Godless (RaidenTheRipper & Chariot)

In truth, there are no winners in war. The masses never want to hear that though.

Jaemie D'rukolth would have cried when she got the summons to return if she was able. Somehow though, there seemed to be little emotion left in her. Not rage, not joy, not even relief. Instead there was a cold hollow where her heart had been, and she stumbled trough her camp, the scroll still clutched in her hand unsure if she should indeed give the order for the company to move out. In more ways than one, this order was more of a death sentence to her men than anything. A third of her men were wounded or sick, and travel through the marshes would certainly breed infection once more, killing at least half of them and infecting at least another third. If they managed to survive the marshes there was always the lack of provisions that would get them.

The war was over though. But what was achieved she had no idea.

When she had first left the Temple of Scalla, the young Magus was proud of her achievement, if not a little ambitious. She and her Bondite were of good health, with a recuperation of only a fortnight, and set off through the mountains on nothing more than a couple of pack mules to get to the port city of Arathos. They had been barely out a month before summons came from His Majesty Cyron Damaskus XV seeking her services. With no specialty developed yet, she didn't know what to expect--typically a Magus would spend several years specializing in a school of magic before picked by anyone so high ranking to serve. She should have known that it wasn't because of her master's recommendation...

The kingdom of Damaskus was a small, but prosperous land nestled between the eastern mountains and the warm Seliac Sea. Although in any other location it would make trade hard, Damaskus had something many other kingdoms did not have; wealth. From the mountains there was gold, rubies, sapphires, silver. For many years it was a quiet, untouched land with the mountains providing natural protection on the eastern front, and a large navy holding the coast. But trade was not for every king, and the moment that Cyron Damaskus took the throne the expansion started happening. With seemingly endless funding the war campaigns were long and brutal. While Jaemie had only been a part of it for the last seven years, the war effort had been stewing for the last twelve.

And thus she found herself in the service of the mad king, flying his banners--a golden phoenix clutching a fish and lance over a crimson field--and killing all those who opposed him. Kingdoms fell one by one to her company. All it took were some basic spells to block rivers, and disease fields. In a matter of weeks even the strongest kingdoms fell to sickness, hunger, and thirst. Damaskus had spread North and Northwest, with vassals in place in over a dozen small kingdoms and now comprised a third of the continent. However, if these summons to come back to the capitol were to be believed, the king's thirst for blood had been satiated.

Shaking her head, Jaime pushed aside the canvas flap of her tent, letting herself inside. Her Bondite was not in it seemed, and she decided to call a page to bring her a bath. The tub was merely a large barrel that once contained wine. She kept the empty barrels to try to keep her men clean and sickness out of the camp for as long as possible. The plan worked with mild success, though many soldiers seemed afraid of water.

The page took off her armor carefully, setting it aside to be cleaned and repaired. Though, in many ways Jaemie wished her bones could be set aside and repaired as well. War was painted all over her elegant form as scars, bruises, and callouses littered her body. In another life she could have been a great lady or courtesan. Her hair, although cut shot, was a blazing red and she had bright blue eyes to match. Her skin held the light well giving her a pale silvery glow. Her face was proportioned and slim, however her nose was slightly crooked from battle. All in all, the suitors who attempted to court her were many, though that was likely because she was the only woman on the field.

With the help of a stool she was able to lower herself int the barrel, half squatting to get the water to her neck as she relaxed, waiting for her Bondite.

Once... Once he was a good man. Once, Black Morgause had been able to hold his head high, and state that he was a good man. Virtuous and just, skilled in society and word. Once. Until the day he... offended Cyron Damaskus. Sitting, when he should have been standing, when the man's cat came into the room where he had been speaking with other members of the court. He had been on visitation, from another kingdom, trying to make a name for himself, perhaps to earn a wife amongst the nobility.
Instead, the madking ordered him imprisoned, and his fellow nobles executed... on the grounds that the cat had been sitting in his lap, and so he had at least shown some respect.

