The man stood, hands clenched, pulse pounding, his breath staggered. Blood dripped and pooled downward from his gauntlets. On the ground, a captain, adorned the armor of Hammerhal, face bloodied to a pulp, his nose an amalgamation of flesh. The standing sergeant let out a bellow that swelled up from his chest and pierced the still air, “I’M DONE TAKING ORDERS.”

A caravan travelling, coming to a stop in the town square, opening up shop. Goods and baubles are put out on display. Customers of all kinds peruse the wares. Dusk settles, the caravan is on the move again, back home. The adults park next to their dilapidated house, a young boy hops out the back of the cart. The father counts his coin purse, the mother takes count of the wares. The boy sits at the side of the cart, staring at a far-off statue of a goddess. A woman standing atop a giant horned beetle, muscles bulging, readied for battle, her visage carved into stone.     

Years pass, the boy, now a teenager, waves off his parents, unknowingly saying goodbye to them for the last time. A few days pass, he has enough Aqua for food for the next week, then that week passes. It’s very odd to the boy that his parents haven’t arrived home yet. Another week goes by, the rations in his house are growing thin, his hope wavers, uncertainty takes hold. A month has passed now. The food in the house has run out. Idle chit-chat can now be heard from other neighbors, wondering where the Hoffmanns have gone. Rumors are speculated over, from an ambush of orruks to finding a better home elsewhere. Their eyes gaze upon the boy, some with melancholy, others with uncaring and empty eyes that seem to pierce through him. He packed up his belongings; a few tattered outfits, the last of the bread in the house, some sleeping supplies, whatever was needed for hygiene, and set off.

A moon crested in the night sky, dirt-laden alleyways, the boy lightly sobbed. A figure moved past the alley; the silhouette made the boy grip onto his pack tightly. He could hear the sounds of their shoes move from the cobblestone onto the dirt he was sitting upon. A woman clad in a forest green dress, golden knitted-up hair, her ears pointed. Her soft voice spoke to the boy. “Are you the Hoffmann’s boy?” He wiped the tears from the creases of his eye and nodded. She held out a hand, the glowing of the moon illuminated her figure, and Hartbert clasped onto her outstretched fingers.   

More years pass. Hartbert tends to the pews, with the light tapping of his hammer fixing them up, the figure of the Everqueen towering behind him. He wiped the sweat from his brow, the full moon’s light passing between the planks of the church’s modest roof. He took his few wooden tools and set them aside for the night. Most of the women and men who worked and lived in the church of Alarielle were fast asleep. He turns and kneels down in front of the idol, his hands clasped in prayer. He wished to know of his parents’ disappearance, why he was brought into this church, and where would the goddess that took her into her own home guide a young man. As most nights, there was no answer. He prayed for Alarielle to watch over everyone he knew and headed to bed.

Another year passed, and the young man felt an emptiness in his heart. While he felt that keeping the church of Alarielle in shape was a noble cause, it felt like if he were truly blessed that he should be helping people, his own goddess did more than that. Hart went out into a busier part of Hammerhal Ghyra to pick up some more materials to do the usual maintenance in the church he called home. On the way to the stall he had grown accustomed to, a glint sparked out of the edge of his vision. Bronze-tinted armor polished to a sparkling finish, deep blue fabric lining the man’s figure, multiple feathers adorned his hat. His voice was so raspy, Hartbert could hardly make out the words he was saying to the few families listening. He seemed to be holding out a parchment, seemingly worn as if used by men for multiple decades.

Hart moved on towards the woodcutter’s stall, a stout man with a fiery red beard and an eyepatch over his left eye turned around from his cutting device, his lips curved into a smile. A familiar face seeing another. The duardin ran the stall for as long as Hart could remember, and he had been purchasing materials for the Church of Alarielle. Durand turned to Hart with a smile still beaming on his face. “Finished those pieces of wood you needed for the church over there.” He gestured proudly towards the bundle of lumber resting near his device. As Hart left the phials on his counter and started to pick up the bundle, Durand remarked with that usual jovial tone “You’d better watch out though, boy; the Faithful Blades are out for their usual conscriptions. Don’t know what’d happen to a capable man like you.” Hart quickly responded, “I’ve heard the Faithful Blades pass by this town square around this time each year, I think they’d’ve recruited me by now, I’m not worried.” With that, he gave the sturdy man another quick smile and headed back off toward his home.

