The
Trenches, Morus and Belqartis' Position - Continuous
Belqartis
roars, the twin axes in his hands spinning in arcs of silver and red,
sparks and snow bursting where steel meets harmonic shield. The
Kairn-Vohr hardly moves, just sways and pivots, his movements so
fluid it looks like he's listening rather than fighting. Every time
Belqartis strikes, the air hums, the blow absorbed by invisible
frequencies that shimmer like heat over the Eldiravan's body.
"Stop
dancing and die already!" Belqartis bellows, slamming both axes
down. The ground ruptures, the Kairn-Vohr sidesteps, lifts his arm,
and the sound that follows is like a gong splitting through bone.
Belqartis staggers back, helm ringing, vision flashing white.
Behind
him, Morus stands with his staff planted in the ground, cloak torn
and eyes heavy, the charms and talismans on the haft clinking faintly
in the wind. He hasn't moved since the fight began.
Belqartis
glances back, voice breaking through gritted teeth. "You gonna
help me, shaman, or just stand there blessing my funeral?"
Morus
doesn't flinch. "You're doing fine."
"Fine?!
He's playing me like a---
" Belqartis ducks as a blast of sound tears through where his
head was a heartbeat ago. He grunts, skidding across the snow. "A
damn
instrument!"
Morus
exhales, his breath clouding the air. "I ran for hours, Bel.
I've got nothing left to swing." He taps the base of his staff
once, a faint harmonic ripple pulsing through the ground. "But I
can listen."
The
Kairn-Vohr's head tilts, eyes narrowing. His voice comes out like
vibrating glass. "The weak one hears the song."
Belqartis
spits blood into the snow, smirking under his helm. "He hears,
yeah. I bite."
He
lunges again, axes roaring, every strike heavier than the last, but
the Kairn-Vohr is still faster. He sings with his movements now,
literally, a low, thrumming melody that shakes the snow off the
ground, that vibrates the metal on Belqartis' armor.
Belqartis'
knees buckle. "Morus!" he growls, straining to stay
upright. "Do something!"
Morus
finally lifts his head. His eyes are glazed with exhaustion but
focused, ancient calm behind them. The charms on his staff begin to
rattle, each chime ringing at a different pitch.
"I
am," he murmurs.
The
tones blend, discordant, clashing against the Kairn-Vohr's melody.
The harmonic field wavers for a fraction of a second. The Eldiravan
grimaces, his rhythm faltering.
Belqartis
doesn't hesitate. He surges forward with a roar and buries both axes
into the Kairn-Vohr's chest, the shockwave snapping through the air
like thunder.
The
song ends.
Snow
settles slowly between them. Belqartis stands panting over the we23s
corpse, blades steaming, armor cracked and glowing faintly from the
heat of the harmonics.
Morus
finally lowers his staff, swaying slightly. "See? You were
fine."
Belqartis
turns his helm toward him, voice rasping with disbelief. "You're
an asshole, you know that?"
Morus
smiles faintly. "It keeps me alive."
The
Trenches, Spartan and Rho Voss' Position - Continuous
The
snow explodes around them with every clash. Spartan and Rho Voss move
as one, two living weapons in lockstep fury. The Veyr'Kael stands
between them, radiant and monstrous, harmonic blades flaring in
spectral gold as if the sound itself were fire made solid.
He
sings, mouth open in a silent scream, but the Vardengard hear nothing
now. The song no longer reaches them. Inside their helms there is
only the thunder of their own hearts and the drumbeat of their
breathing.
Rho
Voss lunges from the flank, his massive zweihander arcing down like a
falling star. The Veyr'Kael pivots, catching the blade on a harmonic
barrier that flashes with prismatic light. Spartan uses the opening,
slides in low, blade drawn back, and slams her sword into the
Eldiravan's ribs. Sparks fly; blood, if it can be called that, mists
in yellow plumes.
The
Veyr'Kael reels but does not fall. The shockwave of his next note
ripples visibly through the air, throwing snow and soil in concentric
rings. The Vardengard don't hear it, but they feel it, through the
armor, through their bones. The ground trembles like a heartbeat
beneath their boots.
