News

[Brigitte]

Brigitte looked at the reports darkly, her brow furrowing as she read. The news was not good. The Ever Victorious Army was holding its own, it seemed, but it was making little headway with the rebels. She did not like admitting it, even to herself, but it appeared that there was more to the rebels than she had anticipated. They were still no match for the Empire, she knew, but it would not do to underestimate them. They weer strong, and not stupid.

And she was growing impatient.

It had seemed like such a good idea when it had begun. She had spent the better part of a year hunting down her mother's killer, with no luck; the Seekers of Truth assuerd her that they were drawing in on another suspect, but there had been enough false suspects already that Brigitte was not relying on this one to be true. It had frustrated her, and worse; it had embarrased her, not to be able to do anything so simple as track down one murderer, and she had feared that she would lower her eyes if she did not find success. If she could not do that one way, she would try another; the rebels had seemed an easy target for that, the uprisings recently putting them at the forefront of her mind. She had not counted on them being this difficult to ocnquer, however.

Putting down the paper, Brigitte frowned, and motioned to her Voice as the door to her study opened. She would not be defeated in this, and if it took more effort than she had originally counted on to secure victory, then that was what she would have to do. She studied the messenger who entered, practically prostrate before her, and motioned again.

"Yes?"

"They are assmebled, Empress," the man said, not raising his head. "We are ready to move at your command."

Brigitte smiled as the man was dismissed, then rose, taking her Voice and her so'feia. The Ever Victorious Army would keep its name, if she had to lead them herself. Moving out to the yards where the Deathwatch Guard and air force were assembled, with those few damane and sul'dam who had not gone with the original force, Brigitte studied her armies as she moved to sit atop one of the waiting to'raken. She flicked her fingers again, and a voice rang out across the yards.

"We leave."

[Mestryn]

Mestryn stood a little apart from his squad of Gardeners. The other Ogier spoke quietly amongst themselves, not looking at him. That was as it should be. He was their commander. Technically, they should not even meet his eyes when they addressed him.

The beardless Ogier hefted his broad-bladed axe, making certain that the iron cuffs he wore on each wrist did not slip. He still could not believe what he had done, and it had been months since his drunken visit to the ink artist. The iron cuffs hid the black ravens, whose eyes bored into him every time he looked at them. He had no regrets. This bound him ever closer to the Empress. He was hers; mind, body and soul. He knew that if any of the other Ogier saw the ravens, they would be appalled. They would not say anything – they were Deathwatch, after all – but their silence would be enough of a rebuke. Ogier were free creatures who served through choice. Mestryn’s act had marked him as da’covale. In some eyes, he was no longer Ogier. Mestryn did not care. Serving the Crystal Throne was the only time he ever felt alive. All his life, he had been numb. Only be severing the connection to himself did he ever feel like something mattered.

His heart pounded as he saw the Empress – May she live forever – enter the courtyard. Her eyes swept across him as he stood to attention. Behind him, he could hear the clinking of armour as his squad followed suit. The Empress mounted her to’raken and her Voice announced the order to leave. Mestryn turned to his squad and motioned for them to move out. Soon, he was also astride one of the winged beasts, two of his squad behind him. One was his bannerman, Yukai, son of Furako, son of Konaba. Mestryn had discarded his father and forefather’s names the day he had taken the oath of the Deathwatch. They were nothing to him. It was because of them that he existed here, and he hated them for it. Only the Empress, shining like a beacon in the night, existed for him.

With a leathery flap of wings, the to’raken struggled into the air.

[Halmek Delmoor]

Halmek bowed deeply as the voice of the Empress rang out across the yard in which the remaining forces were assembled, but he rose as soon as was proper, already shouting orders to the animal handlers. A pity the ground exotics could not reach the front in time; grolm and lopar were excellent at culling thoughts of resistance, and not all the rebels were well armed. But he never wasted time on what could not be.

He mounted the great to'raken nearest him; a group of Ogier- smaller than the normal group size for ]i\to'raken[/i], since they were heavier- followed. He did not speak a word as the to'raken began to lumber awkwardly forward, building momentum for the leap into flight. Some considered flying one of the larger, less agile beasts to cause one to lose face, but he had never really considered it so, and the to'raken would reach their destination faster than the raken, which tired more easily.

The to'raken lurched into flight, and in one dizzying rush all the beast's awkwardness was gone as it leaped into the air, great wings creating a rushing wind as it climbed. Seandar fell away, and the strokes slowed and became slow, almost like an oar stroke, as they leveled. Other to'raken and the smaller, darker shapes of raken dotted the air as he turned the reins towards the rebels.

