Tell death do us

"Hearken, valiant men! This is the battle we've labored tirelessly for!" Alaric, resplendent in polished plate armor, roars with the fervor of a seasoned commander. His voice reverberates across the camp, stirring the hearts of his soldiers.

"For our sovereign, for our honor, and for the souls already lost to these nefarious fiends!" he proclaims, his words punctuated by the clangor of swords and the thunderous cheers of his men.

"But despair not this eve, for though the trial ahead be formidable, victory shall be ours!" Alaric declares, raising a goblet brimming with frothy ale amidst the jubilant throng of warriors.

"NOW, LET THE FEAST COMMENCE!" he bellows, quaffing the ale in a single, triumphant gulp, his eyes alight with the fire of battle.

As the revelry wanes and the camp settles into a hushed anticipation, Alaric retreats to his chamber, a spacious tent adorned with banners bearing the sigil of his liege. Here, amidst flickering torches and tapestries depicting heroic deeds of old, he savors a goblet of wine, the rich aroma mingling with the scent of oiled armor and hearth fires.

"A vintage fit for a king, Lady Reska," Alaric remarks, his voice carrying the weight of command softened by genuine appreciation.

"Thank you, my lord," Reska replies, her eyes sparkling with admiration as she bows gracefully, the flickering torchlight casting dancing shadows upon her features.

"No need for such formality, Reska. Tonight may well mark the final chapter of my tale," Alaric muses, his gaze lingering on her with a mix of fondness and regret.

"And what leads thee to such dire foreboding, my lord?" Reska inquires, her concern palpable in the gentle lilt of her voice.

"Tomorrow's clash shall be unlike any we've faced before—a tide of foes as vast as the seas, led by that odious wretch," Alaric replies, his features darkening with disdain before he steels himself with resolve.

"But enough of such somber tidings. Though this eve may be my last, I shall spend it in the company of my dearest love—thee, Reska," he declares, setting aside the goblet and drawing near to her with a courtly grace.

"Oh, my lord, I am but a humble maid, and thou art wed," Reska protests, her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and longing.

"She is naught but a faithless consort, a union forged of politics and greed. Besides, she dallies with others behind my back," Alaric confesses, enfolding Reska in his arms with a tenderness born of genuine affection.

"But... this cannot be," Reska murmurs weakly as Alaric draws near, his presence suffusing the chamber with an undeniable magnetism.

"Let us cast aside the shackles of propriety, if but for this fleeting moment. Speak my true name, just once," Alaric implores, his voice a husky whisper that resonates with raw emotion.

Clasping him tightly, Reska whispers, "Yes, Alaric."

As dawn breaks on the morrow, Alaric stands amidst his assembled host, a resplendent figure in gleaming plate armor, his sword gleaming in the early light. The air crackles with anticipation as his men, arrayed in ranks like an iron-clad wall, await the call to arms.

A horn sounds, its clarion call echoing across the battlefield, stirring the spirits of the warriors as they prepare to march. Alaric's gaze sweeps over his troops, a mixture of pride and determination shining in his eyes.

"Mount up, my comrades! The hour of reckoning is at hand!" Alaric commands, his voice ringing with authority as his men spring into action, donning their helmets and tightening their armor straps with practiced efficiency.

With a thunderous roar, the army sets forth, a sea of steel and determination surging toward the distant horizon where their fate awaits.

Arriving at the outskirts of the village, Alaric surveys the scene before him—a fortified bastion bristling with defenses, its walls manned by a determined foe. The townsfolk, once allies, now stand arrayed against them, their loyalty bought by promises of power and coin.

"Citizens of this fair hamlet, heed my words!" Alaric booms, his voice carrying across the battlefield like a clarion call. "Surrender now, and King Edward the Fourth may yet show mercy. Lay down your arms!"

But the defiant roar of the crowd is his only answer, their weapons raised in defiance as they prepare to defend their homes and their honor to the last.

"So be it!" Alaric declares, his voice ringing with resolve. "If diplomacy fails, let steel decide our fate!"

With a fierce battle cry, Alaric charges forward, his sword held high as he leads his men into the fray. The clash of steel on steel fills the air, mingling with the cries of the wounded and the dying as the two forces collide with the force of a tempest unleashed.

Alaric fights with the fury of a man possessed, his blade cleaving through enemy ranks with deadly precision as he cuts a path through the chaos. Beside him, his men fight with equal valor, their determination unyielding in the face of overwhelming odds.

But amidst the chaos of battle, a figure emerges from the ranks of the enemy—a formidable warrior clad in armor of burnished steel, his eyes ablaze with a fierce determination that matches Alaric's own.

"Thou again!" Alaric snarls, his voice a low growl as he locks blades with his adversary, their swords clashing in a symphony of steel.

The two warriors fight with a ferocity born of desperation, each blow struck with the force of a thunderbolt as they dance across the blood-soaked battlefield. The combatants trade blow for blow, neither willing to yield an inch as they strive for supremacy amidst the chaos of battle 

But in the end, it is Zestial who emerges victorious, his blade finding its mark with a final, decisive strike that fells Alaric in a spray of blood and steel. As Alaric falls, the world seems to slow around him, his vision clouded with pain and the taste of copper on his lips. He glimpses the chaos of battle swirling around him, the clash of swords and the screams of the dying fading into an eerie silence.

But even as Alaric's strength wanes, he knows that his sacrifice has not been in vain. For though he may fall this day, his spirit will live on in the hearts of those who fight for freedom, a beacon of hope in a world consumed by darkness.

As Alaric draws his final breath, a sudden hush falls over the battlefield, as if the very earth itself holds its breath in anticipation. And then, with a deafening roar, the sky is filled with the thunderous sound of a hundred arrows, raining down upon the combatants like a hailstorm from the heavens.

Caught in the deadly deluge, Zestial stands defiant, his sword held high as he prepares to meet his fate with the same courage that has defined him in life. But even he cannot withstand the onslaught, his body pierced by a hundred arrows before he falls to the blood-soaked earth, his lifeblood mingling with that of his fallen foes.

As the dust settles and the echoes of battle fade, the field lies silent, save for the mournful wails of the wounded and the dying. And amidst the carnage, the fallen warriors lie side by side, their struggles forgotten in death as they join the ranks of those who have gone before them.

And as the sun sets on the battlefield, casting its golden rays across the blood-stained earth, a solemn silence falls over the land—a silence broken only by the soft rustle of the wind as it whispers through the trees, carrying with it the echoes of a battle fought and won, and the memory of those who gave their lives so that others might live free.