the wound even further.” “I’m sorry, Anon,” Vhelen raises his hooves in submission, is armor creaking from the sudden movement ,” you know that I sided with you during the arguments of concerning this. We were all just following the council’s orders!” “We’ll bring the council down here, and have them look at the fucking mess they made of this!” You exclaim in fury. “Sir, please settle down!” You couldn’t help but let your emotions get the better of you. Everything was coming back to you, all the previous thoughts of the battle. It infuriated you. You take a few deep breaths to gather your composure. “A lot of good soldiers died for this fools errand, I want them all buried with honors for this, Vhelen,” you say to him, averting your gaze to the horizon where the battlefield lie. “Of course, Breag Naofa,” the Lord Commander stated, “these soldiers will be placed in the catacombs with full honors.” “Good,” you say, grunting, as the knight tending to your wound retracts his hoof. “The arrow is barbed, my Lord, I’m afraid we are going to have to cut it out,” the knight says, cleaning blood from his hoof on the side of his cloak, “ infection would most likely be setting in, so I would advise that we remove the arrow as soon as possible.” “We won’t make it back to the fort before nightfall,” the Lord Commander states, casting his gaze to the sun,”it’ll be dark soon, and this rocky outcrop seems to be the best cover for miles.” “We’ll make camp here, then?” One of the other knights asks,” aren’t we too exposed out here?” The Lord Commander shakes his head. “We have no other choice.” The previous knight places a hoof shoulder while the Lord Commander removes his cloak and lays it on the ground. “Lie down my Lord, I’m sorry to say but this will not be a pleasant experience.” A grimace once again encompasses your face, as you struggle to lay against the hard ground. You lean your head back, closing your eyes, readying your body for your on coming suffering. “Let’s get this over with.”
A Trí“Writhing in this skin As bullets pierce the flesh, the tears begin to flow Empty clips and desperate hands Defeat is all that I know” —Northless A scream escapes your mouth, tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes, as the cut of the blade digs deeper and wider against your side. “By Gnosis, hold him down tighter!” A voice shouts out, followed by the weight of four sets of hooves on your arms and legs. This is torture. This is hell. “Knight Cathal, you’re killing him!” The Lord Commander yells, placing his hooves across your chest to keep you in place. The Knight medic, Cathal, places the blade of his cutting instrument deeper into your arrow wound, opening it further. Blood drips across your side, as another torrent of pain washes over you. “My Lord, the arrow is barbed,” Cathal exclaims,” I have to cut deep enough that we can pull it out! To simply rip it out of him in its present state would cause more harm then good!” He reaches down into his bag and pulls out a small strap of leather, while the flickering of the firelight dances across his face, catching the glow within his pale, blue eyes. You feel sweat seeping from your pours, your mind in a delirium. Turning to and fro, you can make out the rest of the camp, you banner flickering in the night breeze, the rest of the soldiers not holding you down looking at the erratic scene happening before them. The stars in the sky are so bright, and the moon so full, you feel like you could reach out and grab them for yourself, before another jolt of hot, searing paint tears through your body. “Bite down on this, my Lord,” Knight Cathal says softly, offering the tattered, worn strap to your mouth,” it well keep you from biting off your tongue.” Shakily, you open your mouth, accepting musky, worn strap of leather into your mouth, and biting down in anticipation of the pain. “ Is there much more?” Vhelen asks, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. He and Cathal having long since discarded their armor, standing in their tunics and light robes. “There is still one spot of barbed tip that’s hooked into tissue that I’ll need to cut free,” Cathal states, pointing his hoof towards a knotted mass of flesh on the left side of your torn wound,”everyone best hold him still. The pain will only be for a moment, Breag Naofa, please just hold on a little longer.” You feel a hoof stroke your hair, in attempt to soothe you as best they could. A pained look crosses your face, your cracked lips forming a tight grimace. “I’m sorry, sir, I will try to make this as quick as possible.” You shudder a sigh, closing your eyes and nod your head. Everything happens within a quick succession. The slash is made, deep and quick, blood teaming from the wound. As the cut is made, Cathal digs into the crimson folds of the wound with a pair of iron pliers, grabbing the tip of the barbed arrow head, and giving it a solid, hard tug before it dislodged from your body. You don’t know whether to feel relieved or in agony, only whimpering behind the leather strap in your mouth. “Quickly, bring me some bandages from my bag, as well as the jug of wine!” Two of the privates rush over to grab the necessary items, while the four encircling around hold you down even tighter, trying in vain to quell your thrashing. Cathal grabs the wine bag, and begins pouring it over the wound, causing a burning sensation in the already throbbing area, tightly bandaging it with the clean white cloth. The cloth reminds you of the one you found for the dying private on the battlefield. The irony it would be if it was the same one. “F-fuck,” you gasp out, all the tense muscles in your body finally relaxing, falling back in the comfort of the cloak below you. It feels soaked with sweat and blood, and sticking to your back. Turning towards Vhelen, who was in the process of cleaning his hooves, you give him a tired, strained smile. “I-I’m gonna have to g-get you a new cloak, V-Vhelen,” you stuttter out between ragged breaths. The Lord Commander gives off a rueful chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll hold you to that, my Lord.” You attempt to sit up, before Cathal pushes you back down gently, careful to avoid the ragged hole in your side. “Easy, Breag Naofa, we still need to stitch up the hole, but for now we will have to make do with the bandages. We dont want you to tear the clotting later with any sudden movements.” Though you feel annoyed by having to remain lying down, you see the sense in what he said. Your still feel dizzy and sick in the stomach, and prefer to not vomit in front of the soldiers. You hate to admit, but you feel shamed for crying out so much, for being injured in general. You are the Breag Naofa, the guardian of the Hive and of Palingar! Guardian and Warmonger of Queen Chrysalis, head of the House Giollachríst, and Lord of Gallow Falls, your family’s ancestral home. Your shame grows even deeper. You were meant to set an example for the soldiers around you, in restraint, in conviction and screamed like a new born drone when the arrow was ripped from you. The urge to apologize is at the tip of your tongue, you can feel the words about to slip out, before you clasp your mouth shut. Apologizing for being in pain, is a sign of weakness; You are not weak. Against the protest of the others, you ignore the pain in