Day-2 Preparation

"We did it! They outnumbered us almost 50 times, but we beat them off! Leonidas cried, his joyful demeanour returning."

He beamed at Mahon, as he walked solemnly through the camp, trudging through the tents, his eyes locked in a look of despair.

"Mahon?"

Leonidas slapped his hand over his shoulder, pulling Mahon back. His eyes staring intensely into Mahon, as if he was staring into his soul.

"Show me how to use a spear, an axe, every weapon."

"Don't you only use a sword, why would you… what happened, why aren't you celebrating. We won!"

"You won,"

"Mahon, brother. What happened?"

"He took it, my sword,"

"I've never seen you part with that sword even to shit, how did it get stolen, how did someone beat you."

"Say what you will about the infantry, but… the immortals. They are strong, I underestimated him, and he took it."

"It is a nice sword, but is it really worth this?"

"That sword is what shows me as a warrior, it was entrusted to me by a dear friend, the first person to ever believe in me, it is my purpose."

"So You're going to?"

"I'm going to murder that prick."

"Using spears?"

"Using everything,

no matter how many times I die,

how many weapons break,

I will kill him

I will break him

I will do whatever it takes and take my sword back," the two of them stared at each other, Leonidas recoiling at the hatred running through Mahon's words

"so… how do I use a spear?"

"Fine," Leonidas let out a deep sigh. "Why do you always come to me to learn?"

The Next Day Came:

Mahon walked into the field… the thick line of shields behind him filled the canyon, an impenetrable wall pushing backwards to the tents and staring down at the Persians. Their faces covered in cloth, spears held loosely in each hand.

Mahon kept moving through the charge, his body covered by thin leather armour, a red cloak billowing over the mass of weapons that covered his back. His eyes transfixed on the warrior before him, the air around rising in burning fury. He pulled the long spear from his back, the tip spinning around him as his hands moved, the carefully resided movements flooding back. The dust underneath him floods around, almost creating a line around the spearhead, its blurred invisible staff slicing through the air.

The immortal came, his footsteps seemed to echo through the hordes of people, pushing past soldiers as he moved. The carefully forged mask grimacing at Mahon, the dark eyeholes seemed to suck in your vision. The contrast in their faces, the steely gaze bursting from his luminescent eyes, the golden yellow popping out from his face like his eyes themselves were burning into golden flames.

The immortal drew the sword from his side, its iridescent blade mimicking waves lapping against the shore, its gently crafted steel joining with the dragon's mouth, the golden fangs enclosing on the blade and dragging it to the jewel in the hilt. The pitch black rock, its deep colour, seemed as if the deep of midnight had been forced into the jewel.