"He's here! Flame it, you weren't suppo—"
-Heard by a house guard on number 2,035.
Coras sauntered past the guards watching the gates, wearing raincoats. They wouldn't dare turn him away, not that they could even if they wanted to. He was far too important.
He walked into the yard, making sure to stay on the steel trail that had been set up for him. It had turned out that a near eighteen and a half ton step shattered a cobblestone walkway. He looked up at the enormous estate, with the lamplight from the guards post fading, darkness enveloped him.
Lightning flashed, lighting up the sky for a brief moment, a moment that allowed Coras to forget the rain pelting his helmet. True, the helmet kept him dry, but the large droplets of water that came with a thunderstorm was loud.
The garden was lush, at least it had been the last time he'd been here. It seemed like yesterday. But the yard was far too large in Coras's estimation. Why would a man want a two acre yard? Well, it wasn't any of Coras's business.
He reached the front door of the four-story building, but was stopped by a man holding a semi-automatic, the thing was called. A new gun, but Cores never cared for the things, they weren't a threat after all.
"State your business at the Harlem estate," the man said.
Coras didn't respond, but the lad stood his ground, despite the fact there was an enormous armored man that had walked out of the shadows. Cores took a step forward, intending to just shove his way through.
"Back off," the boy said threateningly, raising his gun.
Coras raised his arm over the boy's head, and flicked the center of the doors. The doors swung inward in a sudden jerk, violently ripping off the hinges. Feeling the warmth from inside, the boy turned, stunned. He turned back to Coras's finger placed on his forehead.
The boy didn't move. "Kill me," he said.
Coras was about to do so, but was stopped by guardsmen rushing to the sound of the doors being ripped off.
"Sir," one of the guards said, "master Harlem says he wants to speak to you sir."
"No need," the boy responded.
"Not you," the man said, looking up to Coras.
The boy turned to meet the guards eyes, then turned back to Coras, and stepped aside. Coras was then led to Harlem's study on the first floor.
Opening the door, Coras found his old acquaintance at his desk, working on a stack of papers. He looked up. The man, Harlem, was old, not old old, but not young either, he was around his late forties to his early fifties. He looked to have put on some weight and was bolding.
"Ah, Coras old friend, how's the hunt?" Harlem asked, getting up to approach him. They clasped hands, though Coras never understood why men did. "Here, have a seat."
Harlem gestured to a chair made from pure iridium with a leg in the middle, mimicking a great beast in the east, but also to support Coras's weight. They sat, and Harlem ordered some drinks. Once here, he dismissed the maids, leaving the two alone.
Harlem poured himself a drink, "so, how is the search?"
"Still searching, how is the border?" Coras ignored the man's answer, waiting for a question.
"Speaking of, it's good that you're here, I need some help."
"The border dispute with the Callies?"
"The Callies, no the Elves, haven't you listened to what I said?"
Coras shrugged, "why not make peace?"
"I've tried, the flaming Elves won't leave it. My guess is they're waiting for me to die off so my heir will agree."
"Then give it up."
"No can do, my farmers fertilized that wasteland. It's no coincidence that they'd fight me for it the moment it's valuable. They said nothing five years ago when my farmers and miners moved in."
"Your army can take care of the Elves. I didn't come here to give a boon, I came here to receive a paid debt."
Harlem sighed. "My army can't, in the past four months I've lost hundreds! I've only managed to kill six and that was Dead-ill's work. I understand that I owe you, but I have too many problems to spare any men for your chase."
Silence… Coras thought he should leave, if he wasn't going to get any help there was no point in staying, yet…
"If I get rid of this threat, you will repay your debt?" Coras asked.
"Yes." Harlem responded.
"You understand that this is yet another boon I offer."
"Yes, and I do intend to pay you extra for your services."
"For a start, my helm is running low on mana."
"I'll have a vizure ready for you," Coras stood to leave. "Thank you," Coras didn't pause.
Two hours later Coras sat on a stone behind a fortified wooden wall. The wall was around twenty feet high and made completely of planks. It wasn't the first he'd seen, but it was definitely the worst. The boards wobbled when men walked on it.
Support beams had been placed in front of and behind it to keep the wind from blowing it over. Most telling of its integrity however, was the fact that they only allowed seven men on the walls top at a time.
The "camp" around him was a mess. Tents were half up, food and packages were littered around the area, and men lounged around with guns, not paying attention. Their uniforms were dirty, tattered, and all around just a mess.
Not a clean shaven man in sight either. The little motion he saw were new recruits here and there, bringing rags, extra bullets, and extra guns just in case. Coras didn't care for it, but it did remind him of his time in his first war.
"Don't know why lord Harlem never commissioned a better defense?" A woman said, "it's no wonder we've been getting slaughtered." The woman, whose name Coras didn't remember, was the vizure tending to his helm. Coras had to sit on a large stone so she could reach.
