“Romulus!”
The voice went ignored as Romulus stalked toward yet another soldier from the Blackstone forces, Lightsbane humming hungrily in his grip as he closed in on the man, who was in the middle of a tense exchange with one of his Dark Templars. Before either could react, Romulus reached them and interceded in their exchange by gripping the Blackstone soldier by the back of his hauberk and wrenching him away from the Templar.
Romulus sank his fangs into the man’s neck, savouring the explosion of blood in his mouth for a few moments before ramming Lightsbane forward and upward to impale the unfortunate mortal’s heart through his ribcage. A strangled and gurgling gasp of disbelief escaped the young soldier’s lips, then Romulus released him to fall from Lightsbane’s blade with his life force extinguished.
The Templar offered a bow of the head in thanks when Romulus met her eyes, her head dipping respectfully, her eyes not quite meeting his. Even in the depths of his Wrath-driven battlerage he recognised her for an ally and managed a terse nod in return before turning away to pursue more. More carnage. More blood. More indulgence as the anointment that burned within him demanded.
“Romulus!”
Again the voice called to him and this time Romulus felt a stirring of inclination to heed it. It was a voice he trusted, despite being new to him in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps it would be sensible to listen if only for a moment. The fury in him didn’t like that idea at all but then it had loosened its hold over his reasoning at least somewhat after being exposed to the blast of Light that Heinrich had released. Something about the beam had been detoxifying, as if the infectious power within him had been partially washed away by its furore.
He certainly hadn’t taken any damage from it though he had the distinct impression that even with Lilith’s gifts he should have felt something more than an irritation and warmth. His head turned as he regarded the source of the voice at last and fixed his burning gaze on Mortarius. The spectre’s features were drawn in consternation and Romulus distantly noted that he had actually forgotten about his would-be mentor’s existence in the red haze the status effect on him had induced.
“What is happening to you right now is part of something deeper and more profound than you realise. The wash of Light from the Solarian might have been a form of deliverance ironically enough.”
A flare of rage flashed across Romulus’ mind and he almost reached out to strike at Mortarius, though he no longer lacked that much control. It was a struggle not to, however, irrelevant of whether or not he actually could hurt his ghostly predecessor.
“I can see Wrath’s influence in your eyes and I can see you fighting it. You need to fight harder. The Sins are part of the Dark realm but they are something older than even the Goddess Herself. Those powerful in the Dark Lady’s power are often objects of their interest, and Her Avatars more than anyone.” The wraith’s voice was firm as he met Romulus’ gaze.
Do not listen. His mind seemed to whisper. Reason is a prison. Embrace your Wrath.
“I know it whispers to you. You probably think it to be your own mind, but it isn’t.” Mortarius stepped closer as the screams of the fighting and dying raged around them. They were a calm moment in an ocean of madness. “The Sins are forces of nature, of the Soul. They are neither good nor evil, but they are primordial. They are consumed entirely by what they are and do not know restraint.” Mortarius met his gaze levelly. “You must fight Wrath’s hold on your mind or we will lose everything.”
“I…”
Abandon reason. His mind insisted more forcefully. There is no higher purpose!
“You can do this Romulus.” Mortarius encouraged. “You were chosen for a reason. Even I am not too proud to admit that you are a worthy Avatar. You have the potential to outshine me in every way with time. It stings to acknowledge that but your nature as a Traveler cannot be denied. You must overcome this.”
Romulus squeezed his eyes shut as Mortarius’ voice washed over him and he reached up to grip his head. He could still smell the war around him, scent the blood in the air and on the ground, taste the sweet ecstasy of the various feasts he’d enjoyed across the battlefield. His armour hummed, his blade sung. War was what he was made for. Surely there was no higher calling than the beautiful, simple indulgence of unrestrained brutality. He would never need to worry about the troubles of others again, nor the burdens they wished to impose on him.
If only he stopped fighting. If only he gave in. If only he surrendered.
“No, I have to… Nngh…” His head was pounding like a drum. It felt like his mind was being riven by sudden spikes of rage, of pain. It was like fighting against a crown of nails driven into his brain. It wanted his surrender, and it wanted his adherence to its will. It wanted him to be more and less than he was. It wanted a being absent thought or hesitation, a creature of instinct and primal rage whose only drive was the death and destruction of all around it.
The realisation hit him like a wash of clarity.
It wanted a slave, just like Solarius.
