[Garreg Mach Monastery carries another reputation in these years, no longer the holy sanctuary of academic learning it once was. Now, it is a graveyard, its still-standing stone foundation the haunted tomb where the dead remain unburied. Only the most desperate would try their chances raiding this territory on rumor the Monastery might yet contain valuables—or, for the truly destitute, caches of food enough to feed an army. Those who trespass do not return, except on the rarest occasion of luck; such survivors carry fanatical reports of a one-eyed demon at the heart of the premises, some deranged creature half-animal and half-man and as bloodthirsty as both.
The reality is much less fantastical, but not any kinder.
Dimitri is unmoved when he sees the colored banners of the Imperial army breach the forested edge of the territory from one of the Monastery's higher battlements. It is not the first time they've sought to investigate this area, out of ignorance or otherwise, and he suspects it will not be the last. This suits him fine. As many as must be killed, he will kill, drenching the soil in their rotten blood until the stench drives even the smallest animals in the brush further away.
He waits for the cover of night, after the sun has burned its pale warmth out of sight, then descends the fortified castle into the wilderness surrounding it, no more than a black shape passing into the trees. Perhaps the stealth is unnecessary; he'd counted nine heads from his vantage earlier, an amount that might have daunted a normal warrior but less than he has confronted on his own by now. Still, Imperial soldiers are better trained than bandits and petty criminals. And he must live yet, even against his own will.
Picking off the men individually—sometimes two, three at once—and driving them into a confused scatter, Dimitri's assault begins and ends in the dark. He saves the general for last. And he is dully impressed, because he has been stabbed once in the shoulder and heavily battered through his blood-painted armor by the retaliation. The soldiers are led well.
Perhaps it is no real surprise, then, to see Sylvain when he comes to finish it, his childhood friend mounted on horseback, regal and proud, red hair a bright spot in the shadow. Dimitri slows to a stop. He plants Areadbhar in the dirt, and leans on the shaft, glaring levelly, as numb to the steady pain in his shoulder as he is to the sick twist of his stomach. His voice rasps with disuse.]
@diq
The reality is much less fantastical, but not any kinder.
Dimitri is unmoved when he sees the colored banners of the Imperial army breach the forested edge of the territory from one of the Monastery's higher battlements. It is not the first time they've sought to investigate this area, out of ignorance or otherwise, and he suspects it will not be the last. This suits him fine. As many as must be killed, he will kill, drenching the soil in their rotten blood until the stench drives even the smallest animals in the brush further away.
He waits for the cover of night, after the sun has burned its pale warmth out of sight, then descends the fortified castle into the wilderness surrounding it, no more than a black shape passing into the trees. Perhaps the stealth is unnecessary; he'd counted nine heads from his vantage earlier, an amount that might have daunted a normal warrior but less than he has confronted on his own by now. Still, Imperial soldiers are better trained than bandits and petty criminals. And he must live yet, even against his own will.
Picking off the men individually—sometimes two, three at once—and driving them into a confused scatter, Dimitri's assault begins and ends in the dark. He saves the general for last. And he is dully impressed, because he has been stabbed once in the shoulder and heavily battered through his blood-painted armor by the retaliation. The soldiers are led well.
Perhaps it is no real surprise, then, to see Sylvain when he comes to finish it, his childhood friend mounted on horseback, regal and proud, red hair a bright spot in the shadow. Dimitri slows to a stop. He plants Areadbhar in the dirt, and leans on the shaft, glaring levelly, as numb to the steady pain in his shoulder as he is to the sick twist of his stomach. His voice rasps with disuse.]
So our reunion arrives at last.