A week ago, he was confined in that wretched cell, deep in the bowels of Civitas Dei, and now, stripped of rank and most of his pride, Craft Astorius perches on a ledge overlooking the valley of Haven. The Rising Phoenix cohor rests a short distance behind him, weary from the day's exercises.

Twenty minutes ago, another convoy of beasts of burden and carts left the gates for the free state of Arelate. Exodus. The word turns over and over in Craft's head. Mongrels from across the Empyre flock to the state for their freedom. A memory of Lycenae passes through his head, sending a shudder down his spine.

He remembers the promise he made to himself that day: what had transpired there would not go unpunished. He thinks back to the insurrection, when he spilled Empyreal blood. And then he stops himself. He has gone down that road of questioning too many times in the past week, and yet his demons still wait to be faced. It will come soon, he knows.

"Penti up!" he shouts, turning from the ledge to meet back with the cohor. As one body, the Rising Phoenix stands, thirty-eight eyes on Craft. He addresses them with one word, and one word only.

"Exodus."

Twenty pairs of wings beat against the air, and the cohor is aloft. As one, the Rising Phoenix soars into the sky and off into the horizon.

Centurion Latiano Caius Andronicus studied the parchment in his hands with anything but amusement. Placing it back on his desk, he leaned back and sighed. A rare moment of quiet threatened to descend upon the Eyrie, but was prevented by a sudden rustling of wings as one of the Praetorian couriers dropped down from the tower. The Centurion looked up with sublime anticipation.

The courier's simple reply was a shake of her head, answering the officer's unasked question. She waited for the Centurion's response.

Another sigh, not of sorrow, but of slight irritation.

"Continue the sweeps, but reduce the priority. Now that's not an excuse to get lazy -- I want Praetorians searching, but the damnable thing is that if he doesn't want to be found, we're not gonna find him."

The first day was spent getting used to the land. No tents were to be erected and no fires were to be burned at night. Weapons and armor were to be lived in unless instructed otherwise by the Optio. Overall, it was nothing particularly new to the Praetorians -- most had grown used to it from years of training. No one complained.

Craft let them sleep for a good portion of the night; he woke them when he first began to notice the sun on the horizon, lighting the sky dark blue from the previous blackness

"Penti up!" his voice urged, breaking twenty Praetorians from their slumber. Some still were wiping the sleep from their eyes as they formed up into their five-man units.

Craft and his aide Trillides surveyed the men. Then the Optio spoke, backlit by the soft glow of the first rays of sun on the horizon.

"You have been chosen by me to serve in my cohor because of your abilities. Some of you come from the noblest houses of the Empyre, others joined the Guard for a love of it; from here on out, none of that matters. You will be known only by your first names. Your last names will be Phoenix to your brothers and sisters.

"During this next month, many of you will wish you would rather be in Hades that alive. You are all elite warriors; but you will become better, more dangerous, faster, stronger. You all know what the Praetor who is shielding your bowfire will be thinking; you will know what the Praetor six rows down from you will be thinking. Eventually, you will be able to communicate simply by your gestures and body language. Silence will be your friend and your foe's most intimidating enemy. And I will be right beside you. Everything you do, I will do also. Trillides will be in charge of the exercises we will execute.

"Now, everyone take a moment to acquaint yourself with the faces of your brothers. You will die for them, and you will watch them die for you."

The second night, the men bedded down on the grass with joints that begged for mercy, muscles that burned, and wings that ached. That night, Craft and Trillides allowed them three hours of sleep. The cohor was roused, performed some basic night drills, bedded down, slept another three hours, was roused again, and so on.

That was how the first week went. The cohor exhausted itself time and again, and still they drilled. On the dawn of the seventh day, the Praetorians performed praises to the Gods, and then Craft allowed them to rest for the remainder of the daylight hours.

