Post by The Master Tactician on Feb 16, 2013 0:37:14 GMT -5
February 8th, 23 CLE, following The Trail of Fire
Runners arrived first, sped through the labyrinth streets and tunnels of Noxus, their faces pale with the gravity of the news they bore. “The regiment returns! We've captured the Burning Vengeance!” they cried. Refugees and inner-citizens of Noxus alike allowed themselves tears and cheers of relief—but news of tragedy followed that of victory, spread just as quickly. “Nearly five hundred dead... So much destruction.”
Outside the western city gate, state-hands hurriedly erected a stage adorned in Noxian colors and crests. Behind it, slaves set to work excavating a pit, clearing aside flammable field brush: a sprawling makeshift pyre under the setting sun. People trickled out onto the street, crowded onto the city walls, spread out over the field below. At least a hundred thousand congregated to await the return of their leaders and loved ones. Some shed anxious tears; others scanned the horizon for the army's approach, heads held high in steely resolve.
Finally, silhouetted against the neon sky, a great military caravan crested the hilltop, marched towards the western gate: soldiers, heads hung in exhaustion and grief; heroes, wounded and weary; and five iron wagons heaped high with infantry corpses. The masses issued a collective gasp. Some pointed and whispered. Others clasped hands and hoped to some higher power that their loved ones were on their feet—not laid to rest in chariots of death.
As the procession drew nigh, silence fell over the crowd, eyes grew wide. The scent of charred flesh wafted on the wind. From his seat at the helm of an iron carriage, the Grand General struggled to his feet. “Take the wounded to the hospital immediately,” he ordered the driver. Then, slowly, arduously, he descended the stairs, two feet on every step. His shroud was crusted crimson with dried blood, his usually pristine military robes burnt and tattered. He looked more shambling corpse than man as he limped towards the ground, barking, “Have your men unload the bodies,” to a nearby slavemaster. “heap them on the pyre.”
“Yes, Grand General,” said the driver.
“Yes, Grand General,” said the slavemaster.
Crimson eyes blazing, jaw set in grim resolve, Swain hobbled to the stage. The generals of the two deployed battalions followed him, their faces somber. Chairs were set out atop the platform for the champion party, a podium for the Grand General, behind which he now stood, his bruise-blackened face looking out over the crowd. He allowed a moment of stillness before he began, punctuated by the bitter sobs of mothers and wives, the transport of charred bodies to the pit.
Finally, the Grand General spoke, his voice bleak and weary, but authoritative. “There are no words to temper this calamity—this destruction wrought upon our nation. Today, we mourn five hundred men and women who gave their lives in defense of our people.” He paused, visibly trembling in either rage or weariness—perhaps a combination of both. “This is the direct result of the Institute's folly. They believed themselves capable of harnessing power beyond their control. They presumed to shackle otherworldly horrors in this realm—and for their audacity, we suffer the consequences.” These last words came through gritted teeth, spat in patriotic fury.
As Swain spoke, corpses piled ever-higher behind the stage, adding weight to his words. “Let us honor the fallen: those who so valiantly fought and died that all of us might live.” He stepped back from the podium, bowed his head, folded his hands over his cane and stood in silence. The general of the warrior-unit stepped forward with an unfurled scroll to read the names of the deceased within her company. Her voice was strong but mournful. She gave each name time enough to resonate over the crowd: a solemn interim for every fallen soldier. When she had finished, she too stepped back, lowered her head, and the mage-battalion's general assumed the podium with his own scroll. Nearly twenty minutes passed before every soldier's name had been properly extolled. Then, finally, the magus-general stepped back, head bowed in sorrowful respect.
