Blackpine Woods

Oerin once told that a battlefield was a place for the insane and the wicked.  That the battlefield was a one-way ticket to the grave bereft of morality. Misery, despair and madness remained in place that took the lives by the millions. And yet, he met all three of them, face to face, and he smiled right back still.

The echoes of death hung in the still air like dried blood splattered against the wall. Cries distant to dying screams erupted in the woods as fierce clashes of steel and guns blazed out in the night. The sound became a rather strange familiarity to the Partishan. A sound which he missed it so for war chorused such sweet music to his ears.

The conflict was inevitable. Against well-armed and agile wolves, Oerin had a private audience with the prisoner. The canine from the defunct outpost, bound for departure, was more than cooperative. He was willing to help. After his personal experience with the wolves, the apothecary had no love for them whatsoever.

The canine was brief in his discussion, on point to spill the strength and weakness about the wolves. Oerin stood still and silent like a statue, his expression masked behind the helmet. Yet, the amount of information impressed him greatly as he took the advice at heart. Although the prisoner was a beast, Oerin appreciated at the contribution.

On the battlefield, Oerin sought two things that were acceptable to him. Weeks without action spent sparring against his fellow kinsmen slowly dulled his talent. The pale knight desired the thrill of battle, the fuel of adrenaline of worthy opponents. He had hoped this world served better than his own. The war from his world had no shortage of enemies, lauded by barbaric, despicable deeds. Their reputation earned the fear and hate in the empire populace, and an opportunity for the knights to learn. These people, if people they were, beckoned Oerin to a greater highlight of his work. Each kill earned an improvement of his skill, each victory earned a knowledge that could be used to defeat his enemies.

Yet, sadly, what he faced in the woods, the beasts that came to approach, proved somewhat lesser in his eyes.

Not one single wolf performed the quality standard of a competent warrior. Each beast that engaged him fell with relative ease. Oerin fought the urge to roar in outrage of their poor performance. He fought no proud warriors of the clan, but mewling pups that deserved a boot rather than his halberd. His eagerness over them tarnished forever as the wolves tried to flee in terror, robbing the pale knight the chance for glory. In response to their cowardice, the Partishan dispensed these worthless animals without hesitation, without mercy. To them right now, he saw nothing but pests to eliminate. 

Oerin sought two things that very day. And though the battle proved to fail his expectation, there was but one that got the knight's notice.

The cold wind began to stir behind the several cracks of his armour. It whispered to Oerin's ears as if the voices of death called out to him. After a few attempts of struggle, he managed to staunch the bloodflow, tightening the bandages around his arm. As he reinserted his vambrace, he felt the tremors in his left hand, fresh by a precise blow by one of the combatants. He nodded approvingly at this course of action.

Oerin sat on top of a massive wolfess, her onyx fur stained and smeared in her own blood. Her navy-blue platemail added with a shirt of silvery chains underneath forged out of the highest quality. Her weapon of choice was a crude, effective battle-axe. Its long reach and sharp edges that could cleave an enemy in two. With strength alone, she had proven herself to be a capable opponent in the knight's eyes. As much as he would like to prolong this personal duel, the Partishan ended the beast at the spot.

Oerin sighed another, saddened at the loss of a well-earned life. In silent admiration, he turned his head at the lifeless beast, fallen with a short blade plunged deep to her throat. Blood pooled on the snowy ground as her golden eyes remained open. The Partishan was unsure to tell if her last moments of life were fear, anguish or a bit of both.

“A sad fate it is," Oerin spoke to her as if the wolfess was in a state of slumber. He tapped on her leg three times and gazed upward at the cloudy night. “To see you gone for good. What a waste. And I never know your name."

Oerin jerked, his keen ears caught the sound of crunching snow from the front. He reached out for his halberd with a small smile crept on his face, eager to face another challenge. As the dark clouds faded to reveal the silver moonlight, the Partishan saw the stranger at last.

It was Decimus, armour and weapon drenched in beast blood. In his hand that clenched around its shattered neck, the knight held out a corpse. A wolf in grey and white fur, slain with the death-wound to the chest. The sight of his grim macabre would leave others, man or beast, in shuddering fear.

