A Requiem From Winter Past: Chapter 4

AGE WARNING:

This work is one of dark nature. If you're below the age of 16, then you're better off reading something else. I don't profess to follow the rules of my country where only foreigners like G.R.R Martin and Miura Kentaro can write dark fiction.

A Requiem From Winter Past

~The Wolf, Lion, And Maiden Fair~

(Written by Cocteau L'Enfant Naturel)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2
Chapter 3

Chapter 4: Today And Yesterday

"Let us fight today, for yesterday we lived. Let us honour today, for yesterday's grace is for this day."

~Benediction of the Worthy (taken from the Annals of the Three Thrones)

)0(

“Erm, Sir…”

“What is it, Grett? Spit it out before I do it for you.”

“I believe you need to learn how to relax.”

“I believe I need to learn how to kill those morons from the Fifth Unit. Do you want to talk? If not, please get the…”

“It’s Cale Ryvers again. He lost it against the lads from Tynis and Wearsor. Buff poker to be exact.”

“Don’t tell me he borrowed an iron stick from his father and slaughtered them all.”

“Floored the entire lot with only fists and his knickers on in public view. But don’t worry, Sir. No one stole anything.”

“Get him here! I’ll make sure he's dead and I don’t care how you’re going to knock him out!”

Before a not-so-distant past, Trov Lovens is unable to mask his rueful grin. A season swiftly passed, the inevitable stoking an inner forge. The Northern Lion has known Pilaes Ryvers for many years, Grett Mains being the only other soldier of that generation close to him. A knock makes its presence heard, the guest none other than Grett himself.

“Announcing combat readiness, Sir! Permission to…”

“Don’t ask permission over simple matters, Sergeant Grett Mains.”

Chortles and a friendly slap greeting Grett, a grey-haired veteran knocks the breath from the stocky brunette’s lungs. As his second in command laughs in resignation, the grizzled soldier sneaks a glance at a banner in white, one with an emblazoned lion’s head coloured red. History rushes at him like a storm, memories a great deluge pouring forth. He recalls clearly Pilaes’ shocking revelation five years ago, that very day where once more he was reminded of his comrade’s resignation from the military.

“I know this sounds absurd, but please keep this a secret between us. That boy… I mean Cale… he's my only shot at redemption. I shouldn’t have left that pregnant woman to die even though she’s an enemy’s wife.”

“Pil, you retarded moron,” growls Trov, his steps pausing halfway. “If that boy isn’t your kin, why did you feed him a fat bastard lie?”

Futile questions begetting a bugle blared, Trov Lovens can only settle for the truth as clear as pristine waters. Stepping forward and out, he mutters the very words he spoke to Leonus Gaias Eliaden three years ago.

“That boy doesn’t have his father’s blood, but he deserves his father’s name.”

)0(

The morning sky is uncharacteristically warm, a blazing sun wringing sweat from all beneath its glare. The division headquarters of Teslaide comprises of two buildings: One for the soldiers, the other reserved for the equipment. The training square is a wedge between the two, a place where lions and cubs gather for most of the day. One season’s worth of orientation reaps a profit deserved, only a rich man’s pampered son would protest against the Father’s will. They say boys are born to banter and play, but men are made to fight. The journey for every boy has ended, every man must now choose for himself a future and tomorrow.

Thrill and anticipation paving the way for his first day, Cale Ryvers is decked in a tabard of leather scales. Boyish passion burns in the sandy blond, sapphire gaze scrutinising his long-sleeved undershirt of dullish green. Donning a spangenhelm, the feel of a spear’s oaken haft tells him not to lose focus. The time is near, bugles announce the gaffer’s coming. Not knowing what is to come, the lad nevertheless hopes his first mission would be a major one. Something like hunting down a criminal wanted for murder and arson, patrolling the streets be damned.

“Stand guard! Attention!”

Formal atmosphere permeates the Teslaide division, excitement ceding ground to tension. Trov Lovens makes his entrance without pomp, this is a seasoned warrior used to braving the fires of war. Eyes of iron daring any to challenge his stand, an old soldier full of scars reveals a living bastion yet to fall. Shirt of polished mail intensifying an aura of steel, his helm bears the visage of a snarling lion.

“Is everything okay, Grett? You better don’t...”

“All is fine and dandy, Sir,” answers a saluting Grett, his respectful stance defying the jesting words.

