The battle of the capitol of the White Kingdom, Tiamat, was a painting of black and red. A Kingdom that boasted its purity of white, where even the buildings and the roads were made of white marble, now blackened by fire, smeared red with blood. Broken bodies of soldiers, civilians, the old, the young, lay scattered across the land. Mangled corpses bled oceans of blood, in which the brave, yet frightened soldiers of the Kingdoms fought.
Ankle deep in blood and guts, the sounds of metal, echoed together with the screams, both inhuman and not. The young soldier pulled his blade from the corpse of a darkling, a creature that was corrupted by the Dark ones, once a living person. The man was unsure if it was human, elf, or what race the corpse once was, its features having rotted away, leaving only a melted flesh with barely any semblence to its former self. He looked down at the blade, covered with the thick dark purplish goo that these creatures bled.
His blade was long dulled by such corruption, and its stench was no longer forcing him to vomit, as his stomach was long emptied of its contents, though it was still a stench he would rather not stick around for long. He looked around, and saw that the other soldiers slowly pushing their way through the streets of Tiamat. He had long separated from his own group, and at this point in the battle, he had given up hope of ever seeing his comrades again. Either he would die first, or they would.
“Are ya done lad?”
He turned and saw a Koredin walking over with a large battle axe for a weapon. The Koredin’s armour was scratched and dented in some parts, but what caught his eye was the brown coloured tunic under the chainmail of the Koredin. He looked down at his own red tunic, seeing how it was slightly torn up and smelled badly of sweat.
“… I did not think I had wandered into the army of Gouralish”
He admitted, making the Koredin laugh.
“A dark war ain’t a pretty sight, and by now the armies have all entered the city, making the battlefield one large mess. That guy over there, stabbing that Darkling on the ground? He’s from Morianne. That elf going around picking arrows from corpses? Sylvianne archer. No point in trying to stick to ya own group. Just make sure ya stay alive until the end of it.”
The Koredin laughed, before throwing his large battle axe forward, sending the weapon flying through the air to hit another darkling square in the head, splitting it in two.
“You sound as though you have faced a Dark war before.”
He pointed out, watching the Koredin walk over to pick up his axe.
“I didn’t, but my father did. Told me all he knew about it before he got offed by a Dark one right outside of those gates.”
The man was slightly puzzled by the Koredin’s lack of grieviance, but he supposed it wasn’t his place to ask.
“Oh? The Dragonnaires are winning the skies above.”
The Koredin pointed out, making the man look up. The battle in sky was one of fire and fury. Dragons battle it out with their corrupted kind in an all out brawl. Fire spewing, claws, fangs and the like. The Dragon Knights of the Kingdoms could not intervene directly, and would work with Dragonnaires by acting as distractions, or as additional attackers. To the man, it seemed ironic that the greatly respected and coverted Dragon Knights of the Kingdoms, could do little in the face of Dark ones, and merely aid the Dragonnaires on the side.
But he supposed Dark Wars were in a league beyond comprehension. Perhaps that is why the Dragonnaires are respected above all, for they train to fight this nightmare constantly. The sound of armour clanking caught his attention as a group of armed soldiers came running down the street towards them. Wearing an armour he was not familiar with, he only saw them as a group of deadly warriors who held the vigour and strength of Dragons. The soldiers stopped in their tracks upon reaching the young man and the others with him. The leader of the group, a young woman with long white hair, and silver eyes stepped forward.
“Hail, we are Dragoons of the Dragonnaire Order. We ask that you join us to push the Darkness out of the main North market square.”
The woman stated bluntly, making him blink. Dragoons? Those mystical knights of the Dragonnaire Order? He had not seen one before, and thus did not really know what to make of this situation. He turned to the Koredin, who seemed to be equally taken aback.
“The market?”
The man from Morianne asked, walking over. The Dragoon nodded.
“Indeed. A large fallen Dark one has crash in the market, and has spread its miasma to infect a large group of civilians hiding there. As it stands, the entire North market will be overrun by Darklings.”
