2 The Lady with Red Hair

Far west, in a land filled with magic, life, and power. A battle rages between two ideologies. Leaders of different regions clash over land and resources. All in the name of their gods they strike one another down little by little. However, with a banner risen high, depicting a face of an angel with closed eyes, the soldiers charge.

"AHHHHHH!" They all yell in unison, the clashing of sword on shield range fiercely into the air. Maces caving in plate armor, splintering arrows against shields, and the cries of men dying for their faiths. The view of the bloody carnage seemed to be like a dance of death. As soldier after soldier fell to the might of steel.

The words of magic seemed to cut through the air as it compressed and exploded a group of soldiers nearby. Another person cried out as someone yelled, "Advance! We will take Draval by high noon!" It didn't take much of inspiration as people hollered out in a victory roar.

One soldier, wielding a two-handed longsword, was cutting his way through soldier after soldier. His blade finding their mark and cutting deep wounds into his enemies. Thunderous booms here and there coming from the Mystics who joined the fight late. As the man held his longsword high in the air, he spoke a word, his weary voice from constant fighting called down the wrath of his god.

"Fall!" A streak of light came from his blade as he sliced through an enemy soldier's shield and down his shoulder to the hip. The defeated opponent crumpled to the ground in a heap of seared flesh. His blade heavy in his hands. Exhaustion setting in like the winds of winter. A horn sounded off somewhere as a flag of the soldier's order seemed to have risen inside the enemy's stronghold.

The opposition crumbled, some men kept fighting, but were put down with easy by the force of renewed vigor. Others, decided to concede and forfeit their weapons, giving up to hopefully save their lives. The soldier took off his helm as he watched his fellow men had won the fight.

His hair, a dirty blond as it was soaked in sweat and dirt. His eyes a brown with a purple hue, rare among human races. His skin was tough and weathered as if sand had chiseled his jawline and cheeks. He scratched his growing beard as it had been a while since he last shaved. It's blond color matted with dirt and sweat like his hair. He wiped his brow and sat down, for the fight was over.

"Cas!" A young man's voice called out, "Cassius, Sir!" Cassius, the soldier who took off his helm looked over to see a young squire. Brown hair, a youthful look in his eyes, and peppered with freckles across his face and arms. He wore light clothing in the heat, as Cassius wore plate armor.

"Sir, I am here to polish and clean your gear!" The boy's voice was slightly shrill. He must be almost seventeen years of age compared to Cassius' twenty six. His face cracked as he smiled. The battered warrior was dry and dirty, he needed a bath.

"Of course, what is your name Squire?" Cassius asked, his hand guiding the young man to his side.

"Henry sir, Henry Warren." Henry walked over following Cassius' hands. Taking a moment to stick his small hands under the armor Cassius wore. Unhooking the various pieces of heavy set armor. Henry struggles somewhat to get them off or lift the heavy pieces of armor such as the shoulder guards, and chest piece. It took roughly ten minutes to doff the armor allowing Cassius to breathe easier.

"Thank you Henry," he pulls out a portion of his rations, "here take some, for your hard work." Henry was at a moment of no words. Nodding, he graciously accepted the food as payment for his work. Sitting down tearing into a piece of the salted pork and rye bread. Pulling out a glass bottle of water with a cork at the top of the neck. A resounding "POP!" left the bottle's neck as he removed the cork.

Cassius leaned down and offered a prayer to his god, Rymnarian, the Far Seer, herald of the light of all worlds, and the one who shall cleanse the land of darkness. Or so Bishop Laurence claims. He may have took an oath to uphold the tenants of Rymnarian, but he has been following the Bishop's orders of taking villages and converting citizens to their god for almost six years.

"Praise by thy name, let your eyes pierce all who dwell in the dark. Grant your heavenly might and protection to the innocent and to your followers. Guide my way to the righteous path, to the land you call your home. Praise be, Rymnarian." After finishing his prayer he heard the gentlest of hymns ring in his ears. Filling him with strength, his wounds would begin to heal, and feeling the light pour across his skin like a cleansing sheet.

Henry watched, "Wow! That is amazing, Paladins are so amazing." He would grab a stick and slash it about, then realize what he was doing. "Uh... I-I am sorry Cassius Sir!" Cassius put a hand on Henry's head and smiled.

"I used to be like you when I was a squire. You'll have your chance someday, just don't lose sight of your ideals and trust your heart and the god you serve." Henry raised an eyebrow confused.

"Won't I be serving the same god though?" He asked, his face pondered what Cassius meant, "Would I follow Rymnarian like you?" Cassius shook his head, still smiling at the young man.

"Maybe, who knows who you'll be taking an oath under. You'll just know someday who you should follow. Even the gods themselves can choose you." What he was saying was something Laurence would be furious about. For Cassius was talking about a person following a different god other than the Prime God of the realm. The Bishop forbid anyone from talking about different gods to others. But to Cassius, he never harbored ill will towards any person or god.

The clopping of horse hooves in the dirt pulled his attention away from Henry. There stood three of the bishop's most faithful and devout followers. Dressed in white plate armor and red strips to accent the armor's design. A woman led the group, her name was Priscilla Von Cher, his superior in every way in the order. To her left was Devin Porter, an older man in his early fifties. To her right was a young woman, early twenties, with flowing red hair. Freckles on her cheeks, copper brown eyes, and a smile that would light up the day in its darkest of night.

She was Cassius' betrothed, his soon to be wife, and her name was Sarah Wyrmheart.

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