The Rebel Faction

Dawn

The paved road eventually gave way to a rough-cut mountain path. Regrad, bound in a simple white robe and clutching a carved walking stick, followed the dark twists and turns that moved around some of the smaller peaks between the tower and the city.

At last reaching the outskirts of Az, Regrad stopped again to take in the city in the pre-dawn gloom. It looked different this close - he could see the traditional stone-carved Azguardian dwellings crowding around the base of the sparkling new towers. The dark outline of the ancient Pantheatic Temple, its’ surface unadorned with artificial lights, was visible as a black blob granted a place of honour in the heart of Az. Even on the streets he could see individual Azguardians about their business.

Regrad continued his trek, passing under the ancient gate of the city left from the ancient city. He stopped under the arch to glance at the faded bronze plaque, written upon it the same message as was originally carved on the gate during times of forgotten war.

The inscription was quite illegible to the modern Azguardians, but it was still faithfully reinscribed by each subsequent generation, as they had been instructed by the previous one to do so. Regrad smiled and wondered, as so many of his forefathers had done, just what the inscription actually said. It didn’t seem to matter to most - only that it was carefully copied down and replaced as the bronze degraded over time.

Leaving behind this ancient boundary, Regrad approached a modern one. The edge of the city was marked simply as where the city street stopped. Simple dwellings carved from the living rock generations ago lined the street, and though most residents still slept there were a few out and about. Mostly those with business - deliverers of news, workers of the city - but a few citizens were simply early wakers. Perhaps they too liked to see the dawn, Regrad mused.

He reached the road and heard a satisfying thud as his walking stick tapped against it. So too did the citizens in the street, who turned to look his way. Regrad smiled and waved as he passed. Without his robes of state, he was just another traveler.

With no clear plan in mind, Regrad wandered his way down the street, glancing at the simple stone homes to either side. They were squat domes, the glass windows and wooden doors having been replaced many times along with the generations of residents. Faded banners and flags, flaking paintings, carvings worn smooth with time, all these decorated the little houses and showed the mark of countless previous generations.

As his vision rose above these homes to the distant spires of stone and steel, Regrad was once more reminded of how new the ‘modern’ Azguard was. Kilometers of the traditional old town still lay between him and the city center, spread out before him like a beautifully-woven carpet.

It was as he admired these sights that the sound of a distant siren grew louder and louder. Waking from his brief reverie, Regrad hustled down the street towards the disturbance.

Rounding a bend in the twisting cobblestone road, Regrad saw an ambulance speeder lying crooked atop the street, its’ siren and lights breaking the peace of morning. Regrad joined a growing crowd of onlookers who came out of their homes in bed robes, all puzzled at what was going on.

The crowd of Azguardians gathered around the cab of the speeder, where two uniformed paramedics were desperately trying to start the speeder’s repulsorlift. “What’s the problem here?” said Regrad, as he elbowed his way to the front of the crowd.

The driver, who was looking increasingly anxious, looked up from the control panel and blurted out “The repulsor just... stopped!”

“What do you mean stopped?”

“We’re trying to get this woman to a hospital when all of a sudden the speeder just stops and lands, like nothing’s wrong!” said the driver, nervously glancing at the other faces of the crowd. “I tried starting it again, but it’s not working! They didn’t tell me what to do if the speeder breaks down!”

A small panel on the back wall of the ambulance cab opened, and an Azguardian man’s head poked through. “What’s the holdup? My wife’s about to give birth back here!”

“Oooh, congradulations!” said one of the less bright crowd members. Regrad shot him a sideways glance before turning back to the driver.

“Okay, does anyone here know anything about speeders?”

“They fly,” said another crowd member in a painfully helpful voice.

Regrad sighed. “Never mind. Move over, I’ll handle this.”

Pushing the driver over to the passenger seat, Regrad got in and yanked off a panel in the driver’s footwell, where a maze of wires and mechanisms were cradled. “Looks just like the models we used on Krakken IV,” he muttered to himself as he sifted through the wiring before grabbing a loose connection and ramming it into place.

The speeder immediately lifted off, sending the nearby crowd scattering for safety. “Hold on,” Regrad cautioned, as he slammed on the accelerator and sent them hurtling down the street.

