Okay. I've decided that since I now have more than one Character, I'll make a thread for 'em.
NaMe: Timaeus Daenmat
TITLe: The Searcher.
aGe: Unknown. Looks about thirty.
HaIR: White with black streaks.
HeIGHT: Six feet.
WeIGHT: Seventy-eight kilograms.
WeaPON: Timaeus wields his magic, and his shield, Jeika, is edged with a single, continuing razor-blade.
aRMOUR: Timaeus’s shield can be used to absorb minor magic.
STReNGTHS: Timaeus is a very powerful mage, and his flight can be used as a potent defence mechanism as well as a deadly weapon. He is also immune to fire and its related magic.
WeaKNeSeS: Timaeus is weak against light and water magic. When he isn’t flying, his wings tend to get in the way. Also, Timaeus is not very good in hand-to-hand combat.
MaGIC/SKILLS: Timaeus is a very strong mage, and he is very hard to match in its art. Fire: Timaeus has control over fire. The more fire created and/or bended, the more energy used. ~Slice- Creates a blade of flame that appears in Timaeus’s hand when he wills it. Just like a sword, but heated to ten-thousand degrees. Middle-magic. ~Burn- The air around Timaeus comes under his control, and he can heat it considerably. Middle-magic. Darkness: Timaeus has control over darkness. The more darkness created and/or bended, the more energy used. ~Teleport- Timaeus opens a rift of darkness and steps through, appearing somewhere else. Minor-Magic when used at about a metre or two, Major-Magic when used on a planar scale. If used on a planar scale, though, Timaeus risks being eaten alive by the ‘warp rift’ or mutated or shreaded to pieces on the spot. ~Fear- Tendrils of darkness creep out of Timaeus’s heart, making people nauseous and scared and fearful. Middle-Magic.
aPPeaRaNCe: Timaeus wears several layers of black and white chequered robes that cover his feet, yet never touch the ground, and are sleeveless. He wears no shoes. His skin is ghost-white, and he has large, Celtic styled tattoos of pure black ink all over his body, which have small flaming skulls in the middle of the swirls. His hair falls down to his shoulders and over his left eye, and is straight. On his back he has a pair of angelic wings than glow slightly, with a wingspan of twenty feet. If one were to see beneath Timaeus’s robes, they would see his demonic side. Small mouths in random places, tiny, alien, clawed hands, jutting out at random angles on the end of short, scrawny arms and eyes set where mere flesh and muscle should be.
PeRSONaLITY: Timaeus is an aloof man and loves to travel. He is a very dark individual, but only on the surface. On the inside, Timaeus is a emotional, although it may not seem it. He never looks surprised. He loves war and fighting, as it is all that he now has left.
BIOGRaPHY: Timaeus never had a childhood. He was born, or made, and given a shield; that was it. It was his job to take between the Gods messages, and to do them favours when he was asked. Certain Gods tried to sway him to their favour, like Huardorm, or Zunn. But one, the Over-God, employed him the most. Soushryn.
It was raining. Timaeus relished it. He tasted it with his mind. He tasted it in his soul. He became one with it.
He smiled, and opened his eyes. He was in an empty street, lined with houses and buildings and bins. Bugs crawled from the cracks in the houses. Waste oozed over the edge of bins. Light bloomed from the windows of the buildings, like eyes in the night. Which they were.
It was always a different place with Soushryn. Always changing, always moving and shifting. The Over-God had a sense of humour, unlike the other Gods. Wherever he appeared before Timaeus, there was always a small, colourful, chipped teacup on its side. And this time, it was in the gutter of a building, next to a once-green tennis ball and some leaves.
But this time, it rolled over, plummeting to the ground as if the two were old friends, rushing together to meet, one last time. It shattered. Timaeus winced.
A hysterical laugh came from a building’s wall, which morphed and twisted ghoulishly. Soushryn appeared. “My best gag yet, right?” The laugh followed.
