Post by The Sky King on Jun 4, 2011 14:19:01 GMT -5
Another lonely night with the insects gnawing at his tender flesh, and with only the golden rays of the sun piercing his eyelids to wake him up. No calls of the trumpets, no sounds of yelling, no optios staff shoved into his stomach or the sole of his foot.
Hettus awoke only to the call of nature. A tiny wren chirped on a branch high above him, causing Hettus to slowly sit up, rubbing his eyes and looking to the watery blue sky that hung above him. He had been out here for fourteen nights, and today would be the day that the Roman encampment would send out a frumentarii to collect him and inform him that his debt had been paid. He was finally going to go home. He was going to re-earn his glory the hard way, but he was going to do it.
For a few moments, he waited, but nothing happened. The air remained still. The wren flapped its tiny wings and fluttered off towards the sky. Hettus’s ears strained. He felt that he could smell something pungent in the air, but there were no dead bodies around, only the scorched, blackened bones of the Gaul Hettus had killed peering through their thin shield of mud thanks to the night of rain three moons before.
His ears strained once more. He could hear the clashing of metal off of metal. He could hear screaming, groaning, crying. He could hear the sound of orders being barked. He heard the sound of trumpets, as well as Latin calls.
Hettus thrust himself to his feet, throwing up his blankets and pulling out his leather scabbard and belt, quickly tying it around the waist of his red tunic, the only item of clothing he had on aside from his sandals, before darting towards the rough source of the noise. He hurtled fallen branches, jumped over gnarled, exposed roots. The cries got louder. The sounds of metal slicing the air and streaking off of metal were becoming more and more audible.
It only took three minutes for him to reach the northern edge of the forest. Huddling near a patch of rough undergrowth, he glanced out at a large field before him.
Several thousand Gauls were battling a large force of Roman legionnaires, many of whom Hettus recognised as those being stationed in the camp before he was casted out. There were no Legions in order, no Centurions standing tall. Instead, it was a dogpile. Men crammed into the center of the field, literally diving on eachother, as well as stabbing wildly at any man who they could grasp. Bronze helmets rolled on the floor. The fur of bears fell to the ground as it was grasped and sliced. Limbs flew into the air. Blood sprayed around. Hettus leant closer. He could see a lone Centurion, standing at the eastern edge of the forest and watching as the Legionnaires battled mindlessly. He was huddled behind his rectangular, crimson Scutum shield to avoid a wayward Gaul arrow or a thrown spear, instead choosing to pray to Mithras that his men might come to their senses and retreat to form an orderly Legion so they could march as one.
Not today. This was no battle. This was a war. A skirmish. A violent, frenzied assault by two sides who despised the other. Hettus watched as a Legionnaire crawled out of the huddle and towards him, falling flat on the ground several feet away as blood pooled around his chest, indicating his unfortunate demise from the several arrows jammed into the unguarded parts of his upper back and neck.
Fuck the rules. Fuck the code. They needed help.
Hettus darted onto the field, clutching his Gladius.
The stench of blood punctured his nostrils like the tip of a pilum. That sweet lingering scent of death as the field in front of him turned into little more than a bog whose mud was created by the spilt blood of Romans and Gauls. Chaos was everywhere for as long as Hettus could see. As far as he could tell, it was possibly the Roman encampment forces battling against Gaul invaders and attempting to drive them off. At least, that’s what he assumed since the jet-black uniforms of the Praetorians were amongst the scarlet and bronze of the Legionnaires, the Centurions and the Optios.
There was no rank whatsoever either, it was simple chaos. Madness. Centurions couldn’t form their Legionnaires into lines, and simply unleashed them. There was no order whatsoever, just a frenzied wailing and gnashing of teeth as Legionnaire fell on Gaul and Gaul fell on Legionnaire.
Hettus licked his lips. Oh, how he loved this! How he loved battles where nothing but chaos reigned supreme and everyone was focused on everyone! With all eyes darting around, Hettus could run in and steal the glory he had long been searching for. All he needed was that one moment. That one window. That one tiny second to tell him that his chance had arrived.
It arrived swiftly. Hettus watched as a standard-bearer, clutching a Gladius in one hand and a solid gold-and-silver aquilla in the other, had his head hacked off by the edge of a Gauls axe. The aquilla fell to the floor. That was the encampments aquilla. If a Gaul took it, it would mean shame and dishonour. It would be like tearing out their names and their souls. The Legions would be forced to disband and scatter into the winds.
