Kalinus Setra

Kalinus Setra

Praetor of Clan Setra
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1730536562125.jpegWest of Karmatun, amidst the ruins of the lost city Raaklan. Along the edge of the Arshakan border, half day's march, east of the Kundai river.

The banners, blue and white, snapped in the wind. Bronze tigers snarled and showed claws atop the standards bared. The First Cohort of the XXXIII Karmic Legion, some six hundred men, stood arrayed about the bones of the dead city. Hunkered and at work about timeless stone, sunken into the earth, and worn with wind and marked with a violent history.

Siege stones, laid on the other side of cracked through perimeter walls, and silent titans stood headless in their vigil.

"Set the ballista here," a shatikan ordered a squad of engineers, who barked back their understanding, and set to the work. Hammers pounded out the structures.

Tents of goatskin were hidden from distant eyes behind hillock and rubble. Guards mulled about in their regimented patrolls, and in the command tent, the cohorts's Khastri stood about with a Shatikan, and camp sargeants.

"It will be some days yet before the ruins are fully explored and mapped," a Shatikan explained to their commanding officer.

"And the scout reports?"

"No sitings of Free City bands yet, and contact remains regular,"

A look at the map, the markers that bellied their own position, and those of other cohorts, not so far away.

The young Khastri gave a nod. "Have the scout core perform regular sweeps of our operational perimeter." he eyed the map. "And set a balista to cover this approach here," he pointed where the map showed a rocky bluff, to their north, nearer to the river. "And have them ready shroud-shot," he thought on it a moment. "Don't want to be caught unnawares by any river-craft,"

The camp sargeants snapped their salutes. "It will be done," one spoke for the group.

The Khastri salute in return. "To your duties,"

Bows, and the soliders filed out.
 
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Kalinus Setra.

The Prince remembered a time where even his own father from a life long gone feared the man. And if the old Raj Imperaatus that sat and decayed on his throne in the capital city was wise, he would have feared him as well. There was nothing more dangerous than limitless ambition with the know how to accompany it. Kalinus was the hubris of empires made flesh. He'd heard stories of the old Deva Empire and how they built monuments that reached into the heavens so that they might get closer to the gods. So that they might look them in the eyes as equals and know no mortal power that may stop them from doing so. When they did, the Mother rained her tears upon them and saw to their fall. Kalinus would be no different, The Prince knew. His tower would simply have to be pulled down piece by piece. And if it wasn't possible to bring it down brick by brick, he would chip at him until the old man knew he could bleed.

The Prince of Tattters had already faced death and stared into eternity. However long it took, it would be done. Or he would die and face his old friend Death all over again. At least he would know he tried.

The Karmic Legions were the finest combatants in all the world. Other nations may say the same of their own men, but they were categorically wrong. All the same, armies were made of flesh and metal. Both of which could be broken.

They numbered six hundred. He'd taken the time to count them. The Primus Khshatri's patience had made it easy for him to take the time to count their goatskin tents. The last bow to filter out was the most foolish. The weakest. The most sluggish. From his peripheral, the Prince claimed him. Strong hands set to twisting his head until a loud CRRRRRACK drummed against his ears. The Prrince of Tatters pulled him away and quickly set to undressing him. He hadn't worn his own armor, but a black veil to conceal himself among the Legion. All the easier to undress his prey and appear as one of Setra's men. He moved quickly, adorning the dead man's leathers and bow and arrows. The inside of a Karmic Legionaire's helmet brought back memories that he had to fight away to focus on the present.

The Killing Shade joined their file, his mission clear in his own head...​
 
"Report," came a voice with authority amongst the camp.

The hard stomp against dusted earth. A smack of flesh against steel plate. "Loha!" a young throat replied. "Our scouts have reported no movement along our western border," a moment to gather the information. "But,"

A shift in weight, armor gleamed beneath the hot sun, and dark brows screwed tight beneath the shade of steel helm. "But?"

Nerves tightened the chords of the youth's throat. "Well,"

"Out with it, Taanba, before I have you cleaning the cohorts sandals for the rest of our deployment," the senior legionnaire growled beneath his breath.

A gulp of air. "Loha!" the greenblood reported, spine straight and stiff. "Our Eastern scouts have spotted an Arshakan landwhale on approach,"

The Loha stared at the Taanba a long moment. "Their insignia?"

