A rift between worlds brings forth war for all the worlds that intertwine. Hardships follow those that have put their lives on the line, but how much can one take before their soul shatters at the sound of battle? Between self-preservation and undyi...
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What does it mean to be a hero? What hardships and pain must one trudge through to be considered one? How many friends and allies must you have watched perish in the battlefield one by one, like spiders being crushed by the might of a human. As the might of earth dragons rise from the ground and ravage the forces you so fought with for many long moons? The enduring suffering that is enticed with the cruelty and soul-shattering conflict. . . was this not merit to be granted, even for a sliver of time, a great hero? How many of the people remember not just the bravery of the great lord Hero and his betrothed. . . but of those that fought alongside him. Those that only fought for the cause, not for the prince. Are the names of the soldiers, the backbone of the army, written in stone? Or are the names carved in ice, where time will melt away the memories of the valiant charges launched by them?
Shadow and Light. The devouring void versus the shimmering flame. In those final hours, during the beating minutes that pass and through the fleeting of seconds, he can remember the scarring sight of battle against a power for greater than himself. The gruesome images of witnessing men clamped upon by the powerful jaws of earth dragons and wyverns, to see their limbs be bitten like bread ripped from the loaf. It was simply one after the other, every victorious battle was not without its casualties. Even now as this war nears to an end and this chapter of history will be no more, men still perish amidst the battlefield. The screams of men and the sight of blood never truly goes away. It gets ingrained into your mind for all eternity.
While Marth's army rushed into the Dragon's Table, Jeorge knew that someone had to take care of their flank. The enemy is strong, and they will stop at nothing to see the final destruction of Marth and his allies. Steady was his posture as his breathe mimicked as well. The fight against evil and light. . . why does he fight?
He fled from his family, from the army he once served (Albeit to root out the corruption), for his loyalty wavers as a banner flaps victoriously in the air. He believed that perhaps this group could provide something he had yearned for many years. This group was less of an army and more so a large group of. . . friends?
Family. Yes. His trainee was enlisted with Marth, and seeing how the Prince of Altea interacted with not just his fellow soldiers, but with Caeda as well. . . Could he be as close to another as those two are? The crushing reality is that Jeorge did not walk the luxurious life Marth and Caeda strolled down. Jeorge once said a phrase he will never forget.
"If I say it's because I like you. . . Would you believe me?"
Kris only heard what she wanted to hear. A plan. As he said, he still is a member of House Menedy, known for their cunning plans and calculating personality. She never heard the words he wanted her to hear. Just the ones that served her best interest. What purpose does he fight for now? Even here, standing alone and faced against the reinforcements of those that have corrupted his once great nation, he finds no will to pull his bow. No energy to fuel the Parthia's might.
As Jeorge stared down the hoard of men that began their charge, he planted his feet on the ground, his left arm extended forth with his bow as his right hand drew the string back. With an arrow affixed to a target, and once his fingers released the thin line that determined a man's life or death, corpses began to fall meters away from his position. Every shot of his bow, one heretic exits this world. One arrow, one life. No remorse can be seen in the eyes of the Perfect Shot. While mean amassed in the hundred charged his way, they were all but foolish pawns in Jeorge's eyes. So what was he? Perhaps a Rook. . . a valuable piece in the army that can still be replaced. Whose purpose is to merely be taken to create an opening.
"I was born to fight, trained to kill," the sniper spoke softly to himself, his salvo of arrows matching that of what tens of men can do, "prepared to die, yet never will."
"I keep low, and move fast. I kill first, and I die last. One shot, one kill. No luck, mere skill."
He repeated this again and again, his technique not once faltering as the enemies gained ground.
"I was born to fight, trained to kill. Prepared to die, yet never will. I keep low, and move fast. One shot, one kill. No luck, mere skill."
Like a broken record, he repeated the words that forged his skill when he was only but training.
"I was born to fight, trained to kill. Prepared to die, yet never will. I keep low, and move fast. One shot, one kill. No luck, mere skill."
All other archers pale in comparison to the Perfect Shot. His swift hands and his sharp aim shook even veterans of war. While he never showed off or brag to his fellow soldiers, this one time he shall allow himself to believe in what the rumors are. After all, one man that mowed down an entire platoon of reinforcements was not human alone. The question now resided in his head. So what was he? A demon? The devil? Could he still say he was a hero? Was it an acceptable term for those that will look back in history and learn of him?
So when the fog of war lifted, and only corpses laid scattered on the bloody stained ground, Jeorge reached for one final arrow, yet found himself out of ammunition. He had used all of his arrows to keep the flank of Marth's army safe. He allowed them to fight on the battle that will change the course of fate and history of this land. Yet tears rolled down his eyes like a drop of rain drips down the heavens above. Where only the good can enter.
Staggering, the archer took a step forward when he saw a blue portal tear the space ahead of him. It beckoned for him to enter, as if he was being called to serve something. Like a magnet attracting a piece of iron. After all, what does this world have to offer now? It harbored no love, no rewards, just the retelling of his kills. The spread of his rumors. Perhaps now he can find another world. Another place. Maybe there he can be. . . a hero?
"Hero. . . Hmm. . . A simple hero." Jeorge mumbled, and passed through the portal. Where once was light now he was covered by the vast darkness of the void. Where shall he venture to now? Where will this portal guide him too?
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The summoner watched, surprised to what she just pulled. . . so beautiful. Not the archer she was looking for though. She heard the fall of four silver stars follow suit.
"Hello, Jeorge!" The female summoner cheerfully greeted, her bright and beaming smile being witnessed by the archer. "I am Blanca! The summoner!" For some reason, she felt so excited to see him. If she had to be honest, she did not even know that he was in the summoning pool. What skills did he have to offer? To Blanca, this did not matter! "Welcome to Askr! Where heroes like you join forces to battle evil!" She made a dramatic pose as she explained the premise of this world. Soon enough she stood back up straight, still smiling ever so brightly. A pure, happy smile.
Jeorge blinked as he heard those words. His heart pounded as it echoed in his mind. A hero. . . and she spoke with such confidence and assurance. Could he believe her? Could he now be at peace? The archer held back his emotions as he composed himself. Askr. . . what new adventure will he find here? If he is considered a hero, well, Jeorge now has something to fight for.
and soon enough, he will have someone to fight for.
