The Legends of Altera Vita

Gordon Reeber was the embodiment of noble refinement—tall and lean, with the kind of posture that suggested generations of aristocratic breeding. His silvering temples and sharp, angular features spoke of a man who had spent more time in war rooms and strategy chambers than on actual battlefields. Intelligence radiated from him like a tangible force.

The study was a marvel of controlled chaos. A massive map covered the wall, annotated with colored pins, intricate strings connecting various locations, creating a web of strategic complexity. Ancient tomes lined shelves made of what appeared to be ancient wood, their spines bearing titles in languages both familiar and completely foreign.

Reeber's gaze swept over the group—each member catalogued and assessed in mere moments. His eyes lingered longest on Corporal Horse, whose dignified stance seemed to intrigue him most.

"An... interesting assemblage," Reeber said, his tone a delicate balance between curiosity and mild skepticism. "The Emperor's missive suggested mercenary bands would respond, but I didn't anticipate quite such a unique interpretation of 'band'."

Daeva stepped forward, his scaled skin catching the magical illumination. "We're more versatile than we look."

"Versatility," Reeber mused, "might be precisely what we need." He turned fully to face them, revealing a large map of the northern territories that dominated the far wall. Labels and markers made the map seem almost alive—tiny representations of troop movements shifting subtly, snowflakes of essence drifting across frozen landscapes.

"The Iceforged are not merely an army," Reeber began, his finger tracing a line across the northernmost region. "They're a phenomenon. Something beyond traditional military understanding."

Zazz, typically silent, spoke up. "The Noval Weave trembles," he said cryptically. "Something fundamental is changing."

Reeber's eyebrow arched. "The Novaki see more than most. And what do you see?"

Before Zazz could respond, Ikit materialized on a nearby bookshelf, causing the servant standing nearby to jump slightly. "Danger comes-comes," the ratman muttered. "Cold and hungry and ancient."

A moment of charged silence followed Ikit's proclamation.

Corporal Horse shifted, his hooves making a precise clicking sound against the marble floor. [We are prepared to fight,] he stated matter-of-factly.

Reeber's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close to amusement. "Prepared. An interesting word from a talking horse."

"Do not judge, he is smarter than most military men," Targeld interjected, his massive frame seeming to fill the already substantial room.

Kael, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, finally spoke. "So what exactly are we scouting? And more importantly—how much are we getting paid?"

Reeber's laugh was short, sharp. "Always the mercenary. The Iceforged are moving in ways we've never seen. Yet there is a reason for that."

He pulled down a section of the map, revealing more detailed terrain. The landscape seemed to breathe—mountain ranges shifting, ice flows moving with an almost organic quality.

The map showed a specific location, a refugee camp? A fortress? City? Belisarius wasn't exactly sure what he would call it.

Reebers eyes narrowed. "This is Frostbane. The capital of the Iceforged." As he spoke, he looked at Targeld, acknowledging his northern heritage.

"The tribes are gathering," Reebers continued, his finger tracing a web of interconnected lines across the magical map. "Waiting. And just today we received word of why. The Crimson Blades and the Order of the Golden Pledge were sent out last week to scout. Dire news was brought back. Most of their scouting party didn't make it back to Arendale."

He paused, the weight of his next words hanging in the air like a gathering storm. "An Aspect has been bestowed."

As soon as Reebers spoke, the room went silent. A chill seemed to descend upon all within. Belisarius did not understand what the word 'Aspect' meant, but the reactions around him spoke volumes. Kael had gone impossibly pale, the blood draining from his face. Daeva's scowl was a landscape of fury, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. Targeld's snarl was pure, concentrated rage—a sound that seemed to carry centuries of ancestral pain.

"You mean..." Targeld's voice was a raw, grating whisper, "the Demon of Impulse has blessed an Iceforged?"

Each word was a blade—sharp, weighted with generations of conflict and ancestral memory. In Belisarius' hazy memory he had seen Targeld in many moods—boisterous, drunk, playful, even fierce in battle—but never like this. This was something deeper. This was a northerner confronting a nightmare centuries in the making.

"Precisely so, Targeld," Reebers responded, his tone measured, professional. But beneath that calm exterior, Belisarius could detect a tremor—something between anticipation and dread.

The silence that followed was thick enough to suffocate, pregnant with unspoken histories and buried conflicts. Belisarius, feeling like an outsider peering into a world far more complex than he understood, cleared his throat. "An Aspect? What exactly does that mean?"

Daeva turned his piercing gaze toward him, lips curling with a mixture of derision and reluctant explanation. "An Aspect is more than a blessing. It's a divine mark. Imagine taking a shard of pure, unfiltered divine malevolence and weaving it directly into a person's soul."

