The Legends of Altera Vita

Belisarius watched as the massive figure resolved into a woman—Alessandra Veyne, commander of the Crimson Blades. His memory was uncertain, a hazy recollection that danced at the edges of his consciousness. Perhaps they had crossed paths before, during some forgotten noble gathering or battlefield encounter. He chose to trust the name, letting it settle in his mind like a half-remembered truth.

Alessandra moved with grace, her presence consuming the tavern's cramped space. Her armor was a masterpiece of martial engineering—overlapping plates of deep crimson metal seamlessly joined with black leather reinforcements. Each piece told a story of survival: razor-thin dents, barely-visible repair lines, sections polished smooth where repeated blows had worn away imperfections.

Behind her, six members of the Crimson Guard appeared. They wore full-plate armor that blended seamlessly with their bodies—crimson and black plates so precisely crafted they flowed like liquid. Heavy pauldrons bore intricate engravings of serpentine patterns, matching the Crimson Blades' viper insignia. Their helmets were complete face coverings, with only narrow eye slits revealing hints of human presence beneath the metal. A blood red plume hung on top.

Each guard carried a weapon that seemed an extension of their armored form. Massive two-handed weapons—a mix of curved greatswords, spiked war hammers, and polearms with wicked blade attachments—were held with casual, deadly readiness. Their movement was perfectly synchronized, each step placed with calculated precision that suggested years of joint training.

Where the wounded Crimson Blades looked broken, these elite warriors radiated strength. They were living weapons, more machine than man, their very presence a threat that needed no verbal declaration.

Alessandra's eyes swept the room, taking in Roran's condition, and the strangers—her gaze lingering on Belisarius and Targeld for a fraction of a moment longer than the others.

"Captain Roran," she said. Her voice was not loud, but it cut through the tavern's ambient noise like a blade. "We're moving out."

Not a suggestion. Not a request. A command.

The remaining Crimson Blades—the Viperkin—straightened. Defeat transformed in an instant, their eyes igniting with a fury that burned away their previous despair. Broken spirits rekindled, passion rising from a dying ember to a roaring inferno.

Roran stood up with a crisp military salute using his good arm, "As you wish Commander."

Roran dropped the salute and turned to his men, his voice thundering. "VIPERKIN!" The word more than a sound, it was a call to war. "MOVE OUT!"

As one, the Viperkin rose. Defeated moments ago, now they moved with purpose. Weapons were grabbed, battle-worn bags slung, and their crimson and black banners raised with defiant pride. Each movement spoke of renewed purpose, of a brotherhood that transcended their own suffering.

Alessandra nodded, a hint of approval crossing her otherwise impassive features. She spared one final, calculating glance at Belisarius and Targeld before departing.

Roran approached Targeld, a complex emotion playing across his scarred features. "You heard the boss. If you're serious about joining, follow us back to camp. I'm sure Commander Alessandra would love to fight with you again Targeld."

Targeld's response was a low, dangerous growl, hatred seething in the once gentle barbarians voice, "If I dont kill her first."

Roran's expression shifted, a mixture of understanding and pain. "So be it," he said quietly.

The Viperkin filed out, their commander and the elite Crimson Guard leading the way. The Broken Tankard, moments ago hosting a division of mercenaries was emptied, leaving Belisarius alone with Targeld and Daeva.

Kael entered just as the last of the mercenaries disappeared, confusion etched across his face. "What in the great name of Serenith just happened?" he asked, looking around at the suddenly empty room, confused by the commotion he had heard from outside, and the sudden outpour of mercenaries clad in blood red armor.

"Id like to know the same thing" Said Daeva, glancing at Targeld, "What's your history with that man, Captain Roran."

Belisarius remained silent, but his thoughts mirrored Daeva's question. His fractured memory tickled at the edges of recognition.

Targeld stood motionless, hands clenching and unclenching. His mouth opened and closed several times, like he wanted to say something but couldn't. Whatever story lay between him and Roran was not easily told—or easily forgotten. Finally, he spoke.