Hettus darted forward, lunging down and grasping the familiar rectangular Scutum shield that a Legionnaire had fallen upon in the fits of death. Looping it hastily around his right arm, Hettus kicked off his sandals, the wood and leather flopping into the midst of the writhing bodies as he allowed his feet to experience the cool, clogged feeling of bloody mud oozing between his toes.
It was his time. His moment to shine. Everyone had doubted him for so long, but no more.
A Gaul grasped the aquilla, raising it up high and roaring in triumph. Five Legionnaires, their feet bogged down with mud, lunged forward, tackling the Gaul and sending him to the ground in a desperate fit to protect their pride. Unfortunately, a second Gaul, one who was on horseback, slowly waded through the chaos, catching the aquilla and holding it high.
Hettus broke into a jog. The bog was clogged. He found himself slowed as Legionnaires paid no attention to him, instead running in front of him and leaping upon a Gaul. Gauls were too preoccupied with hunting Centurions, never mind some filthy little wretch who had wandered in from the forest.
The Gaul on horseback twisted around. The horse began to slowly patter off, desperately pulling at the mud. The pace of Hettus quickened. He smelt the rank, unwashed odor of the horses clogged fur.
One moment was all it took.
Without a thought for his own safety, Hettus grasped the hind of the horse, digging his Gladius deep into its roar. The horse gave a squealing bellow, rearing and allowing the Gaul to tumble down its spine and into the muddy bog below, right at the feet of Hettus. Hettus got on one knee, swiftly stabbing his Gladius down with repeated stabs. Hot blood burst against his face and flowed over his knuckles and fingers. Five, ten, twenty stabs, all with ravaged abandon. He grasped the aquilla and held it up high, turning to the side where mostly Legionnaires were stumbling.
“LONG LIVE ROMANA!!!!” screamed Hettus. The Legionnaires glanced up, noticing that one of their disgraced Centurions had restored his honor. He had secured the aquilla. It was a road to gaining a prestigious title.
They were spurred on. Suddenly, the Roman fire ignited in their bellies. A Centurion, who was stood some feet away from the bog, watched in amazement as one hundred men turned around, slowly wading out of the mud and towards him, forming perfect lines as they did. The Centurion walked forward to the front of these men, allowing them to spin on their heels and face the enemy.
Around four hundred Legionnaires, Praetorians and Centurions remained fighting in the bog. Hettus watched as Scorpio, one of the most highly-decorated Praetorians, stumbled in the bog, his hands grasping around. His neck almost felt the kiss of steel, but he was saved the embarrassing fate by an eagle-eyed Centurion who lunged forward, ramming the boss of his Scutum into the gut of the Gaul before jabbing his Pilum straight through his right eye, bursting it and piercing the brain before pulling it out with a sickening crunch.
The Bull, the most famed of Gaul leaders, had now taken to mindlessly stumbling in the mud, his face contorted in fury and confusion as he tried in vain to count the number of men dead. Hettus slowly waded forward, into the relative safety of the Roman dogpile. He slowly turned around, grasping a Legionnaires shoulder.
“Soldier. What’s the report?” asked Hettus, leaning his head close to his ear.
“Hettus! You arrive in good time! Did Mithras himself send you to save our aquilla?” asked the Legionnaire.
“He did.” Replied Hettus, not bothering with humility.
“Sir, the Gauls attempted to attack our camp at dawn. We repelled the initial attack, but they kept coming. Every single man in the camp with the exception of the Emperor moved forward, where we kept pushing back. We fought in the camps and in the forest, and now we are here, on this god-forsaken field. We expected them to surrender, they did n—“
A spear whistled through the air. Hettus looped his right arm around the neck of the Legionnaire, squatting down and pulling him with him. Both men watched as a spear flew through the air, landing uselessly in a bare patch of mud behind them.
“They did not? Then let us kill them all, one by one.” Snarled Hettus, standing up with his back straight. “I FEAR NO MAN! I HAVE WORKED PAST ALL THE DOUBTS AND EARNED MY GLORY AT LAST!! DO YOU HEAR ME, GAULS?!”