The man considered for a brief moment, before tucking his spear under his arm.
“All right, lead the way.”
He stated. The Dragoon nodded at his reply and led her troops off. The spearman from Morianne walked behind the group, and the Koredin sighed, picking up his axe and doing the same. The female elf, having collected enough arrows, did the same. He stood there, however, looking down at his dull blade. Was he any use to battle now? What was the point of this? He did not know, and his mind was numbed beyond feeling anything at the moment, even the thought of running away from this nightmare was numbed out.
He looked down at the corpses of the fallen. Would he end up like them? He did not know. The sounds of battle still raged in the air all around him. He sighed. He did not know what to think any more. Bending down, he picked up a new sword, and tossed away his dulled blade, his legs starting to walk in the same direction as the others. He did not know if he was crazy at this point, but he did not care.
“… To battle, and to death.”
Shivylie Silvastern and Deryke Verias charged at the fallen Ancient, Tiamat, their soul weapons drawn and filled with power. Deryke swung his blade, and his hand moved in a slightly different manner, cutting the scales of the Ancient White at an angle he normally wouldn’t even try. The blade hit the scale, shaved off a little, before sliding upwards to cut inwards into flesh, finding a weak point inbetween the scale layers. This was what Shivylie meant by his hands will remember.
Through her magic, Deryke’s hands knew where to strike, and from there, his arms will follow and lastly his entire body will know how to fight the Ancient White. Shivylie joined in, stabbing the wound that Deryke created, driving her thin blade deep into the flesh of the fallen Ancient. Shivylie’s blade then glow fiercely with a bright white light, before white flames erupted from her blade, burning the flesh of the Dragon. Every move he made, Shivylie would follow it up with her own. Every attack Shivylie made, Deryke would compliment it with his own.
The two weaved their swings together like a fine tapestry. Their steps criss-crossing across the white marbled floor of the grand Throne room as though they were dancing in a syncronised tune. When the Ancient would attack one, forcing them back, the other would step in to attack simultaneously. And yet not a word was spoken between them. They knew how to fight together, as though they had done so for many years. Deryke knew it was not due to his own actions, though, but rather his body was reacting to Shivylie’s movements in accordance to the memories instilled into him by the White Wing herself. His body moved the way it did, mimicking the movements of Shivylie. But it was also of his own will.
The link that Shivylie created made him aware of the skills and prowess with the blade that the White Wing had. The Soul weapon in his hand had also instilled upon him the ways in which he could wield his weapon, though this was not so much as the Soul weapon instructing him on new styles of combat, but rather taking what he was trained in by the Order, and letting his body understand how best to use it through the Order’s training. This intertwined styles of combat did not contradict one another, but rather complemented each other, transforming Deryke into a proficient fighter, capable of holding his own for this battle.
The Ancient White may have been badly injured by Shivylie before he stepped in, but it was still an Ancient Dragon, and a single strike could still end his life. But Deryke knew how to fight, albeit his movements were still slightly unrefined. But one does not bother on such small details in a battle of this level of importance. Fights are not determined by who strikes in the most perfect of forms, nor is it determined by the grace of which one swings their weapon.
No, fights are determined by the strength of the strike, the accuracy of the blow, and the evasive counter that one must take. Such was the result of Deryke’s fight, a large contrast to Shivylie’s graceful strokes, her beautiful turns and steps. But they worked, and that was all that was needed. The duo battled the Ancient White without stop, their strikes cutting deep through the decaying scales of the Ancient, slicing into the flesh of the fallen Dragon.
The Ancient reared back, its defeaning roar shaking the entire throne room, and sweeping its tail at the two Dragonnaires. Deryke jumped up into the air, throwing his sword down at the tail, stabbing it into the ground, pinning it in place. Shivylie followed up, her sword poised and she thrust forward, the force of her attack creating a hole in the tail of the Ancient in which Shivylie went through by the sheer momentum of her strike. The tail was not severed, but it was only still held on by flimsy pieces of flesh that was well rotted and decayed.