“I have to say, Soushryn,” Timaeus whispered. He knew the God could hear him. The sentence advanced, “you gave me a scare.”
The laugh hissed through Soushryn’s lips as he walked up behind the Angel. “Ooh yes. That was my intent, you see, old fellow. I amuse myself, you see.”
“You always did, friend.”
“How ‘bout when I wiped out that dimension? Classic stuff, that. Comic genius.” Soushryn showed himself now. This time he was a round, stout man with spectacles and a top-hat on.
“Yes yes, right. But why?” Timaeus’s brow furrowed and he slid his toes through the mud.
“Because, you see, it was capital, for Pete’s sake! Capital!” Soushryn’s grin widened and his eyes gaped. “The look on your face, man, ooooh..... I’ll be wetting my pants over that joke for a long time, you see. Ha!” Soushryn screwed his eyes shut and giggled like a child.
“I meant the meeting, you stupid old ****er.” Timaeus was joking, and he knew that Soushryn could tell. This was a game, but it wouldn’t last too long.
“Well, chum, you see, I’ve been told to give you this. The other ‘council members’ made a bloody petition...” Soushryn pulled off his hat and removed from within it a small piece of coffee-stained parchment.
Timaeus grabbed the piece of paper and read it.
Sir Timaeus Daenmat,
You are to be informed that your job as ‘messenger’ has been terminated, and your services are no longer required.
Regards, The ‘Council’.
“I see. I’ll be leaving then.”
“We just though that we could do some work ourselves, and that you could have a life outside your work. I might call you over every now-and-then, if I need you.” Soushryn put his hand out.
Timaeus did not shake the fat piece of flesh, just prodded the air and drew a line, straight down. He disappeared into thin air.
“Oh bugger. I wished we could’ve had some ****ing coffee or something...” Soushryn disappeared into a building.
Yes, I am bringing back Kandred. Hopefully, he won't become so ****ed up and demented this time around. NOTE: This Kandred has no memory of any past lives/selves.
Name: Kandred. Age: Somewhere around two-million. Race: Archangel. Sex: Male.
Eyes: Blue/grey. Hair: Dark brown and wavy.
Height: Six feet and ten inches. Weight: Seventy-eight kilograms.
Weapon: Rezaveron, the Undying Blade: This broadsword reaches to a massive six feet in length and seven inches wide. It weighs over four tonne, but Kandred can wield it as if it were a feather. The blade’s edge comes to a point by each side changing forty-five degrees inwards so that the tip meets at a right-angle (ninety degrees). The handle is a foot long and has a black orb for a pommel. The blade is a deep purple and leaves violet streaks in the air after being swung. Kandred does not carry the Undying Blade with him, but merely summons it to his hand when it is required. The Kallissius Blade: This broadsword has the same dimensions as Rezaveron. The blade is as white as any substance can be, and is made in a way that makes the atoms along the blade’s edge move up and down rapidly, like a micro-chainsaw all around the edge of the blade, which increases its cutting power dramatically. Normally, this weapon appears as a six-foot staff of the white substance. Armour: Kandred has no armour. His swords can, however, absorb magic.
Strengths: Kandred is an excellent swordsman and can beat almost any foe. His strengths exceed that of any Angel, allowing him to lift his extremely weighty swords at once without even drawing a sweat. He is reasonably agile, and also quite smart. Weaknesses: Kandred is weak against all forms of impure magic, whether it is Vampiric or Demonic. In battle, he usually gets quite cocky and uses both his swords at once (although this may seem an advantage, it slows him down considerably. Not because of the weight, but the sheer mass of the swords.). And although he is quite nimble and quick, he could easily be outmanoeuvred by a faster warrior.
