Leon Loire's Written Works

[Leon Loire]

A revival of the dust ridden book.

Since I've completed Creative Writing, still have my works from last year in my Graduation Project class, and now have an assortment of works clustered everywhere, I've decided it's time to spread out my entire collection once more for show. While I don't exactly expect to get back much responses, I do at least like having it around here, knowing you all can see if it you choose to.

Either way, I'll be updating this soon enough; I've got another short story that is in the works, and do need to make a third short story based on the world of Deodatus Leonius that I've been designing.

But please enjoy, one and all, my works, my hope for foundation in my future: the Lore of the World.

[Leon Loire]

Conviction

The young woman lay in the corner of the alley, against the brick wall, cowering from the dark man. He stood above her like some grand statue to evil, his gothic armor somehow darker than the void of the sky behind him, ancient engravings of some unknown dialect were cut into his chestplate, and he looked as if he were some sort of specter.

But she knew this was no specter, this was no nightmare.

The man looked down at her with his monstrous eyes, the eyes that once contained the innocence of a once beautiful soul, tainted by the false promises of a dark prophecy, an even darker order. His head was shaved of all hair, his skin was oddly as white as the purest pearl, but his unnatural skin was nothing compared to what he had become. His eyes now glowed with thin red pupils, his eyes were now, for reasons she could not yet grasp, mixed into the silhouette of the full shadow that was his armor. He towered over her, looking down at his prey, his minion to be.

He took his right hand and pulled from his hip a long dagger of the same properties as his armor. He briefly tugged his eyes away from his victim, and looked at the tool for which he would pry her soul from her corpse, to create her body into a living mockery of her once pure existence, to make her an eternal servant to his shadow.

The hilt was shimmering black, but not of any normal grip, but of a spiny texture of blackened metal. The steel was pure black, as if crafted in some void, untouched by this world of light. And the blade... was smeared in blood. Not her blood, but the blood of others, other victims, other folk caught in a moment of weakness.

He laughed as he stared at this tool with his inhuman eyes, and then brought them back to the newest addition to his horrific army of mindless corpses. He brought the blade high into the night sky with his the shadow of his arm, preparing to dive it deep into her chest, into her heart and soul.

But soon something else appeared behind him.

Something of complete contrast to his darkness. His hatred. His evil. A person of light. A person of compassion. Of servitude to the Lord of Light. The new being walked towards the shadow, every inch of his body glowing with his holy, blessed aura. Every piece of his plate armor shown silver white, his long cape brimming over his pauldrons, his twin blades dangling in their sheathes upon his hips. And in the center of it all, lying upon the man's chest, the man's heart, was a small amulet.

A Cross of God.

The man of God locked his eyes onto the back of the shadow, who had now realized his presence. His darkened eyes widened in rage and fear, and he brings his hand to his blade, somehow lengthening it to exceed his height. The being of Light unsheathes one of his blades, one of much more grace, of agility. His blade carries the length of its wielder's arm,
its twin sitting on the being's opposing hip. And imbued into the blade, is a Cross of the Archangels. The Cross in the form of a blade.

The being of Light murmurs something to the dark man, and the shadow jolts forward in his furious attack. The being of Light simply parries, brings his blade low under the dark man's defense, and brings it in a low arc to the dark man's neck, sending his starry white head into the sky above, before crashing down to the concrete. The shadow's body becomes a hose, a fountain. His dark essence spews into the void above, before it comes back down to the concrete as dark red droplets of rain.

The former prey slowly forces herself to stand, leaning against the wall, staring at the shadow's red eyes distinguish. She then turns to the man of Light and watches an odd light come from the dark man's body and fly into the Cross of the holy being, before he cleans his blade of the shadow's tainted blood. He then brings his bright blue eyes to look over the woman, before smiling and turning on his heel to walk away.

To leave her... to live.

[Leon Loire]

The Servants of God

The young Cardinal walked down the hall, carrying himself lightly, as if the evils of Satan had never touched his soul. But they had and have, just like every other. Gluttony, Greed, Lust, Sloth, Wrath, Pride; all sins that had been turned away from him were the ones he has acted upon. He knew these things were forbidden, yet he believed that because he wore the scarlet robe, because he carried the golden staff, because he carried the holy Crucifix, that he was pure, that he was free of all of judgments of the Holy Father, that just because he walked down the path of St. Peter, that he was sinless.

As the young man strolled down this holy, golden path, he hears a whisper in the shadow beside him. "So, how are you, dear servant of the Light? What brings you into my chamber?" the Shadow asks, its figure tall and winding, its darkened gaze staring at nothing, and everything.

"Dear Darkness, I have felt another... vision." The Cardinal confesses, his knees pressing against the marble beneath him, his hands forming a Cross in front of his face, "It was him: the Dark Lord."

"So..." the Shadow replies, "What did he say?"

"He has asked me... to sacrifice, the Holy Father of the Church... through the art of Necromancy. I must admit, dear Darkness, it excites me to slay the old man with that beautiful dirk Lord Calderas gave me..." The young Cardinal's eyes suddenly widen, his hazel gaze now turning scarlet from the robes. He pulls out the gothic knife of the Undead, the blade smeared in dried blood, "I have already sacrificed... the young Nun that comes in the nights..." the Cardinal laughs through his corrupted grin, the memory of the young woman's screams racing in front of his eyes, whining through his ears, "What am I to do now, dear Darkness? How will I sacrifice the Holy Father to the Dark Lord?"

"You... will not slaughter the Pope, corrupted one, rather, you will meet judgment." the Shadow replies, and oddly a figure begins to form at the Darkness' heart; a strange Human figure, at that.

"What? But I have been preparing myself for this! I should have the right to... wait, what do you mean, 'judgment?’" the robed young man's eyes suddenly harden; he was now feeling suspicion of the Shadow.

"Have you heard of the Order of the Holy Blade young one?" the figure asks.

"Why yes, the Paladin Order, but what does that..."

"Then perhaps you can grasp your judgment then." The figure whispers in a human tone,
and slowly the figure walks out from the shadow's cloak, showing its true form.

The man in silver white. The gauntlet of the Order’s blade.

The Paladin of Light.

"WHAT!" The Cardinal screams, "But... how..."

"Ha! You insolent traitor, you have fallen so far down the dark path, you could never recognize one of your own as a spy!" the Paladin unsheathes his blade, his Cross glowing in the preparation of capturing the corrupted soul. "And now, young fool, what do you say in your defense?"

"You... you framed me! I never..." the Cardinal yells out in his attempt to scurry away like the rodent he was, "I am..."

"GUILTY! Now feel the vindication of God, beseecher of Lucifer!!" The Paladin brings his blade in a horizontal arc, tearing through the young Priest's throat, his eyes tearing in crimson blood as if in a mad depression of pain.

The man's body crashes to the floor, his corrupted essence splashing underneath him, tainting the carpets and floors. His tortured soul rushes to the Paladin's Cross, and once it reaches its destination, the Paladin sheathes his Blade, and the body of the traitor disappears through the Light's magic.

"Another traitor... judged to exile from the Lord's beautiful Light." Whispers out the Arbiter, his booted feet leading him away, a halo slightly illuminating above him, and holy wings beginning to rise to reality.

The Chosen One. The Living Archangel, walks away from another judgment.

[Leon Loire]

Innocent Redemption

The shadows of the night began to roll into the old tiled roads of some nameless European village. The fog floats at knee level, liquid vapor to the damp earth below. The clouds to the black sky end their mastery to their enslaved companion of water, and soon a downpour of rain is set free upon the vacant townsfolk below. For hours the cold tiles that plaster the muddy dirt of the hilly town grow colder from the ice that collides from heaven, scattering and melting after they collide into the world they were destined to harm.

Everything is silent, everything peaceful. There is no pain, no solace. All is motionless.

Until the bell of the great clock tower chimes midnight.

Running at an unnatural pace, a young teenage woman slips and slides down the stone paths, retreating in the horror of what she had just witnessed. Yet what her deep green sights have seen is something she worshipped, something she loved. For this young woman, who has witnessed murder, death, and a grimy resurrection from the bloody tip of a Necromancer's ritual blade, expected such. For she was his apprentice, his apostle. His follower.
Why did she retreat? Only she knows. She feared the sins she would someday cause, the pain, the fear, the agony she would endow upon the innocent, simply to gain power and the minions of the corpse.

"Hello?! Some...somebody!!" the young girl screams as she charges for help, her scarlet lipstick blurred and chapped upon her star-white flesh, as its make-up drains off and reveals the light pinkish tint underneath. Her body is robed in tiny black fabrics, and her feet canter against the earth in high heeled boots. Her pale white fingers are wrapped in the fabric in some sort of insane glove, and her neck is completely covered in her dyed black net of hair, which sticks to her body as if it were glue.

"Somebody help me!!!"

The young woman trips upon a large rock that sits randomly in front of her, and she skids and rolls across the roadside, her pale white shins and elbows scraped open, sundering her dark red blood to flow against the blue-green earth. The girl forces herself to stand as her black robe attempts to leave her nude and vulnerable.

"I'm not... going to die like that woman... I won't..."

"Of course you will Sophitiea. You abandoned us, and the cree calls you a traitor... for that... your soul is forever mine!"

"Francis!"

The girl stares up, her green eyes widening and tearing at the sight of her own brother, Francis, raising a bloody Necromantic Longsword into the air, its tip aimed at the girl's heart like a Spear ready to skewer its prey.

"Francis... please." The girl pleads with her brother, the boy who came from the same womb, the same day of birth, the same crib.

