Incline 1: Wing-Head Vapooliar

"Wait for my signal. Their fire shall be disrupted." I say back to my ironcoat officer. He nods, offering me a simple gesture, and he assumes his position in the formation. Right at the front. My arms rolls about, shoulder with it. Yet no eagerness finds its way into my sword arm.

Putting my first foot into the open, I follow it up with another and come into full view of the fortress. My eyes sprint across the battlements, taking in all the fighters and manned positions. They've barely enough men to crew two guns. Less that actually know how to go about them at all. I can see the last glimpses of abrupt training getting interrupted.

"THEY'RE ATTACKING! SOUND THE BELL!" a chosen leader roars down from the wall. I nudge a pebble into the air and catch it. I hurl it at the exposed man, a shower of gore popping into the air. The fortress responds a thousandfold, a desynchronised mess of handhelds and artillery going off.

A breath enters my lungs, and it all slows to a crawl as I set myself apart from the world.

I focus my Whisper Beryl coloured power through my arm, along the edge of my blade. Its steel edge whistles with the distilled magic I've pulled from the land's emerald winds. A slight vortex appears at its tip, growing and throbbing as my delayed action spurs on its growth. I move ahead, too fast for anyone here to see or comprehend.

My sword comes up like a bat, dragging with it a skyward wind. My place in this world returns to normal and dark dots of grape and melon-sized munitions fly away. The men along the battlements bear the tail ends, falling down and about. Some never even make their way back to their feet. Wet thuds sounding off right behind the wall.

"MEN OF WAIONR'S CHOSEN THEOCRACY, WITH ME!" I roar, demanding their bravery and fearlessness before Death-in-War. The ironcoats keep to their formation, breaking apart only to echo my roar with their own efforts. They march ahead, speeding up into a jog as I let my aura spread out.

My oppressive power scales the fortress walls, throwing the garrison into a terrified disarray. A mace-equipped giant steps out, his tower shield blocking off a safe escape down the walls. He batters the men back to the walls, the currents of my power making it a struggle to even rest their weapons. Stars of fire erupt along the gaps.

Bullets pierce my aura, too forceful in this debilitating order I am obeying. A cloak of cloud covers me, ebbing with a want to break sound with it. From one position to the next. Catching the bullets on my armour or my sword. The pinging is unending.

Pieces of metal and stone barely have time to find the ground. Whisking away instead on the visible winds. A burning touch hisses away, avoiding my power. I find the source, watching it burn away.

I leap up, meeting the cannon face-to-barrel as it slides back and forth. The crew throws themselves away, eyes wide with despair. My fist meets the cannonball. But it does not break. I pass on a tyrant wind, reversing the shot's course.

It zips back the way it came, blowing right through the back of the cannon. The hunk of iron flies away, breaking apart in the air. One end hits the ground, denting the barrel slightly. The rest crashes down, shattering and chipping along the grass-broken floor tiles. A dust cloud dragging after it. 

Putting a foot up, I throw myself back to the ground. My sabatons dig up the gravelly mountain road, building it up into a crest. I rise and look back at my ironcoats. Shame runs my blood cold and I snarl at the absurd order I need to play along with. 

My men carry on, each of them uninjured and unbothered by the now empty walls. Small groups break free, hooked siege ladders in hand. The largest men stay at the rear, throwing the ladders up into the sky as others guide them down. The reinforced wood strikes the walls, rattling into place as the large men hoist the ladders down along.

The men set themselves up, getting onto the ladders, one hand on them and another on their weapon. They hold their boom-pikes aloft, ready to set them off right at the top of the walls. I roll my eyes and leap. The brick cracks under my impact and I glance about to see what I have to deal with. What is left, anyway. 

A group of raggedy, stone grey clothed men face me, scurrying into a tower. My lips straighten and I focus excessively on not showing off my power. It throws me ahead, barrelling me straight into the tower. I glide around the stairs and up them, slicing away at the men up here. The roof explodes outwards, and I fly into the open, diving at an opportunistic soldier.

My leg goes into him, driving us along the wall and to another tower. I release the corpse and slam the door shut on some other soldiers. My hand grips into an unused gun, crushing the barrel and I shove it against the door. Barring us from any surprise attacks.

The first of the ironcoats throws himself onto the battlements, his blood hot with excitement. He freezes up, finding himself with nothing to do. Many others come up and I throw a thumb at the tower. They fire off their boom-pikes for no reason other than to use them. 

Ground crunches under me and I dash about. The final corpse in the open falls and I look around, my patience at its limit. The first drop of blood finally leaves my sword's edge. Each drip saps away my patience, the lost life more my own.

This is so stupid. I can already be done with this by now...! What kind of order in a siege so simple leaves a Valkinvar playing babysitter!?

"TAKE NO RISKS!" I somehow have to shout up at the men, the most absurd contradiction about them. The men garrisoning this fortress are fleeing with terror in their hearts. Seeking safer parts of the fortress. My ironcoats are already lounging about, tired sighs on their lips and brows furrowing down.