The second week began with more intensive night exercises, sharpening each Praetor's sense of orientation in the darkness. Their nights became longer. Sleep was something to be done during the day, in between drills. By this time, many did in fact wish their souls would pass on, but Craft, through Trillides, drove them further past their limits. The Praetorians began to rely more on their brothers and sisters, and Craft was pleased.

Week three heralded the beginning of the most intense advanced flight maneuvers. Both day and night, the Praetorians drilled. Formations considered impossible were made possible. The air became more than just their element, but their advantage. Another exercise had each Praetor to be conducted through a high-speed forest-flight, risking their lives as they ducked and rolled among the boughs of the trees. Towards the end of the week, this exercise was altered slightly into a "gauntlet." One Praetor would fly the course, and the rest of the cohor would hurl rocks at him or her.

And still no Praetor tried to leave the training. Complaints were commonplace, but not one Praetor whined, instead, the cohor grew closer, driving each other to continue.

At the end of the third week, Craft addressed the cohor once more. His face haggard, his body worn equally if not moreso than the Empyreans he addressed, he spoke:

"Penti up!"

Their reaction time was faster than he had ever seen them act before. The Optio's darkened eyes met the darkened eyes of his troops.

"We are all tired. Everything inside of you begs for mercy. You smell horrible. You miss your lovers and children. I ask you to reach in and push it all aside. This is the final week; it will also be the hardest.

"I look at each one of you: your bodies are hard, strong, primed. Your minds, too, are beginning to learn how to cast aside the fatigue in ways your training, even 'the Battle,' never showed you. Now is the time to master that, for I promise you, if you do not, you will not survive the end of the week. We are all brothers and sisters now. It is time to move past the fatigue, past that sense of mortality of who you were. We must now become the Will of the Empyre. Rise, Phoenix, and consume yourselves so you may be reborn."

Thus began the final week, a week when even Craft doubted himself. There became no such thing as sleep. Rest, yes, but sleep did not exist. Everything that the cohor had trained for was all meshed together and combined. The exercises were Hell themselves, and still, they fought on. And just as Craft promised, something awoke within the Praetorians of the cohor.

The unit became cohesive in ways unimaginable; it was linked by some unidentifiable presence, or perhaps it was just some new level of trust that had awoken in each Praetor for themselves and for each other member of the cohor. On the seventh day, the day of sleep, no Praetor let themselves be taken by its grasp. Instead they rested, marveling over this new awareness each possessed.

"Penti up!"

Craft surveyed his Praetorians, the Rising Phoenix Cohor.

"It is done. The next two days, we rest, save for an occasional drill that will come as relief. But now, sleep."

The cohor collapsed upon each other. Three days after, four weeks since their Exodus from Haven, the Rising Phoenix rose from the depths of the forest and began the journey back to Haven.

"You look like rested Death, Craft," Centurion Latiano Andronicus states, gazing on the face of the Fallen Tribune. The two stand atop the Eyrie, looking out over Haven. The sky above is a pure blue, speckled with puffy white clouds.

"Where in the Gods' names have you been?! You can be court-martialed for what you did, and I swear not even Atar himself would be able to bail you out."

Craft simply stares off into the sky, sparking the Centurion to follow his gaze. The superior officer's jaw nearly drops. The Rising Phoenix Cohor flies on the horizon, approaching the city. Every member is bedecked in black cuirasses, shoulder plates, and arm and leg greaves, contrasting with the whites of their wings and under-tunics. The formation they fly in is tighter than any the Centurion has ever seen.

"An Exodus, sir," the Fallen Tribune states simply. "We will be making our camp behind the hills to the east of the city. A courier of mine will be stationed here at the Eyrie at all times. If I am needed, I suggest you send any messages through him. Otherwise, I will be around town. Good day, Centurion." The black-clad Praetor leaps into the air, his wings catching the wind, which brings him to the head of his cohor. The formation leaves Haven behind, heading to their camp.

FIN  

[ Home | News | Staff | Players | Links | Gallery | Logs | Library | Updates | Mail ]
[ Connect to the Game ]