The Isle of the Fell

V - The Later Isle of the Fell

2295-The Insurgency From Nepos Continued

Then, suddenly, with great anger and despair, Gnaeus yelled, and intentionally or unintentionally, the winds became colder, yet the trees stopped moving. The torches flickered and the flames grew longer.

Nepos had a small, growing feeling of shame and coldness at this time for what he had done, but could not let those feelings manifest in a dangerous setting as he was in. But the cold and pain grew deeper, and soon came the stench of corpses and the smell of blood on iron, and as strange shapes came through the shadows and grew to terrible forms of terror, as bloated corpses grew deformed shapes and pieces of grass grew twig legs and arms, it became clear; the demons had come.

They were the bloody knives in one's nightmare; one would go downstairs in a dream and wash dishes, and touch a clean knife, and then see it covered in blood, one would feel insanity, the feeling that they had devastated something, they would feel guilty, or guilty at not feeling guilty. Anyone who had done something, a politician, a military commander, an economist, a businessman, who had reasons to believe they had hurt someone before, felt that.

The Elven refused to feel, and to overcome their grief, denied its very existence and distracted themselves with the realities and cold logic of the present. But this option, whether it be fortunate or unfortunate, for whether one chooses optimality or morality remains unknown, was disallowed to Man. It was the guilt of one being responsible, one's cries for hope causing a bestial tide, this was the guilt that one felt from the coming of demons.

Yet this guilt did not come, for what were once thought of as an enemy were now allies, for both Gnaeus and Lucius believed in the possibility of coexistence, even though Lucius knew how Man had been Tharizdun's enemy for millennia.

But for Nepos, fear remained, and although he knew he had caused nothing, fear strengthened for fear was the oldest of all emotions, and the greatest form of fear was the unknown, the black void that lay ahead, and rightfully so, for what was unknown was usually more dangerous.

Fireballs loomed and fell as Balor, its wings blood crimson, with the flames of chaos sewed in, flew down from the waning sky and landed. Its whip lashed, it roared a terrible bellow, and the morale of the veterans that opposed it cracked. Then the fire-whip came, came down, like a slide of magma, its thick line melting through the flesh and armor of its opponents, until the disconnected bones covered in flesh fell down with a clank to the ground.

The mob and demons rose together. They rose as one. One people, who had fought against each other for all time, fought with each other.

It was a moment of realization, and a moment of ambiguity. For what was this but the delusion of Man, and the cleansing of its final civilization, or was it the final blunder of Tharizdun, as his mind had already been weakened from his defeat by the first Napoleon, and whose essence would at last be purged by the successors of Lucius?

Nonetheless, it was a moment of terror, for now, no matter the victor, it did not matter, for as a writer wrote a weaker villain for the sole purpose of two rivals defeating him, it seemed now to both Quintus and Nepos that Second Rome was becoming that trivial antagonist.

But then Quintus spoke, and although Nepos and him had been bitter rivals, the feud broke between them, him an unknown peasant in the shadows with a clerk and a muscle, and him the symbol of fear and autocracy.

His words rang down. He spoke of the honor of Lucius, and how misled he had become, how his wrath had turned to folly, and how Caesar was the liberator and protector of them from the great evils that they had already seen. And to dissolve such a great Empire, what was to gain? What physical elements did they miss, for they had safety, protection and economic welfare? Did Caesar ever declare himself a king to his people?

And, although it left some questions unanswered pertaining to the rights and liberty of Man, and why the Fell were always evil, this did not matter, for it had the necessary components of a speech, to create powerful arguments, and to shed attention away from what was missing.

Tears were what Nepos shed, in this masterpiece of artistic beauty. The mob swayed and dwindled down. But he could not remain idle much longer, and so acted. He whispered to Castellano that he still would give him pardon. Through him, he pushed the clerk with the intimidation of the many, as the power of the mob dwindled down.