As soon as Hettus finished, an odd chill fell over the air. The Gauls and Legionnaires were struck quiet by a sense of foreboding. The Legion at their backs remained still, calm, composed. A set of heavy horses hooves filled the air, pounding rhythmically.
Hettus slowly turned his head to the right, noticing a great beast hurtling towards them. A beast covered in metal, belching smoke, its eyes as red as flames. Atop this beast sat a man, his entire body clad in leather reinforced with strips of metal at the joints, a wolf pelt hanging from his back, as well as the skull of a bear over his head.
They call him the Oblivion. Legionnaires stumbled backwards in the mud. Some fell. Gauls remained transfixed, almost frightened as the Oblivion rode towards them, barbed spear in his right hand aimed towards the chaotic bog of blood.
Hettus smiled. They had made a legend of this man. Yet he too was a mere mortal. A mortal who could only introduce himself into battle when chaos had been unleashed, when he knew that his opponents weren’t physically nor mentally sound enough to take him on with full power.
As he rode closer, a second rider was revealed, sitting on the back of the same horse, his face and body obscured by the behemoth sitting in front of him, and only noteworthy from the broadsword he clutched in his outstretched arm. This was a nobody, nobody whom the Empire took seriously, at least. There had been rumours of a man named after a sprig of a plant: Holly, but no-one cared enough.
Hettus stared. The horse drew closer, straight towards him. The aquilla called out to the Gaul. Hettus clutched his Gladius tighter, his smile spreading out into a grin.
“Come on then, you son of a bitch. Let’s see if the legends are true.” He whispered quietly to himself.
The horse hurtled into the first stretch of the bog, mere feet away from him. The horses hooves were not slowed nor stopped by the blood-thickened mud beneath it. A soldier burst out from a pile of mud to the right of Hettus, lunging forward. Before the Oblivion could strike, the soldier pushed him away, the spear striking his right shoulder and sending him stumbling violently to the ground. Hettus managed to jam his Gladius into the rear leg of the horse where there was no armor, severing it clean from its body and sending the horse stumbling and rolling into the mud, sending the two riders rolling into the filth.
“PILA IACE!!!” yelled the lone, brave Centurion behind them. Hettus leant down, grasping the soldier who had risked his wellbring to save him. He pushed his hands under his thick arms, hauling him to his feet. The Legionnaires, upon seeing the Oblivion and who they assumed to be ‘Holly’, quickly snapped back to their senses, turning to the Gauls once more.
A mighty bellow went up. This man wasn’t immortal! He was barely a competent rider! As soon as the Legionnaires stood in full attention, the Oblivion scarpered forward, behind the pile of Gauls, his tail nipped at ‘Holly’. Cowardice. He couldn’t attack a man face-to-face. That was beyond him.
“PILA PARATI!!!” bellowed the Centurion.
“BACK!!” yelled a few Legionnaires. The Roman soldiers stumbled backwards, some crawling like dogs as the golden sun was suddenly blotted out by the shadows of one hundred pilums whistling through the air like a horde of angry hornets. Hettus grabbed his savior, pulling him back as the Pilums arched over them, embedding themselves in flesh, bone and mud. Gauls screamed and cried, their leather and fur doing very little to protect them from the harsh rain of metal. The Oblivion and ‘Holly’ kept moving backwards, doing their best to avoid a strike from a pilum spear.
The figure at Hettus’s side, grasped his shoulder. Hettus turned to him, finally realising just who it was. Another wayward soul just like him, clad in nought but a crimson tunic.
“My friend, you are alive!” exclaimed Davus brightly. Hettus clasped a hand gratefully on his shoulder.
“Of course I am, and I bring the Legion their hope back.” Replied Hettus, thrusting the aquilla into the air. The Legionnaires let loose a rumbling roar, thrusting their Gladius’s into the air upon seeing the golden eagle remain perched and aligned to the might of Romana.
“Hettus..I may be wounded, but we MUST go after the Oblivion and his tiny little lackey. We cannot afford to let them get away without harm. We need to unleash fury upon them. We need to let them know just who they are messing with.” Snarled Davus, his large eyes under his coat of rank, hardening mud starting to narrow dangerously.
“Then let us go.” Replied Hettus, thrusting the aquilla to his side. A Legionnaire hesitantly took it from his head, allowing Hettus to point forward. “PERCUTE!!!”