Magic: Fire: Kandred can manipulate and create fire. The amount he can use/create is limitless, but the more created and used, the more energy Kandred will have to provide. Wind: Kandred can manipulate and create wind. The amount he can use/create is limitless, but the more created and used, the more energy Kandred will have to provide. This magic is not actually real wind, but a small-scaled version of an ethereal storm. Angels’ Threads: This technique divides the Kallissius Blade into thin strips. The length of the string varies, but the longer it is, the thinner and easier to break it will be. Each strip, at the end, forms into an extremely sharp blade. These strings attach themselves to Kandred’s fingertips, and are used like a cross between claws and whips. Angels’ Battle Meditation: After absorbing magical energy with his swords, Kandred can extract this energy to “recharge” himself, by placing the swords before him and entering a trance-like state. The energy will flow from the blades into his body.
Appearance: Kandred’s physique is thin and slightly muscled. His complexion is halfway between pale and tanned. He wears a simple, jet black, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of baggy, brown pants with a pair of steel-shod boots to match. His hair can only be distinguished as brown if put close to a very bright source of light, otherwise it appears black. It is worn in an uncomplicated fashion, falling to the base of his neck at the back and gradually getting shorter towards the front, where it just covers his eyebrows. Kandred’s eyes are a dull shade of blue that almost appears grey. Personality: Kandred is a very social character, and loves to be around other people. That is not to say that he dislikes being alone, as he also enjoys being isolated, to allow him to think. In battle, he can be very aggressive, but will hesitate to kill a foe: he does not lust for blood, just battle. He can get very attached to and defensive of people, and others tend to find it very easy to talk to him.
Biography: Kandred grew up in a large, busy city where he made many friends. His mother and father were kind to him, and he was not the angsty type of stereotypical teenager.
At the age of nineteen, he left home in search of work. Such exploits brought him across a small academy of magical arts. There, he learnt how to manipulate and create magic in exchange for cooking in the kitchens and cleaning up late at night. He did not advance quickly, however, and spent many years there before he could properly control his spells.
Long exposure to magic and its related arts slowed his aging, and he spent close to two centuries at the academy, where he saw many people come and go. The highest rank he ever achieved was the head chef and teacher of the basic magical laws.
Slowly, though, the academy ran out of funds and closed down. Kandred left before then, though, in search of new enlightenment.
Eventually, he came to a military facility, where he trained in the militia in the city he had grown up in. His mother had died long ago. Kandred was well known in the militia, and his magical and fighting knowledge were a potent combination.
Kandred was placed in charge of rooting out and destroying satanic cults within the city, and one such cult, the Cult of Thremigon, came close to overthrowing the city completely. Most of the militia had joined this cult to worship a death-god they called Thremigon, and turned on Kandred and his loyal comrades in the direst moment of the battle. The militia was overturned and destroyed, Kandred the last surviving member. The cult then mysteriously vanished, leaving the economy of the city in ruins.
After such devastation, Kandred became a religious follower of Thrinmoore, Thremigon’s father and nemesis. Thrinmoore praised Kandred in his purity in times of great strife, and Kandred was made Thrinmoore’s representative in the world of mortals.
Then came the Demonic Crusade. Angels fought demons in the sky and the earth, the fiery blade against the pure shield. For thousands of years this war raged on, until a demon within Kandred tricked him into killing his master. Thrinmoore deceptively hid in Kandred’s sword and placed Kandred in hibernation for one-million and ten-thousand years.
After the war, when heaven and hell had collided and been engulfed in their own barbarity, the lands were left a place of paradise. But then, from some unknown crevice of the void, the Cult of Thremigon returned and ruled supreme. All were enslaved.
Kandred ascended from stasis, transformed into an Archangel from his prolonged exposure to the magic Thrinmoore had encased him within. Side by side, Thrinmoore and Kandred fought their way through the Imperial palace of Thremigon. There, Thrinmoore released himself from his imprisonment in Kandred’s sword, and slew Thremigon.
