Open Chronicles Failing Grasp

[Trajan Meng]

They had come seeking one thing: the liberation of Trajan Meng. And they were prepared to bloody their hands if need be.

Khadija Han led them, the fifty Luminari warriors gathered in the camp. They were hidden in the wilds, miles distant from the Western Gates of Alliria. Here they were equipping themselves. Donning their armor--chainmail or brigandine or leather or gambesons, no plate--checking their weapons, counting crossbow bolts. Kha had passed around two other pieces of equipment for all of them: Ablative Jerkins and Sacrifice Crystals. The Jerkins were enchanted vests, worn over top of their armor, designed to absorb an amount of low-level magic directed at the wearer before deteriorating. The Sacrifice Crystals--rounded on one end and sharpened on the other--were to ensure that, if it could so be helped, none of their number would be taken alive. The swirling and muted orange magic within the Crystals hinted at the final, thunderous service to Mankind, should they be employed.

Yet this was the tragedy of the day. The Luminari would be forced to raise their hands against their fellow men and women. Humans killing humans. It was an awful thought, a terrible circumstance, but one they had been forced into. Despite Khadija's reservations, despite the reservations of (ostensibly) all those present, they would do what was necessary.

"Brothers. Sisters," Khadija said to the faithful as they prepared themselves. "Keep the faith."

The sun was bright. Shining. Perhaps, if they accorded themselves well, they--all of them--would likewise shine in the history of Mankind for what they were going to do this day.

"Though Trajan would scorn the notion, we know the truth."

Nods among them. Among the faithful. They knew it well before she could even speak it.

"He is a father to us. Without him, we are truly lost."

Confident recitings of Luminari sayings throughout the camp: And we are kin and Always Earned, Never Given.

"And we will not abandon him," Khadija said. Her voice firm and resolute. "No matter what it takes."

* * * * *​

Khadija learned what happened to Trajan almost too late. Clarissa Mejeure--the Luminari's spymaster of sorts--was still missing since the incident in Elbion. But learn of Trajan's fate Khadija had, and there was limited time to act, to gather enough Luminari warriors (but not too much so as to draw attention) and put in place a plan.

Trajan had been imprisoned in Alliria. Something had gone wrong, of that there was little doubt, but it did not matter. What did matter was freeing him before he was transferred into the custody of the approaching Elbion Cohort.

Yes. A prisoner exchange was due to happen today. Not just Trajan but several others being turned over from the Allirian authority to the Elbion authority. And this was Khadija's opportunity: for the Allirian forces at the jail were too powerful and deep in the city to fight, and the Elbion forces would no doubt feature an array of mages among them, which the Luminari warriors were not so well-equipped to handle.

The plan: Assault the wagon train transporting Trajan and the prisoners while it was still inside the city and en route to the Western Gates. Khadija knew that the Elbion Cohort would be waiting there at the Gates as the prisoners were brought to them--such was part of an agreement between Alliria and Elbion whose finer details were of no particular concern. And Kha had a few enchanted devices that would aid in sowing mass chaos and confusion, making the break out on the (relatively) lightly guarded prisoner transport and the subsequent escape much easier. Such was her hope, at least.

And so the fifty Luminari warriors filtered into Alliria. Not all at once, naturally, but in staggered groups. Each with their own excuses or pleasant small talk exchanged with the Gate Guards. Though they were all loaded with equipment, they wore plain clothes--robes or tunics or cloaks--over the top of them. Said they were hunters or sellswords or the like, married couples visiting family. There were no problems getting in.

Not a moment too soon, as well. When Khadija, the last of the Luminari to enter the city did so, she had looked back over her shoulder and saw approaching from the western road toward the Gates a large group of riders. The Elbion Cohort.

Right on time.

Kha held her dwarven clock pendant. Steadied her nerves.

Tick.

Tock.

* * * * *​

Trajan Meng was shepherded out of his cell in the Allirian jail in the Outer City. He wore his prisoner's rags and the guards waved their truncheons to direct Trajan and the other prisoners out through the hallway of cells and through the guard's vestibule and out into the jail courtyard. There the prisoner transport--four horse-drawn wagons--awaited them.

