> "There isn't an Agi who doesn't know who he is. The Dark Elf known to us as 'Hero' is perhaps the strongest fighter We humans have ever known; he came from Yasserheim long before our order formally grew into its current being. He was there when Grandmaster Thorik banished the Labisk threat from Aquitaine; he played a part in the Cael Trac expedition, fighting the Beast King Utz van Kindre and presenting his head before Almuth shrine. He even fought beside the Vodi Gera of Caen and Vodi Leira Quahadi of the Huna.
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> A dark elf is a rare sight ever since the Barrier appeared on the borders; despite his fame in these halls, to the laypeople of our nation, he is a shadow lurker, a rumor that until the Unification of Aquitaine, he was thought no more than a Unicorn would be, a fairy tale.
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> But there are flaws; his elven blood allows him to perform deeds greater than any before him. Over the centuries, it has been said he has been insufficient in manners and has no patience for courtly etiquette. Master Frossar believes it's a sign of his mental capacities slipping; the longer he is separated from his homeland, the more deranged the mind falls. Even so, those like myself and others know Hero is a loyal friend once you pass his hard shields.
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> His expulsion from our order indeed was nothing more than political machinations at the hands of King Wolfgang, determined to protect the realm, and seeing how such a warrior could be useful abroad, he was stripped of his monastic duties and exiled to Yasserheim once the border was opened, that is the official story. However, we know the truth; we wish him luck, forever the greatest Koshin Agi to ever walk our halls. Goodbye, brother.
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> -The Agistrakon, Champions of Lord Koshin, 6th Edition, Chapter One. Entry by Leon Reinhardt
The trees exploded as Hero rolled away, his spear wedged deep into the Maverak's thick coat, piercing what he hoped was its lungs.
The monster swayed on its hind legs, with mandibles flaring like one's hand opening and closing. Hero looked behind him to see two acolytes attend to the others. Their eyes glued to the beast of the woods, with horns adorning its head like a crown. It’s body resembles more of a standing, overly muscled fish with four arms and a razor-thin tail tipped with iron. The beast moved faster than something its size should ever allow, but inches from one of the acolytes, a spear tore through the air and impaled the beast, yet it still stood tall with its head turning to face him.
“Well, your new; Maveraks don’t get your size without many dead bodies, so tell me, beast, how many humans have you killed?” Hero said, circling the beast.
Seeing the spear sink into the coat, Hero cracked his knuckles and rushed at the beast, his hands clasped together as he focused his energy into forming a light core. With one of it's arms, the Maverak swung and released a burning wave of energy that incinerated what was left of the treeline that divided them. The two young acolytes protected themselves with a ward, but he could see they extinguished the last of their energy. Seeing him as the more significant threat, the beast coiled and launched itself into the air, turning its form into a solid but slender missile as it came down with explosive force. Hero already dashed out of the way, but found himself staring at the unusual sight.
Instead of a nose, Maveraks had a small slit that opened, producing what looked like tiny flowers, but he knew it was a sensor, typically responding to arcane levels, for what he did not know.
It turned its head toward Hero, still charging his light core, and swung its arms in a flurry of jabs, trying to disrupt him. Weaving in and out, Hero would deliver kicks but found only steel-like muscles; changing his footwork, he kicked the end of the second spear, pushing it clean through. The beast wailed in pain and backed away. Hero returned to his thoughts, unconcerned about the thrashing beast before him.
The mages at the tower pestered him to preserve the sensors, but Hero always destroyed the beasts in battle. He could hear Magari du Loc, his captain, in his head even now.
“This is a simple grab quest; just tire it out, bind it, and bring it back to Azincor. Don’t kill it this time; we could use the help dealing with the beasts in the marches. They want those sensors, and we need an alchemist, so please bring it back ALIVE!”
