He didn't move even then he was so still, a stillness only an immortal could achieve, Ansel observed. What ridiculously stupid thought. If he was an ancient we all would have been dead and eaten by now, Ansel laughing at herself.
Taking another step forward now cautiously.
He killed 50 men by himself - a feat that even champions themselves deem impossible to accomplish. What kind of legendary hero is he? Taking another step forward, pondering on what's going on.
The cloaked man gazed at her and the fear in her was building up. I will not be afraid, Ansel encouraging herself, subduing the fear.
"I am Ansel - Ansel Wildheart." She proclaimed.
"I am part of the royal guard." Pointing at the crest on her breastplate.
The man didn't respond, a shy one are you? Well, you won't be silent for long.
"May I ask who you are?" Still cautious of her tone and movement.
Ansel had remembered her vision from the past month. Having a dream about a champion rescuing them from a village -- a kaalsaghon or more known as a crimson champion.
The term was derived from the champion of the great Santrea empire which once held the entire continent under its banner. The champion was incredibly skilled and was forthright and kind. He believed in justice and fair battle, also promoting peace and equality.
The kaalsaghon standing before them drenched in blood with both blades in hand, said to them faith can only get you so far. if you want to be great, seize it with both hands and never let go. He left them and ran back into the woods.
Waking up from that dream, sweating profusely. In the next couple of days, she devoted her time learning about the term kaalsaghon but the name of the champion itself was lost. As the writings only said that his name is never to be uttered for it was cursed. I guess my vision wasn't incorrect after all, her curiosity rising vehemently.
Returning her stare he said, " I am....", he stopped, breaking off their gaze.
He was looking elsewhere, as if contemplating - finding an answer.
"I am nobody." He finally said softly making a motion to leave.
"Wait!" She shouted.
"Can I at least have a nickname to work by?" Curiosity still rising within her.
"I. Said. I'm. Nobody" he growled.
A temperamental one, I wouldn't want to anger this one, she deduced - cautious. Gesturing her men to stand down.
"If that is the case then I will call you bob for the time being," she said while smirking - putting a huge emphasis on the name bob.
The man just stared at her - as if taking her in, weighing her worth, she had to say something to break the silence.
"I would like to thank you bob." Smiling at the name. "I would like to reward you for saving our lives." Gesturing at the remaining men.
The man now interrupted her, very impatient. "No! Now stop pestering me woman!" The man walking away from the scene.
Oh no - not today, she chased after the man grabbing his arm. In doing so she triggered one of her visions, agonizing pain now pouring into her. Seeing images of the man wearing full on battle armor while standing atop a mountain of corpses with a deadly gleam in his eyes and a feral smile across his face. Standing before an army, ready to attack, No.... He was ready to slaughter. All he killed were agonizing over their death, screaming at him "bohombrah" - father of wrath and hunger, there was this malice and evil aura about him.
Falling unconscious from the pain, the man caught her as she fell.
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Ansel woke up in a small and old wooden shack in the village.
It was rarely used - visited because there were dust and cobwebs everywhere. The wood seemed to be really old even just a slight tap may bring the shack down.
The interior of the shack was devoid of any decorations, bed, even shelves. The only items inside it are farming tools, hay stacks, and bags of fertilizer. It seems that it was used as a storage house - more like a dump for unneeded materials.
There was a single window in the shack now looking out of the window the village was decimated and her soldiers were piling up the dead bodies in the pyre.
The amount of corpses that they piled was in devastating amounts. Even though the others were beyond her reach, inexorable, she couldn't help the feeling of regret, despair, and self-loathing.
I have failed you all, I was weak and unprepared, I was too preoccupied with my own emotions, she cursed herself.
The shack had an open doorway now the cold air seeping in through the passage.
She was laid on a dusty haystack, her armor caked in blood. I can't say if some of these are mine or not. I'm feeling too shitty all around to bother.
Mostly uninjured, not feeling any major injuries only a few bruises and cuts but her body still ached from the fighting. Mentally stressed; she wishes she can spend the rest of the day in bed but alas the Royal guard had her duties.
Trying to move her arm, then the pain shot through her shoulder; letting out a low groan. That's gonna take a week to recover, she thought grimacing on the fact.
"Are you awake?" Asked Ross,
She didn't reply but instead slowly - painfully shifted into a sitting position. By the time the act was done she was out of breath.
Ross was sitting by the doorway, his armor covered in the same amount of blood even he had the same grimacing look and his sword laying beside him. At least my second had survived.
Ross is a short man even though he wasn't handsome, he wasn't ugly either, he had red hair which was long and curly; it had its charm, she observed.
"How are you feeling?" He inquired.
"As shit as I look." She muttered.
"Well, you were an inch away from being a corpse." Raising his arms in a nonchalant manner.
"It feels like a corpse would have a better time than me." Looking around.
"Well better alive than dead, eh?" He chimed. "even though you already look dead." Smiling.
Glaring at him. "Don't you even dare to start." She practically growled and he chuckled.
"Anyway, I've seen corpses look better than you." Making a face at him.
"ouch, now that's an insult." Laughing out loud.
Ross a joker even in the most direst situations for he can lighten the mood of any soldier, lift up the soldiers morale and assess their composures. The perfect second in command for her - unconventional style of leadership.
It was a stroke of luck that they survived that, at the same time a curse that their fates were connected with the Bohombrah - the father of hunger and wrath.
The thought itself chilled her. Is he really that bad? Or is my mind is playing tricks on me.
Pushing the thought aside. Looking outside seeing only six of her regiment remain the other 10 escorting the villagers to safety.
What am I to tell the queen of our loss? She thought. "Well care to tell me what happened while I was out?" Removing pieces of her gauntlets.
Ansel was now laying unconscious in the arms of the cloaked stranger.
Seeing that Ansel was unconscious; fear, panic, and rage erupted from within the band of warriors. Readying their attack on the man even readying their last stand, the thought of family and friends on their minds; saying their last farewells.
The man stood up - slowly and gently but firmly carrying Ansel in his arms.
The tension rapidly growing within the survivor's ranks. Some had their biles rising and others had tears in their eyes, praying to any who haven't turned their backs on us while a rare few had a deadly calm set about them.
They were moving in for the attack, shouting their battle cries. The man stood there and he suddenly bellowed at them his voice deep and resonating, it was compelling and commanding, "stand down!" The Warriors stopped dead in their tracks.
Surprisingly, they were dazed and speechless as if magic was placed on them.
The man calmly walked through them, he went to the old shack, laid Ansel on the haystack, and proceeded to leave, disappearing into the forest.
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