A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"WE ARE A WRONG SORT! ALL KNOW THE DESTRUCTION WE BRING, AND THEY HATE US FOR IT, WE SOLDIERS! BUT THE STORMFRONT IS THE SOLDIERS' NATION, AND WE KNOW THE TRUTH OF SOLDIERS, THAT OTHERS FORGET. GLORY IS TEMPORARY, OUR DESTINY SITS IN THE SOIL, LIKE THE COMRADES THAT HAVE BEEN SLAIN HERE BEFORE US. OUR DESTINY IS NOT TO SPILL BLOOD, BUT HAVE OUR BLOOD BE SPILLED. IT IS NOT TO INFLICT SCARS, BUT TO HAVE OUR OWN SCARS BUILD. A SOLDIER'S DESTINY IS THIS – DEATH, IN SERVICE OF THE STORMFRONT. DEATH, IN SERVICE OF HONOUR. WE HAVE OUR HONOUR, SOLDIERS OF THE STORMFRONT. IT IS EVIDENT. THERE IS ONE PATH AVAILABLE TO US, AND THAT IS THE PATH OF STRUGGLE. STRUGGLE IN SERVICE OF THAT VERY HONOUR."

"DEATH LIKELY AWAITS US ON THIS DAY. A FOE THAT SAW OUR STORMFRONT BRETHREN BEFORE US SO BUTCHERED," Oliver said. "BUT IT MATTERS NOT! EVERY BATTLE COULD MEAN OUR DEATH, BUT WE FIGHT REGARDLESS. FOR WE ARE WHAT WE ARE – WE ARE SOLDIERS OF THE STORMFRONT. WE ARE INSTRUMENTS OF CLAUDIA. WE ARE SERVANTS OF A KING WE DEEM WORTHY – WE ARE THE DESCENDENTS OF THE FIRST KING!"

"AND NOW, HERE WE ARE RESTLESS!" Oliver said.

The men stirred themselves. Closing in, further and further, that solid single mass that Hod sought. Something that he could command. Even surrounded as they were, they did not seem so weak all of a sudden. The division between men of different ranks vanished. Orders shouted by Patrick commanders were obeyed without question by Tavar men, and Emerson men, and the same was true of those Emerson commanders when they gave their shouts – without question, even Patrick soldiers knew to obey. Unity towards a cause that seemed hardly permanent. That was not a solid destination, but a swirling state of complicated being.

"AND NOW WE HAVE NO KING. WE WERE ROBBED OF HER. RESTLESS WE ARE! ANGRY WE ARE! TERRIFIED WE ARE! AND GODS HELP ANY UNWORTHY CREATURE THAT WOULD TURN HIS BLADE UPON US, AND ATTEMPT TO HAVE US SERVE THEM IN HER STEAD."

Tiberius' eyes narrowed, waiting for the end to Oliver's speech. He saw the moment in which Oliver leaned forward in his saddle, his head drooping, apparently exhausted. He'd felt the waves of complicated and passionate Command, not entirely the colour of Claudia. There was a malice to them that the servants of Claudia lacked. A true anger, that might even make a servant of Pandora afraid.

His smile had long since faded. He had waited for a fire to be stoked, but he found none. There was no light, there was no direction. There was only this angry, swirling mass of men. Causeless, but terrifying, and in the same way, difficult to confront simply with the weapon of Pandora. He turned his cheek, and felt a strong cold wind blow past him, tossing his long hair up with it.

Different to what Tiberius knew, and had been sharpened for long to fight. And still, inside it, there were hints of the same. He ought to have given his command a few heartbeats ago. He recognized that. His own slowness in reaction seemed to give the spectacle in front of him a greater weight, as if his eyes saw more than his mind could interpret for them. As if there was a reason any longer to dwell.

Something made Tiberius hesitate, when always, he felt that strong urge in his chest, that powerful evocation of hate, whenever he saw a display like the one in front of him. That sort of passion, so typical of those worshippers of Claudia, as if they wished to turn every moment of their lives into some sort of painting.

Falseness – that's what Tiberius knew it to be. A false presentation, for a false ideal. An act that they put on, fearing the other parts of themselves. None of those Generals were half as good as they seemed to think themselves. Not just in skill, but in soul. They feared corruption. Or what they defined as corruption. They feared to commit those acts that they labelled as evil. Tiberius knew there to be no evil. There was only strength, and weakness. Whatever path one took to strength, that was the right path. There was no more truth in the world than that. The strongest took the reins of rule for himself. The Emperor was he with the ability to win the throne, by whatever means was necessary.

With a snarl, Tiberius pushed himself into action, his own hesitation irritating him. He had those men that Blake had given him. They weren't entirely useless, but they weren't the sort of creatures that Tiberius enjoyed making use of. Like dunes of sand, they let themselves be battered by the sea that Oliver Patrick was stirring up. Pathetically, they continually ran into the walls of men that they had so surrounded, and continually did they find themselves deterred.

Tiberius brought his own men to circling, allowing those men of the High King to simply do the job of maintaining pressure, pinning the enemy in place, and buying him time, even if they did not manage to win him any sort of victory by themselves. He brought his cavalry to galloping in one direction, and he sent his infantry around in the other, circling that great mass that Oliver Patrick stood at the centre of, seeing his men rallied, in some strange sort of fashion.

They hardly seemed to be fighting with victory in their minds. They didn't push forward, or look for Commanders, like a normal army might. They did not even seem unwilling to give up their ground. They simply lashed out at whatever came nearest, with a strangely bitter concoction. Anger, hatred, grief. All the sorts of emotions that Tiberius had brought out in them to weaken them, they now twirled about, as if to make some sort of strength.

Tiberius continued his circling, looking for a moment of engagement. He applied an increasing amount of pressure, by galloping nearer the encircled enemy, whilst still not yet crossing swords with them. They hardly seemed to shake. Their attention was on the men in front of them. Afraid, Tiberius could see that they were that. Yet it wasn't the sort of fear that would break an army.