your side and force yourself to stand up, trying your best not wobble or stumble in front of the men. “My, shirt, please,” you say in general to the amasses group, waiting for one of them to make the first move. One of the privates, young and eager, spring boys to your meager pile of belongings and swiftly pulls your shirt from the stack, hurrying it over to you. “Here, My Lord,” the young Private says, a bright smile across his face. His inexperience shows in the look he gave you, the gleam of his bright fangs catching the fire light. You take the shirt, struggling to put it on without agitating your wound. “Thank you, private.....?” “Michan, sir!” The young private Michan interjects, offering a sharp salute, his body becoming rigidly disciplined. Oh yes, he’s fresh blood, alright. His stance and posture just screamed green. He wouldn’t have lasted five minutes into the battle. Shaking the thought from your head, you return the salute, turning your head to face the rest of the group. “I want the names and ranks of all present, besides Knight Cathal, the Lord Commander, and the Private Michan. Line up!” At once, the entourage of soldiers line in front of you. A burly Changeling with heavy, ebony armor steps up, his house crest etched into the chest plate and greaves of equipment. “My Lord, I am Throne Bhan, attendant to the Lord Commander, as well as my brother,” the Changeling, Bhan, points to the second Throne standing next to him who offers a crisp salute as well, his armor and crest matching,” we are both of House Valath.” “Good to have you two here. House Valath breeds strong warriors.” The two puff their chests out in pride. Lord Vhelen steps up, pointing to the three remaining people Privates. “These three are Torq, Vlenish and Gen, Frey, fresh soldiers who volunteered to assist in the search for survivors.” The three other Privates beat their hooves across their chest, a grunt salute. The armor they wore was standard issue hardened ebony plates, bare of any house crests. “At ease, soldiers,” you reply, waving your hand, before turning back to Vhelen,”where are three other Privates, and the two knights. “Currently scouting the area. Since we are exposed our here, they are doing their rounds, making sure no others stalking about the area.” Satisfied with the answer, you move over to the makeshift table assembled in the middle of the camp, grabbing one of the water bladders and taking a deep, long drink. Offering it to Michan, ruffling the top of his green mane, to share amongst his comrades, you turn towards the group again. All of their eyes are locked towards you, awaiting your next order. Drawing your sword, you plant it into the ground, leaning upon it for support. “Now please, can someone tell me what the hell the situation is back home.” ======================================== (POV change: Chrysalis 3rd person) She was pacing the room for so many hours now, waiting for any kind of word to reach her, that her attendants were worried she’d make a hole in the floor. Within the last few days, she barely ate anything, barely talked with anyone, besides her advisors or members of the war council. She would remain in her room for the most part, leaving only when returning messengers would, and departing when no new word would come from Fort Heshen. Communication with the fort had been silent, while the assault on the Gem Vale border was in motion, and every day of silence only worsened her mood. By now, she was furious with Anon! How dare he not relay word in for long, and worry his queen! Worry. That’s what she felt the most, aside from her anger towards him. Every time he went out into battle, she worried and fretted, and every time he came back with another injury, she would scold his recklessness and stupidity, but would always give a silent prayer to Gnosis for his safe return. He always came back. To his people. To her. She felt the knot grow lighter in her stomach, as the loud clock in her chambers ticked the minutes away, a constant reminder that time was flowing, and word had still not reached her. It seemed that as the seconds grew longer, the damned machine would only get louder, and louder. She couldn’t take it anymore as she released a scream of annoyance, her jagged horn flaring up, as she released a pulse of magic, causing the clock to explode into hundreds of small, wooden splinters. She huffed a shallow breath, straining to regain her composure, feeling tears beginning to well her eyes. I knew that this was a fool’s errand to accomplish, she thought to herself, her glare hardening even tighter, before her horn flared again, opening the two giant, oak doors and entering into the hallway. Three of her servants were waiting outside already, startled by the loud noise and yell from their queen’s chamber, clamoring towards her. “My, queen! Are you al—“ one of the servants only managed out before the Chrysalis shoved through them, leaving them a confused pile on the floor. I should have never trusted the damn war council! The pressure for a sustainable food source had been growing more and more dire, especially since the failed invasion of the Kingdom of Equistria ended in such a disaster as it did. The second she was expelled from that land, with a third of the Grand Army of Gnosis scattered with her, she knew her power begun to slip. The moment news reached the capital, Great Houses of ancient Changeling families separated from the Hive, taking with them precious resources and troops with them. It took Anon months, with the blood of hundreds of her Changelings, her children, to unite the Kingdom of Palingar again. Maybe if Anon has been part of the invasion to begin with, there wouldn’t have been a reunification war at all. Anon..... She needed him now. With her. At her side. She continued down the hall in a rush, passing by countless rooms and corridors of the royal palace, the destination clear in her mind. Straying from her usual path from the last few days, the Intelligence Room, she made her way to meet with who could be described as the most important, and yet, most loathed member of the Heirarchy of the Hive: the Chamberlain. For many years, the Hive had relied on the wealth that the Chamberlain and his house, Turlough, and bestowed. Their lands held some of the last fertile soil within the Wasteland, along with access to the only river running through the Northern Territory. He held a stake in providing more then a quarter of the army’s soldiers single hoovedly, and reveled in the power and control he extorted over the others under his domain. If the Unification War had gone in a different direction, he would have been the first to overthrow her, and had the power to take control of Palingar for himself. But he didn’t. Instead, he remained loyal to her, and fought with Anon the hardest to bring the Kingdom back from the brink. Why, she didn’t know. Maybe a part of him believed in the ancient laws, laid down by St. Gnosis himself, in obedience to the sovereign Queen. Maybe, the deep, cruel part of him inside enjoyed the chase of taking the throne, and saw the war as to easy. That there would be no fun in it. All she knew, was that the Kingdom was in great debt to him and his house, and he requested a meeting with her. A meeting she could not refuse. She— “My Queen!” A shout peirced her train of thought, as she