The Legends of Altera Vita

Belisarius stood momentarily star-struck, caught between confusion and intrigue. His fractured memories swirled like mist, offering glimpses of something he thought he recognized, but was unable to understand. Commander Alessandra's knowing smile suggested secrets he had yet to fathom.

Unable to articulate the storm of questions racing through his mind, he simply nodded—a carefully measured response that revealed nothing while acknowledging everything.

Alessandra seemed to read his hesitation with practiced ease. She stepped back, redirecting the moment's intensity toward introductions.

Belisarius head was a mess. 'What was it that changed Alessandra's mood? What was the pin? And on a more pressing note, why had Zazz given him the pin?'

Broken out of his thoughts, Alessandra continued on.

"Baron Belisarius, meet the captains who lead the Crimson Blades with me," she announced, her voice carrying the weight of formal presentation.

First, she approached the leader of the Bloodfangs. Captain Drevok was a mountain of a man, easily six and a half feet tall, with skin the color of burnished bronze and a bald head polished to a gleam that reflected the tent's lantern light. Muscles seemed to ripple beneath his leather armor even when he was perfectly still. A network of scars traced intricate patterns across his scalp and visible forearms—markings that spoke of a life lived far beyond conventional military experience.

When Drevok nodded, it was with the deliberate precision of a weapon being unsheathed. His eyes, deep set and the color of dark amber, assessed Belisarius with a calculating gaze.

"Infantry," Alessandra explained, though the term seemed woefully inadequate for describing the raw potential of violence contained within Drevok's frame.

Next came Captain Lira of the Blackhawks. Where Drevok was raw power, she was coiled energy. Slight of build but corded with lean muscle, her short dark hair was cut in a style that suggested both practicality and defiance. A web of fine tattoos—barely visible lines that seemed to shift when she moved—traced along her neck and hands. Multiple daggers were visible, each seemingly placed with mathematical precision.

"Baron Belisarius, wonderful to meet you!" Her greeting burst with an enthusiasm that contrasted sharply with Drevok's reserved demeanor. Her accent carried hints of distant mountain regions, each word crisp and precise.

"Rangers, siege, logistics, that's her." Said Alessandra.

The final introduction was Captain Ruvan of the Crimson Guard. If the others were impressive, Ruvan was something else entirely. Tall, with ashy-blonde hair pulled back in an intricate braid that spoke of both military discipline and some deeper cultural tradition, he seemed to radiate a cold, glaring intensity.

His armor—the crimson plate that defined the Crimson Guard—looked less like metal and more like skin. Each piece appeared to have been crafted specifically for him, moving with a fluidity that defied its apparent weight. Deep blue eyes, the color of glacial ice, seemed to look through Belisarius rather than at him.

No smile. No greeting. Just that piercing gaze that suggested he was cataloging every minute detail of Belisarius's presence.

Alessandra's introduction hung in the air. "Captain Ruvan commands the Crimson Guard."

The title felt like an understatement. The way Ruvan stood suggested he didn't just command the guard—he was the embodiment of everything it represented.

Belisarius realized he was holding his breath.

Commander Alessandra's voice broke Belisarius out of his stupor, "And I assume you already know Captain Roran, he leads the Viperkin. They're our version of scouts, spies, anything that we need done before the rest of us throw ourselves into battle."

She offered Belisarius a final, enigmatic smile before returning to her place at the table. "As Captain Roran recruited you, you'll be staying with the Viperkin for now. Captain Roran, please escort Baron Belisarius towards your section of camp. We move out tomorrow."

Roran's salute was precise, a razor-sharp gesture of military discipline. "Yes Commander."

His hand dropped, and he turned to Belisarius, gesturing toward the tent's exit. As they walked away from the command tent, the camp bustled with a controlled chaos of military preparation.

After a few moments of walking, Roran glanced at Belisarius. "I imagine you're curious about the captains."