Targeld growled, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep and primal. "Not just dangerous. Catastrophic. When a demon bestows an Aspect, it chooses someone as its instrument. A living weapon."

Reebers nodded, pulling a worn leather scroll from beneath the map. The parchment was etched with intricate runes that seemed to shimmer and move when not directly observed. "The Demon of Impulse," Reebers explained, "is unique among the divine entities. Unpredictable. Chaotic. It has watched the Iceforged for generations, guiding them to turn their backs on humanity, but never directly intervening. Until now."

Kael, who had been silent, finally spoke. His voice was fragile, like spun glass about to shatter. "Which clan?"

"The Frostbane Tribe," Reebers replied, his tone clinical. "The most aggressive of the northern tribes. Historically the most militant. Descendants of the first Iceforged blessed by Karnath himself. They are not just warriors—they are a living memory of ancient conflict."

Belisarius watched the reactions. Targeld's eyes widened and his hands had become fists, his knuckles white. Daeva's eyes had narrowed to slits. And Kael—Kael looked like someone who had just witnessed the beginning of something he had desperately hoped would never come to pass.

"What does this mean?" Belisarius asked.

Reebers met his gaze directly. "War," he said simply. "It means war is now inevitable. The Iceforged are coming."

-----

The wind swept through Arendale's narrow streets, a harbinger of both winter and something far more ominous—a tension that seemed to vibrate beneath the cobblestones outside Reebers mansion like an earthquake.

Walking away from the silver and blue bannered estate, the party headed north. Daeva was the first to break the silence. 

"Well, Reebers' mission is pretty clear. The Crimson Blades scouting party was slaughtered on their last expedition. Apparently a Captain of theirs can help us. But we're essentially expendables. Filler numbers to replace the fallen." 

Kael nodded. "The Crimson Blades are still one of the two largest mercenary companies within the Human kingdoms. This isn't about filling their own numbers, but about what the scouts encountered. An Aspect is a call to arms, they'll need every man possible."

Targeld, silent until now, growled low in his throat. "An Aspect means war. And an Iceforged Aspect means total consuming war."

Belisarius studied his companions, standing at the edge of the street. Pieces of knowledge drifted like broken ice fragments—some sharp, some smooth, most frustratingly incomplete. Questions swirled beneath the surface: Who was he truly? What was their mission? Was it just a coincidence that his memory loss coincided with a Savage invasion, civil war and Aspect? Who knew, he certainly didn't. But now wasn't the time for second guessing.

He was supposed to be their leader, after all. Whatever that meant.

'Where are we even supposed to go to find this mercenary group though? Its not like Reebers told us anything.'

Glancing at Daeva, an unsavory idea crossed his mind.

"Ikit," he called softly, a hint of resignation in his voice, "where can we find the Crimson Blades?"

The Ratman's response was quick, a snicker equal parts helpful and mocking. "Follow-follow boss, Crimson Blade officer waiting-waiting in tavern most mercenary!"

Targeld caught Belisarius's eye. The massive northerner's shoulders relaxed slightly—the first hint of levity since their meeting with Reebers. "Shall we?" Belisarius asked.

"Aye aye captain." Targeld said as he pulled Corporal Horse along by the reins.

As they traversed Arendale's streets, Belisarius's mind began mapping the city's peculiar architecture. The urban landscape was no accident. The further they moved from the noble district, the more deliberate the city's design became. Street angles, building placements, defensive choke points—everything suggested a meticulously planned urban battlefield.

'If something breached the gates,' he thought, 'it would be funneled through the lower districts. A sacrificial buffer to protect the wealthy, how fitting of the upper class.'

Belisarius looked at each of his party members again, inspecting them. Targeld led Corporal Horse along the path, headed north. Kael rode casually on the back of their mount, his lean frame betraying nothing of the keen intelligence behind his eyes. Daeva strode alongside Belisarius like a watchful guard, hand at the ready on what appeared to be a dagger sheath at his waist. Zazz trailed behind Bel's left side, maintaining a curious distance, neither fully part of the group nor entirely separate.

The Broken Tankard emerged before them—a structure as old as Arendale itself, built from the same black stone as the city's imposing walls. More than a tavern, it was a living chronicle of history.

Although Bel couldn't see it, he knew that Ikit had instructed Targeld on where to go. "Boss. This here's the Broken Tankard, mercenary bar more than anything. Chances are we'll find what we're looking for, as old as it may seem." Targeld shrugged, his nonchalant attitude slowly coming back.