A moment later, Regrad remembered that he didn’t actually know where they were going. “Okay, so where’s the nearest hospital?” He glanced over at the driver, who’d seemed to have frozen up with panic. “Focus, man! We don’t have time for this.”

An immediate change seemed to come over the driver, something Regrad recognized from years of leading his people into danger. Becoming calmer and more aware, the driver replied “Take a left up ahead, past three more intersections, then a right until we reach the hospital. Can’t miss it.”

“Good,” Regrad replied, slamming the accelerator again.

A few hard turns later and they were pulling up outside the area hospital. Though the majority of the old town was traditional, the gift of modern medical science had been wisely embraced, and the hospital itself was a modern construction of permacrete and durasteel. Pulling up in front of the emergency wing, a team of Azguardians in smocks rushed to the back of the speeder, unloading the soon-to-be mother and father and rushing them into the ER.

Regrad gave an approving nod to the driver, who returned it. A moment later, the driver seemed to return to normal as his regular self reasserted control, and immediately fainted. Regrad stepped out of the speeder and on to the sidewalk.

“Excuse me, sir,” said one of the smocked Azguardians, as he approached Regrad. “The doctor taking care of Mr. and Mrs. Fio asked if you could wait to see him once he’s done with their case.”

The horizon was visibly brightening, turning lighter and lighter shades of grey. Having nothing more pressing on the agenda, Regrad nodded, and allowed himself to be guided to the waiting room.

There he sat for a half hour, fidgeting uncomfortably on plastic chairs and glancing with disinterest at the magazines scattered around the table. Azguardians hadn’t really grasped the media of the galaxy too well - even the concept of a periodical took some figuring out, as many concluded that releasing the same book every month was wasteful. As such, the only thing on offer were galactic tabloids and news a good week behind what Regrad already knew.

What he did notice, however, was a Kraz secretary sitting in the little booth. Being smaller than humans, short and stocky Kraz were diminuitive by Azguardian standards. The squat, pale, and hairy humanoid could just barely see over his desk, squinting at Regrad with beady little eyes.

“Can I help you?”

“No, I’m just fine,” said Regrad, who sighed. “You’d think they’d have adjusted your office for the size disparity.”

“You lot aren’t known for your thinking ahead,” the secretary replied with a chuckle. “When’s the last time you’ve seen an Azguardian with the patience to sit still for twelve hours?”

An isolated military lab on the burning desert sands of Kubindi, fending off terrorist drone soldiers. Of course, he didn’t say that. The Kraz had a right and reputation to be a little bold, and he probably had a point. A large number of the actual doctors and technicians he saw walking around were in fact aliens - Azguardians generally made poor doctors.

As if to emphasize this point, the doors to the waiting room opened and a Frozian in a grey lab coat stepped through. “Ah, Mr. prime minister, what an honour. Some people say all Azguardians look alike, but I’d be a fool if I couldn’t recognize you.”

“You’re the first,” said Regrad, getting to his feet and sparing a nod to the shocked secretary. “What was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

“I knew once Mr. and Mrs. Fio figured out who their last-minute rescuer was, they wouldn’t forgive themselves if they didn’t get a chance to thank you.” Gesturing towards the open door, he added. “Go see them yourself.”

“Er...” Slightly taken aback, Regrad paused before the doorway. “You think I should just go say... hello?”

“The man who speaks with emperors afraid to talk to new parents?” teased the doctor, who grinned from ear to ear. “I’m sure they just want to say thanks.”

Regrad stepped through the door into the hallway beyond, where a single room lay open. He approached it by degrees, inching out of the shadows towards the little island of light, where an Azguardian couple sat together, peering at their new offspring.

So engrossed were they by their newborn that Regrad was practically standing next to them before the couple noticed. He smiled as their faces lit up, feeling at least a little less out of place.

Without saying a word, the mother extended the little tightly-wrapped bundle of cloth towards him. With the upmost delicacy, Regrad took the small bundle and looked into the face of the newborn Azguardian. It was small, so small by the standards of a race of giants. His eyes had not yet opened, the only movement being the narrow nostril slits flaring.