They walked nearer to Gnaeus, who had fought off several paratrooped Veterans. Tired was he, and now, realizing that his mob had failed, began to pledge total allegiance to this tool, now a god above him, of dark magic. But he was then grabbed by a man with a cloak, Nepos, and then a muscular and short man knocked him down. The first cloaked man prepared to shoot him with a pistol, but it was knocked away with Gnaeus's sword, and then Gnaeus leapt to his feet in horror, for he had been bested by a trio of commoners. And as the tall, muscular man drew his dagger, as he was still wrestling with two of these men, Gnaeus, seeing that he could not win a fight whilst grappled and pinned by a man of athletic build coupled with a middle-aged short clerk, ran. It was not a craven run, nor was it a cowardly run, but it was a necessary one, as necessary as his own life was, for he would have died, despite having thrust off so many legionnaires, due to Nepos's acts of coordination which were unanticipated, and so he had to run.

2295-2296: The Journey of Nepos

Castellano and Nepos disappeared. Disappeared! The little man tried searching for them after Gnaeus disappeared. What had they done, chased after him? Then, in his distraction, he missed entirely the fall of Quintus.

Instead, he remarked to his mind, in a silent chuckle, Oh! Tis the follies of man or perhaps his greatest strength, his ambition. The younger man, he was the leader. And now, look at what he did to me, how he stripped me of my honor and made me a rebel, and when he took me, did not even ask me for my name! And now I stand away from him, not knowing where they are.

For he used me as a tool, a proponent for his plan. Who was he, really? But it does not matter now, I am no longer part of the story. And now, I see the sun rise with my eyes. A new day begins, a new generation.

And in this moment he realized how feeble, how small and unimportant the individual was, compared to the great ocean of power of the symbol, which had been adopted upon by who he did not know was Nepos.

Nepos and Castellano themselves had left for Pompei, leaving the small clerk behind. Castellano was surprised by this act of ruthlessness, but saw it small to what his former masters had done.

The two men journeyed to Pompei, neither speaking a word to the other, for Nepos only considered Castellano a bodyguard, and Castellano only considered Nepos a source of freedom. Thus to each other, they were only assets.

Upon reaching Pompei, they began to search for the man known as Joffrey Ricci.

Nepos entered the open market, and yelled, "I desire three two and a half inch matchsticks!" out in the open. He received a few brief stares, and was then ignored.

It was a stale market to him. Many merchants and craftsmen were there, their rough hands carving eloquent pieces of pottery or creating eloquent jewelry from volcanic rock. But their appearances were sparse and primitive, themselves being unnoticed except that they were the islands of civilization in a great ocean of dirt and plants.

He repeated themselves again and again. Soon he decided to ask for Americans and those whose former culture once pledged allegiance to the British crown, but all attempts were futile.

He went back. To him, he had made a fool of himself in front of these people. He saw a mother and a daughter walk by.

"Mommy," said the little girl. "Why is that man asking for matches?"

"Some people are just a little crazy. Just don't talk to them.", said her mother.

This enraged Nepos, him being compared to a madman. He was the heir to an Emperor, he should be seated on a great marble throne. And then, in his palace, lines of free men would bow to him, him, the great protector against the evils of the world,

Castellano was gone somewhere. There was only him now, and although he did not know where Ricci was, whether he had been murdered, was a misspelling, or any other explanation did not matter. Most likely, his fabrication was part of Quintus's plan.

His plan. Which would mean Quintus knew that Nepos would go through this pain.

Nepos walked and walked. He saw others walking. He did not look at them. He did not look at the scenery of the farmers, the sellswords, the blacksmiths, the vibrant life around him. But what he did not see was the construction of a demonic temple.

Of course it was being ridiculed by many. But the militia were close by and did nothing. It was the ultimate sin, a taint in the perfection of Second Rome.

Nepos entered a tavern, and having a decent amount of money, sat down. He heard music playing. Someone was singing. He ignored them.

A bartender arrived. "Care for something to drink, sir?"

"No.", Nepos said flatly. He continued to sit, and sat awkwardly.