Hartbert ducked into the church with his usual chipper motions, but as he approached the altar to what would normally be only one of the priestesses thanking him for bringing the materials home, there were two men waiting there as well: a towering aelf with crimson-colored hair, adorned with the colors of Hammerhal, and a stout man, muscles seemingly ready to rip at the fabric around his arms, even as they spoke to her. The priestess’ eyes seemed to glance at Hart, then quickly dart back to the men speaking to her. Hart noticed her expression, a grim look that he only saw in times of mourning. After he observed the conversation, he softly spoke up “Is there something going on?” The stout man turned around and put one of his brawny hands on the young man’s shoulder. “Well boy, it looks like you’re going to become a Faithful Blade! You should be happy that Sigmar has blessed you this day.” Hart’s chest felt like it sunk into itself; all his life, the only things he had ever done were help keep the church clean, and help his parents’ caravan. The idea of becoming a man among hundreds of others, wielding a weapon and going into battle, seemed illusory. The men let Hart know that he needed to pack up his supplies and say goodbye to whoever he needed to. He walked up to the aelf that had almost been like a mother to him for these past six years, tears streaming from his eyes. They embraced and said a final goodbye to each other. Hart gathered his belongings, and as he walked out the archway of the church of Alarielle, the tall aelf softly patted his back, his words were soft and calming. “Don’t worry boy, you’ll be just fine.”

The sound of armored boots marching in unison came to a halt. A commanding officer started to bark out orders. The men around him all drew out their halberds. Mountains surrounded them, a light mist gathered around their feet. Hart drew his halberd from his back and gripped it tightly. He was in the second row of the unit, his group, like most of them under the Faithful Blades, were halberdiers. It wasn’t the usual amount of forces that they would have for a normal mission. There were about thirty men and two sergeants leading them. They split off from the main force in order to flank the opposition The sergeant at the head of the group raised his arm up and called for one of the halberdiers to bring him a spyglass. As he held out an empty hand, the other went to his face and scratched at his snow white beard. A boy around Hart’s age, from the front of the unit, grabbed the spyglass from his satchel and dropped it into the sergeant’s waiting hand. The sergeant walked a few paces and stopped, peering through the spyglass. As he turned back, he folded the spyglass up, a slight smirk on his face before it turned stern again. “Alright boys, I hope you’re ready for battle. I spot at least four grots down there. They’re probably a good reason why the main forces have been dealing with so many squigs.” He looked at the other sergeant to his right and gave him a brief nod. “Now stay in formation. It’s only a couple of little greenskins. We have thirty men here; we can easily take them!” He pulled a sword from the leathery sheath at his side and lifted it up into the air, turned around, and yelled for the men to charge. The grots, hearing the sound of so many armored men charging into their position, quickly turned and started to fire their arrows toward Hart’s unit. Most of the bolts missed the charging men, but one sank into the leg of one of the frontline men as he dropped from the group. Before they had time to reload, the halberds were upon them. The sergeant was already upon them, his sword striking out and cutting open one of the greenskins, his blood dripped from the man’s blade. As the rest of the halberdiers stampeded towards the enemy, Hart held out his halberd the way he had been taught for the past six or so months, gripped it tightly, and in his head, said a prayer to Alarielle to protect them. The battle was over in seconds. Most of the men were cleaning their halberds of blood when Hart finally looked at the tip of his. One of the grots had been speared onto the tip of his halberd.

    Hart quickly ripped the halberd from the beastman’s gut, the last of them falling to the ground. He did a quick flick with his wrist and the blood from the blade was casted onto the ground. He turned back to the four other freeguildsmen as the sergeant at the head of the unit issued a command to regroup. They had been escorting trade pioneers; an aelf, two humans, and one duardin girl to Hammerhal Ghyra.

