Headed by a Snake

'Flame take you, hands... Keep still...'

Centurion Januarius couldn't stop shaking. Strapping on his armguards turned from a difficult proposition to one nigh impossible.

Enemies arose... Enemies that were too strong... magical creatures in the shadows that knew no fear... knew no mercy.

It was just like that sun in Ezyria... deep in the Halls of the Dead Serpent.

Januarius needed to take up arms. He needed to fight. He needed to lead the rest of his scattered and scared, chicken-shite company... keep them from dying ignoble deaths.

However... his body... his accursed, muscle-worn, steel-scarred body did not want to cooperate.

With a growl of frustration, he tossed aside his left armguard. He didn't need it.

He kept his back turned as he spoke to the woman that entered the command tent... "Optio Phaedra, what news?"

Phaedra hesitated. It was unlike her. Yet another crack appeared in Januarius' heart... and fear managed to worm its way in.

"Lancelot has fallen, Centurion..."

"Flame TAKE that PUER," Januarius grit his teeth. "I hope the little shite went down fighting."

"There's a crater the size of the Senate building on the east side of camp."

"Bah," Januarius grunted as he shook his head.

That hope was dashed. The fool boy must have been defeated by long-range weaponry before he could do anything meaningful.

Januarius shut his eyes, deliberating on the situation.

He was going to die thousands of miles away from his birthplace... but then again, he didn't deserve to survive back then, in those Halls. There, hundreds of good men and women died... many stronger and faster than he was... many more honorable, more deserved of life-- the fates seemingly smiling upon their futures.

Since then, Januarius had rebuilt his adventuring company from a tenth of its size... as if he had something to prove... as if, in continuing to fight, he'd bring honor to the fallen.

And for what? His pitiful collection of achievements in the Eastern States only amounted to tens of Bronze-Rank quests and the trophies from a single Deathworm.

That... was not worth enough.

...If any amount of merit were enough, at all.

"We'll reform the shield wall around the Adulascenta," He growled.

Turning to face his Optio, he removed his helmet... Those eyes... those young eyes still held hope.

He was going to disappoint her... "Phaedra, it was an honor serving with you."

The woman inclined her head... those words slowly sinking in... "And you, Centurion."

Tears brimmed from the corner of her eyes... but Januarius chose to ignore it.

They were going to die. Fear and unwillingness was natural. It was... human.

Even in the face of fear, brave men and women act... while cowards die in shame.

Replacing his helm, Januarius began towards the tent entrance... where he nearly collided with a seven foot tall woman.

"Good timing, Lass," He coughed into his still-shaking hand. "Mount up. We'll support you and Gaheris until the end."

"Centurion," Haelvia saluted, "before that, I--"

"Sir! We have to withdraw!!"

It was... an unfamiliar voice, squeaking from behind the child.

Januarius raised his eyebrows underneath his helmet.

A tiny elf girl stepped into view, her chest underneath her unbuttoned shirt covered in stained bandages.

It was the injured civilian.

Januarius stepped past her, his eyes to the battlefield... upon the men and women under his charge fighting and dying against the natives, "I gave an order, Lass."

"Get the hells out of here, elf," Phaedra growled. "If you want to survive, run off into the sands... or maybe put on one of those accursed masks and join the enemy."

"We won't deny the hand the fates have dealt," Januarius seethed, "We fight... until the last shield falls."

"Though in doing so..." The elf whispered... "you will most certainly die."

Those words made Januarius hesitate.

He'd... heard them before.

Night after night, immortalized in his nightmares... he remembered those words... spoken to the Brazen Guard Collective at the Halls of the Dead Serpent.

They were spoken... by a man with the Class, Tactician.

His words were illogical... arrogant: Follow him or die.

Spurning his claim, more than a few guilds chose to strike off on their own. It was the last Januarius saw of them.

...Only the guilds that heeded that man's words left that place alive.

"Mind your station, *Miss*" Phaedra barked, "Who do you think you are?"

The elf shook her head... but her eyes were aflame. They were resolute.

They had hope, yet undashed... a courage that Januarius could only envy.

"My name is Coraline Heartsong," She declared, "Arcanist of the Sapphire Tower!"

"Hmph," Januarius grunted.

The Sapphire Tower was certainly a force to be reckoned with in the Eastern States. However, judging from the girl's age, she wasn't anyone important. Besides that, Guild Metal Wolf had no loyalty to *that* kind of organization.

"Flame take you, Witch," Phaedra growled. "You're trying to advise a Prior of a *Century*, so I. advise. you. to f*ck off into the dunes!!"

"W-wait! Hold on!" Coraline grabbed at Januarius' wrist, "I know a Decanus! I--I... my boyfriend works for one!"

Januarius suppressed the urge to strike the girl. Good soldiers existed to protect civilians, not to oppress them. Instead, he gently-- but firmly pried her fingers off.

"Centurion Januarius, please," Haelvia bowed her head. "Give Coraline a chance."

"Please, Sir!" The elf begged, "I've studied a map of this area... within a malm, there's--"

Januarius held his hand up to stop her...

He was well out of ideas... and their company didn't have the luck to employ an Oracle or a Tactician...

The enemy knew the terrain. They had mounts of a kind. They could meld in with the Flame-taken darkness.

Every option he could think of was certain to end with death. At least in fighting, they wouldn't die as cowards.

But... the Witches of the Eastern States were trained in schools and academies, just as the Divine Casters of Tyrion were. As much as Phaedra would hate to hear it, the Elven child might even know what she was talking about.

If she could offer them even a minuscule chance at survival...

",