(Before the Prologue)
Belisarius awoke to a sharp, throbbing pain that pulsed through his skull. As he instinctively reached for his forehead, he was jolted by his situation—arms stretched out, bound tightly to a large wooden beam, his legs dangling lifelessly below him. The rough wood dug into his back, the discomfort heightening his disorientation.
Panic threatened to rise, but Belisarius forced himself to focus, to ground himself in the present moment. Where was he? The question reverberated through his mind, but the answer eluded him like a shadow slipping through his fingers. More unsettling was the next thought: Who was he? The name Belisarius echoed in his mind, familiar yet distant, like a song half-remembered from a dream. How did he know it was his name? And why did it feel both comforting and alien at the same time?
The more he thought, the more his head hurt, and the more his head hurt, the less he could think. Belisarius decided to stop thinking about it and look around instead. His eyes flicked around, taking in the shadowed courtyard. High stone walls, adorned with creeping ivy, enclosed the area, and the overgrown garden beds suggested neglect. Recognition flickered in his mind. This was his estate—a fact that settled uneasily within him, though the how and why of it remained frustratingly out of reach.
...so then, why was he in this situation?
Before he could answer that question, A figure emerged from the shadows of a sheltered walkway that wound around the side of the manor. The man's face broke into a broad smile as he spotted Belisarius, his pace quickening into a light jog, the sound of his footsteps muffled by the overgrown grass.
"Boss, boss! Up bright and early, I see," the man called out, his voice rough and jovial, tinged with a familiarity that sent a jolt of recognition through Belisarius.
As the man drew closer, Belisarius felt a strange sensation, an inexplicable certainty that he knew this person. His name hovered just out of reach, but as if responding to his thoughts, a name appeared in his vision, hovering above the man's head as clearly as if it had been carved into the air itself.
'Targeld' he read.
A cold, mechanical voice echoed in Belisarius's mind, speaking with a monotonous precision that was both unsettling and familiar.
[Would you like to know more about the being known as Targeld?]
Belisarius blinked, momentarily thrown off balance by the disembodied voice. '…Excuse you?' he thought, unsure if he had somehow spoken aloud or if this was all part of the same bizarre dream.
[Would you like to know more about the being known as Targeld?]
Belisarius hesitated for a heartbeat before mentally responding, '...yes?'
-----
Race: Iceforged
Name: Targeld
Level: 33
Skills: ???
Artifact: ???
A barbarian from the Crimsonfrost Tribe of the Iceforged Clans, Targeld never felt the murderous influence of Karnath and traveled south in search of worthy opponents, rather than endless slaughter. Upon being defeated in single combat by Belisarius, Targeld swore his allegiance to him. No brains, all brawn.
-----
As the information settled in his mind, Belisarius's gaze sharpened, taking in Targeld's formidable appearance with new understanding. Targeld was a towering giant of a man, his presence dominating the courtyard with an air of raw power. Standing at an imposing 7'7", his body was a testament to the harsh upbringing of the Crimsonfrost Tribe, every muscle honed to perfection like the edge of a warrior's blade. His skin, bronzed and weathered by countless battles, gleamed in the dim light, and each sinew and vein stood out as if sculpted from marble.
The barbarian's upper body was bare, exposing the intricate tattoos that spiraled across his chest and arms, each mark telling the story of a life lived in the crucible of combat. His hair, a startling white that stood in stark contrast to his sun-darkened skin, was tied back into a long ponytail, while his short beard, as black as midnight, framed a face that was equal parts rugged and fierce. The contrast between his hair and beard was striking, a duality that mirrored the barbarian's dual nature: the savage warrior tempered by a sense of honor.
Two massive great axes were strapped to his back, their gleaming blades reflecting the flickering light with deadly intent. Even at rest, they seemed to radiate a barely contained violence, a promise of the devastation Targeld could unleash at a moment's notice. Yet despite his fearsome appearance, there was an earnestness in the man's eyes, a guileless simplicity that made his allegiance feel somehow genuine, even if his loyalty was borne out of brute strength rather than cunning.
Before he was able to comprehend the information that had appeared in his mind, Targeld began removing Belisarius from the wooden beam, standing him on his feet. "Ahh there we go, ripe as a ribbon, like my mother would say. Or was it ripe as a raisin..."