It’s not like he seeks to kill them; the first two Maveraks killed themselves by random lousy chance, and the third he was forced to kill, as was the fourth, although he could admit that he did drag out the fight most of the time. He only realized he was caught in his thoughts after another thick, muscled arm met Hero’s armor, sending the elf flying through the shattered woods and landing on a pile of rocks and timber. Upon realizing his hands were burning, he released the light core, producing a blinding sunflare, burning the wood he was on and rendering the beast and any poor soul who looked upon it blind. He walked away from the flames, tearing off his burning cloak. Hero approached the screaming beast and began to beat it into submission. Delivering hammering blows on the head, what appeared to be its neck, and finally landing crushing elbow strikes against its arms and joints. The beast’s cries and whimpers did nothing to stop him as he continued to decimate its muscles, preventing it from running away. After almost what felt long enough, Hero ceased his assault; his hands were mangled, covered in blood, skin, and what likely was cartilage. He looked around, and the entire forest had been laid bare by their fight; a sense of sadness whispered in his head. He looked at the unconscious beast below him.
“What did these trees ever do to you, monster? I should end you here, but given what they need from you, that would be…regrettable. But when your use is up, I will be the one to kill you finally. Don’t worry, beast.”
Hero grabbed the beast by its crown of horns and dragged it away, heading toward the White Road.
“Your death will be slow and agonizing, I promise.”
It dawned on him just then that the acolytes were still somewhere nearby, he could smell them on the wind.
“It is relatively safe now, I am sure you had time to heal each other; best you get back to your lovely tower and away from the moors; they only got one elf, ya know, I can’t be everywhere.” Hero said, speaking loudly so that they could hear him.
The two boys appeared from his northeast; both wore the grey robes, Mages of the Grey, bleeding from several wounds. Hero looked at his hands; they had since recovered, and a smirk appeared.
“Things haven’t changed that much, it seems.” He said, continuing along his way.
Both boys followed the elf, each whispering their astonishment and fear; Hero fought his natural reflex at the sounds behind; he would have to get used to others again.
The time on the White Road drained him; the causeway spanned nearly six lanes, allowing masses of people to traverse it without collision of wagons, carts, and horses. But for Hero to hear the cacophony of speech, wheels on cobbled stone, the neighing of horses, and repeated gasps at the sight of the battered beast all at once produced a migraine. He could see the whitewashed walls of Azincor City and the banners of the King, a red heart impaled by a twin sword on a blue field. The triple-layered walls looked like mountains from here, but he knew everything was bigger in Azincor. Although he wasn’t exactly eager to get back in the bustling Fortress City, he was happy to see his old friend after a long time apart; although Reinhardt visited from time to time to sit and have a drink with his old companion warmed his heart.
“Excuse me, Lord Hero…I wanted to thank you,” said one of the young mages with dusty brown hair and a wisp of a mustache.
“Thank me for what, human? Stopping this thing?” Hero said, hoping his tone would catch on with the young man.
“For saving us, my brother and I had no chance against a Maverak this size, if you hadn’t-,”
“I had a quest, human; your being there was just luck. Had you not distracted it, I wouldn’t have been able to beat it down.” He turned his head with a wicked smile.
“You served as an adequate meat shield; good on you for an acolyte.”
He didn’t bother to see if his words struck home or not. Instead, he lifted his right arm, rolled his shoulder, and crouched. When the giant mass of the beast suddenly stopped, other travelers began to make their way around; with enough room, Hero finally leaped into the air, landing in the golden fields to the right; the beast followed soon after, shaking the earth. He repeated his bounding until finally landing at the base of the Tower, home of the Grey Mages; he looked at the city guard’s fearful face. Hero ran his hand through his hair, removing strands of purple and red from his sight, and snapped his fingers just as the beast came crashing down in the clearing.
“Archlector Theophan wanted a Maverak alive; here is one; where is my silver?” he said.
The guard stumbled on his words, and many more soon assembled in the area, no doubt confused and alarmed by his arrival. Hero picked up the scent of the Archlector on the fourth floor, pushing the guard aside; he pressed his foot against the sandstone and began to power walk up the tower, eventually breaking out into a run. Finally reaching the fourth-floor balcony, Hero vaulted over the ledge and met the glaring amber eyes of his Captain.
“What the bloody five hells are you doing!” she yelled, her snake-like eyes thinned as she squinted.
“I brought the Maverak,” he said.
