"War Hounds"
Thunderscourge
Emulating Kill em All Tomino in all Games
WAR HOUNDS
It was some months into his training that Tristan was gathered along with all other Neophytes to embark upon transport vessels to visit a world that the Iron Legion's fleet had brought them to. Jarn's forces were largely nomadic, being careful to not attract too much attention by staying in any one place too long, but it had numerous times throughout its existence returned to this particular place: a world outside of Imperial control that lacked much of what would make others seek it out for conquering be it resources, population, or unique properties.
To the outside eye this world was worthless beyond its menial Human population, but therein lay its true worth: it was easy to overlook, and thus where the fledgling forces of Jarn's War Hound allies could build up their strength. Too few in number to pose a threat to almost any other world, here they were gods among the mortals which inhabited the planet known as Prédannost. Ossus had explained to the trainees that they were to learn from the War Hounds' controlled yet vicious close-combat skills, and that they would thus train as gladiators much like the aspiring War Hounds upon Prédannost did.
The twenty, or rather eighteen, Astartes Legions had been a part of their studies up until now and from what little he learned of them thus far the War Hounds were the original name for the 12th Legion predating the term 'World Eaters' that was their present-day moniker. With what was said about them by Ossus and Jarn this group were founded some time ago by an Astartes by the name of Dreagher, former Captain of the World Eaters 9th Company, who had gathered Gene Seed throughout the Horus Heresy to one day revive his Legion as it was before Angron's arrival. Mention was made of the "Butcher's Nails", and how apparently Dreagher now lacked them, but the details eluded Tristan since he still had so much yet to learn.
Where they were let off the transports was only an Astartes' stone throw from the colosseum that would be their ultimate destination, but nearby Tristan could see a town much larger than his own village had been while still not being as massive as he read the cities of the Imperium were. He could see people bustling about the place engaging in their everyday lives, children awed by the sight of the craft landing down nearby while more experienced adults continued on with their chores. The Eisernen did not lack in its possession of regular Humans, and while traveling through its hallways Tristan would sometimes encounter them, but their conversations were always curt and simple such as the passage of directions to a particular area of the ship.
The crew Tristan would learn were all descendants of Jarn's homeworld of Kimara, handpicked by him eons ago, and so their icy demeanors were not out of any dislike towards the boy but rather because it was just how they treated nearly everyone. In that way they worked in perfect lockstep with the Iron Warriors on board, and while encountering the descendants of others from Jarn's homeworld made him curious Tristan had not yet brokered the courage to ask him more about it. From what he gathered it was a sore subject for the Warsmith despite his obvious fondness for where he hailed from, though why was beyond Tristan's knowledge. Passages in Jarn's journals made mention to the world he left behind long ago, so it was something Tristan had meaning to ask about but was willing to wait for the right moment to do so.
While standing in line Tristan could see that there were some dozens of trainees gathered into their own specific teams, but since he was still growing Tristan could not quite see over many of them and ascertain just how many there were. Beyond a cursory glance born of curiosity he did not particularly care either, as all that mattered was his own training at the moment. At the front of them all were Jarn and Ossus, the two providing instructions in tandem to organize the young trainees before them so that their entrance to the colosseum would not disrupt the activities within.
Tristan found himself observing the architecture of the arena and contemplating its construction, not ignoring the Warsmith out of indifference but rather because Tristan already knew better than to disrupt others. The lesson being imparted right now was for brazen fools like Levente in his mind, and so he instead admired the circular structure which opened up at the top. From its design it appeared that there was a central pit where combat would be done, and surrounding it on all sides were places for others to observe the carnage as well as constructs to facilitate the holding of various creatures: from his limited understanding such gladiator matches did not always just take place between Humans. If he had to guess, there were plenty of dungeons beneath the arena to hold even more 'contestants' because how else could they regularly engage in such matches if not through possessing a wealth of fighters?
Before entering these were the observations Tristan managed to make for himself using the logical reasoning Jarn had been instilling in him, but what lay before him moments thereafter was still a surprise since while intelligent he was still but a child who lacked experience.
Upon his entrance a sound which Tristan at first thought was the cheering of a crowd soon revealed itself to be another beast entirely, for while there were plenty of mortals from the city observing from the stands of the colosseum they were near mute when compared to the sound made by the tide of bodies within the arena at that moment.