Together, Kandred and Thrinmoore purified the lands in fire once more, for life to begin anew. Thr product of this friendship and the two’s combined love for the new land they had created was a sword, Rezaveron. This blade was also infused with the cold malice that had surged through Thremigon’s veins when he was slain, coupled with the hatred Kandred held for all things impure. The energy of Thrinmoore releasing himself from the blade and the energy created from the creation of Rezaveron was powerful enough to purify the universe one more time. The Kallissius Blade was formed, in recognition of Kallissius, Thrinmoore’s first champion.
“You shall be my last champion, Kandred,” Thrinmoore told Kandred gravely. “When I am gone, and I am needed one last time, your heart, soul, existence and the Kallissius Blade shall be the purifier. You are destined for great things, friend.” And with those words, Kandred’s knowledge of his last mission was wiped from his mind.
*PERSONAL INFORMATION* Name: Vita Deficio. Race: Human. Sex: Male. Age: Thirty-four, looks about twenty. Personality: Vita is a very compassionate, loving person. That said, his greatest passion in life is war, and the rush, thrill and hype he gets from it. There are some dark aspects to him though; war has ravaged his mind. He is troubled, but rarely shows it, and has forged for himself a guise of solidity, firmness.
*APPEARANCE* Eyes: Gold. Hair: Blood red. Chin-length at the fringe and lengthening as it approaches the back, where it touches his shoulders. Physical: *PICTURE COMING*
Vita is a strong, lithe person. His muscle is more obvious in his abdominals and arms, with chest and leg muscles roughly even (although his legs are slightly stronger). Although his face is not overly angled, it is recognizably slim and elf-like. His fingers are long and dexterous to match the rest of his body. His eyes have a look of inner strain coupled with determination. His brow is light, and lessens the impact of other aspects of his face that would show worry. Overall, his form and facial expressions possess an odd aura of concern and brooding.
Vita Deficio wears a tight, dark green shirt with his insignia on the left breast (see below). The sleeves of this shirt are long enough to reach just over his knuckles and the joint of his thumb. Over the shirt, he wears a leather overcoat the colour of darkened blood. It extends down to his knees, partially flaring out at the end to allow leg movement, with a zip from his waist up to his collarbone. The collar points slightly forwards, exaggerating the angles of his face, and reaches up to just below his eye line. The sleeves reach a centimetre over the balls of Vita’s hands, with a strip the width of his palm stitched over the back of his hands to protect his fingers. The edges of his overcoat have a row of studs along its edges. His pants are black and tight, tucked into his boots, which are the same kind of material as his jacket. The boots reach halfway up his shin, tied together with white laces. His pants are held up with a black belt, which is studded with half-spheres, similar to the ones on his jacket. A featureless belt, which does not run through the loops of his pants, is attached to the same buckle as the other belt, but hangs down on the left side. The hanging is due to the weight of Solvo pro Vita in its sheath, fastened to the left side. The sheath has Vita’s insignia etched into it hundreds of times.
Vita’s right palm has his insignia scratched into it.
Solvo pro Vita:
*SKILL* Strengths: Vita is a skilled swordsman, having served fifteen years in the army. The sword he wields is also trained in the arts of death, and has been Vita’s companion for years. Although not the strongest of all people, he has the ability to endure for hours on end at his full potential and can take a beating; he always stands up. Weaknesses: Despite being fearsome in close-combat, Vita has barely any defences at long range, and would easily be outdone by a skilful mage. If he overpowers his sword, it can backfire and severely burn him, lessening his ability to wield the blade. Vita is also merely a human, and would be at a great disadvantage against other races with superior strength and senses, which make up a large amount of the enemies he encounters. Being slightly influenced by the holy attributes of his sword, Vita is weak against black magic more than other varieties. Sword Style: Vita, over many long years, has developed a sword style that is unique in many ways. He prefers not to stab, and sticks to slashes and one-handed disarming manoeuvres, much like fencing. If he cannot disarm his opponent, he will gash their hand, impairing their sword-fighting abilities. He tends not to kill his opponents, but simply render their means of defence and offence defunct.
