Lionel rubbed his neck and nursed his ribs. It was a rather long carriage ride after the carnage that was the great Slam of Ultra 2, despite the carriage moving at speeds much faster than any others he had been on before. He swore they were flying like a swan through the sky, but it was obvious it was just the magic crystals there to make it seem that way.
Lionel: This land of magic is a weird place.
The estranged knight turned towards a local nursing their beer. They looked at the weird Englishman before turning away to remain in solitude. Montbar continued to massage his weak spots, as well as his eyes, trying to clear them to make sense of the written scriptures on the walls. Everything looked wrong to the Englishman, everything seemed to be squiggles and lines, instead of written English or Spanish. He shrugged, giving up trying to make sense of the language. A very strange land with a very strange language indeed.
He was given the task of staying still under the watchful care of an eccentric man known as Joey Talladega until they had a place for him. It was easy enough, but nobody seemed very friendly towards the knight outside of the barkeep. Maybe it was because he was out of armor, or maybe a little worn from his Royal Battle. Lionel shook his head, which the barkeep distinctly noticed.
Joey Talladega: What’s wrong good chap? Why are you so dour at this hour? Perhaps another human alcoholic beverage to keep your mind at peace?
Lionel smiled at the barkeep and raised his finger. The drinks were covered by his regiment no matter what language they were in. The knight smiled and lifted his drink in salute to the barkeep, before downing it wolfishly amidst slight laughter. The elderly Japanese man at the end of the bar kept to himself, ignoring the loud, strange foreigner as well as the eccentric and strange barkeep.
The fortnight previously had weighed heavily upon the young knight’s mind. The battle they raged within the gladiatorial arena was epic. It had everyone on the edge of their seats, cheering and booing, watching the blood shed upon the canvas. The visceral night building up to a thunderous crescendo.
The knight smiled, savoring the smooth flavor of the sake provided to him. It was different from most beverages he had in these strange lands. It was easy to order, and it came in a small porcelain pitcher, before being put into what the silly Americans would call a shot glass, but also made of porcelain. The flavor was smooth, similar to that of a wine with less grape tartness. He thought back to his epic strategic gladiatorial conquest from the earlier bout.
He fought hard and bravely and finally equalized with the Germanic forces. He used his skill and cunning to eliminate the brute Kronin. Aye, he was eliminated from the sport at the same time, however, that did not quell the accomplishment or achievement of that success. The fair maiden Abigail stood victorious in the raised square, and through the bloodshed and trials she faced in that ring, she deserved it. The strange amazoness was also successful in her war of attrition of her own, going far beyond what a normal warrior could do. The strange man from the Kingdom of Japan stood their ground but eventually was defeated by the warrioress. The knight knew she stood for something greater than what he could comprehend, and the people cheering for her knew it too.
The next battles were coming up soon, but the details were muddy. The knight was told one arena, but that was scrapped, and then he was foretold about a second arena, but that was quickly ruled out as well. Due to the changes, the knight was left without a destination or a goal, but just to sit and wait at the bar until the time was right. He enjoyed the barkeep’s company, his strange mannerisms almost making him feel at home and less lonely. Lionel wished he knew the location so he could scout the battlefield beforehand. There were a lot of different things about each location that could impose an advantage or disadvantage at any time, despite each conflict occurring inside the square of canvas. The knight knew that whomever the cheering spectators were behind had an advantage in the conflicts too, counting time again and again about the cheers for Valora and Abigail, and the jeers and boos for the other contestants. It wasn’t always the case, but from what the Englishman had noticed, that did seem to be the truth.
A sudden sound broke his thoughts, tearing his vision towards the crystal ball mounted along the wall. It appeared that this was in his native language, for the first time in this foreign land, spreading a smile across his strong features.
—
The screen splits, showing the escalating violence in the streets, the Oath Keepers clashing with protestors, interspersed with the imposing visage of the Centurions and the omnipresent hum of Eagle Eye drones.
Parker Karlsson: As we're seeing, President McStrump has enacted martial law, a bold but necessary step. The Centurions and Eagle Eyes deployed are a testament to American might and a necessary force to restore order. While I've voiced my critiques in the past, decisive action is imperative in these times of dire unrest.