“Good,” says Trov, his reaction one of amusement. “As the gaffer of Teslaide division, I welcome you all to the Lionian family. I'm not good with words and far worse at tolerating grown-up cretins, so I’m allocating your duties for today. Good luck in getting promoted while not getting yourselves killed.”

Despite the grim reality uttered, every recruit tries his best not to laugh. They shared jokes aplenty over dying like a hero after pleasing women like a man, as boys they made boastful claims of conquests and accomplishments underneath the sheets. Marves Creek recalls with muffled mirth what his best friend did last summer, an incident earning him an audience in the gaffer's office.

“I told these idiots from Tynis and Wearsor to shut up. After all, I took defeat like a man!”

“Just tell me what they did, said, or both.”

“A song about Lolyx. Went like…”

“I changed my mind. I’m not interested in the size of her stack, how attractive her arse is, and why Tamurians are always so physically prominent. Did her old man say anything?”

“Good job. But don’t sin again.”

“Spoken like a true parish. We’re blessed to have the old Barn down the Straight Street.”

“Enough sniggers and retarded thoughts! Look at me!”

His voice cut through laughter like a hot knife slicing into butter, Trov Lovens inhales deeply and exhales slowly. Recent events at Lindel had escalated swiftly to a deadly skirmish, a facade of granite is the sole solution against unease churning incessantly. A handsome bounty was offered, many were the hunters taking up the offer. Be they men, women, or mere lads, severed heads in gunny sacks soon served as gruesome warnings to the City of Bounties. Then the greatest act of temerity arrived, a brazen show of arrogance. Romus was set aflame by damning news, someone thinking it a good idea to have a donkey ferrying saddlebags bulging with bloodied heads. Towards the gates of the Emperor's seat and left with no choice, Antios III had to approve military mobilisation throughout the Empire.

Wonder if those people upstairs are now having apoplexy over a crazy brown man. His Imperial Majesty may be the Iron Yew, but he's no iron god.

Mention of the Senate and Emperor alike whispered in the mind, Trov hollers at his charges. As a leader, he must make sure as few mothers as possible would have to grief for sons forever lost. As a man, he must take responsibility for those below him. As a soldier, he knows what an imperfect world looks like.

“Take serious note of this: All of us are part of the Lionian Brethren. Not legionnaires, cavaliers, or those Sagrissers going around without armour. Engagement should only be done with orders given.”

Damn the gods, they’re just boys embarking on the path of men.

“No one is going to care who’s your father or grandfather. Learn to obey or learn how to die. Understand?”

“Yes! Sir!”

The gaffer of Teslaide must now take an inevitable plunge of faith, a twisted joke directed against his unbelief in gods. With a hand resting on his superior’s shoulder, Grett Mains focuses on the boys instead of a man he spent years fighting alongside.

“As you know by now, there’s a case of someone causing trouble at Lindel. Don't ask me how a brown man managed to kill and bail. You wouldn’t like the details.”

Grett no longer got his firm grip on the veteran, a show of weakness is the last thing a person of authority needs. Trov feels his throat going dry, but the leader must keep battling away till the bitter end. Though a Wildebrand’s ability as an assassin in the woods should not be underestimated, taunting the Empire in such a brazen manner wasn't the most reassuring event in the annals of imperial history. There’s definitely something about that murderous sellsword that doesn’t seem right, only a madman would go this far in mocking the authorities.

”Refer to the information given just now unless you all want to die. Grett, elaborate further.”

“It’s been rumoured a suspicious figure was seen in Lancershire three days ago.”

Scratching his head in frustration, a clearly disturbed Grett Mains continues his briefing.

“But don’t ask me whether a parish's pretty lass down the Straight Street is more than capable of fibbing. We all know the prettier the girl, the better the liar.”

Booming laughter abruptly invading the square, Trov heaves silent gratitude towards his assistant.

“Right now, your immediate task is to scout the surrounding areas. The First to Fourth Units will conduct this outside the walls. The Sixth and Seventh Units will be in charge of patrolling the streets while the Fifth Unit will be on standby in case shit happens.”