Targeld's gaze drifted, unfocused, as if he were pondering the mysteries of the universe, a fierce determination etched across his rugged features. Seizing the moment, Belisarius turned inward, his thoughts racing as he tried to piece together the fragments of his fractured memory.
'Who are you?' Belisarius thought, not directing the question at Targeld but at the strange voice that had spoken to him earlier.
[I am your artifact], the voice responded, its tone as emotionless as before.
'...and what exactly do you do?'
[I can display the world to you in anyway you would deem fit.]
Belisarius considered this for a moment, a plan already forming in his mind. 'Alright then, please display the names in colors based on hostility, and change the levels to corresponding metals.'
[Confirmed.]
Targeld's name shifted into a bright green, a symbol of no hostility, the '33' changing to the word 'silver' before his information appeared again.
-----
Race: Iceforged
Name: Targeld
Level: Silver
Skills: ???
Artifact: ???
-----
Seeing that the barbarian was still thinking about his last metaphor, Bel decided to wake him up.
"Targeld, what are you doing."
"Huh? Oh, sorry boss, got lost in thought," Targeld chuckled, the smirk on his face broadening. "I came to fetch you after the gang and I did what you asked—putting you up on the pike!"
Belisarius's gaze narrowed, a cold edge creeping into his voice. "And who is this so called, 'gang'?"
Targeld's tone was puzzled "Uhh... the gang you made?", as if Belisarius had asked him why the sky was blue.
Belisarius's expression hardened, the confusion and frustration of his earlier disorientation giving way to a simmering anger. "What. Gang."
Realizing that Belisarius wasn't joking, Targeld's grin faltered, his massive hand scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "Ahahaha, sorry, boss. Ya know, Altera Vita? The mercenary band you put together? You're our leader, ya know." He turned away, feigning nonchalance as he continued to scratch at his head, though the nervousness in his posture was unmistakable.
Information slowly flowed into Belisarius' mind. He was indeed part of Altera Vita—a small, formidable mercenary band that he had assembled. Why or when he had created it remained unknown.
Belisarius's gaze hardened, his words cutting through the air with deliberate sharpness. "Then explain why I was strung up like a martyr, if I'm supposed to be your 'leader'?"
"Because you said too? I dunno." Targeld shrugged, losing interest in scratching his head, finding it much more enjoyable to pick his nose.
Without saying a word, Belisarius glared at Targeld and walked away, pacing towards the house while Targeld giddily followed along behind him.
"Where are we anyways Targeld?"
"Well we're in Arendale right now... uhh at least I think we are. You said you had something to do here, but that was a while ago now."
'Of course...the Sovereign's quest.'
Belisarius's hand instinctively reached for his breast pocket, where his fingers brushed against the familiar texture of a sealed letter. The royal emblem of The Gilded Sovereignty glinted faintly in the dim light. It all clicked into place—the manor was a temporary base, lent to him for this mission. The Clans had grown bolder, daring to invade Aegisgrad. Whatever was brewing, it was grave enough to make the Imperium halt its bloody civil war.
As the only land border into the Imperium, and the rest of the civilized world, Aegisgrad was a Kingdom granted independence from the other Human territories to focus solely on the realms defense.
No matter, the only thing on Belisarius' mind was food. Making their way to the kitchen, it was pretty obvious to Bel that Targeld was on the same page, constantly moaning about the lack of beer to drink, and a rat who keeps stealing his meat? Unsure of what that meant, Bel kept on walking until he arrived at the dinner hall.
Targeld had briefly mentioned that the cooks were preparing a feast, and upon seeing it for himself, Bel was sorely disappointed. Yes, it was most definitely a feast, but it consisted of only salad, potatoes, steamed vegetables and all other imaginable greens.
"That damned rat, one of these days, I swear to the Great God." Targeld scowled, scanning the room with his eyes, almost as if he knew something was there, but couldn't quite find it.
All of a sudden, Targeld's head was knocked to the side with a ferocious impact, driving the dark expression on his face into a frightening snarl.
"Come on out you dirty little RAT! I'm gonna kill you this time!" Targeld screamed, his body beginning to let off steam and glow faintly under his skin.
"Targeld mad, yes-yes, Ikit happy, very-very happy."