turned to look down the hallway which led to the Intelligence Room. A knight was galloping towards her at break neck speeds, before slamming to a halt in front of her. “What, what is it,” she asked, a small but annoyed tone creeping behind the words. “Forgive my intrusion, My Queen, but word has come back Heshen,” the Knight breathed out between huffs. Chrysalis’s eats shot up, her eyes widening momentarily. Finally, the word she had been waiting for! The damned Chamberlain could wait, she needed to hear this news, and a not a moment later! “What are you waiting for then, soldier, tell me at once what has happened!” The nobles and soldiers within eat shot began to form by the knight, also curious of the news. Catching his breath, the Knight turned to look at his queen, his glorious queen, in the eye, seeing the reflection of anticipation within her irises. He averted his eyes, moving them to the floor, not wanting to see the disappointment within her eyes, shaking his head forlornly. “It was a massacre, my queen. Ours and their forces were decimated.” The glimmer of hope that any good news that Chrysalis held into shattered within her heart. The tears she fought so hard against before threatening to form again. “A-and, w-what of the Breag N—Naofa?” The knight had no choice, he had to look his grace in the eye. “He is feared dead, your Grace.” Author's Note Wow, another chapter is out. I think I’m getting my groove back. Please point out any horrible spelling mistakes, I’m gonna need to find an editor soon. More backstory will be explained next chapter!
A CeathairConsequently, shrinking soul, turn on your heels and go back before penetrating further into such uncharted, perilous wastelands." — Maldoror,Part I, Chapter 1 The heat from the sun does not seem as unbearable as it was the day before, as you and your troop marched across the rocky terrain. Though the trip would’ve been faster by flight, the Lord Commander had his soldiers walk along the ground besides you out of respect. Even if you weren’t injured, you would’ve never accepted to be carried out of pride. You are the Breag Naofa: it was to you to carry, not to be carried. Every other step or so, a sharp stab of pain would pulse through your side, which began to frustrate you more and more as time went on. The mutations you went through when becoming the Breag Naofa should’ve, in theory, dampened your pain receptors, allowing you to keep fighting for longer periods of time despite your injuries that you would sustain, yet here you were, days after the battle, and still moaning over the arrow wound that you received. You had to toughen up, the Hive doesn’t need a weakling as it’s protector. "Are you feeling any better, My Lord?" Private Michan's voice interrupted your thoughts, as you turned to look down at the Changeling to your side. Out of most of the soldiers that you've seen an fought with on the fields of battle, Michan was easily one of the smallest drones that you've seen. While most soldiers Came to about below your chest, Michan's head came to rest just below stomach, and that was the added height of the armor that he proudly wore. Though it's wrong to assume is his worth by his size alone, you came to wonder how Michan even passed through the intense training that Changeling soldiers had to go through. You would have to see him in action to gain a measure of his worth, but in the meantime, you would give the young private the benefit of the doubt , and allow him to prove himself. "Yes, private, I'm feeling much better than before. Thank you for your consideration." "It's no problem, My Lord! When we get back to the fort, can I get you anything? Maybe some wine? Or some mead? Oh, down in the kitchens they make the best--" "Private Michan! Quit pestering the Breag Naofa!" The Lord Commander bellowed, causing the Private's ears to lie flat against the side of his head. For the briefest moments, a look of hurt crossed the young Changelings face, before forcing a stoic grimace in it's place. "My apologies, sirs," Michan stated flatly, giving a crisp salute, and marching in line with the rest of the privates, who began conversing amongst themselves at his return. You silently watch the young Changeling leave, wondering if you should come to his defense. "The boy didn't mean any offense by it," You said, as you picked up the pace, Vhelen matching the speed in your strides," He was just excited, is all. This his first mission out?" "I Know, I know, I shouldn't have snapped at him so harshly," Vhelen replied, regret in his tone, "He's a fresh amongst the rest of the troop we had here, as well as numerous others who have joined us at the fort. You know, since the....ill tidings of the battle that's just passed. Then again, you're already aware of the situation at hoof." Yes, you were. The amount of bad news that you had received last night was enough to sour your appetite this morning, as well as leave a pit in your stomach. The attack on the border of the Gem Vale stood to gain nothing in it's hopes of returning any sort of good investment to the Hive. The gems that the War Council thought could be used to artificially store Love, your people's main source of nutrients, were present at the village that you intended to sack. There wasn't even a village, or mine at all. What should have been a small mining town, home to Storage Crystals used in the preserving of magical energies, was instead a well armed and manned fort, home to not just ordinary soldiers, but King Ector's personal host of Knights of Arkon. What should have been a quick pillage, escalated to a minor siege, one that your troops were not prepared to make. So, knowing the odds of besieging a fortified fort with such low numbers, far from a fort of your own and it's supplies, you were forced to do one of the things that you hated most: Fleeing. And so you fled, with a host of Knights in pursuit, due to shitty planning on the Council's part. Or maybe, was it sabotage? The location, the planning, the execution, none of it seemed to sit well with you, the more that dwelled on it. You knew that the Queen was not as favored as she once was in the prime of her rule, but to openly sabotage plans and instill a massacre on their own soldiers? "My Lord, we are approaching the fort." Your musings are interrupted by Vhelen's voice, taking in the sight before you. Fort Heshen, though not the biggest, was still quite large. It's surrounding landscape held some the most trees that could be seen this far south of the Wasteland, though a good portion of the trees were either dying or petrified. Large walls of stone, blackened with an outer coating of steel and battlements, encircled one of the few frontier Sub-Hives in the area, with a small collection of homes and shops etched into the various cocoons embedded in the stone clad landscape. Towards the center of town lie the barracks for the soldiers, with various house banners adorning its walls, and at the top of the small hill within the fort, stood its keep, a giant, black, gnarled building of ebony, with three jagged spirals protruding from the sides and centers. Within the keep sat the Commander of Fort Heshen, Risteard Sorley, the head of House Sorley, one of the traitorous houses during the Reunification War. At one time, you stood in Fort Heshen covered in Sorley blood, leading