Prison was... informative. Titles were nothing, all that mattered was the strength of one's arm and the ability to keep oneself safe. And then, the sale to the Temple. His time with Jaemie in her training, and then his bonding to her. The realization that he did, in fact, still have some soul in himself, that he did still have something that made him human.

And then the sheer dread as he heard of their summons, hiding himself inside the armor the Temple granted him, to serve as a guard to her. Hiding behind the anonymity and the facelessness... except, the King had asked to see his face, hear his name... and then had completely been without words. No recognition. Nothing.

And then the war. The war, the endless war. Death and killing and laying waste. The politics were... interesting. Seeing how the Temple allowed their power to be abused in this way, wondering how they could do so... except he was simply too busy. Assassination attempts, on the 'demon witch'. Taking the pain from her wounds as his own, and knowing that it isn't in reverse... knowing that he can feel the grating of an arrow in her flesh atop that of the cuts, the wounds, the burns and broken bones... but that she can not feel the same.

Keeping her alive, keeping her safe. Ten years, since he was sold into the bowels of the Temple. Ten years since that smiling young man had been pressed into shackles. Twenty-seven now, six feet tall and an inch, muscle and scars across his entire form, a massive broadsword hanging at his side. A general in his own right, if he'd served in any other army. Leading charge after charge, cutting men down as they tried to rip Jaemie apart. And rarely even uttering a sound, a word. The armor he was given shattering from a lance taking him in the chest, and a new suit replacing it, covering over the scars and bandages that never quite have time to heal.

He can feel the awe that surrounds them both, the admiration from the soldiers who she commands... many of them younger, many older. All of them revering the young mage and her servant. Whispers of lust toward her, and then words refuting it, that she must be attached to her... knight. Hah. As if he has such a title. Little more than a living shield for her to channel her magic through.

As he marches through the camp, wiping off blood from his gauntlets-a captured deserter had needed execution, and there was no reason to appoint a new one, after the old had taken a spear through the chest a week ago, when a raid hit their camp. So he did it himself.

He lifts the tentflap, reaching up and pulling his helmet free as he does, and bows his head to Jaemie. "Ma'am." he says quietly, eyes flicking downward in respect. His face is broad, but not ugly, square-jawed and strong, with a quintet of scars across it, from some odd war-beast one of the nations had sicced upon them, its claws catching him clear across the face... what, four years ago, now? An x-shape across his throat, from an attacker, the slashed neck barely slowing him as he killed the man with his bare hands, sword broken, and then headed back to Jaemie, being healed... and then trudging back out into the fray, ignoring the pain in his body. Scarred as much as she is, on every part of him. Where her nose is crooked, his is straight, with a divot taken out of the center, from the claw-marks across his face, and his jaw hangs slightly lower on the left side... a war-hammer to the face, if memory serves, knocking him sideways and keeping him even more mute until it mended.

"I heard there are new orders. Does the king wish us to move on from here, then?" he asks, eyes still downcast... and then gradually sweeping up, fixing on her face. "You know the men are ill. Sick and wounded. We need reinforcements and medicines if we are to continue, and men to carry the wounded home." he reports, voice low, almost robotic, and exhausted as he sinks into a chair, starting to slowly unbuckle his armor, hissing quietly as the armor scrapes over one of his newer wounds, unhealed as of yet. But no reason to waste magic on it, when there are so many others wounded worse.

"You are hurt." Her voice was tired, neutral. If there was anyone she was more indebted to it was Black. It had killed her over the years to see him grow slowly more deteriorated and abused. She had tried her best to limit the spells and their magnitude, however she certainly was not the best sword in camp and when it came to war one must earn their keep in some fashion. Her relationship with Black was not something that she thought either was expecting. When she was at Scalla, when she saw the death mill of the prison and the mass graves that were dug in the spring and filled by the winter, she wanted to leave. However, her master The High Magus Riddark Litomus, was a cold man who did not tolerate quitting. Once accepted into his tutelage the only way out was either success or death it seemed, as those who quit before participation in the Cull were sent penniless from the mountains with nothing more than the clothes on their back. The grind of being an Apprentice in such a place took it's effect as well, and it was not uncommon for poisonings, stabbings, and other acts of violence to occur to get more training. Some masters even demanded blood to be fully recognized as a pupil.