Deryke landed on the ground, out-stretching his hand, where his Soul weapon reappeared in his palm. The Ancient roared out, thrashing its claws all about, and breathing out a noxious cloud of miasma. The breath also seemed to be imbued by a cold spell, as whatever the miasma touched, froze into ice. Shivylie quickly stepped between Deryke and the miasma, raising her hand as a large wall of white stone erupted from the ground, guarding them against the miasma blast. The Ancient swiped a claw at wall, easily breaking it into pieces. Deryke and Shivylie charged once more at the fallen Ancient, but the Ancient brought down its claws upon them, forcing them to defend themselves against its attacks and weight.
Shivylie held the weight of an entire claw, struggling to keep it from crushing her completely, before she forced herself into a half transformation, growing her horns, tail and wings, gaining strength to push the attack off. That, in turn, forced the weight of the claw pushing down on Deryke to lift as well. Shivylie could not hold her transformation as she fell to the ground, reverting back into a complete human form. Deryke rushed over and pulled her out of the immediate fighting area. Shivylie was exhausted, her breath heavy and laboured.
She had forced a transformation right in the middle of battle, and the miasma from the previous attack had not completely dissipated. It had affected her in some form, and the prolonged battle had only served to weaken her beforehand, thus increasing the risk of a transformation. Deryke turned to see the Ancient White get its balance back, its souless eyes glaring straight at them. They had fought this creature for so long, and yet they did not seem to make any headway.
They were injuring it, as evident by the numerous scores of cuts and wounds on the fallen’s body, but it kept on coming at them. Like an unstoppable force that would not be abated no matter how much they threw at it to slow it down. It was a force that Deryke felt had no end to it. A boundless, limitless entity. They had to end this quickly, otherwise they would simply exhaust themselves to death. But Deryke did not know how.
He could not imagine his blade cutting through the Ancient White, for the creature exuded such power, commanded such a presence, that to even imagine it losing was a difficult task. According to Shivylie, the previous Black Wing, Galen Brakole, managed to defeat the Ancient Black when it appeared during the first Dark war of the Ancients. Was it done on his own? Or did he had the aid of his entire flight and Fangs? No record exist of that battle, for no one who was involved in it ever survived. The Wings were also adamant in keeping such a fact of the fallen Ancients a secret, thus no one knows how Galen did it.
“Can there be no path forward?”
He asked out loud, hoping for someone, or something to answer him.
‘There are many.’
A voice replied. His Red Dragon soul.
‘Paths are all around you, but your own eyes shall only see that which you have yet to close your eyes to.’
‘The paths you seek are but one of many possibilities.’
A second voice spoke. A voice he did not know, but felt it familiar. His Black Dragon soul.
‘You seek a path that is both treacherous, and impossible. Yet it is also a path that you wish were simple and easy.’
‘Like all creatures, you seek a path well travelled, for it is one that you see and know to be safe. A path that has been carved out before you, a path that you only choose to see.’
His Red Dragon soul stated.
‘But such a path is not wrong, for be it right or wrong, it shall only be decided upon its conclusion, and by those who are there to witness it in its entirety.’
‘Those who simply witness its end, or mere fragments of it do not hold right to judge.’
‘And are oft let astray by the strong wills of others who shall dictate if the World judge such an action as righteous… or false.’
Deryke did not understand what these voices were telling him. He thought back to Galen and the reports of his actions. No one knew how Galen fought his battle, and certainly no one wanted to talk about such a fight. However, what most people assumed, judging from their tone and the way Shivylie was fighting the Ancient White, Deryke inferred that fighting the fallen Ancients using the Soul weapons was the way to do it.