"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The warcry of the Orks was near deafening as what appeared to be a hundred of them ran forth at a single figure in the center of the arena, standing alone as cages were released and the Orks held captive were unleashed all at once. In the stands stood a handful of Astartes bearing the heraldry of the War Hounds, but not a single one made a move to assist their kin down below: they all stood in disciplined vigilance as if studying a work of art rather than witnessing what no doubt would be a slaughter.
Tristan had only ever known Orks to be green from the pictures in various texts he went through on the Eisernen, but these ones appeared different than many of those: they possessed a pale green, nearly ashen skin tone that made it seem as if they had not witnessed sunlight but for this once in their lifetime. Each of their bodies was visibly strong, but seeming malnutrition had made them lose some of the excessive bulk other Orks could possess.
Seeing others who had starved would have elicited sympathy from Tristan if not for the fact these were Orks, beings without the notion of sympathy or an ounce of humanity. They were tools of war according to what he read, beings who existed only to wage conflict and nothing else, and their gleeful lunging forth at the Astartes in the pit showed that off fully. They did not care that they were starved, they did not care that they had not truly waged war before in their lives, all that mattered was that they could fight now.
Chains were present on the War Hound awaiting the Orks' charge, but they were not meant to tie him down: rather they were an extension of the weapon he held in his hands, one which reminded Tristan of a flail and which he had seen labeled as a 'Meteor Hammer' when studying various Astartes weapons. At the end of a long, sturdy chain was a head-sized ball with spikes upon it, and despite its seeming weight Tristan saw that the War Hound was calmly spinning it in place as if it weighed nothing at all.
When the first Ork reached the Astartes that calm was replaced with nigh instantaneous action, with the Meteor Hammer swinging straight through the Greenskin's jaw and through the heads of two others in a single movement. As the three Orks fell the War Hound twisted to sweep the legs out of five others and send them careening into the Orks a step behind them, the economy of his movement such that nothing was wasted as he viciously yet clinically eliminated each Ork running his way.
Jarn had brought his future Astartes to a place in the colosseum's stands where one could get a clear view of the battle, with Tristan due to his lesser height being ushered to sit closer such that larger children would not obscure his view. This in turn placed him nearby some of the previously existing viewers, seeing a family before him that for a brief moment made him remember his own. A father with a son sitting at their side, an expectant mother cradling an infant in their arms...it was an unintentional look back at what had been lost, something that already had begun to feel like a lifetime ago.
Tearing his attention away from the spectators, Tristan focused again on the War Hound ripping apart each and every Ork heading his way before they could lay a single blow upon him. While Levente was certainly a prodigy of closed quarters conflict, even the stout boy did not hold a candle to what they both were seeing now. To his credit Levente seemed aware of this fact, for it was not his first visit here, and instead he was studying the movements of the War Hound the same way that Tristan studied whatever texts he could lay his hands on about scientific pursuits.
While Jarn's expression was hidden by his helmet, something of his own creation which resembled that of a knight crossed with more advanced technology, it was still possible to tell that he was watching the scene before him with pride. His recognition of the War Hound told Tristan this was the leader of the members of the 12th Legion here, as the other Astartes present were not presently wearing helmets of their own and so their youth was evident. They were freshly minted Astartes learning from Dreagher the way that Tristan was from Jarn, they simply were a decade or more ahead of him in the same process.
Fifty Orks had fallen already in mere moments and with each passing moment and swing of the Meteor Hammer's chain more joined them, their purple-tinted red blood splattering everywhere around Dreagher except on the Astartes himself. Not a drop had struck the white of his armor, making a point in not bathing himself in the blood of his enemies but rather treating it like a venom to be avoided at all costs. The Orks might have been able to lay a scratch upon him had their movements been more coordinated, but Dreagher's movements were such that he was nearly dancing between them as if on a razor's edge. If he moved to one side he used that same movement to crush a felled but not yet defeated Ork beneath his boot, if he was attacked from both sides he would cleave the head off of one while grabbing the weapon of the other so as to tug and force them to instead embed it in yet another Greenskin. Countless blades and axes swung by him, each missing by a hair's breadth, and each retaliated against by Dreagher's violent dance.
Rather than stay in one place Dreagher moved his way throughout the arena, his weapon bashing aside and eradicating the Orks who dared stand in his path, and the reason for this was increasingly obvious as their bodies mounted up: he could not utilize his superior footwork and skill if the corpses surrounding him were too high to readily step in one direction or another so he dragged the fight out to where there were less dead.
