#ref: codex

His name means Champion of Champions. Spoiler alert! Valen doesn't actually want to be The Champion anymore nor does he want his son to be anything like him. Giving Marok identity crisis 24/7.

Also:

Thus the hand of fate was dealt, and the Great Ones obliterated the blasphemous land of Argent D'Nur. They came in number, the giants of extermination; the Leviathan, the Gargaska, and the Supentor. At their head strode the Icon of Sin. He that supped the heart-blood of the Betrayer's Son, Champion of Champions, the Architect of Slaughter. He cast dread upon the heretics and the cowards fled before him as mewling whelps. In his presence they felt the betrayal of their own kind, and witnessed the delusion of their righteous nature exposed. And as the Father wept, the son feasted on the flesh of his kin.

Marok isn't a simple good or bad guy, but I do consider that to be his biggest personal struggle and his most defining character trait (It's even on his armour design, the white vs red of his shoulder plates). He is perpetually torn in between good and evil. I think that explains why the Icon of Sin cannot be controlled once Marok is, technically. gone.

Animal is my favourite symbolism to use. Valen as a gyrfalcon. Marok as a feline. Hare as hare. Slayer as a rabbit.

Marok secretly dislikes Maykrs. He has seen the most snobbish, slimy, incompetent and unqualified cowards climbing the political ladder and serving in the order of Night Sentinel simply because they are loyalists and have Maykrs backing them up. Example #1 is Endreas.

In modern settings Marok is probably an atheist or agnostic, he will certainly be interested in the elections… Considering his father would likely win the popular vote.

In Marok's view, the Elemental Wraiths in their eternal slumber, are weak and indifferent to the Sentinel people's suffering. As for Maykrs, they wormed their ways into the power structure of Argent D'Nur by forging ties exclusively with the elites, priests or the current royal family, while giving fake promises of afterlife to the people struggling with their day-to-day lives. Marok respects King Novik because he's a wise king and he follows his father who loved Novik. However, to watch the King became senile, to accept the princess rather than his father is going to be next in line? Marok was not pleased at all about it. If only some war shall break and princess proves herself unfit to take charge.

The fic is set shortly after the first demonic invasion of Argent D'Nur. Right now, Sentinels are still learning what their enemy is. Only Marok and a few who were at the frontline got an idea they are not facing normal aliens or Wraith-mutated beasts.

Maykrs don't want Argenta to know too much about demons or Hell so they can conceal the true nature of Unholy War as well as Argent Energy. Which justified sending troops to Hell expeditions.

For the same reason as above, none of the Night Sentinels who went into Hell with the Slayer were present in tda and able to protest on his behalf. It just seemed like everyone in tda saw Doomguy as though they never met this guy in all their lives, was either afraid of him or only saw him as a weapon instead of a trueborn Night Sentinel and their brother-in-arms, who sacrificed himself to save the younger Sentinels in Taras Nabad by going through the divinity machine. But what's supposed to happen (History of the Sentinels - Part IX-X) didn't happen for obvious reasons. Some might argue it's trying to show the "nuance" where people who once knew him as their own, now wary of what their old comrade had become and needed a moment to relearn who he is - IF ONLY THAT WAS WHAT'S SHOWN. ON THE SCREEN. Just to patch this retcon plot hole for myself, What really happened was this: Those who did fought with Doomguy, likely also realized they were fighting a war that wasn't meant to win or end, and were subsequently sent far away by the Maykrs, furthering Doomguy's isolation from his support system in order to control him.

Marok and Doomguy are (very obvious) foils: Both physically strong as well as strong-willed. They don't bow to the system and therefore was shun by it. Their comrades admired them and followed them around unconditionally. Now they also both went through the divinity machine for more or less same reasons. Only Marok didn't know nor did he trust the Slayer's intentions.

In DOOM universe, Argenta are ancestors of Earthlings. Many plant and animal species may also be brought from D'Nur to Earth.