Silence follows Trov’s command, a simple strategy drafted by Grett. Unlike the boys before him, the Northern Lion still has to fulfil his duty as an official member of the Imperial Military Corps. Recent happenings were anything but peaceful, sporadic clashes breaking out between his fellow Hallenians and the Slarvs along the border. Women and children were taken from raided villages, strict orders prohibiting reprisals like for like the only factor preventing greater conflict. Blastus Ferg isn't the most polite speaker, his words are quite often creative enough to insult anyone's character or intellect without the need for obscenities. In true Hallenian fashion, however, he is nothing less than an object of worship for every common lad. Minimal losses from both the military and civilians made twice as sure of that, all that is left would be negotiations and talking shit.

“What about the lads at Manchet? I thought they are supposed to be the best of the best since Blastus the Dryer is their boss.”

Incredulous stares besiege Cale Ryvers, the sandy blond’s question catching the entire Fifth Unit off guard. He’s supposed to be an idiot, not someone asking questions involving tactics and strategy.

“Good point, Cale Ryvers. I heard that you’re a cretin, but you obviously have a sense of humour. Blastus Ferg as the Dryer indeed. I'll remember to tell him that.”

Trov’s answer causes another eruption of laughter from the training square, inner amusement blooming underneath a mask of flint. How can a stupid person be able to think like someone ten times more intelligent, a fool functioning like a person worth much more? But here he is, an idiot perceiving actual things beyond what others can see. The last time he checked, Manchet remains the nearest division to the capital.

“Sir, it's not good to say things like that,” whispers Grett, disapproval showing though a worried frown. “Pil’s lad is a proven starter of fights. Remember Tynis and Wearsor?”

“I'm stating the cold hard truth. A damned shame I can't earn a pence for every problem in this world. Otherwise, I'd be living like a king in a majestic castle perched on a hill. And you have to call me a god.”

“You might as well call Cale the second Brondte Romus, as much as others would stone me for blasphemy.”

“To be honest, I'd want to see that day. I mean Cale, not you.”

)0(

The forest’s eerie calm brings forth serenity, a stark contradiction not gone unnoticed by both visitors. Years passed since the sacking of Redcart, a brazen group of bandits blamed for the tragedy. Within a single day, women were ravished and the people slaughtered. Then something happened, be it divine retribution gone horribly wrong or intervention of another kind. By the end of the massacre, no one was left alive. Whether it was that unknown force of violence or the wicked fell by his neighbour's blade, it remains a mystery no daring soul can uncover.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Adarl. It’s already summer, but why is this forest so cold?”

“You’re not the only one, Lolyx. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

A shivering girl of dusky complexion can only nod in reply, she was the only one insane enough to accompany Adarl in an absurd quest for answers. She hopes her father won’t sense something amiss, the last time she got herself into trouble resulted in confinement. Using Cale as an excuse should have been a good idea, something that would work on others. Unfortunately for everyone else, idiots are never known to figure out the simplest things when it comes to dealing with people.

The willowy brunette knows what her companion is talking about, for nature does not go against itself. From the moment they stepped into the outskirts of a destroyed village, faint whispers were already heard. If not for Lolyx’s strong faith in the Holy Quintet, she would have retreated. Cursed with foolhardiness yet blessed with the willingness to sacrifice more than a limb for a friend, there are indeed similarities between Cale and Lolyx. A fact which both would rather die than to admit, their history written in barbs and quibbling.

She cannot back away now, regret is not an option. The elven merchant told her all the information required in the first place, none of them withheld from Lolyx. Adarl Tayne starts cursing a nosy Rhyan Morris under her breath, vocabulary acquired as a serving girl emptied swiftly. If only he is half as brave as that sandy blond, he who gave her the confidence to be strong all those years ago.

“Stick thin and ugly? Sorry, I don’t give a shit. Guess that’s why they call me retarded, huh?”

Belligerence is one thing, the ability to survive a fight would always ensure integrity lasts at least another day. Win, lose, or draw, Cale Ryvers is never one to take back his words. No matter how logically absurd or morally right, this is a man of impetuous chivalry with dreams of heroism.

“Remember the day Cale took on a bear?”

All that is eerie and sombre evaporates quickly, Lolyx the source of comfort. A giggle escapes from Adarl’s lips. Because of a dare and Rhyan's mocking words, Cale agreed to take on a bear terrorising the children playing in the fields. It was two years ago during early autumn, the day when a lad of sixteen winters defeated the odds and outlasted death. It was a trio of little ones spreading the word, Jhonar, Hannar, and Shennar inspiring a work of art. She starts singing a song composed by Cheril, a friend boasting a talent for music.

