His name was Longsword, mostly because that was the weapon he was most talented in handling. He was an above average unicorn stallion with a talent for killing things. He wore tough, steel-grey plate armour with red clothes underneath, and on his back was his longsword, Storm he called it.
He stood beside one of the many trebuchets bombarding the black crystal walls of the corrupted empire. He intended to end the regime of the tyrant queen and return to his home of Skyhold. So he laid vicious seige to the city. As the battering ram approached the gates he jogged up to join them in the assault on the gates. It didn't take long for the highly trained professional soldiers to beat through the gates. He was the first one through, and his first destination was the central keep.
As he strode he met little resistance, much of Umbra's force had been destroyed by the bombardment. He seized a soldier by the throat and spoke, "where is Umbra?"
The Queen of Shadows didn't command anyone through loyalty or love. Instead, she used fear, coercion, and force, twisting their minds and forcing their worst nightmares upon them until they begged for a saviour to rescue them from their torment. At that point, the tyrant would offer her hand, demanding unwavering fealty in exchange for the most paltry of safety. As was the case with all of her soldiers, this one was wearing a helmet that maintained their obedience, and when it was ripped off, the pony beneath was left gasping, looking around fretfully.
"Wh-where am I?" he asked, eyes wide as he looked into Longsword's fearsome expression. "Please, don't hurt me! I'm innocent! I'm a nobody!" They tried to scramble away, tripping on the debris and stumbling to the ground. It didn't seem to matter; Umbra would be where she always was - hiding in the throne room, where she could remain safely until the seige was over.
He dropped the stallion, as he had gripped him beneath his pauldron and held him aloft by his left arm. He ignored the stallion as he fled from him, useless. He turned his attention to the central keep, the great crystal spire, blackened and tainted by the corruption of Umbra. She would be dealt with this day.
He first gave his army a foothold on the vast walls, and let them handle it from there, then he stormed the keep with a few units of his knights. They followed their Warlord into the great tower with fervour. They spared who they could, and slaughtered who they had to. And it was Longsword himself who kicked the doors to the throne room from their hinges upon entry. And there she was, the Queen of Fear herself.
The queen had been sending her soldiers out to deal with the invaders, convinced that she would be able to repel them with ease. After all, what could they do against her, the mistress of shadows and darkness, the embodiment of fear and omnipresent control? It was only when they breached the keep and began to fight their way ever closer to the throne room, and when she'd expended her bodyguard detail, that she realised the extent of this threat. She tried to summon more troops, any means to fight back, but could find none. She hissed and was about to seek out her armory or her escape tunnel - she was as yet undecided - when the door was kicked open, and the interlopers made themselves known.
"I have not made an appointment to see you," she commented, glancing at the array of soldiers. "And you have not requested my presence." She took a seat on the throne, crossing one leg gracefully over the other. "Either you are unaware who it is you are approaching, or you are woefully unprepared to meet your queen. Kneel, and all shall be forgiven. You shall be reintegrated as loyal subjects, and this silly business shan't go any further. If not...I shall have no choice." She let a dark flame dance across her hand, the interior of the black fire a bright purple.
She wasn't exactly dressed for battle, but she never was. Queen Umbra was a craven disguised as a warrior queen, and her ensemble showed it. Her plate armor was steel, but light and loose enough to allow her to move without difficulty. A red velvet cape ran down from her shoulders, ending with a rim of white fur, and her headpiece was definitely ceremonial, designed to show her prowess rather than be practical. Regardless, she was beautiful, as feminine and stunning as she was cruel and sadistic. If not for her evil and her cowardice she could be an admired ruler.
"There is no time to stand on ceremony, your highness. I'll not kneel before a cowardly despot who demands loyalty and does nothing to earn it." He says venomously, approaching her, "no, I name the terms here, and they are simple, surrender or your life is forfeit."
The regal mare regarded him with a scornful mockery, letting the fire build up in her hand until it was a roaring inferno the size of a beach ball. "So be it," she commented casually, hurling it in his direction. It launched towards him, a dark bolt of dangerous energy that seared the air around it, whooshing in a great roar until it-
Fizzled out.
She blinked, surprised at the dissipation of her magic. Summoning more flame, she repeated her attack, hurling fireball after fireball at him, all of them fading with the same lackluster effect that the first had. He wasn't even doing anything, and none of her attacks were connecting. It was like he was-
Protected.
Her eyes widened. "What have you brought into my kingdom?" she asked, jerking onto her feet. "None may have a power that can overshadow mine! It is decreed!" Her tone was no longer cocksure and suave, but concerned and demanding. "You dare try to take my arsenal from me? You dare try to overthrow my glorious reign! I shall..." She couldn't finish the sentence, because there was nothing she honestly could do. Her footsoldiers, her guards, were all gone. She was alone against him.