From Ossus's accounts of other Legions there were certain qualities each Legion possessed which differentiated them from one another beyond their names and allegiances, and while Iron Warriors and the Death Guard were stalwart, the Emperor's Children swift, it was the War Hounds and their World Eater kin who were the undisputed masters of carving their way through a battlefield through brute force. It is in this way that the hundred or so Orks which had been released to fight a sole Astartes found themselves deleted from existence without once managing to strike him. The only blood to be found upon Dreagher was on the bottom of his boots from stepping on soil where it had been shed, but nowhere else could one make out a single speck of it.
The hundreds gathered around the colosseum cheered out victoriously at the display with even the Iron Warriors present showing their own recognition of the feat. Dreagher had been a whirlwind of movement that tore through whatever was placed before him, revealing himself to be a master of clearing through hordes of enemies with his weapon of choice. While the Meteor Hammer would maybe dent or inflict some harm against armor like Jarn's it was ideally suited for carving through lesser protection, and with the strength and momentum displayed Tristan had little doubt that Dreagher could smash through typical Astartes plate like it was nothing.
Cheering only came to an end once Dreagher departed from the scene of his slaughter, leaving the clean-up to loyal Humans hired from the local population. The Ninth Captain approached Jarn directly as Ossus guided the trainees to stand in rows upon the battlefield, using a spot upon the massive field without the need for cleaning up to facilitate this organization.
"Dreagher," Jarn greeted the Captain as each man brought their forearm up to touch the other's as a sign of familiarity and greeting.
"Jarn, it has been too long."
It was thanks to Jarn that Dreagher had been able to establish himself upon this world, and so in return Dreagher assisted the Iron Warriors' training to repay the favor. Years would sometimes pass between times Jarn could bring his Legion here to refresh their training in close quarters combat, but the Warsmith enjoyed it all the same. Dreagher's forces were minimal, but they were growing bit by bit each time Jarn returned, an important prospect if both of their Legions were to one day overcome their Heretical brethren. Like Jarn there was little love for the Imperium in Dreagher, but they both were in agreement that Chaos was a greater threat to the very nature of their Legions and so stood united against it.
"The data you provided on the bio-vats has proven illuminating. It will no doubt assist Fabius in his own research," Jarn commented as a follow-up to a prior discussion some time ago, to which Dreagher nodded.
"You can understand why I opt not to utilize them however."
The World Eaters had used specialized vats to essentially grow Astartes ready for battle during the Horus Heresy to replenish their rapidly diminishing numbers, but the result was often warriors so battle-crazed they were untenable as a way to properly rebuild a Legion. Still, those secrets of the World Eaters could prove useful to one such as Fabius, and so Dreagher willingly imparted the information in Jarn to provide it to in turn lend to the renegade Emperor's Children scientist.
Jarn took a glance over at the stands of the arena, observing mortals which some day may become Astartes themselves before eventually having his gaze fall upon the same family Tristan had observed earlier, "The War Hounds will be replenished when the time comes, just as my Iron Warriors will."
Like Tristan the Warsmith had lost his family too, having never truly gotten to know his own son and having lost a wife and his parents to illness. While the process of becoming an Astartes often distanced one from such mortal feelings Jarn still could not help but feel that he had lost something irreplaceable, and so his eyes perhaps lingered a moment longer than another Astartes may have on the happy family getting their children to wave playfully at the Astartes.
"For now Legion building will have to be done in the old-fashioned way. I take it you want these Neophytes to train alongside my gladiators?"
"Take care to train them only so far as their limits go for now. I expect every Neophyte left here today to return to my ship alive and without grievous harm done to them."
"Understood. It would not do to ruin our efforts through excessive zeal."
Jarn gestured towards the fourth Neophyte in the first column organized by Ossus, as while it was not only Tristan who had never been here before he was the only one Jarn had particular concern for regarding succeeding in the training.
"One of them is new to our ranks. Tristan Bertrand. Ascertain his potential today and tailor his lessons accordingly."
Dreagher took note of the boy instantly from where they stood in the stands, his Astartes eyes able to make out Tristan clearly even at their distance. It took all of one second for him to determine the scrawny child was not brought here because of any form of physical prowess.
"I take it that you recruited the boy for his mind rather than physical status," Dreagher noted dryly.
"On a primitive world without an inkling of technology he crafted an autocannon and barricade for himself to fend off the worshippers of Chaos," Jarn nodded in agreement to Dreagher's statement while also demonstrating a fair deal of pride in his apprentice via his tone.
