Thread: Cries of War // FallenNinja & Cyanide

The war with the Elves was one that seemed to go back as far as any man or woman could recall. None could confidently tell one who started the war, though everyone was more than willing to spout their beliefs that the Elves were no doubt to blame. Cicero had always been a curios child, growing up, always enamoured with the stories of the Elves, to a point some would call unhealthy. He always begged to hear the stories of the magic, beauty and grace, their prowess in battle and the stories of a single Elf being able to live forever. As he grew and reality shattered his picturesque image of the Elves, the War shown to him through the eyes of the wounded survivors. Tales of the Elves' ruthlessness and cold efficiency. The young boy who once thought so much of the Elves had slowly become a man, with a burning desire to fight back against the people who had caused the deaths of so many of his friends and people he knew. When he was old enough, Cicero took to the Capital of the Kingdom, to volunteer and undertake a rigorous training regimen. For four years straight, he was drilled and pushed to the best that he could be. Fortunately for him, many of his trainers said that he was blessed with uncommon talent with the blade. He was able to quickly learn the skills that took months for the other recruits to learn, and he grew more than confident in his abilities. When he was called out to his first assignment joining a regiment near the front lines, that were supporting a supply column, his cocksure attitude was shattered. A small raiding party of Elves fell upon the Supply Column and his incredible 'skill', was shown to be nothing more than a child's wailing compared to the near immaculate skill of the Elven warriors that he was pitted against. Truly, as he was left wounded, but alive, he had to wondered how it was that the Elves had not simply wiped the Humans all out, with abilities like that. Years more passed, and Cicero served in many more battles, clashing with the Elves more times, and each time surviving as best he could. He grew to be a capable leader, but too headstrong to be anything more than a Captain in charge of a few troops. Later in his life, he would go down in Human history as a great hero, sung in ballads and told of in legends around a campfire, but on this day, he was still simply a man and a captain, on patrol around a farming town that bordered the Elven lands. When he heard the thunder of a charge, his heart froze and he knew that his luck was running low. Cicero called to his men, rallying them to the defence of the towns. He was lucky that there were several patrols in the area, and together they managed to put up a solid defence. He didn't know if it were luck, or skill, but their arrows met their marks, and the Elves were driven back. As the battlefield began to reach it's apex, he was embroiled in combat with one of the Elves. Whoever it was, they were faster, and more skilled than any he'd ever seen before. His heart was thundering in his chest, and his mind was panicking. He knew that it was only a matter of time before they'd get the best of him, only a matter of minutes, seconds, before he'd be laying on the grass, glassy-eye'd. Then the Elf made a mistake. They turned for the briefest of moments, and Cicero's body, filled with adrenaline and panic, leaped at the chance that was presented. His blade thrust forward, chinking against the Elven armour, and his heart froze as he thought he'd missed his chance, till he felt the blade slip through a crack and pierce flesh. His opponent turned with what he could only guess was a shocked look as they fell to the ground, and he could hear somewhere behind him, cheers of victory. He staggered for a moment as the tension of his life and death battle was let loose. He looked around and saw the Elves retreating, though there were a mound of human bodies strewn across the fields. Cicero couldn't stand, he couldn't support himself. He fell forward, onto his knees, his opponent before him on the ground. He looked down at the Elf, panting, beads of sweat dripping from his brow, and running down his muscled arms. He rested his hands on his knees, and attempted to steady his breathing. It was then that he saw that the one before him, this deadly Elf, was still breathing, their breast rising and falling, though only shallow. Cicero grit his teeth and pulled a dagger from his belt. He couldn't let one of them live. Too much of our blood has been spilt this day. He panted through grit teeth, as he positioned himself over the Elf. He looked down at the helm upon their brow, and a savage thought entered his mind. He reached down with his free hand, and gripped the help, pulling it from the head of the soon-to-die Elf. He wanted to look in their eyes as he killed them, for all his friends. What he saw when the helm was removed, was not what he expected. His breath caught in his throat, and thoughts that had been lost since innocent days as a boy suddenly rushed back for the briefest of moments. She was beautiful, it was a weak word to use for such a being, but that was the only thing he could think. The tension left his body, and he looked to the dagger gripped in his other hand, then back down to the woman beneath him. He couldn't do it, despite what she'd done, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He thought frantically for a moment, formulating a plan. He slipped the dagger back into it's sheath before he leaned down to the Elf. Your life doesn't end this day. I'm sure the King will have plenty of questions for you. He said, though the venom that filled him moments ago, was lacking in his voice. He reached down and took her arm, lifting it over his shoulder. He knew she was wounded, but he thought that if he could get her to a healer fast enough, she'd survive.