Belisarius matched Roran's pace. "More than curious. Captain Ruvan in particular seems... strong."

Roran chuckled, a low sound that held both respect and amusement. "Strong is an understatement. The Crimson Guard isn't just a military unit—it's a legend. And Ruvan? He's the reason why."

"And Captain Ruvan and Commander Alessandra?" Belisarius probed, sensing there was more to their relationship than a simple military hierarchy.

"They've fought together for years," Roran said, his voice dropping slightly. "Survived battles that would have broken lesser people. Part of the same Shield Brotherhood back when they served in The Imperium's army. Alessandra is strategic, calculated. Ruvan is the weapon she wields—raw, uncompromising power tempered by absolute loyalty."

"And your Viperkin?" Belisarius asked. "You're different from the other Crimson Blades."

Roran's smile was sharp as a blade. "We're the ones who ensure the battle is won before it even begins. Information, misdirection, strategic infiltration—that's our craft."

As they entered the Viperkin's camp area, Roran stopped abruptly. The space was a controlled chaos of preparation—soldiers moving with practiced efficiency, checking equipment, speaking in low voices, maps and coded documents changing hands with subtle gestures.

Roran turned to Belisarius, his eyes scanning the surrounding area. "In one hour, gather everyone in the central meeting area. I'll be making an announcement about our mission for tomorrow." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "Everyone means everyone. No exceptions."

Belisarius raised an eyebrow. "As in my party?"

"Especially your party," Roran said, a hint of sardonic humor crossing his face. "You included, Baron. Information is currency in the Viperkin, and tomorrow's mission isn't something we'll leave to chance or incomplete understanding, I lost too many good men last week."

With that, Roran clasped Belisarius's shoulder—a gesture that was part instruction, part warning—and then turned, melting into the organized bustle of the camp with the same fluid efficiency that seemed characteristic of the Viperkin.

Belisarius was left standing, watching Roran's departure, feeling both intrigued and slightly unnerved by the implicit intensity of the coming briefing.

-----

Belisarius spent some time moving through the Viperkin's camp, observing the subtle dynamics. Unlike the rigid formations of the Crimson Guard he'd glimpsed earlier, these soldiers moved with a different energy—less uniform, more individually purposeful. Some wore standard military attire, while others had clothing that blended more easily into different environments. Patches were minimal, identifications subtle.

A young woman with a shock of auburn hair approached him. Her stride was confident, her eyes sharp and assessing.

"Baron Belisarius," she said, not a question but a statement. "I'm Kira. First reconnaissance unit."

"And you've been watching me since I entered camp," Belisarius replied, matching her direct tone. That's what he had felt when he entered camp, this girl had been watching him. At least he knew he wasn't crazy.

She didn't deny it. Instead, a slight smile played at the corner of her mouth. "Captain Roran expects all new additions to be thoroughly understood. You're not just a recruit—you're something else. A baron, apparently, with no clear military background."

Belisarius appreciated her directness. "And what have you concluded?"

"Not enough yet," Kira said. "But I will."

She gestured with a subtle movement of her hand. "Your traveling companions are billeted in the secondary cluster, third tent from the left. Green markings on the tent pole. I suggest you regroup with them before the mission briefing."

The secondary cluster stood slightly apart from the main Viperkin encampment—close enough for support, distant enough to maintain a degree of separation. Three tents formed a loose triangle, the one Kira indicated marked with a thin green stripe running vertically along its support pole.

As Belisarius approached, he could hear voices—familiar, yet charged with an unfamiliar tension.

When Belisarius entered the tent, the space felt densely occupied. Kael was hunched over a map, his fingers tracing along potential routes through the Northern Passes. Daeva sat spinning his dagger sheath around with hypnotic precision, each rotation a testament to practiced skill. Zazz appeared to be tinkering with some mechanical device, small gears and components spread before him.