*WEAPONS* Death's Retribution, Solvo pro Vita: Vita wields a rapier roughly four feet in length. Solvo pro Vita, or just Solvo, is a gateway into the deepest bowels of hell. If he so wishes, Vita can open this gateway using a large portion of his soul’s latent power, pouring the energy into his body. This energy is released through the insignia on his right palm into the hilt, and subsequently into the blade, where the centre of the sword glows a fiery orange. When the sword is powered, it heats up dramatically, increases Vita’s physical strength and speed, heightens his senses and gives him an extremely powerful sense of space. If used for too long, however, Vita will be extremely drained of energy and may even have to sleep for days.
*MAGIC* Solvo pro Flamma: Instead of powering his sword, Vita can channel the hellish energy into his body, allowing him to launch skeins of crimson energy from his right palm and fingertips. This energy takes the form of flaming plasma, with the lightning-like branches of its reach burning the air and itself. This does not drain Vita as much, but still takes its toll on his ability to fight and is not used often.
Vita Deficio was born as James Funder. Vita Deficio was a name he got given when he was held responsible for his sister’s death in a household fire, when he failed to save her in order to save himself.
He grew up normally, beside the fact of being shunned by all he knew, as well as his parents. And that was why he was sent to war.
New Year’s Day, 1620
Blood was everywhere. It was on their clothes, on their faces, on their hands. The air might as well have been made of it; cascades, torrents, of blood erupted all around. The battlefield was stained with the crimson rivers, as if the bowels of hell had been allowed to unleash their chaos and pain unto the plain.
The ground sent pangs up Vita’s legs as he bounded along, slaying and maiming the enemy. Demons and hell’s-children all, the foe rolled over the plain in waves, approaching through physical space and the ether, attacking the minds of Deficio’s comrades unrelentingly.
The next group of demons were coming, and people around him had their mind’s crushed by the onslaught of psychic energies. Vita leapt headlong into the mass, swinging his longsword ravenously. He felled many of them, rending them from physicality. He knew that, as he killed them their bodies vanished. They would be mended at the back lines, and sent in again; Vita had slain some demons many times over, but they would just keep on coming.
Deficio slammed his sword’s hilt into the skull of one, and the spun around and ripped another four demons. The final one fell at the hands of one of his fellow soldiers.
The next wave came, hundreds strong. They were black and red and blue, smeared with excrement and blood, wielding swords, maces and axes. Tongues lolled from gaping maws, all lined with needle-point teeth. Their mouths gaped, as if the demons wished to show the beds of razors that would serve as the final resting place for many foolish soldiers.
Vita moaned. Like the others, he shambled along, coated in chains and ropes, tormented and whipped. They all wandered where they were told. They were the prisoners of war, the playthings of darkness.
Today, Vita Deficio would be Marked. Marked as a prisoner, sworn as a soldier. He would be made to fight his comrades of old, and would bring to their death many of the people he called friends. And, if he was lucky, he would die.
A many-fingered hand wrapped around his neck, hauling him like a doll into the embrace of a demon. It had no eyes, and inspected him with its tongue. The slobber smothered his face, almost suffocated him. He had his right hand freed from chains. The claw of the creature came down, and began etching his hand. The pain was unbearable. It felt as if, through the carving of his hand, he lived the pain of all demons and men. The he was tossed down.
The ground smashed upwards into his back, cutting and maiming his form further. He felt the bedrock twist and writhe beneath him. It seemed to dig its hands into him, engulfing his soul in the manifold pain of its stranglehold. More hands of rocked rushed over and into him, until he new not where his body finished and hell began. Then he was on the field of battle.
Then, when Vita freed the head of a human he new too well from his body, he realised how to escape. It would probably end in death, but it was worth the risk, worth it to find a sliver of hope of survival. From the ground he lifted a sword, and brandished it against the demons.
