The Last Giant
Theme: Your character's effect on the universe long after their death.

It was far too early.

The sun's shadow could barely be seen over the Demos Range of Western Alacia, a mere discolouration of the still-starlit sky. Even the proverbial morning-birds still snored in their nests, the forests of the foothills silent but for a few of the stubborn marsupials refusing to head home until they had found decent food. The small fire pit from last night's feast still smouldered, for Vhiliu's sake.
It was far too early to even consider battle.

Still, it was his duty. Even as Marlow cursed at his boot and struggled to figure out why he couldn't get his foot into it, he could feel his heart swelling with pride. For all the struggles and pains he may endure in the hours that come, he could always face his death bravely, knowing he had bought his people a few more hours of peace. It was a rather common sentiment among his order, and he knew that he may be one of the hundreds this war claims each day. Any of the knights who clattered and bustled around him may not see tomorrow's fight - a dreadful reality that hung over the heads of each of them, adding to the weight of their silvery platemail and months of marching.
Despite it all, every member of the Fourteenth Regiment of the Holy Army held his chin high. They had an important duty in any Devlani battle. A single battalion of Church Knights could steel the resolve of the most broken army, and urge them forth to victory - or at least a stalemate. They spent many years facing the hardest of trials and the greatest of adversities to achieve their positions; trained, drilled and brainwashed until they were truly and honestly fearless. While not as lethal as a Gunman battalion or as dreadful as a Wyvern ambush, the Church Knights were equally feared.

Because with Justice and Virtue on their side, they believed themselves invincible. When they charged headlong through flames and steel without faltering, their enemies began to believe it too. When their enemies showed fear and weakness, their allies began to believe it too. By merely influencing the morale of both sides of a battle, Church Knights could drastically change the outcome of any fight - which made them valuable. Which meant they were in high demand, exhausted and overused. One thing led to another and the Devlani Churches decided to produce more knights, faster. Bigger acadamies, shorter programs, lower standards...
...and soon, the Church Knights began dying. That's a another story, though. Today, Marlow faced the scrawny nomads of Olivan and their brittle arrows - and he finally had his boots on.

"Sir Marlow," rang the stern voice of his commander, rising from powerful, well-tested lungs. As expected, General Straker was already fully kitted and mounted. The men who served under this imposing man always said you could count the battles he'd served in by merely counting his scars. A jawline as square as his shield, high cheekbones exposed from malnourishment, dark, expressive eyes - even withered by war and in his advanced years, Straker looked every part the shining knight of fairy tales. Though he couldn't see it under the General's heavy surcoat and dark green cloak, Marlow stiffened under the heat of the Athlaeas; an amulet of ferocious power Marlow had seen his Commander rip from the claws of an elder mamkute he'd defeated.
"My lord," Marlow responded, straightening and saluting, the struggle with his scabbard forgotten.
"Your boots are on the wrong feet."
"...my apologies, my lord. I suppose I'm still half-asleep."
Straker grunted, taking a more informal tone. "Be quick about it, Marlow. Dyson and the guard scared their scouts off, but there's no doubt they herald a larger force beyond the border."

Apparently dismissed, the young Seargent righted his footgear and clipped his sword to the studs on his belt, stumbling toward the tent of his squire. Fumbling with the hemp bindings for a moment, he swore through the tent at his lifelong friend. He dearly loved old Mel, he really did. There was noone he owed so much to, noone he trusted more - but really, Mel was getting too old for service. He'd served Marlow's father some time before he died, and tradition dictated he go on to serve Marlow. Tradition adopted from Alacia after they finally annexed it, but tradition nontheless. Marlow was purely Devlani by blood - evident in his cold, dark eyes and shiny black hair. Devlani were rare among the church knights due to understandable hostility from the Alacians behind the program - after years as lower-class citizens, they made the program notably harder for Devlani who joined. Marlow's father always said it just shaped them into better knights.