“Send the next! Send the next!”
Said the bear and moaned the bear.
“For delicious were the previous ones.”

Joining in the fun, Lolyx's lower pitch compliments perfectly Adarl's higher tone.

Then it saw our hero bold.
Armed with fists but not with wits.
Our hero bold broke his arm.
Armed with fists but not with wits.
Our hero bold broke its teeth.
Armed with a rock but not with wits.
No next one, no next one.
For not delicious is the final one.

Both maidens break out in peals of laughter, the comedic image of childish heroism not lost on them. When Cale stumbled upon Lolyx’s doorstep, he was visibly mauled. Within hours after having his wounds dressed, he recovered swiftly by devouring more than five helpings of food. This was an event biting a massive chunk off her family’s budget for the next month, it took Lolyx at least twice as long to forgive him. Cale Ryvers was called that lion amongst men within days, for tales of his beastly appetite spread like conflagration driven by the strongest winds. Despite the jest contained within a false accolade, Cale wore it as a badge of honour as if he’s really one. If only people would take more seriously what children say, for adults are always greater liars than them.

Then a haunting song is sung, a response to the previous one. It is not the singers sending a chill down the spine, but the lyrics which  Adarl and Lolyx know too well. This is the introduction to the greatest legend the Empire has seen, a song of ambition and source of Cale’s unattainable dream.

Brondte Romus, a lion of yore.
The prodigal son and a useless brat.
Wanted to be a hero but mocked a fool.

His retainer was Laec the Fire-haired.
Both armour bearer and best of friends.
He beheld the beauty of an elven maid,
Earned her fire and shrewdness his.

Mocked a fool but now a hero.
Dark and brooding but full of mirth.
Is there ever a man true like him?

A group of children singing loud encircle the visitors, their enthusiasm the freedom to play. Spectral forms instilling neither fear nor intrigue, Adarl and Lolyx nonetheless stay rooted to the ground. They know the manner of emotions that should be there, yet they feel nothing apart from sorrow. One of them waves in their direction, a little girl wearing her hair down.

“Ciras! We have guests!”

The girl is nothing short of beautiful, her red hair trimmed at the shoulders and a faint smile one of lamentation. A beauty housing an icy soul, her hazel brown eyes are the direct opposite of Cale’s irises of sapphire fire.

“So you’re Ciras?”

From a question asked the sting of jealousy comes, standing before Adarl is an unattainable portrait of beauty. Not in terms of the superficial, but rather something else unseen. She suppresses the feeling, for it is not right morally and logically.

“Yes.”

Giving a bow, Ciras places a hand on her chest.

“You’re a Teutonian,” says Adarl, Lolyx staying her tongue. “I hear that this is the manner of a smallborne’s greeting there.”

“I was born a mere seven miles from the realm of wolves.”

“Wolves?”

“Gastony. A place where it is elves with the souls of wolves reside. We called them Monsters of the Gods. They refused women when offered and rejected gold when given. It's a good thing they prefered to be left alone.”

“Sounds like a scary place full of scary people,” quips Lolyx, her interruption earning disapproval from Adarl.

“I’m sorry about my friend. She speaks too fast at times.”

Shaking her head in response and with a smile, Ciras continues her story. One guardian to know her tale is never enough, Kain would always respond like a rock.

“I was born in poverty. My mother gave me up for adoption in hopes that I could have a better life. However, my local parish betrayed me.”

“Betrayed?”

There is an edge in Lolyx’s words, Adarl knows better than to play the unwitting agitator.

“To settle his debts, he sold me to slavers from the south. For thirty crowns of gold, I was promised the life of a queen among the Sudhlits.”

At the mention of such a clergyman, Lolyx trembles in rage. Men of moral reproach exist, denial from ignorant folks the greatest blasphemy. Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, they feast on the flock under their care. Her father has always lived an upright life, his faith never wavering despite the death of his beloved wife. This is why Lolyx will always respect her father, the reason why she would rather commit suicide than acknowledge the wrong authority. So what if she is only an adopted child, a Tamurian instead of a Causacean?

“What happened afterwards?”

Lolyx's question catches Adarl unaware, undisguised animosity surprising her more than the deed.

“I slaughtered them all.”