It was then that the sunrise chose to finally make an appearance, bathing the room in blinding golden light as the top of the disc pierced the horizon. Regrad squinted into the light, blinking rapidly as his sight slowly returned to him.

It was the dawn of a new day.

Noon

It was the sound of drums that next drew the wandering Regrad along the winding city streets. The rhythms were familiar, even if the memory itself was distant. His feet marched along with the beat, as they once had years ago, before war and suffering.

The beat managed to carry him all the way to the main street that cut through the city. Even here, far from the center of Az, the buildings became more modern and advanced along the side of the great road. The sidewalks were packed with Azguardians young and old, watching as a parade came marching down the street.

Regrad gently made his way through the crowd in order to watch the procession. Dozens of Azguardians marched, huge wooden drums hanging from leather shoulder straps, drums which they beat enthusiastically to create the familiar sounds of an Azguardian war-chant.

After the drummers came the troops - or would-be troops, at least. The crowd cheered as a fresh wave of recruits for the Azguardian Galactic Military made their wobbly way down the street.

Regrad felt his back stiffen as he observed their slovenly ‘parade march’, noting no two Azguardians in step with one another. They had been given the plain robes of a recruit, each in the dull colour of their birth tribe, but most had rolled up the sleeves or tied it off at the waist to spare them the midday heat. Who were these young men and women who would think themselves soldiers?

Near the middle, however, there was one who marched with quick and clean military precision. Despite being the only one doing so, he could somehow march in step with himself. His uniform was so crisp light refracted off of it. He was a White Knight, although Regrad realized he didn’t recognize him - strange, considering he had been on hand to train the first batch of knights.

Still, his disciplined attitude didn’t seem to be rubbing off on the younger soldiers, who followed in his wake as a blob. Most were too busy waving to the crowds of their neighbours and families, drinking in their cheers with a glassy-eyed, dazed expression.

“So young,” Regrad muttered to no one in particular. “Do we send mere children to war these days?”

“The crusade against evil is an honour,” said an old Azguardian standing next to Regrad. The bald and wizened old man beamed with pride as the would-be soldiers strolled by. “If only we could all go forth and fight for the prophecy.”

It was an act of supreme willpower that Regrad didn’t merely reach out and strangle the old fool right then and there. His rage was self-defeating, however, for Regrad knew this was still the common view. Even as he watched, banners with crudely drawn religious iconography were hoisted next to poorly-copied Coalition symbols, waved by the young and old with expressions of naive innocence about the absurdity of their statement.

How far removed was he from his people that he could sit and watch, and rage like this at their unconditional love, their infinite trust? Where was the skepticism, the doubt, the frustration that he had come to expect? That they should, by all rights, have developed?

Watching the people cheer and stomp their feet to the drum beat, Regrad saw no trace of his own misgivings. They cheered as happily as they did the first time their sons and daughters were called off to distant war, and no disaster abroad or defeat in battle seemed to dull their enthusiasm for charging headlong into the meatgrinder that was the galaxy.

Feeling that he could stand and watch no longer, Regrad left the crowd and joined the march, falling in step with the knight at the beginning of the road.

“Good day to you,” said Regrad, extending his hand.

The knight shook it firmly, pulling up the visor of his white helmet. “And good day to you, sir. It’s an honour to meet you.”

“What’s your name, soldier?” Regrad asked, trying hard to remember his face.

“Gorab, sir. I trained under Yakabe.”

Regrad’s eyes widened. “Yakabe? I remember him from the beginning. Odd fellow, tended to blink a lot when he was stressed.”

“Uh... yeah, that’s the guy.” Gorab chuckled a bit. “So I’m in charge of helping to whip these young ‘uns into shape. Not the best crop we’ve ever had, but I’m sure a few months getting to know their inner killer and they’ll be right as rain.”

“Do they even understand what’s being asked of them yet?”

“Does anyone?”

There was a scar running down the middle of Gorab’s face, one Regrad hadn’t noticed before. Gorab noticed Regrad’s examination and flashed a smile. “Pirates off of Loraire. Tried to split my head in two, but his vibroaxe got caught in my neck-guard. Not before he sunk it a good quarter-inch into my face, of course.”

“So you’ve got some experience? Good. Maybe you can knock some sense into these kids.”

