Chapter 1: Chevron lore chapter 1&2

[A life born into]

A biting cold winter dims Kazdel, a country in the midst of an already long civil war and growing unrest, a conflict being fought on all sides with the predisposition and means for fuelling, igniting and stoking the flames of war. The winter snow in such a time is a suppressor of the violence. It covers the many brutal actions and outcomes left behind and left during, but by no means snuffing the flames. The cold white blanket is nothing more than a temporary veil, exercising the futility in trying to forget what's happened, but for some and those that are lucky it can be a reprieve if only a short one.

And in this same reprieve in a dark birch forest, deep in the north of Kazdel a Sarkaz boy is brought into the world. His horns white as ivory, his hair as dark as ebony and his eyes a deep warm amber, a polarising contrast to the sensation of the numbing cold soon forgotten by the infant, as he's hastily wrapped in blankets and clutched by his mother. 

The sensation of warmth in such a moment is fleeting. Temporary as a fire without kindling, the winter is all too quick to remind and enrapture before snuffing it out. The brutal bitter weather and the physical trauma of childbirth is indomitable and the Sarkaz boy is now left in cold arms. He cries as he's pulled into new hands not of blood bound by parents but blood binding to his tribe.

Some years from then on and many winters passing, the boy grows into childhood being taught and hardened by the small community that comprised his tribe. Learning some of the basics of self sustainability and survival, from starting fires, hunting and how to fight. But he was taught an easier more effective way of procuring resources and sustenance. Stealing, robbing, high-jacking and all the skills needed for securing a caravan or supply convoy by force.

The boy's tribe took advantage of the supply and demand needed to perpetuate war, ambushing whoever is seen as opportune along the roads of Kazdel, particularly the winding roads of the birch forests. Whether it be hitting the convoy from the front and back with Improvised explosive devices that are interconnected, then pinching from all sides overwhelming the opposition with shock and awe. Utilising guerrilla warfare heavy Sarkaz swords and  the occasional firearms, of which is rarely procured from Kazdel's black markets or more preferably from the hands of armed Laterano convoys themselves. These guns were highly valued especially among Sarkaz mercenaries, being seen as a trophy.

Sometimes if and when it was viable to do so and there was the opportunity to save on supplies in these convoy hits, the tribe would use the young boy as bait. Sitting him in the roads to slow a caravan down whether it be by sympathy or just purely because he was in the way, it proved more than effective on a handful of occasions. The very first time said tactic proved successful one of the tribes people gave him a small share of the spoils, that of which being nothing more than a gold ring still slightly warm from the owner that once adorned it. He slid the ring onto his finger it loosely fitting, nonetheless feeling a sense of fulfillment and pride that he was doing good by his people. 

In the times between when the tribe decided it needed to 'resupply' the boy spent his free time reading and practicing further with the use of a sword, taking a fondness for how it felt in his hand. Reading techniques and different ways to use a blade, alongside more frivolous and fictitious literary pleasures of knights, hero's and adventure alongside the occasional history books, frequently those detailing Kazdel itself.

Over a couple more years the war dragged on further and in such turmoil people traveled the roads far less frequently at a progressive decline. Some of the tribesmen had already left to find more profitable means in the conflict becoming mercenaries and guns for hire themselves. Meanwhile the rest decided it was time to leave the country seeing nothing more to be gained especially confined within the woods. The boy's tribe packed up one last time and made its greatest journey that he's personally known, heading far out of Kazdel and traveling the backroads of countries eventually moving around enough to find themselves in Iberia, a country bordered by the sea the breeze ever flowing and shifting just as the waves do crashing against its shorelines.

Along the arduous journey many came and went, some just wanting to try and live their own life and taking their chances leaving the tribe when they saw fitting. Due to these conditions and at times very temporary presence concerning those around him, the boy didn't spend much time getting attached to many of those present minus the few he's known since birth that have in part mentored him. Although at this point he felt some confliction over how at times he was used as somewhat of an accessory, a sentiment self fostered and grown by some of the reading he's done educating himself and his morals. Above all else he still believed that everything he did helped those around him and he could still be prideful and proud of that fact, even if he might question it all in brief moments he reminds himself of such.

During the tribe's time in Iberia they spared no moment in hastily making a presence and dominating crossroads, the standard for what they'd now hit and highjacked felt like easy pickings as opposed to hitting a convoy in the midst of war-torn lands. The tribe relished in this fact even becoming so bold as to storm into small seaside villages and ransacking them and even holding them as temporary means of comfort and recovery terrorising the locals.

This however was short lived as unbeknownst to them they've brought upon themselves attention with severe repercussions for their actions, that of which wouldn't be felt until the next time they were moving along Iberian roads. And it didn't take long between now and then. 

