The general sat on a modest throne—some few hundred meters from his tent, enjoying the vibrant sunny tones woven together across the landscape. In his hand, twirling between his fingers was a plain silver lined goblet. Inside a red liquid was gently sloshing around—developing a heavenly body upon contact with the rich, fragrant air coursing the countryside. The spring country current was spoken off as air suited to mend any ailment. Its medicinal properties seemed to mend souls or so he had heard from his quack of a doctor.

His eyes passed between his hardly touched chessboard and the crimson liquid. He felt a deep certainty and within it a satisfaction with life. A look of happiness washed over him as he gazed at himself as if out of body. Fully whole, untouched left alone to drink wine and play mind-numbing chess. His leathery skin warm with the embodied radiating glow beholden of the sun.

“This is it,” he thought to himself. “I don't think I'll ever get tired of it.” He only wished to gaze upon the theatre of war as he did during his tender youth. He contented himself by playing out the swirling emotions of the distant conflict. That unreachable battle—within himself through the medium of one joyous, considerate conductor.

Over the years he had seen many fresh faces come and go. Nothing was as revitalizing as watching expressions of youthful vitality and vigour, slowly seeing those faces change, warp across time and eventually vanish. Ground to the finest dust. Let loose in the wind. Those that remained became worn out. The lines of seniority emerge around the eyes and brow. Few have endured to reach his age. Fewer remained as sprung as he found himself—even in his later years.

The general beamed as he saw a runner sprint across the fields up to his simple pavilion. The beating of his heart promoted him to proudly stand—elated as he clutched a clump of fabric above the centre of his soul. His eyes burned relentlessly as he watched the panting runner jostle up the hill.

"Make your report soldier!” he loudly addressed the out of breath oaf-soldier. The middle-aged runner kept panting to the slight dismay and irritation of the general. His mail hauberk ground together bringing with it a grating noise each time his body rose and fell. Suddenly he perked up with his eyes twisted in a maddening look.

“The cavalry, they have gathered, soon to make their charge!.” His eyes snapped shut as he saw the general douse him with the remaining wine. He felt his hair wetten and his skin moisten to the fine red. The general had a smile with a deadly gleam to it.

“Finally, some good news. Cool off soldier. I have no more need of you. The rest of the day is yours.” The soldier nodded—muttering brief thanks, and slowly hobbled away. The general took a satisfactory breath pressing both hands into his wooden table. He wished he could paint his own self-portrait of this one moment. His desire was strong enough to force him to consider the minute possibility of hiring a royal painter serving within the General’s Assembly of buffoons. Everyone should be able to enjoy their own expression of the utmost grace and glee. Such was his temperate attitude when it came to life. A self-obsessed man of a most eccentric variety.

His long uniform swayed in the wind as he grasped the horn with both hands. It smoothly glided across each digit. Light enough to appear non-corporeal as he steadied his grip upon the tool. Its surface was kind to the touch, sanded and finely varnished. The sheen of his eyes was reflected in its clear surface. One he so delicately polished in the quiet confines of his tent. He steadied his hands and slightly parted his heavy lips. Then all at once, he blew triumphantly. His joy matched the sharp but warm tone of the horn. He wished his death to be heralded in with this tool. It had won him so much across the vast span of his life. He imagined its sound, one winter morning on the battlefield.

A cry so delicate and warm that one might shed a tear of joy and sadness as the sound tenderly caressed them. He must write down such a wistful thought. He readied himself, rightening his uniform—the sound still ringing in his half-deaf ears. He looked to the patch off dense wood for a moment then turned away. He dared not demand more happiness. Seeing the drakes take to the air would likely put him over the edge. As it stood this day’s work would settle him for an entire month. Like some species of boa constrictor… only he fed on fulfillment and drew his satiation from the clairvoyant nectar he deemed meaningful.

Plenty of men remained at camp and saw the general slip away into the confines of his tent. Those experienced few knew today’s farce was either won or lost. Those vital doctors and nurses as well as the armourers and smiths. And soldier who was not destined to play cards against fate upon the battlefield remained. Many were roused by the call. They stood shielding their eyes from the sun trying to understand if an alarm was raised. Many scoured the sky. Eyes trained—briskly panning across the landscape. Suddenly those lucky few with a gift for sight focused as a series of skimp silhouettes. Low across the landscaped they quickly erupted away from the distant woods and vanished from sight.

The drakes began taking to the sky. Each through a small carved out opening within the forest: a rather short, a rather narrow corridor but wide enough that they can begin to soar upon their wings. Short enough so that no one can spy them easily amidst the rolling hills of their newly arrived in landscape.

***

“Alexa,” The captain calmly called out to her. Catching her eyes wandering. “Will you be alright?” She nodded without thought or meeting her captain’s fiery eye. She remained seated, staring blankly ahead.

“Alexa!” Her squad’s captain anchored her voice and shouted. Nilana was one of the only Riders able to give commands over the deafening wind. Alexa was shaken from her stupor. Her mind snapped back to reality. She was second last to launch. Right before the rear guard at each wing, a detachment of six fliers. The first already soared ahead.

“I’ll be fine Cap… it’s only that... the plan, isn’t it awfully crude?” She looked down with hesitation at the reigns running through her curled fingers. The Captain paused for a moment watching her drake saunter towards the makeshift opening. Upturned trees lay on either side.

“Crude…? It’s just—.” A cascade of wind; air mixed with dust shot towards her face cutting out sound and forcing her to cover her eyes. She was thankful her golden locks were intertwined in a braided ponytail which was tucked underneath her armour at the nape.

The drake ahead flew through the tunnel. Its wings beating violently for the short stretch. The rider ahead was gone. “...like the general.” Ileana finished. Alexa’s grip tightly gripped her reigns, nervous. The captain leapt from her saddle over on to Alexa’s creature. She squeezed Alexa’s shoulder. Alexa smiled and laid her hand warmly atop her captain’s. “You eternally have a knack for making me feel better.”

“I know... Just remember who we are: elite riders of the Empire. We have to do this. Because no one else can. It doesn’t matter how ruthless it is. We have to win… we have to. For everyone back home watching.” The captain massaged her shoulders for a moment. Then elegantly leapt back. Alexa tried to keep a smile. It turned out weak and sombre. She looked and saw Marcy in the distance. Energetically waving her arms. Full of cheer on the sidelines.

Alexa sighed. She would not disappoint. Her drake was next to launch. The acceleration always churned your stomach. She gently pressed her head against Aranara’s neck. Then as her Captain’s beast hissed. Ara Ara, instinctively rushed forward—galloping. Then a lurch, a leap forward into space. In mere moments the canopy of trees faded, replaced by the innocent blue sky. She felt the melancholy welling up her windpipe. Alexa’s courage tried to break out of her stoic, strained complexion and meanwhile her drake flew onward on tense wings.