“I’ll knock ‘em about all the same, see if it helps.”

The procession was clearing it’s way away from the residential area and towards an open flatland of stone. Built upon the flatland was what looked like a temple, but was really a recruitment center - well, really, it was sort of a temple. Maybe both?

A broad, round structure with sweeping stone spires sat alone on the expanse of ground. Docking supports ringed the top of the building to allow small ships and speeders to latch on, but these were fresh constructions. Instead, the eye was drawn to the symbols of Jarl - dead god of war. Recruits were gathered in their hundreds, perhaps even their thousands, so that they overflowed from the open doors of the center.

To either side stood huge steel figures. They looked like statues, perhaps comemorating war heroes of a forgotten age, but Regrad recognized them as the mechanized combat suits the Azguardians used in war. Each was twenty meters tall and supported enough firepower to destroy a small city, yet here they were, titan-sized beacons that drew awed looks from the new arrivals.

“What now?” asked Regrad, glancing about at the recruits. Slack-jawed probably captured their expressions best.

“Now? A few speeches, some blessings, a bit of organizing, then once they’re properly divided up the barges come down to take them to boot. They can get a little emotional when the barges come down - it’s just to make good time to the training camps, but there’s always a few who think the gods are literally flying them to their destinies.”

Regrad turned back as the group he was with reached the crowd’s periphery, looking towards where the city had ended at the edge of the rocky plain. The city had grown no closer to the old temple out of respect for its’ dead patron, but even the common citizenry did not approach - they watched the young march to war from the edge of their homes, coming no closer.

“Why do they not approach?”

“The temple is seen as a gateway,” Gorab explained. “Only those going to the crusades have any business here.”

From within the temple itself emerged a coterie of Azguardian soldiers - real ones, in thick red and black power armour. They moved with deceptive speed for their size and formed two lines either side of the entrance. Next came several Azguardian officers. Regrad half-recognized some of their faces, but could remember no names. They were part of the high command, the common generals and commanders who made the army work.

The most grizzled and worn of them all took center stage. Half of his face was blown away and his majestic dress robes had fallen into the sort of disrepair allowed only to the truly important.

“Well,” the general growled, his voice carrying over the silence. “You’re a damn sorry lot, but then what’s new? Congratulations, ladies and gentlemen, you have been offered a singular opportunity - a chance to wipe the sleep from your eyes and wake up to the reality around you. Say goodbye to about half your mind and three quarters of your religion, because you’re in the army now.”

He continued to speak, something about how they were a sorry lot and how this was the first day of a great awakening, but Regrad’s attention immediately faded. Nothing the general could say would make sense to the recruits yet, and that was the point. Only in a few years would those who still lived look back and realize how it all made sense.

Instead, the prime minister took one more opportunity to look at the faces of the young Azguardians all around him. They were a sight to turn his mind to dim recollections of past glory, the faint and alien sense of youth and innocence - like the phantom pain of a lost limb.

One had a face as smooth as a sheet, his eyes scrunched up in a tight squint as he tried to see the distant figure of the general.

Another was short for her size, a little sallow-cheeked, her hair falling in limp strands in any direction.

One was grinning, his eyes alight, as though he wanted to punch the air and scream with barely-contained excitement.

One was beautiful, Regrad realized with a start. She was a young woman, at the prime of her life, her eyes wonderfully clear, her hair braided with care and love. How long had it been since he had seen someone and thought of them as beautiful?

All of them, all around him, were each unique, each an individual. Each seemed formed of soft clay, pressed gently into form by delicate hands, each crafted as a unique piece of art yet all being funnelled as he watched towards the same grinding war machine.

Not one was crying, not one shook with fear or seemed to lack resolve. Some squeezed religious icons hanging from their necks, some whispered prayers, most seemed almost impatient to charge ahead and seize their destiny with both hands.

For the first time in quite many days, weeks, months... years, Regrad began to weep. He wept slow, rolling tears as the recruits cheered and rushed past him on either side, accepting the invitation to enter the temple of war. They filled the lobby and crowded the stairs, pressing and pushing to be first in line. In their wake Regrad followed, unwilling to be seen standing alone on a barren plain.