Nothing had come of his encounter with the Dreadlord Yrael. The jail guards had been prepared to execute him for his perceived actions, thinking he had bent the bars of his cell and blown open the hole in the stone wall (and even killed one of the guardsmen), but the other prisoners had corroborated Trajan's account. For good or ill, nothing came of it.

And yet, Trajan wondered if he should have taken Yrael's deal. It was a vile position into which to be placed, being forced to consider practicality over principle, but now--now that he was being loaded into the second wagon of the transport convoy--he thought on this. Thought on a great many things. His triumphs. But more so his failures. He wondered if his reach exceeded his grasp, if the dream of a United Humanity was something that would require sacrifices greater than death, greater than that which he did not fear to give.

Would it not be a colossal tragedy, to suffer a death that contributed nothing to the Cause? What if adherence to principle amounted to nothing more than the slow and sure demise of all Mankind?

Trajan sat in the back of the cramped wagon. The jail guard shut the door after him, only the light of the two barred windows coming through now. The wagon was hardly more than a large wooden box on wheels, uncomfortable and purpose-built for the efficient transporting of prisoners--they whose well-being was thoroughly disregarded.

The three other men in the wagon were all like Trajan: crammed next to their fellow man, sitting with their legs flat and forward, heads bowed in grim or stoic consideration.

With a slight jerk, the wagon started forward. The prisoner transport was on the move. Four wagons, flanked by both mounted and dismounted guardsmen. Two hounds and their handlers also walked by the middle of the convoy.

* * * * *​

Most of the way through the city was uneventful.

Then the transport turned the final corner at an intersection in the streets. Began their final approach down a long stretch of street toward the Western Gates and the awaiting Elbion Cohort there.

Unbeknownst to the prisoner transport, they would be moving right into an ambush on this street.

And unbeknownst to Khadija and a full half of the Luminari warriors, pretending to browse at the street vendor stalls here and talking idly and watching from the corners of their eyes the approach of the transport, they were going to be betrayed.

* * * * *​

The street was peaceful. A normal day in Alliria. Disguised Luminari warriors and actual Allirian citizens alike talked and bantered and browsed and ate. Children crossed the street some ways ahead of the prisoner transport, a harried mother chasing after them. The guardsmen in front of the convoy had to shoo some people to the side, gruff commands to "make way," and their commands were obeyed and there was no further problem.

The sun above and the clear blue sky gorgeous. A group of five birds flew from a house on one side of the street to a shop on the other.

And Khadija Han stood at an apple stand. Picking up a vibrant red apple and paying the vendor for it.

Behind her, the prisoner transport began to roll past. Horse hooves and wagon wheels against the hard cobblestone.

 

[Gerald]

It had been a relatively quiet day, having spent most of it at the barracks. A few training exercises were the most excitement he'd been a part of, and today that suited him just fine. More and more he had been enjoying whatever solitude he could afford, and on days like this it often went, for the most part, uninterrupted. Having carried out his schedule, he was a little surprised to be addressed about, something else.

His captain came in, looking for him.

Gerald had just set about fixing his sword to his hip, in preparation to head out on a self appointed patrol.

"Gerald," his captain said, approaching, "I've got a... special task for you."

Gerald's left brow rose, but his eyes didn't leave his work, "special task," he replied.

"Hmm..." the captain folded his arms, "a prisoner exchange. Some kind of Anirian radical, wanted in Elbion. There is already an escort arranged but..."

"You would feel more comfortable knowing you had eyes on what transpires."

"I don't need any more crazies running around these streets."

Gerald finished tightening his gear, straightened himself upright and turned to face the captain, "when do they depart?"

* * *

​

Down the street he hurriedly made way, him and half a dozen other guardsmen. He could hear the wagons just ahead, and the lead man ushering pedestrians out of their path.

They would join with them shortly...

Trajan Meng​

 

[Trajan Meng]

Trajan sat in the cramped and dim confines of the second wagon, what light was allowed in through the barred windows blocked by the shoulders and heads of the men sitting in front of them. He sat and thought on his last great triumph with the Luminari--deposing the orcish warlord, Gromagg Ur, from the coastal Steppes. Thought on that last reprieve from the downward trajectory of the Luminari's fortunes after the botched attack on the College. He thought on his failing efficacy in recent times.

And that is when it happened.