He remained anonymous here. His fame did not exist in this realm. From overhearing the men near him, he heard of the deaths of Quintus, Lucius, and Caesar.

He paused, not looking at them. He remembered his own original parents, who wanted him to preserve the medical knowledge of pre-Great War doctors, who wanted to limit him, twist him, as branches were cut off trees, until he had become the submissive life-form of a songbird who sang only what he was taught.

Caesar had come, and seeing talent within the eleven-year old boy, set him free. Caesar gave him his own political control, abiding to a hands-off system of learning, and so Nepos prospered. Yet he had to remain limited, so as to not draw attention to himself on the main stage of Second Rome.

And Quintus as well, the only step between him and Caesar. Nepos only fifteen minutes ago had ranted to himself about how Quintus only invented the identity of Joffrey Ricci for Nepos's pain. Most likely the man was sick, had died in a quarrel, or whatnot. Perhaps he had been occupied and Nepos was merely impatient. But whatever the case, Nepos decided not to follow along, for he never liked Quintus for his separation and presence.

Quintus had died, falling poetically after being cut to pieces by a great demon, who then along with the host commanded evaporated, for their purpose by the demon king(a vulgar term for Tharizdun, as demons were only creations of him) had been satisfied. Then Albon had rode off and disappeared; he had probably died. Lucius and Caesar fought near the town of Florentia, where according to the observing townspeople, had launched a ferocious attack in the center, but then both armies were burned to ashes when meteors fell from the sky.

It sounded like a load of nonsense, yet, as there were no other sources of information, he had to believe it. How powerless was he now, away from Rome, and even if he returned he would be taken prisoner. And currently half the Empire had declared itself a republic with the Fell. Gnaeus was hiding, but he would reveal himself soon.

Nepos slept in the tavern and stayed in its bar, he did not move away from it for a few days. He did not know where Castellano was, he did not desire to find him.

During those days he became known as the sober haggard, the man that would sit there, covered in a cloak and armed with a pistol, and would never talk. His cloak did little to provide a secretive appearance, for it did not hide his face from those who looked at it.

One day, he saw a man walk in. It was the small clerk he had been with before. He was somewhat ragged now, and Nepos wondered if he had attempted to follow him and Castellano and had gotten lost. Why he would do that was unknown to him, and he continued to cover himself with his cloak.

The clerk had ordered an amount of ale and was drunk and conversing with some other men. He yelled, "Oh, Nepos? Nepos the murderer! I met him when he and his muscleman took me out of the prison that I worked in as a clerk!"

Nepos felt immense shame in murdering Cato now, not for the act of murder but for what followed, the injury of the state which he knew, at the cause for the states he never knew. And with that he began to question his ambition, and why he ever did such a thing, until it solidified into a loose form of guilt which was nearly manifest.

A man followed by four others surrounded the clerk. They began to converse with him in a friendly manner, asking him for more exact information. Nepos hurriedly went over. At some point, the clerk would have noticed him.

"I'm escorting you back to your room." He told the clerk.

"You-you're"-Nepos put a hand over his mouth.

"I think you're bothering this man. I would advise you to leave."

Nepos put his pistol to the clerk's throat.

The man continued. "I am Vigile Centurion, or Police Chief Dorian Smith. I would advise you to put your weapon down or we would be forced to."

He called himself a police chief, a title before the Great War. A scent of neutrality was in his eyes, and with neutrality came the possibility of heresy. But this did not matter now.

"Oh, no! He's fine." said the clerk, after Nepos briefly released the blockade of his mouth. After all, two could take advantage of a drunken mind.

Now the man that called himself Smith had two choices, he could arrest this man, and face backlash from the public, or he could leave him be, and weaken his presence. But was not his presence overextended? What did the short man who was attacked, what did he have to offer anyway, but sensationalist lies and rumors? Dorian and his men left.

The drunken clerk recovered somewhat. "But where was the tall man?", he asked.

"Castellano left us.", stated Nepos. "And when I am ready, I will find him. And he will pay."