During the cover of nightfall the tribe was moving once again with plans to pillage furthermore, heading Inland hoping for greater spoils than the small seaside homesteads. Eventually they found themselves at a crossroad not unlike the same crossroads they themselves would ambush others, the boy felt a sense of deja vu in this moment alongside a sense of irony. But before any other sentiment could be felt he was interrupted, by a blinding flash and ear ringing blast that sends him flying to the ground. They all instantly realised that now for the first time they were on the receiving end of an ambush.

Dazed, confused and hardly able to distinguish any one sound from his ears now ringing, the boy saw perhaps the most brutal onslaught he could conjure let alone actually be apart of. Sarkaz falling left and right, gunfire intermittently breaking up the sounds of steel clashing together, the warcrys and cries of pain blending into a hellish cacophony. The boy stumbles to his feet unsure where to go what to do, he's shell shocked and the only thing he can think to do is to take cover. 

Hiding along a now tipped over cache of weapons and loot, lost in the chaos and completely unaware, he doesn't even notice a fire caught and spreading onto a supply of originium grade explosives not far from his position. His mind is blank and then it is completely without thought. The explosives ignite and combust sending the entire convoy asunder, the blast knocking him unconscious and flying him into a ditch along the roadside. His body is torn and cut all over, some wounds superficial and some undoubtedly leaving permanent scars. Fragmentation from the Originium charged explosives are embedded in his body, securing the certainty of contracting oripathy an illness all too familiar among Sarkaz, a fate they are even accustomed too. 

The boy lays there as the smoke begins to clear and the opposition closes in confirming the aftermath. His laboured breathing and pained coughing draws the attention of someone. He feels a pair of hands shifting debris off his body, wiping the soot, blood and mud off his face. He can't distinguish clearly what they're saying his hearing still affected by the blast. He forces his eyes open. The silhouette of the individual being hard to make out before his eyes take a moment to adjust, before him isn't the sight of a surviving Sarkaz tribesman, but of a man with his face covered, a handcannon adorning his hip and of distinctive dress.

Before him was an Iberian Inquisitor.

[A life brought into]

The boy feels an immediate hit of adrenaline realising that he was just now looking at a collaborator of the ambush that had taken place. He desperately tries to shift himself before he's then stopped by the sensation of his entire body feeling like it's on fire, his nerves shooting a razor edged pain all over, overwhelmed by agony he stops, for his body won't let him continue even if his mind says otherwise.

"Settle child. You'll only do more harm." A calm toned voice cold in it's delivery comes from the man standing over him. A few more join him side by side looking at the boy, realising he's a Sarkaz almost certainly belonging to the trouble making group they just neutralised. It's hard for the boy to maintain a steady stream of thought and active listening with the teeth gritting pain enveloping him. The man looks down at him again before asking to those around, his words still tone deaf in delivery. "Any other survivors?" A reply immediately follows confirming it's only the boy.

Upon hearing and with a heartwrenching realisation he out of all his tribe just present mere moments ago is the only survivor, the boy can't hold it in. Tears start streaming down the sides of his face, feeling hot on his cold pale skin before they then feel even colder than such, by the sea wind gracing over him gently. Now overcome with physical and emotional torment the boy slips out on consciousness again. For brief moments it flickers back, the scenery changing each time it does so feeling as if it's a lucid dream and a disconnection of reality. The boy didn't know it but he was being carried by the Inquisitors to an encampment not far away, eventually they arrived with the boy in tow and he was laid down onto a clean bed.

He slowly opened his eyes a brief feeling of stability adding some clarity to the moment and setting around him. He then made out the same man from before knelt in front of him, from the lantern lighting the room he could make out the glint of a large surgical needle in the man's hand. The Inquisitor could tell the boy noticed and reassured him it was for the pain. The boy feels the needle press against the skin feeling it resist shortly before it gives way for the needle, it hardly felt like anything compared to what he just went through, he almost felt completely numbed. As he lays there he now feels the weight of his eyelids become insurmountable, he closes them drifting into a slumber. Followed close behind is the man speaking again. "Sleep now, it'll be fine." 

After the boy is sedated he's lifted onto a clean and padded metal bench and his muddy blood drenched clothing is cut away from his body revealing just how many wounds scatter it. Shards of shrapnel sticking out of him are removed carefully along with any other debris lodged inside that can be immediately taken out without too much trouble. His wounds are cleaned stitched and bandaged, and a clean set of clothing is dressed onto him. After the makeshift operation is complete they lay him back into the bed briefly as they all rest before moving onward back to the Inquisitors headquarters. 

After another day of travel broken up with brief and now familiar but no less confusing moments of semi-consciousness, the boy arrives in his still mostly broken but at least not bleeding state along with the Inquisitors. They end up leading the boy to a dormitory of sorts placing him down into another bed, this one softer and warmer than that of before, still in unbearable pain he lays there motionless unable to resist just as before he lets himself rest, trapping himself with just his thoughts.

