Base 1: The Holy Warrior-Bride

The guns of the city wall volley and thunder beneath my steps. Out between the desolated mountain landscape, men die in erupting flashes of black, fiery smoke. I offer no semblance of prayer to anyone in this chaotic killing field. I only watch the results as those I will pray for shoot them down with righteous, divine fury.

Coming to a stop, I lightly put my hands on the battlements and lean into the motion. Despite the roar of the guns warning me of what is happening below, I remain detached. My strength, the complexity of the design and the thickness of the walls keep me still. The men contrast me with stumbles and shakes as the deafening booms bring tremors into the stone.

My duty is to these men, my fellow soldiers, however, my obligation keeps my eyes on the heretics. But, my focus is wavering and I'm struggling to keep it in the face of this evident victory. The heretics with their relentless, shortsighted charges have made it near-effortless. Unfortunately, many die quick deaths and it's detestable, but the God of Death and the God of War, my beloved, do not see it this way.

It is more than their unbelieving hides deserve, frankly.

These men, these soldiers if I can truly call them that, this Royal Army of the Jhermonikra are a distasteful lot. I resent them and everything they were, are and will ever be. They march for a vast, storied nation yet they do not seem to respect that fact. Looking down, I can see the pride for my country, its faithful people and my future husband on my armour.

Fine etchings and artistic passion and these heretics have none of it, there is nothing.

They are little more than a featureless horde to me because of it. Tearing, grey cloth and dull steel, that is all they have. Yet, as a bride-to-be of Honourable War, Lord Waionr, I make my pride in him and myself apparent. My steel plate is decorated with his visage, his word and glory, finely polished without flaw.

They have nothing, their only custom is to die en masse!

Ever since I first arrived at the front, it has always been like this. A pitiful waste of life that is yet to be large enough to pay for even this lone wall, let alone one brick of it. It makes me wonder what these armoured, giants with towering shields in the distance hope to achieve. The heretics are begging them to do something, but with heavy blows from club and mace, they are driven towards us.

I can only presume the details of what is going on out there. As for all my power as a member of the Ordoar Imdvarce, I cannot hear them. The sounds of war are far too boisterous to ignore. All I can do is rely on my eyes to make out the incomplete story that this battle so bloodily assails.

Though, they are more than enough to make out the signs of imminent devastation. Scaring one man into fleeing doesn't mean much, but when he runs into another and their eyes meet... Terror starts and it cascades. The so-called army devolves into a howling horde of men and boys.

However, up here couldn't be any more different if the good men of my country try. They sing of victory and their weapons grow cold and quiet. The interior of the wall follows suit and the air starts to clear of smoke as our cautious awareness vanishes. Some try to argue for further bloodshed and they turn to me for encouragement, but, I offer no answer.

Considering my departure at first, I spot an odd sight in the corner of my eye.

Tens of thousands of heretics are retreating to safety further down the dangerously straight valley. In the middle of them, a thousand others defy the consensus and keep on marching for us. Like the officers being swarmed, this sturdy-hearted thousand cut down any who stumble too close. Sabres flash bare with blood in their shimmering images.

They grab my attention to the fullest and murmurs sound off either side of my womanly person. These men remind me of the defiant mountains from long ago when the land was once flooded. No matter what happened around the mountain, it stayed tall and strong. Just like them, the men keep marching on, failing to blend in with their kin.

Slashing their way into the open, they become all the more distinct!

There's no tatty cloth with sporadic pieces of rusty plating. Only near-full suits of well-polished armour with tidy, bright green uniforms underneath. Defining themselves further against those who flee, I feel magic come to the fore. Suddenly, what I'm seeing is redefined by a grand, vibrant display of similar colours coming out like a ship's sails.

It's nearly enough to amaze me, but, realising the sinister implications of the far-flung visage, my mind turns hectic. With their pride in front of them, we are bound by honour and piety to not attack them directly. Nowhere in the walls are our guns firing in fear of Waionr's wrath or mine. Our gun crews are alive, but paralyzed.

"To intentionally strike at the pride of your opponent when he only leads his fellows is to invite defeat upon your army if you command it. Death, if you only serve it." I partially recite, quietly, as the top of the wall comes back to life.

Informal troops rush up to man the wall with their toplocks. Pop-like sounds fill the air rapidly and heretics start to fall dead once more. To my shock, the answer is not always one viciously frail ball from our weapons. Many of these strange soldiers keep marching on, staggering back only slightly as their armour is pierced. Very few take less than three shots to fall.

Thankfully, it is just a delay before the inevitable catches up for the rest of them.

Calming down from the initial rush of this strange occurrence, I once again am tempted to leave. And, I start to, taking one step towards the stairs as alien light erupts on my left. A soldier screams in pain and turns silent as the warbling glowing trails he becomes turn into a strange, bluish mist. Instantly, I snap back to my prior position and lean over the walls as I sense something stranger.

The amount is decreasing, but still, clear gulps of magic are being expunged right after to lethal effect!

"Impossible..." I utter as my hand shoots towards the grip of my sword. I do not move any further and inaction grips me. My bewildering curiosity keeps me in place and I stare.