an endless wave a troops cascading through the burning gates of the city. Half of the dead trees in this valley were due to the fires you and the army caused when besieging the fort. Looking at it now, it seems as though the city is still trying to recover from the loss and bloodshed. You know that you were not the most well liked person in this fort. But with an attack by the Bossk almost inevitable, you had no choice but to come to the city that you nearly destroyed not so long ago, whose people you put to the sword, and return to see to it's defense. Within an hour's time, you and your company arrived at the large, black gates of Heshen. Carved into the iron gates were different murals and carvings, showing the history of the Sorley House, depicting battles, celebrations, important times of note. The freshest carving showed the city burning and alight, destruction abound within the buildings and keep, with a host of Changelings entering through the destroyed gate. And faintly, yet still noticeable, a bipedal figure was carved in the front of the army, a sword poised to strike down a Changeling mare and child. The carving was a testament to all that entered this city that they will never forgive and forget the Burning of Heshen. Vhelen noticed your gaze lingering on the fresh carving, shaking his head with a sigh. "Don't dwell on it, my Lord. Once we see to the defenses, and collecting the wounded, we'll be back in the capital in no time. We won't have to remain here long." "I never killed children, Vhelen," You mutter distantly," I may have killed traitors and soldiers and all manner of other things, but I've never once killed innocents. This mural is a lie.” Vhelen lays a comforting hoof on your leg. “I know, My Lord, I know. I was there, too.” You turn to look at the old Lord Commander, understanding in his eyes, an understanding that you appreciated. In those dull, blue orbs spoke years of experience, of heart ache and suffering; suffering that you could hope you would never have to know. You may be the Breag Naofa, but you were chosen. The Lord Commander earned his title, through immeasurable suffering. “Hark! Who goes there!” A voice hollers from the top of the gate ramparts. Drawing both of your attention upward, you notice that a line of Changeling soldiers stand at attention upon the battlements, numerous spears and crossbows aimed down at the group of you below. Though they are Changeling soldiers, most of the company had crests of House Sorley engraved on their helmets or breastplates, and did not look happy at your arrival. Glaring at the disrespectful display in front of you, you shout back at them. "This is the Anonymous, The Breag Naofa of the Palingar Hive, Warmonger to Her Majesty Queen Chrysalis, Ruler of the Changelings! With me is Lord Vhelen, Lord Commander of the Army of St. Gnosis, as well as his entourage! WE demand entry into Her Majesty's Fort Heshen, and to speak to Lord Risteard!" A long silence followed your outburst, as the tension seemed to be so thick in the air, that you could cut it with your blade. Though they were no friends of yours or the royal army, they still held your wounded, and were bound by Queen's Law to obey their summons when called. A Large Changeling Throne, clad in the same dark ebony armor that his comrades wore, yet adorned with further etchings and carvings across his plate, stared down at you and your group, matching your glare with a harsh one of his own. You place a hand on the hilt of your sword, almost daring the Throne to challenge you. Eyes locked for moments, the Throne tears his gaze away from you, before hollering to the group of Changelings behind him. "Raise the gates, let 'em pass!" The large iron gates rumbled like distant thunder, causing the ground to shake beneath your feet, as they began to separate, grinding against the hard, rocky ground. As the gates parted, you and your group stood at the attention, ready to take action if it was required. You And Vhelen did not trust the House Sorley, and the feeling was a mutual one. As the dust settled from the opening, figures emerged from behind the gate to greet you. A fat Changeling, in flowing robes of black and crimson, lead the procession. Like all other Changelings, his eyes glowed with a luminous pale blue, harboring a deep resentment for the group that stood before him. His mane seemed longer then most Changelings, dangling down the sides of his neck, adorned with gold ornaments, in attempt to advertise his wealth. Though he was fat for a Changeling, his underlying appearance and aura to you reeked of danger. This was Risteard Sorley, Head of House Sorley. Flanked on his sides were Knights of his choosing, each more heavily armored then most other Knights you have come across, with jagged, black helmets concealing their faces. Their abnormally large horns jutted from the tops of their helms, glowing a faint sickly green as their weapons were levitated at their sides. Risteard gave you and your companions a look, sizing you up, as you stood to face each other. "So, the Breag Naofa still lives," He said in low ton, devoid of any empathy or compassion," Word is that you fell in battle." "I'm still very much alive," You retort," And we come with grim news." "Oh? Do you intend to sack my city again, Anonymous? I would advise a bigger host with you next time." You feel your jaw clench at the insult, suppressing an urge unsheathe your sword and ram it through his goddamn skull. "Its not me that may besiege your city, Sorley," You reply with a tight grimace, causing Risteard to cock an eyebrow at you in confusion. "And who may be laying siege to my city?" He asked, a curious tone in his voice. "The Bossk, due to the shit plan that you and the War Council concocted. We're here to collect our wounded, and see that this city isn't set ablaze again." On that note, you brush past the Commander of Fort Heshen, leaving him in a stunned silence, as your companions follow behind you. There were wounded to attend to, plans to formulate, and Queen you needed to get in contact with. Author's Note Already working on the next chapter, which should be twice as long as this one, as well as finally introduce Celestia. Next chapter should come out this week, as well as an upate for Black Tar and The House of Sleep