* * * * *​

The lead guardsman of the prisoner transport convoy gave a wave to Gerald. Then there was a thunder and he disappeared in a violent plume of dust shooting out from one side of the street. Like a primal drumbeat that thunder descended back down the street, a series of them in staggered sequence on either side of the street now, and more plumes of dust spewed forth with explosive intensity and choked the four wagons in a brown haze. Ice magic too, though hidden by the dust, had burst forth, sprays of brilliant blue and white arcane ice pelting the sides of the wagons and their wheels and incidentally some of the horses which drew the wagons along and some of the dismounted guardsmen as well.

Khadija, a master of creating devilish traps through enchantments, had surreptitiously placed many such enchanted traps of dust and ice (lavastone her preferred material to enchant) along the street. Hid them among the vendor stalls or by storefronts or by little peekings of grass growing through cracks in the cobblestone. The signal was sent for the triggering of these traps when she made a small, circular motion with her finger upon a chunk of enchanted lavastone that served as the control.

And the ambush was underway.

Civilians on either side of the encapsulation of dusty haze which enveloped the prisoner transport went running up the street or down the street--away. The Luminari warriors gave up their guise of pretending to be normal citizens, travelers, buyers, or what not. They pulled out their weapons--swords and daggers and maces and crossbows--and turned from their masquerades as ordinary folk of the city and descended on the wagons, already having them surrounded. The ambushers had all lined the streets, hiding in plain sight until the trap was sprung--a charade of normalcy.

Shouts from them to the disoriented guardsmen escorting the prisoner transport:

"Get down! Get down!"

"Drop it! Don't even think about it!"

"Hands! Show me your hands!"

Some of the guardsmen, in their daze, complied easily. Others put up a brief struggle, but were overwhelmed. Swords clashed and maces struck armor and crossbow bolts were loosed. The horses of all the wagons and those of the mounted guardsmen were all screaming and bucking and those of the first wagon tried to pull away and were shot through the skulls and these horses collapsed with sharp whimpers and lay still. The two hounds, barking and slobbering viciously, were likewise shot by crossbows when the Luminari warriors attacked--curt yelps of pain the last sounds they made--and their handlers thrown to the ground and held there at swordpoint.

Khadija Han and Dio Rico made haste to the first wagon in the dusty ambush. Kha went to the back and hurried to work the latch. Dio observed as she did: "The ice missed. Didn't freeze the wheels."

A Luminari warrior nearby, reloading his crossbow: "We took care of it. Wagon isn't going nowhere."

Kha got the door open. Looked inside at the faces of the flabbergasted prisoners. Didn't see Trajan. Shut the door but did not lock it and ran with Dio past the rearing and screaming horses of the second wagon. Ran to the back of the second. Frenzied fingers working on the latch. And she threw open the door.

"Trajan!"

He sat there by the wagon door, surprised at first, but he gathered himself and climbed out from the back of the wagon and found his feet on the cobblestones and Kha slammed her arms around him as if he were, fittingly, the beloved father she had not seen in years and presumed dead.

Trajan, in that moment, amidst the chaos and subduing of the guardsmen, could do nothing more than embrace her back. And he dared to think that perhaps the sun was rising for him and his faithful once again.

* * * * *​

Dio Rico stood next to Kha and Trajan as they hugged one another.

And he faked a smile.

Gerald

 

[Rizzo Bouchard]

Istra Lejeune had come with the Elbion Cohort for one purpose: a man named Trajan Meng.

At the behest of the Order of Speculatores and the Grand Council of Elbion, she did this. For it had recently come to light, via an anonymously delivered letter to the Order's Hall, that this man Trajan Meng was more than what the College thought him to be. The College knew only that he was involved in some capacity (even the exact nature of this capacity unknown) with the theft of three magical catalysts--they had no reason to think anything more.

The letter, signed simply as "D.R.", outlined a number of things. An organization called the "Luminari." How they had agents within the College. And, moreover, this letter went on to provide the names and details of all of these agents' activities. As it turned out, the letter was (ostensibly) without fabrication, once these details were investigated. Stolen items were found in personal belongings, incriminating tokens of Luminari membership discovered, secret rendezvous observed at the specified times and locations. All of these agents were detained in short order.

But. Were they all? The Order of Speculatores doubted it.