Targeld's massive frame dominated the tent's entrance, blocking what little natural light filtered through. Corporal Horse was, well... doing nothing. And Ikit—was nowhere to be seen, which Belisarius had learned meant he was a lot closer than you would think.

They all turned as Belisarius entered.

"Well?" Daeva spoke first, his voice a low questioning rumble. "What did the Commander say?"

Kael cut in before Belisarius could respond, "Mission briefing. I overheard the scouts talking about something in the Northern Passes."

Zazz looked up from his mechanical puzzle, gears clicking between his fingers "Interesting."

Daeva's knife suddenly stopped mid-twirl. "I guess we'll have to go see just what we've gotten ourselves into."

Corporal Horse grunted in agreement, though whether with Daeva or some internal thought was unclear. Belisarius still wasn't sure how intelligent the talking horse was.

From seemingly nowhere, Ikit materialized—or perhaps he'd been there all along. "Mission-important!" he proclaimed, a mix of excitement and urgency. "Roran will tell-tell, we must listen-listen!"

The tent fell silent. Each member of the group processed this information differently—Targeld with a grim expression at the mention of Roran, Daeva with a shred of amusement, Kael with analytical precision.

"So," Daeva finally said, breaking the silence, "are we in?"

Belisarius met each of their gazes. "We are. Commander Alessandra has accepted our temporary integration with the Viperkin." He paused once more, "and as Kael said, there's a mission debriefing that we need to go too. Move out."

-----

The central area was a hub of controlled energy. Roran stood at the platform's edge, not elevated like a traditional commander, but positioned as if he could move at a moment's notice. Maps covered with intricate markings surrounded him—terrain details, potential routes, small markers indicating troop positions.

"Gather round," Roran's voice carried without shouting. It was a command that seemed to pull attention naturally.

Belisarius scanned the crowd, spotting Kira he positioned his party beside her, watching as the Viperkin assembled around them. Each soldier carried themselves differently—some with blades carefully concealed, others with the subtle bulge of specialized equipment. They reminded him more of a pack of wolves than a traditional military unit—each individual capable on their own, but lethal when moving as one.

Roran's voice cut through the evening air with authority.

"The Northern Passes lie just beyond Arendale," he began, his words carrying easily across the gathered crowd. "What started as unusual reports from the Sentinels of Aegisgrad has evolved into something far more concerning. The Iceforged clans are moving with purpose—gathering, organizing, uniting. 

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. His hand traced a path across the detailed map behind him, following the jagged lines of the mountain passes.

"Our contract is simple on paper—discover what's driving this unified movement. But the reality?" Roran's eyes swept across the assembled soldiers. "The Iceforged are preparing for war. They're rallying under a single banner for the first time since the Deity wars. Our mission is to determine not just when or where they'll strike, but what they'll be like when they get here, and if possible, how we can stop them from ever getting here."

Belisarius found himself drawn in by Roran's words, despite his earlier reservations about the Captain, and the fragile relationship with a member of his own party, the man had an undeniable talent for command; A way of making each person feel the urgency of their mission.

A young soldier near the front—barely old enough to have seen real combat, judging by his unmarked armor—raised his hand. His face showed both eagerness and apprehension.

Roran acknowledged him with a sharp nod. "Speak."

"Captain," the young soldier's voice carried clearly, though his hand trembled slightly at his side. "The Iceforged clans haven't united since the Age of Frost, when Karnath ruled the Wastelands. Who could possibly have the power to bring them together now?"

Roran paused for a second. His exhale seemed to carry the burden of secrets too long held. "What I'm about to tell you has been under wraps among the higher ranks of command. But you deserve—you need—to understand the gravity of what we face." His eyes swept across the assembled soldiers. "The Iceforged tribes, every clan from the Norther Observatory to Icefall, are gathering at Frostbane. And they march under the banner of the Aspect of Karnath."