It was simple enough for Dreagher to figure out that Jarn seemed to be preparing this young boy for a future leadership role, and while he was not yet physically impressive the boy had time to grow and so the War Hound Captain was willing to give training him a shot.
That being said, he had his work cut out for him if this particular trainee was going to reach the average level of Astartes in training.
"I can tell at a glance he will have trouble with even a single Gretchin. I will intervene when necessary, but only when necessary."
Jarn nodded, hoping for no more and no less from Dreagher.
"Thank you, old friend. Be sure to attend to Levente with just as much care, for his strength and skill continue to flourish."
Dreagher departed from Jarn's side, raising a hand as he did so to say his goodbyes without actually doing so.
"I will determine that for myself."
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Weeks went by where Tristan and his fellow trainees were drilled with fundamentals, not even touching a training weapon until they had first learned how to properly use their fists and feet. They were taught like any of the aspiring gladiators at the colosseum, with many members of the local city partaking in the same exercises as them, and as such lived in a small settlement beside the colosseum but away from the city. They ate, trained, fought, slept, and repeated the process with growing efficiency as they became used to their daily regimens.
The accommodations were sparse and rugged, but for many of the recruits that was no issue at all: their lives before joining the Iron Warriors tended to be filled with hardship in one form or another. Uncomfortable bedding, subpar food, and constant drills were just a part of life by now. Tristan struggled to keep up with the older boys in the exercises posed by the War Hounds, but in a stroke of fortune said exercises never seemed to go beyond what he was capable of. If he had to guess the War Hounds were so used to training gladiators of all kinds by now and thus were training him up to his limit, but not a step further. They were personable with one another but were strict with those they trained, so he had yet to have a real conversation with any of the instructors to confirm one way or another.
When it was decided that they were ready to move beyond the basics the trainees were introduced to the colosseum's arena itself, where they would be pitted against one another in fights that lasted until first blood. Such was the method of the War Hounds in how they handled duels, exercising restraint to hold themselves back from bloodlust, with unchecked aggression being met with severe punishment and even threat of execution. According to Dreagher this was to weed out those weak to the call of the Chaos God Khorne, refusing to allow these War Hounds to fall to the vicious madness their World Eaters kin had in years past. On this front Tristan saw no issue and faced no problems, for if anything he was too meek compared to his fellow trainees who threw themselves into training with far less regard for their personal safety.
Each of them had been offered their choice of training weapons to use in the arena, with Levente opting for a maul in one hand and a sword in the other while Tristan struggled to lift a maul for his own usage as well. Jarn's Power Maul Eirlithriad was what inspired him to take up one of his own, but possessing scrawny arms did not make it an easy endeavor. He had grown stronger since arriving on Prédannost, his muscles still small but now solid instead of soft, but it was still not enough to allow him to properly wield the maul he brought with him to the arena. The armor atop his body was fairly light but good enough to do its job, befitting of what a skilled blacksmith would make for their child, with it being what Tristan had worn ever since Jarn found him.
Beneath it was a faded blue shirt sewn by his mother, and atop his head was one of many helmets offered to him by the War Hounds. They almost all wore helmets similar in style to the one worn by Dreagher, but there was a myriad of options in their armory since they had so few members. Obviously Tristan could not yet wear actual Astartes helmets, so he was left to sift through ones meant for mortals in training. He passed over some sallets and knight helms like those worn by knights on his world or akin to Jarn's own helm, not believing himself worthy of wearing them for he had never passed through the trials upon his world to become a proper knight. Instead he opted for a helm which intrinsically spoke to him, it being one that obscured the least of his vision by having multiple holes out of the front of its visor, with a War Hound informing him that this was a typical gladiator helm. Tristan liked it, and so he added it to his increasingly heavy set of armaments.
It came as little surprise that wearing all of that he lost his first duel against number Three, a well-rounded boy he had learned was named Quidel due to their sharing of a habitat here on Prédannost. Then he lost his second duel, against number Five. And his third against number Seven. And his fourth against Ten, and so on and so forth until he had found himself beaten into the dirt by each and every one of them except Levente. Because of the maul Tristan was off-balance whenever he tried to strike, and he was thus unable to keep on his feet when they in turn tried to strike him. He never could get a hit in of his own by the time they knocked him flat, and so his pride was diminished bit by bit throughout the day. Dreagher recorded the fights to go over areas of improvement with the trainees later while their bodies were allowed to rest, and so Tristan knew he was in for a great deal of further humiliation once the Captain went over his performance.