A Cúig"Man is the God of Earth, the answer to every question Given to generation and birth by a God who is the Man of Heaven" --Thou The room you were in was bustling with movement and activity, as Changeling medics and nurses rushed from bed to bed, checking on the various soldiers that lay groaning on the small medical cots. The sounds of shouting, moaning and the shuffling of the wounded Changelings filled the medical chamber, and you could only watch in deep shame and hurt at the sight of your soldiers in this situation. This room was filled with the only survivors of the Battle of Heshen Moor (so the name of the battle that was going around amongst the other soldiers and civilians), who numbered less then fifty souls. And though you never gave the order to march into the borders of the Gem Vale, you still felt a grim responsibility for those who lay in agony. You should've fought harder, you should've been stronger, you should've killed so many more Bossk. You should've saved more of them. "It's quite the sight isn't it?" Risteard asked, as he made to stand at your side. You don't acknowledge the Commander, keeping your gaze fixated on the group of broken Changelings before you, your heart aching in pity for the suffering. "They started coming in two days ago, some dying at the gates before they could enter, some barely making it to the medical chambers, due to the extensive nature of their wounds. The Bossk are truly fierce warriors if they could decimate the forces of Gnosis himself." "And you point is?" You reply gruffly, noticing the underlying insult he made towards your wounded soldiers. An insult you did not appreciate in the slightest as your fists tightened. The fat Commander hoveled in front of you, the jewelry hanging from his body jingling in an almost deafening manner, his eyes steeling as he met your look. "Well, you say that retaliation may be an impending occurnece, and since my lands are the closest official Palingarian settlement wthin reach of the border, I can trust your word when you say that we may be attacked soon,” he states, barely audible above the moans of the wounded, “so would I expect my people to be subjugated to the same mistery the as this miserable lot here?" An incredulous look expresses upon you, as the Sorley commander looked to the broken Changelings with apathy. "You speak as if you don't care for these Changelings!" "Maybe it's because I don't, my lord," He retorted with a shrug, voice laced in a subdued tone of bereft of sympathy, causing you to look at him with fury at his statement," You say it was the War Council, and therefore I, that ordered this slaughter, but keep in mind that I voted against this stupidity long before any other alternative methods could be come up with. Yet still, after burning my city and killing my family, I have no love for Gnosis or His soldiers.” On that note, he turned on his hooves and made to exit the hallway that you both stood in, flanked by his two Knights at his side, ever vigilant and silent. Tilting his head to the side, he called out to you one last time. "The Old Way and the Queen's orders bar me from tossing you from my city, but I advise you to collect your wounded and leave as soon as possible. Any siege here will be won by Sorley hooves, and Sorley hooves alone, without the aid of your ilk, Breag Naofa. Also, be sure to check in with the dungeon master, he has an interesting matter to discuss with you that our Queen may wish to know about." The fat Changeling Lord departed, leaving you to ponder on the words he left you with. Some day soon, you would come back and personally kill that loathsome heretic and the rest of his bastard house, but today, you would, for the time being at least , supress your murderous desires back down as much as possible. After all, you were guest in the House of Sorley, and a representative of your glorious queen Refocusing your attention to the task at hand, you walk down the small, stone steps the lead into medical chamber and begin to walk into the chaotic fray. Upon examining the rush of the medics and nurses, you notice a familiar Changeling moving from bed to bed, offering help and healing to the afflicted soldiers lining the room. Seeing the devoted Knight brought a smile to your face. "Sir Cathal," You call out to him, moving towards the bed that we was currently residing at. Cathal turns towards you, as well as many of the nurses and medics who noticed your arrival, and offers a swift bow. You wave of their courtesy with a flick of your hand, appreciative of their gesture. It felt good that some in this damn city still showed you the proper respect that your title was owed. "My Lord, how ails your side?" The Knight asked, as he placed his hooves in a wash basin, removing the blood that stuck to them, "My apologies for attending to you earlier, I just got caught up in working here that--" "It's fine, Sir Cathal, I understand," You reply, reaching over and patting the Changeling’s back in comraderie, “I never properly thanked you for work you did on me. You saved my life, Sir a Cathal.” “Please my Lord, Cathal is just fine,” he stated modestly, offering his hoof up to me, “it was an honor to treat you, sir.” Various other Changelings in the beds all called out to you, weakly raising their hooves, or the stumps from which their hooves were once attached to, in weak, tires salutes, each trying in their own way to show their respects to you. “Go to them, my Lord. Speak with them,” Cathal said softly, “Some of them won’t survive the night, so it would do them well to know that you shed your blood for those Changelings, just like they shed theirs for you.” A deep sadness Wells up inside of you, as you gazed at the battered,beaten, defeated troops; some who had only mere hours to live. Nodding at Cathal, who smiled back at you before returning his attention to the wounded Changelings at his side, you move from your spot and begin approaching bed by bed. The ones you that were maimed and injured, you would sit with and exchange stories and accounts of the a Battke of a Heshen Moor, you would hold the ones who would break and weep at the suffering they had went through, and the dying, you would tell words of comfort too, holding their hooves, trying anything you could do to help with their pain. “All of you,” you say to the collected group, “each and everyone of you were the finest band of brothers and sisters i’ve ever fought with. All of you are going home, even if it means I have to fight all through Tartarus to get you there. You will all go home. I promise.” The broken soldiers eyes light up in a dim, but smoldering hope; a hope that they would return to their homes, see their families again, and held trust that you would see it through. A part of you wanted to remain with them, and talk with them further, but there was still much to do before you and the others could return home, and in order to make good on that promise, you had to leave them. Turning back to Cathal, he stares at you with a look of appreciation at your words you spoke to the soldiers. "That was a good thing you did, My Lord. Just the fact that they know you care about them places their hearts at ease." Sighing, you tilt your head at the Knight, beckoning him to follow you as you turn your back and head down the corridor leaving the infirmary. Cocking his head questioningly, the Knight checks his patient one last time before following closely behind you. The corridors of the Sorley castle are surprisingly well lit, contrast to the dark and jagged architecture of the building itself. The walls were lined with stained glass and paintings, showing past scenes of Palingarian and Sorley history, while servants and guards marched throughout the hallway. "So few survived, Cathal. I can't seem to wrap my head around it," You say, as you walk towards your destination, "I know I should be used to it by now, but this was a tragedy that should've been avoided. All those damn, wasted lives. I'm still finding it difficult to wrap my mind around it." "My Lord-" "Please, call me Anon, Cathal. You've earned that right." The Knight looks at you in surprise at the notion, a look of uncertainty crossing his features, before responding. "Alright, er, Anon," He struggles to get out, before clearing his throat to respond properly, "Those soldiers were doing their duty, to Hive and to the