Mentions of [Blood] and [Death] --- Village of Vlissinghelm Mid-July 308 AC. “You owe me fifty regals, Andro.” At the sudden voice, Andro Ruisch turned in his seat and allowed his flirtatious attention towards one particular young woman to be broken. He was met with the grinning face of his closest friend, the man slapping one palm down against the Ruisch’s table. As usual, he looked as if he had just crawled out of bed, his hair sticking up like a rooster and nothing neat about his attire. Whether his friend had just gotten up to something with a woman or in fact just woken up, Andro couldn’t be sure. Instead, he opted to consider the statement at hand as one of his blond brows rose curiously. “And why in Aloria would I owe you fifty regals, Constant?” A barked laugh was the initial reply, Constant shaking his head in amusement. Then he flicked up a letter in his opposite hand, tapping it against the bridge of Andro’s nose. The man jerked his head back as the paper brushed against his face, offering a nasty expression towards his friend before him before snapping the letter. Upon inspection, he discovered that it had already been open and wasn’t even addressed for him. Nor was it addressed for his friend, instead the name of Constant’s father enscripted in neat handwriting. “Why the fuck are you giving me your pa’s mail?” “Just open it.” “It’s not mine-” “My pa said you could read it, why would I steal his letters? It’s from my sister, Siebbe. You know, the one with the baby?” There was a flicker of recognition on Andro’s face at the name, clearly remembering the first girl that had stolen his heart and briefly cursing Constant for acting like his friend wouldn’t remember such memories. Still, he eagerly pulled the letter free from the battered envelope, flicking the page open with a small shake of his hand. There, he was greeted with paragraphs of swooping sentences, all detailing the local news that Siebbe had gathered during her days of gossiping. Briefly, there was a confused glance offered up towards Constant, unsure on why he would be sharing such useless information until the man pointed his finger towards the third paragraph of the page: “Read.” ‘... Oh Papa, have you heard the news? I was speaking to my dearest friend, Lilian, just this morning and she said that awful Baron of ours has gone off and found himself in trouble again. According to her, and, trust me, she’s never wrong on these things, Vlissinghelm has found itself invaded! Apparently those Reinard brats have decided to invade our home for some sense of victory. Can you believe that? Oh dear, Papa. I’m so worried. I don’t want anything to happen to Constantijn or…”Andro lifted his gaze to meet Constantijn’s own, shaking his head a moment in disbelief as he sat back into his chair. There was a long moment of silence that passed between the two, the excitable expression of the Ruisch’s best friend slowly fading into that of thoughtfulness. Rare seriousness. “... No kidding, Con?” He finally murmured, offering back the letter once he had briefly- wistfully- traced the signature of Siebbe. “No kidding at all, Ann. We got ourselves with invaders down by the border, and I heard that the outpost just a few miles out was enlisting anyone that stepped up-” Constant was cut off at the sudden clatter of wood meeting stone. Andro’s chair rocked some on its back from where it had been shoved over during his sudden jump to his feet, clear confusion plastered to the man’s face. “Absolutely not! Are you insane?” A small murmur escaped a nearby table as they watched the raising conflict besides them. The woman that Andro had been so diligently paying attention to had since vanished, likely gone as soon as he had raised his voice to not garner any attention towards herself as well. Constantijn, on the other hand, was moved little by his friend’s words and instead lifted his hand to jab a finger against the man’s chest. “I’m not insane, I’m doing what’s right for my home- our home. We both know how to hold a blade and it would be a waste to not use our skills now to defend the name of our Baron. It’s not our homes they’re storming into yet, but it could be if they don’t get stopped now.” Constant drew back from the table after his words, lifting his hands to show his empty palms towards Andro, although his eyes were narrowed. Challenging him to say something against his words. Although, the Ruisch was still unconvinced, shaking his head with a scoff while he grabbed up the letter that was still sitting on the table. The paper softly crunched in his grasp, neat words ruffled. “I’m not doing your stupid plan. You go out there and get yourself killed.” Andro spat out, sneering. The young man before him lifted his chin high, shoulders set straight with divine belief within him. “At least I wouldn’t be dying a coward.” --- Outpost of Vlissinghelm Late-July 308 AC. “Constantijn Broos.” A gruff voice called out from the front of the crowd of young and eager men. The brunet head of the called man jerked up in acknowledgement, torn from his daydreaming. “Here, Commandant!” He called back, pushing himself through the crowd. Every face that he passed seemed to look familiar, each one bearing that resemblance to those he left back at home as any person might when home sick. Regardless, he saw no face that reminded him of his closest friend. Although, his thoughts broke away from that friend as he reached the front and found himself before his commanding officer. Without much warning, a uniform and pack was dropped towards him, which he just barely noted in time to catch. “Change into this.” The man directed before turning his gaze back to the list of names. “Larss Bru-.” “Commandant?” Constantijn interrupted, with a small wince as his officer offered a rather sharp look. Clearly, he had no patience with boys who couldn’t follow orders and such a speech was preparing to escape