The very thing which made Tristan a natural at learning and utilizing strategy in the wargames the Fourth Legion engaged in also was what inhibited him in actual combat drills: on the Eisernen he could hit a target with a rifle better each day, but when faced with an actual combatant his mind would freeze him up. So many variables, so many decisions to make, he could not yet process them in the appropriate amount of time to react to an ever-shifting combat scenario. What was the right move to make? Should he dodge or go on the offensive? The correct action to take shifted with each moment, and it made him sluggish because of a combination of humility and self-doubt born of knowing how many options he had and being uncertain which to choose.
When strategizing at a macroscopic level things did not change so rapidly as the darting figure of a foe before his very eyes, that was the crucial difference between him and Levente when it came to conflicts like these. Levente could make the snap judgments because he was not constantly nervous about making the wrong decision, being intelligent enough to often make the right choice but not so smart as to be plagued by the constant self-doubts born of knowing all of the options available to him.
Each day Tristan trained alongside Levente only drove this fact deeper into him, ironically feeding into his insecurity despite his typically prideful nature. The gap between them physically was widening with each passing day rather than closing, and Tristan loathed that fact.
Just because he knew and understood their differences did not mean Tristan accepted them however.
Levente's most recent match was with Quidel, knocking the other trainee flying with a well placed slash to the abdomen after first disarming Quidel's weapon with a swing of Levente's maul. If not for the fact these weapons were dulled and crafted so as to not cause injury number Three would have just been dealt a grievous wound, but instead he was just left stirring in pain from his now bruised ribs.
Tristan helped Quidel to his feet despite the latter's protestations, offering him a hand as a fellow aspiring Iron Warrior. Tristan had no issue with the other trainees, he simply disliked Levente due to their clashing natures, and so helping the third member of their squad did not even require consideration given that he had the spare moment to do so.
"Who's next?" Levente jeered, proud of himself for having succeeded in every contest placed before him that day be it training or dueling.
It would be a lie to say Tristan was not afraid of fighting Levente head-on, but even so he stood before the older boy. Primal instincts went unheeded despite the blaring warnings they sent throughout his body, for Tristan might be afraid but he was more frightened by the prospect of failing Jarn.
Without the Iron Warriors who now looked after him Tristan had no chance of survival, his mere existence was allowed by their whims, and while they had not been cruel to him he knew that this was not charity: he was expected to perform in return, and so he would.
Levente noticed Tristan finally, now only a few inches taller than Tristan due to the latter's growth in height and Levente's own shortness for his own age. While similar in height now they still were leagues apart physically, with Levente being many times the slender child's overall mass due to possessing a far stockier build.
"You have to be kidding me. What makes a twig like you think he can even challenge me? Just yield and I'll save you the embarrassment."
Tristan didn't bother breathing a response, already exhausted from the day's training and not having the energy to spare verbally jousting with Levente. It took all he had to lift his maul with both hands, while the trainee across from him now effortlessly held one in a single hand.
Levente, realizing that he was not going to get a response, opted to just leap into the match without an ounce of hesitation, "Alright you mute, let's fight!"
In a single blow his maul caved in the metal armor worn on Tristan's chest, not breaking through enough to deal significant damage to Tristan himself but still knocking Tristan back through sheer force and forcing the boy to cough up blood.
Tristan had lost, utterly humiliated once again by Levente...but he continued standing despite having almost been knocked off his feet. His eyes were shut in pain, and he was clenching his teeth as he tried to power through the pain, for even if all the others could best him he refused to grant Levente the satisfaction of seeing him on his back or knees.
"Of all the Legions the Iron Warriors are the most obdurate. We do not bend until the moment we break, for better or worse...but that is what it means to be Astartes. We suffer without relenting, without letting a tear fall from our eyes so that others may. We are their bulwark against terror, we are the defenders of humanity, and so we shall know no fear."
Those were the words Jarn once told him when Tristan asked about the shrine in their shared room, with the Warsmith's answer having been a deflection of the question yet meaningful in its own way. Tristan was intimidated by Levente as much as he hated admitting it, and he almost physically recoiled whenever they would walk past one another and brush shoulders for but a moment. Unlike with what happened on his homeworld he was not numbed by the grief, and so instead he was just left to combat his own fears whenever he was around his rival.
Still standing, and still frightened, Tristan issued a challenge to Levente as was his right after losing.
"Again."
