Several hours later, John found himself in a scratchy bed deep in the bowels of the Valorwood fortress, longing for a view of the stars. The room Bugsy had led John, monk, and Skaglin to was cramped, damp, and as dark as the deepest cave. The only sound to be heard was the whistling breath of Skaglin, who had decided he would sleep under John’s bed. The group had spoken for hours about a plan to rid themselves of the dark elf threat. No one could agree on a plan that they all felt had a high success rate, and they excused themselves shortly after agreeing to meet again in the morning. Rayne had eventually cooled off, but John still struggled to understand why she was so mad at him.
“Is mad even the right word?” he thought. Maybe she is more frustrated? I don't know, but I’m not dead, and I've come with backup, so I'll just have to try and be a team player. Hopefully, she will forgive me after that.” John smiled; he was genuinely happy to be reunited with everyone. Even more so, he was glad that the only people he knew in this world had survived a fight that seemed hopeless. His mood was only slightly dampened by the idea of going beyond the wall and trying that hopeless fight again. With grit teeth and a clenched fist he, he declared to himself. “I won’t die. I won't be a burden. I may not have a class or level, but I will help. I’m going to survive this fucking world.”
“Good, your heart is steady in your resolve. I can feel it in you,” Monk replied from the darkness.
John felt his face go red and he quickly replied. “Sorry, I thought you were asleep.”
“I can tell you’re wrestling with things, John. Take one step at a time. Your first step should be rest, though. We’ve a hard day ahead.”
John nodded and rolled to his side. Staring at nothing, he emptied his mind and closed his eyes.
A red banner rustled in the breeze, hanging from a fortress of stone and steel. The sky was grey and overcast, making the world seem sorrowful, and maybe it was. Maybe the sky would weep and mourn the deaths of his brothers. But for him, there would be no mourning. He turned his gaze away from the crowds and looked at the men that surrounded him. A wave of grey steel plate armored men stood silently, swords drawn and waiting. “honorable,” he thought. He grabbed the helm, fastened to his belt and placed it on his head. He whispered, and a blade appeared in his hand. Cold black metal that seemed to suck in the air around it. Blood dripped from his gauntleted hand that held the blade, but it did not fall to the ground. Instead, each droplet was pulled around the blade, joining together and dancing along its length. The men surrounding him shifted, tensing and firming their grip upon their weapons. As one, without a sound uttered, they changed him en masse. He readied his blade and met their charge with cascades of blood from each swing that hardened into crystal spikes. The blood spikes rent steel and shattered bones, and he moved like a wraith through the field. For three days, his enemies were lambs to slaughter, but on that third day, he faltered and took a blow to the back. He fought on, but the injuries quickly mounted. Finally, he stood straight from his crouched stance. He took in a long breath and planted his sword in the ground in front of him. The men surrounding him faltered and stopped. With a gurgling, blood-filled voice, he spoke. "Mine watch endeth here, for I hath bestowed every drop of my blood and every ounce of my soul unto this noble cause. May the glory of the Red Order endure through the ages, and may our foes find naught but defeat upon the field of battle. I go unto. Death” Bodies lay in piles around the man's feet, and where he had walked, destruction followed behind.
John sat bolt upright in bed. Somehow, in the night, he had lost his shirt, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his skin. He looked at the sword tattooed into his forearm and then over at Monk, who was peering at him over the top of a book he had been reading. The door to the room was propped open, allowing a torch across the hall to shed some meager light into the room. “Nightmare?” he asked.
“Not sure; it was the same sort of dream I had when this appeared.” He said while lifting his arm to show Monk the tattoo he was inspecting.
Monk grunted in reply and closed his book. “Your constellation must be pleased today we will fight, and many will die. Perhaps there was something in your dream that will guide you on the battlefield today. Think on the dream and look for the hidden truths buried within. Though perhaps it was only a dream, only you will know. Now come, there is much to do.” He stood and stretched deeply, placing his book on a shoddy table beside his bed. John stood as well, the straw mattress crunching softly as he moved. He knelt down to look under the bed and was met with Skaglin’s large eyes peering back at him.
“Time to go?” he chirped, and with John’s nod, the little kobold scrabbled out from under the bed, dragging his gear. For the first time, John took a moment to inspect Skaglin. The tiny creature was humanoid with scales the color of dusk, deep dull oranges, and dark blues. A plume of bright orange feathers spouted from the top and sides of his head and followed down his neck and tail. The feathers also fell over his shoulders and upper arms. He wore cloth parachute pants tied off above his ankles with leather strips. Unsurprisingly his bare clawed feet were bare. As John continued studying him, he buckled leather straps that cris crossed his bare chest. The only functionality John could see was that the straps held in place several sheathes adorned with an assortment of knives and daggers. Finally, he strapped a broad, short sword just above his hips at the small of his back. Feeling rather under-equipped, John picked up his scratchy shirt from the floor and pulled it over his head. Picking up his hand axes from the foot of the bed and slid them through his belt.