With the thundering and squashing of sandals upon mud and dirt, the soldiers begin to make their ways forward. The Centurion ordered his legion forward. Hettus and Davus waded forward through the mud. They had been doubted before, but no more. It was about to be the end for a man who believed he could destroy them.
No more arrogance. No more cowardice. It was time they got their fight face-to-face. The glory had faded away, and vengeance had began to settle in. There was no point lording over achievements when a war had to be fought.
===
Back at the mansion, Luck was sat on the leather sofa in front of his plasma screen television. The room was still mostly empty. Mostly barren. Blackened with no light turned on. His eyes were shut tightly, his upper lip was swollen, his right eye was blackened.
He was laughing. A weak, wheezing laugh as his tired arms hugged the metal briefcase close to his body. The briefcase containing his personal aquilla: The World Championship shot. He had finally done it. He had conquered the demons that haunted him. Jack Bull had been slain. Scorpion had bowed. Cross had been decimated. Diabolik bowed out with a foetal whimper. Warrior failed to live up to his name. Mister Luck had finally shone brighter than the men who falsely proclaimed themselves as legends. He had finally gained the glory, despite the fans not willing to believe it.
He had also proven to his stepsister just what Oblivion was: A coward who attacked people when they least expected it.
The wheezing laughter turned into sad, guttural sobs. A lone tear rolled from his right eye and down his cheek.
He remembered his friend had taken the fall to protect him.
The sobbing stopped. Luck opened his cold, lifeless eyes, staring at the screen. He wanted Retribution to arrive so he could eliminate Dante Holly and Oblivion. He wanted to grasp Oblivion and crush his throat between his hands. He wanted to take Dante Hollys head, rip it off and stick it on a pike as an example of what happens to the men who dare stand before Mister Luck.
“…I’m going to murder you, Oblivion..” muttered Luck quietly. “For what you did to my friend…I will repay it tenfold..” Luck slowly got to his feet, still clutching the metal briefcase in his arms before slinging it into his right hand, letting it drop lifelessly at his side. He reached into the pocket of his denim jeans, pulling out a stun gun with his free hand. He held it at face-level, switched it on. The blue arc of electricity crackled before him. “How I wish I could make it so that Annettes face is unrecognisable to those she loves..Instead, I’ll just have to make the next few days a living hell for her..”
Eye for an eye. Kill for a kill.
Hettus awoke only to the call of nature. A tiny wren chirped on a branch high above him, causing Hettus to slowly sit up, rubbing his eyes and looking to the watery blue sky that hung above him. He had been out here for fourteen nights, and today would be the day that the Roman encampment would send out a frumentarii to collect him and inform him that his debt had been paid. He was finally going to go home. He was going to re-earn his glory the hard way, but he was going to do it.
For a few moments, he waited, but nothing happened. The air remained still. The wren flapped its tiny wings and fluttered off towards the sky. Hettus’s ears strained. He felt that he could smell something pungent in the air, but there were no dead bodies around, only the scorched, blackened bones of the Gaul Hettus had killed peering through their thin shield of mud thanks to the night of rain three moons before.
His ears strained once more. He could hear the clashing of metal off of metal. He could hear screaming, groaning, crying. He could hear the sound of orders being barked. He heard the sound of trumpets, as well as Latin calls.
Hettus thrust himself to his feet, throwing up his blankets and pulling out his leather scabbard and belt, quickly tying it around the waist of his red tunic, the only item of clothing he had on aside from his sandals, before darting towards the rough source of the noise. He hurtled fallen branches, jumped over gnarled, exposed roots. The cries got louder. The sounds of metal slicing the air and streaking off of metal were becoming more and more audible.
It only took three minutes for him to reach the northern edge of the forest. Huddling near a patch of rough undergrowth, he glanced out at a large field before him.
Several thousand Gauls were battling a large force of Roman legionnaires, many of whom Hettus recognised as those being stationed in the camp before he was casted out. There were no Legions in order, no Centurions standing tall. Instead, it was a dogpile. Men crammed into the center of the field, literally diving on eachother, as well as stabbing wildly at any man who they could grasp. Bronze helmets rolled on the floor. The fur of bears fell to the ground as it was grasped and sliced. Limbs flew into the air. Blood sprayed around. Hettus leant closer. He could see a lone Centurion, standing at the eastern edge of the forest and watching as the Legionnaires battled mindlessly. He was huddled behind his rectangular, crimson Scutum shield to avoid a wayward Gaul arrow or a thrown spear, instead choosing to pray to Mithras that his men might come to their senses and retreat to form an orderly Legion so they could march as one.