"Before I joined Boss, I was a member of the Crimson Blades. Five years ago was the last time I called myself a Viperkin. I fought alongside Roran through countless battles, and shared endless tales with him."

Targeld's expression was broken, like a nightmare brought to light, one he had desperately wished to forget.

"I'm not human. I'm Iceforged—a race known for our brutality, our unquestioning devotion to our God Karnath, the Demon of Impulse, and his vision of conquest. But I was different. I never wanted to kill to sate my, 'lord and savior'."

Daeva and Belisarius exchanged a quick glance. The tension in Targeld's voice spoke of something deeper than a simple military history.

"While my people dreamed of razing the human kingdoms, of enslaving entire races," Targeld continued, "I felt nothing. No burning desire for conquest. No savage joy in destruction. Just... emptiness."

Targeld sat down in Roran's abandoned chair, picking up the half-empty liquor bottle. The liquid swirled, catching the tavern's dim light—a mirror to his turbulent memories.

"My family saw me as a disgrace. Weak. Unworthy of my noble heritage. So they did what Iceforged do to those who are unfit." A bitter laugh escaped him. "They exiled me. Stripped me of my name, my heritage, my entire identity. I'm lucky they didn't just kill me."

Kael leaned forward, captivated. Belisarius remained still, watching every minute change in Targeld's expression.

"I was lost. Drunk more often than not. Then, one night in a tavern, half-mad with liquor and despair, I challenged a man to a fight." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "He beat me within an inch of my life. But instead of killing me or leaving me for dead, he saw something else. Potential."

The bottle paused halfway to his lips. "Roran recruited me, and from that day on I was a member of the Viperkin, the advanced recon and scouting division of the Crimson Blades."

Belisarius watched as memories carved lines into Targeld's face, each remembrance a chisel stroke on a living sculpture of pain and belonging.

"Under Roran's command, I became the warrior I am today." His voice dropped, becoming almost a whisper. "Alessandra wanted me for the Crimson Guard. The elite. But I refused. These men—my brothers—meant more to me than any elite position. At least they did."

Suddenly, Targeld stood. The moment of vulnerability vanished, replaced by a warrior's resolve. "We should catch them," he said, all previous emotion compressed into pure determination. "Before Roran thinks we were joking."

Daeva and Belisarius exchanged another look. Something had changed. The man before them was no longer just a mercenary, but a warrior with a story—a story of exile, redemption, and betrayal.

"Let's go," Belisarius said simply.

The tavern, momentarily a vessel of memories, now awaited their departure—silent and heavy with unspoken histories.

-----

The Crimson Blades' camp sprawled near the northern gate, a carefully organized constellation of tents and makeshift shelters nestled in a cleared park area. According to Targeld, the mercenary band followed a strict code—never staying in taverns or inns, a discipline reportedly hammered into them by Commander Alessandra herself.

Belisarius wasn't too sure what to make of it, but at least the camp site was clean as they walked through it. Everything was meticulously arranged: tents positioned with tactical precision, supply lines neatly organized, weapons and gear maintained with obsessive care. Even in apparent rest, the Crimson Blades carried themselves like a living, breathing weapon.

Belisarius and Targeld approached a tent, its canvas adorned with an intricate painting of a viper—fangs bared, tongue flicking in a perpetual threat. Crimson and black threads wove through the image, a testament to the band's identity. 

Suddenly, Belisarius felt a chill, an unexplainable frost right behind his neck.

Spinning around, he saw nothing but a flash of auburn behind a tent. Perhaps his jumbled memory was messing with his head more than he thought.

Belisarius and Targeld entered the tent, the rest of the band waiting just outside. Although, for all Belisarius knew Ikit had followed them in. It was impossible to tell where he was if he didn't want you to see him.