"Mel! Mel, you lazy son of a three-legged-"
"I'm awake, Marlow." The Seargent stepped back as his squire burst from the tent, twisting his belt into position. Mel's years of service showed on his face, pale skin loose and drooping in folds from wherever it wasn't attached. Creases sprouted from the outer edges of his faded green eyes, mere memories of the gem-like shine they once held. His hair was completely white by now, thin and dry. He sported a proud beard, trimmed and shampooed daily; the only hair he could still grow besides from his ears.
Locking his helmet into his collar and screwing on the blade of his spear, Mel nodded wordlessly and left to prepare Marlow's horse. Mel was a good man, the knight mused, and he'd be lost without him. He was retiring soon, his son replacing him - a man of equal scruples but far less wisdom. Pauli was older than Marlow by a good few years - it was strange to think he'd be teaching him, and that Pauli would then teach Marlow's child. It was a strange, round-about process.




He shivered as the unborn mana surged through his soul, ley lines mounting and cresting atop him as he finished the somatic components of the spell. He'd always found the foreshadow of a spell to be unpleasant - as with the aftershock. But the casting itself, the raw, unbound power... it made any level of torture seem worthwhile.
His fingers locked the last symbol into place and he slammed the heels of his palms together, uttering the final word of the incantation. Twisting his hands on their heels so his right hand's fingers pointed up and his left's pointed down, his muscles tensed and his nerves fired. Eyes narrowing, feet shifting apart, he exhaled - a sigh that quieted the world around him, causing the ring of steel to fall silent and the cries of pain to drift away. For one everlasting moment, Marlow was alone in the world, the only heartbeat in the entirety of the universe. He stood atop the earth with all its attention focused on him, all its energy devoted to his hands. His fingers burned, his palms glowed and all at once the world moved again. Thrusting his hands forward, palms first, he hesitantly released the magic; wishing that moment could have lasted longer, sad to feel so powerless again.

The energy rippled forth, grass peeling from the dirt and floating away from it, earth splitting below. The sky darkened as the mana sparked to life, growing from a wispy trail into a raging sphere of flame. It hurtled forth, spinning gracefully, until it crashed into the flank of an unsuspecting horse - flaring out in an unearthly explosion that rocked the ground and scorched the air. Flames scattered and danced past the nomad, thinning and dissipating a good yard or so beyond him. Nose filling with the scent of its own burning flesh, the stallion reared and whinnied frightfully before collapsing to the floor - crushing Marlow's target and rolling around on top of him, legs kicking at the air. Scooping his sword from the ground, Marlow paced towards his own fallen steed, struggling to catch his breath and keep the contents of his stomach down. His teacher assured him that it got easier with time and that expert wizards could sling lightning for hours without feeling a thing - but to Marlow, it seemed worse each time.
"I know they say 'A Church Knight is never unarmed,' but that was something else," Mel said, trotting up beside him. His white beard was stained pink with blood, his horse fighting for breath. It had been a hard battle for everyone, and they had lost more of their men.

Church Knights weren't supposed to die - then again, Church Knights weren't supposed to fear. But during this campaign, they had learnt it, and it had saved many of their lives.
"Do you have word from the General?" Marlow asked as he pulled his lance and a vulnerary from his saddlebags, shakily uncorking the latter. "We should be able to mount a rescue within ten minutes."
"Don't bother, sir." Mel grunted, shifting uneasily in his saddle and gazing to the east. "A burial team would be more appropriate." Marlow was speechless. Precious liquid dribbled to the ground as he stared at his squire in disbelief while the reality of that sentence sunk in. The ground felt as if it had fallen from under his feet. When he finally spoke, his voice was weak, broken - barely audible over the groans and whimpers of the other knights as they tended to their wounds and confirmed their kills.
"...how?"
"A Llatthias was there. The younger one, I believe."
Marlow swore loudly and tossed aside the vulnerary, preparing to face the long hours of prayer and labour ahead. Over two-thirds of their men remained to face the Brujah while he led the rest after the fleeing nomads. If General Straker had fallen, then there was little chance anyone else had survived. That made him the highest-ranking knight of the regiment.




