16th August, Imperial year 1012: Altstaadi Empire

Explosions engulfed the battlefield, stopping only for moments at a time, allowing the sounds of death and destruction to voice their pain. Above, beyond the clouded night sky, ariel warfare set the sky ablaze with shades of orange and flashes of white, where airships tore one another apart. Artillery fire wasn't the only culprit responsible for the death of trenchmen. Falling from above, debris crashed to the ground, catching soldiers off guard whenever a minor victory would claim yet another airship in flight.

Below, Lemuel strolled through the trenches, standing out amid the fear that gripped every other soldier and the terror congealing the faces of the rest. Clearly not an enlisted soldier, Lemuel sported a knee-length black cloak weaved from hokmoose hair, strong, protective, yet lightweight and flexible. He wasn't a tall man, but at 5 ft 9 inches, stood a couple of inches above most. Though he had a lean build, the cloak he wore draped over him in such a way that his broad shoulders and strong chest were obvious to most.

Several of the more relaxed, battle-tested men made comments and snickered at Lemuel's hair as he passed by them. He was used to it. Standard regulation in the military required men to sport short hair on the sides and back, their fringe to reach no more than halfway down the forehead. Women on the other hand, were to crop their hair behind the ears, with their top hair cut to not exceed the brow-line. Soldiers were not permitted to change their hair in any way during their service, this included colour alteration, as well as the specified lengths.

Historically, it was believed to come from practicality, but like any long-lived custom, it became a tradition. In Altstaadi culture, enlisting in the military is held in uniquely high esteem, the regulation hairstyle being a social marker to indicate this. Lemuel's hair was neither short nor a single colour. His hair was long, reaching halfway down his neck, but was kept neat, tucked behind the ear. Military custom or tradition, it didn't matter, the Altstaadi practice of preventing hair from falling over the face was practical for warfare.

It's not like Lemuel hadn't tried to maintain similar styles, but for whatever reason, his hair grew unusually fast. Also unusual about his hair was that, after growing beyond the ear, the tips of his typically dark brown hair would colour into a shade of yellow-orange. After years of resistance taming his relentless locks, he gave up, preferring to simply allow his hair to do as it pleased. As far as he was concerned, his unusual appearance was simply his bloodline on show. Nowadays he preferred to pin his hair back with his goggles, practical both for keeping it out of his face and for when he dropped from airships.

Ignoring the comments made by the soldiers, Lemuel turned into a tunnel, one of a series that connected the trenches with the command bunker at the rear lines. A useful, if not hard to construct strategy. Damp and dark, tunnels like this were a breeding ground for stenches that could make a man nauseous with just one whiff. Not to mention an unsanitary place for medical care, but in emergencies, the small bunkrooms scattered off the hallways were preferred to above-ground.

Navigating the tunnels wasn't too hard, they were signposted, the officer's nest conveniently placed next to the communications room. On approach, the bellowing voices of the arguing officers could be heard from the other side of the steel blast-door. It seemed they had a decision to make regarding the elimination of the enemy's artillery.

"Where the fuck are the supply ships?! We needed our artillery shells restocked two days ago!" an angry voice from within asked. "We've been informed there was an ambush, sir. Originally, we were in fact supposed to have a supply drop two days ago but following the ambush, Command believe it was pertinent to clear the path first. The last transmission said they were scheduled to be here in two hours." Another replied. The low guttural voice of what seemed to be the commanding officer snapped back "we don't have two bloody hours! If we can't get our men over the parapet in the next hour, the enemy will take the western front!"

Knowing the occupants of the room wouldn't appreciate the interruption, Lemuel knocked on the door. He knew he was in for a scalding, but ultimately, they'd want to hear what he had to say. A portly man of medium height opened the door, pale and aged, his balding head washed with sweat, likely a result of the verbal lashing he was under "and who might you be?" he asked. "Lemuel Wilfred Norris of the Redland guild, I've been instructed to report here" Lemuel handed the man his directive papers.

Scanning the sheet of paper, the officer stepped back and opened the door further, "very well, come on in then."

Walking through, Lemuel spotted the two bronze bars on the man's collar, indicating he was a captain.

To the rear of the room, the large stocky chap Lemuel assumed was the officer in command was mulling over a model of the battlefield, while several soldiers on radios sat to the side muttering into microphones. Looking up from the model directly at Lemuel, rage plastered on his face, the officer spat "who's the boy? Clearly not an enlisted soldier are you. What are you doing here?"