They had brought him a chair, but Coras refused, not trusting the chair's strength. Coras's armor carried an insignia, an image of a sword cutting flesh, marking him a captain, he saw no need for such frivolities, but Harlem insisted the men needed to remember that ranks mattered.
"Flaming place is a coffin I tell ya," the vizure said, "we're all going to die in this grace forsaken place."
The men around Coras were dull, both eyes and poster, like their souls had already left. Yes, they thought they were going to die. Not just that, they were convinced they were fighting for something meaningless.
To Harlem, this was about securing profitable land and securing his reputation as someone strong. But to the common soldier, this was just a pointless fight their lord had given them to die. The fact that this place was such a mess didn't help morale.
Hundreds dead in exchange for a measly six Elves. Many of those hundreds could have been friends, drinking partners, or even family. This so-called army was doomed, Coras knew it.
He had seen armies like this before, dirty camp, dirty men, and rotten chances. You couldn't do much for your chances, but cleanliness and organization had a role to play that many these days just didn't understand. Put a man in rags, he acted like a street thug. Put a man in a well tailored suit, and he becomes far more respectable.
Coras shook his head, it didn't matter to him how these lives were spent. Whether they died today, tomorrow, or a decade from now, they will all die eventually. It didn't matter, what did was getting this job done so he could continue his hunt.
So, after the vizure was finished filling his helm, Coras stood and walked to the front gate. He waved, gesturing for it to open, but was stopped by a man.
"Ah, so you're the man Harlem sent to, 'finish the job.'"
The man, who also had a captain's insignia, wore a tight black vest with a coat that was strapped to his shoulders, giving the impression he was wearing a cap. Another fool. Yet, this fool had a two-handed short barreled shotgun resting on his shoulder.
It had a long golden dragon flowing across the barrel. A gun for show it seems. He'd likely have his real guns carried by servants.
His face was angular, with a large nose and thin lips, he wasn't exactly attractive, quite the opposite actually. This must be the man who killed the Elves Harlem spoke about, though Coras didn't care for the man's name.
"You must be, Coral right?" The captain questioned haughtily, "and you know who I am of course."
Coras stepped to the side, and continued walking. Momentarily stunned at being ignored, the captain spun on his heel and pointed his shotgun up, then fired. The loud crack made other soldiers jump, some scrambling to get their weapons up. Coras kept walking.
"H-hey," the captain ran up to Coras's side. "Hey, can you hear me? Flames man are you mute," he stepped in front of Coras, "I am Dead-ill, your commander, you will answer to me!"
Coras reached out a gauntleted hand and gripped Dead-ill's shotgun, then crushed it without effort. Dead-ill stumbled back, letting go of the shotgun.
"Are you mad!?" Dead-ill screamed, "do you realize how expensive that was, it was a pulxed gun. I-I'll be fining you the expense."
Coras put a hand on the man, then casually shoved him aside. Though 'shove' was not a generous enough word as the man was sent into the air before landing and skidding to a stop. A few soldiers looked at Coras, dumbfounded.
Coras didn't care, he was here to simply kill a few Elves, and settle the border dispute. Not to play fanciful games to waste time. So when the gates opened, Coras trudged out onto the open plain.
The plains weren't grassy, this was Coras's first realization. On the other side of the wall was a desolate wasteland with shard looking rocks jutting out of the stone. While the previous side had been fertilized over the course of eight years, this side hadn't been cared for in decades.
After walking for a good ten minutes, Coras noticed the land began to slowly slope downward. The air became slightly thicker and a damp scent brushed across his nose despite both the helm and the dryness in the air.
A chasm? Coras questioned. Indeed as he continued he noticed the land ahead seemed distorted, like the ground was changing.
Coras eventually stopped a few steps short of an enormous chasm. Looking down he saw what he had expected. A large, violent river flowed with fury down below. The chasm looked to be a hundred and thirty foot drop, with a forty foot gap separating Coras from the other side.
On the other side was a lush forest just twenty feet from the edge. Within the forest were seven Elven scouts staring at him with amusement at Coras's arrival. Good, they came to him, now he wouldn't have to waste time finding their camp. So long as he killed them the others would gather to fight. So, squatting down, Coras jumped.
Anger sat in the meeting tent, his bright ruby eyes watching while he pondered Contemplative's argument. Normally he would have straight up disagreed, yet there was some sense in it.
"I don't see how giving up the land is the strategic move here!" Frustration argued.
He wore a bright yellow telly, the clothes weren't tight, but weren't baggy either, they were specifically designed for close quarters combat. Anger always found it ironic how his people often acted like their names suggested.
"Because, we are losing lives pointlessly," Contemplative retorted. He was wearing a traditional forest green tunic with a cape specialized for archers. "I say let them have the land, at least they're using it. How many centuries has it been since we've lived there?"
"Pointlessly? We've killed hundreds, they've only killed six of ours, and that was only because of that gunman. We kill or incapacitate him, we win, there's no point in giving up land that has been ours for millennia."
"Now Frustration, let's think on this for a moment, we don't want to dismiss arguments quite yet." Anger found himself nodding in agreement, Calm was a reliable one.