Spartan
and Rho Voss regroup, eyes meeting through polarized visors. No
words. No sound. Only movement. Spartan gestures with two fingers;
left.
Rho
Voss nods once and charges, the ground splitting under his stride.
The Veyr'Kael parries, redirects, twists, and doesn't see Spartan
vault off a broken slab of stone behind him. She drives her sword
through his shoulder. His own blade finds her abdomen, biting through
the layered armor plates and deep into her flesh.
The
world shudders as steel meets flesh and soil.
Spartan
gasps, the sound caught, ragged, when the Veyr'Kael's blade pierces
through her abdomen. The shock locks her breath, armor hissing as
systems struggle to compensate for the breach. But she doesn't stop.
She drives her own sword upward into the Veyr'Kael's shoulder, the
edge grinding through gilded armor and tendon with a wet, metallic
shriek.
The
Veyr'Kael snarls wordlessly, luminous eyes burning brighter. He lifts
her, armor and all, as if she weighs nothing, then slams her into the
frozen ground. The impact throws up a burst of snow and stone, her
helmet HUD fracturing into static. He lands atop her, the sword still
buried in her gut, his claws raking across her visor, screeching like
razors on glass. The unihorned faceplate cracks under his strength,
splintering across her vision.
Spartan
grips his forearms, locking him in place with sheer force of will.
Every nerve screams, but she doesn't yield.
Rho
Voss, several meters away, is motionless, blade at the ready, breath
slow. He's calculating, timing, watching for the one opening that
will not kill her too.
Then
a shadow crosses the ridge above.
Belqartis
and Morus leap from the shattered wall, crashing down through the
snow in a blur of movement. Belqartis shouts, "SPARTAN!"
his voice muffled by the comm silence, echoing only in his own helm.
He isn't fast enough.
The
Veyr'Kael's song changes. The melody bends, slows, names her. The
sound, felt more than heard, ripples through the air like a prayer.
"...Spartan…" It's almost reverent, almost human. His
glowing eyes meet hers through the fractured visor.
And
then the world erupts.
Rho
Voss' zweihander comes down like the judgment of a god. The
twelve-foot blade carves through the Veyr'Kael's neck, splits armor
and bone, and bites deep into the frozen ground beneath Spartan. The
harmonic light in the Eldiravan's eyes gutters out like a candle in a
storm.
For
a heartbeat, everything is still.
Snow
falls gently into the crater, hissing on red-hot metal. The
Veyr'Kael's body twitches once before slumping forward, dead weight
across Spartan's chest. The edge of Rho Voss' blade has carved a
shallow line into her breastplate, just enough to scratch the surface
but not pierce through.
Belqartis
skids to a stop beside her, eyes wide behind his visor. Morus slams
his staff into the ground, the charms and bones rattling, a warding
sound, grounding, steadying the air thick with death and distortion.
Rho
Voss wrenches his blade free, breathing hard. He looks down at
Spartan, voice silent through the sealed helmets, but his posture
says everything: You still breathing?
Spartan
growls, shoves the Veyr'Kael's corpse aside, and rises, blood running
from the seams of her armor. She rips the enemy's blade from her
abdomen and tosses it aside.
The
hallucinated world flickers, the petrified faces in the earth twitch,
frozen mouths still screaming. The battle is far from over.
The
Trenches, Naburiel, Ashurdan, and Samayel's Position - Continous
The
air shivers around them, every breath thick with snow, sound, and
static.
Naburiel
slams his shield into the Veyr'Kael's next swing, the force rattling
through his entire frame. The harmonic blade hums, vibrating against
his arm as if trying to crawl through the steel itself. Ashurdan
circles wide, his claymore dragging furrows in the frost-bitten
ground, and Samayel closes in from the flank, his spear trailing
sparks from the harmonic tension in the air.
The
Veyr'Kael moves like a tempest, graceful, merciless. The tones it
sings ripple outward, bending the snow and air like waves on water.
Every note feels like a hammer behind their eyes.
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Naburiel
roars, driving forward with his shield, smashing it into the
Veyr'Kael's chestplate. The blow staggers the creature for an
instant, enough for Ashurdan to seize his opening.