[Laran Almodovar]

Laran had woken early, and had had the Deathwatch ready to move out what seemed like hours before the Empress' signal. Though he had settled into his new position well, this would be the first major campaign he led, and he was determined to bring glory to the Empire. That thought did not come without its own brand of terror, however, and so Laran let it go, focusing only on what he had to do to prepare his troops.

Once the Empress arrived, however, there was no more time for thought,or for preparation. They mounted and were off, and Laran thought little after that, remaining silent until they reaced the outskirts of the Empire some time in the afternoon. The Ever Victorious Army was already encamped, and the combined parties, deciding quickly that it was too late to begin fighting today, retired to talk tactics. The Captain of the Blue, Laran was pleased to note, was a competent leader, and several of the Captains of the Green were likewise. Between them, they had a good plan; the Empire's forces were so scattered to make much coherent planning difficult, but they seemed to have done as much as could have been expected of them. The only reason for their lack of success so far, Laran thought, was the unusual organisation of the rebels. Well, he thought; they might have had the advantage of surprise, so far, but the Empire undoubtedly had the advantage of strngth, now more than ever.

They would win. He was certain of it.

[Boromin]

So the cavalry had come.

Boromin supposed that he had to be impressed; his actions, after all, had caused the Empress herself to arrive, with what he guessed had to be every man, woman and child left in the capital. Still, it did put a crimp in his plans. He had prepared for this invasion well; he had trained the barbarians himself, adding to their raw warlike nature the more refined knowledge he had built up over countless centuries. He had been prepared to win. He did not like losing.

For now, however, there was little he could do. Until he was free to slip away, he would have to play the part of a loyal Captain, and secure victory for another. It would not normally have bothered him so much, except that little he had done lately had gone according to plan. He had been first thwarted, then framed, for the murder of the Empress; in addition to dodging those forsaken Seekers, he was trying still to increase his position within th Empire, not an easy job when, he was convinced, another held Brigitte's ear. Well, with any luck, her failure here would make his job that much easier; perhaps the girl would even choose to blame her unnamed advisor.

Boromin smiled. It was a pleasant though.

For now, however, he had to keep his mind on the task at hand; after the planning was done, he could act, and all the better for knowing the plans of the Empress herself. And if he had to keep up the deception a few hours, a few days, a few weeks longer, what of it? It was, he thought smugly, hardly something knew to him.

[Shivani Mariashta]

From what Shivani could see - and from what she could deduce, which was not much - the war had not been going well. It had all seemed good in the beginning; they were fighting barbarians, after all, and they had dominated early, confirming - in her mind, and, she was certain, in the mind of everybody else in the army - that the Empire was infallible.

As the battles had worn on, however, they seemed to have lost a little of whatever early steam they had had; they had suffered increased casualties, and, if se did not think that they had been losing, she was not so foolish that she did not think they could be doing better.

Since the Empress had arrived, however, everything seemed to have reverted to those early days; their numbers had nearly doubled, and the morale that the new troops brought had inspired everyone, overcoming the fatigue and disappointment of past weeks. They were wroking twice as hard, too, but nobody seemed to notice, or at least to mind; they were fighting to win, were fighting for the Empress herself. Turning, lunging into the battle, Shivani raised her sword, cutting down an enemy where he stood; or, more accurately, ran. Easy.

[Kendra]

Kendra looked down at the damane beside her. Lexi was a good damane; she had been easy to train, so much so that Kendra had easily won the right to control her almost exclusively. She is my damane, she thought, with more than a little pride. Lexi had been her damane since they had both arrived at the Lightning Grounds, would be her damane until she was no longer a sul'dam. And right now, the thought could not have made Kendra happier.

She had long since lost track of how long they had been fighting, of how long they had been out in the countryside. Those matters were not for her to think of; it could have been a day, or a year, for all it made a difference. She was there to lead her damane, something she had done proudly, day after day. With every man the damane killed, Kendra smiled, until she was fit to burst. She was serving the Empire with every move, every breath, every action. She was protecting the Empire, protecting the Empress, may she live forever. It may not have been much Power, but it was hers. And it was amazing.

"Forward," she intstructed the damane, and Lexi surged forward, bursting with her own power. Good damane.

[Lexi]

"Forward," Kendra demanded, and Lexi ran forward, bristling with the Power, gathering it, hurling lines of fire and lightning at the oncoming hordes. It was at once exhilarating and disgusting; to be fighting for something she loved, to be holding the Power, was amazing. But at the same time, she knew that it was wrong; it was a tool, yes, and used for just cause, but it should not be lovely. And killing ... she was killing bad men, and on the orders of the Empire. That was good. But the torn flesh, the spattered blood, the people, on her side or not, that she had to step over; that was not lovely at all. In fact, it was terrible. But where she was commanded to fight, she would fight; were Kendra to command it, Lexi knew that she would die.

