The night was black and moonless, but overhead a million stars burned bright. Yet, Osias took that as an ominous omen. No soft grass blanket was welcomed here, only the hard dusty ground, bare and strewn with stones. Although there was softer land elsewhere, he… didn’t wish to rest closer to the site of the battle. Blood and putrid remains of the living and dead softened the ground into a sludge of eerie mud, but even Osias hadn’t fallen to the sick ploys of exhaustion enough to do so.

Even then, nightly battles were heard even from where he lay, endless hours fraught with battle. Harsh roars and cries sounded incessantly — no trees stirred in the wind, and there was no stream to soothe his fears with the gentle music of water.

He has heard of raids, skirmishes, and wars even.

But fighting in them himself… he knew not of how mad man can be until today. Even as fear overtook the vast many, they fought with all they had to extinguish the lives of others without remorse. They gladly enjoyed killing another frightful man, ending their worthless pleas of mercy despite doing the same when they themselves were brought a half-step to death.

Even his… followers did as well.

Osias looked around at the men around him. Away from trading steel and blood, their previous demeanor was restored. Now they seemed a little too tense to sleep…

He hasn’t talked to them once, nor had Osias lifted the helmet he donned. Even now it was stained and reeked of blood. He didn’t know if he should reveal that he didn’t know the common language they all spoke, so he rendered himself mute as they followed him to the outer ring of battle.

‘Should I try?’ He inwardly asked.

After all, even after fighting for… hours, he couldn’t find the enemy he needed to slay as Mance said. The pull wasn’t there.

It shouldn’t feel as daring as it is, but Osias steeled himself and began to unlatch the straps of his helmet. Slowly lifting it, his face was exposed to the small fire among the many they rested by.

The handful of men turned, their armor creaked and rasped together with the crackling of the fires and chatter.

It turned silent and many more from the other huddled groups from the rest of the fires joined to watch.

‘This is… embarrassing.’ He thought, scratching his head.

They seemed… intrigued, but not wary nor threatening.

Oasis lifted a hand to one of them and pointed to their mouth and then pointed to his own.

“Vi…Visalros.” He said, trying to mimic the way they pronounced the word.

The man he pointed at peeled their own helmet off rested it between their arm and stared at him before echoing ruggedly:

“Visalros!” And then pointed at Osias.

“Visalros!” The others who were awake chimed in.

‘Is it a name? My name? A title? Or simply another word?’ Osias cried in his head with curiosity and frustration. He murmured to himself — trying to piece together all he knew.

He heard that some of the cults or the recluses within the Northern Wind Union spoke something other than Vorin, the common tongue.

The languages of old… the ones spoken by the many different kingdoms formed before the Three Great factions came to be.

Before the Tailed Rebellion. But Osias didn’t know of their names nor how they sounded, were written, and pronunciations. Such things were lost to time, thousands of years perhaps…

‘Is this one of such languages? No… where am I? Who are these people?’

Without a sword threatening to open his neck, Osias finally asked these important questions that were pushed aside upon his arrival.

‘Mance didn’t mention any such thing other than vague enemies.’ Osias recalled.

Even Kiran only mentioned that the Ordeals were nothing to belittle, but the setting? Osias wondered if this was from the period before the Tailed Rebellion. Or perhaps even further beyond that.

Ancient kingdoms?

He recalled the sky, and what little marks on the land he saw…

‘Maybe where the Land of the Crest is?’

He surmised that he may be in either the center or the southern pits of the Wailing Chain, anywhere from the Lands of the Crest to the Heartlands of the Tailed Brothers.

It couldn’t be North… this type of weather was far from the warmest of days there —- at least from what he could put together from Garm’s tales of the past.

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Osias then pointed at himself once more and tried to speak Vorin, yet to no avail. These people didn’t understand a thing.

Until Osias pointed at something familiar to each and every one of them — his sword. He gave a puzzled look until one of the men said:

“Qilic.”

Osias repeated after him, “Qi…lic.”

‘Sword is called a qilic? Or is that word for a weapon?’

Grabbing the sword, Osias moved it slowly towards the chest of the soldier and motioned a thurst to the heart.

“Qilic…?” His words sounded like a question as he continued to make a thrusting motion.

“Lladd.” Another watcher said.

‘Kill? Thrust?’

Osias then brought the sword against his neck and hesitantly asked, “Qilic… Lladd Visalros?” whilst his free hand pointed at his face.

‘Is that how I would say… sword kills me?’

The others obviously knew that he was a foreigner, someone unlike the rest, yet they didn’t seem to care all that much. Even sacrificing sleep and rest to watch and teach — at least those who could sleep anyway.

Some of the men in front of him nodded, and slowly, Osias felt as though he was learning.

‘Qilic means sword or weapon. Then…’

He pointed to a spear that rested against the shoulder of a seated man in front of the fire. One arm was missing below the elbow in a jagged cut wrapped in nothing but cloth, yet he seemed lively. The follower of his perked his head up and turned towards Osias, handing him their spear with his good hand.

“Qilic?” Osias asked to assure once more.

