[Darkblade Fortress] Never ask a stranger to die for you

[Cyrus Marius]

TS: 15th Brightening of the second cycle of Cryxatum, in the season of Summer, Era XIV PF

It was comming upon the hottest candlemarks of the brightening, when the suns were poised directly overhead, casting their rays down upon those walking Telath's surface. The weather was warmer here in the south than it had been in Prime, where the breeze from the eastern shore gently blew through the capital city and cooled it's inhabitants. For Cyrus, with the blood of the cold-dwelling Rhaghrnd in his veins, the heat felt particularly bothersome, but he had long since developed the discipline necessary to tolerate such meager hardships. Never the less, he was dressed as comfortably as possible, choosing to forgo a tunic and walk the halls of Darkblade Fortress in naught but a black knee-length skirt of light linen, trimmed in red stitching, and open-foot leather sandles that laced up the soldier's calves. His long blonde hair was washed and brushed, and it cascaded around the legionnaire's bare shoulders like a golden mantle.

Turning around one last corner, Cyrus finally emerged at his desired destination; the training fields for the Manjet Legion. He could hear the sounds of the men at work, the grunting and swearing that comprised combative drilling, and he smirked to himself as he surveyed the scene. The war at Narim had descimated the 9th Legion, and all that remained of the Manjet was those soldiers not yet skilled or senior enough to have been stationed at Narim when the Orcs invaded the city. The young legionnaire's keen sapphire-colored eye beheld the training that was underway, the basics of phalanx formations and of individual combat prowess, and he kept his demeanor as stoic as possible in the face of what he saw. The threat of Ire and the promise of Narim weighed heavily on the minds of the soldiers in training, and Cyrus could see this in the lack-luster thrust of a spearman, or the half-hearted parry of an soldier with a wooden longsword.

Cyrus strode forward onto the training field, gliding between various sections of the field that trained in different aspects of battle. He could feel the eyes begin to gravitate towards him, identifying him as an outsider and a newcommer, but his confident stride and natural swagger spoke volumes to those observant enough to catch them. His lean torso rippled with sinewy, hard-packed muscles that looked sculpted from stone, and he moved with the flowing grace of a dancer or an acrobat. The young legionnaire paused a moment to watch some of the swordplay between a grizzled Shield Daekin and his collection of raw recruits, but the sounds of a scuffle at his back caught Cyrus' attention, and he turned to find the source of the disturbance.

[Cyrus Marius]

A small crowd of men stood near the rear corner of the training field, pressing in close and cheering some spectacle that was on display in the center of the circle they had created. His curiosity piqued, Cyrus turned from the novice swordsmen and strode towards the ring of men, whom all jostled and pushed each other amidst flurries of cheers and curses, and when he neared the edge of the circle he beheld what had captivated the men's attention so effectively. Two men were wrestling on the ground in the center of the recruits, and both were covered in a layer of sweat and dirt so thick it was difficult to discern anything else about them. One man, a large Vagaran perhaps, was far and away the more skilled combatant of the two, and he was in the process of executing a choking manuver on his smaller Medonian opponent. The Vagaran's thick forearm quickly encircled the smaller man's throat, and when the burly man leaned back and applied pressure on the Medonian's windpipe, the small man immediately turned an alarming shade of red and began hammering his palm against the ground beneath him.

The two men parted instantly and the Medonian leaned forward, hastily drawing a ragged, gasping breath of air into his lungs. The Vagaran remained seat in the dirt and laughed mockingly, inspiring his fellows around him to laugh at the smaller man as well. The smaller man flushed a deeper shade of crimson, and with a harsh growl, he pushed himself to his feet and shouldered his way out of the circle and stormed towards the barracks, the laughter trailing after him the entire way. Cyrus remained silent amidst the laughter, finding nothing funny about a man giving his best against a much larger and more skilled opponent. The Medonian's bravery aught to be respected, not mocked, and the Vagaran aught to accept the challenge of a man he had no garuntee of defeating. Cyrus frowned slightly at the scene, but he tapped the nearest man on the shoulder and nodded towards the circle before him.

"Serale friend," he began, his voice stoic and hiding any indication of his inner thoughts, "What did I miss?"

