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      In Gaia, winter was only barely loosening its grip. Snowfall still occurred in sporadic bursts of white against otherwise clear blue skies. But out here, out here was the desert wasteland of Astalon. He and the rest of Legion XIV were to stay on course straight into Darlis Kesh, the industrial capital of Astalon, while Legions X, XI, XII and XIII attacked the official capital, Mabus Siiq. Other legions would attack the agricultural centers, the great farmlands. He was more than sure they'd light the fields aflame. A starving army had little chance against the Crusaders of Deus, especially now that they were fitted with the most advanced armor Aramis had ever seen: the Dark Armor.
      The Dark Armor was more than plated steel, riveted and jointed to allow for flexibility. Standing alone it was large, cumbersome, and heavy as lead. But once placed on the body it became as a second skin: pliable, soft, and malleable. Adorned, it was weightless, though one could feel a certain constriction in the limbs and extremities, forcing the blood inward to the torso and, thus, the vital organs. The Dark Armor was something given form in the huts of the blacksmiths, but given life in the Alchemists' towers.
      The Dark Spear tugged at his hip, pulling him down along the left side of his horse. Gone were the glorious quarter horses used in the previous Crusade. This time, the Church of Deus attained 20,000 Clydesdales, entirely black and with enough muscle to shame a pride of lions. Ten Legions of Crusaders adorned the new Dark Armor, while the older, more experienced warriors adorned the glimmering Mythril armor of Crusades past. He'd preferred that armor much more. It wasn't as heavy as the Dark Armor, not as threatening. And, most of all, it didn't seem to feed off of his anger, his resentment, or, worst of all encourage it. Every time a negative emotion rose in the pit of his chest, he felt the armor tighten, and adrenaline being force-fed into his veins. It made him want to fight.
      Brilliant alchemists. Exceptional Black Magicians. Those the Church of Deus had damned were funded by the Desuits themselves to produce this armor. What sweet irony in this iron skin.
      In the distance he could see tendrils of black smoke curling into the sky. Darlis Kesh was finally in sight.
      An armored hand raises into the air, fingers tightened into fists. Company halt. They'd camp here for the night. The order is given to dismount. Aramis obeys, and so do the other soldiers in a riotous mating call of metal clangs and thuds as leaden feet crash back to earth. The soldiers shed their second skins and breathe a collective sigh of relief that resonates through the Legion. They'll camp here for the night. Time to put up the tents: night will bring bitter cold. It always does in Astalon.
      He shares his tent with four other soldiers: Izzlude Durai, of North Usugaar Fort City. Henrii Leich of Teehs, Aramis' own hometown. Quentinn Yagger, of Shaambleau. And Nestor Haleman of Goddess-only-knows-where. A "half-breed," like Aramis. Not good enough to give equal rights, but good enough to fight and die for Goddess and country.
      The armor is off now. He crawls inside of the tent with the four others. He's not so afraid to feel anymore; the damned armor is stockpiled outside in great jagged heaps. It can't feed off of his emotions from there. He draws his knees up to his chest and rests his forehead upon them, arms wound around them tight. Finally, he feels safe enough to cry.
((If I ever do decide to publish these, you're all getting free copies. mad heart ))
 Bleeding Apocalypse · Mon Mar 05, 2007 @ 05:47pm · 3 Comments |