Though no matter her experience in Scalla, Black had it worse.

She knew of the starvation, the fights, the poxes. It may have occurred under her feet in the bowels of that accursed place, but watching the Cull every year revealed the truth. Most bonds couldn't be forged even by the best students as the prisoner selected was either too sick or too weak to deal with the shock and pain. If both involved didn't die in the ritual itself the survival rate was less than ten percent after a failed bond for the apprentice and even less for the prisoner who received no care. By the time she bonded to Black she expected him to hate her, or to live as a relative mute too shell shocked to converse.

Instead she had her most loyal friend. A confidant of sorts, who despite their circumstance and history, managed to respect her not only as his Magus, but in some ways as his friend. His words may not always be based in kindness, but honesty and experience were worth far more than kindness anyway. He had trained her himself in the sword arts, and she always appreciated his input when it came to tactics. She wished that she could grant him titles outside of her own but the rules did not work that way. Though, in truth, her work for the Mad King walked the dangerously thin line of neutrality. However for seven years word from Scalla had not found her and in truth she did not care--he would bear the burden not her--for when it came to the Mad King's orders you either obeyed or died. And he never seemed to run out of gruesome ways to do that.

She shook her head, moving back to the present. "Give me a moment and I'll attend to your wounds my friend."
With some difficulty, she pulled herself out of the barrel, hardly minding her nudity. Modesty was something no soldier had the luxury of in the camp and the sight of her body was no news to Black. She pulled on a battered crimson tunic and mud colored trousers before moving next to him rummaging in a pack for the necessary items to dress his wounds.

"I am afraid our Mad King has a delightful sense of humor my friend. Our summons say that his his thirst for blood has been quenched."

She found a bladder of wine and a needle with some thread. Moving to help him with his armor she waited for her words to sink in as she continued. "We are the farthest out post I believe with only two options, both certain to kill many before any reinforcements could reach us with aid. We can continue north-northwest into the Highlands, and perhaps make it to Brettarch-on-the-sea and take a ship back. However the cost of that along with winter coming makes that idea little more than a dream. Or we head South, through the marshes and across the Forks--which will be swelling with the winter rains and the currents strong enough to knock a man--particularly a wounded man--off his horse before he even reaches halfway. That option will likely leave us with only a thousand to two thousand men where five thousand rode strong with us."

He can feel the weariness in her. Not just the fatigue of her voice, but the ache of her bones, muscles, scars. The tiredness that seeps through every inch of her. The despair and apathy that has grown for years within her. He's just as tired, just as weary. But it's best if she doesn't know. Better if she doesn't see just how exhausted he is and how weary he is. Better if she thinks it's just the wound making him tired.

He tries to keep himself upright as she pulls herself from the barrel, still in the process of stripping off his armor... and almost starting out of his skin as she begins aiding him, the process going far faster with an extra set of hands. "Thank you." he says, bowing his head to her, and finally rising to his feet completely. "Leave the wound. It will heal. It's only a scratch, really. Not worth the time." he demurs, giving a wry chuckle... and then finally registering the words she had spoken. "He's done? No. He cannot be done. This must be some trick." he says wearily, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

"Our best option would be to delay, and weather the winter here. Our provisions will likely hold, if we ration. We can rest out the winter here in relative comfort, and then ford the marshes and the Forks once the rains have ceased. They will be less flooded, and the loose soil will be washed away, making it safer footing." he says, voice just as tired as hers. "But he might have our heads for treason, if we delay." he admits, sighing.
"Brettach is likely the better option, quite frankly. We will lose men to the insects and disease and floods, and be longer in getting back, if we take the land route. The port city is still half-ruined, from what I hear, but there will be enough ships to transport us back, or at the least, we can stay in the city until the ships come. Their grain stores were mostly untouched by the war, given our orders, and we've enough gold to purchase it, if someone has laid claim once more." he muses, leaning back into the chair once more and looking at his mistress, eyes half-lidded.