"Castellano", the short clerk whispered like a curious child, still not fully recovering himself.

A man with a cloak beckoned them. Nepos barely saw a dagger hidden beneath his shadowy attire on his waist.

Nepos and the clerk came to his table. He sat alone.

"That was impressive. But I know what you want."

He continued, as he had not been interrupted. "You want revenge, don't you? I know you do. But currently, you want money. And I know, by the way you look at things, that things were better before, yet imperfect. So would you care to join me?"

The man was mostly ignoring the clerk now. "Excuse me, I'm-" but they had already gone.

2295 - Resurgence of the Hand

"I don't understand you.", the man said. They continued to walk. "I know you must have been a highly respected man before your situation. Surely you would not steep to ledges as low as ours."

"That world has gone to dust.", said Nepos.

He had lost his honor, his pride, he had forfeited it all. The state he fought for was in ruins, and the ideals he longed for were shattered or dead.

"There's a house over there. Want some supplies?"

Nepos wouldn't believe what he was doing, but he didn't care. "Desperate people do desperate things.", he said.

They went into the house together. It was unlocked, strangely. Nobody was in it, and the small jewelry proved easy to find and carry.

Most of the events during this time period are unknown, as Nepos barely revealed anything, but it resulted in his return to Rome.

The only major effects noted by locals were the burnings of several demonic temples, the coming of the emerged mafia(called 'The Hand') as a great protector against fellic influence, and the deaths of many government officials. The blood that fell was necessary.

2295 - The Journey of Coriolus Gnaeus

Gnaeus, after him being attacked, had run. He ran to the northern countryside, where he hid, as a vagabond did, how ashamed he was, yet it did not matter now.

He had been battered by a trio of proletariat, of lower-ranking citizens. How, how on earth? He was an exiled Primus Pilus, he was above them. Yet somehow, he believed that one of the assaulters was not a mere plebeian at all-no, he only imagined that to hide his shame.

He had reached the Alps. Knowing them well, and distrusting the wild, unstable tribes that would most likely skin him, he took a path that was known, but not used often, not a common trade route, but a military one not known by many. There, in a cave that he took shelter in, with the comfort of a small fire, he looked at the runes on the wall of the cave, and his fire, and his clothes which were lessening in quality, and he saw himself without the absence of company, without the wing of civilization protecting him. In isolation was where madmen became mad, where the prisoner began carving his name on the wall, where the addict succumbed.. in isolation, in the absence of civilization, was where the darkest of all acts were plotted.

He shuddered at the thought of that. It soon occurred to him that he was not alone, and he saw another man sit near him. The man had come from deeper in the tunnels, and did not pause to look at his fire. Most likely, he had run out of firewood, and had met some company.

"Who-who are you?" Gnaeus asked. The man gave no response.

After at least twenty seconds, the man then said, "I am a wanderer without a purpose, just like you."

He was a young man by his appearance, and he wore a cloak and carried a pistol. Yet for some reason, he seemed aged mentally.

"I have a purpose.", said Gnaeus.

"Oh, really? Well, I don't envy you.", said the man in a cynical tone.

He wondered why the man was so cynical. Surely he was not a deserter, for no deserter would hide in the mountains. "Do you want to come with me?", said Gnaeus.

"No." replied the man.

Coriolus looked at him. He was a purposeless, wandering wretch, separate from society. He was everything he did not want to become. Yet Coriolus had offered him the possibility of hope, of reconciliation, and he had refused it. Why? What drove Man to constantly bleed and regrow, to fall and to learn? Why could Man not accept failure, and why did it have to learn? The bliss of nature remained stagnant, but it also had been nearly destroyed by Man.

He was a criminal. He was an exile. But he would not be for long.

Soon Nepos journeyed out of the caves and continued. Once crossing the Alps, he reached the territory of Raetia, which was engulfed in the civil war.