He thinks about what he could have done or done differently, how he got here, if there was any way he could of stopped it. He thinks to himself maybe he should have left like others did. Maybe this is exactly what he deserves, after all he and his tribe have done. Such sentiment perpetuates itself in a violent cycle of self hate and blame, feeling completely lost in this catatonic state. The onslaught of thoughts and feelings cause him to weep as he falls into a slumber once more in this new unfamiliar place.

Days pass as his body starts to slowly heal, first hurting more before it got any better, bruising setting in and turning purple all over his body aching like the echos of a ever expansive cavern, his skin hyper sensitive to the slightest change of air flow. Occasionally the Inquisitor he first saw would come in and try ask him questions to which he wouldn't reply at all, either simply staring at him or seeming as if he's somewhere completely away from where he is and fully unable to pay attention to begin with. 

Eventually the boy becomes responsive and replies in nods and shaking his head, replying to simple yes or no questions. The Inquisitor still made attempts to provoke more meaningful dialogue as the days continued but to no avail. The boy mixed between not wanting to do so and being cautious to do so. The boy couldn't decide whether he hated him or felt completely indifferent as he thought more about it. With no doubt countless others felt this exact way about himself and his tribe and to all Sarkaz in general, from the bloody marks left on so many lives. The boy felt a deep moral confliction to it all, this man and the others with him were only stopping the pain he was causing to innocent people that did nothing. After a couple weeks torturing his own mind the boy decided he didn't hate anyone, he just wished things were different.

About a month and two weeks had passed since his arrival, finally he was strong enough to be able to start walking around even if only in brief bursts, the pain after awhile coming back and his body forcing him to rest lest he cause more harm. Seeing the leap in recovery the Inquisitor offered the boy to try a variety of games in his free time. Some of which comprising of card games, boardgames and even puzzles. Subtly testing the boy's motor functions, learning ability, basic strategy and adaptability, often changing up the variety of games and tasks each day progressing the boy without him even really noticing such. 

The boy wakes one evening to the Inquisitor at the side of his bed outreaching to him. "Come boy." He reaches out and grabs his hand before sitting up and with assistance standing to his feet. The Inquisitor releases his hand and turn around and walking towards a table with some dice on it, with the boy closely following behind. The Inquisitor points his hand to a chair at the table before he then sits across from it. The boy follows suit as instructed and sits with him. The Inquisitor starts to play with one of the die pieces, spinning it on its corner so fast it appears blurred. After doing so he begins to describe a variety of games involving dice and even some basics of gambling. The boy is confused and uncertain what he's supposed to deduce from what he's saying but he tries to pay close attention. Once the Inquisitor draws to the end of his explanation the die stops moving on the his final word. A silence deadens the room as the Inquisitor looks at the boy a feeling of unease rushing over him, before the inquisitor breaks the silence.

"You know boy, you still haven't said a single word since we found you. Putting as much effort into you shortly after was a mercy, but to continue this effort, is a gamble. Cooperation without reciprocation is difficult child not to mention risky."

He plays with a pair of dice in his hand slowly as they rattle against each other as he speaks to the boy. 

"I still don't know your story let alone your name, of which I doubt you'll even say, or maybe you've forgotten it after everything that's happened." 

He rolls the dice onto the table. Briefly looking at them, before looking at the boy again.

 "Some folk around have these peculiar names after mundane objects, sometimes you're able to see a correlation sometimes you can't. They hardly feel real all the same. And since you won't provide a name I will on your behalf unless you object." 

The boy doesn't respond at all and keeps his focus on the man before him. The Inquisitor flicks one of the die pieces at the boy's hand, it rolling into his palm. 

"Die, your name is Die. Like that thing in your hand now. You're a piece to my gamble, the gamble that is this situation now before us. This of which I am the dealer." 

He picks up the die and starts to spin it once more.

 "Sometimes the dealer puts the odds in his favour for the house and loads the die, assisting in a preferred outcome. Additionally one can implement under the table manipulation if it's seen fit." 

He grabs the spinning die rolling it in his palm, then rolling it onto the table again, as it continues to spin.  

"I'm going to make one last gamble with you Die. This being of two outcomes."

 The man leans himself forward looking into the boy's eyes. 

"Will you join us and become an Inquisitor?"

 He grabs the remaining die not given to the boy as he finishes his sentence, putting it into his pocket. 

The boy's mind is rushed beyond belief by what choice to make, weighing the idea of completely abandoning what life he had before, even if most of it is forfeit, or to accept the opportunity before him and begin a new life by the hand that took the one before. He can't decide, he tries to get out a word but can't muster the ability to do so. 

Suddenly a chill cold as ice shoots down his spine as his thoughts are shattered by the sound of a hammer cocking back coming from under the table.

He realises he's been left with no choice not that there even was one. The boy finally speaks after weeks of silence. 