Wrath’s hold on his mind evaporated like a smothered flame, leaving behind an echo of enraged intention as the imagined hooks latched to his mind were obliterated in one moment of sudden revelation. The status effect on his HUD vanished as well, flaking away into nothingness as his vision returned to normal.
Romulus felt abruptly dizzy and slammed down Lightsbane to brace himself.
The sword pulsed once in indignation, and then again in concern.
“What the hell just happened?” Romulus asked as he tried to shake off the dizziness.
“You were Anointed by Wrath.” Mortarius said as if that explained everything. It at least helped Romulus remember what his predecessor had said moments ago, though everything since his first encounter with the strange status effect seemed almost as if he were seeing the memories through a damaged or corrupted source. Everything was distorted and hazy, overlaid with a red film of anger that disturbed him.
“Jesus Christ…” Romulus muttered. “Talk about Biblical inspiration.”
“I take it that’s some sort of Traveler reference.” Mortarius said dryly. “Not that we have time for you to reorient yourself. You are still in the middle of a battle, though your appearance and Templars appear to be warding off anyone with thoughts of challenging you. For now.”
Romulus glanced around him at Mortarius’ words and remembered where he was, his senses erupting as everything came flooding back. The battle. Liam. Heinrich. His head snapped to where he’d left the Solarian’s corpse and a moment of concern filled him when he saw it wasn’t there. Then he remembered he’d sent it away with several nearby Shades, and he relaxed. It had all happened under the haze of Wrath.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Am I going to need to worry about fucking possession as well now?” He asked in an exasperated tone. “That wasn’t exactly part of the deal, Mortarius.”
“There are rules that all Gods are bound by, Romulus. Even Her. The Sins are part of Her realm but are not part of Her dominion. Think of them like forces of nature within the Dark Realm. She can no more stop or control them than you can stop the sun from rising.”
“You still haven’t answered my goddamn question Mortarius.” Romulus grunted as he felt himself starting to approach something approximating stability again, thanks to the retreating dizziness.
“Anointment cannot be reversed but you can learn to control the effects of the Sin. It’s just another test of mettle. Another crucible for the strong to pass and the weak to succumb to. That is the nature of the Dark.”
“How delightfully cryptic.” Romulus responded flatly as he felt himself finally return to near-normal, turning to observe the chaos of the battle around him and trying to ignore the smell of death and all the bodily releases associated with it.
“We have time later to discuss the intricacies of Anointment, Romulus. Right now you need to master this situation. You are losing Shades and losing potential recruits. I’ve been tracking the Status with the Warmaster Interface and you’re down over three hundred Shades, and the local forces are down almost nine hundred of the regular mortals. None of your Templars have died yet, but that won’t last either.”
“So I’ve lost over twelve hundred soldiers I could have used against the King’s garrison.”
“Yes. That battle has started too by the way. Hector managed to intercept the King’s forces at one of the restored chokepoints in the Eastern part of the city, but even with a funnel there’s only so much he can do while outnumbered. His entire force will be destroyed, with time, even if he manages to inflict significant hurt. You can’t afford that. If they break through Hector, it’ll come down to a race to see if you can get back to the Necropolis before they siege it, and that means disengaging here without even more losses.”
Romulus grunted in acknowledgement of the dire news. Time was against him, and if the battle continued as it was he’d have achieved nothing but to weaken the city against the forces of a distant monarch that held no sympathy for its citizens one way or another. Worse, the restored defences and infrastructure would make for an incredible new staging ground, and he’d likely never get a second chance at claiming the city for Lilith. Not for months or even years.
“I guess it’s time to see if my investment is going to pay dividends.” Romulus said as he turned toward his back lines and started to carefully navigate his way through the chaos, wary of being attacked. His Templar bodyguard fell in around him as he moved, bloodied and panting but otherwise whole. He gave them all grateful nods, which they responded to with brief, tight smiles. He couldn’t blame them for being tense. He’d probably been an… interesting sight, if what he could taste and smell on himself was any indication. Not to mention his conversation with what they presumed was thin air, or even worse, himself. Neither was good.
“Is there any way to get this shit off me?” He muttered as he looked down at his stained breastplate.
“If only you had a skill that could manipulate blood…” Mortarius said with thinly-veiled condescension.
Romulus allowed the wraith the snark. In fairness, it was a little ridiculous he’d just forgotten about Sanguimancy. With a thought and an instinctive motion of his hand the blood staining his face, hair, armour, and adornments pulled itself away. The viscera and giblets of flesh went with it as if magnetised to the sudden maelstrom of vitae, and Romulus compressed the entire lot of it into as small a globe of dark red-brown liquid as he could.