        The tavern’s atmosphere was warm and inviting, the perfect place for the freeguildsmen and the trade pioneers to relax after a long day of trekking. Hart, despite being a freeguildsman for a few years now, had not quite gotten to know his comrades too well yet, and so he opted to drink alone for the night. His eyes were transfixed on his cup of wine he has in front of him, when he heard a chair being pushed across from him. He looked up to see a short, stocky woman taking a seat on the opposite side of the table. The duardin he was now staring at was part of the trade pioneers he had been escorting earlier. Her hair was tied in a neat bun, its color like the plumage of a raven. Her eyes were the color of pecans, twinkling merrily as she smiled at the young man. “Well out of all the other men in your group, you seem to be the only one by his lonesome.” Her voice was smokey, every word seemed to have a breath behind it. Hart’s face flushed, hesitant as he replied “I still haven’t gotten comfortable around the rest of my unit. I am the youngest one in this group after all.” His eyes glance away from the woman as she still grins back at him. “If you’re not used to drinking in groups, perhaps you’d feel better just drinking with me? I’d feel terrible to just leave you sitting here alone all night.” Nodding gently, Hart let her start divulging her life story already as they set upon their drinks, himself perking up quickly as he regaled his own life to her in return. Time seemed to stand still as the two continued to exchange tales, laughing and drinking as though there were no end in sight. A few more drinks in, and the conversation drifted from their own personal lives to flirtatious comments at one another. Those comments led to them renting a room for just the two of them for the night.

Three months had passed, and Hart’s first love held his hand tightly in hers. The turquoise stream by their feet, the mountains behind them, the sounds of wildlife around them. They shared jokes at one another a high pitch laugh coming from Hart’s lips now and then before Tiffuh would plant a kiss on them. They sat and ate the dinner they had brought from Ghyra. Pies and tarts laid upon a blanket. The sky was a beautiful painting of pinks and oranges and the stream would splash droplets at the two from time to time. Mushy comments about each other’s behavior and appearance were made over and over again. The human rested his head atop his duardin love and wish this tranquility could last forever, this burning love in his chest he had never felt in his life. He would never forget this moment.

        They had been together for six months now and the service of the freeguild to the four trade pioneers had ended. Hart held Tiffuh in his arms. They exchanged deep kisses before promising to meet again. He watched her walk off and it felt like she took a piece of his heart with him. At first the letters would arrive almost every day in the mail with most of Hart’s colleagues poking fun at him receiving love letters. But every night he made sure to always reply to her. But years started to pass, the letters from the lovers started to slow, each other’s professions getting in the way of their love. The letters never stopped, but with how rare they were Hart’s battles and comrades took up most of his thoughts.

    ———————————————————————————————————————-

    Fallen men, sergeants shouting orders, two giant troggoths in battle against the freeguildsmen, a lone soldier breaking rank, his boots left the ground, his halberd splayed into a gigantic chest, arrows rained above his head, the other troggoth turned to see what was happening to his comrade, another volley of arrows. The arrows struck into the head of the second troggoth, while Hart splayed open the chest of the first. They both fell onto the hill with a colossal thud. Hart stood upon the corpse and raised his halberd, a throaty cheer rang out. Arrows stuck out of his back, the light faded out of his eyes. The medics on the field rushed over before Hart closed his eyes.

    His eyes lightly blinked open, his vision fuzzy as fires lit the barracks. He turned to his right side, his mouth muttered “Alarielle?” From what Hart’s eyes could see, at his bedside was a long golden-haired aelf, face soft and gentle, hands caressing his wounds. He had no idea whether he had been saved by his goddess or was now passing on to the next life. The aelf responded to the man’s question “No, you are not seeing the goddess. You’re in the medical ward. I’ve been looking after you for the past week. You had at least a dozen arrows in your back. I don’t know what you were doing out there, but from what I heard from your sergeant, it was foolish. Now close your eyes and get some rest.” The man’s voice was soft, warmth seemed to encapsulate Hart’s ears as he heard it. It was comparable to soft willows rustling in the breeze. With a smile, he closed his eyes again.