Levente rose a skeptical brow at him but shrugged it off casually a moment thereafter, accepting the challenge and preparing to fight once again.
"There is no world where a runt like you can beat me, but if I have to teach you that lesson with pain then so be it."
This time Levente's strike first disarmed Tristan similar to how Quidel had been bested, with one of Tristan's hands being bloodied in the process just as a practice sword slammed into his gut. The pain made him almost fall, but he refused to do more than double over as Levente stepped away to laugh over yet another flawless victory.
"Again."
Now without a weapon, Tristan lifted both his arms to form fists in front of him, one hand bleeding down his arm as he stared through his visor at Levente. Nothing being used could slip through these small holes in the helmet so its increased visibility was something Tristan had grown to appreciate, even if he was mostly getting used to looking down at the dirt or up at the blue sky.
So he continued to fight again, and again, until eventually he was too bloodied to actually stand. Rather than let him fall Quidel caught the exhausted Tristan, leading him to where a War Hounds apothecary was working with Quidel to fix up those with severe injuries.
Levente would go undefeated that day, but it did not escape Dreagher's notice that only one recruit was willing to fight him more than once.
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Eventually Tristan woke up from his exhaustion fueled collapse, finding himself not in Ossus' care or in his room but rather resting in the armory. A look around would reveal that the daylight was slowly beginning to fade away as dusk settled in, as well as that Tristan was not alone.
"The maul does you no favors. Not for one of your build."
Tristan tried saluting Dreagher, but his arm's accrued damage instead made him experience a jolt of pain that caused the movement to instead end with his arm only half raised. It seemed that the Captain had been waiting for him to wake up, and so he was going to show the Captain the respect Jarn would expect their ally to receive.
Despite knowing to be respectful Tristan had issues being comfortable around his temporary caretakers through no fault of their own. The War Hounds had been fairly personable compared to the Iron Warriors Tristan had met thus far, and therein lay the issue with his connection with them: the frigid demeanors of the Iron Warriors was actually more comfortable for Tristan to deal with compared to the War Hounds who would actually engage in small talk and other such behaviors. He respected their capabilities greatly, but he was not the sort to laugh over dinner about some great battle he had that day. He would rather eat alone in his room and read a book at the same time, something he was deprived of here since they had brought no texts with them and the War Hounds did not exactly possess a library in the colosseum. Maybe the city would have one, but the trainees were forbidden from departing the colosseum's premises.
Dreagher continued his point as he lifted an actual Power Maul in hand just as effortlessly as Levente had done to the practice one, "It is fine to look up to your Warsmith, but do not mistake yourself as him: those born to possess his strength are few and far between."
As much as it hurt to admit Tristan had learned the hard way all day that Dreagher was correct, at least for now. There was simply no way he could effectively utilize the maul as a weapon, and so it was impeding him in battle rather than aiding him.
"For the same reason your armor is holding you back. You do not yet possess the strength to properly wear it and it is slowing your movements."
Tristan noticed that his armor had been removed and was now beside him on the table the apothecaries had unceremoniously left him on top of. He didn't care about that though, but rather looking down at the armor that had been so brutalized once again brought his mind back to his homeworld. The blue rose emblazoned on the armor's chest was all that would separate it from countless other protective devices throughout the galaxy, at lest to an outside observer, but to Tristan it meant something more.
"It is all I have left of my father."
Jarn had filled Dreagher in on some of the details concerning Tristan in their talks since the Iron Warrior Neophytes had been turned over to him, and thus now realizing why Tristan wore the armor despite it making him perform worse due to inhibiting his agility. The War Hounds tended to lack such sentiments about armor and weapons, but even they were not without their own fondness for one weapon or tool over another.
"I am sorry for your loss."
The boy nodded as if in thanks but said nothing as he continued to look down at his armor, intent on wearing it enough such that it became a second skin before he grew too much to properly wear it anymore.
"What kind of man was he?" Dreagher inquired after another moment, his eyes not on the armor but rather transfixed on a rack of weapons.
Tristan responded without looking up still, "A knight. Noble. Just."
Dreagher would have perhaps grunted in amusement over the miscommunication if not for the circumstances, instead elaborating on what he really meant.
"Perhaps I was not specific enough: what was his height? His overall stature and build?"
That got Tristan's attention, as he realized that Dreagher was figuring out a way to help him. While still sorrowful over the loss of his family if it meant taking that next step forward so that he might one day avenge them, he would.
"The tallest of our village. Thin."