He looked for Gorab, but he was lost in the sea of Azguardians. All that was visible were the monuments and grand memorials that covered the walls and grounds of the temple. The rolls of honour, the names of great battles, engravings of ancient wars sitting next to floating holograms of modern ones.

Finding himself jostled and pushed by the pressing waves of recruits, Regrad at last ended up pinned against the wall leading to the stairs up to the temple roof. Recruits squeezed by in waves, being allowed up fifty at a time or so to board Meteor dropships as they came down to carry them off.

At last coming to a halt, Regrad turned to the Azguardian next to him - a young man with prominent teeth and badly-cut hair. Sheepishly, the young Azguardian tried to smile while also hiding his ridiculous fangs.

“Don’t worry,” said Regrad, putting on a reassuring tone. “None-Azguardians find the fangs intimidating, I’m sure you’ll be thankful for them.”

The youth chuckled a bit before extending a hand into the narrow gap between them. “I’m Dimes.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” said Regrad, shaking the recruit’s hand. “What brings you to the crusades?”

Dimes’ brow furrowed. “Same as everyone else - to fight evil in support of the prophecy, I guess.”

“You guess?” said Regrad, his teeth set on edge. “You’re going to have to be a lot more sure than that, I can tell you.”

Dimes looked embarrassed, but managed to recover quickly. “What are you doing here?”

“Call me a well-wisher,” Regrad replied. Their conversation paused briefly as everyone inched up the steps. “Alright then, if you don’t know why, what is it you’re doing? What corp are you going into?”

“Infantry. There’s a lot of demand along the Eastern trade routes, I heard.”

“Know a lot about the East?”

Dimes seemed to fade for a moment, Regrad recognizing a significant shift where Dimes’ other half provided him with what he needed to know. “That where that Dragon-god tried to kill all the Mon Calamari, right?”

“Close enough,” said Regrad, who saw another wave of recruits pushing up from below. “Looks like I’m about to lose you here, Dimes. Best of luck.”

He tried to shake the recruit’s hand again, but he was swept away quite suddenly by the press of eager Azguardians. Dimes managed to turn back long enough to wave, before getting lost in the sea and eventually jumping aboard another Meteor.

Regrad tried to wave back, but by then it was pointless, he was already gone. The wave of recruits was thinning out now, and the last few managed to stroll leisurely to their shuttles instead of fighting their way up to be first. Gorab was guiding the last few stragglers towards the ship, pausing long enough to exchange a knowing nod with Regrad before boarding the last outbound vessel.

Regrad watched as the Meteor took off, leaving the landing pad free. The dropships were disappearing quickly in the distant, bright lights lit by their burning thrusters before vanishing into the wild blue yonder.

The temple was now once again mostly deserted except for the odd curator or guard, who wandered out of the great hall towards other business. None bothered to bother an old pilgrim as he wandered back down the steps and towards the door.

With the press of bodies gone, Regrad could see the floor, and noticed it was of a more modern construction. He paused in his descent of the steps in order to look down at the floor of the main hall, and what he saw almost caused his heart to stop.

Some fool, some naive, idealistic fool had replaced the decaying and dilapidated floor work of the original temple with nice fresh steel, finishing with a grand mosaic. There Regrad saw his own face looking in a dignified manner off in no particular direction, while ships and missiles rocketed past and the planet Azguard filled the background.

The symbols of the gods adorned the edges of the picture, and at the bottom of the mosaic so that the words were presented facing those walking into the temple were the words, the horrible, horrible words...

“So I say to you, though we may die, though we may lose, it shall never be said in the history books that the Azguards ever shirked from justice.”

They were, of course, his words. His words from a time of idyllic foolishness, when he thought that winning the war and achieving the prophecy would be a mere matter of marching and belief. Now these same words, spoken by an idiot not yet versed in the ways of the galaxy, stood as the greeting - the welcoming - for every Azguardian in service.

He could have torn the very temple down with his bare hands, but his chronometer began to beep.

The day was getting on. He would be late for church.

Evening

Regrad strode down the busy thoroughfares of the old town, where Azguardians crowded the sidewalk. Vehicles and beasts of burden trundled down the main road, though most were decidedly low-tech. The street was loud and thick with the sound of conversations as citizens called out to one another, shouting greetings and goodbyes, stopping to chat or discuss what was new.