Oerin showed no fear. Not at the least of it. Years toiled in war dulled his innocence perception around the world. He had long gotten used to the horrid realities of violence. Instead, he chuckled, amused by the sight of his kinsmen.

“Ah, a splendid look, you've become," Oerin jested, relinquishing his halberd aside. He removed his helmet to smell the pungent scent of piss, blood and black powder all into one. “The colours suit you perfectly. Best time of chance to adopt them when you have the chance."

Decimus said nothing, silent as the grave. Oerin judged him right away as a miserable bastard, too tired to make a simple response. The only sound he heard was Decimus' guttural sound of disapproval and annoyance. He knew him long enough for Decimus to become obsessed with hygiene. He could imagine the long, tedious hours Decimus needed to wash the bloodstains of his armour.

After a great deal of time repairing his armour with the best of his ability, Oerin moved on to his next task. He stood upward from the she-beast's chest and kneeled down beside her. His hand clenched tight around the handle of the blade, firmly in the grip. With a tug of a pull, blood spluttered out from the wolfess' neck as dots of red splashed against his armour. As he secured the blade, he hovered his hand above her face. With the tips of his fingers, the golden eyes of the beast fell to a close.

“Rare it is that you do," Decimus finally said, observing him from a distance as he tossed the wolf to the dead pile. “It has been a long time since you have taken an interest."

Oerin chuckled softly, agreeing with him to the observation. “Too long since I met someone competent since our stay in this world," he said, wiping away the blood of his sword. "It is rather disappointing that we face cowards and not of competent warriors like her. Such display is unbefitting of them, and yet, I sensed this one was different. Odd."

"Do not linger into such curiosity," Decimus said with vindictiveness in his tone. "There is not a speck worth to their kind. If this creature formed some kind of defence then it is for the sake of its coward kin, running away from us as we speak."

Oerin said nothing, saw his logic was sound as Decimus went on.

"Enough mesmerizing of the enemy. We have a gathering of dead beasts to do."

Oerin craned his neck at the Partishan fading into the distant, grabbing off a dead beast nearby. He had come to agree with his reason, but what he did not agree with was the purpose of the woman's attempt. He was quite certain that the beast woman was protecting someone among the runaways. That left with a question if the knight should care or not at the coward.

As his hands grasped the warrioress by the chest, Oerin noticed a glint that caught his attention. At the moonlight, he saw something shining around her neck. Curious taken over, he reached out to spot a necklace. It strung a sapphire stone with both sides embraced in silvery metal.

At a closer inspection, Oerin yanked the necklace out and brought it to his face. His eyes fixated on the piece as he nodded assuredly at the quality of the gem.

"Such a splendiferous bauble." He said and secured it into one of his belt pockets.

Without delay or distraction, Oerin did what he was being told. He lifted the only person worthy of praise onto a pile of blithe disappointment.

==

The appointed Partishan Volx assigned the two for an important mission. A mission which the two were compelled to follow. As the eldest among the rank, second only to Callus, Volx had the right of command and his words were law.

They were to be left behind, to gather the fallen beasts for the massive, funeral pyre. Once their task was done, they were to set off to another.

The ambush that had taken place between Imperials and Clansmen ended at a conclusion, with more beasts fell dead on the snow that showed mankind's dominance over them. Unprepared as well as unfamiliar with human tactics and firearms, the wolves that supposed to investigate met their fate in the woods, slaughtered without the chance of given mercy.

Most that were in the open were easy targets by the musketeers and suffered under a hail of fire. Not even their armour could protect them against the iron rounds. Those that survived the merciless assault fell worse fates when they met the Partishans, their bodies gored and sliced beyond recognition. Only a few, the lucky ones, managed to escape from the slaughter, their disorganized retreat revealed the feral sloppiness that befitted their kind. The task was simple for any Partishan to hunt them down to the last. Yet, not one Partishan dared to pursue as Volx intended to let them go from the very start.