"Yes..." 

The man places his handcannon on the table and smiles at the boy. "Good choice Die. Refer to me as Mentor."

The man stands from his seat grabbing and holstering his handcannon and walking out of the room without a word, his footsteps echoing as he leaves. Die looks down at the very thing that is now his name sake, still in shock he stared for minutes more, once he comes to again he puts the die piece in his pocket and takes himself to bed where he will awaken later into a completely new life. 

Sixteen years later...

Sixteen hard long years passed, the first handful of which being some of the hardest. Day in, day out training and learning from dawn to dusk with free time being a fictitious idea, in what little freedom Die did have he'd spend his time in silence reading, educating and sharpening his skills further along with learning new ones too, particularly of weapon maintenance, use concerning firearms and even how to modify them, all of which adding to the ever growing catalogue of his abilities. 

The earliest of these years weren't without tribulation, on more than a few occasions Die tried to escape from the Inquisitors in defiance, but would be promptly halted each time and thankfully due to the circumstances and his age the punishments were hardly as severe as the threats preluding them. If anything Mentor received most the flack considering this was his decision to begin with. But Die soon learned the futility in these efforts, deciding to instead hone the new life he was brought into rather than resist it.

Embracing this choice the years after began to blur as they became uniform in how each day presented itself, through the same passage of time his body had healed leaving him scarred as a reminder, an atonement for his wrongdoings. Through wisdom his mind healed leaving its own scars of the past, serving as reinforcement to his wants to be better than before, his morals and perspective melding into maturity with age and by his indoctrination with the Inquisitors and his ever present Mentor.

Mentor took Die under his wing teaching him to uphold justice, duty and an unyielding servitude to the land and sea, the teachings holding a similarity to those Die first learnt with his tribe but of a different perspective and circumstance, a seemingly more just cause, one that seeks to only harm those that deserve it, rather than those who are easy to harm. Die was no longer the attacker but now the defender, through the same realisation long taught, Die felt a deep sorrow and guilt especially for the people of Iberia he harmed. Whether it was directly or indirectly it didn't matter in his eyes and didn't make it any less wrong he promised to himself to make amends any way he could not only for himself but for his entire tribe he would make things right. And he was certain that through his peers and his Mentor he'll be well equipped to keep that promise.

After the many years Die had been shaped and forged into a shadow of the Mentor that taught him almost all he knows. The years of challenges and grueling training has made him a master of sword and handcannon two staples of the Inquisitors. The predisposition and physical capabilities of strength and resilience gifted by being Sarkaz, Die was more than capable of overpowering his opponents in combat, even if his technique wasn't as elegant as the typical status quo, even whilst he had all the knowledge and training to be so he would rarely show elegance. Die would prefer to focus on creating and exploiting windows of opportunity, even if they were only fractions of a second. When he could throw his opponent off in any way he would leverage every opportune moment with brutal and deadly efficiency, striking with sword and handcannon as if they were completely synonymous, almost always fighting with both in his hands with flawless ambidexterity. 

Along with his skills and the physical abilities gifted by not only his race but those that have grown through training, the infection that courses through his body that befell him all those years ago has grown in intensity, crystallisation starting to form on his body has become impossible to ignore. Worried it would only divide him more from everyone or even worse, Die did his best to hide his symptoms always staying dressed enough to conceal what was visibly present when around others. There was but one silver lining to such, that being the intensified power present in the use of his handcannons, the oripathic infection being a more than powerful amplifier in his arts. Die was more than quick to take advantage of his illness and took ample time in honing his arts channeling using both his hard efforts and infection in tandem, although being careful in doing so sparingly as to not raise any suspicion from his peers.

Whilst Die wasn't close and more than likely completely unable to be a High Inquisitor, sparring sessions proved more than once he would be able to hold his ground against one in a duel. Due to Die's abilities and prowess he would frequently be dispatched in small parties among his peers to deal with any opposing forces that would intrude or threaten the land and sea. The now once broken and resistant Sarkaz boy has finally grown into an Iberian Inquisitor.

Even after all Die has done to reach this point and all the years spent becoming better he feels he still isn't doing enough, it doesn't matter how many he puts down that seek to harm others, it's not enough to fulfil the promise to himself of helping the people of Iberia. If anything it feels like he's keeping everything within a state of stagnation, whilst the people are safe they aren't any more happy, warm or well fed. There's only so much good to be brought from playing executioner. 

Die tried his best to reason with the higher ranking Inquisitors to do more to directly help the common folk of Iberia but was denied at every attempt. For as far as they were concerned he had his place and he must stay true to his duty no matter what, unless told otherwise. Hardly even being given the chance to be heard out on the matter left a bitter taste in Die's mouth. He thinks back to the countless villages filled with the disheveled denizens that make it's townsfolk and just how sickly and hungry they would be. At times completely without the most basic of supplies hardly making ends meet. Sal Viento sticking most prominently in his mind in this regard, the sights, smell and the feeling of the sea side city are just as vivid as when he first visited there checking on some reports of a foreigner.

