Dead... again

Tarantia the Old, capitol of Aquilonia, center of the world. A city of marvel and wonder, blessed by the gods, ruled with power and intelligence... but also, a den o depravation, of corruption, of cold blooded murder and despair. That's the city I was born to, son to a whore and her pimp that never cared for me, fathered by the shadows in the streets and the shady deals in the corners. Educated by bludgeons and threats. 

Tarantia the Old, I was willing to give everything to you... and you were eager to take it, weren't you mylady? Conscripted voluntarily into the VIIIth Legion to be sent west to fight the picts, it was the only real chance I had to leave poverty behind. I knew nothing back then about war, or the terrible toll it takes on the souls of men. Fresh out of the barracks, cheap armor and weaponry as my companions, bonds stronger than steel would be forged from that day on with those that fought by my side, a real family like none I'd had before. 

But I was born under the wrong star, and bad luck was to be my true companion. My fate was ill-tied to one name: General Gladius Vindictus, in charge of the campaign. Noble birth, rich family, sent to guide an army with no previous experience and only the desire for quick glory and a triumphant return home to a life full of luxuries. He made our Legion march until we lost our breath and were a shadow of ourselves, exhausted under the weight of heavy armor in a hot and humid summer. By the time we left the city of Velitium behind and entered Pict territory, we were in no shape to fight.

And yet, General Vindictus forced us to push forever onward, under threat of decimation. You could feel the terror in the air the days that followed, as we came close to the pict hordes and the members of the Vth Legion that were already in combat. We hadn't had a propper meal in too much time, nor adequate rest, and that night we all knew that come dusk the next day, half of us wouldn't be gathering by the campfires anymore. 

I'll spare you the details of the brief and bloody campaign that ensued. During almost a month, our Legion suffered loss after loss, defeat after defeat, following the orders of a fool that only wanted quick glory. He didn't care for our lives and happily sacrificed them to take one position or another that we could not hold, only to be able to say that it was our fault that those positions were lost once he returned to civilized old Tarantia. Death can be a terrible but very effective teacher, and under its guidance we learnt to fight together like there were no differences between us, to hold a shield wall against the charging enemies and to pierce flesh with our swords. In those weeks, we became the soldiers we were not when we left Tarantia.

It was at Sparrow Hill when I died the first time. We all did. When the afternoon fell, Gladius Vindictus was rushing home to claim he had lost his Legion in a honorable battle, for the glory and safety of Mitra and Aquilonia. He didn't care for all the dead that lay on the field, or for all of us that, wounded, would still make it through the day. 

In hushed tones, during the days that followed, we all agreed we would leave Aquilonia, stop fighting under banners that gave no meaning or importance to our lifes, and fight for our own cause. That day the VIIIth Legion was crushed, but the Centuria Obitus mercenary company was born... the Legion of the Dead. 

I was one of the leaders since the beginning of the Obitus, together with Cytheris and Calev, recruiting, organizing, coordinating contracts, leading the men. But Calev died during our first contract, a battle between the Fearghal and Koragg cimmerian clans; and a some months later Cytheris left to pursue her own path. That left me the Centurion at the head of an empty triumvirate, and there I grew from a frightened freshmen into a solid leader, a fearsome warrior, a guide of men. We built our own small fortress on the border between Aquilonia and Cimmeria, and the Hall of the Dead became a place were merchants and warrior-kings came looking for soldiers, escorts, guides. We fought picts and cimmerians, and even further beyond we took contracts to fight in Shem, Kush and Stygia. We fought, we killed, we bled. But we did so together, under our own banner, our own glory, forging our own destiny.

Millika came into my life during those years, and happy she made me. I never cared that she was a prostitute, I only cared that we loved each other. And from that love sprung our little couple, Glavicus and Nemroy, happy and carefree, into our loving home. Who, with time, would grow to become mighty warriors in the Centuria. 

But as I said before, I was born under an ill-star. Almost thirty years after the Centuria had been formed, when our reputation was growing ever larger, voice reached General Vindictus' ears about our existence. Grown to prominence in the years of telling his valiant defense of Aquilonian borders against the picts, once he knew who compromised the core of the Centuria, he couldn't let us go on. We knew the truth about his poor job in the border, his lack of martial skills or intelligence, his decisson to let us all die for nothing. 

We were a liability. A dangerous piece on the board of the powerful and the rich... it was all politics.

And so a juicy contract came to the Hall of the Dead, well paid, everything checked out. A raid against a small pict village, nothing out of the ordinary... except that, when we returned victorious, the XIIth Legion was waiting for us... and they were not willing to pay. To call what follows a battle is to glorify it more than it deserves. We were betrayed again by the same man, though he did not show his face until combat was over, stabbed in the back by the same armies we were helping, sacrificed for greed and power in the ever-shifting alliances and political landscape of Tarantia the Old. 

Yes, old hag, you had to take everything, didn't you?

And so, I died a second time. And here I am, tied to this cross, forever banished from the world I know and love, to die far from the embrace of Millika, apart from the sight of both Glavicus, Nemroy or even my battle brothers. And this time, I fear will be the final one. Vultures are circling above my head in the sky, soaring the winds with a freedom I never had. It is time to let go... afterall, there's nothing left for me.

Ave Hyboria, morituri te salutam...