Before the man could respond however, the Vagaran's booming voice cut through the crowd and answered the legionnaire's question.

"You missed Erik Hammerhand's latest victory, little man."

Cyrus turned his azure gaze on the Vagaran, taking in the man's daunting physical appearance. He stood near eight feet in height, taller even than the young soldier's comrade Eyvind Redbeard, with a head of long, pale blonde hair the color of ash that hung matted around his shoulders and down his back. He weighed almost three-hundred pounds of bulky, bulging muscle, and was likewise bereft of a shirt and the visible muscles of his torso would have put an Orc's to shame. His fists were the size of melons and looked as though they could squeeze water from stone, and betwen the ugly scowl he wore on his face and the mean, hungry look in his pale-colored eyes, Cyrus knew immediatly that he was looking at a life long bully, a man who probably joined the legion because obtaining everything by virtue of sheer force had long ago become a way of life for him.

The thought sparked some of the fire that lay within Cyrus, and he raised an eyebrow wryly at the large Vagaran before him.

"Not very impressive when you fight a man half your size."

[Cyrus Marius]

A low murmer ran through the assembled group of men, and the large Vagaran's eyes grew wide with anger at the statement.

"Who is this son of a dog who speaks to Erik Hammerhand? He speaks like a man who thinks himself able stand against the Hammerhand's might. Tell me, little flea, are you the right size to fight me?"

Cyrus smiled thinly, his cobalt eye already alight with the prospect of the challenge. For a moment, he considered telling them who he was; the new Sword Daekin from Aelyria Prime sent to reclaim Narim and bring the Empire's war to Ire's doorstep. However, he stopped himself before speaking, for it was not in him to let his rank dictate his interactions with the enlisted soldiers. His father had been a commander in the Prime provincial militia, and he had raised Cyrus to believe a leader to be no different from the men he commanded. Protocal and structure had to be maintained for discipline, but an officer who lost touch with the enlisted ranks lost touch with the men, and Cyrus would never ask a stranger to die for him without sharing every risk himself.

"Just a new soldier in the Manjet," Cyrus replied casually, "and I am absolutely the right size to fight someone like you."

The Vagaran smiled broadly, exposing several gaps where teeth had been broken or knocked loose in what must have been a very violent life. His nose was crooked and showed signs of repeated breaking, and faint scars crossed much of his lower arms and hands. Cyrus himself bore the scars of blade and barb across some of his flesh, yet much of his skin was still smooth and unblemished, evidence that his skill had prevented the most devestating of blows from ever reaching home.

Erik made a beckoning gesture, and Cyrus knew then that the fight between them would be hand to hand, free of any weapons or impliments of war. Cyrus frowned slightly at this revelation, but he tried to maintain as stoic a front as he could display. His skill lay with a blade in his hand, even more so with a blade in both hands, but his natural aggression and inclination towards martial applications gave him a fair chance in a knock-down brawl. As Cyrus entered the ring of soldiers however, he knew he would need more than a fair chance against a man the likes of Erik Hammerhand. The Vagaran's size alone made him a formidable opponent, and by the swift and brutal way he had defeated his previous foe, Cyrus knew that the large man had far more experiance and training in unarmed combat than he did.

The circle of men had swiftly closed behind him however, and Cyrus found himself facing off against the monsterous Vagaran. The large man slid into a stance with more grace then the young legionnaire would have belived possible from a man of his size, then he began to advance steadily towards where Cyrus stood, moving slowly and deliberately, as if already enjoying the fight to come.

[Cyrus Marius]

Erik reached out for the young legionnaire with an arm the size of a tree limb, his thick fingers stretched out and ready to crush Cyrus in their grip. The young soldier made a skeptical face, and with liquid fluidity, he shifted his center of gravity and propelled himself backwards in a simple backflip. His hands touched the ground as his legs went up over his body, and he completed his acrobatic manuver with a soft touchdown of his feet upon the dirt of the training field, well out of his opponent's reach.

The enormous Vagaran had an amused expression on his face, and he jerked a thumb in Cyrus' direction.

"See how he twirls and tumbles? Looks like a fae decided to challenge the Hammerhand this time."

