#(also excuse any typos i'll probably re-re-edit it i get into a writing frenzy sometimes)

[mistdrinkersblade]

Culmination

It’s time.

The heavy winds of Zadnor’s plains whipped his hair back harshly. Sand and dirt and ash beat against his clothes, but it didn’t bother him for a moment. Syla was ready. Nothing and no one could deny him this moment.

In the past few weeks, Syla had spent what time he had to spare amongst the members of Bozja’s resistance. Though at first it seemed like a far fetched dream, their movement had gone from a torch in the night to a roaring blaze. Fighters and supporters from nations all around rose up to aid their cause: stopping the Garlean Empire’s defected IVth Legion. Everything, every single moment, had led up to this. To this fruition.

The heavy leather armor he sported, a gift from “Bajsaljen Ulgasch, was designed to mimic the look of Bozjan aesthetics. And though it wasn’t his homeland, Syla proudly wore them. The large gunblade clipped to his back was another, but this one carried far more significance. It was a symbol of freedom and liberation to be driven directly into the IV Legion’s heart.

Syla stopped approach, turning his head for just a brief moment to see his allies. A small menagerie of fighters, of all creeds and races, had banded together behind him. As their goal loomed in the distance: the Dalriada. The IV Legion’s gargantuan airship, now permanently grounded thanks in part to the resistance’s clever plot. The hulking behemoth smoking from their attack as its crew could be seen scrambling like ants. Clearly preparing for a fight. And one was certainly on the horizon. Just as he was about to give the order to march, Syla’s ears picked up something. Footsteps. Armored ones. And all stepping in rhythmic unison.

He knew what was coming. It was him. He was here.

Without a second thought, Syla quickly drew his gunblade as several of his fighters prepared their weapons as well. The wind storm had kicked up so much dust it was obscuring their view of the path ahead. Only the sound of boots marching in unison growing louder face any indication. So in turn, he decided to make the first move.

“GABRANTH!”

His voice carried as hard as he could make it, throat straining from the volume of his shout. He wanted to be heard. He had to be heard. To shout above the raging wind for all to hear and to convince himself he was ready. It all came down to this moment. “COME OUT, YOU COWARD! FIGHT ME!”

It was now. This was the culmination of four summers. Four summers since that night.

-

“So. You’re the one causing all of this noise. And for what?”

The man’s voice almost rattled from inside of his helmet as he stared the pair of viera down. The halls of Castrum Valnaini were empty, save for the three men in the armory. Syla Mistdrinker, one of the Dalmascan resistance fighters who had made a name for himself recently. Vali, one of his companions, a tall and slender black mage with flowing silvery hair.

And Legatus of the IVth Legion, Noah van Gabranth.

Having been fed up with Lente's Tears’s indirect tactics as of late, Syla and a few of the more impatient members had concocted a scheme of sorts. Rather than starve the beast from their homeland, they preferred to cut the head off. An assassination of the sitting ruler, Grabanth. Even though it had been in violence of direct orders from their superior, they took matters into their own hands. Fran might have been furious when they returned, but that might be cushioned if they presented the Legatus’ helmet.

But things were different now. Face to face with the man who held the entire country by iron grip, and the two men of twenty summers could do naught but almost quake in their boots. His sleek, intimidating armor deterred them for only a moment before Syla spoke up. “Noah van Gabranth, we are here. To make you pay. For everything you’ve done to Dalmasca, you must answer with your life!”

And with that, the young viera charged at Gabranth, wildly swinging his axe at him in an almost supernatural frenzy. But it was short lived, as Gabranth’s quick swordplay quickly and easily deflected the oncoming axe to the floor. A few chunks of stone leaping into the air as Syla’s axe smashed into them, only to be swung back around. His companion, Vali, gripping his staff tight to unleash a rain of fire on the armored man, but almost seemed to have no impact. It was going to be a long, long night.

-

“Come now, is that truly the best you have to offer? I had thought you wanted to kill me.”

Gabranth stood poised and elegant, pointing one of his twin swords at the pair of viera. Mere moments of combat with someone so skilled had felt like entire eons.. “I will admit, boys. You show promise, you show skill. And most importantly, you show potential.” The echo of his voice from inside of his helmet drove Syla mad, but he could do nothing but guard himself as he panted. He had exhausted almost all of his strength trying to kill him, again and again. But he had only done so much as dent the Legatus’ armor.