"The Jackals,"

A growl. "The XIII Legion,"
Loha: Tested soldier of the Karmic Legion.
Taanba: Fresh recruits, still in their early deployments within the Karmic Legion.
 
Do you remember hell?
Do you relish it’s burn?
Do you remember what war feels like?
Stand straight old Loha. For time remembers heroes.
Fortune favors the bold.
​
He stood in lock step with them and remembered old words. Little memories that tugged at the edge of his consciousness and bid him return to a lost name. A forgotten past. He reminded himself that there was only one tho g that mattered. Freeing the spears and swords from their millennia old cage as death had freed him. And he need not fight the many, only the few.

An Arshakan helm covered his scarred face, his disk armor glimmered in the barren landscape’s sun and irritated his eyes. The Prince had grown used to the darkness. It kept him safe. It aided him in war. The spear he carried was heavy in all the right ways. He remembered how to use it. The Legions would have had it no other way. The body remembered what the death had stolen from his mind. One motion was all he needed. One shot. One kill.

Kshatrii Domenic Privarii was in his sight. A dog of Kalinus Setra and a monster whose deeds gripped his memory even now. The Prince could see him from where he stood in formation. Resplendent and ornery atop his destrier. All he needed was one moment. One chance to end him and disappear…

And then the ground rumbled. His head turned with the many to face the Landwhale that hovered just above ground and made the pebbles dance and hearts tremble. It flew the banner of the 13th. The Jackals. Had Setra called them forth? The Prince’s eyes narrowed. Why were there two Legions here?

His grip on his spear tightened. Patience. There may be more to be had than just a kill. More than the blooding of his enemy whose spears were like many grains of sand. Tetron would show him the way…​
 
Sand billowed about the great luft bladders that ran swollen along each side of the looming landwhale's hull. Its wind-oars out like a beast's many fins, stirred with the rhythm of all those souls bound to its service within.

Hundreds of men and women whose limbs shimmered and steamed with the sweat of their strength. The steady pound, pound, pound of the drum set the cadence to their work as officers stood upon the deck. Spyglasses extended, their brass casings gleamed in the sun, and their crystallin lenses reflected the day star's light.

"It is not the full legion," one man said as the one wheel of the whale churned the sands beneath its keel.

Primus Prithvi Argun stood beneath the banners. The Three Jackals of Clan Argun snarled and snapped proud against the wind. Their golden claws bared against the blood red field.

"No," she said with eyes narrowed and jaw set. Twin falcon feathers stood proud aside a red furred crest,

Horns blared their brass welcome as the whale grew greater and greater before the garrison's eyes. Its reinforced prow shone in the sun, as did the three jackals that sprint at its figurehead.

Khashatrii Privarii sat atop his stead, as soldiers hurried to order.

Arms laid to ease, while banners were held proud, and all stood to attention as the earth underfoot rumbled whilst stone and steel rattled to the roll of the ship's gigan wheel.

The landwhale, Haramun, of clan Argun came to cease before ruins and host. The vessel stood six men tall, and was near six spans, fingertip to fingertip, across, whilst its keel ran near one hundred strides long. Its great bladers made it all the wider. Its oars retracted. Dozens of wings pulled up and in to the shell of the terrible beast.

Calls for anchor rang overhead.

"To think," a taanba spoke to another. "We had to march our asses out here,"
 
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The rumble of such monstrosities used to be a comfort to you, did it not?
The Crucible made you a weapon sharp as any other.
And you forgot what it meant to cherish the rhythm of your own beating heart.
To cherish the heart of another.
Now your heart pumps to spill the blood of those you once named brother.

Fear not for I shall steady you.
My wings shall carry you to heaven.
​
Yet and still, he was certain heaven could wait. He could wait to see it's gates or the black maw that was hell. The maw that had swallowed him when he embraced death with vengeance still heavy in his heart. He had gotten used to its weight the same way he'd gotten used to the angelic voice in his head. Who's tones rang across every wall of his mind and showed him visions that he hadn't imagined possible. Bloody visions that came true through a steady hand and sanguinary desire.