He takes the summons from her, and reads it tiredly, letting out a sigh. "And he does not want the troops. Or, at least, he wants us, specifically. We could take another tack, as well. Set Captain Randolph to command the legion, and return on our own, or with an honor guard. He is competent, and would keep them safe in Brettach until they can return. Once we have returned, as well, we can likely convince ships to head to Brettach and retrieve them, as well." he points out, scrubbing his jaw with a hand.

"But. That assumes the King would not kill us for not bringing home every man, as well. Even though they will return home eventually..." He sighs. "The man truly is mad, and he'll have our heads if he wants them." he mutters. "Brettach, and its grain stores, I say." he repeats himself, before falling silent for a time.

"When was the last time you had any sort of maidservant, mistress?" he asks, looking up at her. "I recall that small woman who took an arrow in the throat, but not anyone after her. You could likely train one of the less... disreputable camp followers, if need be." he admits, sitting slowly upright, and grimacing as his muscles protest.

Jaemie listened to him go through the options. It was amazing how much of that she had though of, coming to much of the same conclusion quietly. She took his armor, setting it aside to be cleaned and repaired. It was true. The king wanted them. Despite what Black said, she did not want to see the wisdom in leaving them behind to soothe the Mad King's rage. She was not the best fighter, nor the best strategist, but she was their leader. She forsake most of the same comforts, ate the same foods, and fought just as hard as any of her men. To leave them now seemed treasonous. Especially since she likely would not see many of them again.

At the mention of her maidservant she paused, thinking about the girl. She was a lovely creature, sixteen or seventeen, with a petite frame and warm freckles on her skin. She was barely a woman, with her naive elegance and cheerful demeanor. They found her outside of the first kingdom they overtook, attempting to navigate a raft down one of the Forks. She was apparently an escaped whore from one of the brothels of Gryen and her men--still boys then--tried to claim her as their own. Jaemie found her on the outskirts of camp as they lay siege to the city an ordered the men who raped her whipped and left tied to posts. She was no fool that her men possessed such lusts, but she would be damned if she would allow them to see even one person without her knowing of it. She mostly was just thankful the girl was not a royal--who could be ransomed or made vassal by the king. The girl ended up staying with her for lack of having no where else to go. She was not enthused at the prospect, but the two years they had of each other's company made her less fearful and she even considered taking up a sword to join the company outright.

Her red-brown hair was what killed her.

It was her idea that they start to dress alike after Jaemie's wine was poisoned the first time. It was obvious that Jaemie was well feared and had a fanatical following wishing her dead--though in all honesty she could not blame them. The raid happened at night, and the girl had only stepped out of the tent to go fetch water when arrows started to rain from the surrounding hills. Jaime watched as the girl sank to her knees, blood turning her crimson clothes wet, before Black pushed her away and called out for a guard around her.

Despite all that Jaime couldn't recall her name.

"It is hard to ask for someone to die for your drinking water Black. Besides the food-tasters I want no one in my service to die. And at least they deserve it. Now please, let me see that scratch before you laugh and tear it open again."

She uncorked the bladder with her mouth and helped him pull off the stained tunic.

"More importantly, I would prefer the men not know that I leave them. At least not before we heal some of the more disfigured. The drop in moral will be steep if they see me leave and I won't leave Randolph with a rebellion on the rise. I do not trust these summons and if it wasn't for His Majesty's seal, I would dismiss them altogether. I haven't received a single runner from Scalla--and you know as well as I that they have heard of our deeds by now--something is stirring in the unknown and I do not our lives held in question." She gave him the wine, allowing him to drink before she knelt next to him to better see the wound. It wasn't bad, stitches were unneeded, but it certainly needed to be cleaned.