"This expedition is a folly!" Marlow cried, standing from his chair. The two guards shifted their weapons forward a little, swallowing nervously. "I demand a retreat until we can rally a larger force."
The Cardinal stroked his long, thin beard in an attempt to look sagely, but his lazy eye and layers of fat didn't exactly help him. He waved at the pair of royal guards, assuming they'd understand he wanted them to stand down. When they didn't get yelled at for not moving, they relaxed and erected their pikes again.
"You dissapoint me, Sir Marlow." Cardinal Baxter and General Marlow sat in the war tent, a larger canvas erected over a cheap table with roughly-sketched maps, cheap figurines and a bottle of half-finished liquer. Straker's cot sat at one end and the opening at the other - the only other object of note being a small oil lantern hanging above the table. Straker wasn't a man of rich tastes, not that there was much room on the wagons for any luxuries.
"I find it hard to believe your men are being struck down by untrained savages after your long chain of victories against the Erimate rebels," the Cardinal said, stretching his arms out so his guards could haul him to his feet. "Deal with it, or you'll have more to fear than barbarians."

Marlow stared silently at the table as the cardinal was carried out, clenched fist quivering. Only when he heard the carriage door shut and the whip of its driver crack did he allow himself to move, swearing violently and kicking the table over. Running his blistered fingers through his dark hair, he sank back into the chair, eyes welling with tears. Anger, grief, guilt - many things raced through his mind, but most prominantly was that unfamiliar feeling. Fear.
The worst thing about the whole situation was that Cardinal Baxter was as right as he was pompous and hedonistic. The Brujah were rabble from the mountains who, before the turn of the century, were nothing more than bandits. Sure, they were huge - so were the elephants the Teralynn cavalry rode. They were vicious - but no more than the berserkers of any other clan. It was their king, that titan who strode calmly towards their army with a blade longer than their horses. The titan was a renowned mercenary under the simple guise of 'Ox' before he rallied the Brujah. Many a tale belonged to his name before he took command; by slaying his own father, they say.

At the birth of the Devlani march, Llatthias was there. He led the oversized brutes against them, halting their armies at Yllspyre, at Val Mae and at Alacia. When no report came from their armies at Alacia's capitol, a wyvern squad was sent to investigate. The reports said that Llatthias' corpse stood, blade in hand, before the gates to the castle, surrounded by the thousands of men charged with invading it. Many believed it was Ox's death - and not the first squads of gunmen - that had allowed them to force Alacia to surrender years later. Either way, his death made the Brujah a low priority in Sromvoski's eyes, a mistake that Marlow had to pay for today. Ox's sons weren't as fearsome or dangerous as he was, but were equally inspirational leaders. The elder, Ashlocke, Marlow had personally faced twice. Ashlocke was a monster with that huge blade, but clumsy, headstrong. He fought with little care for his life, his face twisted in black rage - the spitting image of his father, it was said. The younger, Elliot, Marlow had only seen from a distance. Elliot was calm, calculating - the more dangerous of the two, really.
It was Ashlocke they needed to deal with first, though. He held the Guillotine Blade and looked a little too much like Ox. There was no common soldier on the continent who would face him in battle - for some reason, it was impossible to convince the peasants he wasn't the same man. Long after his death, the Brujah king had entire armies quaking in their boots - even hardened members of the fearless Church Knights.

Marlow sighed, grabbing the bottle of Liquer from the floor and moving to sit on the cot. With what little men he had, he wouldn't be able to do anything about the babarians of the mountains. At best, he could hope their deaths here would inspire Sromvoski to do something about them - at worst, others would hear of the Regiment of Church Knights who fell to a giant, and stop fearing the others. Rebellions may emerge, armies may march...
Strange that the legend of a dead man could undo the great Devlani Empire.

© Myke of Mercury Ice. If you are a guest viewing this, please take the time to register.