Marok dislikes princess thira; though mostly a projection of his own insecurity. He has a lot to prove and is extra harsh on his (and his lieutenant's) conducts, while everything was effortlessly handed to her on a silver platter. He felt that Commander Valen gave his military career no support despite having a big name in the army: old father only sought to keep his son ambition at bay. Of course, Marok would never demand special treatment or prerogative just because he is Valen's son. And while Valen is supportive of Marok chasing his dreams, he is well aware of the deep waters out there and fear his son might be harmed by other people's jealousy or his own ego.

The world building about Hebeth took heavy inspiration from The Gods Themselves (The Pump and Lunar colony specifically). Actually just the entire aesthetic of that guy's books.

Hell Energy has an effect on people similar to the One Ring. At least that's how I tried to portray it. It grants people things they desperately needs, but eventually corrupts their soul.

Before Revelation what I imagined for Marok was that he got into drinking Hell essence for its powerful effects. Which led to Marok's soul being dragged to Hell and tortured after death. And later he was turned into the Icon of Sin. Don't do drugs kids.

There is a difference between Night Sentinel and Sentinel people. Night Sentinel is a "secret society" that later evolved into a formal army within Sentinel people/Argenta. Its members must undergo intense martial and mental trainings and abide by the code of brotherhood. They must earn the title through their own efforts to wear their two types of armours.

Buckethead templar armour belongs to an elite and more ancient faction; the green armour has less combat or environmental utility and is primarily used for training and ceremonial occasions, as well as to signify their military status.

The Order of Night Sentinel carries a layer of religious significance and is an important cultural symbol, as they bear the primary responsibility of protecting the Elemental Wraiths and protecting the people from the Wraiths. (People, especially outsiders, can't simply join them through some string-pulling just because a certain royalty had a word with dad saying it will make her happy, that would make the whole supposed "ancient order" a laughingstock. I think the guy we were talked about would DESPISE THAT if happened to him. Sorry) Argenta civilian can become militia soldiers or officers, wear leather armour or uniforms, but they are not permitted to wear Night Sentinel's armour.

After becoming a Night Sentinel, some would further train for leadership. According to Sentinel law, they must fight and lead at the frontline. Those excellent in both (such as the Alpha-Interfector, wink) can be considered the title "Warrior khan". A Slayer is a title only given to those who had slain a Titan or an Ancestral.

Sentinel King is a nominal member of Night Sentinels. The throne is hereditary out of respect for the King. But when Sentinels are at war, which has been the case for vast majority of their history, if a monarch realises they are growing frail and unfit to continue leading, they will cede the throne to a more capable wartime leader, usually their most trusted commander or the Warrior khan. Should they refuse or insist on passing the throne to an incompetent heir, Night Sentinels who had sworn fealty to the King may even withdraw their allegiance and crown the Warrior khan to ensure the survival of their people instead.

Princess Commander Lady thira is NOT one of the Night Sentinels. She is a royalty. That's why she was NOT seen wearing anything that remotely resembles a Night Sentinel but befits the grandeur of her princess status. She had her private mysterious art training and leadership education instead, focusing more on internal conflicts and how to be a face of prestige and (moral) purity. Hence she was the Heir Presumptive, should the peace under King Novik continued into her own.

I have a simple theory on what caused a major group of Night Sentinels to completely abandon both the reigning royal lineage and the Maykrs, to instead devote themselves entirely to the Slayer during the civil war.

Those most disillusioned forswore their oath to the Sentinel royalty, abandoning their pact of allegiance made to the throne.

As a monarch, Novik was quite competent. I hope no one gets the wrong idea that I was trying to paint him in a bad light. He was at the center of religious, political and military affairs and did his utmost to mediate and coordinate between these forces, to achieve a balance of interests. All the while he has a great compassion and self-sacrifice spirit towards his subjects. Still, he gained power through the system which is why his primary goal was to maintain it.

I don't think it makes rational sense had King Novik personally taken any side during the civil war, his only position was to remain at least the appearance of neutrality; or else their entire civilization might plunge into total chaos. That's why after the Maykrs won, Novik died in Exultia at his throne, while the insurgents escaped into mountains. Which also means he had to sacrifice people who respected and trusted his rule like the Doom Slayer and Commander Valen, in order to appease certain factions that must be appeased. At least he didn't squander All the best resources and manpower only to stoke more fire between Maykrs and Sentinels without doing as much as anything or demonstrate any agency beyond revolving around the male lead.

