Aegis

“What do you think is the Seraph’s greatest enemy? To myself, the gift of flight is a powerful tool. Freedom. Speed. Mobility. It grants this to us all, but what if you were to take our wings away? To deprive those who have tasted the breath of the skies above?

“Devastation, to put it simply: That is why the Commander of the Rust Blood Legion is so utterly terrifying. Thank the Stars for the Arch Magus’s intervention… If it weren’t for his constant pressure upon the Caelum eastern border, then we would have lost a number of our fortresses to that tyrant long ago.”

- Dame Lorelai of the Exalted Throne of Heaven

———

Lorelai

Shouts. Cries. Someone is calling out to her, but she cannot hear them. A vast, tenebrous void stretches far into the infinity before her, embracing her body and slowly sinking into the long quiet. It is soothing here. It is peaceful. In this land of empty husks and long-lost whispers, all one must do is accept the blissful emptiness. To rest in oblivion.

But peace is not where I belong. Not yet.

Lorelai jolts awake, breath wheezing as her face is overcome with a cold sweat. It is not her time just yet; there’s so much she still has yet to do.

A sigh of relief is uttered by her side. Celia has returned, and she does not appear to be happy.

“Celia? I-I…” the feeble Throne stammers.

“Stop talking. Focus on conserving your energy.” Her words are brisk - short with a harsh lull - and hold a slight tone of anger in them, but they don’t appear to be directed at Lorelai. Rather, towards herself. Angry with herself for being unable to help.

“You haven’t been out for long. Just a few minutes,” she continues. “And before you ask, everyone’s fine. A few are a bit beat up, but thankfully there haven't been any casualties.”

Ah, thank the Stars. And thank you too, Solgas, for bearing such brunt.

Her people are safe, but the threat still remains. She must get up now whilst the pain is but a faint throbbing. Before she can, however, a group of Astrologians suddenly rush out from behind Celia and quickly begin to crowd around her. “Oh yeah, I’ve brought some help as well. Figured you’d need it.”

It is a blessing indeed to have such caring comrades. “Thank you. I’m in your debt, all of you.”

The leader of the Astrologians merely nods and silently gestures for the others’ aid. They move swiftly and precisely, allowing not a single blemish to taint their methodical gait; a quiet bunch they are, but reliable all the same. Soon, a chorus of chants fill the air as they beseech Creation for its soothing grace. Verdant green aura emerges from the world’s veil - accompanied by the fresh scent of fragrant pine - and begins to seep into her wounds, closing the bloody pores and filling her eyes with color anew.

“That should take care of the worst of it,” Celia says, helping her up onto her feet. “But it’s just patchwork. Your body’s still drained from protecting the fortress, so don’t overdo yourself. I mean it.”

She glares at her with a familiar nagging. Unfortunately, that is one request Lorelai is unable to fulfill.

“You know I can’t do that, Celia.”

I can feel it: the presence of rust and grease. He is approaching.

As if to echo her worries, an ominous horn blares from afar with a sinister melody. Choppy. Disjointed. It cuts through the dusty haze and warns of the deliverance to come—of the blood soon to grace the darkened soil. Footsteps thunder in an unruly march. Machinery groans and sputters with a jittery cry. Step by step, the legion encroaches—thirsting for slaughter. And amidst the sonorous banner of combat: a laugh. Gruff and gravelly. It echoes throughout the air with a revolting tone of merry anticipation and sullies the ears of all unfortunate enough to bear witness its delirium. That laugh is one of madness, and it is getting closer by the second.

“It seems our visitors deign to leave us not a moment for recovery.” She slowly rises up and clenches her fist. Good enough. My body shall hold yet. “Celia, gather the knights and prepare to leave the Alexandria. We must make our stand upon the open field.”

“We’re engaging on foot, then?” Celia says, an air of dread enveloping her voice as she peers out to the barren waste below. “Yep, not a sign of miasma in sight. Guess that confirms it; the Immovable One is here.”

It is as they fear. The miasma has been grinded deep into the bowels of the earth by the destructive ray. There is only one who possesses such capabilities, and with his presence, their hopes of taking to the skies have been shattered. The Seraph will soon be clipped.

“…Indeed. Rally the able-bodied as quickly as you can. I shall go out to entertain the Commander first.”

“In that condition? You’ll only get yourself killed out there, Lorelai.” Her tone is hesitant, but someone must delay their advance.

“Don’t worry. Such a powerful plea to Creation will have come at a great cost to his strength.”

And that man is not one to rush when it comes to war.

