From the Mind of a Mortal, living Flame Eternal.

Victorious, the Legion troops advanced through the ruined enemy citadel. Bodies scattered about, mangled and gored, lined streets and doorways. The battle was bloody, yet it was not over for the Legion, as troops ran in and out of entryways checking for stragglers while their main regiment marched onward. Clean up. And it must be meticulous. Morale was high, especially with the Legion forces suffering close to no losses. Thankfully, their training allotted them expertise in urban combat; acknowledging the tight alleyways, streets, cellars and sewers to their advantage, funneling and entraping foe after foe to their death. The commander which led these enemies to their doom was surely inept.  

As the Legion marched onward, rumor quickly spread through the ranks. Soldiers within the main regiment overheard recon scouts speaking of a highly valued target being cornered and envenomed. They were hunters, the reconnaissance squad; adept in striking down and capturing HVTs. Rangers and rogues. Bloodhounds and bandits in a former life. Their words spread like wildfire, and soon the hushed whispers of capture met the ears of the Commander. Grinning under his helmet, he sought to share words with the enemy.

The town square was spared most of the destruction, the grey-stoned footpath led straight to a cowering human, beset upon by several charr in black leathers. At sight of the commander, they released him and saluted, and returned to the shadows in a dash of smoke. The enemy commander was worse for wear, skin scuffed and bruised. But he was alive, and that’s all that mattered. He was to face reckoning. For his defiance and for his incompetence. On his back he lay whimpering, barely mustering any strength to gaze forward, to meet the fury of the black beast approaching him.  

“Foolish human. Your incompetence killed your own. You will suffer this torture till your passing.”

“Keep pulling back,” the Commander roared, his breath hollow and fervent, ringing through his blackened helmet, “Guardians to the rear, keep casting behind you as you move, quickly!” 

Stuttering his tread, he kept up with the rearguard, shouting mantras and empowering his allies as they fled from the tremendous enemy horde. His guardians followed suit, pushing their way towards the rear, while the Legion’s shamans rushed forward, their shades and spells razing the ground behind them. Spell singed ground as bolt and arrow peppered their positions, yet they were swift of feet and stalwart, their defiance and resolve pushing them forward as they retreated. The distance to the keep gate was closing swiftly, and while respite might be offered within, the sanctity would be fleeting -- the gates wide, and the horde ravenous. 

The enemies were furious, their morale weakened due to early morning skirmishes -- and now with their forces numerous and organized, they sought to whet their blades on their weaker, smaller foes. The Legion, however, while small, was maneuverable. On a copper piece they could turn in an instant and shower their enemies in their fury. Twenty Legion soldiers crossed the threshold, finding momentary relief within the keep’s inner walls. Their resolve strengthened by their objective’s presence, they sought to turn the tide of battle. A quick empower, waves of renewal washing over them, their Warriors blasted their warhorns. The curtain had fallen.

“Make it hot,” the Commander ordered, “I don’t want to see one man make it through.”

A female Warrior rushed forward, her stance balanced, and materialized her Winds of Disenchantment within the gate -- the roiling dome of silence splintering wood and shredding stone. Dodging away, she then sent hammer shocks forward, crippling and upsetting the enemy momentum. The initiate chose to perform. 

The first unfortunate and unbalanced soul to enter was immediately mangled, yet the horde continued forward, intent on forcing their way through.

”I said, make it HOT!”

“Yes, Commander!”

Shamans exit the room following the once-initiates, their ceremonial instruments still alight, puffing out languid smoke as censors and incense are waved about. Alone in the ritual chamber, the black beast props himself up before the brazier with a deep sigh, his husky exhale fanning smoke and ash. The flames long since extinguished, reveal a murky puddle of oil within; in its reflection, the solemn glow of orange eyes. Steadying himself, he stands tall and trudges towards the room’s entryway. At the arch, his form now illuminated by the soft, eerie orange-red glow of colossal lava tubes, the black beast gazes towards the ten newly christened guild members. They were proud, excited, eager to battle in the mists with their allies. Their expressions betrayed the ardor they would soon come to face. The war within the eternal battlegrounds.