"S-so be it," she huffed. "I shall..." She glanced around, hoping desperatately that there were some more slaves, conscripts, servants, guards, or anypony else who might be waiting in the wings. If there were, she'd offer no quarter or deal, hoping to the intruders with force. Alas, there was no one. She was alone. "I shall challenge you to a duel. None of your fellow traitors need to be hurt. Only you or I." She played up her honour, knowing she couldn't defeat all of them in fight. One of them, however...she might beat one. And if they were as honourable as they seemed, perhaps she could still retain her power?
"Who shall fight for your merry band of scoundrels?
"We are hardly traitors, considering that I never owed any fealty to you, neither did any who follow me. Queen Umbra, I, Sir Longsword, Warlord of the Grey Knights of Skyhold, accept your challenge. You will face me in single combat, standard conditions for every duel. Until one is dead, or yields themselves the other's prisoner. Are these terms acceptable to you?"
The queen swallowed nervously. He looked fearsome, and she was worried by his title. He seemed competent, unlike the other fodder he had with him. She'd hoped one of them would face her, and she'd be able to defeat him and claim victory. Now, however, she'd have to hope for a win against the knight himself.
"Very well," the mare commented. "I, Umbra, Queen of Shadows, rightful ruler of the Crystal Empire and all its lands, declare a duel of combat between yourself and I. You shall fight for your claim over my deposition, and I shall fight for my claim over my kingdom and my continued rule. You shall fight as you have been trained, a knight and warrior, and I shall fight as the battlemage I am." She glared at the other soldiers by his side. "But I shall need a weapon."
He looked to one of the younger knights, who tossed him his arming sword, a shorter sword type but not a short sword, with a broad crossguard and hand and a half hilt with a wide steel pommel. Simple but efficient, and none too heavy either. The arming sword was then tossed to Umbra.
He drew his Longsword from his waist. Longswords and greatswords were indeed different, greatswords had to be sheathed on the back and were impossible to draw quickly, and often were far heavier than the more agile longsword. A longsword could be sheathed at the hip and often never reached the bottom of the breastbone from tip to pommel. In skilled hands, their good balance of agility, strength and reach made the longsword a particularly lethal weapon. And his hands were evidently skilled.
He approached her with a confident, but nowhere near arrogant, stride, he knew his skill, it's capabilities and its limits, which made him all the more dangerous. "I'm ready when you are."
Umbra caught the sword out of the air, swishing it a few times to test its weight and performance. She could work with this, probably. Looking up to the male across from her, she got into position, calling on her knowledge of duels and fencing. She hoped she could trick him into getting close, thinking he was winning, and then beating him down when he was vulnerable.
"I am always ready," she intoned, dropping down into a stance more suitable for a shorter sword. She turned her side towards him, spaced out her feet, and kept her legs light and agile. "May the best mare win."
He wasted no time in taking the offensive. He, brought the blade down towards her head from above before immediately moving to cut at her hip. He continued his barrage of blows without hesitation, or mistake, and he was advancing, meaning she would have to retreat.
The queen parried the overhead strike and the strike at her hip, able to manipulate her blade much more swiftly due to its smaller size. However, the blow behind every one of his strikes was significant, and she felt herself using more and more of her strength to avoid being injured by it. Backwards she stepped, mindful to avoid tripping over the steps to the throne, or anything else in her way. She measured his attacks, waiting for an opportunity to strike at him.
As he swung for another powerful blow, she stepped in to his posture, rendering the angle unsuitable for attack, and blasted at him with her horn. As he stumbled, she tried to swing at him, but couldn't get the power or the angle right to capitalise on her advantage. Growling, she stepped back again, ready to strike, but was forced back into being defensive as he recovered quicker than she had anticipated.
As she stepped inside his blade's range to keep up to him but avoid harm, she had forgotten that any part of the weapon can be used, and one is not restricted to only their weapon. He let the swing follow through and he lunged forward with his shoulder to throw her back, followed up with another, vertical swing at the hip.
His stance was always wide and firm, and his armour was by far superior to her own. And since it nullified her magic, she was outmatched, only luck or intervention could save her now. But he made sure not to get overconfident, his mind was on the task at hand, take her alive if possible, kill her if necessary.
Finding that her horn wasn't producing any magic with which to batter him, the mare became more desperate, throwing attacks at him left and right. She jabbed, she slashed, she shouted and yelled and rained down a flurry of blows onto him, hoping something would get through and strike him. She had to win! Her kingdom was at stake! With a great yell, she reared back her sword, clasping it with both hands and winding up to bring it down over his head.
The strike was slow, and ultimately pointless. He brought his sword up, half swording, which is to say gripping the blade two thirds up with his left hand, his right still on the hilt. He deflected the blow to his left, putting him in the perfect position to pommel her square between the eyes. Followed up with a punch to her temple.
As she turned to look up, she'd be met by a swordpoint under her chin. He loomed over her ominously, his hard, uncaring expression would be the most threatening thing in her field of vision. "This is your last chance. Yield, or die."
The queen was a craven, and it became wholly apparent as soon as she was forced to submit. She gasped, and tried to scramble away, only to find her back to the throne. "I-I yield!" she yelped. "Don't hurt me, I yield!" She shook and shivered, teeth chattering in fear.
