Running...
Faster...faster…
A single upraised pebble served to doom him to his fate. His little foot struck it dead center. As the rock tumbled away, the pain arched bounced around his nerves. He collapsed to the floor. He turned his head, dreading whatever wicked his way come.
The crimson demon flew towards him. Solid red billowed around his body, and black hugged his chest, arms, and legs. One hand was a shaft of pure, razor-sharp steel, bent backwards like a crescent moon. The other claw was but a single dart of metal. The fiend's wide, flat head atop its broad neck leered down at him. One striking horn grew out, white as snow. It rushed towards him, its clawed-hands already dripping with blood.
He let loose a howl of terror, and raised his arms in front of his face. It halted its insane dash right at his feet. He moved one forearm, trying to peek at why the nightmare stopped.
It had only raised his curved blade up. The albino horn twitched slightly, as if readying the beast for its kill.
He gazed into the sheen of the metal, and could only stare back at what he saw.
The picture of a terrified little boy reflected back to his eyes. His eyes and nose ran with tears and scum, unable to contain himself anymore. The image of the boy shuddered with every breath, practically dying before he was already struck dead.
The arched steel came crashing down, driving straight through him. He felt it pierce his chest, his lungs, and his heart. The blackness of oblivion fogged all around him.
Eramas coughed, and opened his eyes.
The familiar scent of blood tickled his smell. It was then he noticed that he wasn't standing at attention, or even sitting. He was crouched low, his left arm clenching the dagger out behind him, and his right wrapped around the hilt of his saber. The wind blew against him, sending his cape swishing back and forth. The swordsman looked again to his saber, and followed its twist down to the floor.
The bloody sword disappeared into the broken, cleaved body of a small b—
"Eramas Cervantes!"
He looked back up bewilderedly. This time, he stood at attention. Both instruments of death sat contently in their respective sheaths, and his clothes were for once clean of splattered blood. Before him were six regal figures, each dressed with symbols of their lands. They wore armor, but it was graced with figures of lions, eagles, and other proud beasts. All six of them were older men, but no less powerful, broad-chested and standing tall. These assembled could be mistaken for kings...
But the crimson soldier's feelings told him different. This Council was far more important.
The one standing directly in front of him spoke, his voice loud and firm.
"In order for our mission to be carried out, we need the laws written on the Scroll. The others are already preoccupied fulfilling their own parts. You, however, are not."
Eramas felt his head nod in agreement. Words sprung from out of his mouth, his, but his thoughts weren't the ones crafting them. He stood back in his mind, and watched.
"But of course. That is why I am taking this task directly upon myself. If Axur is to be our vessel, then it should be only best if I take them under our control as soon as possible."
A noble to his left spoke. The swordsman turned to listen.
"Axur's role has already been cast. The Scroll lies elsewhere."
The soldier observed as Cervantes answered for him, "I know. I have already planned a way to take both it and assimilate Etone into our host at the same time."
The Council murmured in agreement. The Chancellor, the one before him, stared down into the future general's eyes.
"Then so be it. Retrieve the laws, and report back here."
Eramas nodded. He reached out for it...
"Barbarian! Unhand the scroll!"
He ducked as the chapel cleric swung at him. The staff flew across, but the old priest quickly pulled it around for another strike. The Axurian commander slid out his dagger, and thrust it up into the air to block the onrushing rod.
The dagger stood up raised, bracing itself for the impact. But it never came, instead it hung among the horrors of the aftermath. Darkness was already setting in, but thanks to the bonfire of the cremated dead more than enough light danced within the shadows. Before the swordsman was a fallen Etonian, leaning against the fortress walls. The man's light armor had been slashed open, blood spilling from it and several other gashes across his battered body. Eramas held the dagger over the collapsed soldier, his other arm at his side curled into a fist.
The broken archer laid there, his legs completely limp. Bits of broken bone pierced through the skin at times. Blood should've welled outwards from the cuts, but it had all been pulled back to desperately keep what little of the man's internal organs alive.
"Help...me..."
Eramas glared down at the half-dead Etonian.
"Peace..."
The red-clad general let his knees fall out from under him. As his body fell, he lowered his dagger and twisted it downwards. His free hand came around and pushed against the pommel of the dagger. He landed atop the fallen enemy, and slammed down the weapon with all the force he could muster in his two arms.
The blade's sharp point sliced apart the man's throat, giving him the silence of death.
All became silent. The murmurs of soldiers, the whistling of air, the thud of his heartbeats. Utter, devoid, silence.
Eramas felt detached, distant. He looked upon himself, as if standing right beside this red devil that knelt over the crumpled corpse. He turned away from the diabolical act of mercy. He looked upwards, and caught sight of Cervantes ripping apart the young Etonian archer's chest with his blades. He gazed mutely as the carcass fell from above and rolled across the already blood-soaked earth.
The empty void where his emotions once remained feasted on his last vestiges of pity, the coldness distancing him even more so. Hardened so, disgust, anger, fear should have risen inside him. But nothing. He walked indifferently to the fortress gates.
He stepped outside, but his feet landed on the cold stone of the Council's Hold. The entrance-way still carried the stench of char, the smells of the ruins overhead.
Eramas paused, and strained to hear what the Chancellor was saying from within the inner chambers despite the stifles of the silence
The walls barely reverberated the man's words. Faintly, like a shy whisper, he found he could hear it.
"Our Laws..."
He took a gasp of air. But, he felt filled this time, as if he could actually sense his lungs being filled.
"Our mission..."
A faint ringing noise surfaced. It gradually buzzed ever louder, until the swordsman could hear nothing but its infernal music.
“Our peace..."
Pain buffeted Eramas from all fronts. His very bones felt like they were bashed against a wall of stone. Something wet dripped over his ears, like water, but thicker...
He shot up, leaning over his outstretched legs on the ground. He let himself fall back on his palms as his lungs heaved with air.
Night enveloped him from all sides. Blood had trickled down his earlobes, but he found he could still hear. The ringing began to subside, replaced with the cackles of a burning flame. He craned his head to look back at the comforting, welcoming fire.
Eramas's eyes fell upon the Orc's. Gathrok stared intently back at him from across the campfire.
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