"A woman will grow to often resemble her mother, and a son their father. You certainly seem to take after your father, so training you in weapons that rely upon overwhelming strength would be a waste," Dreagher explained as he reached into a set of longer weapons that Tristan had overlooked earlier in favor of mirroring Jarn.
"He was strong."
"Do not believe my words to mean that he was feeble: rather understand that there are different forms of power, and yours will likely come from your size when you are grown."
With this said Dreagher held out a training spear to Tristan, though for balance he chose one that had a pseudo-tip on each side. A perfectly balanced training weapon would help Tristan far more than one he struggled to even lift.
"Are you familiar with this weapon?"
Tristan nodded, remembering that it had been the weapon of choice for many in his village including his father. Given what Dreagher was saying perhaps there was a reason his father had enjoyed crafting them and thus selling them to the local forces, if such a weapon was useful for his build. With this in mind Tristan stood up and tried holding the spear out from himself as Dreagher observed from some feet to the side, the boy almost stumbling at first due to his previous wounds but soon steeling himself and remaining upright. Once he was stable he tried moving the spear around, and to his amazement even with his injuries it was far easier to do so than his weapon earlier.
"Controlling your foe at a distance, leveraging your longer limbs to your advantage. That is how you may survive a battle."
Unlike the maul he held prior this spear felt like a natural extension of Tristan's own two hands. Slender like him, its weight was spread out across a greater distance and did not so heavily rest on a single point. Whereas the maul had nearly dragged him down with every swing given its weight was almost all in one point, Tristan felt next to nothing comparatively as he thrust the spear forward as a test.
Dreagher observed as Tristan made himself familiar with the training spear, seemingly content with the outcome of his advice based on the intonation of his voice.
"Much easier to wield is it not?"
Tristan nodded, and Dreagher motioned over towards the door leading to the colosseum's fighting pit.
"Now, let us see if you can make use of it."
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At the schola certain forms of training were themselves seen as a form of recreation and reprieve from the more daunting forms of it, and it is in this way that Isolde found herself making a habit out of reading almost every book she could get her hands on in their library. At only eight years of age she was not able to delve into some of the more difficult textbooks, but she read what she could and supplemented those lessons with videos kept as training materials in the library. The forest of books she would often surround herself with was often filled with others from the schola though few of her own age, for while the children at Kimara's premier academy were extraordinarily well-disciplined the younger students still were children and not all of them fancied themselves with such rigorous studies beyond the already high expectations placed upon them.
For this reason Kalles, Madge, Cordelia, Marlene, and Dairine from her class were rare sights in the library, leaving Clausura, Umida, and Verita as the only other girls her age to sometimes be present there at the same time. Clausura only came to the library to read holy texts, and Isolde found Umida's constant talking annoying and so ignored her on principle so she could focus on reading, but Verita was more similar to Isolde in that she too did not go around bothering others. From what Isolde had heard Verita came from a Kimaran family which had been purged due to accusations of heresy, something that caused many others like Clausura to avoid Verita on principle, but Isolde didn't care. If the other girl wanted to read quietly then so be it.
Truth be told, Isolde did not only come to the library to expand her knowledge and improve as a student, but rather to earn a privilege from her father. She was already the top student in her class overall given her rigorous studies despite being held to a higher standard than her peers thanks to who her father was. The Commandant was proud of her, but his way of rewarding her success was to grant her greater access to the library's contents. Not everything was available to any member of the schola, and in fact many books and materials were only accessible by members of staff or authorized students.
To her classmates Isolde was distant and cold even by Kimaran standards, but she was still a young girl who in her own way showed her age. Once she had seen a video recording from the most restricted of sections in the library, having out of curiosity snuck into the area by following after an elderly Abbot who wouldn't notice her presence. In doing so she found herself led to a room branching off from the library made to contain its exclusive material, and there she saw her father instructing future Tempestus Scions over twice her age. As shock-troopers they were expected to know how to handle themselves in close-quarters combat, and so the video provided was supposedly to teach them of the techniques of their enemies to best counter them.
The video in general had not caught her interest, not until the moment she saw a boy standing in a blood-soaked arena standing up against another far larger than himself. Even with blood running down his chest, he remained standing against his superior foe and did not yield. They fought again, and again, and again, until eventually it was no longer physically possible for the smaller combatant to continue on. Isolde had been bored by the hulking behemoth who had been blitzing through one opponent after another, defeating them before they could even properly react, but found herself fascinated by this other boy who seemed to embody the enduring spirit those on Kimara were raised to appreciate. Even with his chestplate caved in, his gladiator helm battered, and his body no doubt in intense pain he had continued standing defiantly beyond the point of reason.