The letter pointed out Trajan Meng as the figurehead of this idealistic organization that had infiltrated the College. And now the Order of Speculatores was keen and stamping them out. Yes, the Grand Council wanted the College back under City control, but they did not want it back while these...fanatics infested it. And the Order did not trust the College--having already failed in this regard--to produce a satisfactory result.

Simple, then. Istra was deployed to engineer a situation in which she could covertly interrogate this man Trajan. Convert him, perhaps, but gain the information the Order needed. Yet given the sensitive nature of the task, execution was also an outcome the Order would accept if it could not be helped. The College was deemed quite unlikely to do this, and the Order would rather have the head of the snake cut off if nothing else.

So Istra waited at the Western Gates of Alliria. Waited with her fellow riders from Elbion who did not know of her true purpose for being here.

* * * * *​

And past the archway of the Gates into the interior of the city she saw it. Saw far down the street which led to the Gates the sudden eruption of clouds of dust. A delay, miniscule, but a delay. Then the sound clapped in her ears, crisp cracks of thunder.

Among the Elbion Cohort:

"Aionus, what was that?"

"The hell?"

"No rain today. Look at sky."

"There!" Istra said, pointing and bringing the company of riders and the drivers of their own wagons to look where her finger showed. "That was the transport! Something has happened."

The Gate guards likewise looked, and Istra began to protest to be allowed into the city. The guards insisted that the matter would be taken care of, that it was not safe, that they best let the Allirian authority handle whatever was transpiring.

Istra argued, even as the others of the Elbion Cohort seemed content to stay at the Gates and comply with the instructions of the local guards. She argued, and--if the guards did not agree to let her in soon--then she would resolve to ride past them.

This was the opportunity that she needed to accomplish her mission.

Gerald

 

[Gerald]

He tilted his head up, regarding the lead man's wave.

He'd just turned his head to say something to the man just to his left, and then his attention was abruptly stolen back to where the thunder boomed forth and the dust billowed out.

"Get down!"

He ducked down low, taking shelter behind a wagon adjacent to those now being pummeled by... something. He was unsure what exactly, and he could only he imagine it was some kind of magic. Magic that was beyond his level of expertise, of that there was no doubt. In truth, he had none to speak of. Regardless, he would still find and meet this challenge as he would any other.

That was his job.

And these were his streets.

There were a few moments of utter chaos, and through it he and his troop were luckily just far enough from the point of the onslaught they had suffered no injuries. Crouched out of sight, they swiftly made eye contact with one another from their positions - relatively close together, just behind the the prison transports. Gerald's eyes met Tor's, a mage of the guard. He was not a true sorcerer, but he and another, Alrun, whose Gerald's eyes also met just after, were their best hope of getting control of the situation. Then Gerald's eyes turned to a rather skinny one, Baldwin. He nodded once to him, and then he drew his sword and with a shout he charged.

Tor and Alrun stood up from behind a series of wooden crates and cast spells of fire, hurling it out to bring flame between the wagons and the side streets, and cut off potential escape. There were other ways, but those most immediate were at least thought of.

Baldwin leapt up, and sprinted with a formidable swiftness out and back up the main street, working quickly to make way through the mass of fleeing people. He was on his way to sound the alarm.

Gerald, and two others, Derick and Girrel advanced on the prisoner and the criminals attempting to rescue him.

"Halt," Gerald called.

Trajan Meng ​

 

[Trajan Meng]

Dio Rico had become a Purist. A Luminari Purist, a festering half of the organization that was now poised to splinter entirely from the ranks. Splinter? No, destroy their inferior half. For Trajan Meng may well have started the Luminari along with the other Founders, but he had grown weak. Proved himself incapable of what must be done to secure Mankind's future upon Arethil. He openly embraced the half-xeno Madame Valkery during the campaign against Gromagg Ur. And to the Luminari Purists, this was tantamount to treason. You were all human, or you were not human at all--that was their rallying creed.

Under Trajan, the Luminari and the United Humanity he sought would be led to ruin. Thus it became the holy duty of the Purists to do as their name implied and keep Humanity pure. Those brothers and sisters of the Luminari who did not ascribe to this notion, who likewise embraced or even so much as tolerated the half-xenos as Trajan did, needed to be purged.

Many already had.

And here, now, so would the rest of them be.

* * * * *​

Trajan had been located. Flames unexpectedly erupted in the vicinity of the side-streets, the light of them like glowing beacons in the haze of dust about the prisoner transport. And now men from outside the convoy's force were approaching.

