#((it's probably the hrs i've been grinding vermintide lmao))

[vixtionary]

THE VIEW FROM the Argent hilltops was inspiring. An explosion of life flourishing in the western expanse with water dividing the earth & sheltering the Silent Forest from mundane interference. Beside the two men, a Vindoran steed was grazing peacefully, its dark tail swishing ever so often. It had been a peaceful spring morning; an inconspicuous setting that would have never prepared one for the carnage to come. Now, as wet eyes traversed over scorched grassfields, all Fidel could think about... was death.

Death in the warcries of soldiers; death in the red tinge of the river's flow; death in the rattling of heavy machinery being pulled to join the decimation. Death, in the hand of his General; who solemnly stood above the battlefield, eyes assessing — no, knowing the predicament. Soon, the battle culminates. It becomes apparent then, even to the untrained eye of a mere pursuivant.

They were heading towards a swift and dishonorable defeat.

It would not be long now. The flying cavalry deployed could be faintly sighted in the horizon; thanks to clear skies. But, the Demacian front was not to be underestimated. They had accounted for that visibility by timing the entrance correctly. The raptors are far too agile for cumbersome Noxian machinery to follow. In the time it takes to load a catapult, a simple swoop of the legendary beasts would have cleaved a dozen arms from the frontline.

Fidel's eyes searched for answers in the General's gaze. But when he sought him out, the shadow of dark wings sowed trepidation anew; youthful features wrinkling with a shiver. Their cursed aura poisoned the air, enveloping them both. Fidel's limbs froze when he took note of the malice in Swain's expression; his inhuman glare (which the young guard had yet to grow used to) was fixed on their winged adversaries. Instinctively, he took a step away from him, but his lip still quivered with a question he dare not ask. In a rare display of generosity, the Grand General offered him the answer.

"Tactical retreat. Go, run to the warmasons."

From the frayed edges of his well-worn captain's coat protruded a crimson shape that had Fidel instinctively avert his gaze. Humble origins, as a former farmhand from Tokogol, had equipped him with modesty; to bow his head before a power he could not understand. His lowered gaze tracked the shift of Swain's shadow. Darkness was pooling beneath him, rustling the weeds.

"Yessir." Quivered Fidel, but his meager run would soon be interrupted by a finalizing order.

"Take the mount."

The guard hesitated. But the birds congregating around them like a cyclone were enough of an incentive. Within the blink of an eye, he had already climbed in the saddle, hands gripping the reigns like a lifeline. Morbid curiosity beckoned him to turn his head; over his shoulder, he witnessed the dark force lifting his General off the ground as one might a puppet. His head was assaulted by whispering voices, sweat dripping over wide eyes. Swain's form elevated, wings stretched to full reach.

He closed his eyes.

#;drabbles #;musings #((woke up feeling an urge for battle-)) #((it's probably the hrs i've been grinding vermintide lmao))