It was not a difficult conjecture to make, as the miasma from the fallen Ancient could, and would disrupt the souls within the Dragonnaires in their Dragon form. Shivylie could only force a half transformation for a short duration before the miasma would corrupt her souls, both Dragon and human, and thus she forced herself to turn back. Thus Deryke had also believed it to be the case that Galen fought the Black Ancient, Bahamut, in his human form. It seemed obvious. If that were the case-
“… Then the path forward is one that is often called ‘false’.”
‘You know.’
‘You understand.’
‘That which you now see, that path is clear.’
“It is a path that not many have travelled, and thus it shall be one that I will take.”
Deryke muttered, turning to Shivylie, who had just managed to regain her composure. The White Wing grabbed onto her Soul weapon, her grip still somewhat weak, but she forced herself to hold it firm. Deryke believed Shivylie could not last much longer in this battle. Thus he had decided.
“Shivylie, I will fight the fallen Ancient on its term. When you find an opening, strike with the full fury of your soul.”
Deryke said, making Shivylie confused, turning to him with her eyes filled with puzzlement.
“What do you-”
“I plan to do what must be done.”
Deryke merely answered, stepping forward towards the fallen Ancients.
‘State what you feel.’
Fear.
‘State what you see.’
Death.
‘State what you shall do.’
Conquer.
‘State how you will accomplish that.’
To defeat death, one must become death.
‘To face the uncertain, to face the corruption. Should you fall to it, then all shall be lost. Do you have that resolve?’
Deryke did not. He did not hold the same resolve as Shivylie and the other Dragonnaires, to fight and die. He did not want to die. Not like this.
‘Then the foolish shall perish.’
‘But… Fools are, at times, the ones who shall lead the way. For they do not abide by the rules that were set in stone. They seek out the answers that no one else does.’
‘… Then a fool shall be suffered. Heed my words well, he who holds the power of the Black Dragons, and use my soul. Answer me this. What is your answer? What is your path?’
Deryke gripped his chest. He had no answer, he had no path. But he had a resolve.
“I will protect those that I must, those that I can. Not for honour, nor glory. Not for ‘the sake of good’, but rather for my own selfish greed.”
He did not want to see another Tyriousel. He did not want to lose another Lilianne. To protect what he held dear to him. That was his goal.
‘You may not see it as a path, and believe it to be a temporary solution. But that in itself, is a path.’
‘Use our powers freely, and carve out your answer in the pages of destiny.’
‘Howl out your resolve.’
‘And let the whole of existence know of your roar.’
Deryke felt his body burn hot. His skin started to being prickly. His vision was blurring and sharpening. His back felt an immense searing pain. His jaw felt stretched, pulled and widen. His face was compressed, pulled, as though it were made of dough. His hands swelled, an intense itch as though a rash was felt, including his feet that did the same as his hands. Bursts of energy flowed through him, his muscles twitching, contracting and relaxing simultaneously. Deryke felt the essence of what made him ‘him’, disperse, spread out, grow.
His view of the World, not only in the physical sense, grew, widening his perspective. Things that he did not notice before, were now clearer to him. Things that he once worried about, now seemed minuscule. His mind reached out, perceiving, understanding, accepting. The World was his, and it belonged to everything. Knowledge, wisdom, all flooded his mind. Memories, experiences, both his, and those of others, flashed within his head. Myriads of voices, unknown to him, echoed within his head. Voices of men, women, child, elderly. An unclear distinction. Voices that did not belong to this World, yet held a sense of age and experience.
‘The time has come.’
‘It has begun.’
‘The cycle continues.’
‘Power shall beget power.’
‘For love.’
‘For hate.’
‘It has always been like this.’
‘Always for love.’
‘Always for hate.’
‘Seeking power.’
‘Seeking knowledge.’
‘For others.’
‘For the self.’
‘This disdained foul power.’
‘This celebrated holy power.’
‘Heed the call.’
‘Answer the Wind.’
‘Let the World tremble.’
‘Let the sky tear asunder.’
‘Let all hear it.’
‘ ‘ ‘ ‘ “Roar of the Dragonnaires” ‘ ‘ ‘ ‘
Imagination's fart 