(A small interlude while I write down some ideas for the next part of Vian V. Another interlude while probably be coming after Vian Vb. Comments would be appreciated, as always. Written while listening to some Metallica, Led Zeppelin, and as always, the high-and-mighty Trent Reznor, mastermind behind NIN. Enjoy. -SP.)

Interlude Two. Of Faith and Broken Men; Continuance/Deliberate Fall From Grace by Ryan Elseth.

'It is a time I had always expected to see coming, a time of slaughter, a time of war, where innocents would die, where nameless, countless atrocities would be commited, where everything and everyone would find their beliefs altered until nothing would remain but for a shapeless mass of thoughts and ideas buried underneath blood and broken bones.

How can one honestly afford to think, to hope, to remain what he is when all around him fades away to nothingness, forgotten, the purity of his existence soiled forever by sharp blades and murderous intent? It is foolishness. It is sin. It is the worst of Humanity's traits. That by giving away part of his existence to those who would see us destroyed, Man affords the luxury of thinking that he will survive. To hope that he will be the victor. To remain the same as he has been since the dawning of Time, of Life, exhultant as it triumphs over its ancestral enemy, even if darker, more terrible machines of destruction wait in the shadows.

I have heard some philosophers proclaim proudly that the Age we lived in was 'The Age of Kings'. I call it the Age of Fools. The great Elven Emperors were fools. The Kings of Berylor were fools. Nicholas Beryl is a fool.

They dare to challenge God!

They dare to sacrifice my kind in their countless, never-ending, idioctic wars!

No more.'

***********

It was to be a day where the sun shone blood-red, much to Vian's intense, and undoubtedly cynical amusement. As he had taken to doing ever since his return from the northern battlefields, battling the Legions, he was standing on the city's highest tower, where anyone could gratify himself with a splendid view of the Berylorian lands underneath.

Splendid no more, however. Where once throngs of people could be seen travelling the Royal Road at their own leisurly pace, be they merchants on their way to the Berylorian market with their wares, peasants coming to see relatives or friends, only heavily armed caravans now travelled, bringing in the last of the refugees from the various towns and villages who had fled the slaughter which had depopulated both the northern frontier and, beyond that, the elven lands.

What amused Berylor's Dragonlord even more was that, despite all they had seen and heard, the people still refused to believe. Oh, they could believe that -this -enemy was more formidable than any they had ever faced. They could also believe the stories told by peasants who's family had been slain while they were trying to escape. But they refused to believe that, in a year, a month, a day, even a few -hours -Berylor the Beautiful could fall to a power more frightening than Nicholas Beryl's Knights.

Then why, oh why did Arlen Quesslar retreat farther inland, crossing into the small city-state of Escabaroth? They believed him a fool, proclaiming loudly that their King would crush this enemy with or without his assistance.

Arlen Quesslar had taken with him three quarters of the city's forces, ordered by the King -himself -into the southern lands. There could only be one answer to such a move.

Nicholas Beryl, despite all the appearances he struggled to give to his people, did not expect the nearly invulnerable defenses of Berylor the Beautiful to stop Askariel's Legions.

A bitter laugh was suddenly choked back, for someone was ascending the tall tower's steps towards Vian's resting place. There was no doubt as to who would be coming up to find him. Only one man could carry himself with such a steady, proud bearing despite being burdened by the full regalia of Nicholas Beryl's personal guard.

Kendrick Elseth, the King's very own Captain of the Guard. A strong, immensely skilled warrior, Kendrick had seen only twenty-eight summers before attaining the position he now held, which spoke volumes about his ressourcefulness and loyalty. The old Guard Captain, Rickard Alsado, had been promoted only after his predecessor had died with an elven arrow in his breast. Alsado had fallen soon after, however, protecting Arlen Quesslar during the siege of Scil'Tanar.

The survivors of this terrible battle had voted unanimously for Kendrick to fill the position. And, eight years after, at thirty-six summers of age, Kendrick Elseth still carried himself with the same poise, the same assurance he had shown during the Elven Crusades. A pity, Vian suddenly thought as he turned to face him, that the man had not been born a dragon... While all of them were ferocious, nearly unstoppable warriors in their own rights, few of them showed the amount of flair and intelligence Kendrick Elseth could demonstrate on the field of battle. Not to say that his own men did not show these traits, far from it... but only one Dragonknight could fancy himself the equal of Kendrick Elseth, and even Arlen Quesslar, during war, and this Dragonknight was Vian Davlin.