A scurrying little creature, no more than a meter tall appeared in front of Bel, looking up at him with an unreadable expression, face hidden behind a cowl. Bel wasn't quite sure how to take the sudden appearance of the rodent, but opted to let his mind decide. Judging by the green shade the name 'Ikit Ironscratch' was colored in above his head, he must be friendly.
-----
Name: Ikit Ironscratch
Race: Skaven
Level: Silver
Skills: ???
Artifacts: Shade of Vespera
The Deathmaster of the Under-Empire was thought to be no more than a myth, propaganda to spur the fear towards the Wastelands past the Iceforged Clans and across the sea from the rest of the Imperium. But Ikit, Master of Death, is not a myth. How he rose to such prominence despite his comparatively weak strength remained a mystery, though his artifact was undoubtedly a key factor. Unfortunately, he has no interest in assassination and enjoys the simpler parts of life instead. Like meat.
-----
A Skav in the northern reaches was no surprise, the rich mines under Arendale were in constant contention with the Under-Empire, ever greedy to get their hands on more resources to sate their hunger. Skaven were too stupid to create anything on their own, and relied on stealing the creations of others.
Ikit was the newest member of Altera Vita. According to Targeld, Ikit was recruited after Bel ordered a large amount of meat to feed the group, where he realized that following him would result in lots of meat.
Dressed in a cloak that flowed with darkness, Ikit's visage would disappear in one's peripheral vision, and was only seen when looked directly at. His agility and small size mixed with this artifact made it nigh impossible to see Ikit unless he wanted to be seen.
'Who genuinely believed it was a good idea to give that to a rat?'
The chase that ensued was a chaotic dance of cat and mouse, with Targeld storming through the hall in pursuit of the elusive Ikit. The ratling's laughter—more of a twisted snicker than anything joyful—echoed off the stone walls, setting Belisarius's teeth on edge. He couldn't quite place the unease the sound stirred within him, but it gnawed at him nonetheless.
Dinner passed in disappointing silence, the meager spread of greens and roots doing little to sate the hunger gnawing at Belisarius and Targeld. The absence of meat hung heavy over the meal, an unspoken grievance directed at Ikit. Unfortunately, he had vanished into the shadows before Belisarius could demand an explanation for the missing fare.
-----
As Belisarius wandered through the city, the oppressive grandeur of Arendale weighed heavily on him. The streets, though bustling with activity, seemed to pulse with an undercurrent of tension. Merchants hawked their wares, their voices blending into a cacophony of noise that barely masked the sense of unease that hung in the air. The citizens moved with a hurried purpose, their eyes darting nervously from shadow to shadow.
Arendale was the second largest city in Aegisgrad, the frontier kingdom of The Imperial Empire; the center of Human activity and origin of all civilized races many eras ago. If Bel's memory was correct, the Imperium was currently in a devastating civil war, with at least seven of its Kingdoms declaring independence. He wasn't entirely sure what the reasoning was, but it couldn't be good.
Adding fuel to the fire, the Crusable's were unable to provide any assistance to the Imperium. The Black Bastion, once thought impenetrable, had finally been breached by the relentless hordes of the Badlands. The wall covered the Human territories from the would-be invaders from the Badlands. The ferocity of the invasion left the Empire's forces stretched thin, too embroiled in the desperate defense of their borders to quash the rising tide of rebellion. As the Imperium fractured, the scent of blood in the air only drew more vultures to the fray.
As Belisarius wandered through the city, the cold, unyielding presence of Arendale's blackened walls loomed over him, absorbing the sunlight like a void. The walls, forged from the same near-indestructible stone as the Black Bastion, were a testament to the ancient craftsmanship of the Giants of Jotunheim. They stood as a silent reminder of a time when the city's defenses were built not just to withstand siege, but to endure through the ages, untouched by time.
Belisarius's gaze drifted upward, tracing the jagged line of the towering spires that crowned Arendale's walls. Each one anchored a shimmering, invisible barrier, stretching across the sky in a protective dome. It wasn't meant to repel invaders, he realized, but to shield the city from the relentless cold that clawed at the world beyond. The air inside was almost stifling in its warmth, a stark contrast to the freezing wastelands that lay just outside the city's magical embrace.