He had no idea what led him to their mesh of a group, but his presence was… calming. He wore a sky blue spathar that was separated into five distinguished cuts at the bottom that left a dramatic aftereffect when he walked. The clothes were stylish and perfect for a spearman.
"I don't know, Frustration's right, we've barely lost any men. What's the point in backing out now when we've eliminated a good half of their army?" Anger expected as much from Break, he and Frustrated always seemed to be on the same page. Ironic that.
However, it was far better to have Break agree with someone else, rather than take his own side. Break was an outsider. His name, though not understandable, fit his professions quite well.
Break removed the hood to the long pitch black cloak that covered him. Though Anger could never see his clothing underneath, they were undoubtedly black as well, even his skin was a darker shade than the others. Smooth brown rather than white. It seemed he was made for the outfit, though Anger should expect nothing less from an assassin.
Anger found himself jealous of Break's name on occasion. Though his people's names didn't define them, it did impact them. Being called Anger or Frustration time after time for centuries tended to change people.
Despite that, Anger had tried his best to not let it affect him. His efforts however were mostly in vain. Indeed he felt his blood boil slightly at the mention of six Elves dead.
How dare the humans take lives that had centuries left, Anger thought, while they only have a few decades. Flaming humans! Let their ashes burn.
Anger calmed himself before speaking, he didn't want to seem irrational.
"You both make good points," everyone turned their attention toward him.
Although he was the leader of the Silcureuss guard, he rarely spoke in debates other than to provide a conclusion.
"I don't like the idea of giving up after losing Elves," Anger said, "however many there were. But, while only five years have passed, this "war" will go nowhere. Even if we kill the one the humans call Dead-ill, another will just take his place. Indeed while we have killed half of their current numbers, there are more than there were when this "war" had begun. Their short lives have led them to multiply much faster, giving them a near endless supply of soldiers."
"You see," Contemplative said, "it doesn't matter how many we kill, more will simply keep coming. We should abandon this sharrade, by staying we only risk Elven lives."
"Anger was simply making a suggestion," Frustrated responded, "he even said we both have good arguments."
"Yes, but he expanded on my side."
"As if he couldn't on mine."
Anger looked from Frustrated to Contemplative, brothers, yet entirely opposite. Perhaps it's time for a break, Anger thought. He was about to say it when an elf shoved the tent flap open. Drawing everyone's attention, the man saluted, fists to chest in an X.
"Sir," the newcomer said, "enemy soldier, making his way here!" The lad, probably just over three hundred years, looked tense, as if he were afraid.
Break waved the boy down, "let the front guard deal with them."
"Their dead sir," the boy replied, sweating.
Each member of the guard looked up sharply, causing the boy to shrink back.
"What?" Anger asked, his tone bringing a deathly chill in the room.
"I-i-it's only one man sir, he killed the front guard and is now coming this way. They, well they told me to bring you."
Speed, Anger thought, then shouted, "velshcaush!" causing the other Silcureuss guard to spring into motion behind him. They were out of the tent in an eyeblink, leaving the poor soldier to wonder in confusion at what that order meant.
Twelve Elves jumped Coras with a furious rage. Their toned bodies struck with a force that benigned their smaller arms. The speed of their strikes were blurring to the human eye and they seemed to manipulate gravity itself as they wished. All in all, they were fair fighters.
One came at him with a spearhead-like dagger and struck, hitting Coras's greave. It did nothing, osmium wasn't a standard metal, and his armor wasn't the standard making either. Eight inch thick armor made of the densest metal man had discovered. It helped that there were no openings in his armor.
Coras stood alone, walking as if he hadn't a care in the world, killing an elf every time he swung his arm. The sensation of crashing ribs and spines was lost on hands that no longer felt.
They were like flies buzzing around him. Sure the dozen Elves that attacked were equal to a small army.
But when fighting someone who had impenetrable armor and the strength unmatched by any, well, it made it slightly difficult to injure said person let alone kill them.
Eventually, after he'd killed more than half of the strike force the Elves stood around him, not daring to get any closer. As far as Coras knew, vexors could only enhance themselves so much.
Like everything else in this world, they had limits.
Coras stopped, looking ahead in the shadowed forest, then braced himself. Something hit him, hard, and despite his readiness, whatever it was sent him flying. When he landed, he skidded to the ground, stopping just before falling to the chasm. If he turned his head, he would come face to face with the drop.
He shuffled, getting up to be confronted by five Elves with different coloring. Vibrant red, forest green, sky blue, bright yellow, and pitch black. The one in red, the one who'd hit him, stepped forward.
"You are on the grounds of the Motions," the man yelled in anger, obviously enraged to the point his face nearly matched his clothes. "For trespassing, murder, and desecration of land not yours, you will answer to the law! Execution!!"
""""Execution!"""" The four behind the one in red yield in unison.
This might take longer than expected, Coras thought as he got up, and confronted the five strangely distinctive Elves.