Then, he knew not what happened. He felt his soul shatter, the world shudder, as if it had been holding it’s blood-reeking breath for too long, and the demons scream. The world turned, and he was the axis. He looked down to see all of hell’s glory blazing about the rapier he now held.
Vita Deficio could not tell how long he had been swaying through blood. He was thundering through sloughs of demons, fire bursting from his blade. He was journeying towards the centre of hell, taking a dive into the release of war. Somehow he knew that this was the only means of escape. Running would not help; you could not escape this battle by fleeing from its claws. Vita was ducked under the fingernails of those hands as they raked the earth for more blood. He escaped their touch by attacking them.
The war raged on around him, and he raged through it, to its heart. The sky was black, and the sun hung in its ebon folds. Like the sun, fighting back the darkness, Vita killed and maimed the demons. He knew that he would live.
And he fought onward.
Vita buried his sword in the earth, and let its power flow away from him. He had escaped, he had lived.
Name: Kaivaan Usairo. He also goes by Kai and K. Age: Twenty-one. Race: Human.
Eyes: Blue. Hair: Kaivaan’s hair is a ruddy ginger. He doesn’t tend to it often, so it can become quite unkempt. It sits somewhere between his ears and shoulders.
Height: Five foot eight. Weight: Seventy-five kilograms.
Weapon: Kai usually carries his sword and spear with him. The spear has a three-foot handle, and no hilt. The blade is a handspan wide and a foot long. The sword has opposite dimensions; a foot of handle and three foot of blade, as well as a thin hilt. Armour: Kaivaan’s only armour are the two shoulder-guards and gauntlets he wears. They are made of titanium, but crude in design.
Strengths: Usairo is quite an adept combatant, with or without his weapons. He is extremely fit, and can fight for hours without tiring. Kai’s fighting puts stress on the speed of his weapons, rather than the physical strength behind them, and as a result can strike before an opponent has time to defend themselves. Weaknesses: Despite being quick with his hands, Kaivaan is not especially fast on his feet. This can lead to him being run down, so he doesn’t often have the option of flight over battle. He also has no ranged weaponry, and this, coupled with his slow movement, means that enemies can quite easily escape from him if they get out of range of mêlée. Although having an adequacy with weapons and physical combat, Kai has no magical abilities or affinities whatsoever; against a mage or other magic-user, he would be at a severe disadvantage.
Appearance: Kai is not especially tall, but relatively thickset and muscular. As well as his armour, K wears a shirt, pants and boots. The shirt is a once-white v-neck, and the pants are maroon and quite baggy. Being shod with steel, Kai’s boots are heavy. They come half way up his shins, and lace up.
Personality: Usairo is a carefree person who carries little about with him. Having spent most of his life in abject poverty, he has no wants for luxuries. He is also quite friendly, though not extroverted. In contrast to his other, rather simple aspects, Kai can be said to be almost bipolar, with a slight air of anger about him at times.
Out in the mountains, where the grasslands swept up to peaks and crags, ravines and immensities of native stone, the hard soil yielded little but grains for alcohol and grass for animals. The people were hard, rustic and determined, with little attributed to them but the rocks that surrounded them. Where the grasslands gave way, so did the Imperial reign. But there was nothing like freedom there.
At a small town nestled between immortal mountains, there would soon be the last harvest and the snows. Rain was falling in sheets and folds, wrapping the place with the smell of wet earth. It was cold, and the rain did little to sweep away the frost on the ground. Clouds hid the sun.
The townspeople that were not in their homes were wrapped in furs and coats, hands not far from the weapons at their hips. There was a ragged wind blowing off the plains and into the hills, and even the children knew what this bode for them. The sentries shifted with unease in their saddles.
When the attack came, it was not what they expected. As the growls of the mountain-wolves came down from the heights and the warriors ran to meet the beasts, an assault of far greater calibre came in from the plains.
