▪️B A L D U R▪️

A wise man once said that we make war so that we may live in peace.

Standing on the open field, far from the safety of our castle walls, doubt gnawed at me. In this agreed-upon meeting ground where Alaric and his forces were set to confront us, a single question echoed in the chambers of my mind: Was war the true path to peace?

Glancing over at Izara, I could not help but feel my chest swell with pride as I observed the way her armour gleamed against the light of the torches, each plate moulded to perfection against her form. Her posture exuded confidence, a potent blend of power and grace, akin to a dancer poised on the brink of a precipice. The helm, adorned with intricate engravings, framed her face like a regal crown. Her dark brown eyes, pools of unwavering determination, blazed with a fire that could rival the sun.

The gauntleted hands that gripped her weapon seemed an extension of herself, the steel reflecting the same fierce resolve that burned in her gaze. Strands of curly ebony hair escaped the confines of her helm, framing her face in a wild, untamed halo. I could sense the energy, an invisible power, emanating from her like an aura. She was a force of nature, a tempest wrapped in steel.

Looking at her now, I did not just see a warrior; I beheld a living embodiment of strength, a testament to the unyielding human spirit. I saw the sacrifices, the trials, and the indomitable determination that had forged Izara into the formidable figure before me.

When our eyes met, a silent understanding passed between us, a recognition of the shared journey that had led us here.

I recalled her embrace with Mahala last night, the way her best friend's arms enveloped her in a fierce, determined hold. Mahala's eyes had shimmered with emotions held in check, a silent promise of a safe return. Her duty lay back in the encampment, where she would tirelessly care for the wounded souls that would soon return from the fray.

My gaze swept down the lines, looking over the familiar faces. My eyes stopped when I spotted Izara's other best friend, Golnar, her presence dwarfed by the towering figures of the other female Orcs. Despite her smaller stature, there was an undeniable fire in her eyes, a fierce determination that burned brightly.

Over the past few months, Izara and Golnar had worked tirelessly, honing their magical abilities, and it showed. From what I had observed, Golnar had become a force to be reckoned with, mastering control over her unique gifts.

Golnar's half-human, half-orc heritage painted her in a distinctive light. Her dark red hair cascaded in untamed waves, a stark contrast against her pale, greyish skin. The pointed ears, reminiscent of her Orcish lineage, stood as a testament to her dual heritage. Yet, unlike full-blooded orcs, she lacked the imposing tusks, and her face bore a resemblance to that of a human. It was a feature that many of the female Orcs took pleasure in reminding her of, viewing it as a perceived weakness in their eyes.

Her physique, even by human standards, was lean and graceful. Tall and slender, Golnar defied the traditional ideals of Orc strength, a fact that did not go unnoticed among her kin. It was this very difference that set her apart, making her the subject of both admiration and scepticism.

Her icy blue eyes, piercing and intense, like mine, were a rarity among Orcs, often considered an omen. It was no wonder that Golnar found camaraderie among the humans within the castle, where her uniqueness was met with understanding rather than mistrust.

Today, however, none of that mattered.

Petty differences were cast aside as we united, forming an indomitable front. Golnar, along with others who bore the weight of being different, were now seen as equals on this battlefield. The power that surged through each of us, fuelled by a shared purpose, eclipsed any previous divisions. We were bound by a common cause, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

As the day of battle dawned, I could feel the anticipation thrumming in the air.

I knew that Izara looked forward to seeing Golnar unleash the full extent of her abilities on the battlefield. Her earth magic held a potential that few could truly fathom. It was raw, unpredictable, but in Golnar's capable hands, it had become a force of nature, capable of reshaping the very ground upon which we stood.

To be honest, I took great pride in the fact that Izara was able to help her friend accept her powers as we needed every able-bodied fighter.

With every step towards the inevitable clash with Alaric's forces, I knew Golnar and many others like her, would stand tall, a testament to the power that resided in even the most unlikely of souls. Golnar had become a beacon of strength, a reminder that it was not just physical might that could shape the course of battles, but the untamed spirit and unwavering determination that burned within her.

The sky hung heavy with a brooding darkness, pregnant with the promise of impending conflict. As the first light of dawn kissed the horizon, it revealed a tableau of grim determination. The open field, bathed in the early morning mist, seemed to hold its breath, anticipating the clash of armies.

On one side stood the Orc army, a formidable force in its own right. Their ranks were disciplined, their armour dark and weathered. Among them, banners of resolute pride unfurled, proudly displaying the emblem of my house, an indomitable symbol that commanded respect. It featured a pair of crossed axes, their blades gleaming with an unwavering defiance, flanked by the silhouette of a towering mountain.

