Snippet #2554790

Captain Marcellus sits in the captain's quarters, running a whetstone down the length of his spear tip, lost in thought as he makes the weapon sharp enough to shave with. He thinks back to his time as a mercenary. The dishonorable things he had to do in the name of survival, in the name of money. He wonders if he's the best man to lead the city's defence in times like this. He certainly didn't have the most spotless past, and certainly wasn't the exemplary good guy. But perhaps that's what the lands of light needed. Someone who could get their hands dirty.

As he finally finishes, he looks up, breaking out of his trance. The stains of blood still mark the walls where she who calls herself "the Red Death" left a grizzly reminder of the discontent of vampires. This uneasy peace would not last much longer. The new Captain's already resting grim expression gets grimmer, and he decides to leave in search of a slightly less cursed place. He opens the shoddily repaired door into the corridor, moving toward the part of the Lion's Guard spire that bridges into the uppermost walls. He steps out into the crisp morning air, his armour shining in the rising sunlight, rays of light glinting off the golden spear tip strapped across his back. He looks off toward the Synagogue's mountains, the perpetual dark cloud that looms on the horizon perhaps symbolic of the state of things. The inner city walls are hundreds of miles into the air due to its being built into a mountain, giving him a good look at the waking city below. The first ambitious merchants enter the market square and begin setting up stalls. The first wave of miners lumber off toward the iron mines built under the city. Farmers lead their sellable animals through the shining golden lion's head gates to the north. By all rights it's just another morning in Lionsridge. But something feels...wrong...to the Captain.

"You alright?" asks a feminine voice to his left, "You seem grim...moreso than usual, I mean."
As he looks over, he sees a red-headed freckled mousey face looking over at him, a grin upon her thin lips. It's his second in command, Deirdre MacBaran, a spunky girl from the northmost of the Western Isles provinces -- the only province still resisting the Empire of Roma's control, thought to be filled with barbarians -- and the only one in his former company who supported him in his betrayal and didn't die as a result. He gives a small smile -- the only type he seems to be capable of -- and nods. "Perceptive as always, Deirdre. All-out war will come to Lionsridge soon. I can feel it in the air. I hope I am simply being paranoid," he says, focusing his steely gaze upon the darkness looming on the horizon.

"Well, I cannae say for sure, but I'm inclined tae trust your instinct. Whatever happens, we'll be ready," says the woman, shrugging. Though she doesn't seem extremely worried on the surface, the Captain can sense her tensing up.
"We'll call a military council on the morrow to discuss it," he assures her, "and I will personally make sure the defenses are ready in case of an attack. In the meantime, make sure the men stay alert."

He could swear he heard war horns in the distance, but he shakes it off and dismisses it as paranoia. They couldn't attack so soon, of course...
(This gonna be a few days after the feast, by the way.)