Die wouldn't allow for the struggling commoners to be overlooked any longer even if he wasn't permitted to aid them. Any time the Sarkaz Inquisitor would be within proximity of a town settlement or otherwise whilst carrying out his duties, he would break off for sparing moments to deliver what he could to these people helping any way he could. He would make these altruistic endeavours short, as to not unsettle others with his identity not only as a Sarkaz but as an Inquisitor. The other being a almost in vain attempt to not arouse too much suspicious from other Inquisitors.

As time passes some village folk have even grown warm to his presence as they grow to understand he means only well and even offering him items in trade and barter, to which he'd always decline but thanks them for their generosity. The only thing Die would go out of his way to purchase was oripathy medication to keep his condition stable, though opportunities were few and far between to do so usually having to rely on luck in acquiring even small doses to which he would administer immediately to hide his infection.

Months pass with Die continuing his efforts still yet to be confronted by a high Inquisitor or his Mentor over them, but he's almost certainly they know or at the very least suspect and are watching him closely. Even Die's peers have grown more distant from him as he suspects it is to ensure their uninvolvement. Nevertheless Die pressed forward in efforts continuing to do what he believed is the right thing, but his belief wasn't without a price.

During a mission concerning a group of foreign Mercs in the area Die underestimated their capabilities before departing to briefly assist a small settlement, he left two other Inquisitors to hold down an encampment whilst he was away. Despite his leave being short he would return to the encampment destroyed, it was hit by the very same Merc group they were investigating and they were well manned and equipped. The Mercs fortunately all perished in the attempt but both Inquisitors were greatly wounded.

Die felt his heart sink into his stomach feeling just as he did when he was a child, awaking to the reality he was the only survivor. Fate had repeated itself and he could only blame himself for what had happened. He refused to let it end in the same way and immediately went to aiding them, staunching their bleeding stabilising them, tourniqueting and covering their wounds in wrappings. He lifted one of them onto his back tying them around himself and picking the other up into his arms. He moved as fast as he could back to base being as careful as he could to not cause further injury, Die felt his guilt crippling him to the deepest level, his subconscious screaming at him louder than a thousand voices, he desperately promised he wouldn't let them die.

After a few hours thankfully they arrived back and alive. Die explained himself and ran through what had happened and what he had done, he didn't take a moment to apologise as there was no room to do so ,nor did he believe himself that there was any forgiveness for letting something like this happen. Die spent the evening in his quarters staring into the floor as he bored into his mind about the events that had taken place. He met with the High Inquisitors and was promptly punished and ordered to stay on the grounds and if he dared leave he would be killed on sight, they would decided further actions of punishment for his negligence after further deliberation. Die didn't object to anything they said and headed their words. Before the night was over Mentor visited him briefly, staring at the Sarkaz he brought in, then leaving without a word.

Two months pass, Die finds himself completely alienated from everyone. He tried his best to make it up to the two Inquisitors that were injured, but whilst they forgive and don't hate him they want nothing more to do with him. He accepts and does as they wish and leaves himself to his thoughts. It takes him some times but he comes to the conclusion he can't wallow in this fault of his. He can't discard all the good he's done, his actions have undoubtedly helped the lives of many and even saved some, including those two Inquisitors.

"I realise now that you can't save everyone. You can't protect everyone.. You can only do your best, whether by others or yourself this is the reality." 

The Sarkaz sits at the end of his bed verbally reaffirming himself under his breath in conjunction with his thoughts and feelings. 

"In the end I still saved them. And saved so many others.. Even if they did die that day. I would do it all again..."

Die's expression furls, his posture straightened, confidently lifting his head and gaze from the floor betwixt his feet, as he becomes more confident in what he says, his perspective broadening at the now collective culmination of countless days of thinking and acting.

"If I was just allowed from the beginning this wouldn't have happened. I mustn't be so critical of myself when I was only doing my best. Of which I will continue to."

He stands from his bed slowly pacing around his room, feeling his confliction lift away before swearing to himself.

'I must always be true to myself and who I want to be, I cannot let anything stop that..'

'I must do what I believe is right and act accordingly. Not for the redemption of my tribe, not of scorn  for them, but because they never wanted it and never showed otherwise. Never solely for those around me to garner an ego of pride. But for me, I mustn't allow my goals to be warped, not even by myself.' 

"I will do what's right..." 

He says so with unwavering commitment, as he now stands at his window looking out at Iberia. He breathes in deeply before closing his eyes and exhaling. Die feels this view burning itself into his memory. The rolling hillsides, the razor edged cliffs and that ever present sea crashing against the shore. He takes a moment to appreciate what's Infront of him before then taking himself to bed falling asleep, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from the body and soul, for the first time in years, he sleeps deeply and peacefully.

