"The fort is on fire!!"
These words echoed before I heard…
Bang!
I didn't know why, but I felt the vibration as something passed by. Did it, though? I felt a sensation like someone yanked me away, me powerless. I let them do so. Everything started becoming hazy, or I might be disoriented.
".... general's mansion."
"Make....don't .....fall...."
"Eh?" I said; as reality started slipping, my grip over everything loosened.
.
.
"Take ..ver!"
Boom!!!
Neigh!
Teeiiiinnnn!!
Horses neighed. In the distance, someone was shouting or maybe giving orders. I couldn't interpret what he/she was trying to convey; my ears were ringing. I tried standing but couldn't. Only ended up falling once more.
Something went wrong. I touched something, or maybe I accidentally did so, when I tried sitting up and found something wet, liquid, and viscous. It made me wonder what it was and made me hold my hand closer to my face.
'Ah..'
It was blood, my blood, to be exact. I seemed to be injured, not just concussed; from the look of the blood on my hand, I found the culprit of my dizziness and disorientation.
'How?'
Was the question that came to mind. How can I get injured? I wasn't even on the battlefield.
"Valc..y!"
A scream jolted me awake. Someone was calling me. I tried turning toward the source of the voice but failed beautifully. It seems my initial analysis was incorrect. The injury was more critical than I thought.
Everything felt unreal; just then, someone passed by. I tried looking at his/her face; something was beckoning me to stare at it, memorize it. But I couldn't. Like everything else, it was becoming hazy as time passed.
Haaa*
It seems like I'm dying. The thought was finally coming to me, don't know what to say. How am I so calm about this? Shouldn't I be crying, screaming, and begging out loud for someone to save me? That should get someone's attention, hopefully not the enemy's, but of an ally.
I am not insensitive to the pain, as it was the only thing that kept me conscious, but it seemed to be not that painful enough that I needed to scream out until I went mute. It's really strange.
[The afterlife rewards a knight who dies protecting their motherland. A seat at the table of Astralara.]
These lines popped into my mind, making me question whether I was ready to leave this world.
What about my promise to my family? If what one calls a lingering attachment that makes them unable to let go, these should be mine.
"S..orr..y mo..th..er ma..ste..r Er.."
Haah*
Can't even complete the word now, and here I was thinking about how to live through this. My jaws feel heavy, everything fading. I heard the notion that everything flashes before one's eyes before they die. This appears to be happening to me as well.
I, Valcroy Everheart, son of Alaric and Lyra Everheart, an unknown squire in service of Erik Frostbourne at the Frostbourne house, felt like I had everything. Everything was going well. I am not trying to boast, but I was hailed as a genius for being able to complete my studies at 15 and join the famous, or rather infamous, house of Frostbourne. Everything was going well; the Lord of Frostbourne appointed me as Erik Frostbourne's squire.
Ah, yes, Erik Frostbourne, a monster amongst monsters, should be the correct way to address him…
This is it. The notion was wrong; I didn't even get to see any of their faces….
.....
"...your…of.. betrayal."
"What is ..... barren place…endless betrayal?"
"…intent… In this ....."
'?'
"Uh…" A grunt left my mouth as I felt pain. I couldn't move for a bit, might have something to do with something heavy that was pressing on me. I tightened my closed eyelids before slowly opening them, shaking my head to get rid of the headache.
Everything seemed blurry. Might have something to do with the headache that my head was hosting at the moment. I struggled to free my hand as I lifted my head up a little, trying my best to look at who was using my chest as a pillow and…
"Ahh…"
A gasp left my mouth as I looked at head over chest, withered, eyes missing, same for the tongue. But that was not all as there was not one but multiple bodies lying over me, might be like someone was trying to bury me alongside these corpses.
I tried to move, making the head fall to the side. I started having trouble breathing. Might be a cue. I struggled hard, freeing my hands as I pushed the bodies to the side. A repulsive feeling grew in me, making me want to empty my stomach out, but I knew that now was not the time and the adrenaline rushing through my body helped in suppressing that feeling as I slowly moved the bodies aside, burying the uncomfortable feeling.
A desire burned in me, making me struggle to live, might be because I wanted to see my family or just that I was not ready to die yet. I struggled to free myself, and crawled up, not even focusing on the voice that was trying to convey something. I guess I wanted to live too much.
As I crawled up difficultly, moving the bodies aside, and after doing so for a while, I finally saw a ray of light, same one burned inside me as I pushed harder and harder until I was finally out but when I got out, I realized something.
"This is not in Avaloria."
...
Valcroy's cause of befuddlement was because of the scenery that greeted him.