He, hidden in the forest, saw a group of goblin tribes being furiously destroyed by a decurion of legionnaires. The legionnaires would have destroyed all resistance if they could. But the will of those convinced by Lucius remained because of his other subordinates, and so the land could not be easily overtaken. But once Nepos returned, and return he would somehow, this stalemate would cease. And so they would need a leader.

He was sleeping, one day, when he was awoken by another battle, this one consisting of a cohort and a warband. The arrows grazed the sky and his position was in their range. He ran.

He ran, and he continued to run. He heard the sound of artillery, the grunts and groans of the fallen; he heard the arrows piercing flesh, the sound of bone shattering to metal, he heard it all.

He then tripped and fell. It was inside a fallen legionnaire outpost that this had happened. Twenty or so ill-assembled men, in the midst of a warzone, eating meat from metal cans looked at him.

They looked at him, and knew that he would probably reveal him.

He took out his insignia and held his arms up in a resigned manner. "Hold, friends! Do not make haste! It is me, Coriolus Gnaeus, former Primus Pilus of the VII Canis, favored under Lucius, who led the insurgency of Rome. To spill my blood is to kill not only a man and one who was a Primus Pilus, but one who can and will fully lead the remnants of this Fellic Republic!"

The men hesitated. The Decanus amongst them looked at him. "Even if he is Gnaeus..." he paused.

"He ran away. Just like he ran away instead of leading that battle. Otherwise he'll just reveal our position. Kill him." he continued.

"No! Listen to me! You believe my death will save your position as a reinforcement. Most likely, if you believe that is true, you believe that I am a loyalist Primus Pilus, do you not? Well, if that were true, you wouldn't try to kill me, for either I would have already given your position away and fled, and I stayed my ground, or you would have taken me prisoner, but you, with that knowledge, did not."

"You talk too much."

"Yet you listening to me shows that you doubt yourself. I ran away, not out of fear or craven desire, but because I was threatened by a trio of traitor plebeians, moved by Quintus's blasted words, his arrows of behavioral poison. And I run away now, because the battle has already been lost."

"You dare!"

"You are a decanus, are you not? And I was the centurion of a first cohort. Your men lack food, they lack strength. Without strength, they lack will. And without will, the individual looks at himself, and looks at himself sadly, for what was he fighting for?"

He sighed. "How strange it is now, the bringers of light against the black darkness of tyranny as opposed to the tyranny attempting to overtake the state. But it does not matter now."

A legionnaire shouted. "If he's actually Coriolus Gnaeus, we should bring him back!"

"See! Your subordinate agrees with me. And it is the will of the people that we fight for, is it not?"

The decanus sighed. "We are but twenty men. And if he is who he claims to be, we shall be rewarded greatly. In the meantime.."

Gnaeus waved at him to continue.

"...you will have to be our prisoner. We will take you to the city of Aelum, where the court, or some higher authority will see to your identity."

Gnaeus smiled. Immediately the trust of these men was won.

They journeyed away, and were reported missing. The sun shone and set, and hills and forests were traversed and crossed, until the woodlands grew darker, and there, after walking the day, they rested.

In the darkness the wind rustled, and the trees moved with it. And then, suddenly, the company of men awoke, for a shape manifested in the waters.

The shape formed, and changed its image, until it resembled a dark, primal being, twenty feet tall, with a mane of white water that flowed down wildly, and huge, sharp claws. Yet these savage features were in a stance of nobility, of regal rank, as a deity of Man had been imagined. It could be described as majestic, or primal, but these words failed it, yet it was so natural it did not require them.

The fire was snuffed, and the starlight shone until one could see again.

"Rise now, rise again, those who have not slept yet. For I, Tharizdun, embodiment of nature, weakened and chained to where my more loyal creations fight amongst themselves, still stand and so still command. You, Coriolus Gnaeus, I speak to you directly."

"You are about to embark upon a great crusade, one that will sweep the winds for the remainder of history. You fight for liberty, equality, and rightful justice. Those cultures which have been suppressed and destroyed, the rights that had been suppressed, they must come now, for it is the duty of the people, as your Marx and Beccaria have stated, to overthrow the oppressive and place the just."