Within the dimly lit chamber a single brazier burns, its flame dancing in an entranced manner, eliciting wild shadows on walls opposite. Upon its base, molten sand cascading outwards, tracing a softly-glowing decagram, circles upon its outermost corners. Within those ultimate rings, ten kneeled charr; large and small, male and female, they were armored in their respective leathers, metals, and cloths. They were shamans, elementalists, warriors, guardians, mechanists, all important components of a combative unit. Their eyes shut, they were still and silent, with only the faint crackle of flame resounding within the gloomy room. Soon, the heavy tread of footsteps and clanking chains overwhelmed the snapping flame, coming to a stop dreadfully near. That silence once again gave way to the piercing sound of metal scraping against rock as the chamber door opened, enveloping the room in an orange-red glow. 

Thin shamans entered the room first, draped in torn and blackened ceremonial robes, their eyes covered by an embroidered shroud decorated with an orange-black ‘third’ eye. Within their hands, torches, braziers, and incense-burners, their smoke wafting and falling to the ground below. They were quick to scurry around the decagram and collectively positioned themselves at edges of the room, sinking into corners and standing immobile within the darkened corners. Last to enter the crowded chamber, a massive shadow -- a goliath beast in blackened, charred armor. 

His frame burly, accentuated by the dreadfully distinct spiked armor and blood-red tabard, he trudges into the room where the features of his body are laid bare. His molten-orange eyes glowed menacingly through his pockmarked, horned helmet, its plated segments coming to stop along the arch of his scarred neck. His fur, visible only at the neck, was midnight-black; and when the dancing flame illuminated them, smoky-grey rosettes appeared. Broad shoulders wore spiked pauldrons, and his chestpiece glowed with the infernal ferocity of a furnace, plated pointing upwards as it tapered towards his waistline. His arms, enwrapped in molten gauntlets, were brutish rings of blackened superhot metal, knuckles dusted in hot, golden bolts. Keeping to the plated motif, his tassets flared out and downward, his groin and thighs protected by codpiece and chainmail, once again giving way to plated expertise. The armor was delicately and painstakingly crafted to suit his own unique body, and it worked well to present a menacing commander.

The black beast stopped at the inner brazier and all eyes were on him. Pausing, he reaches into the flame, its wild form licking at gauntlets, and he produces a grey, sparking shaft. As he pulls on more and more length, the shaft exiting the flame in a sparking spectacle, an obsidian club head begins to materialize. Lightning and flame collide as the onyx-black shards radiate and shape up into a symmetrical, spiked mace head, burning evenly and glowing red hot. He brandishes the still-burning mace; its flanges smoldering and crackling, hissing within the cooler air, and points it towards the chamber entrance. Towards the first initiate.

Gazing downwards, he slowly approached the kneeling charr, a female warrior. His eyes, glowing bright, peer deeply through the charr below him, as if testing her mettle, weighing her spirit. His voice booming, he speaks. 

“You have all been brought here due to your tremendous aptitude for battle. Your collective knowledge, strength, and expertise will be a boon for my Legion, and the ten initiates you see before you will be your band. Blood, Iron, Ash, Flame; do not matter here. What matters is your drive to protect your brothers and sisters, fight with them, and allow me to lead you into glorious combat.”

He pauses, and presents the scalding-hot mace to the warrior female’s shoulder. On contact, the metal sears and contorts, hisses and cracks, forming an eye-motif emblem that sinks into her tender flesh, branding her; yet she still remains knelt, accepting the duty and remaining steadfast. 

The black beast lifts his mace from her shoulder, and methodically approaches the second charr to her right and once again repeats the process.

“This is your band. This is your circle. And so long as each of you stand, it will remain unbroken. I will do all within my power to rely on your strengths, so that you may continue fighting, so that you can return from battle victorious.”

Another emblem. Another brand. Each seared onto tender flesh, each on the right shoulder. 

“When you gaze over your shoulder, unsure of what is to come, let your brother or your sister reassure you. For when you gaze over your shoulder, you will be met with that selfsame brother or sister ready to support you. Yours is a circle that will remain unbroken!”