It is not Ciras who replied, for the answer is spoken in a harsh tone. Low, guttural, and composed, the voice is seven parts man and three parts beast. Turning around, Adarl and Lolyx behold a hulking man. Dressed in a simple garb of tunic, pants, and boots, a gauntlet of steel is strapped to his right arm covered with a sleeve. His eyes bear resemblance to Cale's jewels of deep bright blue, but volatile wrath swirls inside a hard unyielding gaze. The top half of his face is covered by burns, the disfigurement stopping at the hairline. Wearing a dark brooding visage with matted black hair reaching his shoulders, the stranger points towards a random direction past them.

“Go. This is no place for damsels, fillies, and little boys.”

“Wait! I need to know…”

“If I am no knight bound by oath, you two would already be feeding the crows.”

The stranger’s features warp into something bestial, a flock of carrion birds scattered by his wrath.

“That boy at Redcart. I need to know whether he’s alive.”

Another person speaks, this time around a white-haired elf whose complexion is brown like Lolyx's. The adopted daughter of Ashter Barnes saw him days ago, it was during one of her errands. Forced to take a detour passing by a brothel due to a group of sneering Causacean men, she had to thank the Holy Quintet this was no house of slavery situated in a nether region. Lolyx has nothing but sympathy towards women sold to the worst form of servitude, she got nothing but severe disdain for men abusing them while wearing a mask of righteousness. The Seven Hells to those who say limited numbers mean a lesser evil, for justice and wickedness are to be absolute.

But he wasn’t a simple scoundrel shabbily dressed, nor was he a hypocrite dressed in finery. There’s a taunter inside him, a cold exterior mocking every shred of her faith. It's as if he treated every person as dross, both good and evil meant to be consumed in a furnace. No logical reasoning could be found if her observation must be justified, it was nothing more than a conclusion conceived by instincts and an answer birthed by impulse.

“Who are you?”

Before the unnamed guardian’s question, the smirking stranger sends a whistle towards Ciras.

“Kain!”

Before Ciras' effort to reign him in. the hulking knight pays no heed. With a roar shaking the heavenly foundations, a woodsman axe materialises out of nowhere. The weapon is a fine work of craftsmanship, the standard contradicting its unsightly wielder. The haft was long, straight, and made from the finest wood, the keen edge of its blade flat and wide. A single swing reveals a well-balanced make, fluid stroke belying Kain's massive frame. Attempting to cut down the knavish elf, the opponent vanishes from view and stands behind Ciras.

“Let her go, you demon!”

With a shrug, the rogue ignores Lolyx’s ire and screaming voice. Suddenly appearing between his object of protection and target of murderous anger, Kain snarls at an unperturbed knave flaunting his arrogance.

“Name is Aeravor. Wildebrand by trade, a bastard by birth. A nice weapon you got there.”

A single step is taken. As if meeting either an old friend or a sworn enemy, the mad warrior’s axe reveals a visible bluish hue and an audible hum. It is a familiar sight to Aeravor, a weapon whose previous owner was a mentor he never asked for. Cleaver of Mountains is its name, a Relic like the Edge of Answerer. The colour and sound are not for show, they are signs of power unleashed. It's been years since Aeravor last fought an interesting opponent. With fluid grace, the Relentless One unsheathes the Edge of Answerer. Its blade laced with lightning, his mind wonders whether this fellow can be as good as Ioin eos Imear.

Heh, he must have been your son, Araea.

“I’m not going to foot the bill if you die. That excludes your pretty whores.”

Mocking words spoken, the ranger appears behind Kain. A step back after a single turn is all he needs, the tower of rage positioning his weapon diagonally downward. Movement shifting slightly to the side, Aeravor swipes his longsword towards an opening between ribs and armpit. Kain takes the hit without wincing, his right arm wrapped in metal the unlikely shield. Steel against steel, an attack changing direction at the last minute is foiled at the final moment. The opponent is a good one, muses a grinning Aeravor. The circular nature of his movement was deceptively nimble, the positioning allowing him to swing that glove of his.

With a sudden stride forward, Kain unleashes an awesome force beyond mortal boundaries. A tree blessed with great girth is hewn much to every watcher's shock, the quarry nowhere to be seen. Any fear of Ciras being taken hostage is banished as Aeravor closes in from the rear, a vicious smile drawn.

Slash against slash, precision fueled by brutality is repelled by technique honed and refined. This is a visual feast for the strong, a play not for the weak in heart. The air of aggression displayed from both combatants assails the spectators, tension forcing their breaths into rapid bursts.