The comment was met with a rise of nervous laughter, not as mocking as before and with a note of insincerity, as if the assemled group laughed because the looming Vagaran instructed them to do so. Heedless of the laughter, Cyrus took advantage of his opponent's distraction to launch the first attack of their bout, quickly advancing with gliding steps at an angle into the Hammerhand's proximity, and when he was within arm's reach he threw a light and swift jabbing punch at the Vagaran's face.

Erik moved with incredible speed and accuracy, catching Cyrus' outstretched arm before the soldier's knuckles connected with his visage. The young legionnaire's limb looked like a twig in the Vagaran's meaty fist, and he could not prevent himself from being drawn forward as Erik yanked him from his feet and drew him closer. The Vagaran threw a hard and fast punch as he pulled Cyrus near, connecting solidly with the soldier's left cheekbone, then he enveloped Cyrus in his massive arms and squeezed the soldier mercilessly, pressing him against the rock-like muscles of his own chest in an attempt to force the air from his lungs.

The young legionnaire's head pounded slightly from the Vagaran's counter punch and the pressure of his blood building up in his body, and he struggled futily against the mammoth soldier holding him. He kicked his legs against the man's body, aiming to strike at his groin or his knees, but Erik only leaned further back and increased the strength of his bear-hug, causing some of Cyrus' ligaments and bones to pop alarmingly. Cyrus snarled in pain and frustration, unwilling to believe that he could be beaten so swiftly and so easily by this big, lumbering son of a bitch, and he thrashed about violently in the Vagaran's hold. The adrenaline began to flow through Cyrus' bloodstream in response to the fight, rushing through his veins like molten quicksilver, flooding him with the strength and intensity he found only in combat. He began to feel the familiar heat building inside of him, turning him from the man he appeared to be into the feral animal that lay dormant within him, the mortal manifestation of war and conflict that he could allow himself to become.

[Cyrus Marius]

In a flash, Cyrus' head snaked downwards towards the Hammerhand's face, and the young soldier immediately bit down hard on the bridge of the Vagaran's nose. The young soldier felt the Vagaran jerk in response to the attack and increase the force he was exherting on his foe, but Cyrus only bit down all the harder, grimacing to himself as the taste of blood filled his mouth.

Finally, Erik roared in pain and anger and all but threw Cyrus away from him, heaving the young legionnaire bodily through the air to land heavily in a heap several feet away. Erik's hands quickly flew to his face, and when he pulled them back and saw blood on his palms from his lascerated nose, his entire visage took on an angry red pallor and his expression turned frighteningly enraged. He jabbed a thick finger towards Cyrus, who was swiftly picking himself up from the dust, and he roared again in anger.

"You bit me, you dog! You bit me!"

Cyrus did not both responding to the Hammerhand's anger, and instead he filled his lungs with air and shook the pain from his shoulders and back. He could feel his bones and joints aching from the abuse they withstood under the Vagaran's crushing hold, but the adrenaline flowing through his body enhanced his tolerance for pain and physical endurance, and his senses were as sharp and alert as ever. The massive Vagaran advanced again, this time almost running strait at the young legionnaire as he stood within the circle of their comrades. Cyrus lowered himself slightly, flexing his knees and preparing to launch himself at the correct moment.

Just as Erik's hands reached out for him again, Cyrus sprang off his flexed legs, shooting swiftly forward and to the left, at an angle off of Erik's line of advance. The Vagaran was massive in size and strength, however he was not as quick as his smaller opponent, and Cyrus launched a hooking punch low at the Vagaran's stomach when he was within arm's reach. His fist struck solidly, driving in to the Hammerhand's flesh and causing the Vagaran to sharply exhale as the air was driven from his midsection. Quick as lightning, Cyrus launched a second strike towards the same location, driving his knee up and into the Vagaran's stomach in the brief moment he had when Erik's body was recovering from the first blow.