Decimus tossed the last one to the pile, the size massed up to the count of twenty-one beasts in total. Not one imperial fell from the battle, saved for a few injured in the process. The dead collection of beasts reeked much decay that Decimus could smell foulness through his helmet. Traces of black powder mixture of blood and excrement reminded the pale knight of the war. The terrible deeds that were done on both sides. He cared not much about the people, the lesser humans that lived within the empire nor of the order. His only purpose in life was to clean up the mess, the problems that ruined the world. He did not need to remind himself that it was their deeds that saved their futile existence.

Decimus caught a fiery light at the corner of his eye. He turned his head to spot Oerin with a torch in hand, ready in wait. He soon followed and the two stepped closer to the pile, the smell twice as strong. He was not blind to Oerin's admiration over the beast warrior, slightly hesitant to burn it to ash. The sight sickened him, but he did not speak out. To bring a manner of honour to the enemy baffled him completely as he could not comprehend the idea of mercy. To him, it was better this way. He dared not want to know.

The two tossed the torches to the pyre and watched the fire rose to consume them. Fur, flesh and bone crackled into the flame until there was nothing but ash. After a long idle gaze at the pyre, a cold chill ran behind Decimus' spine. Wincing, uneasiness dreaded over the knight as the bitter memory returned once more.

It was unlike for Decimus to harbour such doubt, the fear of hesitation. Such inappropriate emotion would render him useless, vulnerable. He was the creation to be the perfect warrior, chosen by the paragons to kill until killed. Such weakness was beneath the Partishan. And yet, the memory endured, gnawing, biting at every chance of attempt. Like a badge, it reminded of his failure, his shame of helplessness. He could still hear the screams.

The siege of Arcmire was what Decimus felt. The raw, genuine fear that coursed into his veins. Dozens of Partishans and thousands of Avis legionnaires fell in their attempt to retake the old city, each street and block liberated from the Scarlet Order with painful step. And yet it was not the horrors of war that Decimus feared the most. Rather, it was from one man, one flick of a gesture that brought ruin to an entire city and the lives that dwell in it.

They were called Rubedo warcasters. Rare men and women of the Scarlet order. They required no dependence of the Redstone, but rather masters of manipulation to the flame. A true embodiment to the word Hearten. Decimus faced that monster when all his kinsmen fell, and he alone survived to tell the tale.

"We need to move," Decimus began quietly, clearing and breaking away from mental trauma. He turned his gaze elsewhere to the far horizon of snow and ice. "The coward beasts had a healthy start. We don't know how far they make the distant."

"No need to hasten yourself in the hunt, Decimus," Oerin boomed with anticipation. He smiled a nasty grin. "Let them run. Let them scurry in the dark when they can. They cannot hide from our gaze. Not when we have these to keep them on track."

Decimus stayed silent, detested at these things he possessed. He fumbled through the pockets of his belt to pull out a dark vial of red.  "How much did you extract from the beast?" He queried, looking at it with disgust.

"Enough," Oerin simply responded as he raised his own up in the air. The light of the flame revealing the reddened hue of blood. "Enough and plenty." A chuckle escaped from his lips. "The wolf was quite generous of its donation."

This made Decimus smiled. "Indeed."

Oerin glanced at Decimus with a bit of amusement then back to the pyre. He knew long enough to know the time was right to leave and turned to gather his equipment. Decimus peered back, bringing a sigh in his breath.

His hand adjusted to pop the cork of the vial as Decimus paused to stare long at the blood. He resumed to dip his finger on the liquid red, tasted it and felt a small power surged into his head. His eyes glowed in the instant of bluish hue, revealing the truth of the owner's blood. Past images of the wolf warrior emerged as a proud, reserved individual that sought a name for itself. A cocksure beast that Decimus suspected no less. The last vestige of memory that he managed to extract was its painful scream at the hands of Oerin.

Adjusting between his own and the beast, Decimus breathed into the cold, ashen air. He was ready. He looked down at the snowy ground as one of the beast's footprints glowed bright blue.

“That would do, little beast," Decimus said, his lips curled into a wide smile. "That would do."