him, which led to a spill of words escaping the footman before he could be scolded. “What am I supposed to do with my belongings after I change into uniform?” “Were you not listening earlier?” The officer asked with a scowl, puffing an annoyed breath. No, he hadn’t been thinking. Instead, he had been caught in regret at leaving home. Wishing to be back at the dinner table with his father and remaining sister. Though Constantijn said none of that, only offered a blank stare towards his commanding officer in wait for an answer. “Give them to Kapitein de Bruin.” With such information, a nod was offered before Constant slipped away from the table, holding his uniform close to his chest. Soon enough, he pulled himself into a tent and swiftly changed into the scratchy uniform that he had been granted. His fingers traced the seams of his shirt, remembering when his sisters had pestered him for days on end to allow them to make him it. A faint smile dragged onto his lips in recollection, remembering how Siebbe and Elif had forced him to sit still as they measured and pinned fabric about him. They had mocked him about everything then, calling him kin to swine from how ragged he kept his clothing. Although it had hurt then, Constantijn couldn’t help missing their playful teasing. But, a rustle at the entrance of the tent brought him back to attention again . Briefly, excitement wormed its way into Constant’s heart as he turned about, hoping- no, no expecting- to see his closest friend standing just behind him. For Andro to laugh and carry on about how he had just been joking, that he would obviously be at his side through thick and thin, blade in hand. Instead, though, a black-haired man with sideburns had taken the second bed of the tent and was beginning to pull on his own uniform with his back facing towards Constantijn, who stared in utter shock. “I can feel you looking at me,” the man snapped after several moments, half-turning his head to glare towards Constant. “What are you: queer?” The words were like a slap to the face and Constantijn twisted away from the sideburns-toting conscript to return his attention to his own things. An awkwardness settled between the pair as they remained back to back, soon enough Constant hearing the struggling huffs of the unknown man as he continued to pull on his clothes. No longer in the mood to recollect memories of years past, the man folded up his clothes from home and set them into a small stack atop his cot. “... Pleasure to meet you too.” Constantijn offered back after a few silent minutes to pass through the tent. “Mmph.” “Ah, sorry for staring at you. Just startled me, is all.” A small sigh answered Constantijn’s statement, although he couldn’t place whether it was from annoyance or exhaustion. “... Yeah, I get that.” Reassured by the answer, Constant finally turned about and sat himself down onto his own cot with a grin towards the stranger. His stack of clothes was lifted to rest into his lap, arms folded on top as he idly inspected the other within the tent. Luckily, the man had since also sat down and was lacing up his boots, attention settled on them despite his hesitant allowance for conversation. “What’s your name then, friend? I’m Constantijn.” “Maarten van Beek.” --- Battle-Worn Vlissinghelm August 308 AC “Van Beek! Broos!” Constantijn and Maarten rushed to attention at their calls, both calling out a chorused, “Yes, Commandant!” Their commanding officer, still grey and unhappy with the world and perhaps even more so after the battering battles that had been forced upon their unit the last few weeks from the Reinard forces within Vlissinghelm. Throughout the morning, there had been a steady splitting of the men into two different formations, one under their own Baron and the other beneath Julius Peirgarten. “Both of you will be acting under Baron-General Harhold. Do not disappoint me today.” There was a moment of hesitation that passed, as if the officer planned to say more before he simply waved towards his left for them to go. They both went, knowing that the officer had been trying to say more all morning, but never managed to find any words to the men he passed. All knew what the day meant. When it was time for movement, Constantijn and Maarten became two of thousands within a mass of Anglians. Their faces were lost within the crowd, although both found each other with ease to take a place next to one another, shoulder to shoulder. “You know, I never realized how ugly half our men were,” murmured Constant as he glanced along the others around the two of them, a smile tugged on his lips. “How you can find room to joke right now, I can’t imagine.” Maarten roughly commented back, shaking his head. “Easy. I know that us two will be just fine. And if we aren’t? The Death Dragon will take us off.” Another bright smile from Constantijn was thrown to his friend, the Unionist only squinting with disinterest at Constant’s pagan beliefs so openly shared between them. Regardless, whatever comment he had so smartly been planning was cut off by the booming voice of their general: The Hound Lord. Smiles fell off of faces as the men before Harhold stiffened to attention, even the biggest of jokesters like Constantijn himself slipping into silence to listen. The plan was explained with ease by their general ahead. The Peirgarten-led men would charge into battle against Reinard at the forefront, while Harhold’s own group- Constantijn himself- would slip around over the hill from the opposite side. It would be a bit of a journey, one that needed to be completed quickly, but it was a victory that could be easily won. By the time they set off, it was past mid-morning and the sun had fully risen over the footmen as they set off into the hills. “Beek, you think you got what it takes?” Constantijn softly teased as the unit hiked upwards, carefully worming their way through the ever familiar