They're already calling down the ladders, calling off their use and the main gates open up. They come marching in and I focus my aura about the fortress. The panicked breath of the leftover garrison betrays their location and I gesture my ironcoats back. Their lead officer rushes to me, catching me before I can fly.

"I-Is this it...?" he asks, a lack of clarity to his actions.

"There are more heading to the far end. They might've mistaken a storeroom for an escape passage. Again, no risks. I don't want this embarrassment of a battle to end with nothing good for the war..." I explain, breaking apart into a miserable grumble as my magic puts me into a hover.

Glancing around the fortress, I take in the stripped down scenery. Whatever forces occupied this place before the Seven-Peaks Union of Jherikra headed south, they stripped the place of all its faith. All its history. It's a robbed tomb, a forebear to what will happen to Thurn's Forge.

Still, unlike what I could've probably expected years ago, they at least had the decency to mark the fortress as theirs. It's not much, but a lone flag is at least something. Oddly, I'm not all that familiar with the iconography. The Royal Army of the Jhermonikra has nearly always used the colours and symbols that I saw on that fateful day in Giant's Victory.

A field of plain grey, no more spectacular than the most generic and uninspired of mountains. Simple black chains break up some of it, a bit of crimson seeping from the hands they bind. All the blood flows from two words, cut into those same hands, in the ancient tongue. The first mortal tongue of Gods Speak, an odd irony given the heresy invading these lands... 

Blood-Tax.

"Hm." I let out, finding myself suddenly aware of a revelation. A lot of what is scattered across the fortress is nothing more than the gear for prisoners. These are penal troops. The kind of soldiers I am used to seeing in this war are penal troops...?

I blink away my confusion, making the white in my eyes modest once again. My focus returns and I head off, trailing and hunting the retreating Blood-Tax soldiers. Legs whip ahead as I stop, and my head turns, catching the last of many retreating men. His gun comes up, firing away.

He cocks the bolt, throwing it up and back. Right home ahead of it. Another bullet fires out. The air pops and I pull my sword out of the man's chest, letting him slide down.

I shove on ahead, breaking into the barricaded room, blade nowhere near at the ready. The energy simply never comes. Everyone I can grab finds my free hand to be their doom. A chorus of snapping necks and punctured lungs and hearts.

I slap one man through a wall, leaving a nasty splatter of blood across it. I come out into the open and find that giant of a man again. A soldier with a mace and a tower shield. No, a warden of prisoners.

His weapon drips with blood, his retreating forces not taking too kindly to his orders. My senses wash over him, making him stumble and quake with fear. A lengthy noise escapes me and I lodge my sword into the ground. This warden figure rushes ahead, his mace flicking open with pale electric magic power.

My mind goes blank with nothing of note catching my interest. These past few years have taken away so much of the awe I have for the Seven-Peaks Union and their mysterious arcane-science. Whatever this weapon is, it's nothing more than a piece of the Eusorochii people bargained for. It strikes my armour, nudging me not even the width of a speck of dust.

"Oh, my apologies." I go, remembering I'm not here to observe as my apathy slips away. I pick a palm up, stripping the man of his tower shield. It slaps back around, knocking his mace away and possibly breaking something in his hand. He backs away, hissing in pain as he clutches the broken body part. I eye a window and grab the man by his throat.

I give the window no respect and it breaks around me. I land gently and haul the mysterious warden ahead to my ironcoats. The men look around, fiddling their thumbs with nothing but boredom. I throw the warden before them and they stare, not even sure what to do.

"Strip him down, reuse some of the prisoner stuff around here. Usual, usual with the rest of it. I want the guns ready to move and any supplies accounted for. We'll have this place stripped clean if we're to find ourselves having our time wasted." I explain to the men and many shrug their shoulders, finding old, tatty baskets to get to work with.

The ironcoat officer approaches, hands still lingering on his boom-pike, "Valkinvar-Imdvarce, that is all of them?"

"Yes. The fortress is now ours. Whoever these Blood-Tax lot are, they're nothing to be concerned with." I explain and he nods along, lips pursing to a pop.

"No one has been injured. No one dead. Nothing to report, really." the ironcoat officer shrugs and I nod, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder.

"That is good, now," I start to say, throwing my senses out one more time, "Let's keep it that way."

Turning away from him, I float into the air until I am a fair distance from the mountain. I look out across the remnants of my homeland, unsure of what to make of it. The Seven-Peaks Union of Jherikra is nowhere to be seen in force, still. No calls were made, spells or flares. This fortress is yet another isolated garrison of stragglers.

I can see nor sense anyone else down the valleys or in the other fortresses and outposts. It's all the same, no matter where I look. Were it not for the smoke still rising from some of these places or the recent past, I'd be fooled. Fooled into believing that this country is at peace and that I am just a bored soldier... 

That is not the case, we all know it is not and somehow we're tired with boredom.