Warriors' Ways
Nineteenth Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC
Heavy boots thudded upon the moss covered soil of the fey path, men raised unto the strength and vigor of giants walking where others feared to tread, in the wake of their twin fey guards, shadows slinking on their flanks and serpentine mages coiling among their ranks.
Laceon, once called the Lame, still marveled at his new form, not just the strength, not just the sharpness of eye or swiftness of limb, not even just the fire in his blood that sang with a melody that called to the Valyrian Steel at his side, but the simple fact that that he was here, under strange skies, walking free. A veteran of many of the petty wars that marked the Disputed Lands, his luck had finally run out when one of the Bloody Mummers had gone at his knee with a hammer. His comrades had dragged him off the field before the crows could have him, but some days he used to curse them for doing it, among the haze of cheap wine and dull pain.
Although he had started to turn his life around a year ago, working as a quartermaster out of Westheaven, there wasn't anything healers could do for his knee. Beyond the work of lesser sorcerers they called it, but Laceon figured it was good enough that they had taken away the pain. Then he had heard about the Praetori and he figured if they were going to take every bone and sinew apart, they'd probably grow his knee back as well.
There was pain and black dreams and learning how to walk again on two legs like he was a babe in leading strings, but in the end he had gotten what he wanted and the Emperor had gotten one hoary old killer for his army. A damn sight better deal than he had ever gotten as a sellsword.
War being what it was, marching and looking tough wasn't enough to see them through. Some sort of fey-things of thorns and dry wood came down out of the thickets to kill them one 'night'. Thin as kindling they looked, but stronger than steel. Gouged out Lorn's eyes and flayed the flesh off Harven's back, going right through his armor they did. Luckily they seemed more interested in pain than killing. Laceon knew pain, the bearing of and the dealing with it. The foe burned like kindling.
"Cursed," the snake wizard hissed, spitting blood, or perhaps sap from its mouth. It took one of the little plant folk, leshy to explain right way around. The Queen of this place had died under the wrath of the god cursing the Emperor's name, so while there wasn't an army here to contest the lands, everything that was around hated them because of her dying will upon the land.
Half a hundred of the corpse blades fell in skirmishes on the way, they could hardly heal them, and given a choice the wizards focused on keeping the living alive. Still, twelve of the scout birds perished too before they learned not to fly off too far, and six of the cats for being too curious.
Really, whose idea had it been to make cats man-smart?
Lost 50 Black Knights
Lost 5000 IM (Resurrections)
Now they were here at last, the Seat of Stars, or what was left of it at least, little more than blackened stone and brooding skies. "Hardly the picture of a fairy realm," Lorn japed.
The horned scout turned a cold gaze to the man. "I assure you that were any mortal keep to be subjected to the forces that smote the heart of the Court of Stars, there would be scarce dust on the wind to mark its grave."
"Well it was our mortal king that had it smote," Lorn challenged. "So what's that say about you high and mighty..."
"Easy there," Laceon said, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We are on the same side, soldiers, citizens all." There had been some of that on the road here, more's the pity. Easy to blame the fey you can see over the cackling shadows in the dark.
"You think you are mortal?" the huntsman's cold amusement echoed and seemed to wash over the whole squad as he speared Lorn with his gaze. "Those you call Little Esarians are more kin to man than what you have become."
"Never was good with counting kinship. There was that time with my cousin Ada at my uncle's wedding..." Laceon interjected a little more loudly. His squad laughed at the reminder of the story he'd told two nights ago over around the camp, the fey hunter gave him a sharp smile and the smallest of nods.
Laceon would never know that was the moment Captain Torak decided he had what it took to be assigned to the post full time. The old saying proving its truth once again, the wages of skill were more work.
What next?
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OOC: I have not forgotten the Sage and the XP, don't worry. It's just that I wanted to get this sorted since it had already been voted on as a report and I wanted to to and interlude from the perspective of a praetorian besides Sandor. Not yet edited. 