It was time.

Dio drew his dagger and stepped close and dropped a rough hand on Trajan's shoulder before driving the blade deep into his back. Into Trajan's ear he said: "For Mankind."

This set off the chain reaction that all of the Purists were waiting for. Those Purists close to Dio turned their weapons upon their Luminari brothers and sisters, and those Purists close to them did likewise. In a wave of treachery throats were slit, bolts loosed, skulls caved in by maces, and in a time so deadly quick one could have scarcely taken three whole breaths the once fifty Luminari warriors had been starkly cut in half. Destroyed. Purged.

All the while, Khadija had drawn back from her embrace of Trajan. Saw full well what Dio had done, the agony streaked across Trajan's face as he stumbled and fell down onto his rear, clutching at the wound in his back.

"TRAJAN, NO!" And she reached into her satchel and could not withdraw what she sought before the Purist from earlier, his crossbow now reloaded, stepped forward and shot the bolt through the side of Khadija Han's head. The light of life immediately disappeared from her eyes as the bolthead protruded from the opposite side of her skull. She jerked. Spasmed. Fell to one side and lay dead on the ground. Eyes cast to nothing.

Trajan could only look at her with wordless horror, shocked beyond true comprehension of what was happening around him. He had been a warrior for nearly his whole life. But here in this grim moment he was little more than an old man, one whose life's work had been destroyed in an instant before his very eyes.

Dio then turned to face Gerald and the two men at his flank, bloody dagger still in hand. Held his arms up and out in a gesture that was near inviting, and certainly triumphant. He felt confident, with twenty-five total Purists on his side and eight of whom being directly visible through the dusty haze. Eight men armed with a variety of weapons who could likewise see the approach of Gerald. Eight men arrayed about the back end of the second wagon and the front end of the third, in Dio's immediate vicinity.

To Gerald, Dio said, "Walk away. And let history be made."

Gerald

 

[Rizzo Bouchard]

Istra had enough. The Gate guards were frustratingly obstinate. There was perhaps some merit to their concerns--they feared a chaotic situation becoming even more so with the intervention of the Elbion Cohort--but she could not stand by. A particular adage rung true in her mind: it is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

And so that is what she would do. Act. Act now, and ask for forgiveness when it was done. She simply could not let this prime opportunity wither away.

Istra spurred her horse on into a full gallop, blowing past the Allirian Gate guards as they yelled at her back. Her fellows of the Cohort did not follow, all for reasons that were of no concern to Istra. They might even make themselves of use by starting that process of forgiveness and its associated asking.

Down the street and toward the cloud dust Istra rode, shouting at the civilians and city-goers to make way as the hooves of her horse thundered along the cobblestone.

Gerald

 

[Gerald]

Gerald slid to a halt. Derick and Girrel likewise stopped, and all three of them with the swords in hand brandished them openly in preparation to act. Tor and Alrun came close, and joined with their comrades, hands ready with magic.

But they were outmanned, possibly being surrounded this very moment, and their prisoner now lay on the ground with a grievous wound. Many of those who had come to spring him free had already been killed as well, treacherously at that Gerald quickly realized. And given that the criminal had been dealt with, perhaps this was an occasion where diplomacy was in order - despite the fact they had blatantly murdered several of their guardsmen. Friends even.

But perhaps another day would see their vengeance.

Gerald was not afraid to die, but he was afraid of what may come should he attack outright. There were those under his command that he did not wish to see perish, even if he would so willingly give his own life.

Still, to just let them walk away...

He heard the sound of a horse's approach, but not yet did he hear the alarm.

Come on Baldwin...

"Who are you, and what is the meaning of this?" He demanded, but held his place.

Trajan Meng ​

 

[Trajan Meng]

Dio smirked. Replied simply, "We are unimportant. But what we stand for is paramount. For you. For me. For us all, brother."

Already some of the Luminari Purists had begun to flee the scene as individuals, as was the plan. Some dropped their weapons and some did not. Some fled going up the street or down it and some decided to jump through the unexpected walls of fire that had sprang up by the side-streets. They wore faces of panic and fear as would all of the other civilians who had only seconds ago fled. The confusion and the dust and the speed at which their task was accomplished was their cover, their veil of innocence. By the time guards from elsewhere could arrive on the scene they would be gone long before any of the prisoner transport guards could relay information about them (and even so, they all appeared utterly generic in their plain clothes over top their armor).