Anguish hung over the multitude as Swain resumed the stage. Crimson eyes flashed over the crowd: the bereaved clinging to their families, the patriots standing tall, the skeptics craning their necks for signs of the rumored elemental prisoner... He cleared his throat before proceeding. “Let us also honor those heroes who still stand among us.” Then he extended a withered hand towards the army, which still stood in perfect formation. His resolve strengthened; his features hardened; his voice grew fiercely ardent. “Your Witherwood mages, who contained the very personification of destruction with their practiced craft!” Applause, steady and scattered, began to rise over the field. Many observers offered salutes to the mage-battalion. In response, the soldiers straightened up, adopted poses of dignity. The din grew. Then the Grand General bellowed out again over the crowd:
“Your courageous warriors, who sheltered their fellows with true Noxian resolve, ensuring Brand's containment!” The people cheered, clapped wildly. Some began to shed tears of patriotism. Swain pressed on: “General Darius, Hand of Noxus, who fought the primal flames hand-to-hand and emerged unscathed!” He motioned towards his second. Cheers. “The Undead Warrior: proof that Noxian resolve persists even in death!” His withered hand indicated Sion, then Renekton. “The Culling Blade of Noxus, who was prepared to sacrifice his own body to keep Brand in the line of chemical fire—a stark contrast to paragons of the past.” A scowl flitted across Swain's features at this reference: a subtle twitch of disgust. “And perhaps he would not stand before you today but for the prowess of the world's only practiced hemomancer.” The Grand General indicated Vladimir. “This is the strength of your nation! Where the Institute has failed, Noxus has succeeded!”[/color][/size]
As Swain spoke, several mage-soldiers levitated Brand's maimed form from his iron prison out onto the stage. He was barely conscious, embers glowing faintly behind his prison of purple light. The Grand General lifted his chin, grim satisfaction spreading over his bruised features. “I give you,” he growled over the assemblage, “The Burning Vengeance.”[/size]
The crowd issued a collective gasp. The nationalistic sentiments of the Noxian people had been stirred. Deafening applause rose up over the city, echoed through the field. The Institute of War had always been a force to be reckoned with—and now Noxus had done what it could not. Noxus had subdued the cosmic flame. Noxus was strong. “Blood for Noxus!” came the cries of patriotism. “Forever strong!”
“We will not falter, despite our loss!” Swain slammed a fist upon the podium. “We will rise to meet each obstacle we face. From every conflict, we will emerge victorious—because Noxus is strong, and the strong survive.” He gripped the podium, steadying himself.
“It is a travesty that so many of our countrymen lost their lives in the defense of our lands and people. But no longer will we be victims of the Institute's poor judgment. We will be prepared.” Bitterness dripped from his every word: contempt for the organization that outwardly promoted prosperity, while allowing such cosmic forces of destruction to roam unchecked. “Henceforth, all military reserves move to active duty. Terms of enlistment eligibility have been broadened for every citizen over eighteen, regardless of past terms served or legal status. And a mandatory draft goes out to all unemployed mages and Noxian ex-summoners.”
Despite his weariness, his tremor, the Grand General squared his shoulders, stood dignified before his people. “The time to serve your country is now.” Fiery eyes swept over the masses as he issued his call to arms. “If the rest of Valoran still places faith in the Institute's waning ability, let them fall. But Noxus...
”Noxus will rise.”[/size][/font]
Runners arrived first, sped through the labyrinth streets and tunnels of Noxus, their faces pale with the gravity of the news they bore. “The regiment returns! We've captured the Burning Vengeance!” they cried. Refugees and inner-citizens of Noxus alike allowed themselves tears and cheers of relief—but news of tragedy followed that of victory, spread just as quickly. “Nearly five hundred dead... So much destruction.”
Outside the western city gate, state-hands hurriedly erected a stage adorned in Noxian colors and crests. Behind it, slaves set to work excavating a pit, clearing aside flammable field brush: a sprawling makeshift pyre under the setting sun. People trickled out onto the street, crowded onto the city walls, spread out over the field below. At least a hundred thousand congregated to await the return of their leaders and loved ones. Some shed anxious tears; others scanned the horizon for the army's approach, heads held high in steely resolve.
Finally, silhouetted against the neon sky, a great military caravan crested the hilltop, marched towards the western gate: soldiers, heads hung in exhaustion and grief; heroes, wounded and weary; and five iron wagons heaped high with infantry corpses. The masses issued a collective gasp. Some pointed and whispered. Others clasped hands and hoped to some higher power that their loved ones were on their feet—not laid to rest in chariots of death.
As the procession drew nigh, silence fell over the crowd, eyes grew wide. The scent of charred flesh wafted on the wind. From his seat at the helm of an iron carriage, the Grand General struggled to his feet. “Take the wounded to the hospital immediately,” he ordered the driver. Then, slowly, arduously, he descended the stairs, two feet on every step. His shroud was crusted crimson with dried blood, his usually pristine military robes burnt and tattered. He looked more shambling corpse than man as he limped towards the ground, barking, “Have your men unload the bodies,” to a nearby slavemaster. “heap them on the pyre.”
“Yes, Grand General,” said the driver.
“Yes, Grand General,” said the slavemaster.
Crimson eyes blazing, jaw set in grim resolve, Swain hobbled to the stage. The generals of the two deployed battalions followed him, their faces somber. Chairs were set out atop the platform for the champion party, a podium for the Grand General, behind which he now stood, his bruise-blackened face looking out over the crowd. He allowed a moment of stillness before he began, punctuated by the bitter sobs of mothers and wives, the transport of charred bodies to the pit.