"No traitor, you bleed, and become my slave!" The young Necromancer forces his heavy blade towards the earth, intent on slaying his own sibling, a woman who loved him for fifteen years as her own flesh and blood.

And now, she was to become nothing more than a mindless corpse to him.

The girl jumps to the side as the tip of the blade collides into the rock, and she unsheathes her own dagger and swings her arm as fast and strong as she can, slitting his throat.
The boy falls to the earth, clutching his neck as the dark liquid attempts to spew out into a fountain.

"Brother... I'm so sorry..." The woman clutches at her brother's arm, but he simply stares at her flowing green eyes with a deep golden gaze, his soul already corrupted.

He was a Warlock now.

As the young woman attempts to rescue her sibling, the sound of a half dozen feet treads in front of them. The girl jumps in surprise, and without a moment's notice, dashes off again.

As she sees a large Crucifix in the sky and pleads to reach it, she hears the distant sound of a Longsword skewering a man's heart.

The Necromancer Lord had sacrificed his rising pupil.

"Oh my God..." The girl screamed out as she dashed up the marble stairs in front of the great oak doors. She grabs the brass handles of both doors and swings them wide open, releasing the warmth of the candle lit room before her into the hellish cold of night.

She speedily limps over to one of nearby confession booths, and after opening the wooden casing's door, flings herself onto the bench, a wisp of adrenaline breathing out her fright. She sits there for several moments, holding her wrapped hand to her chest, her chilled breasts raising her fingers as her lungs maximize in breath.

At what seemed only an instant, her former Master and his two servants crash into the Cathedral, drizzling an ocean of icy water onto the large rug under their blooded boots.

"Where is she?!" The master yells out, and his servants begin to search. Without any respect of care for the holy trinity of the brick walled site, the two sinning men tear and break every bench, carpet and closet they find.

"Well, why does thy child arrive at such a late hour?" A comforting voice breathes through the cracks of the lightless stereo between the two ends of the confession booth.

The girl releases a stutter of fright, and nearly lets out a yelp. Holding her lips to her palms, she slowly separates them to ask, "Who are you, the Father?"

"Why yes, this is my Cathedral, after all young one."

"Damn you old fool! Don't you realize who those men are?!"

"Why, those damned Necromancer crooks out there? They aren't too much trouble. I'll just have to sweep them out."

"No old fool! NO!"

But it was too late, for the ailing Father had already taken his steps out of the safety of the wooden box, and began his slow steps towards the blood-thirsty master Necromancer. The girl could only watch in horror, freeing her agony to the idea of witnessing another death so early in this late night.

"Excuse me sir, would you be kind enough to leave? I have cleaning to do, and you and your followers are not looked happily in the Catholic Faith.”

"Of course we aren't old fool..." the Necromancer unsheathes his blade and stares hungrily at the Catholic Minister, "Now Bishop Archemon, are you prepared to die a horrible end?"

"Well well, I didn't expect to see you all at my late night confessions..." came a young, passionate voice from the far corner, nearest the girl, "But I'm glad to see my Cross will be receiving more sinned souls tonight.”

"PALADIN!"

Suddenly, as if Sunset had risen in a blink of time, a bright ambient glow of pure white light arrayed next to the young woman, and she gasped in amazement as a dashing young man, clad in complete silver-white armor, and wielding a heavy Christian Sword and Shield, strolled towards the Necromancer, his navy blue cape trailing behind him.

"What a beautiful night to do my service to God. I dearly apologize to cause a mess in your Cathedral, Bishop." The Holy Knight whispers to himself, then crees apology to the Priest.

”None at all my son."

"You bastard! Your Order will die!" Yells out the Necromancer Lord, his eyes glowing deep scarlet, his teeth clenching his tongue from scenting the air for blood.

Suddenly, the Necromancer and his servants dashed at the man clad in white, their many darkened blades ready to pierce the Man of God.

They never had the chance.

A second later, the Paladin blocked the Necromancer's high slash with his Shield, parried the first servant thrust with his Blade, and fried the second servant into ashes with a simple chanting, calling upon the Fires of Heaven to obliterate his adversary.

As the second servant's remains dwindled to the stone floor, the Necromancer fired an orb of Shadow Magic at the Paladin, who canceled it with a calling of aura. The Paladin suddenly skewered the first servant with his blade, and crushed him into the nearby wall.

Witnessing from the shadows of the Confession Booth, the young girl eyed in wonder and joy as the Paladin held his crimson stained Sword at the neck of his loathing enemy.

"What do you say in your defense, Sinner?"

"Despicable, intolerable child! You're Order will..."

"Win the War again! Goodbye, follower of Shadow!" And with a quick flick of his left wrist, the pure white head of the Necromancer was tossed into the air, and crashed into the flooring as a cold stone, his bright red eyes extinguishing.

"Come hear, Sophitiea." The Paladin called out for the young girl as he sheathed his blade and holstered his shield on his back, as three tainted lights strung into his Cross.

After a moment, the trembling woman crawled out of the booth and, with much reluctance, stood slouching before the dashing Paladin. "Please... if... if you wish it... sire... end my cursed life."

"What? Come now, Sophitiea, surely the Cults have taught you of the 'foolish' forgiveness of the Order of the Silver Blade?" Replies the eloquent and smiling Knight, his right hand lightly tapping on his blade’s hilt in energized excitement.

"Yes, but..."

"You have never slain the innocent, have you?"

"N.. no, I haven’t'"

"Don't consider that fool Francis as a sinning killing. He was a traitor to the Light, and required extermination."

"But he could have been saved!"

"You know this?"

"Yes....... no" Sophitiea quickly replies, but then reconsiders the answer, knowing the truth in her depressed heart.

"Good, I'm glad to see your judgment is still pure." The Paladin nodded, looking up to the Priest as he smiles back in memory of his own. “Master Archimon, I will be leaving your presence now; I feel my work is done for the evening.”

“As you will my pupil.” Speaks back the Father, and he motions himself back to his quarters for nightfall.

"But... what of me?" Suddenly speaks out Sophitiea, fearful of abandonment, and concerned of the walking corpse somewhere out doors.

"You? You, my child, come with me." And so, with that, the Paladin flicked his right wrist in a single motion, opening a great gate of light which flooded into the Cathedral.

"What is this..."

"You know what, child."

"The entrance to..."

"The Order, yes."

"But, why?"

After a long and considerate standing of thought, and the approving sound of bright blade slicing corrupted flesh out in the distance, the Paladin smiles in a bright grin, "Because my dear… you are more than a mere portal of life. You must remember you yourself are Human. So why not live?”

The young woman blushes at the reply of the dashing Knight, and her emerald sight looks away, as her arms attempt to constrict her chilled and defenseless chest.

Looking at the shy girl, who only seemed a few years younger than the Knight, the Paladin brings his gloved hand to tap the woman’s chin, stares into her beautiful eyes for a few strong moments, then holds out his hand, as he turns towards the glowing portal.

“You may come, or you may stay. Live in life’s warmth or its lacking; that is your decision.”

The woman gasps, then looks at the Paladin in a bit of worry. But his innocent smile soon persuades her, and a rosy red smile spreads across her face as she takes his hand. When they begin to press through the portal, a single reply comes back to her from him.

“Now… to clean up that Goth look of yours…”

[Leon Loire]

Deception

Silence in a bar is never a great thing. The dark and broken city of which melded into the civilization of Earth seemed to be particularly engulfed in shadow this moonless evening, its alleyways not even lit by lamps or torches; the streets filled with nothing but vacant, wind-winding air. No people or transport passed through the city at this time of night.

All except one. A bleak figure in cloak dashed through the sidewalks and the parkways, its identity unknown, its purpose secluded to itself. Its feet were somehow hidden beneath those bland brown shadings of cloth, and the hood over its head protected its sight from the world. As it found its way deeper and deeper into the metallic valleys, it crossed a wide open pair of doors that led into a gritty indoor building, of which its contents were grumbling men, under-dressed women, and a fat bellied bartender.

The cloaked figure soon began to desire the warmth from indoors, especially as the chilly winds increased in speed and power. Recoiling from the sensory reaction, the being jumps in, and closes the door shut behind.

What the being expected for all inside to look over and stare, but nothing of the sort occurred. Everyone acted as if no strange cloak stood frozen by their entrance, and even the bartender seemed to barely care. He sent a quick glance, but by the fashion the cloaked figure hid, it was obvious what they wished. Looking towards an attractive lady before him asking for a refill, the cloak decided to stroll towards an untaken booth and relax.

Hours, minutes, perhaps only seconds passed as the being sat there, warming itself of the cold in the embrace of warmth. The bartender seemed to give no care to the stranger, only concerning himself with the other attendees and their drinks. Yet many noticed the cloak’s strange stance, sitting completely still at its booth, its rare movements oddly telling signs of metallic shape. Yet even when a rather large thug came over to stare at the being with only a few feet of space, the cloak did not falter, and the thug merely shrugged and walked off.

Hours passed, this was certain, when another figure arrived that finally caught notice of the cloak. A lady of red hair that rode elegantly around her body, from back to chest, its silky touch reaching as far as the very edges of legging near her skirt. Her bright brown eyes showed her intentions for the night, and her walk told this tale much better. Her curved torso was covered in a thin velvet black blouse, which was layered with a ripped and bleached denim jacket. All males of the establishment took notice of her instantly, and some were daring enough to try and win over her desires. Within an hour later, all had failed at that attempt, as she played ‘hard-to-get’ with her simple wine in smooth hand.