He was aware of his health dropping at a rate of 50HP per second as he worked, but he paid it no mind. His health pool was massive thanks to his transformation. Once he’d completely purged himself of looking like something out of a gothic movie marathon, he flicked a hand and tossed the collected blood and bits away from him. He didn’t even care to look where it landed, he just wanted it gone. The looks that followed from the Templars told him they agreed with him.
A group of Blackstone soldiers ahead took notice of Romulus and his close-knit party of defenders and turned to confront him — only to be abruptly intercepted by half their number of Shades and forced into a conflict that threw them out of the way. All around him similar scenes were occurring, with the battle having spread into localised pockets of skirmishing as opposed to the neat battle lines from the initial clash.
That was the nature of most such conflicts though. It was never a clean and neat fight with each side staying in perfect formation. It was at times a crush of bodies with as many people trampled as they were stabbed, and at other times a sporadically scattered cluster of smaller engagements like this one. He knew Zerachiel and whomever had taken over the Blackstone garrison would be moving troops across the field in attempts to gain advantage, but there was only so much they could do.
There were always two main blocks of course, but the area between them might as well have been a scene from an overly exuberant heavy metal mosh pit for all the sense it made at first glance.
When a battle devolved to the scale of the one they were fighting, it was more of a matter of individual squads and haphazardly formed formations that broke apart as fast as they came together. The only advantage was that there was often more room to move around in those sorts of situations, which was the only reason Romulus was able to make progress toward what resembled the main block of his own forces.
A cadre of six Blackstone soldiers erupted out of nowhere to Romulus’ left abruptly, and within moments he went from calm analysis to sudden combat. His body moved on instinct, though he was immediately aware after the first clash of swords that whatever Wrath had done to him, it had given him an advantage against people he should never have been able to properly fight. Now without the Sin’s influence he suddenly felt his deficit in levels.
The first blow he parried from the snarling soldier nearly staggered him, and would have thrown him back if not for Lightsbane’s supernatural durability and stopping power. He leaned into the blade as he met the other man’s longsword in a cross, pulling back and then sweeping in again to slam Lightsbane against his foe’s weapon in a clang of steel. The impact rattled his armoured hands, and Romulus grunted against the echoes of pain along his forearms from the force of it.
He was definitely underleveled.
The other man seemed to realise his advantage, eyes narrowing as he sought to press Romulus. The only true reason he hadn’t already run him through was Lightsbane itself, which was as much wielded as it was guiding Romulus’ movements. It was like impressions of movement and unspoken guidance that translated into signals from the sword to his brain and then to his body at the speed of thought. He pivoted in accordance to one such signal and parried an oberhau, slashing Lightsbane forward and down while turning his left side to the soldier.
The other man stumbled and Romulus heeded the encouragement in his mind as he stepped forward to slam his left fist into the warrior’s jaw. The man staggered as much from the strength behind the blow as the armour that reinforced Romulus’ striking fist. Blood sprayed from the hit, and Lightsbane’s encouragement was almost unneeded as Romulus took the opportunity to step back onto his left foot, take the Runeblade in both hands and slash up at the soldier’s exposed neck.
His aim was off.
His enemy had tried to correct his position.
He had been unsuccessful.
Lightsbane took the soldier in the jaw instead, and sheared through the bottom half of his face and head like a razor through silk. The Blackstone warrior barely had time for his eyes to widen before the top half of his skull was severed from the lower, and Romulus had to hold back a sudden all-too-Earthling urge to vomit at seeing a flailing tongue and blood-spouting esophagus before the corpse’s legs failed and it realised it was already dead.
Romulus stepped back from the body to see his Templars handling the remainder of their assailants, the dark gifts bestowed upon them turning the already well-trained and formidable former Wardens into terrifying warriors.
“Is anyone injured?” Romulus asked reflexively as he focused away from the felled enemy he’d already stepped past.
A quick glance around, and then Victor shook his head. “Not enough to slow us down, my King.”
“Good. Let’s move then.”
The Templars formed around him once more and they pushed through the chaos of the battle, Romulus’ attention half on what raged around him and half on what he was to do in order to achieve a satisfying resolution. Merely reasoning with those opposing him would be less than fruitful, especially in the madness that raged around them. The storm had well and truly broken, and even if he could bottle lightning there was no ending the maelstrom of violence that consumed the area.
Not without something truly drastic.
His focus was fixed on something deep within his own lines.
A calm centre in a raging tempest, calling him onward with hope.