A sigh from his left caused Hero to step into the room and see that Magari was not alone. Gin Asa was also in the room, alongside the Archlector, huddled over a map, but their heads turned toward him.
“Is it alive, Hero?” Gin asked.
Hero rolled his eyes and sat on the floor, crossing his legs and moving his neck in circles, popping the bones and making Magari wince.
“Sorry, captain, been a while,” he said, not wishing to make her more angry.
“This is joyful news, Lord Hero; you are…complicated from what Lord Gin told me, but it seems you produce results when given amble instruction. This Maverak will greatly aid in our research; with it we-,”
“Where is my silver mage?” Hero interrupted; Gin looked at Hero with disbelief.
The Archlector and Gin shared a look before the master mage produced a wand with a deep blue light at its tip. With it and some words he did not care for, the mage created a bag, which dropped onto Hero’s lap.
Magari shook her head as Hero inspected the silver coins and told Gin and the mage.
“I apologize for his mannerisms, Archlector; having been imprisoned for eight years seems to have not made him more tamed.”
“No worries, my dear, I have dealt with King Wolfgang for eight years now; what can one do at things like this? Besides, as the only Yasserhai on this side of the border, I am honestly not shocked given what we know of all Hai; the longer you are away from your homeland, the less elegant one becomes.”
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Gin sighed.
“It is more complicated than that, Archlector, but that is gist; unlike me in regards to Veii, Hero cannot return to Yasserheim,” Gin said.
“Tenyu, I hate that word, Yasserheim, we do not speak Caeni.” Hero said in Haiki.
“They wouldn’t understand the concept, better just to say what they say,” Gin responded.
Hero stood up and rolled his eyes.
“Vir cal he nakai!” Hero said as he walked toward the door.
Gin rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration; understandably, the Archlector appeared confused.
“What does Vir cal he nakai mean?” he asked.
Hero laughed and said, “Three but two chew sand; it means I find your language unpleasant.”
With that, the warrior left the room, placing his silver coins on his sword belt.
Finding the Reinhardt estate wasn’t hard; like many of the kingdom's nobles, each House owned an Estate within the capital city. House Reinhardt owned perhaps the most martial of them; two rectangular towers flanked the gatehouse. While not having a gate per se, the gatehouse facilitates the main door to the Estate grounds. Once the guards saw him, they immediately let him through; the vineyard had expanded dramatically since his last visit. The workers also have long since become more efficient in gathering berries, grapes, and all kinds of other fruits, and their housing was also larger, almost a mini estate themselves. Walking down the cobbled path, he came to the main Chateau that dominated most of the allotted land. The butler, dressed in the arms of House Reinhardt, bowed slightly and opened the doors. Hero was immediately in the path of an incoming spear, its tip centimeters away from his eyes before he stepped out of the way, but this time, a short sword flashed from the corner of his vision. Hero parried with his finger and drove his palm directly toward the young man's chest who attacked him. Even in full plate armor, the human was forced to take a knee, his chest huffing in an attempt to catch his breath.
“It’s true, elves are incredible…so fast, so you are real after all; I thought my grandsire was full of it,” the young man said.
Hero flexed his index finger; the blow stung, but he would never tell him that.
“You were crawling the last time we met, boy, Konrad?”
Konrad removed his helmet, revealing his golden hair and deep blue eyes. An air of pride hung around the young man, a pride that was all too fitting for a Reinhardt.
“Sir Konrad, now, I will be the wielder of Joyeuse one day, hopefully not anytime soon. I apologize for my surprise attack; I wanted to know if his words were true.”
Hero stepped forward and rustled Konrad’s head, his mind returning to the day his father Leon showed him the young baby.
“It’s a surprise attack if the target is unaware; I could smell you long before you heard me walk through that door. Also, you might need a new sword; I cannot promise that one is no longer useful.”
Konrad looked at his short sword, and his face turned red upon seeing it chipping away; his eyes darted to Hero with awe.
“How?” He asked; Hero pressed his finger against his lips and said,
“Now that is a story for another day; where is your grandsire?”