Haunt the narrative trope but with The Doom Slayer. If the system has been a jerk to actual commanders like Valen and Marok imagine what would it do to the Slayer after trying and failing to absorb him into it.

I like the idea that Flynn isn't the only one from Earth who got stranded in ADN. @0bananadog0's oc is very intriguing to me in this aspect. I also like to think Earthling humans have a common makings/disposition about themselves that Sentinel humans do not.

P.S. Carnelian calls Doomguy "Outlander" already so Marok calls Hare "Outsider" lol

P.P.S. Marok has a great back view in my book. Roll the clip ladies and gentlemen:

Sentinel elite guards had already subdued the "little man" as they called it by the time he stepped into the warehouse. First Lieutenant Endreas made it a few steps ahead of him, already ordered a clearance with a zeal he rarely shown at work. The "little man" lay facedown on the floor, wrists and ankles locked in antique-looking iron shackles. Garrison couldn't find a set of restraints from their current energy-based protocol that are small enough to fit him. Even these are still too large, they hung loose around his boney joints.

The two guards, Setra and Kie'an as he remembered, snapped to attention at the sight of Valen's son, eyes beaming with a mixture of pride and nervousness. Marok honoured them with a terse nod.

Rookie's errand. He bitterly noted. Veterans at Hebeth were happy to send him chasing his own tail so they could keep the bigger fish to themselves. Out here on this red rock, Marok's new field promotion weighed less than the extra fuels they siphoned and resold on the black market. Marok gave First Lieutenant's back a cold squint: Back when they were posted together on Xyvor, Endreas always had such talent of sneaking things into his own.

The little man on the floor had just come to and already started a new round of struggle. He rolled onto his back, kicking at whichever guard leaning in first to grab him, cursing in a language none of them understood. Spit flew out as he screamed at the top of his lungs when one of the guards turned him over to tighten the restraints even more, breathing angrily as his long, greasy hair stuck in threads to the corners of his mouth. It looked like a child throwing a temper tantrum, all the while aiming himself towards the nearest exit.

Marok took a stride in his path.

"Who does he work for? Civilians shouldn't know these batteries exist." The satchel they had taken from him lay in the center of the floor, a patchwork made from the same scavenged rags as his cloak. Argent batteries rolled across the floor like little pieces of candies: the most powerful, rarest synthesized energy in the known universe - yet safely self-contained - its neutralization process as well as its cach were designed by Chancellor Samur Maykr, now styling himself Head of the Spiritual Science Council.

"This one works alone." Lieutenant Endreas was on one knee as he examined the stolen amount, then he kicked the filthy satchel aside, "If there is someone - or a group behind this, a vermin is not going to lead us to them."

"What do you suggest then, Endreas? " Marok asked.

"Well-, Marok," One side of the Lieutenant's mouth curled into a grin, "normally, we hand them over to the Inquisitors. Then it's either the arena or the mines." he straightened up, addressing his listeners, "But this isn't ordinary theft: Defiling the Argent Energy is considered heresy of high order. It is Our Mother God's gift bestowed upon only the faithful people of Argent... Anywho, it is punishable by death. I suggest we also leave the rat's body on the spot. Let others see what becomes of those who steal from the Maykrs."

"I don't see a problem with that. You called it, you do it, Endreas." Marok said, eyes glided past First Lieutenant to that criminal. The man had a long, pale face with very thin nose, wrinkled at the nostrils like the mask of a sad clown. A deep scar ran across it, almost splitting it in half.