A month passes and Die hears no further word from the Inquisitors until an early morning where he's met by Mentor at the door of his room.

 "Get up and get ready boy. You've been cleared and are going out." He calls to Die calmly

Die surprised borderline perplexing replies "Going out? On duty?" 

"Correct, not only that but I'll be accompanying you. I'm certain you know as to why."

Die nods as he stands and prepares himself with his equipment. 

"There's been confirmation of a group of bandits preparing a raid party on the northern border." 

Mentor leans on the doorframe with his arms crossed.

"Should take around a day's travel till we hit their suspected encampment." 

Die finishes holstering his armaments. And paces to the door, affirming his readiness with a nod.

They both begin walking down the halls.

"They're sending just us." Mentor clarifies.

Die turns his head briefly to Mentor before looking back in front of him.

"Just us hmm. Suppose 'they' consider myself your problem too. Now it's our problem." Die says with a grin.

Dismissively and with hardly any enthusiasm Mentor replies 

"Something like that." 

"Alright enough chit chat for now boy. Let's just focus on getting there quicker the better."

Die nods and doesn't say a word further, this extends across the length of the journey. Day becomes night and that night became dawn as they finally position themselves outside of the encampment. The Intel provided being on point as it almost always is, but before any decisive action takes place they pause and rest.

Mentor finally breaks the silence after the two of them are recovered and now have themselves laying low on the border of the encampment.

You are reading story Chevron lore Chap 1 & 2 at novel35.com

"Doesn't look like there's too many of them. We could likely strike swiftly without too much effort. You see anything scouting around? Any stragglers?"

Promptly and directly Die replies as he double checks his ammunition and equipment.

"They're all there, watched them through the early morning. A rendezvous whilst everyone eats and positions change over. A couple sentries, none of them heavily armed." 

"It's your call Die."

The Sarkaz nods "In that case, I'll reposition on their left flank and we'll push in together you'll know the signal." He grabs a frag grenade from his kit with a smile.

"Hah, understood lad. Don't disappoint me here. Now go get into position, I'll be waiting."

Whilst saying so Die has already hastily began repositioning. Around five minutes pass and just as they prepared moments ago,  from above a couple grenades find themselves in the centre of the encampment. Following immediately after are stuns and smokes from both Mentor and Die. It only took them seconds but the camp was already engulfed in chaos, cries calling out bandits hurrying themselves to defend with what's on hand and in person. They all call out between each other trying to make sense of what's happening.

"FUCK WE'RE BEING ATTACKED!! COUNTEROFFENSIVE MEN!" 

"I don't see them! I can hardly see shit with all this smoke!"

From the smoke enveloping the camp, grunts hollering and screams cry out amidst commands and broken attempts of communication.

"SOMEONE KILLS THESE FUCKERS ALREADY I-.." 

Gunshots begin to speak over all. The first shot finding its mark on the biggest man's head, blowing his skull in two.

"Oh shit!!! They killed the fucking boss regroup! regroup!" 

One of the bandits calls out to regroup but none of his comrades find their way to his side. He's only joined by the wails of agony that echo through the thick white smoke, before promptly being cut off. Steel clashing, gunshots now being returned by frightened men find themselves hitting one another. Communication has completely broken down and like animals they're all trying desperately to keep themselves alive, not taking any chances with any figure they can barely make out.

The fighting carries on with not a man being spared whether or not they are attacking, attempting surrender or otherwise, after a few minutes the smoke begins to dissipate. Leaving only a handful still fighting full of fear and adrenaline keeping them going they for the first time see them.

Two figures cloaked in dark heavy coats, their adornments and appearance unmistakable two Inquisitors stand amidst the bodies of those befallen by themselves and by the misfire of others. Covered in kicked up soot and blood drenching them, not a drop of it their own.

"Oh shit fucking Inquisitors."

"You motherfuckers!" 

The few remaining bandits standing and reading charge them, hoping now with the clarity of the battlefield retribution will be brought for their fallen brothers in arms.

One by one they're cut down as they charge in, those with firearms struck down promptly with a handful of remaining rounds leaving the Inquisitors close to dry. A bandit who held back and tried to get the drop on the two rushes the behind of the Mentor but he doesn't even react for Die does so for him. Sending a round past his head hitting the bandit dropping him into the ground.

Appearing to be the last able bodies capable of resisting the onslaught, the Inquisitors relax themselves Mentor holstering his weapons. All but his sword, of which they both mercy kill those still barely alive on the ground. From such booming and violent ear breaking chaos to the calm of just the sea wind and a fire still crackling away, they had eliminated the threat with no hesitation.

For what feels like the first time throughout the encounter Die let's out a relaxed breath, rolling his shoulders, flicking the blood off his blade and sheathing it, his handcannon sitting relaxed in his grip.