He
drops the claymore, letting it fall useless into the snow, and lunges
in bare-handed. His armored gauntlets crash into the Veyr'Kael's
midsection, grappling him, muscles straining against inhuman
strength. The two collide with a sound like colliding engines, each
trying to overpower the other.
"Now!"
Naburiel bellows, voice muffled under his helm.
Samayel
moves. He lunges in from the side, spear igniting in a shimmer of
power. The point drives upward, punching through the jointed ribs of
the Veyr'Kael's armor. The spearhead bursts out the creature's back
in a shower of iridescent blood and flickering light.
The
Veyr'Kael screams, a soundless vibration that ripples through the
world itself. Ashurdan's helm fractures, Naburiel's HUD distorts,
Samayel's vision goes white. But they don't stop.
Naburiel
hammers his shield forward again and again, smashing the Veyr'Kael's
head back with brutal precision until the song finally breaks, until
the light fades from its chest.
The
creature slumps in Ashurdan's grip, twitching once before it goes
still. Samayel twists his spear, then rips it free in a spray of
harmonic light.
For
a moment, there's nothing but heavy breathing and the faint ringing
left in their ears.
Ashurdan
lets the corpse fall and staggers back, armor cracked, blood leaking
through the seams. Naburiel leans on his shield, exhausted. Samayel
braces his spear against the ground, looking toward the horizon where
the storm of battle still rages.
The
world trembles with a broken chord.
What
was once a perfect, thunderous harmony of the eldiravan army now
fractures, discordant, ugly. The death of their Veyr'Kael ripples
through the ranks like a detonating star. The surviving Rahn-Vaen
stagger, clutching at their throats as if trying to catch the rhythm
that's slipped from them. Some scream their mourning songs into the
wind; others turn feral, shrieking, charging blindly toward the
Invictan lines.
The
Invictans answer with disciplined volleys. Gunfire crackles,
shredding through the chaos. The trenches become an echo chamber of
vengeance, machine bursts and sonic death interlacing until it's
impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.
And
then, silence, or near enough. A massive section of the risen wall
collapses inward, stone and petrified figures breaking apart in a
rain of dust and echoing thunder. Through the gap, Naburiel's team
sees movement, familiar silhouettes emerging through the smoke.
Spartan
first, bloodied but unbroken, dragging her sword through the mud.
Behind her stride Rho Voss and Belqartis, both hulking and battered,
their armor scored and blackened. Morus follows last, his staff still
humming faintly, charms and bones clattering in uneven rhythm.
Naburiel
straightens as they approach, leaning on his shield. The Insarii
Medicae kneel beside Ashurdan and Samayel, their pale gauntlets
glowing faint blue as they work, injectors hissing, nanofibers
sealing wounds.
Rho
Voss' message pops in through the Vardengard's HUDs: [You look like
death, Naburiel.]
"Feels
worse," Naburiel grunts, though there's a faint grin in his
tone. "Thought you'd gone and gotten yourself killed again."
Spartan
stops beside him, visor reflecting the burning snowfields beyond. Her
armor drips dark crimson, but her stance never wavers. "Almost.
Rho made sure I didn't."
Belqartis
chuckles, half-limping to lean his axes against his shoulder. "He's
good for that."
The
Medicae glance up briefly, their lenses flickering as they take in
Spartan's state, then return to their work. The other two Medicae
hurry over to Spartan and Rho Voss.
All
around, the field shifts again. The eldiravan retreat in tatters,
some still singing disjointed laments, others falling silent
altogether. Their radiant armor dims, flickering with dying
resonance.
Morus
steps past the wounded, staring out over the frost-bitten horizon.
His voice is distant, hollow.
"Their
song dies hard," he murmurs. "Like metal cooling after the
forge."
Spartan
looks that way too. Her fingers tighten around the hilt of her sword.
"Odd...Without their leadership they fall apart."
The
snow continues to fall, ash-gray and heavy. The last harmonics of the
eldiravan fade into the wind. The Vardengard stand amid ruin and
silence, battered but unbroken, their breath misting in the dead
morning light.
The
Trenches - After The Battle
Spartan
sits reluctantly, armor grinding against the stone as one of the
Medicae forces her down. The hiss of pressurized injectors fills the
cold air, mingling with the distant pop of gunfire and the fading
howls of the retreating eldiravan.
