Tristan played at Failnaught's numerous strings, producing a melancholic symphony that would have moved the hearts of many if not for the sheer destruction each single movement of his fingers wrought.
Instead of an entranced audience, the air itself twisted and danced at his command, forming a field of invisible distortions that surrounded him and his men.
"Am I correct to presume you servants of Richard the Lionheart, my countrymen?" It was sad that he would have to raise his blade against his own people, "Will you not surrender, so that no blood is spilled?" Unlikely, they outnumbered him.
The glaring Sun overhead left no shadow, nothing hidden. Tristan knew they were surrounded on all sides by servant class combatants, he knew that the men he'd been given would be slaughtered if he misstepped even slightly.
He could only hope that the rider he'd send out would reach Gawain and Aston soon enough. It hadn't been too long since they'd split up, had it? The ever-present Sun and unchanging sky distorted one's sense of time.
Inhaling deeply, the knight put his fingers on Failnaught's strings and turned to face the leader of the enemy contingent, "Am I correct to presume you are Richard the Lionheart himself?"
The man was by no means all that impressive when it came to appearances, dirty blonde hair with a tuft of crimson, a shallow countenance and hollow eyes. He couldn't possibly be the figure of legend they'd be warned against.
His armour, that Tristan believed would have been resplendent was damaged and marred by blood, the red cape that hung from his back was haggard and torn.
Just what had happened?
Tristan received no answers.
'Richard' took a step forward, expression dull and unassuming, and then another.
Relaxedly, he walked forward, sword already drawn.
"Not in the mood for discussions, very well." Tristan's form changed as his eyes gained focus honed over a life spent on the battlefield, "Allow me to apologise for thinking wrongly of you."
Richard the Lionheart looked like no King but he held the power of one. His sheer presence would make lesser men buckle and kneel, his eyes held no fear, the calm with which he moved told the knight of the King's experience.
The sheer magical power and presence he exuded by merely standing in place would outclass most if not all the Knights of the Round Table. There was no way Tristan could win against him, not to mention the massive contingent of crusaders following him.
Tristan's assumptions were proven correct when Richard just walked through one of the many traps he'd set up earlier, setting off a chain reaction that released torrents of wind sharp and fast enough to tear men to shreds, kicking up the sand underneath them, completely unbothered.
'Richard' simply waved his empty hand, pushing aside the sandstorm as if it were a fly, sending gusts of wind that knocked back the defensive lines Tristan's men had formed, clearing a path.
The Crusader King stared at Tristan for a moment before leaning forward. The next moment, before Tristan could even process what had happened, Richard was upon him, sword already swinging down to split the red-haired Archer in two halves.
"Ho-...?!"
Tristan was saved by one of his men pushing him aside just at the last second, "Our King needs you yet." Those were the last words he heard before the knight was sliced in two from shoulder to guts, the sword passing through armour without any resistance.
Clenching his teeth in frustration, Tristan drew the sword that hung at his waist and swung upwards at his enemy only for Richard to grab the blade with his bare hand and smash the butt of his sword into his face, tossing the Knight of the Round Table through the air like some no name grunt.
Richard sent one last contemptuous gaze towards Tristan before gesturing with his head and uttered a single world, "Kill."
The crusaders that had stood silent and still until then moved instantly, rushing at what remained of Tristan's defensive line. Quality over quantity couldn't be brought into the equation when a sea of crusaders swarmed the ordinary British soldiers and knights.
Tristan could only watch as his men struggled in futility, the thought of surrender or retreat never even crossing their minds as they fought. A single knight tore into one of the Crusaders, only to die to another impaling him through the back. Another lost his head, one had dozens of spears jammed into his chest.
Frustratingly enough, all he could really do was watch. The moment Tristan tried to move, Richard would knock him down, almost as if he was deriving some sick joy from watching him despair at his lack of ability to help.
It wasn't as if he hadn't lost men before but, these people were giving their lives for him when Tristan hadn't even been able to learn their names, "...Why?" He never noticed his own clenched fists and gritted teeth, attempting to push away his compassion for his fellow man.
He would have to if he wanted to aid the Lion King in his ambition.
His question was answered with silence again.
He should have been more on guard, he should have noticed.
Truthfully, there really was nothing he could have done. The Crusaders had appeared out of thin air, Richard moved faster than even he could follow and unlike the Egyptian Pharaoh, who had established a Kingdom and declared his presence, the Crusaders were a faction that couldn't be pinned down to one location, they had no camp to speak of, no allegiance to any, and no apparent reason to be other than slaughter and war.
"What do you seek out of this? ...Why must you do this?"
Richard raised his blade again, intent on lopping off Tristan's head and being done with it then and there.
"Because the only way for him to get the attention mother and father dear never gave him is to attack unprovoked, forgive him. T'is all he knows."
There was no way for Tristan to not recognise the voice that answered his question. His head shot up to stare at the tall back of the Knight of Atrocity, "How goes your day, Sir Tristan? I suppose it was the right decision to rush here as fast as I could."
The Archer looked around him, and saw a desolate battlefield.
The Crusaders that had been slaughtering wantonly had been torn apart, fresh warm blood spilled onto thirsty, cruel sands that quickly soaked it all up. Some corpses were still standing, perhaps unaware of the fact that life had long left them.
In the moment that Tristan had lowered his head in despair, the tides of battle had changed. The Knight of Atrocity had arrived and made light of his adversaries, slaughtering them as if it was his god given right.
Fortunately, Richard was just as shocked, something Tristan was surprised to see happen. He quickly forced back the disgust and regret welling up in his heart and stood up, hands gripping Failnaught, "Could you not have arrived a moment sooner?" He asked plainly, observing the corpses of his few men.
"Ah... Why must I be put through this?"
It had been a small contingent, a few hundreds at best but still, it weighed heavy on his heart.
Aston ignored him, and stared at the blade piercing his own shoulder instead, then at the masses of Crusaders appearing out of thin air.
He proceeded to completely ignore an injury that should have immobilised one of his arms entirely and nodded his head in understanding, "I see, your noble phantasm is one that allows you to gang up on your opponents, how strong." He spoke sarcastically.
"Fortunately, trash only begets trash."
"Let us remove this 'trash' from the face of this beautiful world then."
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See, I'm back.
Anywho, go further at your own behest.
Aston Alter is about to appear and he's from a timeline where he doesn't have the speedforce, but still managed to do much more than Pan human history Aston did, also. They're different enough to be at each other's throats moments after meeting.
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You can find up to 7 chapters ahead at patre0n.com/Bleap
(It's full, this is what I've been doing after giving you three chapters