The final emblem, and the final brand, and the mace shatters, its super-hot shards lighting the molten sands below. The decagram glows its fervent orange light, and the shaft is returned to the flame. The female warrior rises, languid smoke enveloping her form, and gives a hearty salute to her commander. Her voice direct, she orders her band to rise, and they follow her lead. In synchronicity, they relieve themselves with a spirited salute, and follow their legionnaire through the chamber exit. 

The scene is all too familiar -- allies routed, felled to superior might and magic, yet legends are written of those that fight immeasurable odds. To counter a push when outnumbered needs an immense amount of discipline and fortitude -- something most other guilds lack. The truest Legion soldiers remained disciplined under this intense and unique stress, where the tiniest faltering of a will can lead to the collapse of a mighty chain. Performing under pressure is what the Legion does best. 

Even the strongest of guilds may struggle fighting outnumbered. There comes a point in any guild’s life when the enemy’s entire force rallies solely against your own, and that is where the true challenges lie. For when twenty men face down sixty, you have to be three times as aware, three times as fast, and three times as furious. And the enemy is not lenient. They will come at you with all of their might, breaking enchantments, shattering earth, and warding your path. They will come at you consistently, and without respite. And you must be ready. 

The method of countering such a push is difficult to ascertain. Some employ their Engineers to apply superspeed, and string the group out, while allowing casters to spike the head, so to speak. Frontload your damage on their ‘spear,’ hoping to shatter and splint it. Others depend on subterfuge, teleporting throughout their battles by use of portals -- or once again relying on smoke gyros. This tactic relies on surprising your enemy, crushing them before they have time to react, while allowing a safe retreat by portal exuent. Another functional method is to entrap the group by once again front-loading damage, breaking enchantments, creating winds of disenchantment, while spiking with casters, once again hoping to catch the enemy off balance.

A small squadron of Legion support-soldiers share their food atop the Citadel staircase, their ration trays clean save for their dessert feast, a hearty helping of spiced fruit salad. Aside from them, the familiar structures of the home citadel: ornate circles of stone, envisioned within the portals to battlefields and Tyria, towering stories of lodging barracks for mist warriors, and an  amphitheater-armory for rallying, inspiring, and gearing forces. They were not alone at this hour, however. Other guild warriors and roamers were scattered throughout, idling by or crafting, some even trading their spoils at the market and bragging with compatriots. Another lull, but spirits were high and the atmosphere merry. Around the feast, the soldiers chatted about random happenings and shared stories of battle, before one of the warriors piped up about a legendary mist champion. 

Producing a flask of whiskey from his bag, the black-armored beast took a short swig before passing it to his right, a motion well-received from his unsuspecting ‘bandmates. His head low, eyes shifting through his pocked-marked visor as if regaling a sinister tale, he mutters, “Have you heard about the Goreblade?”

At those words, resigned grunts and groans, followed by chuckles and affirming growls. With whiskey being passed in a circle, the current owner chimes in. His voice gritty and deep, he roared, “Of course we’ve heard of the Goreblade! Him and the Commander-Siegemaster were the ones who put this ragtag bunch of gladium together,” before taking a short swig and passing it to his right.

This charr, eyepatch over his right eye and fur greying at his nose takes a short sip, his compatriots snickering at how ‘esteemed’ he looked, as if he was sipping age-old brandy. As the older charr screwed the cap back on the silver flask, he gazed upwards in contemplation, his bandmates leaning in in anticipation. “In my younger da-”

“There he goes!” 

“Look at this old codger, c’mon!”

“Mate you haven’t passed 50 summers, don’t talk like you’re my grandsire!”

Interrupted, he could only chuckle as he passed the flask down, “There’s not many a whelp who can cleave ‘em like he. Leaves ‘em absolutely shredded! The way he mows ‘em down with that greatsaw of his -- it’s wild.”

“It’s crazy how something can cut and cut and cut… and still cut, hey?”

“Aye, you’d think that thing’d get jammed up.”

“It’s how he earned that name, after all.” 

“Aye, just you wait. Give me a few months and a few insane skirmishes and it’ll be my name folks tell stories about. Blood on my snout, fury in my eyes, just like him, just you see!”