A grisly mirror of Ubul’s Tomb, this place was; the only thing that forestalled the perfect completion of that mirroring was the absence of any Pateirians. This battle had been between Ikesians and Grekurians alone. With her left eye, she could see the evidence of several dead inquisitors as well: Aquila Calibur swords stabbed into the earth, suits of inquisitorial full-plate still shining from amidst the white-purple flower carpet. One Inquisitor in particular caught her gaze, a doubled-over figure kneeling in place, gloved hands clasped around an Aquila Calibur, gas mask hanging ‘round the neck of a picked-clean skull. His armor was still immaculate and unrusted, nearly untouched, were it not for the three holes in his chest. It nearly felt as though that Inquisitor might stir in his death, to try and drag her to her rightful burial place. Much of this battlefield felt like that - it lacked the pervasive stillness of a truly dead battlefield. She remembered feeling the same way at Ubul’s Tomb, at points. The battle was done, and the dead were at rest… But only most of them. A few exuded an unnatural lack of stillness, just like that Inquisitor.
She wasn’t here for him, either. Slowly, she made her way across the battlefield, flipping one of Ingvald’s coins between her fingers. It had a skull in an officer’s cap engraved on one side, and Eisengeist reared-up on its hind legs on the other. Zefaris had intended to collect their badges, and give them a proper burial. However, it seemed that she would not be permitted even this small act of penance for deserting her comrades.
A man wandered out across the field, from beyond the hill, to meet her before she could even begin the climb.
On his waist were six swords, and several more hung from his back. He was garbed in archaic, badly worn clothing; simplistic robes that faintly echoed the vestments in which the Grekurian Orthodoxy depicted their saints. yet he nonetheless exuded an aura that didn’t command respect so much as it insinuated that one might lose their head if proper respect is not given. The shape of the man’s face and the shade of his skin suggested him to be from the near-tropical fringe regions of Grekurian territory, and though his hair was full and black, the shriveled texture of his skin betrayed the fact age had caught up to him. His eyes were milky-white with cataracts, and an archaic form of the Brass Eye sigil was embedded into his forehead.
“I am…” the blind man started, only to squint and go quiet. He pondered, and Zefaris wasn’t sure whether he was trying to remember his own name or make up one on the spot. “Toza. You are… Like me. Our eyes have met. One of us will die this day.”
“Why? I have no quarrel with you, Toza.”
“Death has seen to it that we meet here. You, too, are here for the fallen warriors who rest here, are you not?”
Zefaris nodded. She already knew the old man wouldn’t let her walk away without a fight, and the others were a hair short of half a kilometer away. It wasn’t that far, but it was far enough that a lethal duel could take place before any of the others could intervene.
“You have yet to answer my question. I am here to honor the dead; unless you mean to despoil them, I have no quarrel with you.”
Toza stopped walking, nearly exactly thirty meters away.
“Don’t lie. You’ve noticed by now that my aura is like yours. We both walk with death, regardless of how our paths differ. We both know death as one would a trusted comrade. Perhaps you did not come to know death in single combat, as I did, but that makes no difference either.”
He unsheathed two of his swords, and in perfect synchronicity, numerous ghostly hands appeared around him to unsheath all the others. All of them were a faint greenish shade, translucent and glowing.
Feeling the man’s killing intent as acutely as if he were only a single step from her, Zefaris instinctively clasped her mask to her face and pulled Pentacle. She pulled five coins from her pocket and pressed her closed hand to her mask's outlet port, exhaling hard.
“It matters not to me which of us walks away from here,” he said. While he spoke, ghostly figures formed around him, and Zefaris, too, used the time to summon the two halves of Death’s Lieutenant. “Either I win, and add a few truly sublime blades to my arsenal, or I lose, and pass on my art to a worthy inheritor.”
By the time Death’s Lieutenant had fully formed, so too had a band of ghostly warriors taken shape around Toza. Their weapons and physical forms varied widely, as if each one was based on a different real person. The sword saint’s strange spirits came into being already falling apart, corroded. Some were missing limbs, others were merely humanoid shapes dragged around by the motion of their weapons. Even the fully-formed among them were decayed. Their clothing was not frayed and it didn’t look as if their flesh was rotting; rather, parts of them were simply missing, like a painting in the midst of rotting away.
“Now give your life to me, or take mine in turn!”
Dozens of ghostly blades flew out towards her, some sailing straight through the air while others tore through the ground. Some curved their trajectories or even zigzagged around. Despite Zefaris being the one with the guns, it was Toza who possessed superior ranged firepower. Were this the only factor at play, closing the distance would be the obvious solution. Zefaris, of course, knew that would just speed her to her death… And so did Toza, considering how hard he was trying to close in.
Two shots in his direction; one from Zefaris, one from Death’s Lieutenant, a ghostly, yet perfect mirror of the real projectile.
Akaso
If you’d like to read ahead, consider heading on over to the Patreon! You get up to 20 advance chapters for both Retribution Engine and Cherno Caster.
I’d also greatly appreciate it if you could rate my story, maybe even leave a review or advanced review!
For a link to the discord, check the synopsis.