But the eight within view of Trajan and Gerald stood their ground. Their work not yet complete.

* * * * *​

Trajan sat on the ground. Ungodly pain wracking his body from the deep wound of the dagger from a man he once trusted with his life--as he did with all those present. These good men and women of the Luminari. What happened? Why had something as terrible as this come to pass?

Khadija had been the first person Trajan had shared his dream with. And now it would seem that she was also the last. For all the men about him--Dio--were naught but treacherous cowards who had for reasons unknown abandoned the hope of a United Humanity.

Trajan looked into Kha's unseeing eyes.

Looked up to the man who had killed her. He knew him, of course: a man named Davvis, from a town in the northern Allir Reach. Davvis was reloading his crossbow.

And Trajan's face set with hard determination and anger. If there was one thing he could do before his life was over, one thing he could give as a small and final service to the failing Cause, one last act of gratitude for a beloved friend like Khadjia...it would be to kill the man who had taken her life.

Trajan shoved himself up to his feet. Ignored all the shooting pain in his legs and torso. Lunged forward and cocked back his fist as Davvis glanced up from his reloading.

And Trajan punched him solidly in the jaw. Knocking a glob of spittle from his mouth and twisting his head around with the force. Davvis spiraled and hit the ground, and Dio--all this happening behind his back--took his eyes off Gerald in a reactionary way to look.

Then a crossbow bolt hit Trajan in the back.

And another in his chest.

He gasped. Staggered. Mouth hanging open and eyes wide with the shock of the impacts. A hollow sound from his throat. And he could no longer stand. Trajan collapsed down onto his side at an angle to the unconscious Davvis, both men lying in the street much like some of the slain guardsmen of the prisoner transport.

* * * * *​

Valynthe...

If I was a better man.

Would this still have happened to me?

Gerald

 

[Rizzo Bouchard]

Istra spurred her horse onward. Up ahead, seemed the last of the people from inside the dust cloud were running out in a panic.

But it would still be another few moments before she went into that haze herself.

And she had no idea what she would find. What the opposition would be like.

Gerald

 

[Gerald]

He could not believe what he was watching transpire. Before long, he came to understand what was happening: an assassination. Their prisoner was a marked man it seemed, which for Gerald and the Allirian Guard, had proven deadly.

This would not go unanswered.

The prisoner lashed out, injured as he was, and struck one of the attackers. The man ahead of him, turned to see the ensuing and unexpected altercation.

The bells began to ring, Baldwin's task complete.

Sword in hand, Gerald slipped his foot forward and advanced, raising his sword up to the neck of the man - Dio - and rested it there, pressed gently against his flesh - just as the final blow was struck against Trajan. The guardsmen around Gerald all drew in a bit closer to him, taking a more defensive posture - and held - anxious.

"Stop this at once, you're all under arrest!"

The alarm persisted in the distance.

"It's over for you."

Istra Lejeune​

 

[Trajan Meng]

Each breath was an inferno of agony.

Yet his body persisted. Even as blood spilled from the dagger wound in his back and oozed around the edges of the two crossbow bolts, his body persisted. Persisted doggedly against the cold encroachment of death. And though this marked the single most tragic day in the whole of his life, he still had the blood of an old soldier within him.

Trajan saw Gerald take hold of Dio. Distantly heard Gerald speak, heard Dio make a plea. Trajan did not know these men--Gerald and his companions--and he wished that he had. For today they were doing Mankind--no, all of Arethil--a great service. Dio and his cold-hearted traitors ought be met with their due reckoning.

And Trajan shifted on the ground, weak and strained. Looked to the unconscious Davvis who lay beside him.

Trajan knew. His work was not yet complete.

Slowly he crawled. Crawled along his side with one arm. Crawled until he was laying partially on top of Davvis. Then Trajan grabbed at the crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest. Clenched his teeth until he could no longer, until a quiet rumble of overwhelming pain escaped his throat. He pulled the crossbow bolt out of his own chest, held it in both hands, reared up some with strength summoned from anger and dedication and adrenaline--

And slammed the crossbow bolt down into Davvis's chest.