"You do know I would not hold it against you to leave should there be sign or word of the king wanting our blood right?" She attempted to keep her tone neutral, but her fear betrayed her and the question hung in quiet sincerity. "I do not want to see you die my friend, and if that means leaving me to the King I trust that you will do so. The men love you, it would be possible to find friends and passage far outside of the reach of the Cyron and Scalla. No matter my circumstance, it would bring me peace knowing you have a chance of happiness outside of the carnage we survived."

The man scrubs a hand through his hair as she talks, turning his gaze to her, finally lifting his eyes to hers. Different now, than they once were. Where there should be white, pitch-black, and the irises an almost luminous silver tone. The mark of his... bond. His slavery, he used to call it. His shame, his position, his existence as a bondite.

He drinks heavily from the skin, opting not to speak for several moments, and, after a moment, takes the ruined shirt, douses it in a bit of the wine, and then swipes it across the wound, hissing as the alcohol disinfects it to a degree. "The morale drop would be controlled, mistress, if we went about it in the right way. We do not leave them here, but lead them to the port. Announce to them, explain, once it is time, and... have a lottery, perhaps. Rather than taking the most loyal or the most decorated as an honor guard, take random individuals. Leave the officers to keep order, perhaps. Obviously, we should wait for the more wounded to be healed, but once they are... it would be best for us to go. Scalla may not care for us, but we need to mind the king, madman that he is. We already have remnants of armies looking for our heads, we do not need a third of the continent hunting our blood under his command, as well." he says, waving a hand, and swearing when she starts cleaning the wound again. "And besides that, mistress... my eyes, my scars, my bearing mark me for who and what I am. I would live for a time, but you would not. I would feel that, and I think it would drive me mad. Nor would I abandon you to your fate at that man's hands, either. I am yours to my death, mistress. Not a moment before." he says calmly, meeting her eyes now, his unnatural ones focused on her face.

"Randolph and the other commanders are capable. They can keep order, and the men would likely be here a month or less without us. And in the event the king is mad? It would be... better to not bring the 'traitors' as he might brand them, with us. Better to give them a chance, mistress." he says, sounding tired. "The Scalla cannot be escaped, but the king can be. The men would have a chance, that way." he admits, once more rubbing the weariness from his eyes with his uninjured arm.

"I..." She wanted to hit him. Instead, she put slightly more pressure on his wound and kept her curses to herself trying to remain calm.
"You speak wisdom my friend, for our men at least," blotting away the last of the blood she got to her feet slowly, thankful for his arm to pull herself up. "The order can be given for every man to enter his name into the lottery at dawn. The first fifty drawn will accompany us to Brittach--assuming they are in good enough health--Randolph will hold them here for as long as he can over the winter. Should the king find us in his favor, I may be able to persuade him to send supplies and aid shortly after our arrival in the capitol and get them home to their wives no later than mid-spring. If the madman wants our blood--at least we did not march them all into the lion's mouth."

Taking the skin from him she took a long drink of wine, still thinking. A moment passed in silence before a small humorless smile touched her lips. "What loyal servants are we." It was a joke. Though no laughter escaped from her. "Can this life of ours ever be remedied? Or will I always fear vengeance-fueled knives at my throat and arrows raining from the sky? Sleep brings little relief anymore. Certainly I should be feeling joy right now instead of this...hollow...that fills with weariness and dread at the thought of seeing that fat pompous ass of a king and his childish cruelty waving our lives in his fists." There it was. Rage. It started in her chest and filled her with heat as she continued, "I swear upon all of the Gods I will not allow him to toy with us any longer. We should be more than pieces on some game board." Her fists were clenched angrily as her jaw clenched shut.

Warily, the bondite listens to his mage, hearing her words, and muttering a quiet imprecation as she squeezes his wound harder. He leaves himself undressed for the moment, watching her small smile, and then lets out a sigh. "So long as I live, nothing will touch you, mistress. I swear that to you, as I have for seven years past." he says, bowing his head again. "You know I would give my life for yours." he admits.
"The king deserves little loyalty but to his orders. And eventually, I believe, we can have rest. The man is old, and may easily pass to age soon. And those who would strike at us are poor and stranded. In the capitol, we will be mostly safe. You need not fear the knife, my lady, nor even the arrow. I can protect you from those." he says, sliding to his knees on the floor before her, head bowed.