A grisly mirror of Ubul’s Tomb, this place was; the only thing that forestalled the perfect completion of that mirroring was the absence of any Pateirians. This battle had been between Ikesians and Grekurians alone. With her left eye, she could see the evidence of several dead inquisitors as well: Aquila Calibur swords stabbed into the earth, suits of inquisitorial full-plate still shining from amidst the white-purple flower carpet. One Inquisitor in particular caught her gaze, a doubled-over figure kneeling in place, gloved hands clasped around an Aquila Calibur, gas mask hanging ‘round the neck of a picked-clean skull. His armor was still immaculate and unrusted, nearly untouched, were it not for the three holes in his chest. It nearly felt as though that Inquisitor might stir in his death, to try and drag her to her rightful burial place. Much of this battlefield felt like that - it lacked the pervasive stillness of a truly dead battlefield. She remembered feeling the same way at Ubul’s Tomb, at points. The battle was done, and the dead were at rest… But only most of them. A few exuded an unnatural lack of stillness, just like that Inquisitor.
She wasn’t here for him, either. Slowly, she made her way across the battlefield, flipping one of Ingvald’s coins between her fingers. It had a skull in an officer’s cap engraved on one side, and Eisengeist reared-up on its hind legs on the other. Zefaris had intended to collect their badges, and give them a proper burial. However, it seemed that she would not be permitted even this small act of penance for deserting her comrades.
A man wandered out across the field, from beyond the hill, to meet her before she could even begin the climb.
On his waist were six swords, and several more hung from his back. He was garbed in archaic, badly worn clothing; simplistic robes that faintly echoed the vestments in which the Grekurian Orthodoxy depicted their saints. yet he nonetheless exuded an aura that didn’t command respect so much as it insinuated that one might lose their head if proper respect is not given. The shape of the man’s face and the shade of his skin suggested him to be from the near-tropical fringe regions of Grekurian territory, and though his hair was full and black, the shriveled texture of his skin betrayed the fact age had caught up to him. His eyes were milky-white with cataracts, and an archaic form of the Brass Eye sigil was embedded into his forehead.
“I am…” the blind man started, only to squint and go quiet. He pondered, and Zefaris wasn’t sure whether he was trying to remember his own name or make up one on the spot. “Toza. You are… Like me. Our eyes have met. One of us will die this day.”
“Why? I have no quarrel with you, Toza.”
“Death has seen to it that we meet here. You, too, are here for the fallen warriors who rest here, are you not?”
Zefaris nodded. She already knew the old man wouldn’t let her walk away without a fight, and the others were a hair short of half a kilometer away. It wasn’t that far, but it was far enough that a lethal duel could take place before any of the others could intervene.
“You have yet to answer my question. I am here to honor the dead; unless you mean to despoil them, I have no quarrel with you.”
Toza stopped walking, nearly exactly thirty meters away.
“Don’t lie. You’ve noticed by now that my aura is like yours. We both walk with death, regardless of how our paths differ. We both know death as one would a trusted comrade. Perhaps you did not come to know death in single combat, as I did, but that makes no difference either.”
He unsheathed two of his swords, and in perfect synchronicity, numerous ghostly hands appeared around him to unsheath all the others. All of them were a faint greenish shade, translucent and glowing.
Feeling the man’s killing intent as acutely as if he were only a single step from her, Zefaris instinctively clasped her mask to her face and pulled Pentacle. She pulled five coins from her pocket and pressed her closed hand to her mask's outlet port, exhaling hard.
“It matters not to me which of us walks away from here,” he said. While he spoke, ghostly figures formed around him, and Zefaris, too, used the time to summon the two halves of Death’s Lieutenant. “Either I win, and add a few truly sublime blades to my arsenal, or I lose, and pass on my art to a worthy inheritor.”
By the time Death’s Lieutenant had fully formed, so too had a band of ghostly warriors taken shape around Toza. Their weapons and physical forms varied widely, as if each one was based on a different real person. The sword saint’s strange spirits came into being already falling apart, corroded. Some were missing limbs, others were merely humanoid shapes dragged around by the motion of their weapons. Even the fully-formed among them were decayed. Their clothing was not frayed and it didn’t look as if their flesh was rotting; rather, parts of them were simply missing, like a painting in the midst of rotting away.
“Now give your life to me, or take mine in turn!”
Dozens of ghostly blades flew out towards her, some sailing straight through the air while others tore through the ground. Some curved their trajectories or even zigzagged around. Despite Zefaris being the one with the guns, it was Toza who possessed superior ranged firepower. Were this the only factor at play, closing the distance would be the obvious solution. Zefaris, of course, knew that would just speed her to her death… And so did Toza, considering how hard he was trying to close in.
Two shots in his direction; one from Zefaris, one from Death’s Lieutenant, a ghostly, yet perfect mirror of the real projectile.
Akaso
If you’d like to read ahead, consider heading on over to the Patreon! You get up to 20 advance chapters for both Retribution Engine and Cherno Caster.
I’d also greatly appreciate it if you could rate my story, maybe even leave a review or advanced review!
For a link to the discord, check the synopsis.