Trajan flopped limply back down, his vision deteriorated into fragmenting colors of howling torment. He struggled with breathing--a wet wheezing sound from his chest with each inhalation. He thought that he was going to pass out.

But he had one clear thought:

For Kha.

Then he did see a flash of blue and heard the sound of thunder.

Gerald

 

[Rizzo Bouchard]

The haze had begun to clear to a degree. Enough for Dio and the eight men (seven, with Davvis being knocked unconscious and soon to be fatally stabbed) to see that their fellow Luminari Purists had adhered to the plan and dutifully fled. And that was why the plan was in place. To prevent something like this, something like getting bogged down. Get in, get out, ride the wave of chaos to accomplish the mission and escape.

Yet it didn't go precisely to plan. Gerald and his men showed up with astounding quickness, and Trajan had caused enough of a distraction for Dio himself to be taken at swordpoint. And now the bells were ringing--the small window of escape was closing.

Stop this at once, you're all under arrest! It's over for you.

"Just go!" Dio yelled to his companions. "Leave me and go!"

A moment's worth of hesitation among the seven Luminari Purists still standing. Then a silent agreement. In spite of the cold efficiency intended by the plan's design that ensured getting as many of their number out as possible, the seven Purists decided not to simply leave Dio behind when there was the chance to free him. (And what they did not see, so focused was their attention on Gerald, was Trajan stabbing the fallen Davvis with a crossbow bolt.)

A shortsword wielding Purist rushed toward Gerald and the captive Dio. Bellowed out a battlecry--

And was struck by a thick bolt of lightning, sending him careening off of his feet and crashing down to the ground. He would have been dead, if not for the absorption of the (now disintegrated) enchanted vest he wore under his plain clothes. Yet those same plain clothes were blackened and embers danced along them, and the man could not stand nor lift his swordarm nor do anything more than gasp and blink.

Istra Lejeune stood by the tail-end of the first wagon. Magical lightning crackled about her hands, leaped in thin arcs from her shoulders to her arms and her head.

To Gerald and his men she called out, "Friendly!"

The moment of surprise from her appearance and her magic was gone. Five of the Purists around Gerald charged at him and his men, now outnumbered but fueled with plenty of fanaticism and zeal. The sixth, the last man with a loaded crossbow, aimed it at Istra.

Gerald

 

[Gerald]

Gerald had been in the guard for a long time now. He'd been involved in a number of interesting circumstances, even those involving heroes and magic. But he was no hero, no champion. Just a simple man with a sword and a cause: to guard and protect those who could not do so themselves. It was a simple task, one which he had proven well suited for - but now. Now he was the leading man, and the responsibility of life, he felt, rested on his shoulders. It changed things, but in those quick moments, it could only go so far.

Yes, there were lives he was responsible for.

But there were lives they were now responsible for too, and right now they were on the cusp of adding more to that list.

Each of them, Gerald, Girrel, Derick, Tor and Alrun: they all had a job to do, but beyond this a duty to uphold. For this, they would either die, or live with what happened next.

Dio was quick to dismiss his men, but it was quick to see that this would not be so. They advanced, having made their choice to spill more blood. Very well then.

Swiftly, and without further thought, steel slid harshly against Dio's flesh. The same lack of regard for his fellow guardsmen shared in kind, and so it would follow after unto his followers. In the same motion, he too advanced, taking Dio for finished, and moved to intercept the oncoming attacks. Gerald's men also advanced, and following the actions of Trajan, Istra, and now Gerald it would seem they'd already lightened the load. Paired with the arrival of their new friendly they were now evenly matched, lest the lightbolt stricken man return to battle, or Dio prove less injured than assumed.

The bells had only just begun to ring, it would be some time until any reinforcement would arrive this time. It was only their captain's intuition that had made their own haste a possibility. He imagined few others had as much foresight.

They would need to at the very least hold out.

And Gerald swung his sword in anticipation for the first Luminari purist's attack. His men likewise began to engage the purists. But of them all, Gerald was the most skilled. He could only hope their training would serve them well.

Trajan Meng | Istra Lejeune​

 

[Trajan Meng]

The sounds of battle. Flashes of blue light and cracks of thunder. Distant and close, both at once.

Yet Trajan breathed. His body persevering, even now. Stubbornly defying death as long as possible. Had he done all that he could? Or was there...was there...

