Eight hundred and three years ago
Cil perched her foot upon a fallen Ashuran’s head and leaned her weight against it. The skull collapsed with a satisfying crunch beneath her silver sabaton. She thrust her sword directly through the visor slit of another foe, dropping the man in a heap.
Adrenaline pumped through her body from the thrill of battle, but also the fear of her people being buried amongst the bodies riddling the ground. They should each be given a proper ceremony for their contribution, for it was what they deserved. Anything less would be unfair. Unethical. Unjust.
A bang on Cil’s back armor plate sounded, informing her of an aggressor behind her. Dropping to her feet, she held her weapon out at knee level and spun. The assailant’s stab had already begun and provided him with unstable footing. He fell easily with a slash to the knee that went straight through his poleyn.
Cil was a part of what had been named the Survivors of Gretherin. Gretherin was the leader of the Survivor movement. When Ashure allied itself with Grunuil and pledged war on the Survivors, it was Gretherin who grouped everyone he could save in camps located in the stone desert, north of Ashure. Many thousands of people died when the recession had taken place, leading to the name Survivors.
As the second-in-command under and wife of Gretherin, Cil led the Survivors by his side into battle time and again. The Survivors’ Swordsman were trained from age seven with both the blade and bow, so they could handle themselves in a fight. The Ashuran/Grunuil Coalition, on the other hand, put a suit of armor on any person that could hold a sword. The quality of soldiers had significantly impacted the war thus far, and would continue to impact the outcome until it was all over.
The battle was progressing slowly, but not poorly. The Survivors were delaying the Coalition’s forces right where the battle had begun. They needed to hold this position for maybe two more hours and their camps would be evacuated and safe, relocated to a new, secret camp.
Cil stood up fully, stabbing her sword through an enemy’s breastplate, catching his blade on her left vambrace, which was strengthened with extra-thick silver for such a purpose. The bright Ashuran armor was incredibly flimsy, it could hardly take a dagger without breaking. One more thing the Coalition did to increase numbers was skip good equipment. The enemy fell limp from her blade, slicked by several coats of crusted blood.
A streak of lightning in the heavens brightened the stone plain where the onslaught was taking place. It also seemed to signify the commencement of the Renewal—a three-day period of constant wind, rain, thunder, and lightning. The Renewal came around once a year, and it was the only time the stone desert ever saw rain. Everyone knew it was to begin today, but the battle was a surprise attack, most likely launched in an attempt to gain advantage from the wind and rain.
Cil struck a Grunuil on the back of the head with the blunt side of her blade. The force shocked the warrior, dropping his unconscious body atop a silver-clad corpse. The Ashuran armor contrasted with the dull grey stone setting, as the armor was painted a variety of vibrant “war” colors.
The breastplate was a deep violet that changed to maroon and gold as it neared the faulds, joining into the leg coverings, one of scarlet and one of yellow. Pauldrons began the transformation of purple to blue and chartreuse, which quickly became navy and deep forest green at the couters.
The getup was completed with an orange helmet crafted to represent the sun, though the definition was stretched. Five wavy tendrils sprouted from it like a physical representation of the sunrays. Four faces with different expressions could be seen on different quadrants of the helm. Angry, sad, happy, and indifferent.
