Thread: Battle For The Top [DamonHuntington x Janus]

td Radukor-Lothark War Frontline, Commanders Quarters A deep, thundering roar cut through the campgrounds, silencing the raucous whines of steel being forged to blades. Even the boisterous chatter among the warriors, which, at often times had gotten to the point of being deafening, immediately fell quiet. All heads seemed to turn towards the hefty red tent that stood out at the end of the grounds, cautiously awaiting command, with none daring to approach. Does he dare to think that I would fall to him, the booming voice spoke inside the commanders tent. Aiden Greymane crushed the parchment in his hand, sent from that spineless Drakton. Despite the strands of long, messy brown hair brushing over his face, anyone could see the rage in his eyes quickly build. He doubts my victory? Does he really think he can take down Aiden Greymane, Commander of Lothark? The man chuckled loudly, his rough hands reaching up to brush his hair back before shaking away the perspiration on his fingers. The commander leaned over the table, his palms pressing into the wood surface, which was covered in annotated maps and documents. His eyes turned back to the messenger, who had his head down and back pressed against the walls of the tent, standing as far away from Aiden as he possibly could. Aiden grinned deviously as he gripped the edges of the table. Let Tristan know that Aiden was interrupted as a short, pudgy man appeared from what seemed to be a mountain of documents scattered on the ground, with his own arms trying to hold on to what he was already carrying. An advisor to the lord, Duncan Gleeston was more of a glorified nanny, making sure that Aiden didnt make too many bad decisions or spiral out of control. Both of which were going to happen right now. N-Now, my lordship, were gaining momentum in the war. I dont think its wise to Quiet! he barked, grabbing a quill as he uncrumpled the piece of paper and signed his name. Which, one couldnt honestly tell the difference from chicken scratches. Folding it back up nicely, he made his way around the table and walked up to the pale messenger, who was just about to collapse underneath the mans presence. Aidens firm hand came up to the trembling mans neck and pressed against it, feeling the quickening pulse race press into his open palm. He lifted the young man up, waiting to hear the muffled choking sounds as he leaned in closer, until his growling breaths brushed against the messengers forehead. His other hand, which had the letter, came up and smacked it into the boys chest, earning another gasping cough. You run back to Radukor, he seethed, and you tell Drakton that Im going to paint that arena red with his blood. He released the young man, letting him fall to the ground as he scurried up and fled. Aiden paid no more attention to him as he reached over for his beloved Claymore, swinging it up easily with one arm despite its weight. Are you ready, my love? Present Time Aiden could hear the rumble of the colosseum, the roar of the crowds who had all gatheredbut he silenced them all out. He had one target in mind and the only thing that he could focus on Tristan Drakton. From the arena chambers, he exited, followed by a group of servants who adjusted the copper armor encasing his body, making sure everything was fastened correctly before he stepped out into the light. The cries from the crowd had amplified with his presence now, but they couldnt seem to draw his attention. Aidens green eyes burned onto Tristan, who stood smugly and motioned him closer. Take my pelt off, he ordered, as quick hands pulled the wolves skin off him and the warlord made his first step onto the stage, clenching the handle on his Claymore. He eyed the man down before taking a few steps towards him, a bloodthirsty snarl forming as he dropped the tip of his sword to the ground, letting the sound of metal cutting through the stone ring. Your proposition screamed of desperation, he spat, lifting his sword up, ready to lunge forward. You think I would fall to the likes of you, old man? His posture shifted as his weight switched between his heels, lunging himself forward. Blade in hand, his grip swung back, gathering all his power and momentum as his eyes found an opening at the oncoming commander. A minute is far more than I would need, he growled, his Claymore slashing towards Tristan. tdtd td