==----==

Trails of the Forgotten Road,

The beating footsteps of restless men never broke their march. Each meld together like successive drums destined to the empty roads ahead. The uniforms each served from their respective companies donned in kempt, well-dressed fashion. An easy to spot under the moonlight with colours light and dark and all between.

Ruffcoat spent enough time to spectate the scene, averted his gaze away from the soldiers. He shut his tired eyes, but he could still hear their rugged footsteps, marching at an endless cycle.

Lying rest on the cart, Ruffcoat could not help but grow fearful at the situation. He was a captive, a prisoner to these strange creatures. Even with their time spent, there was little that Ruffcoat knew about them, the history or purpose. The thought of his death didn't cross to mind as he served his usefulness. He surrendered all his knowledge, his skills and recipes valued on imperial survival. He waited for his time to come, but with Partishan Valeran's word none of the humans harmed him. Not yet, anyway.

On the cart, Ruffcoat turned his attention to the squirrel, leaning on his shoulder, asleep. The fresh bandages still wrapped around her fragile body. He smiled a little and pulled a sheet of blanket closer to her neck. That moment of peace broke when the canine heard a cough.

At the opposite side of him, Ruffcoat saw the human surgeon named Rovilus, observing, scribbling down in his notebook. He did not forget about him: the man that saved the squirrel's life. He was grateful. But deep down he knew that the surgeon did not do it out of kindness or generosity. 

Ruffcoat suffered no illusion at the depth of hatred filled on the human surgeon, and he did not blame for it. He felt the glares among the human soldiers, the animosity grew to be fierce. It had created the strongest of fury when they learned of the pyres, the fallen comrades lost to the wind.

The trip was a silent one, uneventful through winding roads and straightforward path. The surgeon remained in his notes, observing the two beasts like a predator stalking his prey. Ruffcoat had a difficult time sleeping, slightly annoyed at the human's scribble. He wanted to say something, but the difference between language stayed his tongue. He begrudgingly sighed, defeated, but he noticed the surgeon ceased his writing as his eyes focused to an important figure behind him.

"Greetings," A low voice called out to Ruffcoat, speaking in the tongue of the beast. Ruffcoat turned his back to see the pale knight Partishan walking beside him. He did not need to recognize the person behind the helmet.

"Lord Valeran," the canine said, bowing his head slightly. The pale knight paused in thought. Ruffcoat wondered if he said something wrong, but after a moment pass, he could hear a chuckle.

"Lord, huh? Flattery won't get you anywhere. No. Do not be so formal, honoured elder. Valeran would suit just fine."

Ruffcoat stared. He could not help but to grin at this. "As you wish... Valeran."

"Yes. That is good," the pale knight nodded. "So, what is the condition of your friend? How does she fare?"

Ruffcoat looked down at the squirrel cocooned in a blanket. "She will recover," he responded. "It would take time for her to fully wake up from slumber... You read the surgeon's report?"

"I have. The wound was on the death point. Inches close to it. She is most fortunate to have survived."

"It would have been over for her if not for your surgeon," Ruffcoat admitted with praise. "He is a remarkable man of talent. I am grateful for his work." 

Valeran said nothing, his head turned to sight at the surgeon continuing to write down on his notes. "I see. If that is the case I must leave you. I hope you are... Comfortable in your situation."

Ruffcoat nodded in thanks and watched as the pale knight paced forward. As he was about to vanish, the canine gestured his paw out.

"Wait. Hold for a minute?" the canine uttered sheepishly, weakly in his voice to not offend him. 

Rovilus the surgeon stared at the animal with perplexed suspicion, but the pale knight slowed down. He turned his head once more at the canine.

"Yes?"

Ruffcoat cleared his throat. He had forgotten how terrible and large the Partishan was at close range, looming like a giant. "Pardon me, but if you can humour me with a question."

"And that is?"

Ruffcoat stared without a flinch. "How did you know?"

Valeran slightly tilted his head, confused as his response. Ruffcoat sighed to correct himself.