Then, a new arrival seemed to change all that. Pulling the doors open with a graceful tug, a tall, dark, and widely handsome rebel presented himself to the scene, his blond hair streaked back, his blue eyes almost smirking in ambition, and his strong figure covered in a black suit. He seemed to wear the attire of a business man, but the personality of a dangerous man; something the red head instantly wanted for the night.

For the next hour, the beauty and the beast would chat and flirt, drink and flirt, and then only follow the method even more. The dashing man was as daring as they came, and the woman was so convinced of his worth that she finally asked him to follow her outside, to ‘warm her in the cold.’

Every other man in the bar grunted in jealousy, as the woman tugged the grinning man outside. Everyone knew where they were heading, and some actually considered to go out and watch.

One such was the cloak.

Finally standing up after seeing all it needed, the dark figure made its way out of its booth, the sound of metal now obvious as it crawled away on its own legs. Now all attention was to the strange figure, as the bartender scowled with a bit of satisfaction to see such a strange being live his presence. Only a few moments after the cloak walked through the doors and turned left to walk down the alley in pursuit of the beauty and her beast, many laughed in a bit of contempt for the fallen figure.

Only one smiled, knowing its true intention; this person sat with a smile, his own blue eyes dark and a bit haunted, as he sipped down sweet alcohol.

As the cloak found its way down the alley, it soon heard the giggling and scruffs of clothing from a turn in the alleyway. As the cloak found a corner and hid, barely keeping the sound of metal quiet, it witnessed the suited man pressing the woman against the red brick wall, her leg around him and his hands exploring her. He laughed and smiled at his victory as they traded tongue to tongue, and the woman began to make pursuits of undressing the man, first with his jacket.

Yet as the man attempted to follow, he soon froze, his head drooping a bit, but still pressed against her lips. He was suddenly a statue it seemed, yet his face was indistinguishable from the cloak. Yet the beauty was easily seen, as her brown eyes revealed to be golden, and her lips of lust became greed. Leaning back a bit against the wall, the woman kept her victim still as her right hand crept into her leggings to find her tool, while her left held its incantation over his heart, keeping him completely – and painfully – frozen in place.

Finally finding her blade of sacrifice, the woman looked back at the dashing man with a begging laugh, biting her lip as if they were still prepared to make love.

“Now you’re mind handsome.” She spoke out with her same eloquent voice as she pushed him back, grabbed his right shoulder with her nail sharp left hand, and prepared to stab the blade straight into his heart.

Yet she was soon taken off notice, as her red head popped up, the golden eyes squinting out into the darkness of the alleyway, and standing in the center of the bricked path was the cloak, its stance blocking the way, its identity still unseen. Even still, the red headed Witch only sneered in contempt, thinking the being to be another of her kind.

“This one is mine fool, go find your own!” She yelled out, her voice never changing, making it seem as if she were so innocent, so pure. But the warning failed, and the cloak began to walk forward, the metal still loud and obnoxious, like the heavy metal of Necromantic armor clashing together.

“Come on! Don’t make me take your body as well fool!” She yelled back, her eyes slitting in anger. The figure continued, its sight unseen, its intentions still unknown.

Until a moment later, when movement in the right arm escaped the cloak, revealing a weapon lit in bright silver titanium, its barrel long ,its grip held tight by the feminine hands that wielded it.

Before the Witch knew she was beaten, the cloaked figure stopped in its tracks, and aimed its powerful Magnum firearm straight at the scene. The Witch only smirked, thinking such an inaccurate weapon would never have luck to kill her.

She never had a chance to question her own knowledge or even memory, as the trigger was pulled, and a bullet created a large tunnel through her right eye.

The Witch instantly released her victim-to-be, and her silky red hair trailed beside the scarlet blood as her skull leaned backward, and crashed her body roughly into the wall, only worsening the lethal wounds. As her head and back slid down the wall from the secretion of her circulation, a jeweled pentagram was released from her half open shirt, slipping past her breasts into the cold environment. Four light dots resonated around the pentagram, and a fifth pivoted the top; all presenting the deaths to innocent man and brother alike she had seduced to cruel death.

As the cloak dropped its powerful pistol, the victim awoke once more, and he began to cough up the long over used air that had been trapped in his lungs. The cloak knelt down next to him, and pulled its hood away from its sight, to reveal an emerald eyed woman with black sheen hair.

“What is it about men that seems to like red haired women? I’ll never understand that…”

[Leon Loire]

Revelation

‘Such pleasant memories…’

The rapid criticism of his own past came rather rapidly, as High School Senior Leon Loire collected the images and thoughts of various incidents in his God forbidden past, and brought an ideal irony to them. Regardless of his favored time with his family, his friends, and the one he childishly called his ‘girlfriend’, the troubled man felt the rush of the wind against his back as it picked up the current of freshly cut grasses on the Varron Academy lawn. His dark blue eyes, looking outward to the sky that matched his own soul perfectly, seemed to glass and present artificial collection; not a surprise, sense his physical motor functions were now subject to unconscious recollection.

In Loire’s mind, he was not recognizing his thin hands curled through the loose back of his long brown hair, its looseness only subject because of its slight shagginess from his head; his face was like it were asleep, and his clothes were no different than any other careless student, with comfortable shirts, jeans and the like. If no one knew him, he could be seen as just another typical student at the infamous school known as Varron Academy. Yet the school had a past – a long one at that – and it just so happened to cling to particular figures of violence or compassion. Leon, being a part of the tenth generation of famed young fighters that rebelled against the Corporal Punishment System that ruled over their nation’s Educational bureaucracy, he and dozens of others had been forced to learn how to throw a punch and a kick in order to counter those thrown by their brutal teachers and staff. Most only meant to use this as self defense so that they could continue their studies and get out of the system as soon as possible; some eventually grew extremely well at their skills, and began to abuse their power of fist and foot to join in the abuse on students; and then some, like Leon Loire, saw the fighting merely as another tool to use against the system itself.

Loire was your typical “Goodie-Goodie” at Varron Academy, a young lad that at first wished to merely join in with the first crowd and escape High School as soon as possible, and act as respectful and Christian as possible to look good on the profiles. Yet his life changed just as much as any other’s, and after he was given a significant scar across his face, and his home was taken from him, Loire became the figurative warrior he was now, laying on the lawn, thinking of the past, and the future.

As roses and bullets flew and fell in the subconscious of Leon’s mind, his ears began to pick up sounds of another older man yelling about, his egotistic voice seemingly more annoying by the minute. His voice kept yelling something about being ‘the best fighter on the establishment’, and after a few bodies did fall from his staggering form, Loire’s conscious could no longer take the nuisance, and decided to wake the Liberal from his slumber.

Leaning against his legs and yawning a deep slumber away, Loire ignored the confrontation between the show-off newcomer and a group of jocks that thought they could take on the bully. Checking his Timex watch to find it was only half-way through his free period, and yet only another thirty minutes before the day of tyrannical school was over, Loire let his arm fall so that he could stretch out, excreting all additional energy wasted to his form. He was unknowing (and frankly not caring) of the continued match between the bully and the jocks. It was a typical thing for a fight to occur at Varron Academy, and as long as the two opposing parties knew what the hell they were doing, Leon wouldn’t involve himself. Loire was only one to make sure that other innocent, non-fighting students were not harmed. He only exerted his energy to prevent abuse, not mere Human stupidity.

Standing up and cracking his neck, Leon heard the crash and falter of two jocks all at once, and looked over in the corner of his eye to see the last jock barely holding off. Leon sighed in boredom, his hands folded across his chest; it was honestly turning out to be such a dull incident, so why did Leon feel the need to keep standing there?

He soon found out why, as he saw the victorious bully laugh in his own pathetic way, before grabbing the waist of a passing girl – and attractive one, obviously the reason – as she attempted to flirt and converse with another boy who seemed to be her romantic interest. He was also a Senior, but he was far from built for combat, and looked more to be an intellectual than a fighter. The girl screamed in an angry tone, kicking her high heels against the bully’s gut; but he only held her in the air, laughing and throwing her around, before letting her go and crashing her to the ground. The ‘boyfriend’ dashed to her side, helping her try to stand up, but he was prevented when the bully walked over and gut punched it him so hard he himself fell to the ground nearly unconscious. Soon enough the girl was no longer worried of her violation, but her dear’s safety.

The whole time, Leon Loire growled in hatred of the ignorant fool that was this pushover fighter. Cracking his fingers and stretching out his legs, many other students took notice of the famed fighter as he obviously prepared for an engagement.

“Come on baby, why stay involved with that little fool when you could have me, a big strong man…” the foolish fighter quirked in a strange smile, his arms attempting to show off his supposed muscle. The blond haired girl ignored him, and tended to her coughing companion.

“Oh come on baby, you know you want this!” the bully continued, dancing about as if he were someone’s play thing.

Leon grew tired of waiting, and strolled forward, his shoes crashing hard against the lawn, his fists clenched so tightly he feared he would cut into his hands; in response, Leon pulled on his fighting gloves. Finally, only five feet directly behind the foolish man, Leon snarled in disgust and yelled out in his commanding tone, “I don’t know what pisses me off more, your crass way of thinking, or that damned smell that keeps protruding from you.”

The bully finally stiffened, not from fear, but from rage. He instantly turned on his heel, to find his sight a good four inches above that of Leon Loire. The two were a class apart, yet the Junior fighter was much more built, seemingly like a gigantic football player, and growled down on his Senior subject like a dog.

“What was that you little punk? You think you can take me on?” the Junior fighter replied, his left eye twitching, his right hand clenched.