The second strike effected less damage than the first, however, and the Vagaran reached out in response and grasped Cyrus by his shoulders. Erik shifted his body's position with practiced ease, and almost lifting the smaller legionnaire from the ground again, he picked Cyrus from his feet and hurled him to the dirt in the manner of the Zan Zu practitioners. The young soldier bounced against the hard-packed earth, so forcefully was he thrown down, and he could not contain the grunt of pain that escaped from his lips. Without warning, the Vagaran's giant-sized boot came streaking in towards where Cyrus lay, colliding with the soldier's exposed ribcage with a sickening sound. The young legionnaire went flying some distance from the force of the blow, rolling twice in the dust before comming to rest again.

[Cyrus Marius]

Cyrus raised his head immediately and drew air into his battered lungs, and a spasm of pain instantly flashed across his features as he felt the sensation in his ribcage. At least one bone had been broken by the Vagaran's fierce blow, and Cyrus would not be surprised if several ribs had been cracked by the Hammerhand's boot. He rose to his feet as swiftly as possible, but Erik was already there before him, throwing a massive overhand punch that looked capable of knocking a stone wall to rubble. The young legionnaire reacted to the strike almost on instinct, shifting his center of gravity again and throwing himself forward in a somersault, rolling through the dirt and out of the path of the in-comming punch. His ribs protested the treatment severely, but the colossal strike sailed harmlessly above and he found himself well-placed for a particularly devestating attack.

Erik still loomed above him, reacting with his customary slowness to the smaller legionnaire's acrobatics. Cyrus was crouched near the Vagaran's legs, not yet fully arisen from his somersault, and the young soldier wasted no time in taking advantage of his position. Though it pained him to strike a man in this fashion, Cyrus threw a vicious jab at Erik's crotch, striking the Vagaran in the very vulnerable area of his anatomy and causing him to gasp in pain and surprise. The momentary pause allowed Cyrus to get a second strike in at the Hamerhand's groin, and when the man near doubled over in agony, Cyrus rose from his position with a fierce uppercut, his fist connecting with the underside of Erik's chin with a solid sound.

The Vagaran's head snapped back, and like a massive tree, he slowly rocked backwards and landed heavily in the dirt. Cyrus was on him in a heartbeat, showing no mercy or hesitation in his attack. He swiftly knelt beside the Hammerhand's head and grabbed a handful of the Vagaran's stringy pale blonde hair with his left hand, and he slammed his right fist into Erik's face with such force that the sound of the blow could be heard by those on the outer-most reaches of the circle surrounding them. Caught as he was in the grip of his battle fever, Cyrus grasped the semi-concious Vagaran's hair again and held his head up, and slammed his fist once again into the side of the large man's face. Blood went spurting out from between Erik's lips, as did two more of the Vagaran's teeth.

[Cyrus Marius]

Some of the soldiers recognized the fight's conclusion, and they rushed forward to pull Cyrus off of the fallen Hammerhand. It took three legionnaires to finally wrestle the young soldier from his opponent, and then they turned to see what aid they could give Erik. The large Vagaran lay still in the dust, blood trickling from his mouth, his cruel eyes closed in unconciousness. A young man rushed forward and produced some smelling salt from a pouch at his side, and he waved the vial beneath Erik's nose for a moment before the large Vagaran began to stir and awaken. He seemed disoriented upon waking, glacing around at the men staning over him as though they were vengeful wraiths, and gradually the pain of his injuries cleared the cobwebs from his mind. The Vagaran brute sat up and cradled his jaw with his massive hands, working it back and forth and grimacing to himself as the bone clicked with every motion.

Cyrus stood amidst the remaining men, breathing heavily with the rush of adrenaline still surging through him, but he showed no further signs of continuing the fight. The right side of his ribs were already turning an ugly shade of yellow and purple, and sweat had matted dirt to the exposed areas of his bronze flesh. His lone cobalt eye stared at Erik, almost expecting the burly Vagaran to roar in anger and lumber to his feet, but the large man only remained sitting in the dirt, nursing his wounds and glaring around at the men surrounding him. He turned his pale blue eyes back on Cyrus, and for a moment it did seem as if he would continue the fight, for an angry and hostile look crossed his countence again. He began to rise to his feet, clumsily and ungainly compared to before, and Cyrus took a single step foward, standing straight and tall despite his pain and fatigue.

"You want more?"