Judging by the rage-induced froth coming from the mustached man's mouth, the beads of liquid on the captains head could well have originated from the verbal assault he received from his superior a minute ago.

"This is Lemuel Wilfred Norris of the Redland guild sir; he's been assigned to your command it seems." Introducing his superior, the captain continued, "and this his Colonel Scott, commanding officer of the western front, beast of the blackhill, recipient of the-" the colonel waved his hand, halting the captain mid-sentence, "yes, yes Oswald, stop with your pretentious formalities for once in your life dammit!"

Lemuel had a feeling about this Colonel Scott. Often officers were concerned with pomp and ceremony, it highlighted their superior position both in the military and society, not to mention it stroked their superior egos. Unlike the other officers Lemuel had served under, Colonel Scott seemed to be averted to it, not caring for common convention.

Frequently, officers were high society folk, in service with the military predominantly to maintain social status or to progress higher up the food chain. An officer's military honour acumen can reflect greatly in their civilian life. Captain Oswald was a prime example of such practice. Medium height, portly, posh, fearful, and not endowed with any significant athleticism. He wasn't cut out for battle. Well, that wasn't entirely true, maybe battle with a snowman, or a small child. Regardless, his position was almost entirely administrative.

Colonel Scott on the other hand was the polar opposite. It was clear he came from an upper-class family, his accent gave that much away, but his mannerisms and conduct suggested he didn't conform to it. Lemuel surmised, that based on his appearance, he'd seen combat too. He kept his hair in typical military fashion, the back and sides of his head short, while the top hair slicked back, streaks of grey among the black giving away his age. Small shrapnel scars freckled across the right side of his face resembled short needles pointing out from above the brow down to the cheekbone, just above his large bushy beard. He was of tall height, built like a treebear, stocky and muscular. Not a man whose punch Lemuel would like to be on the receiving end of.

"You're the guild that was sent to assist then boy? Where's the rest of you?" asked Colonel Scott.

Lemuel cut to the chase, he suspected the Colonel was an impatient man, "It's just me, sir. I overheard your issues with the artillery and I-" but before he could continue with his proposal, the Colonel turned red, froth once again spurting as he bellowed. "Just you!? Those incompetent arseholes at command fuck up supply drops and they send me one bloody guildsmaen in return!? I'll have those bastards on a pike for this!"

Lemuel had to control himself. Not out of rage or anger. From laughter. It appeared as though the colonel had a rage problem. Paper tearing, wall punching, and jaw-clenched muttering, among the primary traits of his tantrums. Most people who'd just met the colonel may be intimidated by the sight of such a man enraged, but this sort of reaction was more common than most would think, especially among the enlisted officers.

Typically, when this happened Lemuel would simply stand back and watch as the rage eventually tempered and he could demonstrate why, more often than not, he was sent alone. But the artillery waited for no one, the situation was time-sensitive and Lemuel need the colonel to listen to him.

Deciding his best course of action was to demonstrate why he'd been sent alone, rather than explain, Lemuel took a deep breath and began emitting a faint white glow. Anima congealed the air around him, held in place until it was released, instantaneously expanding through the room. Sheets of paper flew as they were struck, the model battlefield in the middle of the room rattled. Chatter and movement stopped.

It was a crude technique, using little anima, creating force through building tension and releasing, but it was enough to stun any living creature for at least a few seconds.

"I can assure you, colonel, I'm very capable, hence why there is only one of me." Said Lemuel loudly yet calmly, stating his case. He expected the fit of rage to have quelled, but much to Lemuel's surprise, the rage still contorted the colonels face. Lemuel wasn't sure if the colonel was unaffected by his attempt to stun him or if he merely induced more rage. Looking around the room to be sure, he scanned his surroundings.

Soldiers that had been zipping around the room were now stood stiff, chatter that filled the periphery muted and sweaty Captain Oswald, red-faced, a vein popping out of his forehead, looked as if he was suffering from extreme constipation.

Clearly, his stunt had caught their attention.

Wildly inappropriate as it was, especially on officers no less, Lemuel felt it was necessary. After all, the fact he was able to use anima in combat was what made him an effective guildsmaen, an effective soldier. Subtly smug, Lemuel turned back around to face the colonel in hopes of finally divulging his plan.