territory of Vlissinghelm. A soft grunt escaped the van Beek in response, uninterested in using words as he lugged along. Once realizing that he wasn’t going to be getting any conversation from the ever serious tent mate of his, Constant turned his attention towards the sky while he walked along. For the first time in days, he allowed his thoughts to return to that same place they always use to when he first arrived. To his sisters, safe at home. His father fretting over him, senselessly. … To Andro, likely still cursing his name. The unit, just into the afternoon, arrived on the hilltop, stopping in place to gaze briefly down upon the already raging battle. It appeared to still be going strong despite no doubt that it had started some time ago from the bodies, although few in number compared to many battles, that littered the ground. “Constantijn.” Blood still poured from most of those bodies. “Constantijn!” Some were still alive. Suddenly, Constantijn was slapped in the head by a large palm, his attention ripping away from the blood on the field as his gaze swiveled in confusion towards Maarten, who had already settled his gaze ahead. Refusing to meet his friend. The man couldn’t seem to figure why he had been struck- Had he done something wrong? Why-. “Charge!” That was why. The mass of bodies was suddenly pushing and shoving, the second wave of Harhold men storming over the hilltop as they screamed out battle cries all of their own as their blades glimmered in the sunlight. Some screamed to the glory of the Hound Lord. Some prayed aloud to the Spirit. Every so often there was a call to their Mistress, Vrij. But Constantijn was just being pulled on the tide of the swordsmen around him, dragged closer and closer to the blood soaked grounds at the end of the hill with his feet hardly able to catch up. He had been in so many battles before, what made this one any different? The man finally snapped from his worrisome thoughts as he finally was brought face to face with a man dripping in the reds and greens of House Reinard, the blade of the enemy slinging out towards Constantijn. A small shriek escaped him, but it didn’t stop him from parrying the attack, shoving forwards to slam himself against his attacker to drive him back. The deafening screech of metal against metal - voices shouting, bodies falling - was enough to mask a sob that escaped Constant as he continued on his attack against the Reinard-uniformed man. To his luck, the other didn’t seem to notice his crying as blade was met for blade. Constantijn knew how to fight. He could hold his own against this one man, take him down. Even with tears streaming down his cheeks, a well placed sweep of his leg brought the enemy to his back, who fell ungracefully into the stained grass. He helplessly swung his blade up towards Constantijn, although it was easily batted away. Without a hint of hesitation, the man jammed the length of his blade down into the throat of the Reinard swordsman. Blood seeped around Constantijn’s blade as it remained embedded within the throat of his victim, which only brought a small tremble from Constant himself. He leaned forwards against the hilt of his blade, using it like a crutch as he continued to loom over the corpse. Although… he did not gloat. He did not even stare, for instead his eyes were squeezed shut in an attempt to recollect himself. What was he doing here? Andro was right. He had to go home. Constantijn pulled the blade free, turning himself as he prepared to flee. Prepared to flee… Another red and green dressed man stood behind him when he turned about, staring towards the scene of an Anglian man leaning over his victim. Disgusted was painted over his expression for he could not see the tears that Constant had wept just moments before. “Swine.” The man spat before his blade stabbed forwards and into the gut of Constantijn, slicing through his uniform and poor armor without much difficulty. A wheeze escaped the man as he fell backwards a step before toppling to the ground besides his own victim, who watched on with lifeless eyes. Constant’s gaze shot towards the hill that he had come from, staring towards them with a lost sense of hope. Praying that something would save him. Praying that Andro would save him. Instead, he was kicked right in the stomach after the blade had been forcefully ripped free from him. “Coward.” Constantijn sputtered, blood splattering his chin. The swordsman turned away from him, stalking off with more Anglians in mind for murder, ignoring the words that his victim coughed out with final breaths. “Coward.” Constantijn called himself again. --- Holy City of Regalia August 308 AC Mail wasn’t unusual to the Haeksen since she left Anglia and came to Regalia. Her father had made it his duty to keep her up to date on the happenings of himself, her siblings, and the ever increasing tension from the war throughout their homeland of Vlissinghelm. When she discovered a letter addressed to herself during her weekly visit to the post office, she had paid it little concern, although certain excitement to look over her kin’s penmanship and pretend that she was home again. She slipped through the pier of Crookback with a sense of ease, the letter held tightly in hand. Her destination in mind was the Merchant’s Torch, one of the establishments that her group had since laid claim upon and where she knew she could get a moment of peace to read her letter rather be bombarded with conversation during one of her few pastimes. The Witch settled down into the couch before sliding her nail under the envelope flap and pulling out the letter within. To Theresa, As much as I wish to write with good fortunes and tales to tell, there has been little to report as of lately. Your brother, as you know, had taken up blades to defend our home months ago. There was an incident at the last battle. My dearest... Constantijn is dead.---