A barren land filled with bodies no matter where one look, red dyeing the ground, a small stream flowed which seemed to become dry for a while now, but its signs were there, puddles filled with red, a semi-solid layer covering it.
Not a single ray of light could penetrate the thick, making one wonder what ray of light Val saw when he was buried. Oppressive clouds overhead, casting the world in a permanent crimson hue. The sky and ground seemed to merge into a single, unending landscape of red.
Amongst the bodies, the armor of fallen knights glinted dully in the crimson light, their once-proud shine now barely recognizable under layers of grime and blood. Weapons lay scattered, rusting where they had fallen.
The horizon offered no hope, only the endless expanse of this blood-soaked land. The oppressive atmosphere weighed heavily on the soul, a grim reminder of the cost of ambition and the fragile nature of peace.
No matter when one looks, only desolation greets the eyes. The metallic smell and taste, giving one the urge to vomit, and that's what Val did as he emptied his stomach after the adrenaline settled down a bit.
Cough* Cough*
Coughing whatever he was holding back, he wiped his mouth, only to find out that he was wearing some strange clothes. They were tattered and stained, of course, of blood and other matters, yet their design spoke about this strange place.
He was wearing a long, flowing coat made of heavy, dark leather, now frayed and torn. The coat seemed to be adorned with faded silver embroidery, written over it were some weird language symbols and sigils, barely visible under the layers of dirt and blood. The high collar and wide cuffs suggested a garment meant for both protection and display.
Beneath the coat, a once-fine tunic of deep crimson fabric clung to his body, its intricate patterns of black thread now obscured by grime obviously torn, but this time there was a deep line running diagonally over it, probably a cut from a blade as blood could be seen smeared over it.
His trousers, made of sturdy wool, smeared by the blood and dirt. They were tucked into knee-high boots that had clearly seen better days; the leather cracked, and the soles worn thin. Despite their dilapidated state, the boots' craftsmanship showed a time when they were highly prized for their sturdiness and aesthetic appeal.
Around his waist was a wide, ornate belt, its metal buckle shaped like a fierce lion. The belt had a design that suggested that it could hold various pouches and tools, most of which were now missing, leaving only the empty loops and torn leather straps.
On his hands, he wore fingerless gloves made of a supple, blackened hide, providing both grip and a modicum of protection. The gloves were adorned with tiny metal studs and reinforced stitching, and, like his coat, some weird symbols etched on their back.
Lastly, a hooded cloak, now shredded and barely clinging to his shoulders, completed the outfit. The cloak was made of a heavy, dark fabric lined with fur, offering warmth and concealment.
As he took in his appearance, he realized these clothes were alien to him, hell even his body felt alien to him, He looked around, trying to find something that could show him his face. He walked around, staggering a little, everything felt alien to him.
Clank*
He found a piece of armor rusted from the corners. He cleaned it with his clothes to finally take a look at his appearance.
"Eh?"
Valcroy's eyes widened as he took in his appearance. Val was a 17-years old, almost 2 years to his squire duty, blue eyes, black hair, lean build, fair skin, faint freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, jawline strong and well-defined, nose straight and slightly narrow, leading down to lips that are often set in a determined line but can soften into a warm, reassuring smile.
But the person he was looking at was anything but that. First, he was in his mid-thirties or even forties, exuding a hardened and rugged demeanor. His face, angular and weathered, etched with the lines of many battles and years of experience. His skin, tanned and rough, showing signs of prolonged exposure to the elements.
His eyes, piercing grey, sharp and vigilant, betraying a lifetime of vigilance and scrutiny, always on the lookout for danger. These eyes are surrounded by deep-set wrinkles, particularly at the corners, telling about a man who has his life squinting against the sun or scrutinizing his surroundings.
His hair was dark, almost black, streaked with the early signs of grey. Flowing over his shoulder, perhaps with a few scars visible around the scalp indicating old wounds. His beard was thick and seemed well-maintained, but right now it was rugged, covering a strong jawline and adding to his imposing presence.
His nose, straight, had a scar over it, running perpendicular to the edges of both eyes. It sits above thin, firm lips that rarely curve into a smile.
The man's physique was robust and muscular, built from years of hard labor and combat. Broad shoulders and a thick neck lead down to a powerful chest and strong, calloused hands, accustomed to wielding weapons and performing strenuous tasks. His arms and legs were equally muscular, marked with numerous scars that told tales of past battles and injuries.
"Who is.... this?"
Valcroy was, this time he finally heard his own, rough and hard like something sharp was stuck in his throat, cutting the sound as it came out.
Nothing was making sense to him anymore. He felt like he was dreaming. Everything was so unreal that he felt it really was unreal, but the pain from the cut across his chest made him know it was not a dream.
This was reality, cold, harsh reality.
"What is going on?"