With no way out in sight, sad clown dropped his earlier act and went very still. Yet his eyes kept shifting - slowly, tracking from the guards to the Lieutenant's polished-clean sabatons. At last, he turned his attention to the tallest man who looked like he commanded the room, glanced up quickly beneath hooded eyes, shivering every once in a while. Twitchy little thing. -is what Marok thought of him. He shivered again at the word "arena". But the moment "death" rolled out, he made a full-bodied jolt that drove the shackles hard into his skin. This time he fought with everything he had. Setra stepped in and drew him back by that dirty hair, Kie'an caught his arm and twisted it until he was forced down on his knees. In a few practiced movements they had arranged him before First Lieutenant Endreas, who now stood with his battle-axe raised, finishing a short prayer.

Sometimes it was hard not to admire the way Night Sentinels moved themselves, even when they were carrying out something cruel. There was simply, a kind of grace to it.

"Ack! Ah no! Let GO-! " The little man cried out in pain. He cocked his head as hard as he could to Major Marok and shrilled in broken Argenta, "WAIT! PLEASE! Lis'en! One can pay for it! One has money! One has intel! "

He whipped his head the other way around, and snapped his teeth at the forearm of the Sentinel guard who only leaned a little too close to stop him from getting near Valen's son. The guard instinctively pulled back, his prisoner snatched the chance to squirm free from both of their hands, slippery as a fish, and hurled himself across the floor-

-His forehead cracked against Marok's greaves so hard it immediately raised a red welt but it didn't stop him there. For someone in such a starved frame, he had surprising strength: he latched onto the young Major’s boots like a piece of wet cloth and even attempted to crawl under - wedging himself in between the legs and using the officer as a shield from the others. Over all the chaos he made, he kept hollering with that high-pitched noise: "General! General, you lis'en to me! I tell you many t'ings! I give you many t'ings!"

Marok raised an eyebrow, unfazed. He shifted just enough that his body blocked Endreas's line of sight: "I don't need anything from you."

"You don't know t'at! I'm very useful, general, swear to it!" The little creature gasped, he tried sounding gentler but urgent, green eyes filled with anxiety. "I work for you- Just- please, no kill!"

"If only he could work, he wouldn't think of stealing those batteries." Endreas gave another crooked mouth grin, showing the yellowish white of his eyes.

"Let go of me and stay still," Major Marok told him, "then we can talk."

For some reason this insect-like man obeyed him. His sat back on his heels and nervously rubbed his cheek against the torn front of his sack clothes, body still trembling from the backwash of adrenaline.

First Lieutenant Endreas clicked his tongue, slipping into a Southern dialect where only the two high officials understand, as guard Setra recovered their prisoner in a flurry of appologies: "Neat little trick you did here, Marok," He murmured, then back to the guards,"Hold him down now, let's finish this unpleasant business faster-" And the man let out another anguished wail--

Marok lifted a large hand, stopping him mid-way. He regarded the Lieutenant in silence long enough for Endreas' certainty to falter, then replied in the same dialect:

"What's in your pocket, Endreas?"

"Huh-?"

"You've heard me well. What is it in that pocket?"

"Oh, you mean these?" Endreas lowered his axe and patted the sabretache tied to his side, "Just fruit I was bring back to the common room after all this ruckus dies down."

"Take it out, Lieutenant."

The "Hey, brother-" died in his throat. Endreas untied his pouch and emptied it into his hand.

"See? Just a handful of dried Longan. You are making a scene over nothing, brother."

"Did you pay for it?" Marok didn't look at him.

"Well- You see, I was at the market earlier today and-"

"Did you pay for it? "

Endreas' face turned slightly red: "It's called a gift, Marok. They gifted me because they wanted to get to know Valen's son. Here... have some."

"They will know me when I return it to them later and pay for the cost."

Endreas curled his fingers as if he meant to crush the fruit to a pulp. But he let that moment go with a theatrical sigh: "Okay, then, Major Marok." And poured the dried fruit into Marok's gauntlet hand.

"I will handle the rest from here, First Lieutenant. Go draft up the report. Return those batteries. Check if there are other damages."

He mumbled something about commander's son when he walked away. Marok pretended not to hear. He turned back to the thief, who was observing intently as the Lieutenant's footsteps faded, thoughts clearly racing behind those beady eyes.

