Mors Invicta: Remembered Only as Footnotes

Unsheathed, my blade shone like the moon on the darkest eve as the sun rose above me.

Though it had yet to meet the entrails of the beasts that threatened peace and sanity, my hands were bathed in the blood of legions.

Not all our enemies.

Wrought from the pillaged steel, I grasped it, as the guard and pommel rested against my bare flesh.

An ache overcame me, like no other before. A savage yearning for the familiar lifeblood of the many a horde that stood as a mockery and profanity of all that was sacred.

As my heart raced, driven by indignation and superiority, the stench of suffering surged through my nostrils.

Lies it would be to say I did not revel and bathe in those uneasy moments before our steel met with peasant mortals.

Beyond the brutality, the brazen and dehumanisation that was a must on the wartorn fields of Never, there was honourable honesty.

We stood on the precipice of immortality. Not of life eternal but Macte Virtute.

Our fate was sealed as victors, be it in death or...

I spit out the remnants of blood clots of the fallen. That taste of valour and the perfumed scent of their wretched brought a smile to my weathered face.

The unstoppable might, the unassailable destruction. Glory was ours, glory forged by warlust and strategy designed to devastate.

They dare call evil on our acts of nobility. Their tongues will find a place to rest from my belt, as their women we dine upon at nightfall.

At dawn, they rise, to the soil-trod of thousands hoofed and embittered with rage. As our barrage reaches their ears, uncertain the vermin are of their fate

Their children our sacrificial offerings, their women and any beasts who survive, our spoils.

As my men stand poised for the eventuality, the wormwood liquor from my skin flask coats my mouth and throat mixing with the spoils of the last dance with the feeble we enjoyed at the encampment to our south.

An encampment of fools it once was. For now it burns as an effigy, a memorial and prophetic warsong.

Uncertainty and r go hand in hand. The crippled hand of fate had been kind, but that could change.

The empire wad entrusted to my sword and my men. Though the outcome was unknown, surety of the cause in our minds eye and the shine of poison-coated blades and shields was the promise, the trust we needed.

Life and death were balanced equally and confidence. Confidence and courage with the strategy of a people desirous of glory were our strength.

That and a fatalist outnumbering in might and armoury, were the promise, our guarantor.

Our siege, our prestige. The good and true name we had earned as butchers. Butchers of distinction. Efficiency and versatility, words that echoed prophetically beyond the veils of time itself.

Underfoot our path was painted crimson, brightening the wastelands of the forgotten.

At dawn, we lay waste to their kind.

Our horns sound.

Inevitability.

As we stood above, victorious, incantations and proclamations were sung as my blade at last took the final remnants of his highness.

A child’s cry echoed in the mire.

We were

dripping blood

Gaping broken

Severed by

darkness

Remembered only as footnotes

No hope of rising

above the mire

If only for oxygen

We were

strangled

Forgotten as victims

If only for the regret

Eating, feasting

Detritus

Rustation

Carnal brevity

Words powerless

Invicta Mort

Invoked

Mors Invicta

Genocidal?

Purposeful.

Of course.

Of course.

Tattered remains

Of what was

Once

The remnants

Torn

What was

Once

Remnants

Torn

What was

What was

What was

Once

Mors Invicta