At these words, the last of the fight seemed to flee from Erik's eyes, and he slowly lowered his gaze and shook his head. His opponent defeated, Cyrus began to feel the fury leaving him as well, the adrenaline slowing it's course through his limbs and leaving him tired and sore. Sighing slightly to himself, the young legionnaire strode forward and offered his arm to the struggling Hammerhand, who looked at no one around him in the eyes. When he saw Cyrus' offered hand, Erik looked up and met the young soldier's lone sapphire-colored eye, an almost childlike look of innocent confusion suddenly appearing in the large Vagaran's face.

"Why?"

Cyrus smiled, a tired smile but no less warm for it's fatigue, "Because, we are brothers."

[Cyrus Marius]

Erik's lips curled into a blood-stained smile, and he reached up with his massive arm to accept Cyrus' help. He nearly pulled the young legionnaire's arm from it's socket as he pulled his considerable body weight up to a standing position, then he rested a meaty hand on Cyrus shoulder.

"Yes. A good fight, my brother, and a good win."

Cyrus smiled thinly and nodded in response, despite the ache in his shoulder from even the weight of the Vagaran's monsterous hand. Though the fight had been short, it had contained an element of savagery that Cyrus rarely found in swordplay. When matching blades with an opponent in a duel such as this, there was an intellectual back and forth that occured between combatants, a deadly match of chess where one swordsman attempted to feel out his opponent's plan of attack and counter it before the lucky strike slipped passed the defenses.

In this, Cyrus was gifted by nature, having the innate ability to see a fight unfold before him in his mind and respond to it swiftly and surely. The fluid grace and precise movements he displayed with his sword in hand were hallmarks of the increasing skill he was developing with his weapon of choice, yet, this method of unarmed combat was markedly different from the swordsmanship that he was familiar with. The elements of aggression and opportunism remained, as did the inclination to attempt to see the fight several steps in advance, however the intensity with which one was forced to apply himself in the struggle far exceeded what was demanded in an armed duel. The cold, calculating defensive mechanism present in a sword fight was replaced by a ferocious, relentless sort of offense that seemed ingrained in mortal nature when forced to fight with tooth and claw. It called to the animal in all men, turning them from their civilized selves and evoking that savage beast that slept within.

"Yes, a good fight. We should do it again sometime."

Erik's eyes grew wide for a moment, then he leaned back and began bellowing laughter, his entire frame shaking with the strength of his mirth. He slapped his enormous hand on his thigh and finally leaned forward again, shaking his head as tears of merriment went rolling down his red, swollen cheeks.

"By the Gods, we will do it again sometime. Where in the hell did you learn to fight like that? Was that Zinn'ka?"

[Cyrus Marius]

Cyrus shook his head, "No, not any form of Zinn'ka that I'm aware of. I just fought with what came naturally. I really have very little experiance fighting unarmed."

The men surrounding the two began to mutter again amongst themselves, however this time Cyrus noticed that their words were respectful and even amazed. Erik himself looked astounded, his pale blue eyes wide and staring, and he shook his head again in disbelief.

"You are a savage little wolverine then, little man, I will give you that. I was taught Zan Zu by my father, Reinhardt Bonebreaker, and it was said he defeated giants with his formidable art. It was said that the Bonebreaker could hurl a man to the earth with such force that he would arrive in the underworld before the life had fled from his body."

Erik smiled broadly at this, obviously pleased with the reputation of his storied father. Cyrus smiked at the boasting and nodded again, but as he turned to depart the scene, Erik spoke again, a contemplative look crossing his blood-stained and crooked countence.

"But you beat me; The Hammerhand, son of the Bonebreaker. You beat me."

Cyrus turned back towards the massive Vagaran and faced him straight on, breathing deeply and steadily, standing casually but with the rigid posture of the born nobility. Even after as vicious a fight as he had been in, Cyrus stood like one for whom the world would cease to turn if he commanded, his form both impressive and inspiring, as well as fiercely daunting. He held his chin high and stared at the Hammerhand with his single azure orb, staring into the man's soul and looking upon the frail creature who needed his physical strength to effect his will upon the world.

Erik's eyes narrowed slightly, like a lesser male's beneath the stare of the alpha of the pack, and he spoke again, this time so gently that his words could barely be discerned above the clammor surrounding him.

"Who are you?"