"You said you have money, suppose you will offer it to the garrison to reduce your sentence?"

"I... I do have it, general. It-it's not on me right now."

"If you are simply wasting my time, I should dispatch you myself."

"I DO! I really do! I need to go get it. Swear to it. 'S long as you let me live, I can-"

"Do many things?"

"Y... yes, general." His teeth chattered, for the first time meeting Marok's eyes before immediately looking away, "You could... c-come with me. It's not far. Close! Just my home in t'e... in t'e Powerouts."

I really shouldn't be the one doing this. Marok looked around and saw the guards were still here, backs straighter than before now, expecting his next words. A proper officer would have left the prisoner to his men and let the Inquisitors pick away the rest. As if on cue, the little man made another move: A show of swallowing hard, eyes fixing on the fruit in Marok's hand.

"What?" Marok asked.

"I... General, to be honest I haven't eaten all day." He wet his lips. "T'ey smell so good. I've never had t'em before."

"These are dragon's eye. They only grow in Mother Argenta. People like you wouldn't have known about it. Catch." The young Major tossed a piece at him. He lunged for it with his hands still restrained to the back, trying to catch with his mouth only to clamp on empty air. Kie'an had managed to keep a stern face during the earlier commotion, chuckled as he joined in the Major's teasing with this outsider.

The Sentinel guards saw exactly what they expected to see: colonial trash, lesser man, a senseless flea on the Empire's skin. Marok suspected that was also the precise impression this man wanted to leave for them. "Tie his hands to the front," He ordered. "I want the cuffs extra tight. Then you're all dismissed."

  ---

The "dragon's eye" fruit tasted like thick honey and cold cinder at the same time, making his eyes watery and his mouth dry - or perhaps only because he wasn't supposed to eat the shells. Hase had to soften them with what little spit he had left, resisting the urge to swallow them whole.

"You may want t' tuck yer wallet 'fore we gone down, general."

Marok took his advice, with only the standard issued accelerator at his side. As he fell behind, he said: "You know you are not fooling me with that act."

"No, general. Wasn't trying to."

"Good. But I'm no general. Not for another five years, at least."

Hase tilted his head: "Who becomes new Lord Commander?"

"Royal Commander," The Sentinel corrected him, "The King's daughter. Princess Heir Presumptive."

The war council saw fit to let her take all the credit with their East-front counteroffensives right before her crowning ceremony, obviously for her debut image. Not-so obviously - to give a reason for their first harvest of Argent Power - Maykr's miracle - to go straight into sustaining her personal command station - another Maykr's miracle. So it could keep drifting, drifting gracefully, high above in the Northern orbit, same way it always had been throughout the war, where the only real threat was Northmen's disaffection.

In Sentinel Law, kings and future kings must prove their worth by leading the frontline instead of sitting somewhere safe and far away. Those were simpler time, weren't they?

"Oh." Hase dipped back to the fruits he was holding with both hands, "But I call it out of respect."

"Or because you're a sycophant. Do you know who I am?"

"No idea, sir."

"What's your name, outsider?"

"...Hare."

For the rest of the way, they did not talk.

Hase led Marok to a service hatch hidden behind the wall he never knew was there, and squeezed through. The passages were extremely narrow, Marok's armour kept bumping and scraping against the metal skin of Hebeth, while Hase was able to slip around. The descend was quite a few climbs downward, and soon they left the spacious, bright patrolling corridors far above.

This, Marok thought, was what Hebeth truly was.

People called Hebeth a "city", it had a Maykr church, several wraith shrines, even an open market near the port. Seeing it from ground level, from the windows of the command post or officer's room, where one could not feel the constant vibration of the Trans-Dimensional Barrier or hear the deep hum of enormous mining rigs beneath their feet, perhaps it did pass as one. But Hebeth was a powerplant and a self-repairing machine, built to protect its core at any cost. Someone once said that Hebeth was the body of an Ancestral nailed down to the bedrock by layers of gleaming metal foundations. It has a full set of innards and blood vessels and pore. It had become gangrenous from centuries of confinement.