Seeing that was fun for Isolde, like she had witnessed the spirit of her homeworld conveyed through this seemingly ancient recording. While her father had ended up scolding her for sneaking in once she was discovered, he had made a deal with Isolde that if she spent her time studying that he would show her more footage from their records. Recreational videos were scarce or unheard of at the schola, making this an immense privilege to earn and so Isolde utilized her hobby of studying to partake in yet another: watching videos that few others could see, with her favorites being recordings of the training of this boy who seemed to be about her age. She did not care that allegedly this was an Iron Warrior from ages past and thus an enemy, she appreciated the spectacle of it and so would even ask her father to tell her stories about the Iron Warriors of Kimara's past so that she might better understand the subject of the videos she witnessed.
Perhaps her favorite so far would be one where the boy rightly discarded the maul he had been clumsily trying to use to instead wield a spear and shield, not facing against another trainee this time but rather an Ork Gretchin. Some called them 'Grots', but Isolde found that name disgusting and so preferred Gretchin as a term to refer to the diminutive Ork subspecies. The beast was armed with a blade of its own, but its small form could not reach the boy's own thanks to the spear. The boy's arms were long for his height, allowing him to leverage the spear's own length to keep the Gretchin back and deter its charges.
This defense was not perfect however as the boy was obviously new to using the spear, and so a few times the Gretchin managed to slip past the spear and land a blow upon him. Some of those hits would in turn be blocked by the shield, while others the boy would take head on to retaliate in return. As the Gretchin's blade crashed against the boy's chestplate emblazoned with a sigil of a blue rose the boy's spear landed true and impaled the creature through the throat.
It was evident by his reaction that the boy had never taken a life before, or even truly cut into another, but since the creature began thrashing wildly in its death throes to try and slay the one who had struck it the boy was left with no option but to finish it off. He ripped the spear out, turned around the lunge of the Gretching, and using the momentum he gained from twisting around its swing slashed and stabbed both into the Ork's neck again to completely decapitate it.
While Isolde enjoyed the defiant fight against the barbaric boy as well, that fight did not end with the subject of her interest reigning victorious. If she was honest the boy was a poor combatant, but he kept trying despite the odds and always could be expected to refuse to give up a fight. What's more, this particular conflict showed its age because an Ixolotl could be seen reacting to the boy's victory gleefully: it didn't seem to understand the concept of fighting, but the boy's own relief and joy at victory was reflected in the empathetic creature.
And it wanted to eat the Gretchin. For reasons unknown to those on Kimara, Ixolotls were capable of completely removing Ork spores when eaten, something one would not expect of such ditzy creatures or something natural but it was what it was and so the Ixolotl alternated between snacking on the deceased Gretchin and embracing the boy. Isolde's father had his own Ixolotl and she would often sleep with its soft form, not yet having received one of her own but that day would be coming soon enough. Their blank expressions were seen as creepy to those from off-world, but to Isolde they were comforting to be around and they made a hard day's work not feel so stressful through their unconditional affection. You could give them an object with a particularly shiny luster and for this trade you would have earned a lifetime friend, a useful thing to possess for the emotionally repressed natives of Kimara.
After slaying the Gretchin the boy removed his helm to wipe sweat from his brow, revealing his face for the first time to Isolde. Unlike other trainees he seemed to like keeping his hair long, and while not the mane of a woman it was still noticeably beyond the length of any of the others. His face was young as one would expect, but his ivory skin and raven hair were similar to those of the Raven Guard that Isolde read about, something she remembered primarily thanks to the fact those very features were so common on Kimara. Over ten thousand years of almost never going out in the sun had left their population almost all seeming to be albino in complexion, and so while it was not the exact same Isolde could not help but wonder if the boy was from her homeworld so many thousands of years ago. It was not under the scope of her knowledge that the video was not from the Great Crusade's era at all, rather being from within the last century, but such things did not matter. Watching the videos was fun in a way she had little understanding of, such was her inexperience with levity and recreational activities.
Isolde might not know the boy's name, but given his nature she gave him a title in its place.
Knight.
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A/N: I hope you enjoyed and that you will leave me your thoughts in the comments below!
A/N: I hope you enjoyed and that you will leave me your thoughts in the comments below!