Not today. This was no battle. This was a war. A skirmish. A violent, frenzied assault by two sides who despised the other. Hettus watched as a Legionnaire crawled out of the huddle and towards him, falling flat on the ground several feet away as blood pooled around his chest, indicating his unfortunate demise from the several arrows jammed into the unguarded parts of his upper back and neck.
Fuck the rules. Fuck the code. They needed help.
Hettus darted onto the field, clutching his Gladius.
The stench of blood punctured his nostrils like the tip of a pilum. That sweet lingering scent of death as the field in front of him turned into little more than a bog whose mud was created by the spilt blood of Romans and Gauls. Chaos was everywhere for as long as Hettus could see. As far as he could tell, it was possibly the Roman encampment forces battling against Gaul invaders and attempting to drive them off. At least, that’s what he assumed since the jet-black uniforms of the Praetorians were amongst the scarlet and bronze of the Legionnaires, the Centurions and the Optios.
There was no rank whatsoever either, it was simple chaos. Madness. Centurions couldn’t form their Legionnaires into lines, and simply unleashed them. There was no order whatsoever, just a frenzied wailing and gnashing of teeth as Legionnaire fell on Gaul and Gaul fell on Legionnaire.
Hettus licked his lips. Oh, how he loved this! How he loved battles where nothing but chaos reigned supreme and everyone was focused on everyone! With all eyes darting around, Hettus could run in and steal the glory he had long been searching for. All he needed was that one moment. That one window. That one tiny second to tell him that his chance had arrived.
It arrived swiftly. Hettus watched as a standard-bearer, clutching a Gladius in one hand and a solid gold-and-silver aquilla in the other, had his head hacked off by the edge of a Gauls axe. The aquilla fell to the floor. That was the encampments aquilla. If a Gaul took it, it would mean shame and dishonour. It would be like tearing out their names and their souls. The Legions would be forced to disband and scatter into the winds.
Hettus darted forward, lunging down and grasping the familiar rectangular Scutum shield that a Legionnaire had fallen upon in the fits of death. Looping it hastily around his right arm, Hettus kicked off his sandals, the wood and leather flopping into the midst of the writhing bodies as he allowed his feet to experience the cool, clogged feeling of bloody mud oozing between his toes.
It was his time. His moment to shine. Everyone had doubted him for so long, but no more.
A Gaul grasped the aquilla, raising it up high and roaring in triumph. Five Legionnaires, their feet bogged down with mud, lunged forward, tackling the Gaul and sending him to the ground in a desperate fit to protect their pride. Unfortunately, a second Gaul, one who was on horseback, slowly waded through the chaos, catching the aquilla and holding it high.
Hettus broke into a jog. The bog was clogged. He found himself slowed as Legionnaires paid no attention to him, instead running in front of him and leaping upon a Gaul. Gauls were too preoccupied with hunting Centurions, never mind some filthy little wretch who had wandered in from the forest.
The Gaul on horseback twisted around. The horse began to slowly patter off, desperately pulling at the mud. The pace of Hettus quickened. He smelt the rank, unwashed odor of the horses clogged fur.
One moment was all it took.
Without a thought for his own safety, Hettus grasped the hind of the horse, digging his Gladius deep into its roar. The horse gave a squealing bellow, rearing and allowing the Gaul to tumble down its spine and into the muddy bog below, right at the feet of Hettus. Hettus got on one knee, swiftly stabbing his Gladius down with repeated stabs. Hot blood burst against his face and flowed over his knuckles and fingers. Five, ten, twenty stabs, all with ravaged abandon. He grasped the aquilla and held it up high, turning to the side where mostly Legionnaires were stumbling.
“LONG LIVE ROMANA!!!!” screamed Hettus. The Legionnaires glanced up, noticing that one of their disgraced Centurions had restored his honor. He had secured the aquilla. It was a road to gaining a prestigious title.
They were spurred on. Suddenly, the Roman fire ignited in their bellies. A Centurion, who was stood some feet away from the bog, watched in amazement as one hundred men turned around, slowly wading out of the mud and towards him, forming perfect lines as they did. The Centurion walked forward to the front of these men, allowing them to spin on their heels and face the enemy.
