A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

With sword pointed forward, Tavar led the charge of his thousand-strong cavalry, towards the head of General Blackthorn. General Blackthorn bellowed at him, and bashed an armoured fist against his chest, declaring that he would take the charge head on.

Tavar had hoped he would take that risk. A man as volatile as Blackthorn could be trusted to forget his task, if his emotions were stirred enough.

Blackthorn bent his knees, preparing to receive the weight of the charge. Tavar raised himself slightly out of the saddle to balance himself. And then, just before the moment of collision, the Minister of Blades dashed in, to attack the mount.

Tavar turned, and caught the blow, barely. He twisted in the saddle, but he caught it, with enough time to steady himself before he caught Blackthorn too.

Then an arrow flew from the rear. An arrow that had been searching for him throughout the entirety of battle. It slipped past all those men that rushed behind Tavar at great speeds, and it found him alone. A key-hole of a shot. Tavar looked over his shoulder to see the girl that had shot it, and he had to shake his head, as his horse was set to tumbling. "Oliver Patrick, you might have the most troublesome men in the realm…" He thought in his head.

He managed to slip his feet free from the stirrups before he could be crushed, but he still landed heavily, even if he ended up back on his feet before General Blackthorn could bring down his glaive upon him.

He caught the glaive with his sword, balancing the strike with his own momentum that threatened to bring him off his unsteady feet, managing to throw it off to the side in that moment of imbalance.

Blackthorn growled as he circled, the rage in his eyes practically glowing as he saw his strike blocked. He had but a short few seconds by his lonesome, in which he might confront Tavar himself, before the rest of his allies, including the Minister of Blades, would see fit to get involved.

"That's a good expression, Blackthorn," Tavar said, sounding very much like the teacher he was in the days of the Academy. That only served to irritate Blackthorn further. The man rushed in, leading by his shoulder, rather than his blade, offering up his armour as sacrifice.

Tavar took the offer, and swiftly drew blood, with a speed that none ought to have expected from such an aged man, with his snow-white hair. But even in claiming the shoulder, he was unable to do much against the bullrush that came after it. Blackthorn caught him in the chest, and winded him, almost knocking him off his feet.

Then that glaive of Blackthorn's came curling round, in a clumsy, but difficult to dodge strike. It caught Tavar across the chest, and rippled through his armour, drawing a hearty amount of blood. That was a strike that Tavar took with a grunt, and a wobble of his legs, but he remained standing regardless.

Blackthorn grunted his satisfaction, and grew more menacing for it. With the blood there, in his nostrils, the blood of a mighty man as it was, there was likely no creature in the realm that could have stood in Blackthorn's way. Tavar seemed to understand that himself. He knew Blackthorn well, even if it had been such a time since the man had trained in the walls of his Academy. He seemed knowingly, with acceptance. He looked over his shoulder, and he saw the other dangerous men set ready to take a piece of him.

Blackthorn eased his worries. "I will not have you bitten at by those dogs. Your head will be mine alone."

Tavar inclined his head slightly, at the strange show of respect. "Then, you had better show yourself worthy of coming to take it."

He held his sword out in front of him with one hand, controlling the distance between himself and his enemy. Once more, Blackthorn circled, coming closer to the sword than he ought to have, well within striking distance. Tavar didn't take the bait of lashing out. He knew Blackthorn was the sort of man to give away minor wounds, if it meant he could seize greater advantage.

For Tavar's hesitance, Blackthorn had none. He seized the moment, and slammed his glaive down on the hilt of Tavar's sword with frightening speed and strength. With a great clatter, fingers were severed, and the sword was sent clattering to the ground.

Tavar barely had time to cry out in pain, before Blackthorn was rushing forward, head low, along with his glaive, running the blade straight through Tavar's stomach, and lifting him up high off his feet.

The old General's eyes went wide from the sudden impact, yet even as blood spilled out of the corners of the mouth, and he was deposited unceremoniously on the ground, by a flicking of Blackthorn's hand, he did not cry out.

He landed in a heap, blood spilled out around him, from all the wounds that he had incurred. Blackthorn stood over him, breathing heavily, still full of adrenaline from the harsh road that he'd endured in order to reach him.

Then the rest came, with the same amount of fury. The Minister of Blades, breathing heavily. Blackthorn's daughter in Lasha, cold from all the men that she had slain to see her way there. Firyr, nervous with the excitement of the strength of the Third Boundary. Then Oliver on his horse, and Gar on foot, with Verdant making his way towards soon after. Every man who had led with a purpose soon found themselves surrounding Tavar's corpse.

"...Looks like… I will be seen off… by old friends," Tavar said, with some amount of humour, as he held back a cough.

"Your head," Blackthorn said. "Belongs to me."

"You are… welcome to it," Tavar said. "You fought well… General. You all have fought well… you are beyond… what you once were… I have no difficulty leaving the… Stormfront… in your hands… Ministers… Students of mine. I am proud."