Judge Pauline Firro: Parker, the President's actions tonight, while drastic, indicate his unwavering commitment to safeguarding American lives and values. The Rebels of Society and all who incite violence under the guise of protest must understand that their actions bear consequences. Martial law isn't declared lightly, and the imagery we're witnessing results from their chaos.
—
The Englishman’s smile immediately turned into a face of horror. He watched as the metal monsters called Centurions wreaked havoc upon the battlefield. Their massive silhouettes towered above the humans around them, monsters upon the ravaged battlefield, unstoppable with their strength. The barkeep took notice of the pale complexion of the Englishman’s face.
Joey Talladega: Are you alright good chap? It seems like you have seen a ghost.
Lionel: Aye… I might have.
Joey Talladega: Well nothing that a good jug of sake can’t cure. Like my grandmammy used to say, “nothing helps kill haunting memories faster than a strong human alcoholic beverage”.
The knight began to sweat in horror a bit, realizing that history is indeed repeating itself. These Centurion’s clad in heavy armor, indestructible and impervious to attacks. They knew no fear. He thought long and hard about a previous conflict, one where he faced such foes.
—
The rain, the cursed rain. Why is it that it always rains before a battle? Lionel sat in his tent, pulling off his waterlogged and muddy boots, and freeing his feet to the frigid air. This campaign had been long and difficult, each step forward brought new and more difficult conflicts and obstacles.
The trek to enter France was difficult and had its own issues. While raising troops and militias, a disease spread quickly through the mustering ranks, delaying their departure and forcing some to recover at the homesteads instead of marching for war under the King’s banner. After that, the ships set to make port in London were delayed and caught in a storm that battered the ships into reefs, causing considerable damage. With the delay already underway, the ships were hastily repaired for their journey south to France. During the journey, the ship carrying the supplies and a quarter of the troops sprung a leak. The provisions were ruined after breaking out in a viscous black mold that set faster than a rat’s appetite and caused the soldiers on the boat to bail water for the majority of their journey. The soldiers landed in France exhausted and with low morale. Even Mother Nature set against the English soldiers, causing a frigid cold front to stretch across the land, dropping ice-cold rain, sleet, hail, and snow on the unfortunate troops. Between the freezing temperatures, the lack of good provisions, and exhaustion from the trip, morale and standards were at their lowest point.
Lionel’s eyes darted towards the entrance to his small tent, an imposing figure stood in the door frame, blotting out the dim sunlight with its massive frame. Lionel’s immediate action was to reach for his sword, but after a second of realization, he broke into a smile for the first time on the campaign trail.
Lionel: Sir Robyn, I wasn’t expecting such jovial reinforcements on this cold and dreary campaign. What brings such an esteemed soldier, such as yourself, to this dishonorable land?
The figure entered the tent, revealing his jovial face, an orange beard, and hair, his gut round from rounds of ale and mead at taverns the world over. Despite his strange appearance, he was a veteran warrior, being a part of countless battles, campaigns, wars, and crusades. His wisdom was sharper than his steel, and his humour thicker than his armour. He sat down, his jerkin barely containing his rotund belly, as he sat on the cot next to Lionel, passing a small stale loaf of bread to the younger knight.
Sir Robyn: ‘ere Lionel, yer breakfast. It ain’t much, but I made sure to avoid the mold. Wash it down with a pint. We need to resolve our food issues soon if this campaign is to continue. Bein’ only the second in command on this campaign, the leader doesn’t quite understand one thing and one thing in particular.
Lionel took his loaf, and tested it with his teeth, wincing as his teeth made contact with the rock-hard bread, fearing he might have chipped a tooth. He placed it on his lap, curious about the older knight’s wisdom, despite his weird speech patterns.
Lionel: Aye, and what are they forgetting?