These thoughts he pushed aside however, finally bringing his eyes to rest on the Guard Captain, who opened his mouth first to forestall the question which he knew would come.

"Yes, Vian. Nicholas is asking for you. Our Rangers have seen the Legions crossing the Rhen-Sar river without any difficulty."

-"Without any difficulty?" Vian asked, curiousity aroused by Kendrick's words. The Rhen-Sar river, named after the ArchMagicka who had protected Nicholas Beryl's great-grandfather during the Kingdom's more... rebellious years, was in no way an easy landmark to cross. Deep, with fast rapids that could destroy a dwarven war-wagon in the blink of an eye, there was only one way to cross it without injury or dismemberment; The Stone Guardian, a fortified bridge leading directly into Berylorian farmlands.

Vian's Dragonknights had destroyed that bridge two days ago, before arriving at the capital. They had done so eagerly, with the knowledge that despite the fact that it could serve to keep the Legions from coming into the Berylorian lands, it might also serve to keep any soldier, peasant or merchant from escaping...

-"Our reports are that the river quite literally dried up when they stepped into it." Kendrick answered, his voice unfailingly level and calm. Yes, quite a pity that he would die here soon...

-"Very well, Kendrick.. I will be there shortly."

***********

The Assembly Hall of Nicholas Beryl's fortress was, in all simplicity, simply majestic and overwhelming. High-roofed and several hundred meters long, it had been constructed in the shape of an elongated cone by dwarven engineers so that those who came before the throne, elevated several meters into the air by steps exquisitely carved into the shape of the royal symbols, would soon be faced by the power and nobility inherent in the man sitting before them, and feel both ashamed and diminished the closer they came to the throne, which was dominated overhead by a silken pennant bearing the coat of arms of the Berylorian Royal line.

This effect, however, was lost upon Vian as he approached at a brisk pace, to take a seat at the round table which had been hastily set up to provide the King and his closest advisors, those that had not departed with Arlen Quesslar for Escabaroth, with a place from which to plan Berylor's last defense against the threat of Askariel, as ludicrous a threat it seemed in Nicholas Beryl's mind. Berylor had withstood the might of the Elven Cohorts, the armies of Warmaster Extar and of countless other enemies. It was the center of Goddess Arianna's worship, or so had the King himself argued even as he sent his greatest general south. It would withstand the rage of a forgotten deity.

Arlen Quesslar had not shared the King's opinion, however, and all of those present here today knew that as the reason why the conqueror of Scil'Tanar had been exiled from Nicholas Beryl's side. A proud, unyielding man, the King had been determined to show him that only with the King's Guards and the Dragonknights he would be able to protect the city, therefore, in Vian's opinion, dooming both units and Berylor's growing population to certain death. Choking back another bitter laugh, wrapping the silver wings of his birthright around the light breastplate he wore at all times, he turned to face the others, who were busy discussing various strategies which would undoubtedly win them their share of glory. As always, Kendrick Elseth, much as Vian, remained aloof from such bickering, waiting until the King himself asked for his advice, which was always the case.

Nicholas Beryl, sitting upon his throne, was, however, growing tired from the incessant arguments and, not for the first time, vaguely regretted the surge of anger which had caused him to send his most proefficient general away to fortify Escabaroth. Taking his large, double-handed sword, which had never left his side since the beginning of the war, he slammed the hilt down upon the throne's outer layer of gold and silver, causing each and every man in the room to jump and turn to face their lord.

"Enough! It is at times like these when I wonder how our Kingdom managed to flourish and prosper through the centuries!" This, in all practicality, was the truth. Except for the two late arrivals, Vian Dragonlord and Guard Captain Elseth, all of his advisors were unscrupulous sycophants who wanted the glory for themselves and their Dukedoms, Earldoms and so on.

"Get out! All of you!" he cried, letting the heavy weapon, heirloom of the Beryl family ever since they had attained the throne, fall to the stone floor with a loud clang. All rose except, again, for Vian and Kendrick, who had seen their King throw this tantrum several times already, and who also knew that they were the cornerstones of Berylor's defense.

"I swear by Arianna that, someday, I will strip them of their titles and place real, competent men in their place..." said the King, as he stepped down from the throne to join the two warriors at the table, on which was spread a large, detailed map of the kingdom. A kingdom from which large plains of desolations had been carved, the bodies of the slain left there by the Legion for the Royal Rangers, who travelled the land searching for any survivors, to find.