Konrad pointed to the upstairs, his look of awe unyielding. Hero walked up the stairs and found memories of a young Cristolf first meeting him here when the Chateau was still under construction; the golden hair was not as long, and his famous locks had yet to set in. In those days, Cristof was an arrogant squire with a bone to pick. He laughed as he continued, this time coming to find himself at the door of the training hall. The scent of Cristolf danced across his nose, along with two more, similar but not his. Hero opened the doors to find his old friend clad in armor, fighting two opponents simultaneously with dulled weapons. Despite being well into his seventies, Reinhardt moved like a lion, flowing in and out of attacks with grace and agility, his spear finding openings in his opponents repeatedly.
After disarming the smaller of the two and then using his sword, dual-wielding spear and sword, tore the larger man’s stamina to pieces until he yielded.
“Not fair! You said you would go easy on us today,” the shorter opponent said. Hero clinched his jaw, annoyed with himself that he got it wrong.
So this one is a girl; her feet move on their own, and they way she handles a spear is pretty pathetic as well. What business does she have being a squire?
Cristof took off his helmet and wiped his glossy brows, and he smiled when he spotted Hero.
“Hello there, old friend!” the knight said casually, catching his breath.
“You’re getting old.” Hero said.
“Aye, not everyone has the luxury of living into our centuries while in prime condition; some of us have to work to keep up.”
Hero noticed the young girl staring at him as he found a seat.
“Another granddaughter?” Hero asked, not bothering to make eye contact.
Cristof found his seat directly across from Hero, and the cushions faced one another, with a small white and bronze stone table between them. He glanced up for a second before gesturing for both to sit.
“This is Daena, my second eldest granddaughter; that tall oak is my second grandson, Lionel. My grandchildren, this is Hero Aslan, my oldest friend, and brother of the Koshin Agi Order.
Konrad finally arrived, dressed in fine clothing, his hair tied into a ponytail.
“You hunt monsters?” Lionel asked, his tone suggesting he found it bothersome.
“More like I fight them, of course; Lord Koshin does say we must eradicate the unnatural; it serves us to serve others, or so the saying goes.” Hero said.
Lionel’s jaw lumbered and then reset; the twitch in his brow told Hero all he had to know about him.
“I could tell you stories all night about your legendary grandfather, but I feel that is useless; no doubt this old man has already said much of what I have to say.” Hero said.
Lionel finally removed his helmet, revealing the same features as Konrad and Cristof. Daena, however, looked different from what he assumed was her older brother. Where Lionel shared the blonde locks, Daena’s hair was more of a dirty blonde, and her eyes were grey, not blue. Her nose was crooked, and although he knew no human would be able to spot it, ever so slightly, he could see it had been broken and mended, both with magic.
“I am talking to you, Elf!” Lionel spat.
“Brother, he is our guest and friend to our father and grandsire! He is a friend of our house, mind you, and a warrior monk of Koshin!” Konrad said, approaching them all.
Lionel looked to Konrad and then to his grandfather.
“This man is a criminal; I’ve read about him; sure, he has done deeds great and small in the past, but he is destructive; tell me, who else could great such bedlam and terror to land himself almost twenty years away in the mines?” Lionel said.
“He was fighting a dragon; had it not been for his actions all, many more would have died to the dragon’s wrath. Hero fought it alone after I was burned, boy; he fought to protect me as I fought to defend the town,” Cristof said.
“Not to mention he was sentenced to twenty years, but he served eight; with his prowess and abilities, he could have escaped at any time,” Konrad added.
Hero laughed; his laugh found its way to Cristof, and the two shared a moment, holding their sides until Lionel cleared his throat impatiently. Hero tilted his head; a small but cold tear ran down his cheek, and he wiped it away.
“Lionel Reinhardt, I could have escaped. Yes, your brother is correct, and I didn’t. Instead, I took my fair sentence, but eight years is nothing to me; if you hadn’t noticed, I am indeed an Elf. You could give me five life sentences in the dungeons, and I’d come out the same as I went in. It doesn’t matter to us; in my homeland, dangerous criminals elves are executed; no use in feeding an immortal mouth.” Hero explained.