Leon Loire only smirked, lips, eyes, and everything in between, “Its not a question of facing you, it’s a question of how much sweat is going to be sprayed on me – that means how much of your smell well soon be showering over me. I have to balance this out, because I’m in no mood to smell like dork all day.”

The Junior grew louder in anger, obviously catching onto the second meaning of that last crack, “Why you little…”

He bolted forward, throwing both arms at Leon’s neck, intent on crushing him. Yet Leon was far faster, and he slipped his head to the left, body following, before slipping past the bafoon, before using his right leg to trip him to the ground. The Junior fell to his knees, but recovered, and charged at Leon like a bull. Leon, now still from his attack, kept his feet stiff on the dirt below him, and prepared to treat the Junior just as the animal he acted as, using both hands to grab the bull by the ears, and tossing him aside. Sliding on his left, the Junior eventually recovered, stood up, and began another eminent attack.

‘This guy isn’t even that creative…’ Loire thought to himself as he grinned in anticipation, and by sliding his left leg across the dirt, prepared for a finishing kick. The bully was now open for a straight shot to the head, and Leon followed suit by twisting his torso to his right, sending his left through a momentous spin kick that would skim just in front of the Junior to frighten him into stopping short, but the right leg followed with a powerful kick aimed straight at its simple target.

Simply placed: the fool was knocked out cold, and thrown straight on his back.

As Leon Loire landed on his shoes, he cracked his neck to relieve the little stress he had received, and turned to face the young Seniors who had been attacked. Strolling over to them, the hurt boy nodded back in gratitude, his breathing a bit erratic; the girl was more interested in her “friend’s” safety, but seemed glad to see he was alright.

Nodding them away, the two walked off as Leon stood there, most other students already done watching the scene unfold. There was no applause, no pats on the back or flirts from women for his heroism; Leon’s reaction was typical, and expected.

‘That’s what happens when the people expect the good to protect them, they take it for granted…’ Leon thought, looking about at the students who continued with their daily lives, ‘But someone has to protect them, and as more students arrive at Varron, more fall prey to abusive measures, and in the end…’

Leon sighed, and opened his eyes to look on Varron Academy, his home, ‘Someone has to be Captain of this school. Might as well be someone like me.’

[Leon Loire]

Political Chemistry

“Lord Aemilius, the City Council chambers are only a few minutes away; shouldn’t we proceed?” Exclaimed a confused servant, his dreary black eyes looking over the contorted sights of his master’s face, “Is something wrong?”

Leaning against a battered old stone wall was that Lord, Amandus Aemilius, a young and spirited figure with streaked back black hair and polished auburn eyes, his stature far taller than most Terrans of his world. A staunching two meters tall (about seventy-nine inches), his strength seemed to give the impression that his destiny was in wrestling, not debate. Those auburn eyes of his, so full of life and grandeur, seemed to stare out into the space above the atmosphere as he contemplated the series of events that were about to open.

Finally, after about two minutes of bother from his servant, the Lord looked down to him, and nodded, “Let’s get going then.” Kicking off from the old and dusty stone wall, which happened to be his favorite place of thinking, Aemilius led the way to their transport, a polished down hovercraft that looked more like an egg than a vehicle. Yet as they approached, the servant clicked a tab on his left arm – quite literally – and a moment thereafter, the engines of the craft began to separate themselves from the hull, spread out perfectly in a triangular formation underneath the craft, and sent it into the air by about four feet. Its shape began to elongate, the farther western end becoming a thinner cockpit end, the far eastern side, which was closer to the two, expanded a bit more comfortably. In result was a vehicle that held the look of a streamlined sea vessel, but much smaller, and with more features in relation to the ancient automobiles of the forgotten times.

Clicking a knob on his left arm once more, the outward passenger doors opened gracefully to allow the political Lord Aemilius to enter and sit himself, while the servant entered his spacious cockpit, activated his neural implants and targeting eye, and began to summon the controls to follow his commands. Sitting in the center of the cockpit, a large holographic sensor web spread around the servant according to his own customized wishes, and as he flowed his fingers across various sectors of the web, the vessel began to hover farther up, and then blast forward.

Sitting in his divan a bit farther behind the driving servant was Aemilius, his eyes continuing to space out even in the comfort of the creamy silvers and whites around him. While most hovercraft would be customized to fit the passenger’s needs and interests, Aemilius was different, preferring the plain white liquid metal to what could be pure blues or vibrant crimsons. Tapping and holding his left index finger to the nearby wall, the Lord’s neural net sent out a command to the vessel to activate its holo projector. A few instants later, the space between Aemilius and his servant was cut off, and an oval device began to form from the ship itself just before the Lord. Looking down and continuing his stream of commands through physical
contact, the holo projector connected to the solar internet, and contacted his desired correspondent.

Immediately after confirming the connection, a bright green beam shot up from the projector and spread out across the roomy eleven foot space, revealing the perfect shape of a form just above the source: an artificial “ghost” of something already man made, an A.I. secretary by the name of Priscilla. Her short meter-and-a-half height followed her barely human features somewhat, yet even in such technological prowess, the Lord was easily able to tell such an advanced tool was far from a Terran. Her cleanly cut hair and oily complexion was obviously impossible for a Terran Noblewoman to succeed, and far less desired. The A.I.’s lips were puckered as if on stringy muscle, and the nose never moved. Even so, the voice was reasonably close to human design.

“This is the Gaios Council chambers; from whom is sending the call?” spoke out Priscilla, her eyes looking into the hologram as if she really saw it; she did not; it was being seen from her robotic mind.

“Lord Amandus Aemilius, Nobleman of the Sicilian Isles, and assistant to High Councilman Appius Caecus. I am on an intercept course for the Council building. Priscilla, is there any news on the current situation?” stated the Lord, first presenting himself, and then immediately pressing for the news.

The A.I. Priscilla looked back blindly, yet responded in full, “Searching… identity confirmed; welcome Lord Aemilius. The Council is currently speaking on the Exile attack at the Chilean-Antarctic border, and attempting to crack open the investigation regarding the captured terrorist with the Exiles. The right-wing Socialists are calling for retribution, but the rest of their party are attempting to work with the Democrats and left-wing Communists to settle an agreement and heal the wounds of the area. Councilman Aulus has been quoted to saying ‘This matter is a minor fault in our plans, and our attacks on the Exiles will only further delay the recovery of Terra from its nuclear past. We must press forward, and ignore this endeavor from our natural enemies.’ Yet Augustus was quoted of saying in reply, ‘Yet is the destruction of our enemy the main priority? You Communists have done your part in repairing the world; now let my party, the Socialists, do ours. We shall press the Exiles back to Antarctica, press them out into colder space, and then press them back to the rings indefinitely!’” The A.I. spoke in such an unnatural tone, yet whenever she quoted the Councilmen, she used recordings of their voices to interpret the statements.

Lord Aemilius turned his eyes away from the machine for a moment to look out into the skies nearby, the blues and whites a comforting sight, when they were so brown and black in the man’s youth, “It sounds as if the Communists are becoming more liberal. This isn’t a good sign, especially from them. If they relieve their power over world matters, then all is lost, and the Democrats will have their Republic.”

“What do you think of the situation sir?” questioned the Lord’s servant, unknown to be eavesdropping past the hologram.

Amandus Aemilius only responds in a kind smile, even though he cannot see the man in question, “I think we should press the Exiles off of the frozen lands. They have their Jupiter, why do they need that haven of fresh water? It has been argued many times in the Council that we Terrans need that land for supplements and aid to recovery. I believe we should press the bloody traitors off this world, and finish the press into the asteroid belt. We have no need for the Gas Giants; let the Exiles have them.”

The servant listened intently, but was unsure of what to think. The servant was, due to his class, unsure of such speech, and still learning from his master. Acknowledging the silence as mere acceptance, Lord Aemilius presses his finger against the nearby wall once more, deactivating the hologram projector without a second thought. Sitting back and sighing, Lord Aemilius thinks of the arguments to come.

What were they to do with the Exiles, and this P.O.W the Council supposedly captured?

Nonetheless, the servant veered left as they came closer to the city of Gaios, its peaking tier skyscrapers still only in handfuls; the majority of the buildings were nearly two to three stories. The structures themselves were just as smooth and streamlined as the hovercraft, yet they held onto a classic gray appearance, and used transparisteel instead of clear alloy. The skyscrapers went up into the thousands of meters high, the tallest of all representing the Claudius Headquarters in the far Northeast district of the city. Coming closer and closer to the city border, the servant activated their ship’s ion shielding, so as to allow them to slip right through the metaphysical barrier encircling the region.

Breaking through the defenses and entering the traffic lanes, Lord Amandus Aemilius watches through his window in boredom as they pass through the lower levels of the city to avoid the major congestion, flying past various folks of classes that were either in the lower tier, or the middle. The servant himself seemed comfortable flying through the lower districts, but someone as successful as Aemilius did not.

Finally reaching the core of the city, the servant pulled the hovercraft higher into the air, so that they were level with the landing bays of the Council chambers, which stood reasonably taller than the lower districts, yet still nothing in comparison to the skyscrapers. Pulling forth after getting cleared by the local pad authorities, the servant docked the vessel with the Counselor’s sector, and sliced open a passage for his Lord to exit the vehicle and out into the building.

“Good luck with the Media sir…” the servant noted to his employer.

“Trust me, I’ll need it.” The Lord replied.