Blood dripping from his face as he cupped it, one of Gabranth’s sword strikes had cut deep into his left cheek. “B...bastard…” Syla huffed, trying to take one more swing, which was deflected yet again. “But no discipline! You charge in alone, with little allies to cause distraction. And for what? To kill me? You should know better. You should know your limits. And you now will pay the price for such steep arrogance.”

The clanking of armor echoing as the Legatus moved in closer, weapons poised for one final strike down. That was, until, a brilliant flash of light filled the room. Vali, having fished out a small, makeshift bomb he had concocted earlier, smashed it on the ground. A loud, high pitched boom and a flash of light filled the room as the black mage grabbed Syla by his arm. “Move. Now!” He nearly screamed at him as he scrambled to his feet.

Half leaning on his friend, Syla grunted as he hoisted to his feet. He could only turn his head to see Gabranth growing smaller in the distance, attempting to recover from the blinding bomb. The redheaded viera could do nothing but try to keep up and shudder. He was bloodied. He was worn. He was fighting back tears and anger and unbridled rage. The Mistdrinker had failed.

-

“Now, that’s not a very nice thing to say, lad. Say, where’s your manners?”

Syla’s memories shattered in an instant. He had gotten distracted, but no more. The viera’s head shot up once he heard that voice. No. No, no no. It couldn’t be.

As the opposing group finally marched out of the storm, the viera’s eyes settled on the front figure. His leather gloves gripped to the handle of his weapon so tight they both sounded like they threatened to break. Syla gritted his teeth to the point for a moment he feared he might break one. His anger and fear swelled up for a moment and then sank along with his heart all in an instant.

Standing where the IVth Legion’s Legatus should have been standing was the older hyur man. Lyon rem Helsos.

“Expecting someone else? Sorry to piss in your tea, lad.” Lyon spoke up, the Pilus prior cocking his head to one side and then the other. His hand on his hip as if he were having casual conversation. And with two dozen imperial soldiers standing behind him, weapons at the ready. Syla took an instinctive step forward, which caused a number of Lyon’s soldiers to almost spring into action. And they might have, were it not for the Beast King’s hand jutting outward as if to say “Stay where you are. Or else.”

“Where is he? Where’s Grabanth, Helsos?” Syla barked at the older man, he couldn’t hide the anger in his face. His demand causing a laugh from Lyon as he casually picked at his teeth for a moment. Was he taking any of this seriously?!

The hyur picked his head back up with a smug look as he gestured back towards Syla standing opposite. “You see, our dear Noah is a very busy man. So busy in fact, that he couldn’t even make it. Had to oversee something back allll the way in Dalmasca.”

“LIAR!” Syla wailed, almost lurching forward for a moment as he interrupted Lyon’s speech. The fire burning in his eyes only focused on the older man instead. His outburst only earned a sneer from the Beast King, who in turn laughed heartily. “Oh, full of rage today, are we? Don’t worry, lil’ rabbit. I’ll still play with you!” With a hefty grunt, Lyon swung his axe over his shoulder and loudly cracked his neck as he jerked his head side to side. “After all, I do still owe you for Lacus Litore. And what you did to my precious beasts.” He stared at Lyon in long, angered silence for what felt like days. Gabranth...isn’t here? He’s not here? No, that’s. That’s impossible. He’s lying. He’s lying…

“E-Even if he’s not….” Syla grunted, stammering on his words at first as he tried to compose himself. He couldn’t show weakness, not to anyone. “We have a goal to accomplish today. You can either surrender yourself to us. Or…” He grunted, pointing his gunblade towards the hyur in front of him. “I can beat you to bloody consciousness and drag your senile old body back to put your arse on trial! And that’s if I don’t feel like cutting an old man down where he stands right now!”

The hatred and acid in Syla’s words fell on Lyon’s ears, making the old man grin wicked. This was what he was waiting for. Not some skirmish against a few untrained men. But a worthy, challenging opponent. This was what the Beast King craved. Waving his axe in return, Lyon clicked his tongue and shifted his stance. No more playing around, from either of them. Without a moment’s passing, Syla sprung forth off of one heel, launching himself like a bullet towards the hyur.

Lyon, in return, mimicked his movements and the two clashed. Metal against metal, gunblade against axe, as their weapons met and the two men poured their strength into the struggle. The groups behind each of them took that as a signal and began their attack, a skirmish breaking out around the Beast King and the Mistdrinker.

The assault on the Dalriada was about to begin. Bozja’s fate hung by a single thread. And a new chapter in history would soon have its bloody start.