Still running, her sul'dam beside her, Lexi sent shocks out before her, hitting the horrid men who ran at her, who threatened her sul'dam, who threatened the Empire. After so long fighting, she barely had to think about what to do any more; the moves came naturally, flowing from her, hitting their targets. Decimating, at her command. No. At her sul'dam's command. And yet, she felt useful, felt important, if only, like the Power, as a tool; but she was a tool for good, and she would be one as long as she was needed. Forever.

[Mestryn]

With a backhanded swing, Mestryn swept one of the tribesmen to the ground. A moment later the Ogier's axe buried itself in the earth, cleaving the man's skull in two. Looking up, Mestryn found two more tribesmen coming at him, weapons raised and mouths open in snarls of hatred. He barely brought his axe up in time to block their blows. He heaved and pushed the smaller creatures back. Another man of the Deathwatch was suddenly beside Mestryn, and the tribesmen no longer looked so certain of themselves. One leapt at the human Guard and the pair tumbled down the slope, grappling.

Mestryn felt his blood surge as his faced his opponent. The man was tall, much taller than most humans, although was still a head shorter than Mestryn. He held a long handled axe, but he reached over his shoulder and drew a smaller hand axe. All hair had been shaven from his head, and delicate tattoos worked over his scalp.

Spinning, the man came at Mestryn, axes flashing in the light. Mestryn blocked one blow, then another and another. He caught another on his wrist cuff, the metal denting beneath the force of the blow. Letting go of his axe haft for a moment, Mestryn's hand darted forward, grabbing the tribesman's forearm. Caught, the man tried to swing at Mestryn with the hand axe, only to stagger as Mestryn twisted the arm. Face grim, Mestryn squeezed. There was a sickening snap as the bone shattered. The man screamed once, dropping both of his weapons. With some distaste, Mestryn pushed the man to the ground. Lying on his back, the man groaned, clutching at the bone protruding from his wrist.

Calmly, Mestryn knelt and picked up the man's large axe. It fit snugly in one of his huge hands. A suitable trophy. Mestryn took a step, not even noticing the crunch as he drove the tribesman's face into the dirt. There was a gurgle, inaudible above the clash of steel. Mestryn waded deeper into the fray, crying "Victory for the Empress!"

[Boromin]

Boromin smiled. He had finally been freed; freed of the crushing, constant Empire, freed of everyone who watched him. Though they watched him out of deference, waiting for him to lead, not to rebel, the effect was the same; he was never alone, never free to pursue his own ends. Until now.

He had escaped the camp early, before dawn; the rest of the camp had been sleeping, bar a few sentries, and he had escaped without problem, unseen and unheard. From there, it had been a short travel to the rebel camp, and only slightly longer work to prepare them for what he had planned. They had been doing well in his absence, he was pleased to note; though they never would have done what he was commanding now - would, in all likelihood, never have managed to overcome the newly gathered forces of the Empire - they had done as well as he could have expected, if not as well as he could have hoped. But that was okay, now; with him leading them, once more, they would finally achieve what he had intended.

Another of the Captains of the Green had been carefully instructed before Boromin had left. His own unit held back under the command of a third Captain, most of the Empire's forces would be attacking early, hoping to gain an advantage over the enemy. What they would be doing, in actuality, would be walking obediently into a trap; once which, sprung properly, would deliver Boromin the advantage he sought.

He did not have long to wait for the day's fighting to begin. The sounds of the army, huge and well-armoured, were not difficult to distinguish, even at a distance, and Boromin's forces gathered quickly in anticipation. When the fighting began, it was quick and brutal; wrapped securely in an Illusion, Boromin was at the forefront, deflecting blows easily and invisibly, until he reached his target.

He had considered going straight for the Empress, but he knew that, however reckless and arrogant the Empress, he could not guarantee that she would be in battle on any given day; today, when the army was taking a new strategy, he did not really expect that she would. He had quickly come up with a better candidate, however; while killing the Empress now would serve little, killing the Captain of the Blue would achieve much; he would satisfy a little of his ambition, and put himself in an enviable place for when he chose to make his next more.

The man stood out like a beacon to Boromin as he surged through the forces, and he moved forward, his attention solely on Derean. The man was better than a capable fighter, and he saw Boromin coming, but it did little good; however well he handled his blade, he could not fight what he could not see. In time, however, it became apparent that Boromin would not have to use that last advantage; the Captain, for all his skill, was yet a boy, and Boromin fought with the experience of three Ages. As he ran Derean through, he reflected that killing with a sword was somehow so much more satisfying than killing with the Power; wiping his blade clean, he moved back quickly. His job was done. Whatever the rebels did now, was only a bonus.