"Well looks like we're done here wouldnt you say Mentor haha. It's going to take weeks to clean these clothes." 

"Always so quick to humour aren't you Die." Mentor shakes his head and walks over placing his hand on Die's shoulder.

"You did good though boy. Well done." 

Die smiles a little, partly hoping he didn't sound too cold with a joke so soon.

"Thank yo-"

A dagger finds its way into Die's left side, before he can even register what just happened he's pulled into a headbutt sending him to the ground dazed. He tries to reach for his handcannon just to his side in the dirt before a gunshot goes between it and Die's hand. He looks up to see Mentor standing over him his gun pointed at the Sarkaz.

"Don't.." Mentor coldly speaks.

Die lays back placing a hand around the dagger below his ribs.

Gritting his teeth breathing in sharply he looks at him, the man that brought him in, trained him, followed in his footsteps and trusted after everything was now going to kill him. 

"What the fuck are you doing?." 

Die painfully utters expecting nothing in response, but the question flowing out without thought.

"This isn't what I wanted but I had no other choice. I'm sorry Die." 

The hammer cocks back, his hand shaking in visible hesitation. Just as Die feels this is how it ends it doesn't. An arrow finds its way into the Mentor's shoulder from behind.

A bandit hiding amidst the bodies springs up firing the arrow, drawing another.

"FUCK YOU!" The bandit cries out desperately.

Mentor diverts his aim to the bandit, shooting him twice in rapid succession and before a third shot could ever find it's mark, whether it be the Sarkaz or Bandit another gunshot rings out. The blast louder than anything so far throughout the ordeal, a flash of pure light. It severs Mentor's hand from his arm completely destroying it and sending the handcannon flying.

Followed by a cry of shock. Staggering the mentor to one knee before he then stands again facing Die. He has now found himself on the other side of the gun. The barrel smoking, red hot from only a single shot overcharged by arts and behind it glowing even brighter are the piercing amber eyes of a Sarkaz filled with rage and anguish.

Mentor stands straight letting his arms rest at his side as blood pours out from his mangled arm, the sleeve tattered and ripped. Not unlike the blood flowing from the hilt of the dagger in the Sarkaz before him the same one he brought up since finding him, making its way down the long coat dripping onto the boots before pooling in the mud. He notices how the blood glimmers and shines, characteristic of blood within the oripathic.

The Sarkaz stands there, gun firm stepping back a couple paces not saying single word, the blade in his side causes some of steps to tremor.

Through pained breathing Mentor speaks to the Sarkaz.

"It was the only choice boy... Either I kill you as the one responsible for letting you in, to break even for all the trouble you've caused. Or both our life's are forfeit." 

They stare at each other for a moment the boy still giving no response.

"As we speak they're likely removing any trace of you being a part of us, they consider you a mistake... You are my mistake. Every record every document. They're fabricating a story that fits them and keeps everyone quiet. Your time in the Inquisition is finished." 

Die steps back again. The Mentor's bleeding slowing to a halt as he uses his arts to cauterize it, the flow slowing to a trickle then stopping entirely, The Sarkaz allowing him to do so.

"Thank you Die.. but you can't leave here boy it's me or you... Pull the trigger, finish it." 

Die flicks the cylinder of the handcannon open, emptying the rounds into the mud before holstering it. He draws his sword and finally gives a response.

"When you found me and you took me in. You never gave me a choice... but you gave me a chance."

He places his hand over the dagger feeling how deeply embedded it is. The flow of blood heavy and fresh.

"Nostalgic isn't an appropriate phrase to call it, but this here, it isn't too terribly dissimilar to when I laid there broken, beaten and hopeless."

He gazed deeply into the eyes of his Mentor.

"A feeling I'm certain isn't too dissimilar from what you're feeling right now."

He readies his sword his stance true, his grip tight.

"Just as you did for me I'm going to offer you the same... Draw your sword."

Mentor keeps his gaze firmly on the Sarkaz before him, sword unsheathed, ready for what's to come.

"As you wish boy."

They both pause in place the wind falling still, the smell of the air a mixture of sea salt, blood and ash. A metallic tang fills the air the taste almost sickly. True to his word Sarkaz charges forth first, their swords clashing against each other. The two of them exhausted and having already given their all, the seconds feeling like minutes and the minutes hours. Both of them are unable to break the others defences. Whilst Die striking stronger the Mentor is swift enough to avoid his blows but only just. The both of them grazing each other's clothing at most, swords connecting for fractions of a second sparking bright as a muzzle flash. The blood loss from the both of them slows them down until they find themselves swords interlocked, Die's wounds bleeding heavier. The Mentor struggles to hold the Sarkaz back, slowly but surely he feels it all culminating in his favor in the clench, Die's strength finally beginning to falter.