"I will always follow your lead, no matter where it takes us. His madness will be his own downfall, and we will outlive it. His machinations will fall at his death, and his heir will be likely more reasonable than he is." he says, slowly rising, and, hesitantly, reaching out and touching her face. "Mistress. Forgive this, but... do not fret over him. If you wish it... I will do what needs to be done, when we reach his throne room. His guards will likely not try to stop me." he says, eyes downcast again as he withdraws his hand. "My life would be forfeit, but yours, you would be free to leave, mistress. I was a criminal, after all, before I came to your... service." he admits, all but spitting out the words. "You could easily find another to bond. I am told, by those at the temple, that the bond can be easily shifted to another, once one has been formed." he says, though whether that was truth or misinformation, he is uncertain. "I am already, and have been for all my life, a piece on a board. The only difference is that I choose to serve your will, over his."

"Are you thick Black or do you just lack the brains that the gods gave an ass?" Jaemie spat, hissing the last word. "I would sooner see the death of every single one of our men before witnessing yours. This has nothing to do with the bond. I chose you that day because I felt that you did not fear me, that alone is a luxury I will never ever find again. In essence you lout you are not replaceable and quit thinking you are! This king will be dealt with, and swiftly, though I would not be so quick to murder him. As of yet the only thing we can be sure that would do is kill us." She touched his hand and met his eyes, "And should he need to be disposed of I will do it. Though..." She chuckled shaking her head. "That would cause more war and death than anything we have done yet. From what I hear he has yet to produce an heir. Litters of bastards, but nothing from his high borne wife. Granted, he has legitimized a few of his daughters, but they grow old now with their children being little more than children."

She helped him to his feet and clasped his shoulder, "My friend. We worry over tapestry not yet weaved. A good night's rest is the medicine we need right now. At dawn we shall conduct a lottery and heal some of those who need it most. I will talk to Randolph, then by the end of the week we should be able to ride out to Brettach with relative haste. If we are lucky and the winds are good, we should be at the Kings Court by the end of the next month. The more we panic over these matters the more likely they are to occur. Plus, it is paramount that the men realize they are heroes. So calm your mind, please, and join in with the revelry that is bound to occur when they find out the news tomorrow."

The man visibly flinches back from Jaemie as she speaks, ebon eyes going somewhat wide at her vehemence. "I... yes, mistress." he says quietly, once more turning his eyes aside. Even despite her words, her concern, her confidance in him... he cannot bring himself to use her name. "I did not realize you felt so." he admits, forcing himself to meet her gaze, though it wavers, not in fear, but in outright dread, not of her striking him down, killing him... but of disappointing her. Of giving her cause to doubt his loyalty, his usefulness, his willingness to sacrifice everything and anything for her.

"If an old courtier might offer his opinion... there are nobles aplenty, and... I have some knowledge of the politics of his court. His cousins were plentiful, a decade ago, and there are certainly enough men willing to take the throne. There will likely be factionalism within the court... but few of the nobles deigned to take the field, and those that did, I hear died quickly." he admits. "There's little chance of the armies participating in a civil war at home, with the combat they've already seen." he muses, letting her help him to his feet, and somewhat flinching again as she clasps his shoulder. The familiarity is... refreshing. Not a surprise, as it might be, but startling to recieve, when he has always attempted to do what he can to keep her reputation as a strong, aloof commander intact.

"I leave the matter of Randolph and the organization to your capable hands, mistress." he says, pulling himself upright completely, back ramrod straight once more. "And I will do my best to... keep in mind your words. I have assumed myself a tool, mistress, and comported myself in such a way. I did not expect aught more than kindness from you, and even in seven years, I have had difficulties understanding you." he admits. "A sad truth, that I have misjudged you for near a decade, but it is the truth, and I apologize for it, mistress, and will do my best to calm myself and join in the revelry of the coming days."