"When we first met at the shrine, you revealed much about my friend. Her history among blackguard elements. Even when we speak, you were well fluent in our language. The other humans could barely understand me except you. So to my clarification, how did you know? How did you learn so much in little time?"

The Partishan paused, deep in thought for several seconds. It was not long before he uttered in an alien tongue to the men that the cart quickly ground to a halt.

The two soldiers turned to stare at the Partishan and at each other, confused, but compliant to the command. They stepped away from the handle and stood in a far distant. Even Rovilus departed from the cart, not needed of command as he joined the others.

"So... You wish to know?" Valeran asked in an eerie calmness.

Ruffcoat could feel the intense ferocious stature rising at the pale knight. He nodded, shakily, wearily to speak out of fear for his life.

The long awkward gaze of the Partishan lasted a moment as he resumed to speak with assurance. "Very well," the pale knight said slowly. "What would you wish to know?"

==--==

Poala had been unfortunate, and one step closer to a terrible fate. After a long trek through the woods, cold and hungry and weak in her wounds, she dreaded at the mere thought of death. 

Her feet sputtered at the expense of whatever remains of her strength. She wandered, aimless and lost in the path. As a survivor of her village, she felt a pang of overwhelming guilt and shame inside her. She did not dare look back at the rush of defeat.

The female weasel collapsed face-first on the snow, her leg gave in from the pain. She did not know how long and far she distance herself from the trouble, the pursuers that hunt her still. She wept at the loss, her friends and family butchered by the vile monsters. It would have been easier to join them was it not for a promise she had to keep. To live until the end.

As the weasel laid still and silent in the snow, a faint glow caught her notice. She raised up her head, surprised, to see a light from the distance.

"That... That could not be?" She said to herself, unsure if it was only her imagination.

The weasel rose back to her feet and approached to the source. As the light grew brighter the closer she went, her eyes caught at last the torchlight. A giant, wooden wall laid before her as she looked around in puzzlement. Her ears caught several sounds on the other side. Voices. She could hear voices.

She wandered, drifted around the empty houses until she could no longer think or stand. Her thoughts became a blur afterwards, the wound taking a toll on her. She fell down to her knees near a building, a longhouse, alit with torches and life. No words came out from her mouth to plead for help as she collapsed to the ground. The last thing she saw before she passed out were two shadowy figures in a cautious approach. She did not get a good look at their faces as darkness claimed her.

That had been three days ago.

Poala, healed and bound in chains, escorted these strange warriors to her village. The sour kind of smell that they brought with them hurt her nose to the extent.

"Is this the place?" A voice, gruff and cold in its tone, asked the weasel, pulling roughly her chains. She winced at the force as she nodded in response.

"Y-yes... this is the place." Poala stared at her captor, a knight donned in pale armour, holding her in place. She had been a prisoner under the knight, fearful of what he would do next.

The pale knight snorted at the sight of it. "This... this is your home? Your village?" A chuckle escaped from his lips. "It is but a fallow ruin, a place not worth our time. Where are the villagers? Are they dead?"

Poala did not know if anyone was alive. She could remember the attack, the fire and screams that plagued on her mind.

"Hmm, I see some movement ahead," the pale knight noticed as he tightened the handle of his halberd. "Friends of yours?"

A band of unsavoury characters appeared to greet them with crude, rusty weapons. Poala began to shrink even further, fear possessed her that stole thought and reason.

"That's them... they're the ones who... oh Wyld. My family, my friends..."

The pale knight turned to the weasel, seeing the panic state of her with immense revulsion. "Bah, useless," he shook his head in disappointment and called out to a nearby warrior.

As the warrior stood close, the knight handed the chain to him. He uttered something in an alien tongue that Poala had never heard before as the knight turned to his men. Before she could speak, her neck felt a forceful tug as the warrior pulled her away from the conflict.

Poala turned her head at the pale knight, rousing a speech to his fellow warriors. She had thought that these strange men could save her village. She knew deep inside that wasn't the case. No one, good or bad, would live to see the next sunrise once this was over. 

Spared to witness the full destruction of her village, Poala soon joined them the next day. She was then left behind in the woods, forgotten with a hole on the head.