Sir Robyn: An army marches on its stomach! ~Slapping his large gut to punctuate his humour, making it jiggle from the force, before breaking out in belly-bursting laughter.~ You see Lionel, if we do not make a move soon, this campaign will be over ‘fore it begins. These starvin’ troops will eat the whole countryside out of house and home if given ‘alf a chance. Our orders are clear to march upon Sir Pierre Laurent’s location. It doesn’t matter if he is out on the field or snug as a bug in a rug in his castle. He is known as “The Fortress”. Even your spirit and fighting prowess will do little against his armour. I hear he is a man of my stature, and you will bounce right off! Buwahahaha.
The blonde knight pondered about his upcoming battle and trail. A named knight, powerful on his own, but flanked by his own soldiers, against a weakened and exhausted English army. The battle on paper appears to be one-sided, and if the Englishmen didn’t get the chance to recover and obtain some provisions, the results would be dire. The veteran knight glanced at his captivated companion.
Sir Robyn: Now Lionel, do not fret your pretty little head about such thin’s. It is my duty to make sure that this campaign is a success and that we can stop this tyrant from running amok on our lands. I’m set to leave shortly with a small group of my men to find and procure some provisions. It is your duty to stay here with the main forces if anythin’ should happen. The soldiers need a knight to look up to. Now, would that be better for a grizzled old fart who’s knocking on death’s door to be leadin’ them into battle or the charismatic pretty knight who somehow overcomes odds again and again? You see, it is your duty to lead those men into battle if it comes down to it. Now, I gotta find some food for the troops, some hundred gallons of ale for me, and I betcha a pretty girl or three from the French farmsteads could raise some morale, if not only for me. You see, after a difficult battle, I get two things, a terrible thirst, and the horn. So I need a pretty lass with a mug o’ ale waitin’ for me after the bloodshed. She can tend to my wounds and admire my scars. However, while I am gone, will you be alright Lionel?
The blonde knight chuckled at his mentor’s mannerisms. The veteran always had a mighty thirst in more ways than one. Lionel shook his head, knowing his duty and potential conflict were right around the corner.
Lionel: Robyn, I will tend to the troops, and keep them prepared for anything. Be swift in your journey, I hope I have your wisdom on the battlefield against that high skilled foe.
The two knights locked their arms together before the larger knight got up from the cot and left the tent. Both knew that time was of the essence and if provisions weren’t obtained soon, things could turn disastrous.
—
The cold rain pelted down relentlessly on the French countryside, turning the battleground into a muddy quagmire. The troops stood at the ready, waiting for their command to charge. Lionel de Montbar, stood resolute next to Sir Robyn, his longsword in hand, raindrops cascading off the polished steel of his armor. Across from him, emerging from the mist like a looming fortress, was his adversary – a heavily armored French behemoth wielding a massive mace.
The air was thick with tension as the two forces squared off amidst the chilling rain. Lionel's breath escaped in visible puffs, and his grip tightened on the hilt of his longsword. The Fortress, clad in armor that seemed impervious to the elements, lifted his hefty mace with an air of intimidating strength. A trumpet sounded, and warcries filled the air, as seconds passed and the two forces closed the distance between each other, before the clash of steel echoed across the French farmlands, followed by the screams of the wounded and dying.
The rain-soaked ground beneath them turned to a sea of mud and blood, making every step treacherous. Lionel moved with agility, his longsword slicing through the air with precision, however, The Fortress’ name seemed to hold, as each blow bounced off the armor without leaving so much as a scratch. Laurent, seemingly unburdened by the weight of his armor, swung the mace with brutal force, striking Lionel hard in the chest, sending him flying away, the breath escaping his lungs, leaving him gasping and fighting just to breathe. The chuckle of Sir Pierre Laurent filled the air as Montbar fought for air.
Montbar slowly pulled himself from the mud, gasping as he slowly regained his composure, as the chuckling of the Frenchman ceased. The Fortress tried to take a step but was unable to lift his foot from the mud, stuck fast due to the weight of his armor. He continued trying to free his foot from the mud to continue his advance but was stuck fast, cursing in his native language.
Lionel recovered a bit, circling the larger foe, before striking again at their weak side. The Fortress endured the strikes and blows from Lionel’s sword, unable to rotate enough to strike him with his mace, lifting his heavy gauntleted hand and striking the English knight hard across the face, sending him sprawling back into the mud, his nose broken and bleeding profusely down his face.