This insignia stood as a visual proclamation of the strength and heritage of my clan. These banners, crafted from rugged materials, resonated with the earthy hues of our homeland, intricately woven with threads of mossy green and deep, rich brown.

With each sweep of the breeze, the banners rippled and danced, their edges bearing the frayed testament of countless battles fought in the name of my house. They seemed to pulse with the very heartbeat of the Orcish spirit, a testament to our enduring resilience and unwavering determination. The colours caught the early morning light, casting a radiant glow upon the ranks of soldiers, creating an almost ethereal brilliance that permeated the field.

These banners were more than mere fabric; they were a living embroidery, woven with the history and honour that I held dear. They fluttered in a defiant display, echoing the unyielding spirit of those who stood beneath them. Each fold and crease carried the weight of my family's legacy, a symbol of our undying resolve in the face of adversity.

The war drums beat a steady, thunderous rhythm, resonating in the chests of the soldiers, urging them to stand resolute.

Opposite my awaiting army, emerging from the veil of trees like spectres from a forgotten realm, came the fae. Their presence was ethereal, a shimmering tapestry of otherworldly beauty. They moved with an eerie grace, each step a dance, their feet barely touching the ground.

Even though I hated to admit it, their weapons were works of art, crafted by hands skilled in the manipulation of magic and infused with the very essence of the forests they called home. Blades of silver and crystal, staffs adorned with enchanted vines, and bows strung with spider silk gleamed with an inner light.

Behind them, banners bore the insignias of Alaric's house, unfurled with a regal grandeur, catching the early morning sun and casting a gleam across the field. Each standard was a testimony to the legacy and power of the long-lost Fae King. The fluttering placards seemed to whisper secrets carried on the wind, promises of power and vengeance.

The fabric was rich, woven with a deep, velvety blue that seemed to drink in the sunlight. Embroidered upon it in threads of gold and silver were intricate symbols that spoke of lineage and authority. A crowned raven, wings outstretched, soared above a crest of crossed sceptres and swords. Delicate filigree framed the edges, the craftsmanship evident in every meticulous detail.

In the centre of the banner, the name "House Alaric" was elegantly inscribed in flowing calligraphy, a declaration of his noble lineage. Below, a border of ivy leaves, emerald green against the dark blue background, added a touch of natural grace, a reminder of the land they had once ruled.

Such banners had not been seen on the Isle of Wrobel for aeons and as they waved in the breeze, they seemed to exude a palpable presence, an aura of history and sovereignty that commanded respect. They stood as a visual representation of the might and authority that King Alaric was trying to regain.

As our two forces met eyes across the expanse, a palpable tension settled over the field. The air was charged with a potent blend of anticipation and dread, as if the very land itself held its breath, waiting for the spark that would ignite the conflagration.

In that poignant moment, a profound certainty settled upon me.

This field, lush with nature's bounty, was poised to transform into the crucible of an epoch-defining confrontation, a tumultuous clash of titanic forces. It was a portentous duel, destined to resonate through the annals of time, a struggle upon which the very essence of this resplendent isle teetered precariously.

I, Baldur, stood at the epicentre of this imminent storm, the weight of my responsibility pressing upon me like the mountains themselves. Each breath carried the scent of blooming flowers and the whispers of ancient trees, a stark contrast to the palpable tension that electrified the air.

With a heavy heart, I surveyed the terrain, knowing that every blade of grass, every rustling leaf, would bear silent witness to the cataclysmic struggle that was about to ensue. The very soul of this enchanting isle hung in the balance, a jewel of creation, waiting to be shaped or shattered by the hands of fate.

As the wind tousled my hair, carrying with it the distant echoes of impending battle cries, I steeled myself for the task ahead. The weight of my lineage, the hopes of my people, and the destiny of this ethereal land converged within me, a confluence of purpose that would guide my every step in the impending clash.

"There's that retched fae," a nearby Orc muttered.

King Alaric stood as a formidable figure amidst his people, a commanding presence that radiated authority and power. As suspected, his appearance had changed, he was taller, his build more imposing, while his armour, etched with intricate designs, gleamed with a regal sheen, a testament to his status as the ruler among his kind.

Alaric's cloak billowed around him, its deep, royal hue cascading like a waterfall of midnight silk. His gaze, sharp and unwavering, surveyed the field with a calculated intensity, as if every inch of the land was etched into his memory.