Walking forward and hearing his vehicle abandon him, Lord Aemilius checked his emerald outfit as he sighed in worry, “This is going to be quite a day…”

About fifteen minutes of evading vid-bots and interviews, Lord Aemilius found his way into the locked down chambers, flashing his identity to the guards as he proceeded through. Passing by various faces of his party, Aemilius nods to a few of his allies as he finds a seat alongside his Councilor, Appius Caecus.

The much wiser, white haired Caecus side glances to his assistant and sighs, dropping his head a bit, “It’s about time you arrived Amandus. The proceedings are about to begin the interrogation of the Exile.”

Aemilius looks back at his Councilor with a bit of apology, “Did I miss the argument for Antarctica?”

The Councilor only nods in decline, “No, we decided to speak of that later. You arrived just in time.”

Aemilius sighs in relief, but soon finds his auburn eyes drawn to the centerpiece of the Council chambers. Being pulled out by two separate Terran guards, who were dressed in the traditional crimson attire, a young and emotionless man dressed in dirty grey and white clothing is thrown to the center of the room, his back to the crowd for a good thirty seconds, before he stands up and looks to Augustus. His bright cobalt eyes and blinding blonde hair barely make it available to look at the prisoner; many of the mother Councilors gasp and nod in disappointment. Lord Aemilius could hear one such Councilor sigh in grief that the young boy was so inexperienced, radical, yet beautiful.

The proceedings begin with the Augustus, the leader of the majority Socialist Party in power – Amandus’ part – speaking out to his compatriots of the situation that led to the young man’s capture. Supposedly the Exiles rode in on their Crusader light fighters from a low altitude frontal, skimmed the crashing surfaces of the Chilean coast, and ambushed a convoy coming back from Antarctica. Four Terran Velite class heavy patrol fighters were destroyed in the assault, yet the Exiles lost six of their own pilots, and the captured man before them all had been a seven that was shot down before his six surviving allies flew off with the captured convoy shuttle.

“What is your name Exile?” the Augustus questioned in rough English, a bit surprising that a party leader would dare speak the enemy’s speech; but everyone knew that his good Roman ancestry would defend him; his eloquence in Latin proved this.

The Exile only stared back blankly at the Grand Lord, but soon one of the guards stabbed a stun baton into the small of his back, wincing him to speak. The young man tripped forward, but regained his stance, and looked back up. “I… I am named Camillus by your standards… but my people call me Luther C. Benedikt.” The young man responded weakly at the reference to his Latin name, yet he spoke far stronger for his name of the Exiles.

Augustus smirked, “I assume your true name refers to your religion?” his bright green eyes glowing, the jet black hair behind his head shining.

“Well… yes sir… the median refers to my religion of the Lord Jesus Christ, the first is my sect, and the final is my parental given name. It is common ritual to be named as part of the clan and community.” The young man responded with fear and uncertainty, his blue eyes wavering, his body shaking a bit.

Augustus grinned brightly and laughed, “Ha! Then it is Camillus from now on filth!”

The entire council began to rise in noise and laughter, many old and young finding the pathetic Exile and his ‘Faith’ amusing. Yet Lord Amandus Aemilius noticed that one Lord did not laugh or find it so amusing; he actually snarled. Lord Victor Leonius, a minor Liberal member of the People’s Democratic Party, sat back with his compatriots and refused to cooperate with the humor.

“I… yes milord, if that is what you wish.” The poor boy responded, bowing his head, “But please, all I ask is to be returned home…”

Augustus ended his laughter to solemnly continue, “Yes, we will use you as a messenger boy Camillus, you do not need to fear. We must send you to warn your families that we intend to press you from the Antarctic. Your time on Terra is at an end.”

The boy suddenly widened his eyes and looked back up, “What? But this is our homeworld as much as yours! We’re all Human beings after all, how can you pressure us off of our home, our Earth?”

Augustus merely smiled, and sat down on his throne, “You fools are far from what we are. Your ancestors made the mistake to begin war over a useless belief of some superior entity that would protect them – such foolish and imbalanced thoughts they are! You fools cannot accept Science, and you cannot accept Nature as the true power of the universe. How could our worlds live as one? How could Earth be the same as Terra?”

Augustus looked down on the boy with contempt, “The day your grandfathers used our technology to destroy us, they slew their own world, their Earth. Your use of Humanity’s greatest, yet most terrible weapon merely to prove a point and claim that this ‘God’ exists is a crime against your own species. Yes, you all are entwined with us, but there is a difference. Our ancestors did not begin the Great War, yours did so. You wished to argue a point of Faith, because you could not accept the truth of Humanity’s strength in its Nature, so you used the advancements of our race to destroy us all, and our world. Your betrayal killed Earth. Yet…”

Augustus now stood up once more, spreading his arms out in some eccentric embrace, “We, my brothers and sisters, gave birth to a new world, a new homeland, a new paradise. Our strength and knowledge of the truth gave birth to this world, a world quite like the past. We bore Terra with our advancement and courage, our sacrifice and death. We purged the ignorance of ‘God’ from this place, and in response, were rewarded a place of our own! So you, insolent fool, may think of us as children, but you are insane to think so. You are the rebellious children, and we are the parent race; we will punish and purge you, until you remember your place, and join us, assimilate, to our ways.”

At this, the entire crowd of Councilors up-roared with applause and cheers. Augustus had proven the great argument was true and just. The Exile was carried away in anger and hostility, and the true people of Terra were shown supreme.

Yet in the end, Lord Victor Leonius still held a snarl of anger, and when one of his allies asked why he was so upset, he replied, “Me? Angry? Not at all… I am merely horrified at how sick our people have grown, even though the nuclear wastes are far from our minds.”

And so, Lord Victor Leonius stands and walks off, ignored utterly as the rest of the crowd cheers for their hero, and Lord Amandus Aemilius realizes how much of a dangerous rival Leonius truly will be.

[Leon Loire]

Blood and Bionics

[/center]



Faith: often a reference to an unexplainable trust of a force that cannot be seen, heard, or even felt. Often times it was referred to someone’s tremendous stubbornness, or someone’s risks; it could even be referenced to something as archaic as a superior deity. Indeed, the fragments of Terra’s old histories string a tale of people that worshiped Gods, extraterrestrial powers that could somehow influence any and every minor or major variable in existence; a God could be the subtle benefactor of a person’s good luck, or the complete influencer of a catastrophic consequence to all Humanity. Tales spoke of their greatness, or their compassion; the only thing that seems to be remembered now was their vanity.

Faith is no longer the risk to trusting an uncompromising power known as a God; it is now the risk of trusting a careless individual you have never come to know, yet told by your society to expect everything from their actions. For me, Lord Victor Leonius, such a Faith was not only placed upon my young son, it was expected. The Terran society expects all parents to encourage and trust the lives they bring to existence; it is ironic to think of a parent not trusting their own child, but then again, it’s to be expected, mostly considering that in the youth of that child, the only waking moment you ever saw of them was at birth, and the government officers were already waiting idly by as the child was prepared for transport to the training clinic.

So here I am, standing now inside of a transparent box of hardened glass architecture, my attention set on a display of well-trained pilots organized for their final success as youth; they were to launch out on their first operative within ten minutes, and here they stood, stern and cold, ready to prove themselves as legionaires of Terra.

Here I stand, eyes on the back of my son’s black-mane head, ready and waiting to become a man of his people – risking his life in the process.

Today I have to trust my son to live; the only trouble is, I can barely call myself his father. In the modern age, the trust of a careless risk is defined as faith, and that is exactly I am committing now.

*******

“Legions, atten-TION!” The Academy Sergeant called out in rhythm, his deep voice a classic archetype, his chiseled arms acting as a sort of weapon’s salute.

The years of conditioning proved successful, as every man and woman of the 67th Corinth Squadron instantly snapped into focus, their polished flight boots reflecting the light of the thirteen o’ clock Sol, its bright solar rays harshly beaming down on the dark hair of the young Roman Hawks. Their eyes shone like the blades of a gladius, their grey-blue outfits slightly respected by the thin red blood bars running down their pant legs and insignias.

The Sergeant glared back grimly at his young pilots, but a bit of honest pride tingled at the back of his spine; these were the rising stars, the best of the best. Their parents were the Elite of Terra, and soon they would honor their sacrifices of service by heading the spears of the Terran Empire against those who opposed its might.
Today that battle would be taken to a particular enemy: the Exiles of Terra.

“Today is the end of your childhood troops, and dawn will bring your adulthood! You’ve survived the training of all those like you for nearly two decades now, and all your hard work is finally at hand! Rejoice! You are Roman today! You will be Terran tomorrow!”

At this, the entire unit knew their sign, and cheered their success. Indeed, it had been quite a journey of its own, surviving the years of youth training. First educated to the highest levels with all Terran youth, the children of the Roman class rose beyond the “normal” requirements of their lesser fellows and joined the military as trainees. Since they were fourteen years old, each of those hundreds of children rose to join a squadron; now, forty of those hundreds were at their own squadron graduation, ready to launch its campaign. Their trials were over; it was time to move forward.

The Sergeant spent a rapid second analyzing the morale of his soldiers, before nodding and barking out a final order, “Your briefing will be transcribed during flight. Now, you know the drill; get to your Spathas, and the troop transports will meet your wings at alpha point. Now, move!”

Without a verbal reply, the conditioning played off well again, as the forty pilots broke into their respective wings and darted off, their flight leaders waving their arms through the air as they barked orders through their natural Latin tongue.

Standing motionless for a few seconds as his own wing leader took a moment or two to speak with her superior officer, the son of light, Deodatus Leonius, stole a glance to a clear structure above him, a smirk of pride waving over his face at the sight of the tall, familiar figure inside.