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Floats in parades, wine overflowing in peoples cups, couples kissing and holding hands: it was clear that the Verdia and Thyria Festival was in full swing for the week the two islands met together every year in Ghyran. Hart was hand in hand with Arlari, his love, the medic who patched him up and now was one of the men under his command during his promotion to sergeant. During his promotion, he also acquired quite a few new things, as well as a group of eight archers beside Arlari. Strapped to his back was still his halberd, but a zweihander was now also adorned on the back of his platemail. A shiny new suit of armor, dazzling silver with gold plates as well as Sigmar’s hammer on the chest piece, another plume in his hat, and his facial hair now groomed as most sergeants would trim it, a fine set of mutton chops.

The rest of his men were holding flagons of wine, laughing and yelling at one another. The twin aelves Trastath and Tsotith close to one another talking about something inane at one another. The three oldest of the group, Landrich, Grimwald, and Gerald seemed to all be talking about which of the three would be the first to get black out drunk, a hearty laugh seemed interspersed with every other sentence with those three. The last three were fairly new recruits, three early twenty something year olds, Gaston, Leopold, and Kai, the three of them discussing which one of them would be the first one to get laid during the festival. After the first parade of the day had finished Hart escorted his unit into a nearby inn and ordered them all a round. They all cracked jokes about one another and recounted tales of their fights together for the past few years. As the sky glimmered gold and it was soon to be night Hart gave a quick hug and a hard pat on the back to all the men and told them to have themselves a good time and that the rooms for them were paid up for the night. The rest of the evening was spent with the two lovers speaking to one another over drinks.

“Not again, it’s only been two years since they died…” The memories flashed in his mind again. Fighting the marauders when two Chaos warriors flanked them. They skewered both Landrich and his lover Arlari. Within an instant not only were his two men dead, but the Chaos warriors’ heads had been removed from their bodies by Hart in a rage that almost consumed him. The fires in the pyre that were made for Landrich and the burial site of his beloved, under his favorite tree they’d share kisses beneath its white leaves in Ghyran.
He stood there, eyes and lips quivering, all but one of his men dead. The skaven were nothing like he’d seen before, they appeared out of nowhere and were upon them in an instant. He yelled at the captain to withdraw all the forces, but Aridstar was convinced they would be able to deal a decisive blow if they could take out the skaven forces here and now. The mud was lined with the now dead gutter runners and the rest of his crossbowmen. Tears poured down his face as he looked over the battlefield, so many soldiers dead. The twins were gone, all three of the youngest of his unit were lying dead in front of him. Gerald laid his hand upon his shoulder, his face was that of pain, he seemed empty and yet he tried his best to comfort his sergeant. His best friend Grimwald had died in their last stand, the three of them back to back sword at the ready, all three of them almost made it, almost.

Hart’s tears stopped flowing, his brows furrowed and his eyes blazed. He marched to the captain who led all of them, still standing in the middle of the field. Far behind him, a few other sergeants who survived with some of their men started to build a pyre for all the fallen men. “Why didn’t you order the retreat!?” Hart screamed at the older man. “The order was right, we may have lost many lives today but the loss the ratmen received was far greater.” “This?! This was worth a few dead ratmen?!” Hart’s hands balled into a fist. “They should have your head for this, you’re no better than the disgusting rats who killed our men.” Those words pierced right to the soul of Aridstar. He spit in Hart’s face, “You will listen to my orders! Now go give your men a proper funeral and get ready to march home! You’re lucky I won’t have you kicked out of the Faithful Blades right this second Hoffmann.” The blows fell upon the captain’s face in rapid succession, Hart was straddling him now on the ground, rain drizzled down from the sky as crimson poured from the man’s face, the sergeant’s fist not stopping. All around him everyone stopped and stared. Hart bellowed out four words and walked away from everything he knew.