And then the man he handed the spear shook their head slowly.

“Albar,” The grizzled older man said.

‘Qilic and albar…’

Osias took the spear and made a thrusting motion, but not at a target. He pierced the air repeatedly and asked:

“Lladd?”

But this time, the many men showed differing gestures. Some nodded and some shook their heads with a huff, which confused Osias.

‘Ah, some may think I’m asking between thrust and kill…’

Suddenly a coarse voice spoke:

“Sagon.”

Quickly putting together what he knew, Osias brought the spearhead to his neck and gestured a thrust threw it.

“Albar lladd.” He said confidently, earning a few nods.

Turning around the spear and thrusting aimlessly into the air, he said once more:

“Albar sagon.”

The others chimed in with slightly pleased faces even earning a few laughs from the apprehensive soldiers.

Even Osias felt amused at learning this unknown language… Slowly without Osias’s knowing, their downcast faces fraught with tension began to faintly ease through this exchange of language.

But suddenly, one of the men — the same one Osias motioned thrusting a sword at came close to his face with slow steps.

The man brought a hand to himself and said, “Geral.”

‘A name?’ Osias wondered.

Pointing to… Geral, Osias echoed his name.

“Geral.”

The man nodded and then swung a glace to another man who stepped forth and did the same.

“Vernon.”

“Ousal.”

“Erdma.”

This continued through the night until even the ones asleep came to introduce themselves to Osias… or Visalros as he echoed back their names.

Tens of men who survived the battle, and Osias tried to keep track of the number along with their faces and names. After all… these were people who could help him surmount this Ordeal.

Perhaps this was what Mance said about… belonging.

Hours passed yet the distant fighting in the forefront hadn’t stopped, although it wasn’t to the same extent as it was in the day… the sun was beginning to rise.

Daybreak and a new day of battle will follow.

Osias chose not to rest amongst his followers, and neither did many of them rest as well aside from a few blinks of sleep only to be broken by the sounds of battle. It was deceiving, especially in the black of night. Even if they knew the forefront was quite a distance away… the fact that they were resting atop blood-soaked earth while smaller fights were fought within earshot at times made them suspect that an ambush was to follow.

Osias sighed heavily, scavenging a sizable tunic made of the same plated leather woven together. His last one was a little too small for his figure, and it took a long while to find something of the same size… it seemed he needed something specially made for his size. Though this one was in a better condition, and it had longer flaps below that covered his groin and thighs well.

A slight shiver ran down his back as he recalled a man from yesterday bleeding out from a deep cut at the exposed joints over their thigh and groin…

“Hoo…”

He, along with his small company of Ordinaries marched forth to where they disembarked yesterday. They waded through many others, all in the same dreary and miserable state. Hands trembling as they awaited the war horns to bellow. Their eyes strained and bloodshot… it seemed they didn’t get any sleep either.

Osias didn’t notice it yesterday, but they were First Ordeals called… Jentys. They acted like commanders or officers, leading their own infantry companies to the slaughter.

He realized that himself, along with his stragglers of men were probably from a fallen Jentyses company. Perhaps from multiple considering they were deep into the fray. His battle with the giant First Ordeal of the Golden Hawks seemed to rally the survivors like a spearhead. A beacon for the lost souls who thought only death awaited them as they struggled without a Jentys.

Osias could almost laugh at how miserable a battle like this was for him to lead men of his own. But there was a terrible thought that followed…

‘I will face a Second Ordeal in this Ordeal. Mance suspected it, but I know. Perhaps these men will be my own spearhead into survival and my return…’

Osias continued to march as his followers trailed behind, but as he did so, a decadent Jentys approached on their lonesome.

The Jentys were donning armor made from a metal of sorts. An unusual black as though it was charred over a roaring flame, accented with shoulder guard that flared with a brilliant, yet unnatural red. The helmet had a grand red flume that came of the back, matching the shoulder guard. But behind the helmet was an ugly face, rugged and grim — a face that Osias couldn’t imagine any woman would be delighted to see.

‘And an unpleasant voice too…’

Then Osias’s face twitched and grimaced as the Jentys loudly berated him — it was obvious that the Jentys disproved of him leading his own company… at least that’s what Osias assumed it was about. The only word Osias caught the meaning of was Qilic, and was only because the Jentys pointed at the large sword beside Osias’s waist between the flushed yells.

‘Is he going to—’

“Amir! Nadresy, ao’ll! Va aoha vali, heigan. Martyr aoha neojot anogar.” One of his men… Geral said meekly as he came forth beside Osias.

‘Pleading?’ Osias wondered letting the conversation unfold.

But it seemed that Geral placated the Jentys as they walked away after collecting themselves. Geral lifted his back and head from the slight bow and reached above to put a hand on Osias’s shoulder and gently shook his head.

“Lladd,” Geral said in his usual coarse voice whilst pointing towards the forefront — their enemies.

Osias simply smiled in return and put on his helmet, and continued to march.

‘Kill.’ He echoed while hiding a small laugh beneath his helmet.

‘What else can I do with these hands of mine?’