Ashurdan,
Samayel, and Naburiel are lined beside her, each braced against the
sting of the Medicae's work. The Medicae move between them with
mechanical precision, gauntlets gleaming, murmuring diagnostics in
clipped tones.
Belqartis
and Rho Voss stand a few paces off, watching the broken horizon.
Steam coils from their armor vents. They wait their turn without
complaint, two wolves guarding their wounded pack. Beyond them, the
battle that had consumed the world mere minutes ago dwindles to
scattered gunfire.
Across
the field, Red Baron and what remains of his Company advance through
the wreckage, weapons raised, hunting the stragglers. Every few
seconds, another eldiravan falls beneath the rhythm of their fire.
The air hums with dying resonance.
When
the Red Baron and his men return, their armor is caked with frost and
blood. He halts before the Vardengard, Arturo and Liam flanking him,
the three forming a silhouette of weary defiance against the gray.
"Anything
else we can do?" the Baron asks, voice low but steady. "Aside
from standing guard like statues?"
Spartan
lifts her head slightly, visor cracked and smeared with dark blood.
She waves a hand dismissively. "No. You've done enough. Keep
your men alive. That's what matters now."
Arturo
exhales, looking over the towering Invictans as the Medicae work. "I
don't know what you lot fought, but… you look like you went through
a goddamn storm. Didn't think anything could get through that armor."
Naburiel
snorts softly, the sound distorted by the Medicae's tools. "Neither
did we."
One
of the Medicae glances up, voice analytical through their respirator.
"These cuts… clean. Like surgical incisions. Even through
Olympian plating." He gestures toward the opened seams of
Spartan's chest plate. "Every strike precise. Blood loss
extreme. Coagulation response, nonexistent."
Spartan
grits her teeth as another injector pierces her side. "Feels
worse than the wound."
"Good,"
the Medicae mutters, adjusting dosage levels. "Means you're
still alive."
Nearby,
Belqartis chuckles under his breath. "Never thought I'd see
Spartan forced to sit still."
"Enjoy
it while it lasts," she growls.
But
Rho Voss doesn't share in the exchange. He moves away in silence,
back toward where the decapitated Veyr'Kael lies sprawled in the
snow. The air around the corpse still hums faintly with dying
resonance.
Rho
kneels beside it, resting one massive gauntlet on the creature's
shoulder. The blood beneath the headless body has frozen black,
steaming where it meets the chill.
He
studies the fallen being for a long moment, visor reflecting its dull
armor and the faint glow still pulsing beneath it, like the echo of a
song not quite finished.
Rho
Voss kneels in the snow beside the Veyr'Kael's corpse, the hum of its
dying resonance faint beneath the wind. His gauntlet closes around
one of the creature's curling horns, slick with blood, heavy with the
weight of something once divine. With a grunt, he wrenches the head
free, rises to his full height, and begins the slow walk back toward
the others.
As
he walks, he pries the helmet apart piece by piece. The headpiece
comes first, tearing loose with a hiss of vacuum seals; then the
lower jaw guard, which clatters against his vambrace as he pulls.
Without its anchor, the rest of the armor sloughs off, plates falling
into the slush one after another like scales of an iron serpent.
The
face beneath is not what the songs promised. Its jaw hangs slack,
tongue lolling between serrated, flesh-tearing teeth. The yellow
blood still flows, steaming faintly in the cold. Those pupil-less
eyes wide, glassy, once radiant, now dim, lifeless amber stones
staring through the mist.
Its
horns are magnificent still: the main pair sweeping backward, curling
upward, etched with sigils and clasped in gold. A smaller pair juts
straight behind, ridged and cruel. The scales are dark, near-black
charcoal, patterned with streaks of ochre and runic paint that
glimmer faintly as the Medicae lights flicker across them.
When
Rho returns, the others turn to watch in silence. Spartan looks up
from where the Medicae fuss over her armor seams. Her cracked visor
hides the flicker of surprise in her eyes as Rho Voss kneels beside
her, lowering the severed head into view.
He
says nothing. Just holds it out to her, horn first, like an offering,
or a trophy.