"Aye, we marched," the Prince spoke and spat on the ground from beneath his helm. A voice that was not his own. One that he had known from a life that only existed to him now in fragments. "But what in the hell for?"​
 
A laugh. Harsh and full of acid. "Little late to be askin such things, don't you think, taanba?" a salt and peppered Loha shot sidelong. His dark skin marred by silvered scars, whilst one brown eye took in the soldier in his file.

Privarii barked orders to those men gathered about the mouth of the Haramun, Ranks of soldiers set to work, as anchor was dropped unto the earth. It crashed into the sand and sediment. A plume of dust sprayed up and spat chunks out about the way. Then a second anchor from the rear.

The great mouth of the whale came open, its bow come split and its reinforced weight slammed into the earth with a quake.

"For the glory of the Empire, son," he nod, with a sardonic smile. "And to keep the bellies of our loved ones fed," he assured, more truth in his voice.

"Doosra!" came a shout from afar.

the Loha stood rigid, and looked to find the voice. "Khashatri!" he shout in report. Heels close, posture tall as shield stamped before him.

"You and your men to aid in securing the wheel!"

"An honor sir!" the old Loha gave nod and stomp, hefted up his shield, and turned on his heels toward his rank of legionnaires. "To the wheel men! With me!" he hurried on, towards the thick curtains of smoke that unfurled from beneath the Haramun's belly.

Soldiers of the thirteenth lead the presession out of the great ship's mouth. Honor guard, in the crimson and gold of the Argun, marched out in tight formtion. The Jackals sprinting across the banners they held high above them.

The noble Prithvi strolled behind them. Her officers at her side.

Setra soldiers, in their blue and white, stood at attention in columns at each side of the preceding Jackals. Drew their swords, and raised them high to salute.

A trumpeter blared the notes of welcome as the marche went on, steady step.

"It is not every day, the great clan Argun greets you with the splendor of their Haramun," Privarii called out. Shameless grin split across his face.

Prithvi and her entourage stopped before the man atop his horse. "Nor is it the first time you've laid eyes upon it, is it, Domenic?"

The grin grew the wider, and the uglier. "No, suppose its not,"

Slave men and women rushed out of the Harumun once the soldiers were well upon their way. Down beneath the hull and the bladders. To the wheel they went. Some soldiers behind them with whips tight in hand.
 
"Light recieved, Loha,"
The Prince responded to the elder soldier in the way that he'd learned when he was still in the Legion. In the Crucble, one learned that his Loha was something akin to the voice of the gods in this world. It was their wisdom that was the light that guided one through the hellscape of battle. And by inspiration or lash, one may reach enlightenment and glory. At least that was the sickening programme they etched on the walls of the minds of the weak. A poor weapon in their arsenal to give them the illusion of strength whilst their spirit rotted away beneath flesh, bone, and pristine armor. And the banners flapped in the wind to bat their wicked vapors into the ether. He spoke the words and reminded himself against a flurry of memories that this was an act. A quaint sheathe that carried a sharp blade beneath.
There were no Legionnaires that looked upon the crimson and gold banners of Argun that did not know of their storied history. A voice in the back of his mind reminded him of old tales. Of Appoloyon Argun and his Hundred Jackals who butchered over a thousand slaves in the old days to keep them from rebelling. Their banners brought inspiration to the warrior who looked upon them. May they spread the might of the Raj’s legions wherever there was land and sea.

Green eyes, the color of poison watched as Privarii exchanged words with the Argun and her officers. His eyes narrowed
Briefly and he averted his gaze as not to stare too long. There were orders given after all. Doosra’s booming voice had commanded his contingent to secure the wheel and that’s what The Prince would have to do until the time was right. And so he carried shield and spear in his strong hands as they ran into the dust, the Haramun standing over the clouds like some manmade mountain.

There was nothing but misery near the wheel. The familiar look of slaves with masters whipping at their backs. The Prince suddenly wished he’d avoided following that order, especially with his intended target so far behind, disappearing in all likelihood to meet with Setra. Best to not curse himself… He’d need that energy to formulate a new plan.
 
Beneath the wheel, there was nothing but death. One man had already gotten too close. Tears fat in their eyes as what was left of their leg, a thing so flat and bloodied it resembled churned meat, made a mess beneath them. His fellow slaves gathered around him, tried to keep him awake. Tried to keep the panic from riding too high into their own voices.