‘I do this for you, father.’ The boy quietly chanted in his restricted mind, as his right hand naturally fisted itself against his left chest, before lightly bowing to the man that helped create him.
His reply was to be expected: a nervous smile, and a curtly nod. Deo knew his father felt uncomfortable with a son, but after this battle, they would finally be able to truly meet…

Yet for now, he had to think with a clear mind; after all, he was a soldier, and he had been ordered to war. Turning on his heel at the order of his wing leader, Deodatus dashed off with the rest of his Roman comrades, ready to meet fighter-to-fighter with the enemy they sought. The treacherous believers of Faith would soon be reminded of their place in the lands of Terra.

*******

What had once been a golden noon was now a pale and clammy dusk – even though the flight from their headquarters in Rome, Italy was only two hours from the Terran outpost stationed on the Falkland Islands, Argentina. Ironically, the difference in time zones and the brief launch should have left the local region at a bright morning of nine o’ clock. Yet, there was a significant difference between the environment of the ravaged Americas and the restored Southern Europe, the largest including the surviving legacy of the Great War so many centuries ago. The nuclear fallout had been the harshest in North America, and its winter was still far from leaving the lands of the Western Hemisphere, if it left at all. The heavy wave of cold darkness kept the region in a subtle twilight at all times, and only grew worse as the sun left with its little warmth.

Regardless, the pilots themselves were fine inside their RF3-Spathas, its sleek ivory hull as bright as the clouds of Italy, their dual ion engines leaving a clean drive of energy and power as its supporting uni-wing hung over the canopy and tail. The weapons systems included two 25mm Vulture hardpoints on the uni-wing’s opposing tips, and two additional 15mm Crows built inside the Spathas’ nose. The beauty of the Spathas, however, was its two heavy missile launchers, programmed with the famous Chinese arc targeting system. The fighters were fast, well armed, and extremely well piloted; the only risk of death was the unlikely hope of an Exile Vindicator landing a few too many shots on the hull – of course, Exile pilots were too lacking in skills to accomplish such a feat often against the best pilots in the fleet.

Deodatus Leonius quickly tapped his left index finger onto the HoloEye projector worn over his left eye, the crimson flood of light reading out the necessary data: wing status, confirmation read-outs, coordinate mapping, and the Arc’s computing system reading a’go. Bringing his left hand back to hover above the left side section of his flight controls, Deo shifted his hand lightly right to acknowledge his fighter’s tip in the same direction, before his right hand followed up with an engine acceleration to meet up with Plato wing.
“What’s the report Lion Eye?” quipped Deo’s wing leader, Aquila Aurelius, as her own Spathas slowly lowered its descent to lead the wing downward.

Deo clicked his HoloEye a second time to double-check, before verifying, “Roger Gilded, we’ve got about seven dozen on the ice, and two dozen in the skies. Your orders?”

Deo stole a glance down to the cool azure world below, his russet eyes quickly catching the irritation of the icy continent known as Antarctica, the Exile’s current – no, former home. Checking back on the status of the wing, Deo heard his commander’s sharp feminine voice crackle over the responders, “Orders from the Centurion is for Plato and Zeta wings to go pure Eagle; rest of the flight will act as support for the ground forces.”

Deo nodded to the orders, but couldn’t help but feel an open grin as he heard a rougher, more interfered voice hack into the wing channel; a male voice, a tough one at that, and one that Deodatus recognized as his best friend, Cresentius Brutus. “What did I tell ya’ Deo? Death is not on my good side today!”

The young man heard his entire wing let out a laugh, before they were all cut short by a silencing hiss from P-1, “Hey Heavy, get yourself back to fighting, we’re busy leading some scarecrows, all right?”

Deodatus was ready to listen in on his friend’s reply, when suddenly he glanced up to the skies before them: it was no longer filled with the dull clouded atmosphere; but rather, more than two dozen grey-fleshed Vindicators – and they were heading straight for the Plato wing.

Aurelius’ orders came instantly, “Bogies at twelve o’ clock! Plato three, take two and seven and hit right; eight, take five and follow their flank. Everyone, choose your marks, we’ll force them to meet with Zeta wing.”

Deo didn’t even respond; he wasn’t meant to. Sharply shifting his Spathas in a hard port turn, the Roman directly aimed himself at the oncoming left flank of the attackers. Striking close to the 2500 meter range of the Arc, Deo pulled a quick corkscrew maneuver to evade the Exile’s bullet fire, before quickly tapping on his weapons targeting control and lightly dragged the reticule to strike into the foe’s rear engine. Taking a few moments to hold the shot long enough for Deo to reach his firing position, the missile launched only an instant later, and watching its rapid bend through the apocalyptic air, struck hard against the icy steel vessel, destroying its hull instantly. The engagement was over in less than fifteen seconds, and Deo wasn’t even finished.

However, it seemed he was wrong. His attentiveness toward the single foe had given too much of an opening for a pair of Exiles, who had shrugged off Deo’s wingmates and charged after him. As he was preparing to hit starboard and rejoin the fight, one of the Exile fighters struck him twice in the left engine, and three times in the left end of the wing; the resulting shock sent his momentum into a free fall, suddenly giving Deodatus a new sight: the blinding, icy earth.
So, without much effort or resistance, Deodatus’ fighter began to fall, farther and farther down, gaining speed – as if death were truly on its mind.

“Emergency conversion protocol seven, emergency…” the pilot yelled hysterically, his eyes trying to naturally shut from the infinite light of the shine below him, only widened thanks to his excelling fear; he had come so close to reaching his dream, so close to going home; all he had to accomplish was survival, not even an amazing response to the battle, just survival, and he would have been free…
“Lion Eye, deactivate the right ion and convert to emergency deceleration! You’re crashing down too fast!” muffled an unfamiliar voice in the background, Deodatus’ ears catching them, but ignoring them. He was trying that, tried that… nothing seemed to work… nothing seemed to…

“Deo! Forget the conversions! Concentrate on reversing that pitch! You’re literally dropping down, you’ve got to pull up!” this voice was far more familiar, regardless of the crackle of a more personal war bolting behind him, “Forget the technology, forget the protocols! Have some faith in yourself man, and pull up now! If you don’t, you’ll be throwing everything we’ve lived for in the past seven years. Now come on!”

The crackle of the other war seemed vibrant for a moment, yet soon it died out, more bolts sounding past, more yells of chaos beyond. Brutus, a leader of his squad, was in danger, perhaps dead… if dead, then he had died to help Deodatus…

‘For seven years he’s fought for me… now I need to fight for us all…’
Suddenly, Deodatus pressed his fingertips against the soft cushions of the pivot controls, before jerking them forward and backward, trying his hardest to regain control. The winding tug of the blaring air attempted to force back his efforts, but Deodatus had a meaning now, an intention, and that goal was to survive; to survive.
Seconds passed, and the earth grew closer with every blinding glance. But the angle of that view was growing less painful, and somehow Deodatus regained partial control of his pitch, allowing his flight to lead him on a rough – but survivable – course of a crash that led him just above the major base of operations for the Exile militia. The youth was so near, his aft camera caught sight of their heavy robes and head garments, their faces far from noticeable, their chest emblems of their faiths – Deodatus cared not for the cross about their necks, or the chill they must have felt in the cold. They carried outdated weaponry, and fought like the beasts of the base hope that they were; when death took them, they expected some entity to be awaiting them on the other side; perhaps that was why they could always battle, no matter the odds.

It was why survival was so important to Deodatus; he had no being waiting for him beyond. All he could do was make the most of life before death, the life that Science had given him.

Tilting roughly above the icy crevasses, Deo noticed a perfect shot to end the resistance before he crashed down: his Arc had just enough energy left to fire another volley, and his angle was absolutely perfect for a curved shot right into the core of the Exile’s base. Just one spectacular shot, and his mission would be complete.

And so, quickly dashing his right hand across the targeting reticule, Deodatus Leonius launched his dual volley of Arc air-to-ground missiles, sending a vindication straight to the exiled, reuniting them with the Gods they so zealously served on the other side of the border of life and death.

A moment later, Deodatus transitioned from bright white ice, to the cold darkness of unconsciousness – yet, he could not help but hear the sudden yell of victory from that familiar voice, the rough yell of victory: “Vini Vini Vici!”

A moment after that, he was staring up from a hospital bed, warmly greeted by his father, and his future. “Welcome home – at last – Deodatus Leonius.” The lightly wrinkled politician whispered, with that affectionate respect that the young soldier always dreamed to receive this day, even if he was wounded, “You’re a man now.”
Yes, a man – of Terra? Of Humanity? It did not truly matter; Deodatus Leonius had succeeded in his quest, overcome the trials, and gained his awaiting throne; he had survived, that was all that mattered. His reward was life, and now Deodatus Leonius could finally live.

[Leon Loire]

The Crescent Sun

The thugs of Jihad sat around in their drooping clusters of two or three, spread across the hole of a dank grey bar scene with faces warm from their chemical influences. The cloudy wisps of exhaled smoke hovered near the low, rotting roof and the building’s exposed ebony pillars, fortunately leaving the putrid smell from reaching my thin, sand-ridden nostrils. To be honest, that smoke would have been bliss when compared to the stink of dead corpses killed in a bar brawl…

Oh – how rude of me; I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Azaryck Bautolom, a local of the Egyptian town called Bren. If you’ve ever seen a photograph of a grimy, third world village in Afghanistan with some bony, ailing man of Allah in the background, then you’re probably looking at someone I can relate to. Just imagine that bony, ailing man surrounded by the worst scum and villainy in the world, and now you’ll recognize him as me.