Spartan
lets out a low, hoarse laugh. "You killed it," she says,
voice strained. "You keep it."
But
Rho shakes his head slowly. The gesture is deliberate, final. His
armor vents a sigh of steam, his silence heavier than words.
Spartan
exhales, the faintest smile tugging behind her fractured visor.
"Fine," she murmurs. She grips the other horn, lifting the
Veyr'Kael's head higher to inspect it.
The
Medicae tending to her mutters a curse under his breath, pulling back
a step as the golden chains of the horns jangle. "By the Forge,
must you hold that thing so close while I work?" He shifts
aside, continuing his treatment with clear disgust.
Belqartis
tilts his head, arms folded. "So that's what they look like
beneath the plating," he says, sneering slightly. "All that
grandeur, all that song and fury, for what? Just scaly beasts with
fancy horns."
Samayel
glances at him, voice low. "Ugly things can still be gods to
someone."
Belqartis
snorts. "Not anymore."
Spartan
turns the head one last time, blood dripping from the torn neck onto
the snow. The gold bands catch the dim light. For a heartbeat, the
yellow eyes almost seem to glimmer again. Then they fade completely.
Red
Baron steps closer, boots crunching through the churned mud and snow.
The acrid stench of blood and propellant still hangs thick in the
air. His visor retracts just enough to give a clearer look at the
grotesque head in Spartan's grip.
"Holy
hell," he mutters, voice tight with disbelief. "That's
what's been cutting through our lines? Looks like something out of a
nightmare."
Arturo
edges closer beside him, his rifle hanging loose in his hands. He
tilts his head, squinting. "It looks like… a dragon," he
says finally, half whisper, half awe. "Or what dragons used to
look like in the old stories. Horns, scales, the eyes…"
Liam
scoffs, a short bark of laughter breaking the tension. "Dragons?
Nah. Dragons have wings. That thing's just a very angry lizard in
armor."
Belqartis
grins faintly despite the pain as the Medicae jabs a coagulant into
his arm. "A very angry lizard that sings," he adds, earning
a tired chuckle from Samayel.
The
Medicae finishes sealing the wound in Samayel's side and gives him a
nod of release. "Try not to rip it open again," the medic
mutters.
Samayel
grunts, standing slowly. He rolls his shoulders once before trudging
toward the corpse of the Kairn-Vohr he'd killed. The thing's massive
frame lies sprawled in the trampled snow, its chest split where his
spear had gone through. He kneels, grips one of its curling horns,
and with a sharp twist and pull, wrenches it free from the skull. The
sound of tearing sinew and cracking bone cuts through the quiet.
The
Medicae tending Belqartis flinches. "You wolves collect
souvenirs now?"
Before
Belqartis can rise to do the same, another Medicae snaps his fingers
sharply. "Sit. Down."
Belqartis
sighs but obeys, easing back to the crate he'd been using as a stool.
"Fine, fine," he grumbles. "But save me a horn."
Red
Baron glances between the Vardengard, confusion furrowing his brow.
"What exactly do you plan to do with… that?" He nods
toward the head in Spartan's hand, its golden-chained horns gleaming
dully in the dim light. "Seems… barbaric. Even for trophies."
Spartan
looks up, visor cracked but voice steady. "They're not human,"
she says simply. "They're enemies, and we honor victories. Proof
of trials overcome." She looks down at the Veyr'Kael's head
again, turning it in her grasp. "But I'm not sure what I'll do
with it yet. It's… grand. Worth keeping."
Naburiel
snorts, his Medicae wrapping fresh sealant around his forearm. "You
could make a drinking cup from the horn," he suggests dryly.
That
draws a laugh from Ashurdan, rough and genuine despite his bandaged
shoulder. "Now that's a proper trophy."
Even
Spartan lets out a low chuckle, the sound muffled inside her helmet.
Red
Baron shakes his head, exhaling hard. "You Vardengard are a
different breed entirely."
"Forged
different," Samayel chuckles from where he stands watch, the
severed horn still clutched in his hand glinting in the pale light.
And
for the first time since the battle began, a stillness settles,
uneasy, but earned. The sound of retreating eldiravan song fades into
the horizon, leaving only wind and the hum of cooling armor.