"Mendi, Mendi, you can help him yes?"

The one they called Mendi was a young boy. Brown eyed, and dark hared. What softness may have been about him had been whittled all the thinner.

"Shut up, Gagan, shut up!" Mendi shouted. Sharp as broken glass. "I can't do nothing for him,"

Gagan, growled and shoved Mendi to the ground. "You lie! I know you lie! You helped Kashto!"

The ruined man wept. Agonized howls as he turned in the dirt, and his kith did what they could to help him.

The great chains of the Haramun swayed with the slightest shift of the colossal ship. The wheel itself seemed to breathe. A red stain at the edge of its terrible shape where it had taken the slave's leg. But the wheel was stilled. The massive block placed beneath it to keep it in place.

The Argun's men, in their red and gold, stood wide eyed. Not exactly sure what to do.

Doosra growled. "What's going on here?!" he barked.

"Caught under the wheel," the Argun's Loha replied. "Both legs, mulched beneath the knees,"

A quick snap of the hands to the masked Prince. Then to a second. "You two, move him to the medical tent, double fast, won't have Argun blaming us for any lost slave," Doosra loosed his club next. "Rest of you slaves make way!" he clubbed one aside with a thwack against the side. "Make way damn it!" he shoved them back.

Gagan, confused, wasn't sure what to do. He clutched at his brother. Held him closer.

"I said make way!" Doosra's club went up.
 
Time feels like it slows.
A thrumming from the Prince's bones.
It asks him what this mission is worth.
Tetron appears before him as a maelstrom of wings and eyes that stare into the pits of his very being, ever testing, ever watching.
Wings resplendent reach past the vehicle of war they stand beneath and into the heavens.
His voice makes him tremble like autumn leaves still clinging to withering branches.

"You have come such a long way and have bled in many battles... What is a life worth to you? What is the life of one compared to what must be done? Answer me and answer true. For there is no war greater than the one in your heart."
​
He reaches out and grips Doosra's hand. The soldier that stood tall next to his comrades now a shadow with hands made of steel and a mask but a fraction of Tetron's ferocity, yet greater than mortal's fathoming. Hatred radiates from the blacks of his eyes. He trembles with rage as his fingers clamp into flesh and his cloak billows in a wind made by presence. Wings that flap unseen by his enemy. A life was everything. And men would bleed here and now for their cruelty.

He draws a wicked dagger, curved and poisoned. In a cruel arc, he swipes it through the air at Doosra's throat. Let it drink of his evil. Let death feed upon the unrighteous and let those who sit in their high towers and machines of war know that the black response to their avarice and vile pneuma was never far away.
 
Shock was a cold thing. A still thing. Nerves waiting to catch up to the red hot gush that came there at so many ends.

The soldiers around the scene gawked. Minds racing with what they had just witnessed. Those slaves stared on at the scene. Some flinched away. As if the very sight of what they had seen was crime enough. Hands clutched to their skulls as spines twist and legs bent. Small.

Mendi among them who cowered.

Synapses fired, lightning struck down spines, and hands reached for blades sheathed at hips. Drew steel.

The souls of Setra moved to action. Their Loha's throat sprays dark red iron across the sand and dust. Mingled with that blood that pooled there by the slave's maiming. "Raise shields!" another man's voice called out. "Fan!" that same voice, hidden behind bronze and wooden board. One rammed. One sliced. Two hung back to better flank.

The men of the Argun, wide eyed, reached for the whips. Another for their horn. Gagan shout hot. Threw his whole body at the guard who had pulled the horn and bulled him to the ground with the hard pound of bone against earth.
 

One rammed.

The Prince stumbles backward and is forced to gather his footing. The pain that came from the shield striking him was numb. A distant thing despite the force that shocked him. When the second man sliced, he moved backwards just in time, taking advantage of the opening and thrusting the dagger into his right eye with a twist. He let the weapon go and pulled out a sword from the shadows of his great veil. It did not flame, but there was a heat that seared from the metal and made it burn white hot. And the shadow danced and weaved and looked for openings between the fanning monsters about him, those who wore the sigils of slavemasters and warlords his old self called comrades and mentors.