Lionel pulled himself from the mud, hearing the sounds of his troops being massacred upon the field. He gazed upon a wounded man next to him, his hand crushed from a blow from that powerful mace. Lionel reached down, grabbing the man’s spear, before returning to the Fortress, charging at him as fast as the mud would allow him, aiming to pierce the French knight’s heart. The tip of the spear met armor, glancing off to the right, but the momentum from the charge brought the Englishman into striking distance. The spear splintered like a sapling from a woodman’s axe, as the massive mace connected with the weapon first, before connecting with Lionel’s side, cracking the side of his armor with a sickening thud. Lionel went flying back into the mud, causing Lionel to sputter and spit up blood from the blow, his ribs broken from the blow.
Lionel was lost in a pain-filled hallucination, trying to come to. How could he beat a foe that cannot be stopped? Was this how he would die? Would he be remembered as the knight would couldn’t even land a blow to his foe? The knight shook the thoughts from his head, spitting out blood from his crimson-filled mouth, glancing up at the prevalent sound of the Frenchman laughing above him, his foot finally free from the mud.
Sir Pierre Laurent: ~hon hon hon~ La mort te salue aujourd'hui ~Death greets you today.~
The Fortress raised his mace high above his head, aiming to smash into Montbar’s prone body. Lionel, in a panic reached for whatever came close. He found his sword, and as he grabbed its blade, he swung with all his might, striking the Frenchman in the side of his stomach, his armor pierced by the crossguard of the sword. Pierre faltered, his mace lowering to his side. The helmet hides the surprise of Pierre's armor being broken. Montbar pulled his blade free, pulling himself from the murky ground once more, before striking true again, this time to the leg of the French knight, sending him to one knee. Lionel pulled the crossguard free again, before lifting it high over his head, the positions reversed. The Frenchman looked up towards the Englishmen, fear in his eyes.
Sir Pierre Laurent: Qu... Qu'est-ce que tu as fait? ~W… What did you do?~
Lionel brought his blade down again, the crossguard striking between his opponent’s neck and shoulder, the armor caving inwards with ease. Blood poured heavily from the wound as Lionel fell backward into the mud, coughing up blood from his own wounds. He must have lost consciousness for a bit, teetering in and out of the world from the pain and blood loss. He opened his eyes, seeing Sir Robyn kneeling over him. The veteran knight patted his prodigy on the shoulder a couple times, admiring his handiwork.
Sir Robyn: Mighty fine work there Lionel, but I can see you took a lickin’ there too aye? Let’s get you out of this muck and your wounds addressed. We suffered losses here today Lionel, ‘owever, you were the ‘ero we needed today. You impregnated the impenetrable fortress after all Lionel, no man can say the same.
Robyn and his men were able to help lift Lionel from the murk, as the battle came to a close. Lionel drifted back into the land of the drifters.
—
Lionel shook his head, brought back from his memory after a tap on his shoulder. He quickly glanced down at his hands, admiring the scars on his palms from holding his longsword in the Mordhau position against Pierre. The wounds were old, but the stories the wounds told were real, and the memory must be real. Lionel looked up at the Barkeep, who stared at him confusingly.
Joey Talladega: Good chap, it appears they acquired accommodations for your next contest of might. Perhaps you should journey there, and remember to stop by whenever you are feeling a little down, and I can pick you back up with another human adult beverage of your choice.
Lionel grabbed for the listing, glancing at it like a jousting tournament posting. It was in the Queen’s language, in English. It was at the Osaka Prefectural Gymnasium in Osaka Japan. He was a part of the midcard matches, set to face Olga Pavlova. That was a new name, one he hadn’t heard before. They must be a formidable warrior to join UOW. Lionel stood up from the bar, before turning towards the barkeep.
Lionel: Thank you for your assistance and your kindness in these times. I will be victorious in my conquest, and I will return to you with my head held high, good sir. May no one tarnish my name, for I will fight to my very limits to achieve what few can dream of. I bid you farewell, I am off to the prestigious Prefectural Gymnasium!