Finally, the Grand General spoke, his voice bleak and weary, but authoritative. “There are no words to temper this calamity—this destruction wrought upon our nation. Today, we mourn five hundred men and women who gave their lives in defense of our people.” He paused, visibly trembling in either rage or weariness—perhaps a combination of both. “This is the direct result of the Institute's folly. They believed themselves capable of harnessing power beyond their control. They presumed to shackle otherworldly horrors in this realm—and for their audacity, we suffer the consequences.” These last words came through gritted teeth, spat in patriotic fury.
As Swain spoke, corpses piled ever-higher behind the stage, adding weight to his words. “Let us honor the fallen: those who so valiantly fought and died that all of us might live.” He stepped back from the podium, bowed his head, folded his hands over his cane and stood in silence. The general of the warrior-unit stepped forward with an unfurled scroll to read the names of the deceased within her company. Her voice was strong but mournful. She gave each name time enough to resonate over the crowd: a solemn interim for every fallen soldier. When she had finished, she too stepped back, lowered her head, and the mage-battalion's general assumed the podium with his own scroll. Nearly twenty minutes passed before every soldier's name had been properly extolled. Then, finally, the magus-general stepped back, head bowed in sorrowful respect.
Anguish hung over the multitude as Swain resumed the stage. Crimson eyes flashed over the crowd: the bereaved clinging to their families, the patriots standing tall, the skeptics craning their necks for signs of the rumored elemental prisoner... He cleared his throat before proceeding. “Let us also honor those heroes who still stand among us.” Then he extended a withered hand towards the army, which still stood in perfect formation. His resolve strengthened; his features hardened; his voice grew fiercely ardent. “Your Witherwood mages, who contained the very personification of destruction with their practiced craft!” Applause, steady and scattered, began to rise over the field. Many observers offered salutes to the mage-battalion. In response, the soldiers straightened up, adopted poses of dignity. The din grew. Then the Grand General bellowed out again over the crowd:
“Your courageous warriors, who sheltered their fellows with true Noxian resolve, ensuring Brand's containment!” The people cheered, clapped wildly. Some began to shed tears of patriotism. Swain pressed on: “General Darius, Hand of Noxus, who fought the primal flames hand-to-hand and emerged unscathed!” He motioned towards his second. Cheers. “The Undead Warrior: proof that Noxian resolve persists even in death!” His withered hand indicated Sion, then Renekton. “The Culling Blade of Noxus, who was prepared to sacrifice his own body to keep Brand in the line of chemical fire—a stark contrast to paragons of the past.” A scowl flitted across Swain's features at this reference: a subtle twitch of disgust. “And perhaps he would not stand before you today but for the prowess of the world's only practiced hemomancer.” The Grand General indicated Vladimir. “This is the strength of your nation! Where the Institute has failed, Noxus has succeeded!”[/color][/size]
As Swain spoke, several mage-soldiers levitated Brand's maimed form from his iron prison out onto the stage. He was barely conscious, embers glowing faintly behind his prison of purple light. The Grand General lifted his chin, grim satisfaction spreading over his bruised features. “I give you,” he growled over the assemblage, “The Burning Vengeance.”[/size]
The crowd issued a collective gasp. The nationalistic sentiments of the Noxian people had been stirred. Deafening applause rose up over the city, echoed through the field. The Institute of War had always been a force to be reckoned with—and now Noxus had done what it could not. Noxus had subdued the cosmic flame. Noxus was strong. “Blood for Noxus!” came the cries of patriotism. “Forever strong!”
“We will not falter, despite our loss!” Swain slammed a fist upon the podium. “We will rise to meet each obstacle we face. From every conflict, we will emerge victorious—because Noxus is strong, and the strong survive.” He gripped the podium, steadying himself.
“It is a travesty that so many of our countrymen lost their lives in the defense of our lands and people. But no longer will we be victims of the Institute's poor judgment. We will be prepared.” Bitterness dripped from his every word: contempt for the organization that outwardly promoted prosperity, while allowing such cosmic forces of destruction to roam unchecked. “Henceforth, all military reserves move to active duty. Terms of enlistment eligibility have been broadened for every citizen over eighteen, regardless of past terms served or legal status. And a mandatory draft goes out to all unemployed mages and Noxian ex-summoners.”
Despite his weariness, his tremor, the Grand General squared his shoulders, stood dignified before his people. “The time to serve your country is now.” Fiery eyes swept over the masses as he issued his call to arms. “If the rest of Valoran still places faith in the Institute's waning ability, let them fall. But Noxus...
”Noxus will rise.”[/size][/font]