Even when winged the Mentor is within grasp of killing the boy. The advantage in this interlocked state is all but then shattered in an instant.. A gunshot rings out.

Not from a handcannon but from the hilt of the Sarkaz's sword, it once being stained in crimson red blood, now wiped clean vaporised by the heat of the shot. The bullet connects with his blade seperating it in two.

He feels the tension break away from the clench as the blade is now firm against soft flesh slicing into his throat. A desperate arm dropping a broken sword attempts to push it away but it's all but too late. The Sarkaz Inquisitor's sword freshly bathes in the flowing warm blood, coated in crimson once more.

Die pulls his arm back feeling the Mentor push on his blade, the fight was won. He now watches as the man who just betrayed him to save himself collapses back clasping at the fatal wound. The man desperately pushes himself back with his legs laying against a log his face already turning pale he looks up to see the still heavy gaze of his mistake. His hesitation.

Die feels the hot blood speckled across his hands and face turn cold, he looks down at the man as he reaches into his pocket clasping onto something. The Sarkaz kneels next to the him as he is succumbing to his injuries, he holds the clenched hand of the once Mentor as he uses the last of his strength to utter his parting words.

"I'm...

Sorry..." 

Die holds his hand as he watches the life flows out from the man. His eyes turning still, almost colourless with the lack of life and blood flow dropping to a halt. With a hand spare he shuts the eyes of the man he once called Mentor, an Inquisitor of Iberia. He exhales deeply, with care he unfurls the lifeless hand to retrieve what he wished to desperately hold.

A single die piece... 

The second to the pair that adorned the Sarkaz his current name.

He reaches into his own pocket and pulls out the other piece. A memento he's held onto just like his ring.

He feels the impalpable rage be replaced by sorrow and sincerity. And lays the Mentor's arms on his chest and lays him flat as if ready for a casket burial out of respect for him. 

A hand placed atop the mentor the Sarkaz closes his eyes, he prays of safe passage for him before standing again, stumbling shortly from his injuries, his legs shaking the adrenaline beginning to wear off, exhaustion and pain setting back in.

The lone once Inquisitor takes himself to the fire still alight. His steps short and laboured he sits himself down on a makeshift bench by the warm orange glow. He feels near the entry wound of the dagger. Exhaling and gritting his teeth he pulls it out slowly grunting as it's extracted. The blade comes out letting a fresh stream of warm blood run down his side and left leg.

He places his hand over the opening channeling his arts, the area under his palm feeling as if it's burning akin to cauterization he closes the wound ceasing the bleeding. He lets go with the dagger now in his hand breathing heavily for a moment.

Instead of tossing the blade he sheaths it deciding to keep it. Not before taking a look at the silver lined blackened dagger, taking in the details and intricacy of it.

Slouching his body forward letting it rest atop it's own weight braced on his knees for a moment he pauses. The Sarkaz comes to the reality his current state of life is forfeit. Who he is will become who he was, he'll have to leave here and go as far away as possible, anything else would ensure his demise. He struggles to think of where to go that he could lay low, but a places comes to him.

Lungmen. Lungmen slums he thinks to himself. A few years ago he ran into a trader from there that grew up in the slums, the memory of it's description seems more than befitting for his needs now. He could even still help the unfortunate there just as he's done here. Of which is in no short supply from the knowledge he does know of the city.

He pulls the dice from his pocket and plays with them in his hands staring down at them. Part of him is surprised by how unshaken he is by everything, maybe it's because of being through this already once before or the fact it hasn't actually hit him yet. Nevertheless he thinks to himself, taking in the surrounding  warmth from the dancing flames. 

Remembering when Mentor sat him down talking trivia about Iberia and the peculiar names of some folk. Himself ending up with a name no less unusual, but at least for himself it's meaning was known in part by what was talked about that day. Thinking more and looking at those dice he saw a symbolism in them, that the one he was given was the present, his once future after what happened during that ambush as a child. The one held by his Mentor the past, tucked away and left unmentioned for it need not be otherwise.

These two dice together form a new identity he felt. He shook them in his hands and let them gently roll out on the dry dirt between his feet. Two 3's, side by side, converging to a single point, shaped as a Chevron if you connected the dots as if they were a constellation.

"Chevron... That'll do." He smiles briefly before it fades to a blank expression once again. He picks up the dice placing them back in his pocket.

The once Sarkaz child misguided

became an Inquisitor, bestowed the name of Die. Hardly within the span of a quarter of a lifetime two lives have been lived and now a third begins, this time as whoever he wanted to be. The life before gone, without doubt he will be labelled traitor and excommunicated, perhaps his very existence stricken from the record, but he won't let it sway his conviction and commitment.

The Sarkaz now named Chevron stood from the fire as night began to fall. He stumbled and pushed on, fading into the woods, through whatever means he can muster, he heads North.

To Lungmen.

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