I’ve lived in that old hole since my late childhood, and if I died there at some point, it would have been a clear indication of just how stupid I was not to leave. When I arrived in this town back in 1991, things were tense from the rising Gulf War; thankfully, the local issues were solved from a strong lord, allowing his people to look away from the Iraqi conflict without a care. Recently, however, some upbeat drug dealer from Kazakhstan suddenly arrived with an entire company of mercenary “peacekeepers,” and ousted our good Caliph – the governor.

It wasn’t so surprising afterward that he crowned himself the throne of local dictator. Not too long after his rise did the streets fill with trucks of those damned radicals of bin Laden’s Jihad against America, a Cossack mercenary group setting up camp at an old market, and the new Caliph’s drug reps showed up along for the ride. My small, quiet town of good Muslim moderates was now a fortress of Islamic fundamentalists, the worst Europe could offer in thugs and rogue troops, and some crime family intent on turning Egypt into another drug nest.

I’ll tell you right now friend, the normal dope-heads stationed in their designated corner of the pub were not my largest worry today. In fact, a few days before the bloody brawl, a group of the strangest westerners I had ever seen suddenly arrived on the outskirts of Bren, and within hours had stirred up more chaos than the rise of the new lord.

Rumors were abound a day after their arrival that the drug lord had been killed from these odd men and women draped in black cloaks.
What’s even worse: someone could have sworn they saw the guy still walking around in the shadows of his office, with a strange limp and brain-washed movement; what suddenly forced him to look away, of course, was the fact that the drug lord’s shirt was completely scarlet – and that’s impossible, he only wore light beiges and whites to keep himself cool in the heat! The rumors were true; the false Caliph was dead, yet still living! It made no sense!

Well believe me, that day in the bar I realized that it all made perfect sense, just not the type people like you and me are used to. All it takes is a visit from the “Stranger” into your life, and you’ll understand everything.

Leaning against the dusty stone island with a simple glass of white-chalk water, I caught in the corner of my eye the cloaked cultists marching their way into the establishment. It was definitely them, their garments so dark they contrasted the shadows against the tanned dung walls. Tightly strung to each of their waists were a varying firearm and some sort of sheathe – the type that you use for old-fashioned daggers. The pistols were nothing new, looking as if they in fact came from the lord’s personal armory, but those sheathes… they hid three-inch blades with hilts wrapped in a leathery hide that seemed to shine in the light - or lack of it, somehow.
The thud of their steel-toed boots led the lot of ‘um to a set of benches with a dull granite slab on the opposing side of the bar, and a few seconds later all four of the robes were leaning back against the wall, each with a twisted sanguine grin. I suppose they were celebrating over the bloodshed they had spilled a few blocks away, when the surviving mercenary guard charged them in haste, and ended up flowering the sand with their innards.

The leader of the dark-eyed forms seemed to scan the scene with an odd keenness, as if expecting some sort of danger to arrive. They muttered a few sentences of their native tongue – I’m not even sure if it was a natural tongue – and one of them climbed forward from his space on the bench, his hand stabbing forward through the dense air and toward another corner in the bar, at a small table near the staircase.

Poised uncomfortably on a three-legged stool was another odd form, this one a gigantic statue nearing three meters tall, his form drenched in a wavy auburn shawl. The form’s identity was disguised from witnesses thanks to the blanketing hood over his scalp; that detail was quickly forgotten by two other odd details about the statue: a two meter tall staff – no, battle axe – leaning near him against the barrier of dung and dirt, its blade the only shimmering object in the entire building; at the same time, the form’s cow-hide hands delicately worked to complete a wooden carving he was slicing out with the work of a small army knife.

The sudden attention of the cultist, however, seemed to get the form’s attention, and with a small motion underneath the hood, his intentions seemed clear. Standing upright from the uncomfortable seat, the Stranger gripped his fist tightly to the axe’s nearby handle, and heavily strolled toward the cluster of radicals, thugs, and worst of all: the masters of the undead.

Without warning, the cultist that brought the attention to the Stranger began laughing with an English tone, his own bronze eyes as bright as my own, but they seemed to glow… no, perhaps dim. Following afterward he directed dialect I couldn’t understand, yet quickly the Stranger replied in my native Arabic, “You can speculate why I am here, of course.”
His voice – now identified – held a South African accent, and the rough, modulated tone gave away some sort of serious intent within an instant. That axe, that stance; this man, whoever he was, meant business.

The leader of the four stood up, the wind of his movement flinging dust to the floor and the scraps of his cloak, “I could, but it makes me wonder: why would a Paladin, especially of your faith, give any reason to show their kind here? I thought our kin in Europe were keeping your eyes on the ‘present’ we left you in Amsterdam?”

The eyes of even the gun-totting Jihad rogues seemed pivoted now toward this Stranger, this Paladin, as a smirk could be faintly heard – it was literally so calm in that room that you could hear the dust mites chomping on bread crumbs, yet the aura of emotional tension seemed to literally screech in one’s ears.

“My designation is to keep your eyes on our war, not theirs. The bodies of the dead should remain dead, especially when their lives were ended from a conflict such as Iraq. If you believed my Order would sit by and let you all slip through to the front lines, you’re clearly ignorant.” Taking grip of the carving still balanced on his palm, the Stranger rung forward, “Now, let’s end this, right now!”

Without even an intake of breath, the Stranger bolted the carving toward the solid earth below us all, the oak wood suddenly stuck to the stone as if it were glued, and once the friction was done, an immense ring of gold, beaming symbols lit the entire pub, surrounding the four cultists and the caster of that spell, the Stranger – this Paladin. The light erupted in flame, fragments of rock and glass shredding in all directions, then halted in mid air from some unknown, invisible force surrounding their circle of battle. I watched in absolute awe as the broken fragments skewered two of the black robes instantly, the wall behind their bodies no longer grey and discernable, but the complete distraction of a nauseous, eye-catching crimson.

The surviving murderers gritted their teeth in preparation – it seemed they were in shock, but not surprise, by the Paladin’s tactics – and struck forth their daggers, the blades suddenly extending with a deathly hiss. The Stranger was already before them, however, for it seemed the sudden blaze of bright, righteous light had given just enough sway for the Stranger to prepare his titan blade. Holding the extended handle tightly, the Paladin struck with a grinding horizontal cut, catching its blunt force against the side of one necromancer’s belly, cutting his form to the ground. The body crumpled back to join its lost kin, and the head of the leader soon joined them with a spray of pressured blood, as the Stranger’s axe pulled back from the cut and literally lunged forward with a boisterous battle cry, hinging the neck of the final foe back, and into the wall.

Let me fell you friend, before then that bar had been a dug-out, dank old hole of prehistoric earth and diseased drinks, the hues any eye saw only black and white, or whatever grey in between. The Stranger, in his brief trip to visit our tense, frightening world, changed that in a way that was so normal to us, yet so unique. That bar was completely crimson after he was finished with the place, and as he hefted the large weapon across his shoulders, his right fist retracted itself into the auburn robes against his back, inserting a shining metallic amulet into the light of the beaming transmutation circle still beneath him. The cold, red and black bodies below his feet suddenly released four darker shadows that were suddenly absorbed by the amulet, revealing its shape: a crescent moon, the symbol of the Islam faith. In this situation, it was more of a sun, a sol if you will.

A moment later, the man turned away from the corpses he left behind, and stepped toward the exit that led out to the bright, waiting realm of reality. He was so unreal, so fictional, yet there he strode, a reality of his own. So when you wonder why the world is as odd as it is, whenever you think you’ve seen the strangest thing you could ever imagine, just remember the irony of the blood spilled that day, and the fashion that it occurred through. We try to make sense of the world through our faith, but in the end, it seems you need to experience something entirely fictional in order to make sense of everything else in front of you. In the end, it seems you can’t explain the world just through a Bible, or a Scientific Law. It takes faith, not only in an entity, but in the people that live with you on this world – even if you don’t realize they are there.

[Leon Loire]

Frozen Soul

The hectic muck of conditioned air swarming against icy vapors and liquefying heat was enough to antagonize any hopeful human being – and I was one of them. In an attempt to keep warm from the overwhelming chill, gooseflesh began to absorb my naked arms that were barely sheltered by a sleeveless jacket. Instinct told me to rub the cold limbs across one another, yet I resisted for the simple possibility that Major Scipio would berate me for the supposed weakness.

I was doomed to such criticisms no matter how I reacted; it seemed the stoic officer found bodily contractions to the cold as weak. “Is it too frigid for you Ensign Leonius? Ha! Imagine how the front linemen at Antarctica must feel! You’re lucky!”
I found my mahogany glare absorbing his bulkier physique and felt a surge of frustration nearly unnerve me. I had only been under the wing of this man for seventy-two hours, and I was already on the verge of killing my personal discipline to beat him. His own copper eyes grinned at my torment, yet ignored me. It seemed he wished to further my own pursuits by presenting an object of hatred.

“You know our ordered cell number, Deodatus?” the Major questioned with a thick, snide lip, his eyes side-glancing me as if he were looking to a speck of dust.

I replied without a second thought, so as to avoid further anger, “I believe it’s cell 423, prisoner 0624 –”
“Right, whatever; let’s just get there to break the whore.” Scipio cut my orderly response without hesitation, and the crime against my pride and liberty only fed the flames of hatred toward him that burned inside of my gut.

