A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Plated men, half frozen. Oliver wasted no time with them. He did not dance that magnificent thread, for they were not players in that game. He rid the world of them with a force that Ingolsol approved of. He dealt with them as if he were an executioner. They dared to wander into a domain that was sacred, where lives were dealt as a wager, and they brought with them malicious intentions. Lives were what soldiers dealt with, but these men, these creatures that Oliver quickly recognized to bear the influence of Pandora, they sought to stretch further, and interfere with a man's heart and soul.

A whirlwind of activity. A bottomless motivation. He dodged away from those spear-wielding men that he had so enjoyed fighting with, and relentlessly, did he simply hunt down those with plate metal to them instead. His sword grew more vicious as he went. A weight to the blade, an importance, that which was separate from the game. He remembered that too. The sword that he had loved and cherished – it too was the tool that had occasionally been called up to bear such a grandness of meaning.

He knew not how many men in those plated armours he slew. He hardly recognized them. With Ingolsol and Claudia to guide him, he cut through them even more easily than a regular soldier. The influence of Pandora was not without weaknesses. It was a weakness that Ingolsol knew particularly well how to exploit.

In the chaos, Oliver saw other men, fighting against the same enemy. Allies. He couldn't remember how he knew that, but he knew it to be important somehow. There was a grandness of purpose, above them all. Some great flood, that they were all struggling to fend off. It didn't matter. Not yet. Oliver only wanted to play. The richness of existence. To rid the world of the corruption that would interfere with his time with his sword.

And they that had been cruel to Ingolsol and Claudia. He realized how much he cherished the two of them. Like an older brother, he realized that he wanted to look after them. The creature called Pandora, he knew not what she had done, only that she'd been vicious. That Claudia in particular, she'd had a war with, and almost ruined. Oliver could not stomach that. Precious comrades they were. Existences that he needed just as much as he needed himself.

No longer did Oliver have to kill in front of them for them to feel his effects of fear, those plated men. He gave them a command to stay, and with eyes filled with gold, they would. As if he had invisible limbs with which he could grasp them, and root them in place. Angry he was, increasingly, as he pawed at a memory for all that they had done. He could spare them no mercy.

It was never fast enough for him. He wanted to rid the world of their stain in a single instant. He reached for more and more. He found himself with a terrible wanting. Physical limits became evident. There was a limit to speed. He'd hit that limit twice, then three times, and now he wished to go beyond it. There was a sea of those infantrymen that belonged to Pandora. There were far too many to kill by his lonesome.

He searched for other avenues, endlessly, and he found that he had the entire world with him, waiting, listening, ready to offer him that which he asked for. When he gave voice to his wants, the very wind stirred behind him, offering him more speed – and when he hit upon that logical solution, of asking those men who he knew to be his allies for their assistance, there was a strange change as well.

"Help me!" He asked of them. Not as an order, but as a beseechment. Five men. He didn't recognize them, but as Oliver sped past like a whirlwind, freeing them of their burden, they joined him.

They took care of the next group of plated men together. Oliver's growling command rooted them in place, and then even his allies who had struggled with them once before dispatched them so easily.

They roared for him. They called him General. Oliver knew not what they meant, but he could feel his pride swelling. A different kind of joy, almost equal to that with the sword. He found himself looking at them with the utmost attentiveness. He could feel the state of them, as if they inhabited the same body. He could see their exhaustion, the wounds they'd gathered, and he thought he could get a sense for just how far they'd go.

Then the thread was there again. A possibility of play. Something with overwhelming meaning. Not just a chore to be solved. Claudia took him by the hand. He thought he had to look after her, but there she was, delicately, pulling him along. She patted him on the head, and reassured him. The growling little fierce creature that he was. Both entirely fragile, and too more overwhelming than anything could be.

A realization. The strength of his allies was as important as evoking weakness in the enemy. Ingolsol's suggestion, coiled around Claudia's understanding. A new route through the two of them. A moment of pause, allowing his allies to catch their breath. A look at the surcoats. Emerson red. Who were the Emersons again?

"Breathe," Oliver told them. "You've done well. Another few seconds, and we will move once more."

"""Yes, General!"""

A thrill at that reply. Comrades. Eyes full of fire. Webs of connection. More meaning. A world drenched in it. More avenues, more perspectives. He couldn't get enough. His fingers clenched themselves. A look at the sky. So much to drink in, so much to do, so little time. He wanted to do anything and everything all at once. He wanted it all! More! More!

They raced off again, and from his belly, he felt the urge to shout to them, his newly gathered five comrades. An instinct again, like the instinct to slash. "STRENGTH!" He beseeched them. He'd already weakened the armoured foes in front of him, with just a glance of his golden eyes, and not even a word spoken to command them. A reassurance – something he'd done a thousand times before, like that slash of his sword. Crisply done, simple, and still overwhelming.