Around four hundred Legionnaires, Praetorians and Centurions remained fighting in the bog. Hettus watched as Scorpio, one of the most highly-decorated Praetorians, stumbled in the bog, his hands grasping around. His neck almost felt the kiss of steel, but he was saved the embarrassing fate by an eagle-eyed Centurion who lunged forward, ramming the boss of his Scutum into the gut of the Gaul before jabbing his Pilum straight through his right eye, bursting it and piercing the brain before pulling it out with a sickening crunch.
The Bull, the most famed of Gaul leaders, had now taken to mindlessly stumbling in the mud, his face contorted in fury and confusion as he tried in vain to count the number of men dead. Hettus slowly waded forward, into the relative safety of the Roman dogpile. He slowly turned around, grasping a Legionnaires shoulder.
“Soldier. What’s the report?” asked Hettus, leaning his head close to his ear.
“Hettus! You arrive in good time! Did Mithras himself send you to save our aquilla?” asked the Legionnaire.
“He did.” Replied Hettus, not bothering with humility.
“Sir, the Gauls attempted to attack our camp at dawn. We repelled the initial attack, but they kept coming. Every single man in the camp with the exception of the Emperor moved forward, where we kept pushing back. We fought in the camps and in the forest, and now we are here, on this god-forsaken field. We expected them to surrender, they did n—“
A spear whistled through the air. Hettus looped his right arm around the neck of the Legionnaire, squatting down and pulling him with him. Both men watched as a spear flew through the air, landing uselessly in a bare patch of mud behind them.
“They did not? Then let us kill them all, one by one.” Snarled Hettus, standing up with his back straight. “I FEAR NO MAN! I HAVE WORKED PAST ALL THE DOUBTS AND EARNED MY GLORY AT LAST!! DO YOU HEAR ME, GAULS?!”
As soon as Hettus finished, an odd chill fell over the air. The Gauls and Legionnaires were struck quiet by a sense of foreboding. The Legion at their backs remained still, calm, composed. A set of heavy horses hooves filled the air, pounding rhythmically.
Hettus slowly turned his head to the right, noticing a great beast hurtling towards them. A beast covered in metal, belching smoke, its eyes as red as flames. Atop this beast sat a man, his entire body clad in leather reinforced with strips of metal at the joints, a wolf pelt hanging from his back, as well as the skull of a bear over his head.
They call him the Oblivion. Legionnaires stumbled backwards in the mud. Some fell. Gauls remained transfixed, almost frightened as the Oblivion rode towards them, barbed spear in his right hand aimed towards the chaotic bog of blood.
Hettus smiled. They had made a legend of this man. Yet he too was a mere mortal. A mortal who could only introduce himself into battle when chaos had been unleashed, when he knew that his opponents weren’t physically nor mentally sound enough to take him on with full power.
As he rode closer, a second rider was revealed, sitting on the back of the same horse, his face and body obscured by the behemoth sitting in front of him, and only noteworthy from the broadsword he clutched in his outstretched arm. This was a nobody, nobody whom the Empire took seriously, at least. There had been rumours of a man named after a sprig of a plant: Holly, but no-one cared enough.
Hettus stared. The horse drew closer, straight towards him. The aquilla called out to the Gaul. Hettus clutched his Gladius tighter, his smile spreading out into a grin.
“Come on then, you son of a bitch. Let’s see if the legends are true.” He whispered quietly to himself.
The horse hurtled into the first stretch of the bog, mere feet away from him. The horses hooves were not slowed nor stopped by the blood-thickened mud beneath it. A soldier burst out from a pile of mud to the right of Hettus, lunging forward. Before the Oblivion could strike, the soldier pushed him away, the spear striking his right shoulder and sending him stumbling violently to the ground. Hettus managed to jam his Gladius into the rear leg of the horse where there was no armor, severing it clean from its body and sending the horse stumbling and rolling into the mud, sending the two riders rolling into the filth.
“PILA IACE!!!” yelled the lone, brave Centurion behind them. Hettus leant down, grasping the soldier who had risked his wellbring to save him. He pushed his hands under his thick arms, hauling him to his feet. The Legionnaires, upon seeing the Oblivion and who they assumed to be ‘Holly’, quickly snapped back to their senses, turning to the Gauls once more.