And Gnaeus said, "I do."

"But you do know of the past evils(he did not say the word slowly, but instead, casually) which I have committed. I have tried, and tried repeatedly, to dust away your species to the stones of the past. And what do you make of that?"

Gnaeus found himself speaking, and speaking truly out of his heart, "The blood of the many were necessary. And the waste that my kind has done, as Felix had told me, a violent animal, led by a paranoid Emperor... And yet I know, as many did not, that Man does not deserve to fall. And once the remains of the past Man have been integrated or destroyed, what shall remain will be a fraternity, one of acceptance and virtue, not one of the Machiavellian, of hate and struggle. For this is now the only favorable path out of the darkness."

Tharizdun spoke. "Yet the Elven, the twisted race which has separated itself from Man, has separated itself from the powers of emotion. It is this that is the ultimate form of heresy against natural order. To be unfeeling, to be a machine that exists only to thrive and kill, that is what they are. Be thankful that they are too weak to fend off their Second Roman oppressors, but they will betray you."

He added, "Here I am, here I show myself. A weak apparition, once the god of this planet, now only one that can slightly control the wild forces once commanded. And even now, my followers, whom I created, fight amongst themselves. Through their unity, there is strength, and with strength our crusade shall bring victory. You will be fighting against the iron machinery of Rome, the unfeeling, the uncaring, the blades that believe their killings are necessary, because they have been taught to believe so, because they have been blinded. And so I give you this, as the Rubicon is crossed for the third time, and you lay destruction to Rome, be not the snuffer of light, but the rising sun that brings it."

Then, he disappeared, and the waves receded as they once rose, and the water became calm once more.

And as Tharizdun spoke to Gnaeus, what was this? Was it the corruption of one's fall to darkness, or was it the guidance of a divine being? Perhaps the only difference was whether one won or lost, for history is written by the winners.

Gnaeus and the legionnaires then spent the night sleeping, for they had nothing better to do.

The Arrival of Gnaeus in Aelum

Gnaeus and the legionnaires arrived at the gates of Aelum. Once they had, Gnaeus declared himself to the people. The Balor Cathulk-Kas came to him, the ruler of the the city, and asked for his proof of identity, in which Gnaeus said, "I am Coriolus Gnaeus, the leader of the Insurgency of Rome, the former Primus Pilus of the VII Canis. Twice I fled once from a dagger-blade from a plebeian, and once because of the destruction of a battle near me. But now, I return, and having been ordained by Tharizdun himself, let the gates open before me."

Cathulk-Kas, greatest of all Balors of Tharizdun, looked at him. He knelt slightly on his large longsword. He saw the golden vision surrounding Gnaeus, and accepted the terms with and against him. He spoke. "Coriolus Gnaeus, as successor to Felix Lucius as Chief Commander of the Republic of Man and Fell, I name you, although I am unworthy, as Minister and Supreme Commander of the Men, and, although Tharizdun in practice has already granted you this, as second Chosen of the Fell."

A winged, twelve foot demon of muscle, fire, and arcane strength, a terror of the skies whose whip was made of fire, bowed submissively to the six foot tall

It was a principle of hierarchy and positions, as opposed to the dealings that Nepos had been forced to make to rise once more.

2295-2296: - The Siege of Rome

It was necessary. The blood and tears that would follow were means to an end, and that end was the subjugation of all that opposed that vision, the vision of unity of Man, Orc, and Demon, which had been discussed and voted on in the Fellic cities. It was necessary, and as the wind blew at Second Rome, a great host came through the mountains once more, lead by Coriolus Gnaeus, Rome shook as much as it had between Caesar, Quintus, and Lucius, and history was to be decided once more.

Gnaeus remembered an occurrence of several days ago. He was in the middle of a street, one not grand or of immense size, but a street, crowded in a city of farmers, pilgrims, soldiers, blacksmiths, all the various forms of the bourgeoisie.