The ghost of a wolfish smile played across Cyrus' lips, and he crossed his arms before his bare torso.

"Sword Daekin Cyrus Maximus Marius, 30th Legion Heavy Infantry out of Aelyria Prime."

The rank alone sent a ripple of whispers and groans through the number of men now gathered around to watch the display, and Erik's face near crumbled with dismay as he learned he had been fighting an officer the entire time.

"S-Sword Daekin?"

Cyrus nodded slowly, but just then another man stepped forward, his hand raised slightly as if he were still a child in the schola.

"Marius? Cyrus Marius? Aren't you with Daekin Avornmagor's centuri?"

The young legionnaire nodded again, glancing towards the man that had spoken.

"Yes, that is correct."

The man's face suddenly flushed crimson, and he turned towards his comrades and began pointing his finger excitedly at Cyrus.

"He is one of them! He is one of the ones sent here to take back Narim and crush Ire once and for all!"

[Cyrus Marius]

All at once the crowd seemed to close in around the young soldier, enthusiastic faces pressing in from all angles to introduce themselves and shake their new Sword Daekin's hand. That he had proved himself a worthy combatant in their eyes was one thing, but to do so without the concern of rank, already knowing that these would be the men he would command on the field, spoke to the soldiers of the character of the officer before them. He was one of them, an infantryman, a grunt, no better or worse than any other man on the front line. Erik Hammerhand's face held an introspective and thoughful look as Cyrus' gaze caught it on the outskirts of the press of bodies, and the young legionnaire hoped that the formidable Hammerhand would take something valuable away from this experiance for the future.

Though he still felt the pains from his brief fight, an idea struck Cyrus suddenly, and he smiled broadly as he raised his hands out to quiet the crowd.

"Wait... who is going to crush Ire?"

The faces of the men around him instantly lit up, and to a one they raised their arms in the air, turning their faces skyward as they shouted their response.

"WE ARE!"

Cyrus smiled, feeling the excitement flowing through him as well, charging his spirits and stoking the flames within him.

"I SAID, WHO IS GOING TO CRUSH IRE?"

The roar from the crowd was deafening, reverberating off the walls of the Darkblade Fortress' training field.

"WE ARE!"

The ear-splitting response was followed by a cacophany of stamping feet and a chorus of deep, animalistic grunts from the men. For a moment, they had shed the mantle of civilization and harkened back to their savage, tribal roots, becomming more like a pack of wild animals than a simple unit of mortal men. In this shared wildness they formed the bonds of brotherhood that could withstand the heat of the crucible of war, and they built within them a foundation of strength and confidence that would stand against the looming threat of the Empire's enemies. At their center stood their leader, their brother, and he was as much a part of them as they were of him. Together they searched within themselves for the ferocious animal that lay inside all men, and for this day at least, they celebrated the comming war with the Orcish horde, so long as they faced the future together.

War would quiet their brave song; war would make them weep rather than cheer; but for now, Cyrus led his men in believing they were invincible and that their stories were but legends waiting to be told.

[Eyvind Redbeard]

From the top of the fortress' wall a lone figure stood with the arms crossed. A smile in his face and the head nodding slowly. The man's air swinged in the air as the wind coming from the western sea flew. He had been watching the first encounter between his most trusted soldier. Cyrus Maximus Marius, his brother-in-arms, his companion, his friend. He would have clapped if he wanted to making his presence known to the men in the training field, but he didn't. He wanted to see how they acted, thought, spoke and fought. After all he had been given the command of a Centuri of air. All he had were the twenty men he had brought from Aelyria Prime.

The soldiers from the Manjet Legion were eager ones. Most of them hadn't ever fight a battle before. Those who had were either wounded or too few in number. The Manjet was as clay to be shaped into something big and Eyvind knew that. With men such as Cyrus by his side and soldiers like Erik under their command the 9th Legion of Taralon would become the greatest Legion in the Imperial Army, surpassing the Alyssan Legion. Or so he expected.

For a start he would choose those among the ranks who seemed able and capable of undertaking the training and requirements he would ask of them.

Slowly the red haired Vagaran continued his walk on the fortress' wall. The shouts of them men still echoeing in his mind.