Konrad began to laugh, although no one joined him at first; Hero soon followed; perhaps it was because he could sense that Lionel genuinely forgot, or maybe he felt awkward allowing one person to laugh. Eventually, they all shared a laugh, and over the hours, Lionel proved to be amiable, every bit of a Reinhardt like his father and grandfather. The feast that night filled his empty stomach, the dishes of sturgeon and trout, wild boar, and finely roasted makarouns prepared and served by Cristof and his staff. Hero rested his head, remembering the days his friend cooked for them on the road, and hearing the laughter of his friend’s grandchildren put a strange squeeze on his heart. Perhaps it was the food, he thought. Hero excused himself, took his leave, and headed toward his preferred corner of the great hall. He watched as the Reinhardts, excluding his son Leon, celebrated Hero’s return. When the morning came, Hero’s eyes rolled back into position, and the great hall was as expected. Half-naked servants laid across one another, some at tables, workers, maids, and even some commoners, all drunkenly slept peacefully.
“Now, that is the newest curiosity, so the young prince did it.” He said aloud.
Aquitaine was still dealing with the Tasilans when Hero destroyed Irmburg while fighting Thorimor. Still, from the little he spoke with Lady Leira and Prince Amadeus, the young man had devised a plan to put an end to both the Duke of Blair and the Imperial humans. It was then Hero thought of the Prince’s father, King Wolfgang, now that was a face Hero wasn’t eager to see. Not that he hated him, in fact, the opposite; Hero respected the King, just preferred to stay out of his way.
A clatter of plates rang out as Cristof Reinhardt awoke from his drunken slumber, a confused look on his aging face.
“What time is it?” He asked.
“A quarter beyond dawn, has age turned you into a drunk yet, or do you still have a resistance to ale?” Hero asked.
Cristof smiled but regretted it; Hero assumed it was the hangover humans spoke about often.
“I am planning on heading to the marches in two days; I have decided I will find a way back home.” Hero said, his eyes fixed on the sun. Cristof coughed, hacking up phlegm, and found his voice after silence.
“I take it you thought of this long during your imprisonment,” Cristof said.
“Yes.”
Cristof wiped food, dust, and other debris from his garments before walking toward Hero and taking a seat.
“What of the order? I am surprised that Magari would let you go so soon.”
Hero laughed.
“I haven’t told her, but I think she already suspects it; the King had made this an option. Shortly before my release date, he sent a crier that said the Barrier was weakening; ships from Yomi reportedly reached a port close to the Zaitan River, thats well beyond the described regions where the barrier once sunk ships. If it is that weak, I could bypass it entirely.”
Cristof rubbed his beard in thought; he yawned and sat up.
“It appears I got one last adventure left in me then, no chance I would pass up seeing your fabled homeland, the first human in the east to lay eyes on the western shore; now that is a fine retirement story to tell my grandchildren.” He said, placing a hand on Hero’s shoulder.
“Are you certain about that? You are…well, you are old now, aren’t you worried about, you know?”
Hero’s heart thumbed unexpectedly fast as he took on the looks of his friend. His golden locks now appeared salt white with some color to it in the sun. His vibrant blue eyes remained surrounded by wrinkles, discolored spots, and weathered blemishes. Though he hid it from him, Hero noticed Cristof favored one leg over the other, not counting the creaking of his bones.
His friend said nothing for a long time; after following his eyes, Hero understood that Cristof was looking at his grandchildren.
“Peace has come to this kingdom; the Anarchy is over, no more empire, no more Jean D’Conteville, House Azincor rules with fairness, the people have more kids, and the barons tear down their Chateaus for grand estates. I am sure there is danger ahead; when I was a Koshin Agi, would you believe I felt a grander purpose?” He said absently.
“We served Lord Koshin, the god of all mortal kind; I hope you did indeed feel your purpose was grand.” Hero said.
“I was blessed to live long enough to see my grandchildren, more than I could say for most. But I have little personal glory to my name compared to even the Black Prince, a young man not even a quarter of my age. It's not the glory, I guess, its-”
“I get it.” Hero said.
The two friends sat there in silence, watching the sun as it crested over the trees and towers of Azincor.