A street musician played a song. It was beautiful and vibrant, like a swift breeze, but unlike the breeze, it stayed and moved ethereally. In his thin hands he held a violin, elegant and delicate, yet affordable by enough to not be solely enjoyed by the monopoly of the equestrians and Senators of Rome, and music flowed as intangible strings. And through these bountiful beats lead to the flow of action, which manifested and became the people that walked by the street violinist. And as they put coins in his case, he said, "Thank you."

How could a man of such poor and lowly status create an art so exquisite that it had not been matched by any musician of Rome that Gnaeus had heard of? He was dedicated to his craft, and not to money, for he was an instrument as well to the soul of music.

But of course, if he were in Second Rome, the musician was a beggar, and a lowly one, for why did he forfeit his ability to do labor for the noise and discord which distracted the ecosystem of Rome? He could cause a Fellic uprising, and so was a dangerous voice that had to be shushed. Oppression came because of necessity, for humanity exposed a weakness to the enemy. And now, he was here, fighting a war that had already taken hundreds of thousands, for he wanted to bring peace and resolution to what was his vision, which he truly believed was righteous. It was the irony of it all; wars were fought to secure conclusion, and with conclusion came peace. Wars, therefore, are fought for peace.

This was in Hispania, once called Spain, where already, the former culture had reestablished itself. He had gathered a force of more than one hundred thousand, but it was this that was his vanguard. A hundred thousand more would be readied and trained if his war prolonged. With him there were fifteen fallen legions, and with Cathulk-Kas, twenty four thousand Orc-Goblins. Then there were the Fellic tribes of the Alps which amounted to perhaps ten thousand cultists whose faith acted as a gateway to the summoning of twelve thousand demonic forces, forces of carnage and slaughter, demons of great strength exceeding that of Man. And from the remnants of the universities of Britain came the creations of assemblies of war machines, weapons of mass killings, or concentrated ones, brutal and effective like their loyalist counterparts. Across the northern continent, dozens of thousands came under various warlords in a great crusade.

From the east came two hundred ships from Great Britain and the Iberian Peninsula, unloading the might of twenty thousand, ships far greater and larger than those of Second Rome, but their purpose lay not as an invading force, but as a blockading one, to sever the connection between the African landmass and the Peninsula.

The mountains were crossed, the cold did little to slow them down. For nothing could yield them from their inexorable path.

Towns were razed and conquered, until, in a few days, at last...

The sentry looked outside. There was a rising sun, bright and cheerful, signaling the new day. Soon his shift would end, he could sleep for a few hours, and perhaps visit the public baths, for he still had a grudge unresolved with Marius...

The black tide approached. It was necessary. Gnaeus knew it was necessary. He and his consuls were by themselves now, and Tharizdun seemed to be no godly being, for he had been defeated by me before, yet he remained.

The wall boomed. The sentry walked off, believing it to be the rumble of thunder. Then the portion he stood on chipped off the great stone slabs. He fell more than a hundred feet from the sky, and once he reached the ground, there were two cracks heard, and the ground became a red stain, for both of his legs were gone.

He saw an Orc Eye priest standing above him. "You men fight for money, but we fight for honor." he said.

The legless man looked at him in a puddle he had fallen into of water and blood. "A man fights ... for what he lacks the most."

The Orc priest ripped his heart out and the bloody siege resumed. But truly, men and Orc fought for what they want the most.

The Imperial Legate of Tunisia, also known as Africa Proconsularis, Severus Domitian Arripan, came suddenly. With him came the divided strength of eight legions, and although his forces were outnumbered, they, against the thinly formed lines of Gnaeus, burst through.

It was a first slaughter, and a brutal assault. From the woodlands came several companies between one and five hundred, who came to the Fellic camps and destroyed all that they could. Medics and resting men were massacred as they slept, and mules and trails of foodstuffs and medicine were disrupted.