He now possessed a striking handsomeness that was impossible to ignore. With long dark hair, his features were chiselled, each line and contour sculpted with a precision that spoke of natural grace. High cheekbones accentuated the strength of his jaw, giving his face a regal symmetry. His eyes, sharp and discerning, held not only the weight of his people's hopes and fears, but also a magnetic intensity, often seeming to glint with a wisdom beyond his years.

Surrounded by his loyal subjects, Alaric's presence commanded respect and allegiance. His voice, when raised, rang with authority, carrying across the field like a clarion call. With a voice that resonated like thunder across the field, Alaric raised his gaze to meet the eyes of his assembled warriors.

"My brave soldiers," he declared, his words carrying the weight of authority. "Today, we stand united! We fight not only for our land, but for the legacy of our forebears, and the future of our children. Together, we are an unbreakable force, forged in the crucible of our shared purpose."

A murmur of assent rippled through their ranks, a chorus of determination.

"We face adversity not as individuals, but as one united people!" Alaric continued, his eyes ablaze with a fierce resolve. "No longer must we cower under the Orcs, let the strength of our unity be a beacon to guide us through the storm. Together, we are unyielding. Together, we shall triumph!"

His words hung in the air, a resounding call to arms that stirred the hearts of all the fae who stood before him. In that moment, the loyalty and respect of his subjects surged like a tidal wave, a powerful force that would carry them through the trials that lay ahead.

Despite the aura of power, there was a gravity to Alaric, a sense of duty that seemed to weigh on him. He stood not as a ruler apart, but as a leader bound to his people, ready to shoulder the burdens of his realm. In that moment, on the precipice of battle, he was the living embodiment of his people's seemingly renewed strength and fortitude.

In response, I stepped forward, my presence exuding a raw, primal energy that resonated with the Orcs around me.

"My warriors," I thundered, my voice reverberating. "Today, we step onto the soil where the shadows of our forebears still dance. Our ancestors clashed with the fae in eras past, leaving indelible marks upon our rich history. The very ground we stand upon carries the echoes of their struggle, and it trembles now in anticipation of our own stand. But remember this, my kin, their spirits ride with us today. Their unbreakable spirit courses through our veins, a legacy of valour that we honour with every step forward!"

A palpable sense of reverence and determination swept through the assembled Orc warriors, a collective acknowledgment of the weight of our ancestry. They knew they were not alone; the ghosts of our forefathers walked beside us, guiding our hands and lending strength to our arms.

"We stand as living testaments to their sacrifice and bravery. Today, we continue their legacy, defending this land from the encroaching fae forces. Let their courage inspire us, for we are the torchbearers of their memory. With each clash of steel, with every surge of magic, we pay homage to their indomitable spirits."

My words hung in the air; a powerful invocation of the past that stirred the hearts of every Orc present.

To me, my kind were more than just warriors; they were the living embodiment of a legacy, entrusted with the duty of protecting these lands from an ancient foe. A rumble of agreement coursed through the Orcs, a testament to the unity forged through centuries of trials.

"We are not a people who cower in the face of adversity," I continued, my eyes widening. "Our strength lies not only in our might, but in our indestructible oath to one another. Each of you carries the legacy of our ancestors, a mantle of honour that we wear with pride."

Raising a gauntleted hand, my fingers traced the outline of the insignia, a pair of crossed axes.

"This emblem, this symbol of my clan, speaks of our resilience, our indomitable will. It is a mark that binds us, not only to each other, but to the very land we tread upon. We are the guardians of the Isle of Wrobel, its heartbeat echoing in our every step."

A thunderous roar of approval swept through the Orc ranks, an affirmation of their allegiance to their king and their shared purpose.

"Today, we do not fight for conquest, but for the preservation of all that we hold dear!" I proclaimed. "We stand as one, a force of nature, one that will not be quelled. Let our foes tremble before the might of the Orc clans!"

From the way the warriors yelled in excitement, I could tell they recognised that they were not just warriors, but the guardians of a legacy, bound by blood and honour, ready to face whatever the day would bring.

Izara's steady presence on my left and Khagra's fierce determination on my right grounded me. We stood as a triumvirate, our spirits entwined by bonds forged in adversity, our resolve unwavering. Khagra's eyes met mine, a silent exchange of trust and determination that needed no words while his grip on his axe tightened, a testament to the fire burning within him.

"We face this together," Izara murmured, her voice steady, meant for our ears alone.

I nodded with a smile, "As we always will, my love."

Khagra's lips curled into a fierce grin. "Let these filthy fae come. We'll show them the strength of unity!"

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A/N: And so, the battle begins!