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“Is everyone ready?” asked Monk, looking over John and Skaglin. “It looks like it. Let us go strategize our plan for the day.”
The trio wove through the fortress's corridors. John’s mood sank lower as he passed common folk sleeping in the halls and on stairways. A small girl holding a mud-smeared plush animal looked up at him through her mother's arms. Her face was dirty, and her hair was matted down to her scalp. John’s eyes began to tear up, but he froze as the little girl gave him a brilliant smile. He knelt in front of her and pointed to the plushie she held.
“Who is this?”
“His name is Jerimiah.” She said proudly, holding the stuffed bullfrog out to him.
John laughed, all the tension he felt melting away. “You know where I'm from; we have a story about a Jerimiah that looks quite like yours. The story is about happiness, joy, and Jerimiah being a good friend.” He handed Jerimiah back to her and smiled. “Keep being brave.”
The little girl grinned harder, and her mother smiled down at her. Then her gaze hardened, and she nodded to the three men standing before her. “Be safe, be brave, and may the trees guide you forward and strengthen you.”
John stood, and Monk replied to the woman. “Our hearts are steady, and our resolve is stone. The trees will bless us all this day.” He stepped away and motioned John and Skaglin to continue toward the communal hall.
John’s thoughts were in turmoil; he was connecting with these people, and that girl reminded him so much of his sister that he wondered if it was okay for him to be happy here in this world, having left so many people behind on Earth. He glanced up, realizing he had stopped walking and everyone was seated at the table, staring at him. John plastered on a smile; he knew everyone could see through it, but he couldn't force himself to care. He joined them at the table, still wrestling with the emotions that surfaced in his mind after interacting with the girl and her mother.
“John.”
He grimaced as he thought of his mom and dad, his sister, and… Wes. His stomach turned, and a wave of nauseating panic set in. The walls around him seemed to be closing in, he.
“John.”
Wes was dead, the memory stuck on replay in fast forward over and over; he saw the blood, the lifeless face of his friend. He would never see Wes again the one person who had kept him going in times of struggle and. A wild burning pain and unadulterated anger crashed through his mind, and he gripped the edge of the table. The wood groaned under his grip.
“JOHN!”
“What?” He snapped as clarity returned to him and the burning pain subsided. He looked up at the people he considered friends they were staring at him again. Except now their eyes were all affixed to where he was gripping the table. He looked down and a thick red haze was leaking from the tattoo and swirling around his arm. He shot to his feet and shook his arm the haze followed his movement. The air in front of him began to spark and crackle a glitching blue window appeared infront of his face. Everyone at the table stood and backed away. The red sparks that lined the window seemed to be fighting of a thick green haze that kept pushing at the window. “The curse.” John realized as the information flickered and the window shrunk an almost inperceptable amount. Quickly, he focused on the window before it could blink out.
-Congratulations, a constellation smiles upon you great lengths have been taken to awake a part of your bloodline.-
The screen flickered again and the text changed.
-The constellation x wishes to know what you feel.-
John narrowed his eyes having some odd sense of what the message was asking. He spoke aloud three words. “Outrage, Injustice, Shackled.”
The text glitched and changed again.
-The constellation asks you to dictate your resolve.-
“Defiance, Strength, Wrath.” He growled at the window.
-The constellation asks who you will become.-
John raised his eyebrows and faltered the strange otherworldly sense leaving him but a resolve settling in his chest. “I will be the tree that weathers the storm. The last guardian to stand in the breach. I will be the protector of the good, and the defyier of the unjust. I will rise against evil and kneel before family.”
- The constellation smiles, and nods.-
With a hiss the green smog crashed into the box with a tremendous force and swallowed the window, but just as it left his view John had read a final word.
“Temerity.” The red haze leaking from his arm billowed out engulfing his right arm it flowed and shifted violently. He clenched his fist causing the tumultuous smoke to pull into his hand and suddenly he found himself gripping a bearded axe. The haft was made of cold black steel with a deep saffron and crimson head that seemed to be crafted from a polished crystal. The axe was large with a solid weight and everything about it felt right in his hand. He swung the axe and the air sang around the blade. John smiled down at the axe and instinctively banished it. The clouds that had hung over him only minutes ago were gone. He looked up at his friends and with a grin he said, “I may have an idea on how to break the siege on Valorwood.”