My fingers slip under one of the tablets, pulling it out into the air. A blank, clay face meets me and I twist it around, spinning it around some more. The runed stone makes its way into my other hand and I get to flicking through its magically made pages. My brow furrows deeply as I look over the sparse and vague information.
This is everything that resembles a document, plans or maps. None of this is ours. The seal of the Seven-Peaks Union and its royal family make that clear enough. Of all the wonders they have accomplished, however, I'm doubting they learned how to alter an already pressed tablet. Such magic is outright irreversible and through no lack of effort from those interested in deceit.
A forgery must be just that, a forgery that emulates the original as much as it can. This is not such a thing. It's a simple tablet, much like all the others anyone else might use to communicate orders or store stories. And all it is telling me is what I already know.
'Hold this fortress until death or relief.'
"I suppose the importance of my curiosity has become all the more apparent." I mutter to no one in particular as I glance across the room at some resting ironcoats. They flinch back into action, even without me having so much as a negative thought about them. We've held this fortress for a good angle of orbit, now. More than enough time for my orders to be put into effect.
There's only so much people can do as the burden of our tasks becomes lesser. Though I suppose there's no point in dwelling on it, the soldiers have already made themselves busy. It's not even worth calling them back so they can gather this up. There are no loosely placed plans or revealing secrets that will cost the Seven-Peaks Union of Jherikra men.
A single order worth a damn acknowledging, and the usual lists. Men, supplies, guard rotas and training regimes. It's all worthless for anyone left of Waionr's Chosen Theocracy and his all-seeing eyes. Our spies and intelligence officers are hardly going to be interested in this. Let alone anyone among my fellow Valkinvar.
A sigh parts my lips, and I hopelessly lodge the tablets between my hands. Bending, they break and snap in an orderly fashion, making a mess of the floors as they do. I step away, parting my new hill of stone and clay and dragging the broken out magic with me. A mere drop in the lake that is my body and its capacity for arcane war.
"Valkinvar-Imdvarce, it is done." my head ironcoat officer explains and I turn his way, tentatively reaching out for my sword. The scar in my hand glows under the shadow of my glove and gauntlet, but doesn't quite activate. I flex my fingers while my thoughts slowly make their way to my mouth.
"Thank you. Please ensure everything else is cleared. Encourage the men to rest while they can. We... We have yet to know what our follow up orders will be." I explain and he looks away, a knowing frown to his war-weary features. The veteran nods, battering a fist on his chest and rattling his namesake mail coat. I offer a salute back, one in the style of the Valkinvar. A slight smile breaks the discipline on his face, and he watches my skyward palm slide in front of my pointless matrimonial scar.
"Will you need a guide?" he asks, looking about his selection of potential candidates. I raise my free hand, declining his offer with the shake of my head. My sword acknowledges my call for it and I guide it out safely to me. The steel eagerly slaps into my grip and I float into the air.
I close my eyes, throwing my senses across the fortress further than they need to go. There is no one else, everyone here is accounted for and I can feel the familiarity. That tinge of distinction that the law forces into the forges as they hammer out our weapons and armour. There are no more of these Blood-Tax soldiers. There hasn't been since I caught that warden figure.
My senses come back to me, along with our prisoner's location, and I begin my descent. Wayward glances slow my movements and I look out across my homeland again. It is so desperately within reach and yet... As distant as it looks. These chain-like orders are impossible to work with. These senseless... Outright mad orders.
I land before the makeshift prison and dismiss the ironcoat guards. My knuckles knock the door, blasting it down off of its hinges. A fit of coughing explodes amongst the dust and splinters. I leave my sword by the doorframe, barring it off from any unwanted guests. Though if I have spectators or listeners, I have no thoughts on the matter.
The unknown soldier of this Blood-Tax army finishes his coughs. He spits out a glob of thick saliva, coming short of my armour by quite a bit. It never so much as got anywhere past his own stripped down legs. My eyes dash to the armour set aside on a nearby table.
I approach it, picking up the decent enough quality steel and looking it over. There's nothing special about it, other than it is seemingly designed to make the wearer more intimidating. A suit of plate that is as much daunting as it is functional. I look back his way, finding a random scrap to play with.
He already understands my strength, he already knows what I am. No one serves on a front in this war and fails to respect what a Valkinvar is. Much less one that is free to walk and pace, swing and reach. He might be holding up, but it's only a matter of time before he breaks to my will should I take the route.
"I'm no torturer... I'm not here to bleed you dry. Leave you screaming for the gods and goddesses or your mother should she still live. I am simply a curious soul." I explain, fiddling with the metal until I have it compressed into a crude imitation of a bean. He keeps his attention on me, his expression otherwise unyielding. Bar those little winces as the metal bends and screeches.
The unknown soldier scoffs, biting back whatever he might have on his mind, "Heretic..."
"Of course." I let out, rolling my eyes in disbelief at the very word coming from a mouth like his. As if he or anyone from his homeland has the right to speak such a word. The genuine faith of the world might still exist out there, beyond Waionr's Chosen Theocracy... But I know full well how predatory this faith regarding Jhrarda the Mighty is.
It's disturbing as it is disgusting.
"I have questions that you will answer." I tell him, finding a chair and dragging it over. My magic soaks the wood, granting it the strength to withstand my weight. I drop on to it, showing off that little trick regarding my power. It's hardly scary, though Thrurstradtur-Suhurlodst certainly enjoyed the display.