They have pride in what they are and have weapons, unlike anything I have ever seen before. To my knowledge, nothing like this should even exist, not even in my home nation which I am defending. My armour is enchanted with powerful quantities of magic as is my great runed sword. The troops I serve with are similar, if much weaker.

But these heretics, these soldiers, they have magic-fed weapons, actual magic weaponry!

This should be beyond them as it is nothing like what they came at us with before. All across the cratered land is proof of this with cheap swords, spears, pikes, axes and other things everywhere in the bloody churn. Further up the valley are their abandoned guns, a collection of assorted but universally crude and simple designs.

Nothing like this, nothing as terrifying as this... Shaking my head clear of doubt and inaction, I prepare to leap for the enemy.

Stopping again, a calming presence overtakes the battlefield high above. Soft, jingling decorations alert us to where and we look. My eyes widen as a beautiful woman floats by. Her movement a chariot of her own breezing power glowing so brilliantly from her ornate staff.

"Valkinvar-Imdvarce, allow me." the Valkinvar of the True-Emerald Wind of all people tells me as she heads towards the enemy. My eyes widen instantly in disbelief.

Sweeping her free arm along her side, a gust of sparkling wind magic comes for the soldiers. The power is so pure and the spell so precise that a mere wrist flick is all she needs to wipe them out. A thousand men. Sighing in relief, I release the stagnant grip I have on my sword and watch the blood pool up. Once clean and proud Unondsburic emerald and lunar gold colours drape over the fallen soldiers.

A corrupted sense of purpose is found as red creeps into the carefully woven fabric...

Worries turn to awe and my focus returns to her. In the sky just ahead, she floats on still winds. Turning towards me, she comes towards the battlements. As she does so, I can't help but ponder as I take a final glance at the dead.

They had to have been mercenaries of some kind, surely?

Once my superior lands on the edges of the wall, however, my focus and priorities change, "Zaphadren-Valkinvar Gemorli, can I help you?"

"You may, Valkinvar-Imdvarce." she answers and she offers her hand to me halfway through.

With great eagerness, I take her soft, bejewelled hand and gently guide her down in her final steps. In the moment of quiet that follows, I enviously look over her beauty which is only more apparent near the expressions of men. My trained eyes are not needed to appreciate her looks. But, to appreciate that which truly matters, her most iconic feature, someone might need eyes like mine.

Her long and flowing hair.

Divided into four tails with the help of ornate bands, each one is more than simply a different colour. All of it is shown with pride, with our native colour of emerald, the shade of a breezing star, a first amongst equals consisting of sapphire blue, lightning gold and ruby red. Wind magic, water, lightning and fire. An exceptionally rare talent with mastery of not only our land's power but three foreign ones as well!

"Will you walk with me, Valkinvar-Imdvarce?" she asks, much to my shock. I am not worthy of this honour... Me, a mere Valkinvar of the Ordoar Imdvarce, not even blessed with the right to be a part of a full wing. I am a shamefully lone fighter of our esteemed people, I-

"O-Of course, Zaphadren-Valkinvar Gemorli." I answer with a quick but clear display of respect. Trembling ever so slightly next to her, her practically glowing iris' notice. This great power of hers oppresses unintentionally, as is its right for being so immense.

"Please, we are both Valkinvar." she tells me with a subdued giggle as she dismisses my gesture before heading for the stairs.

The distinct sounds of her staff and attire dive into my ears as she moves forward with peerless grace. The decorations of it and her staff jingle and rattle whilst the main body makes unique, lingering thuds. The heavier sound of my armour might as well be a blunt instrument in comparison. Nowhere is this difference more noticeable than at our feet where her sandals leave behind taps and my sabatons bang on the stone.

From the top of the stairs, as she walks down them, I more closely inspect what she is wearing. Unlike my equally decorated, heavy plate, she is wearing flowing robes made from a mixture of white and shades of silver. Pieces of thin armour are about it as well in both key places and as purely decorative installations in others. To top it all off, the mastery of her magic is such that she can create an almost ethereal quality about herself.

Something I lack as I am both young and feeble for what we both are... Valkinvar.

Still, I am exceptionally happy just to be allowed to spend even a brief moment with her, given who she is. Though, I do not find myself smiling regardless of how joyous I am to be near her. Instead, I'm doubting myself and my right to be here for I am nothing in comparison. Her steps are precise and her clothes are flowing, mine are heavy, noisy, stiff and clunky.

It's all by intentional design, but, I can't help but feel inadequate.

"So tell, me, what is your name, Valkinvar-Imdvarce?" she asks once I reach the bottom of the stairs. Clearing my head, I prepare to answer the strangely daunting question.

"...Vapooliar, Zaphadren-Valkinavr Gemorli. My name is Vapooliar." I almost mumble as shakes strike me deep. I guess it does not matter if I am quiet or not. With that much power, she can easily hear a whisper a mountain range away. However strong she truly is, though, my answer leaves her pondering with a finger near her glossy lips. She smirks.