"Mm, thank you Targeld. Daeva, with me. The rest of you... take a break or something." Belisarius walked in first, giving Daeva a glance to have him follow while the others stayed outside.

The Broken Tankard lived up to its name. Scarred wooden tables bore the marks of countless battles—both physical and remembered. The air hung heavy with the smell of stale ale, smoke, and something more pungent: desperation.

The remnants of the Crimson Blades huddled at their tables, their scouting party reduced to barely fifty men. Crimson and black leather armor hung in tatters, telling silent stories of brutal combat. Bandages wrapped wounded limbs, splints supported broken bones, and here and there, the stark reality of severed appendages spoke of the battle's merciless cost. Their banners—a coiled viper against a blood-red background—lay defeated and limp near their scattered belongings. All except one.

Captain Roran sat alone in the corner. His left arm was bound in a bandage that had long since transformed from white to a deep, rusty crimson, a half-empty bottle of dark liquor before him. Unlike the broken men around him, he carried himself with a rigid discipline that spoke of years of military service.

Belisarius observed the man from the door with caution. 'I take it that's our guy. Doesn't look like he'll help us out though.' 

Daeva, unaware of Bel's thoughts approached the man, "Are you a Captain of the Crimson Blades?"

With his back still turned to Daeva and Bel, Roran lifted his head slightly, before turning to face them, right arm resting on the back of his chair. "Captain Roran to you. And who's asking?"

Up close, Captain Roran was a testament to survival. Barely thirty, with a beard that looked more like survival than style and hair that spoke of weeks without proper care. He didn't look particularly imposing, but the network of scars traversing his neck and disappearing beneath his coat told a different story. Lean, muscled, dangerous. His muscles were toned and the weapon he used, a staff with blades on both end still had dried blood on them.

"I am Baron Belisarius," he introduced himself, deliberately keeping his gestures open and non-threatening. "Sir Reeber sent me to find you, to offer assistance."

Roran's laugh was like a bark, loud and howling as he tossed his head back towards the roof.

"Reeber," he repeated, the name falling from his lips like a judgment. "Which means you're either the most skilled warriors in Arendale—" he paused, taking a long pull from his liquor bottle with his good arm, "—or you're simply the most expendable." His eyes looked hard and deep at Belisarius. "And since I don't know you, I'm betting on the latter."

Captain Roran turned back around, dismissing the two mercenaries that had come before him. "Go on. Get out of here before you get yourself killed. Us Viperkin have lost enough men already."

As Roran's dismissive words hung in the air, the tavern's door creaked open. A set of deliberate, measured footsteps echoed against the worn wooden floor. The rhythm was familiar—too familiar. Several of the remaining Crimson Blades, part of the Viperkin tensed, their hands instinctively moving closer to their weapons.

Targeld stepped into view, his presence filling the room with an immediate, charged silence. Unlike the battered and broken soldiers around him, he appeared immaculate—his clothing crisp, his posture straight, bearing the marks of someone who had survived, not just fought.

His eyes locked immediately with Roran's, a complex history passing between them in that single glance. The older Viperkin who were still conscious exchanged knowing looks, a mixture of tension and unspoken memories crackling through the room like static electricity.

"Roran," Targeld said, his voice flat and controlled. Not a greeting. Not quite a challenge. Something else entirely.

The air grew thick with unspoken tension. Some of the older Viperkin shifted uncomfortably, their hands hovering near worn weapon hilts. A few exchanged quick, meaningful glances—the kind shared by men who knew something was about to break.

Roran didn't move immediately. His right hand, still resting on the chair's back, tightened almost imperceptibly. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, controlled—a dangerous calm.

"Targeld," he responded, matching the flat tone exactly. "Didn't expect to see you here."

The statement hung in the air—not quite a welcome, not quite a threat. Just a statement of fact from two men who clearly shared more history than either Belisarius or Daeva could immediately comprehend.

Targeld took another step forward, his boots making a precise, measured sound against the tavern's worn wooden floor. Behind him, the door remained open, letting in a draft that made the remaining tavern candles flicker.

The silence stretched, fraught with an electricity that made Belisarius and Daeva instinctively take a half-step back. The remaining Viperkin seemed to focus their gazes on the two, some aware of the history present.

Targeld's hand rested casually near his hip, not quite touching a weapon, but positioned in a way that suggested he could draw faster than most could breathe. His eyes never left Roran, scanning every minute muscle movement, every potential tell.

"Five years," Targeld said finally, breaking the silence. It wasn't a question. Not quite a statement. More like a marker being placed between them.

Roran's half-empty liquor bottle paused halfway to his lips. A muscle in his jaw twitched—the only sign that Targeld's words had struck something deeper than the surface.