Slowly at first, the dark shapes moved in. They did not group or congregate anywhere. They only slid into the town in absolute silence. The numbers grew steadily as the din of men fighting beasts grew outside the confines of the streets.
With a cold efficiency, the dark things went into houses and halls. They grabbed the younger women and girls, hoarded every boy that could walk. What was not taken was tied down, made useless.
All Kai remembered was blurred. The smell of oil, the scent of terror and the sound of screaming. And then nothing more than fires and blood.
The sea was thick and almost sluggish. The waves were hard, high and sprayed the deck incessantly. A grey and black sky was the only other thing than the ocean, and it issued forth a scream like the rending of worlds. The wind had numbed them all.
Kai was getting thinner. His crewmates were, one by one, being taken into the abysms of madness and death. He spoke to no one.
Finally, the Imperials, behind their impenetrably black armour, had succeeded in drilling out of him any chance of hope, any past other than warfare. All he knew were the edges of his weapons and the hollow in his chest where something had once been. From time to time, the wenches down bellow would be free of the other men, and would call after him. He ignored them.
They were to fight some neighbouring kingdom, some stunted fiefdom that sought to overturn the Empire. But Kaivaan didn’t care for the kingdom, either, and would do as he was told.
He was promised, occasionally, loot and women and a hero’s homecoming to some far-off city he cared nothing for. To other men, these were a source of hope and purpose. To Kaivaan, they were empty sounds from behind cold masks, bearing nothing but the lies he heard from the hollow skies and the depths bellow.
The homecoming was a lie. The women were a lie. The loot was never there for anyone but the Imperials. Two years on that boat, which slowly rotted.
Kai whooped and hollered, screamed and howled when the Edge came. Men whispered of it in fear, but Usairo held it as some kind of deity. Of course, the Imperials would not have a word of it. Their world was infinite, unending and nothing but lands and seas to conquer and control. Their humanity was something unstoppable, something beyond gods and infinitives.
The sight of it, that emptiness that could be nothing but what it was, snapped something in Kai. Sea that suddenly stopped and gave way to white. Reality ceased to be and spilt away.
Kai took it upon himself to put the admiral’s own sword through his armoured gut and push his pitiless form off the boat and into the emptiness.
Kai felt his body sunder and give way to emptiness, to the whites of nothing. Then he felt himself surging back into a reality, into somewhere on the other side of the Edge.
“Papers,” growled the voice, heavy and thick. Kai floundered and retched.
There was a noise of intolerance. “Those in the city without papers are subject to death. Do you have them or not?”
Kai was lying at someone’s feet. He was too relieved to be out of that other world to speak or open his eyes, and ignored the threat. But he wept when he did roll over, open his eyes and met the gaze of an Imperial.
“You’re garbed and armed like a Low Imperial soldier, kid. And yet no identification!” The guard laughed as he dragged Kai along. “Impostors like you deserve death.”
Kaivaan soon found out that the ‘fiefdom’ they were supposed to be fighting was not as small and puny as it was made out to be. In fact, it was quite the opposite; the Empire controlled only its capital and the surrounding towns, and the Kingdom of Huvhaer spanned over two and a half continents, with forces far superior to the ‘Empire’. Usairo had always been one for irony.
When the Huvhaern cavalry arrived at the Imperial Capital, the Low Imperials on duty were nowhere near enough to stop them. The Emperor issued the order that all citizens, however old, were to take arms. Even the prisoners.
Kaivaan jumped out of the trench. Rocks were hailing down from the sky, along with arrows and cannonballs. Dirt was flying, blood was spilling and the Empire behind him was crumbling. The Huvhaern were beyond no quarter, and only killed those who opposed them. Kaivaan Usairo had only to slip out of the ranks and walk away.
He was going to somewhere beyond the Kingdom and the lands the Empire had pretended to control. Somewhere beyond the mountains he faintly recalled, somewhere beyond the seas that the mountains gave way to.