It was ironic, really: it turned out that by my officer transferring my hate to him; it was easier for me to sympathize for the people the Empire wished me to break and destroy. I was meant to hate the Exiles, not my own commander. But in such a society of strict, militaristic values, you were never really given much choice to choose your own enemies; you were given the target to eliminate. I was meant to hate them, and without that hate, it gave me something the military did not want of me: a separate mind.

Finally, after minutes’ waste of a frustrating search, we – although, more accurately, I – located the designated objective: the “nuisance number six,” an Exile female who had evaded the military’s interrogation methods.

Major Scipio stood as a pillar of steel intent before the cell’s seal, his shining gaze only glancing at me for a second, before preparing to key in the entry codes, “Better let me do the talking Ensign, I highly doubt you’re ready to break the mind of a human being, even a zealot Exile.”

I snorted, watching as the icy grey door slid up through the ceiling, my own sable eyes now gazing toward the interior; yet still, as the Major stepped through and my own discipline followed, I willingly allowed a rebel thought to filter past my mental image, a pondering of the irony that the Major should mention a “zealot.”

If I had thought the corridor had been uncomfortable, I soon found myself mentally begging for some source of literal warmth. The corridor had been “nippy”; the interrogation cell felt as if the Exile’s “Hell” had frozen over. My pride no longer held; I instantly went to work on extending my shirt’s material to at least partially blanket my now-pale and bumpy flesh, as the Major looked at me with unsurprising disdain.

As my wish was completed within a few mere seconds, the master of intimidation and threatening speech unsheathed his mental weapon. “Exile, I’ll not waste time with you; that is below me, after all. You have been generously given several chances to surrender your information, and –”

“‘Several chances’? I believe there have only been two, and they were rather brief.” The Exile replied in her natural tongue of rebellious English, regardless of the fact that Scipio had questioned and expected a reply in the native Terran tongue of modern Latin.

Her features were nothing remarkable enough to arouse my body, but the attitude tugged at my own mental curiosities. She seemed rather young, perhaps the ripe age of twenty, yet her formerly fair blond locks were a bit darkened by the rugged conditions forced upon her, and those blizzard-blue eyes blended with the solid calm of the permafrost wall behind her. She was petite in form, perhaps even a bit frail, yet signs of strong shoulders and a perfectly drawn jaw line gave the possibility that once she had been proud, resilient, and courageous. Now, it seemed, the intense oppression of Terran arrest might have been cracking her shell; she was melting, slowly.

Her gaze caught my own build for a moment, yet I could not tell if my Italian hair and “natural” body influenced her in any way. I could tell she loathed Major Scipio’s mechanized right eye and implanted shoulder pauldron, so perhaps it could be estimated that her silent gaze meant she “accepted” me. Still, regardless of what she thought, her attention returned to the oblivious and inanimate wall, apparently uninterested in what we had to say.

“This is pointless…” I found myself murmuring, intending for only my ears to catch it. I was wrong again; Scipio took note and suddenly went on a rage.

“Damnit you insolent Exile! Don’t play smart with me! Now, intelligence estimates that each and every one of you God-lovers has some sort of information about Antarctica, and our superiors wish to know! You’re going to talk, or you’re going to die!” He rumbled, voice now immersed in extreme passion, the goal of his negative words to either destroy the woman’s soul or her life. His muscular palms outstretched across the end of the iron table, the index finger of Scipio’s right hand emblazoned in a silver plating that allowed for precise incisions – it was meant for possible medical matters on the field, but the Major was infamous for using the tool in interrogations.

I knew what this was leading to, and wished that I could stop him. On the left, the woman was strong and young, fully capable of living a wonderful and fulfilling life; on the right, I was a servant of the Terran Empire, and any attempt I made at contradicting the national beliefs was considered treason against the natural laws of the new order. It was either death for an Exile, or death for me.

As the split arose in my mind, however, the conflict was suddenly at the breaking point. The Exile woman had ignored my “superior” officer completely, and his fury soon flew his right hand in a curve toward the victim’s face, a small needle protruding from unnatural finger as the palm struck her cheek, forcing a miniscule squeak of pain to release from her chapping lips. She flinched back, favored her head for a few moments, then glared back at Scipio furiously. She quivered for a moment – an unfortunate sign of her personal will shaking – and her reaction spilled out in Latin, “Ut Abyssus Vobis!”

Scipio snarled at first, but then grinned darkly at a sudden choice. I could see it in his glare; he knew she was falling apart, he knew it was probable to break her, and soon whatever information she held would be in the military’s hands. Her conformity to Latin, her weakening form, her shivering appendages – she was doomed to lose her self.

Yet, the bastard chose to destroy her.

“Ha! To meet with Hades would be an honor, scum, but I believe your kind deserve to discover the truth before I do. There is no Hell, Hades, or Afterlife! If you are so unwilling to accept that, then the only answer is to let you meet Oblivion itself!”

Major Scipio instantly turned on his heel and motioned with his right hand for me to follow alongside him. He was meaning to leave the Exile alone, to let her literally meet Hell before meeting the Void. I… hesitated. I was honestly torn with what to do. What was more merciful? To allow her to die? To try and “save” her by ending her resistance and breaking her? What was “right?” Did I even wish to do the “right” thing?

As the two of us stood outside the shutting seal, and the Major briskly keyed his twelve fingers against the board of symbols to activate the “melting” execution program, an instant intercom announcement sounded throughout the station’s corridor, beckoning him down to central command.

“Of all times! Ensign Leonius, complete the execution – I would hope you’re capable of finishing a few program IDs.” And without even a glance to my furrowing eyebrows, the monster strode off toward the darkened heart of the hallways beyond, fists clenched at the inability to end a human life.

I found myself staring back through the seal again, resting my eyes upon the Exile’s strangely beautiful face. Her attention was to the floor now, her left hand still pressed against the wound across her cheek, and even under such pressure, a small tinge of a tearing ounce of blood drained down her jaw.

“Why?” I finally found my lips asking, her own eyes now glancing to me, and somehow understanding exactly what I meant. She simply gazed for a moment, suddenly interested in my “pure” appearance, before faintly smiling, then replying in a sort of quiet roar of pride, “Hope. Just… hope.”

I could tell there was much more to the tale, her tale, this tale, and I was so certain that more could have been said from that deep gaze she placed upon me. But, for some reason, such the fable was not meant to be told. There was only one thing that could be left to interact between the two of us, both from very different worlds, “Please, my beautiful fellow… send me Home.”

I could feel the frown across my face, the clammy sensation of cold sweat against my temples, the sinking dread against my stomach; what was more attentive, however, in that moment standing before the Exile was not the fear of ending her life, but the nostalgia of freeing her spirit from both wrongs. I felt a nod pass through my head, then my eyes turning towards the corridor computer that controlled the temperature of her cell. It had been set to the “melting execution” protocol, as a sort of sick punishment for her resistance.

Instead, my eight fingers scurried to activate a drastic dip in temperament control, increasing the frigid ice of her room further. As I clicked the activation key, my eyes drifted upwards again, and for several seconds before our contact was broken, I merely watched the beautiful thanking smile that melted my heart and aches. I knew she was thankful; after all, I was sending her Home.

Terribly, that damned grey gate shut the two of us apart, and finally left the female Exile to leave reality forever. I do not know if she returned Home, and I do not know further if my choice had been the right one, but it did not matter to me then, and it still does not matter now. I made a choice of my own will, and that is all that mattered.

[Leon Loire]

The following is a Haiku I wrote in Creative Writing class as an assignment. Obviously, this isn't the "traditional" Haiku, and certainly does not really seem to amount as poetry or a short story, but it is a piece that is important to me, and so I chose to post it.

Faith’s teachings

As a child, my naïveté ran knee deep; literally, once I believed Catholicism was the title for all Christianity. Christmas was a time for toys, now Christ. Then, as a I grew older, two new perceptions struck me: a book, and a girl. The text was no Bible; it was a fiction. The girl was real, and she took the ideas I pertained from the book and materialized them. As a child, I saw Church as an interest I did not have; as an adult, I now follow the perception of that girl: “Church is not law, but a guideline to individual faith.”

*****

This next piece is a Sonnet, written as some cliche intent at turning "love" into something very different. I certainly hope I succeeded, even when my skills in poetry are mediocre enough rignt now, and were terrible when this was written.


Clay

The swirls of earth that forged the form sat still
The outstretched hand, mind lit in hot ember
The kiln torched, the heat mirrors December
Into a soul empty of loving fill
Then, creation drifts t’ward the waiting till
Destined to give life, a cropp’d October
Produce; the hand retreats, to remember
A single successful day at the mill
Yet, only one product complete, the hung
Lord treads onward, grey eyes upon the sung
Unknown, quest far from finished, hoped goal
To end the dead, to transmute ice and coal
Into existence, into massive rife
Allowing for my love to live her life

*****

Ode to a Pen

This Scribe of ink does line
The woven sight I speak
Forming signs, words, ideologies
Of abstract thought, or lawful grid
The complexity of a mind, a mystery in itself
Now able to whisper past its vessel
After all, the pen is a tool, and allows
One to express all things ethereal into material

Millennia have past that are known
Thanks to the creation of the pen
Millennia beyond are forgotten
Because of its lacking use
History is no longer spoken in fable
It is drawn, sketched in language, read forever
When written, a single day’s expanse
Brings the legacy of a lifetime, eternally

This in mind, imagine how few would know
How Heroes lived if a pen never drew
If history were unknown, forgotten
And the dead were gone, both body and soul
Immortality is only a dream, yet legacy is real
By sketching a lifetime, a name can be reborn
If that is true, then I will take up a pen
To write my legacy in immortal, historical word