Something else had the prime minister’s attention at the moment, however. With the sun still bathing the streets in warm yellow rays, Regrad’s thirst became too great to ignore. He scanned the squat stone domes lining the street until he spotted one with a cup scrawled on the roof with chalk.

Ah, a familiar sight at last. Not that exact one, perhaps, but the poorly-etched symbol was a universal tip-off for Azguardians everywhere. With a quick hop and step, Regrad moved through the crowd and stooped his way into the bar.

The temperature in the air dropped sharply with every step lower into the earth. A few steps further, and Regrad was in the cellar. There, broad tables filled the length and breadth of the low chamber. A bar top cut from the living rock lined one wall, while moldy banners adorned the others. A small fire crackled in a can in the middle of the room, and two doors either side allowed access to the buildings either side of it - the underground streets that connected the old town.

More notable, however, were the people. Azguardians young and old pulled tables together and enjoyed one another’s raucous company.

There was one old, gnarled Azguardian whose company was more raucous than the rest. In the middle of the room, sitting in a seat of hewn stone he seemed almost fused with, an elder Azguardian held court.

“Another round!” was his command, stone cup held high. This was met with cheers from the patrons and groans from the staff, as they uncorked a pipe hanging over the bar and began to fill the vessels of their customers.

“D’ya have a cup?” the barman asked to Regrad as he approached. “No matter, we’ve a few to spare. Here.” A squat stone bowl was slid towards. “Drink hearty, now.”

Regrad graciously took the drink and settled into a seat near the fire. From this spot he had a commanding view of the cellar bar, as well as the cellar customers.

“So what was I talking about before my powerful thirst overcame me?” asked the elder Azguardian, fresh cup in hand.

“You were telling us about the Crusades!” squeaked a young audience member sitting eagerly at his side.

“Ah yes,” replied the elder. His eyes misted over with reminiscence as he stared off. “Now this was during the early battles of the Furen war. The battle for Krakken IV had taught us a lot about war and technology, but we were still basically just a gang of wide-eyed believers unleashing a little old-timey wrath on the heathens and traitors. I was lucky to have a proper las-rifle and blast armour, when most of the boys under my command were wearing a simple robe uniform.”

His vision remained distant for a few moments, before he broke away to down the contents of his cup. “The Nebulon Frigates - that’s the old box-shaped warship you can see down at the new museum - well, they were hardly spaceworthy, all things considered. We were crammed in them like sardines, because the damn things were built for humans and humans are a good head or two shorter. They weren’t good for much, but they got us from front to front, so I don’t have too many complaints.

“Besides, they were the lap of luxury compared to the landing shuttles.” At this, the elder let out a booming laugh and slammed the table in front of him, startling his enthralled audience. “If the Nebulons were built with humans in mind, the shuttles must have been built for Kraz! I had to hunch up on my hands and knees, shoulder to shoulder with my troops for an hour long drop to the surface of...”

The elder froze, frowning for a minute as he tried to pick the name out of his memory. “S’got lots of furry guys on it, really icy...”

“Hurok?”

“Hurok! That was the place, yeah. Furen troops were dug into cities all over the planet, war factories and staging grounds they were going to use to attack us back after Krakken IV went our way. Gods damn, but it was cold there.”

He proffered his cup to be refilled and drained it once more before continuing. “Anyways, so we start hot-dropping - hah! Hot dropping! - into the middle of a frozen wasteland, with no more orders than ‘march this way, find city, take city.’ Did we worry though? Not a bit. We’d thrashed the Furen on Krakken IV and damn if we weren’t going to bring the holy hellfire down on another bunch of the dark gods’ followers.”

“Were the dark gods there too?” asked one audience member, the sincerity of his question great enough to cause Regrad to wince.

The elder laughed and struck the table again. “No, but there was a victory-class Star Destroyer the enemy had put in orbit of the planet. I’m told it was quite a battle to take it down, but I was in the hold at the time so I never heard tell of the thing.”

“What about Regrad?”