But before he could turn to fully face the colonel, however, a dagger had been held to his throat. Not just any dagger either. Lemuel's view of the weapon was limited, but he could sense the anima that it was created from. Anima compacted into solid shape through a principle called 'creatium'.

Radiating a deep purple, wisps of white flickered from the surface like steam, fading into the air. Gripping the dagger was a young woman, in her early twenties, only marginally shorter than Lemuel. She wasn't an enlisted soldier either. Judging by her ash blonde hair and her ice-blue eyes that glowed with a faint purple, she was issmar.

'Well, this is interesting, an Issmar woman is the last thing I expected to see today', he thought.

Coming from the northern-most region on the continent, Svalbergen, the Issmar were a mysteriously private people. Nobody knows exactly where in Svalbergen their homeland is and first-hand accounts of Issmar civilisation were limited. Every now and then stories are heard, explorers claiming to have found, seen, or have been captured by the Issmar.

Verifying the accuracy of 'first hand' accounts is troublesome since nobody really knows what to compare them too. The only true piece of information outsiders had of the Issmar is that they lived in extremely cold, mountainous conditions and that their bodies had evolved to suit their environment. Ice blue eyes, rumoured to tint purple when using anima and distinctively white hair. So, to see an Issmar woman in the flesh was rare.

Lemuel drew his attention away from the dagger at his throat and looking straight into the, admittedly beautiful eyes, of the woman before him, he spoke "you're Issmar, right? What are you doing so far south? And fighting in another countries war no less. Have your people decided to participate in the war?"

"Like you, I am alone." she said, her fluency with the Altstaadi language suggesting she'd spent a considerable amount of time away from her homeland. Lemuel sensed a disguised sadness in her voice as she spoke, the light in her eyes seemed to flicker ever so slightly, betraying her feelings.

Lemuel chose to ignore it, however, after all, she still had a blade at his throat.

It didn't take long for the attention in the room to revert to Colonel Scott once again, his gruff voice interjecting as the Issmar woman savagely stared down Lemuel, "Semari! Stand down!"

She disputed, "He dares to enter into your offices and attempt to stun you! I should teach this scoundrel a lesson" she said, her voice thick with conviction.

"Are you sure you could, 'teach this scoundrel a lesson', Semari?" the Colonel replied. Semari's eyes broke contact with Lemuel and shot around to Colonel Scott, her brows pressed inward in confusion.

The colonel, still leaning on the table in front of him, pointed down to toward her stomach. Looking back at a smiling Lemuel and down again, below her arm, her conviction slowly drained from within her.

Pointed at her stomach was a combat knife, the type you'd often see carried by riflemen to fix as bayonets. It was pointed about two inches above the navel, the blade just long enough to pierce her heart if Lemuel chose to drive it into her ribcage from below the bone. Unimpressed and grunting, she stepped back, removing her blade from Lemuel's throat, her anima weapon dissolving into the air as it flaked and crumbled away.

Standing straight and moving around the table, the colonel looked at Lemuel, the rage dissipated from his face and the wrinkles that were so defined before had relaxed. "You're not the only magus in this room young man. Semira here, as you've noticed, is both Issmar and skilled in the anima arts. For staad sake, even little Oswald here has a decent grasp on anima - despite that ridiculous look on his face. And it's going to take a fair bit more than that crappy little trick if you want to stun me. Now, you've got my attention, speak." The atmosphere in the room became far tenser, the air around the colonel seemed to grimace. It was palpable.

Not wanting to disappoint, Lemuel opened his mouth with surprising urgency "I overheard the issues you're having with the enemy's artillery. Sounds like quite the predicament. I reckon I've got a solution for you."

"pahaha! Do you really, young man, what makes you say that?" the colonel replied, his tone inquisitive, more than demeaning.

Sure of himself, Lemuel looked up at the cunning colonel with a smirk, "Send me. Get an airship to drop me over enemy lines and it'll be done within the hour."

A glint appeared in the colonel's eyes.

Internally he was surprised at the confidence shown by Lemuel but refused to express it. He wasn't sure what made Lemuel so confident, obviously the guildsmaen had a trick or two up his sleeve, evidenced by his escapades a moment ago. But confidence like this was uncommon, even among skilled magi. What made him so self-assured?

He was right to be curious of course. But Lemuel's confidence was justified, after all… he was a demi-god.