“Understood. I’ll gather the others and come back to your side once everyone is accounted for.”

“No, Celia. You cannot come.”

“What?” Celia staggers back in shock. “No. No, you’re not doing this.”

Her frustration aches at Lorelai’s heart, but it must be done. “You are the most powerful knight in this fortress after me. Someone has to protect the Comet, or else this entire expedition will have been for naught.”

“Damnit, Lorelai!” Celia practically screams. “I know you’re trying to protect me, but just because I haven’t been to the battlefield in a few years doesn’t mean I’m fragile enough to need protecting. I’m still a proud knight of Polus. Don’t you trust me?”

“I do,” she says. “And that is why I am trusting you to protect the child in my stead. To protect our hope for a better future. Please.”

Celia hangs her head, muttering curses as she paces about in a conflicted mood before eventually letting out a defeated sigh. “I feel like I’m doing this way too often, but fine.”

“Thank you.” Lorelai opens her arms out and beckons for a final parting hug. Celia begrudgingly partakes, but her tight hold betrays her true feelings.

“And, if something were to happen to me, please take the Comet and flee—”

“I thought you always said that a leader shouldn’t dwell on defeat.”

“…It’s different now. The battle here may be our bloodiest one yet, and we have yet to witness the true depths of the Immovable One’s might. Above all else, even my own life, the child must make it to the capital.”

Lorelai isn’t planning on dying here. Even so, none truly know what fate has in store for them.

“Stop talking or it might just really happen,” Celia says with a half-hearted tease. “If you trust me, then I trust you to make it back alive. Our fool of a King won’t be able to function without you, so come back safe.”

“Of course. Home awaits.”

Celia lets go and takes a few tentative steps backwards. “Then leave. I’ll send our best to you.”

Lorelai gives her friend a solemn salute and turns around with a heavy heart. The gold and silver wings manifest upon her back. The twin blades shine with ferocious intensity; it is time. She dives off the fortress and descends to the barren land below. Faster and faster, wind howling as she plummets, until the clouds have become a distant sight.

And suddenly, with neither a sign nor warning, a nagging weight strikes her. Dense and cumbersome. It drags on her wings and forces her fall into an unsteady spiral as she strains to keep herself still. His influence has already reached them.

Finally, she collides upon the black dirt. A column of debris erupts from the impact - and through the scattered bits - she finally attains a clear view of the ones responsible for the attack. An army of mud-stained legionaries emerge before her, steam erupting from their unwieldy powered suits as they’re followed by strange mechanical nightmares. The emblem of a black corvid with glowing red eyes is engraved on their helms, and an incessant whirring fills the rusty air as they trample the earth with clunking, awkward stomps. But what revolts her the most is the savage, almost unnatural, convulsions and pained constantly tormenting their every movement. It is as if their conscience has been dulled into a singular objective: to kill. To maim. To rip all that stands before them, bloodlust oozing from every crack within their graceless prisons of steel. No grace or consideration for the wielder is present in the malicious design; the only purpose of the biomechanical scourges are to wreck as much chaos as they can before their inevitable, honorless end.

And the machines are no less disgusting than the tortured souls lurching absentmindedly around it. Lorelai can barely even discern what the shape is supposed to be: just an amalgamation of foul plates and jagged blades merged together into an unsightly construct erected on a crude imitation of a carriage. Some bear a slight resemblance to the beasts of the earth, and others are but mocking replicas of man. Everything about the Caelum forces are conceived wholly for the purpose of war, and nothing else.

The soldiers come to a stop a fair distance away from her. They sway in place with an eerie, perturbing gaze, and merely await their next order in silence. No will to feel. No mind to think. They are mere dregs to be directed, dehumanized into puppets of flesh. But there is one soul among them that still retains some semblance of a free spirit. She can hear him now, slowly trudging to the forefront—stomping with hostile intent and biding his time so that he may savor every moment of her uncertainty. He is enjoying this.

Finally, the man reveals himself. Giant midnight-black armor similar to the bulky frames on the legionnaires is clad upon his body, only it is no mere plate of junk. The bulwark is smoothly connected, the outer-binding they call “exoskeleton” shines with a luster, and the form is molded to his build. The mechanical apparatus attached to him is silent with nary a groan or creek, and the massive spiked mace resting on his shoulder appears to be forged with lavish ores of violet—the very same color glowing from his great helm.

He is the Commander of the Rust Blood Legion; the Immovable One; the Tyrant of the Empire; and scourge of all that is winged.

He is Gravitas Monstrum, warrior of gravity.