Queen, as were you. The loss of life was a tragedy, we can all admit that and sympathize with that. Several of my own friends were killed in the battle, but when we joined the Army of Gnosis, we knew what we were signing up for." "I'm sorry for your loss Cathal. Who were they, your friends?" The Changeling Knight gives a small smile in remembrance as you round the corner towards a stairway, leading downwards towards the dungeon below. "There was Lonan. He was a Knight, A Hospitaler like myself, yet far younger. He was always a character, that Changeling, always joking and poking fun at the others and trying to make us all laugh, yet he was damn fine medic. I remember staying up late into the nights during our times as squires, studying the medical books, and talking and laughing all through the evening. Those were good times." The fond smile of remembrance on Cathal's face slowly begins changing into a small frown. You notice the pain creeping into his gaze as he recalls his friends. Friends that you fought with, and died all around you. "Then there was Niall, a Throne that I met during the Reunification War. Gods, he was huge," He released a dry chuckle at the thought of how big, yet how soft his dead friend could be, "I remember when I first met him, he was in the infirmary, screaming and hollering as if he was on death's door, only for us to find out that he just had a small splinter stuck under his hoof. It was so ridiculous, and yet so endearing to see this giant brought low by a small splinter, that we became fast friends. We served in the same unit for the remainder of the war." By now, you begin to notice the distressed look of the Changeling Knight, and wonder if it was a good idea to bring the thought of his deceased friends up in the conversation. "Cathal, if it pains you, you don't have to speak of it anymore." "No, its alright," Cathal replies, waving his hoof to clear the tears threatening to emerge from his eyes away, "I want to talk about it. I want you to know about them, who they were. That they weren't faceless drones in the army. They were unique, and individuals.....and people, just like you and me." "I know, Cathal, I know," you respond, halting in your steps and bending down to meet the Changeling face to face, "I lost friends, too. I've sent countless to their graves, by my sword or by my orders, and many died because of me. It's hard, what we do, and pain and grief follow where we go, but all these lives lost were for the Hive, for the Queen, for our families living here. I won't say that I knew your friends, Cathal, but I will say that they did not die in vain, but in glory." You knew that wasn't true. There wasn't glory in battle, and the hell that followed with it. Most died screaming. The glory of battle, of the fight, of honor amongst warriors, in truth, it was all a lie. But that's what you were, as the Breag Naofa: The Holy Lie. It was up to you to shatter the truth of war, and to reinforce the belief in Honor, of dying for the Hive. Cathal didn't need to hear the truth, he probably knew it already; what he needed was to be reassured that their sacrifices meant something. It was a moment of doubt, that you wholeheartedly understood, and would be there to reassure. You would be that lie. Cathal cleared his throat, brushing the remaining moisture from his eyes in an attempt to regain his composure. "Thank you, Anon, I needed to hear that, and to get that off my chest. I find it Uncomfortable to talk about it with mate back home, I don't want to hear about all the death, but sometimes, it's hard to keep it bottled up. I try not lose myself in front of my family." "It's fine Cathal, we all need to let off steam every once in awhile," You say, placing a comforting grip on the Knight's shoulder, before resuming your steps and continuing down the dark stairs, "If you ever need to talk, seek me out, and we can air it out of drinks, eh?" "I would like that, My Lord," Cathal replied, a small smile returning to his lips, exposing the tips of his fangs. The two of you continue onward before reaching a large, wooden door, with torches mounted on either side of it. Surprisingly, at the door stood Risteard, with his guards and what appeared to be another noble of House Sorley, accompanied by Vhelen and Michan, as well as one of Thrones that came with the Lord Commander. "Well, this is a surprise, I thought you would've joined us later," Risteard sneered, as he watched you and Cathal approach the small gathering. You greet the Lord with a grimace, resting your gauntlet on the pommel of your long sword; it seems that every comment that leaves this insufferable Lord irks you more and more. "I decided to investigate the Dungeon Master's summons before attending to the other articles of business," You reply, curtly, eyeing the Sorley noble that stood besides Risteard, "And who is this, if I may ask?" "This is my son, Lorcan," Risteard stated, "I asked him to accompany me with the Lord Commander, here." Vhelen offered a smile and a nod in greeting, in which you return in kind. Michan and Throne offer you a crisp salute to you, which you wave off, as well, and greet them with pats on the back. The guards with Risteard, like the rest of the Sorley soldiers, remain quiet and passive, yet the ever present animosity peering at you from under the metal helmets. His son, though, walks up to you and offers a hoof to you in greeting. "It's an honor, Breag Naofa," Lorcan says, which honestly throws you and Risteard off guard, "it's an honor to meet the Chosen of Gnosis." "Um, thank you, Lord Lorcan," you reply awkwardly, "I appreciate the kind the words." "Priest Lorcan, actually ," He replies with a chuckle, reaching into the bellows of his robes and producing a medallion, carved with the Image of St. Gnosis's sigil upon it, "I am a servant to the Powers That Are, just like you. Someone needs to bring religion to these heathens, am I right?" That gets a chuckle out of you. So far, this was the only Sorley you've met with that you personally didn't loathe. "If you're quite finished," Risteard interrupted, glaring at you, "We were just about to enter. Care to join us or preach amongst yourselves out here?" "Sorry, father," The young Sorley mutters, before shifting back to Risteard's side, before the pair as well as their guards enter the dungeon. "Come on, Anon," Vhelen says, tapping your thigh to get your attention, "Lets see what's so important down there, shall we?" Giving a curt nod, you head through the door after the Lord Commander, followed closely by Michan, Cathal, while the Throne remained outside to guard the door. You're interested, or at the very least intrigued, to see what the Dungeon Master wanted to show you, but a part of felt that it would be nothing good. As your heavy footsteps echo against the hard, stone floor, you could only pray that you are walking into a trap by the bastard Lord of House Sorley. =================================================================================================== (POV Change: Celestia 3rd person) The cold, night breeze of Canterlot fluttered through the Solar Monarch's flowing, rainbow mane, as she gazed out at her sister's handiwork from atop the balcony of her room. While the day, and in turn her sun, were of glorious magnificence that she was proud of, Luna's nights always