The reaction was immediate and visceral. Curses in multiple languages erupted from the crowd. A veteran beside Belisarius, his face scarred from countless battles, dropped to his knees, muttering ancient prayers to Deities long gone. Another soldier's hand instinctively gripped her weapon until her knuckles went white.

Kira remained outwardly unmoved, her expression carefully neutral. Belisarius noted this, adding it to his growing understanding of the Viperkin's inner hierarchy. Her composure spoke of prior knowledge, of deeper involvement in the command structure than her apparent rank suggested.

"The legends of the Aspect," a voice called out from the crowd, trembling with barely contained fear, "they say it controls the very ice itself!"

Roran raised his hand for silence. "Legends and truth often intertwine in the Wastelands. What we know for certain is this: with an Aspect leading the tribal council, all our previous understanding of Iceforged tactics and movements becomes obsolete. They will act in ways we've never witnessed, strike from directions we've never anticipated."

He moved to the map, his fingers tracing the jagged lines of the northern territories. "Our mission is intelligence gathering—pure and vital. Every detail matters. Which tribes have already pledged allegiance? Which are still making their way to Frostbane? Their numbers, their movements, their likely attack vectors—we need it all. In this case, even seemingly insignificant information could mean the difference between victory and annihilation."

The captain's eyes hardened as he continued, each word carrying the weight of personal loss. "Our last expedition into their territory ended in disaster. Three tribes—the Blizzardfang, the Winterclaw, and the Rimefury—ambushed our forces. We retreated, yes, but 'retreat' is too gentle a word for what happened that day. We ran, our dead left frozen in the snow, their blood staining the ice crimson."

Roran scanned the crowd, looking each of his veterans in the eyes before his newbie mercenaries, giving them a steely gaze. His voice dropped lower, but somehow carried even further. "But I swear to you, by all the deities, Angel or Demon, they will not forget what comes next. We owe them a debt written in blood, and while we may not be the ones to reap it—" His fist clenched. "Our brothers and sisters in the Bloodfangs, the Blackhawks, hell even the mighty Crimson Guard, shall cull their lives for us. But for that to happen, they need what only the Viperkin can provide—intelligence, reconnaissance, the critical information that will stain their blades with barbarian blood."

The energy in the crowd was building, a palpable force that seemed to crackle in the air. Weapons were drawn with metallic symphonies, boots stamped in growing rhythm on the frozen ground.

Roran's voice rose to a thunderous crescendo. "We march at dawn tomorrow! And hear me well—if death finds us in those frozen wastes, if our bodies are left to freeze in some godforsaken corner of the Wastelands, then by the name of the Great God, we will ensure our deaths purchase victory for those who follow! Are you with me, Viperkin?"

The response was deafening, primal. Every soldier, veteran and recruit alike, raised their weapons skyward. The traditional battle cry of the Crimson Blade erupted from hundreds of throats, a chant that seemed to shake the very mountains:

"BLOOD FOR THE BLADES, BLADES FOR THE FALLEN!"

Roran screamed, arms spread wide in religious fervor, "IS THAT ALL YOU'VE GOT?"

The chant repeated, growing ever stronger. Veterans' voices cracked with emotion, while newer recruits matched their intensity with raw passion. The next repetition seemed to reach a fever pitch that could surely be heard in the Crimson Guard's camp:

"BLOOD FOR THE BLADES, BLADES FOR THE FALLEN!"

Belisarius watched as Roran's stern expression finally cracked, a fierce smile spreading across his face. It wasn't a smile of joy, but of grim satisfaction—the look of a commander who knew his troops were ready not just for battle, but for war.

In that moment, he realized that the Viperkin weren't just scouts or spies. They were the shadow warriors of the Crimson Blade, the backbone of the mercenary band built upon the foundation of their sacrifices, and their suffering. 

The air itself seemed to vibrate with their combined fury. Tomorrow, they would march north, into the realm of ice and snow. And whether they returned or not, whether they were forgotten by tomorrow, slaughtered in the tundra, today they were here. And today, they were ready.