"I have no orders to give you... No words that will betray my oaths and honour!" he hisses, spitting for me again. I raise a palm faster than any bullet fired at me today. My magic catches and suspends the saliva. I flick a finger along my gauntlet, igniting some sparks into existence and painting the man's face.
"I'm not concerned about any of that. Despite the current circumstances... It is all irrelevant." I answer and the man breaks out into an uproar of laughter.
"WE HAVE YOU AT THE GATES! YOUR CITY WILL FALL!" he growls, howling some more with that cruelty he considers funny. I lean back, his words and actions having nothing but the lightest influences upon me. Hearing him is something I don't have a choice in, after all.
"What exactly is the 'Blood-Tax' and what are the ramifications of that banner we seized?" I asked, and the man shuts up, his face blank with confusion. He blinks again and again, settling into the process.
"The Blood Tax is the penal arm of the Royal Army of the Jhermonikra." he answers, his voice rather flat for all the character it had before.
"So I've gathered. And your part in it, given how different your gear is to those of your dead comrades?" I say, following his answer with another question. He sneers at my final word.
"Comrades? They're prisoners who owe His Lunar Majesty their blood for their crimes!" he lets out, his words bordering on an incomprehensible hiss.
"So you are some form of governmental attaché?" I ask, lingering on this distinct separation that he insists upon. Hating prisoners as an act is one thing, having a genuine hatred is another. Mortals can be quite cruel indeed when there's no one to stop them.
"I am a Field Warden." this man answers and a slight nod knocks my head back and forth. Quite apt in naming, at least. The troops are prisoners, so the officers are nothing more than tag-along wardens. Clever.
"The fact you are all prisoners and related is why you have lesser equipment?" I ask the Field Warden, and he scoffs as if it's obvious, basically answering for him. My lips stretch out into a line and I think back to Giant's Victory and my time there. Facing men like these Blood-Tax soldiers was the norm. Seeing men like this Field Warden in the distance was, too.
Then the Zaphadren-Valkinvar came with her plan, sending me out into a battle that almost killed me. Only, I did not fight anyone who wore the uniforms of these Blood-Tax soldiers there. No banners or similarities to be seen anywhere beyond the most basic and characterless. Nearly every battle since then has been those shadow-faced men.
"Which calendar do you follow?" I ask, focusing on the lost city of Giant's Victory.
"The Ecliptical...?" he answers and I shrug, clinging to the Deitic Calendar instead. Though I know of the Fourteen Moon Gods, I refuse to give credit to their names.
"About a decade ago, within that timeframe, anyway. All I ever encountered were men of your Blood-Tax penal units. Why was that?" I question, narrowing my eyes and bringing my head forward just so he can see them through my helmet. He gulps, leaning back and finding some sneerful confidence with it.
"Because that is what His Royal Majesty, the Prince Jhrartur ordered," he explains, though I am tempted to believe that there is so much more to it. I doubt I will get this information out of him. Still, this grand plan all circles back to that one man. That one sickly looking man on that airship.
"Mm." I let out, thinking back to whatever I can, however vague in my memory it now is. I do not recall ever hearing of shadow-faced men before my encounter with them at my last battle at Giant's Victory. They simply never existed up until that point. I only ever really saw the Blood-Tax soldiers until then...? The majority of the Royal Army of the Jhermonikra's troops, anyway.
A deception, perhaps? A series of unfortunate events? There are a fair few things to describe what happened back then. Perhaps it is as simple as the fact the south was the lightest front as far as the fighting was concerned. I never heard about the finer details because it was never needed. The lower intensity of the war in the south *was* because of the Blood-Tax focus there.
A means to shore up a battle-line without stretching the main force thin... We have done it here before. The Armies of the True Faith as they were generally called. Unofficial militia made up of fanatics and holy men.
Still, it's not really enough to say anything. The word of one so-called field warden with how grand the source is. But I suppose I can bring it up with someone back in the Great Temple of the Four-Winded Valkinvar. I'm sure I can find someone. At least a single voice to bounce a theory about while I try to gather what evidence I can.
My life these past few grand-cycles has left me an awful lot of time to think. Too much time to ponder and consider the details of this war. Though I might be able to occupy my body, my thoughts are a separate entity once it is all in place. I just can't shake this feeling, this primal thought that there is something terribly wrong with my home.
I still remember the sounds so clearly, my first encounter with an airship. It paralyzed me still back during the Siege of the Long Battery Fort. It terrified me in my time at Thrurstradtur-Suhurlodst. Even now, embers of such terror linger in me, waiting for the shields and walls of Thurn's Forge to fall. My mind has no trouble painting me a portrait of this grim future...
Me alone on a canvas of fire and smoke, alone and clothed in broken steel as Seven Peaks glare down onto me...
"So is this nonsense done or-" the Field Warden begins to ask and I interrupt him with my blade. I draw it back to my side and flick it clean of blood. The man slumps down in his chair, his head barely clinging together. My eyes narrow and I motion for an ironcoat to come over.
"Recover the Field Warden's gear, add it to our baggage train. I will return from my patrol when logistics comes back." I explain, magic already surrounding me and my person. He stiffens up, my words registering so slowly compared to me.
"Valkinvar-Imdvarce- WAIT!" he calls out, my sonic boom blocking out the world. I rise into the sky and dive for the immediate valley, hoping to clear my head of worries and woes. A lie can at least savour me here. An excuse to at least cut down a scout or two should they follow that vile Mighty Moon...