Work left undone?

(the purists...the traitors...what have I done...)

And a woman entered his field of vision as Trajan lay on the ground. Crouched down and moved his head and got a good look at his face, and Trajan--in turn--at hers.

(kha? glory be, you survived...?)

The woman looked back over her shoulder. Shouted something to someone.

Gerald

 

[Rizzo Bouchard]

Istra saw the crossbow being aimed at her. And she acted purely on instinct and dove under the first wagon when the bolt was fired. The crossbowman cursed and tossed aside his ranged weapon and drew his arming sword and joined his Purist brethren in the fray with the guards. Istra, meanwhile, rolled out to the other side of the first wagon, now with line of sight to her (and from her to them) broken. All the better to get into a new position and strike again.

* * * * *​

Dio fell to the ground, clutching at his neck with frantic eyes and gurgling and rolling about in a panic, kicking his feet as if by only kicking them enough his wound would be healed.

And the small battle was joined. Claustrophobic and cramped with the men of both sides clogging up the space between the back end second wagon and the screaming, rearing horses of the third. The haze of dust was steadily clearing still, allowing the scattered light of day to shine down on the skirmish. The Purists drew first blood, pulling one of the guards out of position and back into the group of them, whereupon he was slain as other Purists defended. Gerald's guards were quick to draw their own blood in retaliation, one of them kicking a Purist so fiercely that he stumbled and the back of his head smacked fatally against a hard corner of the second wagon--blood smeared on said corner and dribbled down to the ground where the Purist had fallen.

Curiously, in the course of the fight, two of the Purists' weapons had suddenly rusted. Both times when the Purist thought himself secure in parrying his foe's incoming strike. These rusted weapons shattered upon contact with the unmarred steel of Gerald's guardsmen's weapons, leaving the Purists wide open and in due course slain.

The last Purist standing had just run a guardsman through. Looked to Gerald. Pulled a throwing knife from his belt--

And a lightning bolt struck the Purist's head, blackening one side of it and blowing out the other, his eyes vaporized in an instant and leaving only the hollow sockets. The Purist's mouth moved, he took a step, and fell over dead.

* * * * *​

Istra had surreptitiously supported Gerald's guardsmen from around the back corner of the second wagon. Using her Alteration magic to rust some of the Purists' weapons at the worst possible times for them. When the number of foes dwindled, she announced her presence and location--now that it mattered naught--with a lightning bolt.

She gave some glances around the street, the prisoner transport convoy, and through the thinning haze of dust she could not see any more foes. If there had been more, they had fled.

The mission, then.

And, as luck would have it, the man at her feet bore a resemblance to Trajan's description. But she needed to confirm. So she crouched down and cupped his chin and turned his face some. Got a good look at it (his eyes...he's still alive).

It was him. Trajan Meng.

There were so many unanswered questions. Who were the people that tried to kill him here? How many more Luminari were there in the College or in Elbion or in total? The picture was as yet incomplete, and Trajan's death would be an acceptable but ultimately unsatisfactory result here.

Yet...things were complicated. Trajan was on death's door--if he did not receive magical healing very soon, he would surely perish. Istra could bring him to the Elbion Cohort, where a healer was in the party. But then he would simply be secured back into custody, taken to Elbion as normal, and through the ineptitude of the College authority nothing of real value would happen. Nothing would happen if she waited for those bells and the reinforcements they summoned to bring Allirian Guard.

No, if Istra truly wanted to get to the bottom of this, she needed to do something more...covert. Off the record. Involving neither the Elbion nor Allirian authority at large.

She looked over her shoulder to Gerald. Yes, these men were Allirian Guard too, but they had just been through hell. Their friends had been slain, their families sure to be devastated. They would be emotional. Invested. She could sway them. She needed to sway them. It was this, or failure.

"You there!" Istra called to Gerald. "This man has vital information about what happened here today, and he needs the magic of a healer now. Do you know of any healers nearby?"

To underscore exactly what she would be asking, she added urgently, "If he is taken into custody by the Elbion Cohort or the Allirian authority, I promise you that nothing of substance will happen. If you want a true chance at the men responsible for what transpired here today, help me. Help me get this man Trajan healed and secured in secret. Believe me when I say that this is the only way, and that your choice here matters more than might know."

Gerald