seemed to hold a profound beauty that were unrivaled in their dark, mysterious depths. Releasing a sigh, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the mountain air that encompassed her, breathing deeply from the soothing crispness of it's icy nip, in an attempt to let the stress of the day wash away from her. It had been almost a month now, with no word back from Nightingale, Luna's Night Guard captain, and she was beginning to feel very worried. She sent the young, experienced mare out for assignment months ago, with her sister's blessing, and within the last month, she had gone completely silent. Usually, Celestia would receive reports and word from the Guard Captain biweekly, and being the punctual mare she was, she would never miss a letter. When the first two weeks went by, and a letter wasn't received, Celestia did not dwell on it, assuming that mare was deep in her investigations. When another week had passed with no word, he began to worry about the Nightingale. Now that it had been a full month, Celestia had begun fearing the worst. What if the Minotaurs had found her, and imprisoned her, or worse, killed her? Celestia was a kind and benevolent ruler, and never wished to send any of her subjects towards any kind of harm, but the Minotaurs to the west, especially the Empress, were beginning to concern her heavily. They had already expanded into Griffonia, and several other smaller kingdoms, by swift and brutal force; by now, only the Gem Vale stood between Equestria and Minotaur Empire of Sanfaran, and she began to fear heavily for her western allies. Something, though, had halted the Minotaur advance at the Gem Vale border, and now the two lands were in a bitter stalemate. And the monarch wanted to know exactly what. Luna, her ever affirmative sister, suggested sending a spy to Sanfaran, to seek what troubled the Minotaurs enough to halt, and the young Night Captain volunteered. The fact that Nightingale had disappeared was just another sorrow to add to the mountain of bad news that flowed from beyond her borders. Before Celestia could dwell on it anymore, the doors to her bedroom burst inward, as her sister rushed into the room. "Sister! I have news!" Turning from the balcony, Celestia entered into her room to meet her sister, noticing the look of urgency upon her face. The news must've been dire for Luna to leave Night Court to personally show this to her. "Luna? What is it? Is it word from Nightingale?!" "Nay, dear sister," Luna replied, her tone in distress, as her horn flared up, levitating a piece of parchment towards Celestia, "It's from them, Celly. From the wastelands. They have her. They have Nightingale." Taking the letter from her sister, Celestia began to read the message, each line causing her heart to sink further and further as she took in every word. By this time, she thought that she would never hear from the those....creatures ever again, since they were last expelled, never mind the fact that they actively were seeking her out, but the question stood: How did they acquire Nightingale? How did the Changelings get her, when she should've been miles westward?! "Did you read what they wanted?" Luna asked, staring at her sister, a silent fury burning in her irises. "Yes," Celestia responded, floating the letter to the nearest table, "But why would they want to meet with us? Why would they be holding Nightingale, just to have a meeting without a ransom. It doesn't make sense." "A better question, sister, is who is this one called The Chamberlain? If I could, I would banish that pest to the moon twenty times over, for the next thousand years, if he harmed one hair upon her mane!" "Bronach Turlough," Celestia replied, her gaze hardening to a thoughtful look, "That's his name. He's the head of a Changeling noble house called Turlough, and supposedly the most powerful over there. From my recollection, the Turloughs are an ancient house, forming a century after your imprisonment, sister, and have been a power house there ever since. They're dangerous, Luna." "Well, are we going to meet this Chamberlain, than?" Luna asked, tapping her hooves against the tiles of Celestia's floor, "Or shall I obliterate that pitiful excuse for a kingdom off the face of Equis? Dangerous or not, she has my child of the night, and I will not have her a captive of that wasteland longer then I have to! Could we not send Twilight and the Elements to rescue her?" Celestia shook her head at the idea, "No, sister, I don't want to risk losing them over there, with the situation with Minotaurs so close at hoof; it would be best to leave them out of this. This was our decision, Luna, we must fix this mistake ourselves. We will meet Chrysalis and this Turlough Chamberlain-" "And the Breag Naofa." Celestia cocked an eyebrow at that name. It was a name that she was nor familiar with. "Who?" "It's at the bottom of the letter," Luna replied, scanning through the letter again, "It says that with the convoy of representatives, one called the Breag Naofa would be attending as well at the Queen's behest. Who is that, Celly?" Celestia pondered on that. Though she and her sister were old, she was not as versed in the Changeling society as she should have been, considering they were one of the few races they were not in contact with much. "I don't know, Luna, but we will have to do some research before a letter is sent in response. I want to know more about this new Turlough, and I want to know who, or what, this Breag Naofa is."
A Haon"Reasoning from the common course of nature, and without supposing any new interposition of the supreme cause, which ought always be excluded from philosophy; what is incorruptible must also be ingenerable. The soul, therefore, if immortal, existed before our birth: And if the former state of existence no wise concerned us, neither will the latter." [David Hume] She's waiting for you...... It's only the faintest sliver of light that your eyes enclosed in blackness see. A small line that grows before disappearing again. You're not yet fully conscious, that much is apparent, but slowly your senses are returning. The ground feels hard, rocky, sandy. The land around seems deathly still and quiet, besides the caw of carrion birds, it would appear It's the smell that really gets to you, though. It's a repulsive smell, that stings your nostrils as it invades your nasal cavities, washing over your unconscious thought, bringing with it a stench foul and spoiled, decay and rotten. And familiarity. You've smelt this smell many times throughout the last few years of your life. That odor was the stench of death, and it was all around you. As your hearing begins to clear up further, you notice the sound of flies buzzing all around you, in every direction, mixing with the stench of rotting, sun baked flesh. The sun.... Why did it take you so long to feel the burning heat of the sun as it sears you and the ground below you? It has to be at least one hundred and ten degrees if not hotter, and boy is your body beginning to feel it. You have to get up. Yo have to open your goddamn eyes! But you can't. You just can't. Even through your semi-conscious state, you can feel your head throbbing and pounding against your skull, as well as a sharp, soul deadening pain erupting from your side. Oh god, you just want to keep your eyes closed