You will never have the time, thought Vian, but he gave no indication of these thoughts to either men, for he had been busy examining the map and, more importantly, the various places where Kendrick had planned to position the King's Guard. Five thousand elite footmen, augmented by the strength of two thousand knights, the Guard seemed inadequate for the task of defending Berylor's capital. But all three men knew that as falsehood. The Guard was easily the near equals of Vian's Dragonknights on the battlefield, and Kendrick Elseth was well aware of the fact that the Dragonknights, despite the Legions' ferocity as it crashed through the various units sent to stop them, had dealt Askariel's forces numerous defeats while losing relatively few of their numbers. A hundred Dragonknights had destroyed nearly three times their number in battle with lightning strikes, which Askariel's Legions seemed unable to counter with any efficiency. This was the flaw that Kendrick Elseth wanted to exploit, leading a war of harassement against the Legions until the Royal Knights could complete their maneuvering to the rear of the enemy lines.

Then, the Dragonknights would sweep down into the Legion's ranks from the sky, carrying on their scaled backs Kendrick's trump card: Holy Templars, dedicated to Arianna's worship, the sole reinforcements which had travelled from the south to aid in the defense of the capital, lead by the recently returned Archbishop Vigelo. Warriors of the faith, they had proven a great boon to the flagging morale of the Berylorian forces who, despite their King's assurances, doubted that they would survive to see the morrow.

Deprived of their Overseer, the Legion would crumble, and Askariel would be defeated, giving Ylandia's people some time to organize a suitable defense.

-"As good a plan as any, my lord..." was explaining Kendrick, busy accentuating certain parts of his strategy with sharp, precise motions of his hands who spoke volumes about the Guard Captain's state of mind. Not as good a plan as any, he was thinking. It was this strategy which could win them their survival. To refuse would consign everyone to utter annihilation.

"Vian has already agreed that this plan is best. You -must -accept, my lord, or--"

Kendrick never had the time to finish. A Royal Ranger, his field dress stained with blood, escorted by footmen with livid, feaful faces, was running directly towards them. None could help but not notice that this Ranger bore a notched, almost ruined blade in one hand, his other arm held against his chest by crude dressings that had been obviously made on the field.

-"My king!" the man began, as he almost threw himself down to kneel, so great was his exhaustion. "The Legions... they fell on us like wolves! My companions never expected them to be approaching so rapidly towards... towards..."

The man obviously was about to break down; All could see and feel the horror dawning once more upon the Ranger's face, an horror born of seeing his friends murdered, massacred by beings who's sole purpose was to destroy. To kill.

Compassion threatened to overflow Vian's heart, yet he kept it in check. He was commited, as all here were, and he could not back down from the path he had taken.

The Ranger, in the meanwhile, seemed to compose himself, albeit with great difficulty. Two long, unbidden tears fell from bloodshot eyes, and his breath was coming in great, shuddering gasps.

Yet he had no choice but to continue with his report. Such was his duty as a Royal Ranger. When he spoke again, it was with a calm voice, resigned to what would happen soon. The man, Vian thought, had already died inside, lived only now to tell his tale.

"They will be here within an hour's time, my king."

Without waiting for Nicholas Beryl's command, both Vian and Kendrick lept from their seats, taking up weapons as they ran towards the exit, and their troops. Both knew that the King, without having stated so aloud, had approved the strategy put before him.

What choice did he have?

***********

Worry and fright were now almost tangible emotions running rampant, unchecked in the Berylorian fortress, obvious on the faces of the men who ran forward to pick up weapons, put on various pieces of armors which they hoped would save them from the most grievous wounds and on those who were running with the speed of death to man their post on the northern city walls.

Amidst all of the insanity, radiating calm and serenity, walked Vian. Though he knew very well that this battle might be his last, he was not afraid. None of the men he passed would ever get a chance to slay -him-, Dragonlord among Dragons, one of the rare beings who possessed features of both his human and dragonish ancestry. His great silver wings, shining eerily in the torchlight, for night was soon to fall, rode high on his shoulders, partially opened, forcing each and every man who crossed him to hug the walls. Most of them did so because they could not afford any delay as they ran to their assigned posts; the others, because they feared this... this hybrid, feared the power he held at his command, feared the eyes where death could be seen each and every time they bore into you.

Vian could not care less. At his command, all of the Dragonknights and Holy Templars had gathered in the Assembly Hall, where they awaited their last commands. Allowing himself a derisive chuckle, his lips curling upwards in a feral, predatorial grin, he absently dropped a hand onto the hilt of the broadsword resting upon his hip.

Last commands indeed.

***********

Of Faith and Broken Men; Continuance/Deliberate Fall From Grace End.