A mighty bellow went up. This man wasn’t immortal! He was barely a competent rider! As soon as the Legionnaires stood in full attention, the Oblivion scarpered forward, behind the pile of Gauls, his tail nipped at ‘Holly’. Cowardice. He couldn’t attack a man face-to-face. That was beyond him.
“PILA PARATI!!!” bellowed the Centurion.
“BACK!!” yelled a few Legionnaires. The Roman soldiers stumbled backwards, some crawling like dogs as the golden sun was suddenly blotted out by the shadows of one hundred pilums whistling through the air like a horde of angry hornets. Hettus grabbed his savior, pulling him back as the Pilums arched over them, embedding themselves in flesh, bone and mud. Gauls screamed and cried, their leather and fur doing very little to protect them from the harsh rain of metal. The Oblivion and ‘Holly’ kept moving backwards, doing their best to avoid a strike from a pilum spear.
The figure at Hettus’s side, grasped his shoulder. Hettus turned to him, finally realising just who it was. Another wayward soul just like him, clad in nought but a crimson tunic.
“My friend, you are alive!” exclaimed Davus brightly. Hettus clasped a hand gratefully on his shoulder.
“Of course I am, and I bring the Legion their hope back.” Replied Hettus, thrusting the aquilla into the air. The Legionnaires let loose a rumbling roar, thrusting their Gladius’s into the air upon seeing the golden eagle remain perched and aligned to the might of Romana.
“Hettus..I may be wounded, but we MUST go after the Oblivion and his tiny little lackey. We cannot afford to let them get away without harm. We need to unleash fury upon them. We need to let them know just who they are messing with.” Snarled Davus, his large eyes under his coat of rank, hardening mud starting to narrow dangerously.
“Then let us go.” Replied Hettus, thrusting the aquilla to his side. A Legionnaire hesitantly took it from his head, allowing Hettus to point forward. “PERCUTE!!!”
With the thundering and squashing of sandals upon mud and dirt, the soldiers begin to make their ways forward. The Centurion ordered his legion forward. Hettus and Davus waded forward through the mud. They had been doubted before, but no more. It was about to be the end for a man who believed he could destroy them.
No more arrogance. No more cowardice. It was time they got their fight face-to-face. The glory had faded away, and vengeance had began to settle in. There was no point lording over achievements when a war had to be fought.
===
Back at the mansion, Luck was sat on the leather sofa in front of his plasma screen television. The room was still mostly empty. Mostly barren. Blackened with no light turned on. His eyes were shut tightly, his upper lip was swollen, his right eye was blackened.
He was laughing. A weak, wheezing laugh as his tired arms hugged the metal briefcase close to his body. The briefcase containing his personal aquilla: The World Championship shot. He had finally done it. He had conquered the demons that haunted him. Jack Bull had been slain. Scorpion had bowed. Cross had been decimated. Diabolik bowed out with a foetal whimper. Warrior failed to live up to his name. Mister Luck had finally shone brighter than the men who falsely proclaimed themselves as legends. He had finally gained the glory, despite the fans not willing to believe it.
He had also proven to his stepsister just what Oblivion was: A coward who attacked people when they least expected it.
The wheezing laughter turned into sad, guttural sobs. A lone tear rolled from his right eye and down his cheek.
He remembered his friend had taken the fall to protect him.
The sobbing stopped. Luck opened his cold, lifeless eyes, staring at the screen. He wanted Retribution to arrive so he could eliminate Dante Holly and Oblivion. He wanted to grasp Oblivion and crush his throat between his hands. He wanted to take Dante Hollys head, rip it off and stick it on a pike as an example of what happens to the men who dare stand before Mister Luck.
“…I’m going to murder you, Oblivion..” muttered Luck quietly. “For what you did to my friend…I will repay it tenfold..” Luck slowly got to his feet, still clutching the metal briefcase in his arms before slinging it into his right hand, letting it drop lifelessly at his side. He reached into the pocket of his denim jeans, pulling out a stun gun with his free hand. He held it at face-level, switched it on. The blue arc of electricity crackled before him. “How I wish I could make it so that Annettes face is unrecognisable to those she loves..Instead, I’ll just have to make the next few days a living hell for her..”
Eye for an eye. Kill for a kill.