“Aaaaah,” said the elder with a sagely wink. “Now there’s a question. Yes, Regrad was there, leading us into battle. He wasn’t much for strategy though - I saw him at the siege of Dranodod, blasting his way up on to the walls. We had Kraz engineers to help us with those, thank the gods, because besides that our only plan was rushing through the gap their demolition charges blew.

“He was a great hero in the crusades,” replied one audience member, nodding in agreement.

“Hero? I suppose there were enough of those - hah!” Once more the elder struck the table, which began to groan and wobble from the strain. “Don’t get me wrong, we weren’t completely dull. A few soldiers were given special missions to prepare for our advance or take out strategic targets, but victory was a mere matter of marching. They just weren’t ready for us.”

Surprised perhaps at hearing a public hero’s accomplishments belittled so, the one audience member who had spoken said “But what about at the siege of Dranodod? That battle won the war, and it was Regrad’s divine leadership which lead us to-”

The elder struck the table again - but this time, there was a sharp edge to it that there wasn’t before, leaving the table cracked and the old Azguardian glaring“It was... a dark time, in Dranodod,” he eventually muttered. He would say no more until his cup was refilled a third time, and he was given a chance to drink it.

“Now, once the walls were split, the Great Enemy and us had a lot in common - we rushed each other and started hacking and slashing, fang and claw, sword and pistol. What was worse was the blood rages, though. I can still remember it, my eyes glossing over, the world getting so distant and faint... I lost control, and at times it felt like I never wanted it back, like I could stay that way forever, killing and slashing and maiming.”

An unusual quiet descended on the tavern, so that even those at the periphery of the old Azguardian’s story began to lean in to hear him. “It’s a terrible thing, an Azguardian at war. We lose so much, but most of all we lose our ability to explain what’s happened to us - as if we ever had it.

“I lost some men in that battle to the fighting and the blades of the Great Enemy, but I know I lost many more than that when the smoke cleared and some of them were still prowling the streets, swords bared, guns raised, whispering prayers over and over again like they were proof against darkness. It’s a terrible thing when you lose that part of you, that distinct person that remembers the good things in life, that’s happy and carefree, and you’re left with the killer and warrior alone - and I don’t care what blasphemy it is, when the priests say we’re blessed, they lie with the tongues Ishon gave them. We’re a cursed people, especially when swords are drawn.”

The silence deepened, until the cup slipped out of the elder’s hand and rolled under the table. He rested his hands on either side of his great chair and closed his eyes. “Leave me, now. No more stories of crusade and glory tonight. If you want any more old-time religion, ask the priests. They can still see the good in what we do.”

His company reluctantly drifted away, some ascending the stairs while others returning to their own conversations. Now alone, the elder opened one eye to see the hooded stranger sitting at his side.

“Sergeant Amos Castellan, first infantry,” he muttered to Regrad. “I served with you in every war we’ve ever fought, and I’m the only one from the first who can say they’ve done that and lived to retire from it.”

“An honour,” said Regrad, extending a hand, which was brushed away.

“No, not an honour,” Amos grumbled. “The sad truth.”

“I can tell, you know,” said Regrad, as he withdrew his hand into the folds of his robe. “We can sense one another in a room - to regular Azguardians you’re just an odd old fellow, but your manner, your eyes, your words... it is nothing shameful to admit you left a part of yourself behind on that battlefield, along with your fellow soldiers.”

“Not for you, maybe,” Amos replied. “You’ve done a lot for right-braining Azguardians, but I know we still are what we are. Broken. We’re meant to fight until we drop, and most of us do. When I say it’s sad that I’m the last of my men, it’s sad because my grave should have been out there next to them, not this lingering life. It’s sad because I can finally understand what the crusades are being fought for. We’re fighting so that in the future, there won’t be any more Azguardians like us. No one will have to become what we’ve become.”

“I’m sorry I made you do this, made you what you are.”

“You didn’t do this to us, unless you’re claiming to be a god. No, the only ones you need to apologize to are still waiting for you - and they’ll wait forever.”

Regrad nodded. “I understand. In fact, I think there’s one more place I need to go today.”

“One last stop before midnight, eh?” replied Amos as he sunk back into his chair. “I can sympathize. It’ll be the longest one of all.”