Near the walls of Rome, which continued to be bombarded, but would not fall yet, Gnaeus desperately sought out to create a demonic incursion within Rome. Yet the mob power did not come within the walls, still protected by the sparse defenders. Could the Inquisition have remained in power? In that case, they would be the perfect scapegoat for an uprising, would they not be? And the people had already seen their strength in number.

He found it impossible to believe that the people of Rome simply did not believe in the vision of Lucius anymore. And so he forced himself to an uneasy conclusion. War, to the common man, not the soldier, not the idealist, not the fanatic, was not of faith, or ideals, but of survival. And survival as a concept was not one of ideology. So long as the bread lines remained open and serving, the rations not plentiful enough to be considered normal yet not sparse enough for the need of riots, the giver of bread was not seen as an enemy one should steal from, but as a giver of hope.

Gnaeus thought of this, and then laughed. It was only a matter of time before attrition caused all to become scarce, and with that came action. For desperate men were fighters, and fighters had ideology, no matter how starving they were.

He, and the cohort with him, unloaded from a pre-Great War, bulky, metallic vehicle, which was too small to classify as a Legionary Transport, the contaminated water infested with plague. Corpses and dung catapulted after all could be burnt. He knew what he was doing, and was fully aware of what would happen. One day, a young daughter would awaken to see her mother covered in blistering sores, and then her father would cough into a waste-bin blood, until he had filled it halfway, as one squeezed an orange into a cup, yet this time once could not even imagine the orange being infested with maggots, and surrounded by flies, for they would be thankful for vermin consuming it. Rather, it reeked of blood, and silver spikes with efflorescent tentacles grew in its center, and now it was crushed by hands that it infested and contaminated, and as the virus spread, the father continued to cough blood and more blood, until his eyes become motionless and his...

He stopped imagining. Perhaps it was too brutal for him, or perhaps he thought it was a waste of time. But it was necessary. He thought of the Industrial Revolution. Whatever pain was felt now, whatever bloated, cancerous generations would come, it was necessary. They were the workers that rioted against the railroads, they were the samurai shot down by the Imperial Army. He was the reaper, and this was one of his blades. It was evolution.

He felt this power overtake him. But he did not feel corrupted by it, for he did not believe it was his. Rather, it was loaned to him.

The case was unloaded. It was carried by four men, and was to be poured into a narrow pipe dug up. But then, auxiliary cavalry came bursting through the plains and forests, and arrows rained down upon them. Two centuries of heavy weapons Auxilia came from the mists of the growing winter, as it was the midst of November, and opened fire upon them. It was all too sudden. They made a beeline towards the truck, and although Gnaeus could defend against the armies against him, it would cause the sacrifice of his arrow of plague. And so he forced a retreat once again.

The cohort mobilized and dashed off under the cover of trees. By the megaphones of his Aquillas, a retreat was ordered, yet it was slow, and several thousand Orc-Goblins and fallen legionnaires, as well as demons were slain in the tactical chaos.

From there, Cathulk-Kas's host met eye to eye, near the south of Rome, with Arripan's legion itself. At once a charge was made, yet this was deception, as suddenly four more legions caused a flank around his host. Surrounded and inevitably to be destroyed, Cathulk-Kas raised his whip to the sky, and with his dark wings fire rained down, and by the Fellic legends he slew six hundred and a God Engine before he fell, ranking him amongst the greatest and comparable to the martyrs of Felix Lucius and Kaylashee. Yet Cathulk-Kas's demonic essence persisted, and he, being the greatest of all Balors created by Tharizdun, persisted.

Thus came the loss of Gnaeus's greatest ally, and the eventual emergence of the half-demon, whose time would come in the far future.

Gnaeus's forces regathered in their camps near Florentia. He did not know whether the Second Roman forces could muster an attack forwards, but supposed they could. This could not be natural. It was planned; it had to be. And so Gnaeus reasoned and realized that he was fighting against preparations, fighting against policy. He was fighting the ghost of Quintus, and the ghost of Caesar.