Fort Chylium of the Red Mountain - Border fort against the Dark Orc Hordes -

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Titus the Red Mountain of Fort Chylium stood frozen on his mighty walls. Sweat crawled down his back, and his mouth was agape. Fear had captured his heart and caged it in its intractable prison.

Marching forward was a vast ocean beyond anything that has ever been recorded. Dark orcs, with numbers untold, advanced towards the in-lands. His fort nothing but a nuisance meant to be crushed. His life and the life of everyone here were nothing but the stepping stones of a vastly superior force.

There were stories of the Great General Harold’s battle in Venral, of how he withstood a force over ten folds his number. How he had used tactics any would have scoffed at before the battle. But, that was nothing but a legend acted by a legend.

Something beyond his ability.

He had been told once that on the edge, the closest one can get to death without passing away, your life and everything you experienced would seem to flash before you. The man had called it The Retelling. When it happens, a sequence would always be followed. All your mistakes and choices were at the forefront. Then comes your greatest regrets. And lastly, your happiest moments.

Then, he had thought it was the speech of a madman; one who had lost their sanity. Broken by the darkness of war and death. But now, it seemed to be happening. It wasn't a physical manifestation, but rather an image in the background. Transparent, it was only him that could see it.

His life was flashing before him. His death; a fact he knew to be true.

But, it was more than a declaration of his imminent passing. It was a testimony to himself. Titus the Red Mountian - He of No Fear - was afraid. The only thing he prided himself on had been stripped away from him.

He was afraid.

Voice cracking he prayed to whatever gods would hear his pitiful call. Be they of darkness or light, remembered or forgotten, as long as they answered his call.

He prayed for strength and courage, but no answer seemed forthcoming. He prayed for battle lust so that he may lose himself in the rhythmic dance of death. Yet, none deemed him worthy. He asked for possession of his vessel, but it was as though they all knew his was a lost cause. His final hope was for the battle to come and have... Perseverance.

It hit him like an avalanche. A cold shower within the scorching heat of a desert.

A voice, motherly in nature, called out to him. Answering his desperate call. No words were spoken, just a melodious tune wafting out of her lips. But it spoke a million words to Titus. Words of hidden truths and laws.

She spoke, and it was of War in its eternal beauty. Then of Redemption - forgiveness for our sins. And finally, of Perseverance - that which keeps us going.

They called out to Titus’s soul like no other. Cords strung taunt then played by the gentle hands of a master.

Eyes hardening back to their usual outlook, he turned around to look at the defenders of this fort. The warriors that would stem the tide. He looked at the walls around him.

There he saw his private army shaking in their positions. All across the mighty walls, their shoulders were slumped. Swords and spears lowered. The few that manned the defensive fortifications had seemed to have forgotten the death and destruction they could bring with the release of a wire or the lighting of a string. They manned Mana Cannons but had no courage. It was not befitting their station. Of the power, they held within their grasps.

Every so often some would puke from fear while others emptied their bowels. Their terror was as evident as the moon on a clear night.

Gone were the elites he had trained for many years, and replacing them were cowards filled with fear. A mirror of what he had been just moments ago. It made him shiver at the prospect of being seen in such a miserable state. To look on without hope of seeing the light of tomorrow.

He knew if they stayed this way as the tide barreled their way to them. Then their deaths were guaranteed. No, they must stand firm as mountains! The namesake of their leader and their home.

“Hear me, my soldiers! Soldiers of the Red Mountain!” He screamed with unhidden fury at their stances. Fury at how quickly they forgot what he had carved into their souls.

He stared for a few seconds more, making sure he had the attention of every man, women, and child. Then he spoke with authority, demanding their cooperation.

“We stand on the cusp of history; it in the making. And we are what decide the final outcome. Will our stand be forgotten in the annals of times? Just another stepping stone; crushed under the tide! Or will we be remembered for eternity? Glory ours and no others! Know that I will stand tall until the very end. Whether it be my death or my victory, I shall Stand! Will you stand with me?!”

Taking a deep breath, he waited for it. Oh, he knew it was coming, and he would let it wash over him; strengthening his shaken resolve. A bath in a pure, ever-flowing river

It started small then grew as it passed from one soldier to another. Within seconds it was a mighty roar that shook the ground. A single statement that defined these soldiers. Five words that created a powerful identity.

His and the fort’s identity.

We of the Red Mountain!

We of the Red Mountain!

We of the Red Mountain!

They called with vigor and passion. Their loyalty to the Red Mountain evident within their voices. Loyalty to those that had taken them from the slums and darkness of the world - whether they be man, elf, or beastkin - and showed them the light. The hope they had all forgotten even existed.

Satisfied with the result and fervor of his warriors, he turned around to look onto the field. This time he saw different. There was no unbeatable tide. Their numbers were not an advantage for the fort had enough ammunition and food to last for three years.

No, this time he saw warriors marching towards them; towards their doom. Their waves will break on these walls, regardless of how many are sent.

They will be forced to go around the mountain that is Fort Chylium. For this one is too high to climb and too sturdy to dig through.

Slowly whispering the unspoken words, the melody sung by a motherly voice, Titus readied himself for the first battle.

“We are those that stand the storms of war, everlasting. Redemption we seek in its comforting embrace. But, it is through perseverance do we come out victorious. For, I, Fenia, watch over my children. Watch over them all.”