The interior was spartan—a stark contrast to the ornate noble chambers Belisarius had seen in Reeber's room. Maps covered one wall, marked with pins and intricate notations. A large wooden desk dominated the space, where Captain Roran sat, papers spread before him like a battlefield. Glancing up at the two men who had just entered his tent, Roran stood to greet them.

"Well well. Long time no see Baron Belisarius," Roran said, his voice welcoming. "And Targeld." The name carried a weight, a history that hung between them like an unresolved chord.

Belisarius stepped forward, "Captain Roran. As Targeld told you earlier at the tavern, my party is very interested in joining the Viperkin on their next mission, and we are more than capable enough to handle ourselves."

Roran looked at Bel with a steely gaze before exhaling, "Fine," he said, almost grudgingly. "We could use more hands. Especially someone like Targeld who knows the Northern Passes." A sardonic laugh escaped him, "There's only about 100 Viperkin left after our last expedition. Alessandra would've thrown me a handful of kids that dont even know how to hold a sword." Roran scoffed at his last sentence.

He stood, the movement fluid despite the obvious signs of recent battle. "I'll speak with the Commander. Baron, would you like to accompany me?"

Belisarius inclined his head. "Lead the way, Captain."

As they moved to exit, Belisarius couldn't shake the feeling that something watched them—not Roran, not Targeld, but something else. A presence just beyond perception.

'Ikit?' he thought. 'Always watching. Always waiting.' But then again, maybe it wasn't Ikit.

Outside the command tent, the camp bustled with activity. Kael and Daeva had taken to brushing Corporal Horse, who received many odd stares. The horse—somehow capable of conversation—chatted with nearby soldiers, each interaction punctuated by bewildered stares. Seeing Belisarius and Targeld leave following Captain Roran, Kael spoke up.

"Hey boss, what's happening? Are we in or not?" Kael called out, bouncing with barely contained excitement.

"I'm going to speak with Commander Alessandra," Belisarius responded, his tone measured. "Wait here."

Zazz appeared seemingly from nowhere, his movement as fluid as smoke. Before Belisarius could react, the enigmatic figure grasped his overcoat and pinned something to the fabric—a crescent moon of midnight black, so deep it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.

"May Aetherion be forever in your favor, and his wisdom guide you. Take care boss." Zazz spoke, saying a ritualistic prayer to the Angel of Foresight. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he melted back into the camp's shadows.

'Strange guy,' Belisarius thought, briefly examining the pin before dismissing it.

Dismissing Zazz's peculiar behavior and gift, Belisarius followed Captain Roran toward a massive tent in the center of camp ringed by Crimson Guard. These elite warriors stood like living statues, their armor so deeply crimson it looked fresh with blood. The metal seemed to pulse with a life of its own, radiating an aura of contained violence that made even experienced soldiers give them a wide berth.

The command tent was a marvel of military precision. Maps covered every available surface, annotated with precise markings. Stacks of correspondence, intelligence reports, and strategic documents created a complex web of information. Commander Alessandra stood at the center of this organized chaos, flanked by two Crimson Guard, along with three other unfamiliar faces.

"Captain Roran, I'm glad you decided to join us," she acknowledged, her voice cutting through the tent's ambient noise. "And I see you brought Baron Belisarius along with you." 

Roran's report was clinical. "Commander, the Baron is interested in joining our next scouting mission. Given our recent losses, I believed he deserved a chance to present his case."

Alessandra's eyes swept over Belisarius. Her smile was subtle, hidden behind a military discipline. "Baron Belisarius," she said, moving from behind her planning table. "I would be delighted..."

Her words trailed off. Something caught her eye—the midnight black crescent moon pin.

Her demeanor shifted instantly. The forced smile transformed into something more genuine, more knowing. She approached Belisarius, closing the distance between them with deliberate steps.

"Baron Belisarius," Alessandra said, leaning in closer. "I would be delighted to have you join us," her voice dropping to a near-whisper. Her hand reached out, fingers brushing close to the pin without quite touching it. "How... interesting."