forever. To just die. "S-sir...ar-are y-you al-alright...?" The voice is faint, weak, and strained, but it was loud enough to pierce your clouded mind, and, at least briefly, take your subconscious thoughts away from the pain that absorbed you. Someone was alive. Get the fuck up! Slowly, reluctantly, agonizingly, your eyes slowly begin to open. A sliver, at first, then a little more. And more. And more. A ll at once, your eyes burst open with a surge of brightness as the sun's light shines upon your face. Everything is blurry at first, you only being able to see strained images. But the smell..... As you eyes focus, a brown and red shape before slowly becomes clearer and clearer. Finally, you're able to make out what the hell is laying in front of you. The mangled corpse of a Bossk (Diamond Dog in the common tongue). What's left of its mangled face stares straight at you, it's one, lifeless eye boring holes into yours. It's once brown fur is matted with it's red blood, as it leaks from various wounds across it's body. Flies hovered in droves over the corpse's pink flesh, making a buzzing sound that pierced your ears. And the smell....the fucking smell.... You've seen enough. You try to lift yourself up from the scorching ground, but at once you drop as pain erupts from your side. A soft, agonizing groan slips through your clenched teeth as you tightly shut your eyes, Almost afraid to look down at the source of your misery. Cracking a teary eye, slightly, you move your gaze slowly to your left hand side. At the midway point, an arrow is jutting from you. "Sir....ah-are you oh-ok, s-sir?" The voice calls out to you again. That pain filled voice. "Y-yeah, I....I'll live," you reply weakly. You touch he shaft of the arrow before deciding against pulling from your body. You may bleed out if you yank out. What you need to do now is figure out what's going on, find the voice that is calling to you, and find help of some kind. Any kind. Now you have to stop being bitch. You have to stand up. Stand up! Placing one hand on the ground and one hand on your side, slowly you begin to rise to your feet, the plate armor your wearing creaking as you rise. God, it's like a fuckin' oven in there. Standing on your two feet, you finally get a real glimpse of your surroundings. It takes your breath away. There are dead. Dead everywhere. Diamond Dogs and Changelings. Your Changelings..... It seems for acres and acres the dead littered the land, why flocks upon flocks of crows and other eaters of deceased flesh circled the remains of a battle. A battle you fought in.... Clutching your side again, you slowly scan the corpses of the rocky plateau, searching for the source of the voice that called out to you early. "H-hello? Call out so I can find you," you cry out hoarsely, your throat dry and parched. Amongst a pile of cadavers, a small, black hole filled hoof rose. "I'm......here," the feminine voice replied, weaker than before. Looking around, you pick up a Diamond Dog spear that lay on the ground, leaning on it for support, before limping slowly over to the Changeling that called out to you. "Hold on," you call out, "I'm coming." Picking your way through the dead is almost impossible without stumbling, with bodies piled on top of bodies, weapons, limbs, blood and waste scattered all around the battlefield. But you see her, at last. Shuffling as fast as you can, you kneel before the only other apparent survivor of the conflict. And it doesn't look good. She's a small Changeling, her black chitin dulled by the dust of the battle. The black armor around her was dented and scuffed almost everywhere. And a large gash lay bloodied and open across her stomach. Her breathing was labored and shaky, while her vibrant blue eyes lay half closed, trying their best to look at you clearly, tears forming around their brim. "It....it's g-good to see a f-friendly face, s-sir," she stutters weakly, her forehoof weakly extending towards her forehead in a salute, before falling weakly to her side. Slowly, you take off the gauntlet on your left hand, revealing it to the scorching sun, tanned, scabbed and bruised, and lifted a shakey finger to her eyes and wiped the stray tears from her face. "You're going to be alright, private," you try to reassure her, "I just need to bind your wound." She nuzzles your hand gently, clenching her eyes shut. "Am....am I going to die, s-sir.?" You can feel your heart breaking, your stomach churning. "No," you hastily say, rubbing her neck gently, "you're not going to die, private. Y-you're going to be ok." You slowly rise to your feet again, a new determination in your mind. Fuck the heat. Fuck the pain. You need to save this Changeling's life. Just this one life, out of all the hundreds of dead around you. Please, just this one. "There has to be a medic bag around here," you tell the wounded Changeling, who meekly stares at the arrow protruding from your side," I'm going to find one and I'm going to patch you up. I promise that you and I are going to make it back to the Hive alive. Just, please, hold on." "Only you need to make it back, sir. You are the Breag Naofa. I-I'm just a drone. You must live, my lord." You can only stare at the broken Changeling mare. "Just wait here." Once again you shuffle through the corpses that lay strewn all about you, as you pick through the dead in vain hope of finding a medical bag, a bandage, something. Anything! You search until sweat pools from your forehead, your wound screaming out in sheer agony. This search will kill you. But you don't care. You pick through bodies under the scorching sun until you're forced to crawl upon your hands and knees. Your amour is weighing you down, but you're too tired to take it off. "Please," you cry to the sky, to what ever deity could hear you, "please help....anything, anything at all. Just please help me help her....." You stumble forward, collapsing upon the ground, a cloud of dust forming around you. Just give up. Accept your fate. Die. You clench your fist in anger. No! You won't die here! Get up!! Get up and save her life! Struggling, shaking, slowly but surely, you rise up again, and search, through blood and bodies, all things foul. You see it. A clean white cloth, resting by the corpse of a Changeling commander. Snatching it up, ignoring the hurt, you bound back to your wounded companion as fast as you can. "I'm coming!" You hoarsely cry," hold on private, just a little bit longer!" You leap over the body of a dead Diamond Dog as you race to the spot where the Changeling is. "I'm here! Just hold still private, I.....I....." You stare, taking a long moment to take in what's before you. Her eyes are dim and hollow. Her chest is quiet and still. She's dead. You failed again. The cloth falls from your hand, and is taken up in the breeze, fluttering away to god knows where. Failure. She was right though. You are the Breag Naofa of the Changeling Hive Trust, ruled by it's queen, Chrysalis, in the heart of the Great Wastelad. Your hive needs you. Your queen needs you. You must live. You look from the dead Changeling, to the arrow in your side. Lifting a hand, you reach for the shaft, and break the arrow. You are the Breag Naofa. And you must live. Author's Note New story. Hope you guys enjoy. Breag Naofa is Irish, by the way. Until next time. Ps the god of sleep is not dead