He pointed the edge of his heat at them. The hot metal produced a wave that gleamed with malice and the promise of death. He rained blows upon their wood and metal, looking to shatter their defense and bring them closer to Ko or whatever gods carried them to sleep at night.
​
 
Withering was the heat. Great was the malice. The blows rained. One after the other. Against those dogs that the man who was the Prince once called comrade.

One shield cracked. Heat blazed through to sear through the arm of the man. He screamed and fell back.

Gagan, on one of the Argun's slave drivers, scrambled for the horn. Fingers found purchase, and he smash, smashed it against the hard earth until it cracked and splintered. A knife found the boy in the ribs. A distant horn blared, as another team of slaver's caught eye of the unfolding bloodshed.

Loud was the drone of alarm. And harsh was the blare of its notes.

Alert.

It dragged its long tongue out.

Alert.

But sound carried strange beneath a Landwhale's hull. Bent funny.

Two guards with shields still brave enough to stand before the Prince.

A slave driving team of three, picking themselves up after killing a boy.

Slaves cowered in fear. Anger bright in their hearts at the sight of Gagan's blood. Mendi with a shout, white hot. Another body crashed onto the guards. All wail and fist clutched about a rock. Thwacked, thumped. Cracked. Two more joined in. Picked up a sword, ran it into a man's throat. Took a sword to the gut before he stopped moving.

Aleeeeeerrrrrrrrt

The distant horn blared. Shouts that said, go and fucking tell them! Slaves, still hesitant there to act.
 
Malice still burned brightly in his hand. There was a hunger in him that would not be satiated. The men he'd killed were nameless. Rank and file swords of great and cruel masters that hid themselves behind metal and tech. In that moment, he swore as he had a thousand times that he would build a monument of flesh and bone as a protest to their very existence. Malice rose and fell once more. The two that stood against him were swept aside and the horns in the air called for more. So too did the slaves that were moved to rage and used rocks as their weapons. The blades of the fallen were taken up by the few who'd been moved to act.

The wise man said that Malice effected the soul. The sage said that Malice only effected the mind. And when raising it into the air, the Prince gave the downtrodden the promise that their rage would effect the entire world if they let it. He'd given his life before to justice. What else was left?

"Sons of the world, forgotten of the Imperials... I know not from where you hail!" his voice was metallic and present, yet distant. As clear as the horns in the air that called for their demise. "Those horns on the horizon command that you return to the dirt. Do so a free soul if you must. For you must. Gather about my flame and know not the chill of fear. You will find no justice in this world! So rally about what you have left to claim..."

He need not finish with the final word. The killing word. The word that gave broken men the courage to tear down empires if they would but just hear it. He gripped Malice with both hands and held it up as he marched towards the slaughter. His or the legions that would come to meet him. It mattered not. The Tattered one walked as a shadow in the dust, clouded by plentiful specks of earth and there was no heat greater in that moment than the that which he carried in armored digits.
 
Like spark to tinder. The Prince's words found the tattered. Enkindled them. Set their fibers ablaze.

Bone, skin, and fingernail clutched tight about sword's grip. Felt sure the length of the blade that ran silvered and shined from the end of their limbs. Cruelties that they had seen dealt unto them. Cruelties they would deliver unto those butchers. Who saw them as so much chattel to be carved and pieced out for all the labor they were worth.

Legionaries and slave drivers marched shoulder to shoulder. Shields raised. Whips lashing through the gaps. Ripped across the flesh and bone of one man. Yanked them to the ground.

Dust kicked up in clouds. Thick with particulate.

Yet where one fell, three were there to take their place.

A pair of slave drivers too alone against the stock they were meant to manage. The cold bite of blade's edge driven between the gaps. One man had been lashed down unto the charge. Legs failed them as whips bite bared too harsh.

But there were more behind them.

The ranks of Setra men and Argun men formed up in the distance. Dust about them as Lohas barked orders.

"Fan out, encircle them, encircle them!" heavily armed and armored soldiers moved in trained readiness. Set to stand. Bristled in equipment and discipline.

"Pilums at the ready!" shouted khashtri.

The third line pulled free their missiles. Long shafts with needle nosed throwing shafts menaced.

Arms cocked back. Legs shifted their torque. A stomp. A twist. A throw. The pilums were sent flying into the crowd of slave rebels.
 
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