"Five years," he repeated, a dark humor threading through his voice. "Is that what we're counting now?"

One of the older Crimson Blades—a grizzled veteran with a missing eye and a web of scars across his face—muttered something under his breath. Another veteran kicked his boot, stopping him from speaking any louder.

Belisarius glanced at Daeva, reading the unspoken question in his eyes. Whatever was about to unfold was older than their mercenary band, deeper than any simple confrontation. And he had no idea what it was about.

Targeld took another step forward. The candlelight caught the edge of something metallic at his belt—not quite a weapon, but definitely not ordinary equipment. His boots made no sound now, each step deliberate and calculated.

"The mission in the Provinces." Targeld said. A statement that carried the weight of judgment.

Something changed in the room. The remaining Viperkin went completely still. Even the ambient tavern sounds—the distant clinking of glasses, the muffled conversations from other rooms—seemed to retreat.

Roran's good hand, the one not holding the liquor bottle, slowly unclenched from where it had been gripping the chair's back. "You're here about that," he said. It wasn't a question.

Targeld's smile was something dangerous—razor-thin and completely mirthless. "I am now."

The tension in the room snaked around in the air, coiling between Roran and Targeld like a serpent ready to strike. The other Viperkin seemed to collectively hold their breath, old wounds and older memories surfacing in their haunted eyes.

"The Provinces," Roran repeated, setting down the liquor bottle with deliberate slowness. "That was a lifetime ago."

Targeld's laugh was short, sharp—more like the crack of a whip than any genuine amusement. "Was it?" He took another step forward, close enough now that Roran had to crane his neck to maintain eye contact. "Strange. I remember it like it was yesterday."

The one-eyed veteran in the corner shifted, his remaining eye darting between Targeld and Roran. "Best not," he muttered, just loud enough for those closest to hear. But neither Targeld nor Roran seemed to notice.

Belisarius and Daeva had become spectators to something far more complex than their original mission. The dynamics between these two men spoke of something deeper—a history written in blood and betrayal.

"You know why I'm here," Targeld said. His hand had moved closer to whatever was hanging at his belt.

Roran's injured left arm twitched beneath its bloodstained bandage. "I know," he said quietly. "And you know it wasn't—"

"Wasn't what?" Targeld interrupted, his voice razor-edged. "Wasn't intentional? Wasn't your fault?"

The words hung in the air, heavy and brutal. Several of the Crimson Blades flinched.

Roran stood slowly, favoring his good side. Despite being shorter than Targeld, there was something in his movement that suggested a coiled, dangerous potential. The staff with blades at both ends—still crusted with dried blood—was within easy reach.

"You weren't there," Roran said. Each word was measured, controlled. "You don't know everything."

Targeld's laugh was without humor. "I know enough."

Daeva glanced at Belisarius, a silent question passing between them. Whatever mission Sir Reeber had sent them on seemed almost inconsequential compared to the storm brewing between these two men.

The one-eyed veteran spoke again, louder this time. "Targeld. Leave it be."

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken accusations. Targeld's jaw clenched, a muscle working beneath the skin. For a moment, it seemed the confrontation might explode into violence.

Then, surprisingly, Targeld's shoulders dropped slightly. The tension didn't entirely leave his body, but something shifted—a decision made in the space of a breath.

"We don't have time for this," he said finally, his voice low and controlled. "Not now."

Roran didn't relax. If anything, he became more alert, sensing the change in Targeld's demeanor.

"We want to join your next scouting mission," Targeld said flatly. No request. More like a statement of intent.

Roran's eyebrow raised slightly, a mixture of surprise and skepticism crossing his weathered face. "Our mission?" he repeated, emphasizing "our" with a sardonic edge.

The remaining Viperkin—those still capable of sitting upright—turned their collective attention to this unexpected development. Some looked curious. Others looked wary.

"What makes you think we're taking another mission?" Roran asked, reaching for his liquor bottle again. His movements were deliberate, testing Targeld's reaction.

Targeld didn't move. Didn't flinch. "Because the Crimson Blades don't stay down," he said. "Especially not the Viperkin."

A ripple went through the room. The veterans exchanged knowing glances. Roran's hand paused, the bottle halfway to his lips.

Roran's laugh was low, dangerous. "You think you know us that well?"

Suddenly, the tavern door exploded inward. Not pushed, not opened—forced inward by a commanding presence. A shadow filled the doorway, darker than any should have been.

Belisarius and Daeva instinctively reached for their weapons. The remaining Crimson Blades went perfectly still.

Targeld's hand moved to his belt, ready for whatever had entered.

The thing in the doorway took one thunderous step forward.

And then another.