“Such a beautiful sight... a pity it lasts only for a moment.”

Aeravor can never forget that beautiful show of fireworks countless years ago, for those were the words said by Kagetsu no Ji'Yon.

“We’re going to die anyway. Might as well create our own sparks and lit our own pyre.”

This was the Wildebrand’s answer to a Yaguryo maiden, a gentle heart making her an enemy to this world. There is no tomorrow, only today. Such is the beauty Aeravor knows, something he obtained after going from Gastony to the Homm'Nua capital of Astas-Er. It's the spark of life, the root of a bonfire. Tales of dreams are nothing but a lie, a momentary life is all he wants. He doesn't need friends, for he has the Edge of Answerer. Love is futile, for he's never short of whores. A life of fetters is a life not worth living for, dignity is what one makes out of it.

The end arrives with the cawing of birds marching ahead, a sudden conclusion in the form of crows flying past. Burning pain tearing into both men intoxicated by battle, Aeravor’s reaction is the opposite of Kain’s passive look. Immobilised on the spot, they are firmly shackled by chains of silver anchored to the ground.

“Ji loves you, not me. Promise me you’ll take care of her.”

The Relentless One bares his teeth before a handsome youth blessed with golden eyes, his short blond hair reflecting a complexion fair like ivory. Like any traveller, he is wearing a pair of trousers and leather boots. His shirt is one any smallborne would wear, a necklace of fangs the only thing standing out from a mundane look.

“Stop it. There’s no point fighting like little boys wrestling with each other.”

His rebuke done, the youth turns towards Ciras, Adarl, and Lolyx with a bow and mischievous grin.

“Lars Alies at your service.”

“What? What do you mean by ‘at your service’? We're not after some man's...”

Before a flustered Lolyx not knowing what to say, Lars gives a shrug.

“Don’t get the wrong idea if you’re referring to paid shafting. I assure you I don't offer that kind of service. But I did whore and get drunk among other things.”

“Free me, Lars. Free me so that I can expose you in front of everyone!”

“Some people never change. I’m here to tell these two beautiful princesses that the Serpent has bluffed them. There’s no information waiting to be found. At least not from six feet underground.”

Silence conquers everything, Lars giving Aeravor an answer he doesn’t need. It shouldn’t have ended this way, the fairy tale shouldn't have turned horribly dark. The Relentless One’s breathing can be heard audibly, a wolf waiting to tear out its captor’s throat.

As for Lolyx, she suddenly senses something in a man getting on her nerves. Not the one resembling her own people, but he whose look differs from hers like day and night. She can’t understand why and what, an image then flashes before her.

It is the same “him”, but he is now chained like a dangerous animal. A murder of crows forms a swirling circle above, their unceasing cries sending shivers penetrating her heart. This is a morbid portrait painted atop a mountain of dead people, the worst possible cemetery afforded by imagination.

Lolyx is willing to acknowledge this Lars Alies as someone deserving sympathy, not fluster and contempt.

)0(

Glossary

Romus: The capital of the Hallenian Empire.

Legionnaires: The infantry aspect of the Imperial Military Corps. Heavy legionnaires are called shieldsmen. They wear splint armour, carry shields, and are armed with swords. Light legionnaires are called lancers. They wear scale mail shirts, carry no shields, and are armed with spears. The basic legionnaire tactic involves a line of lancers deployed behind one line of shieldsmen. However, capable tacticians have been known to attempt more innovative approaches.

Cavaliers: The cavalry aspect of the Imperial Military Corps. Unlike the legionnaires, cavaliers are either medium or heavily armoured with the horses either lightly or heavily barded respectively.

Sagrissers: The light aspect of the Imperial Military Corps. Used for scouting and skirmishes, Sagrissers are also in charge of maintaining law and order in areas less controlled by any central authority of the Empire. Sagrissers can be either mounted or on foot. Also known by Teutonians as the Empire's naked runners due to their lack of armour. Running naked as a derogatory term for reckless youths originated from the Sagrissers.

Brondte Romus: The founder of the Hallenian Empire after the downfall of the unified Republic of Causacea. Together with Osker of Teutonia and Leksov of Slarvea, they're known as the Three Thrones in Causacean history and Three Pretenders to elven historians. The capital Romus was named after him.