As the air grew stale with a hint of ozone and animal stank, one began to see the raw flesh of Hebeth.

Like many who made a home out of this place and gave up on the natural light, Hase moved through the Powerout sector with unhurried certainty, turning one tight corner after another. Broken fiber and glass crunched under their feet, and Marok remembered the little man had only rags for shoes. A woman was hauling water out of a gutter using a homemade filter. Children slept safely on warm casings that carried coolant discharges. Somewhere in the dark, a pipe hissed in anger. People gave various glances at this peculiar pair walking by, some whistled when they saw the cuffs on Hase's wrists, and quickly cut themselves off when they noticed the Sentinel behind him. No one recognized Marok here or dared to look his way a bit longer to recognize him. What they saw was a face bore the scars of Argenta's wars, along with  powerful muscles encased in a high-ranking officer's armour.

"Welcome to my place, general." Hase flashed a snaggle-toothed smile. He thumbed at a dark gap under some graffiti, and went in first. A tarp patched together with different fabrics hung there as front door.

For a moment, the young Sentinel officer stood there alone, unsure of himself now of all times. He heard - he thought he had heard a noise like small feet skittering away. Then, he bumped the tarp aside with his shoulder the way Hase did, and ducked under it.

The inside was as modest as it looked from the outside, yet just like how Hebeth had become a city, this makeshift shelter had everything it ever needed: an old fuel canister serving as a stove with a blackened kettle on top, the coolant pipe behind them was perhaps a bed, perfect for a little man like Hase to wedge himself into it. There is even a string of lights festooned around the tent, flickering to life as Hase's guest arrived, finally blessed the Major's eyes with some artificial light.

---

"That IS-... an impressive stash," Marok said in his usual unaffected tone, "We clearly underestimated you, Hare. I should perhaps bring you back for questioning, after all."

"Oh! Oh no, no... Isn't dirty money, general. I was - I was paid - for work!"

"How did you earn it?" Marok sat down on a pile of old supply crates, leaning forward with a palm resting on his cuisse. The low ceiling and those shortcuts they took today was felt by his neck. Hase quickly tucked his precious away, along with the rest of his scraps, and dropped onto the floor in front of the officer without even asking for permission. But Marok's mind had already moved on to other things. He dragged a hand idly across a faded inspection sigil on the crates. For a second, that dark, usually sullen face of Marok's lit up into a smile of self-assurance.

"Here and t'ere, general. Doing works." The little man said in a nasal voice.

"How, Hare?"

Hase drew in his shoulders, seemingly reduced to nothing more than curled up limbs. Marok heard a scurry noise between his feet again. "I'm skinny, I go places others can't, I do dirty works you people... ...Argenta won't do. T'at's how. I 'ave money."

"Then why don't you buy yourself a better pair of shoes? Or some food?"

Hase shrugged. His fingers scraped the metal of his chains. Little creatures came out of the dark and started gnawing on his bleeding toes. Marok drew in breath in disgust as soon as he realized what that faint noise had been: sewer rats. Hase put a hand over them, boney fingers gently grabbed one and turned it over on its belly - to tickle it. As if they were-

"-My animal companions. We are allowed to have those, right, general?" He said with a cheeky smile on his face, offering a piece of his fruit to the biggest one, who held it in its tiny hands with the poise of a circus rat, carefully gnawing away the skin to eat the meat. Then Hase's smile disappeared.

"...I have a condition. My health, sire. Clothes, food. Good things would be a waste on me."

"If you're sick, shouldn't you save for a doctor-"

"No!" The sudden outburst gave Marok a start. Hase shrank back at once, knees pressed against his pointed jaw, squirming uneasily in the shackles. "...No doctor."

"What exactly is the 'condition'?"

Finally, he tried. "My body don't take food I eat very well these days." He kept his eyes on the floor. "I can't stay warm, tired all the time. One day I might sleep and never wake up."

The festive lights buzzed once and went out. Just like that, this ad hoc shelter once again plunged into darkness. Marok gave a discontent grunt and released a wraith-powered small hover-torch from his gauntlet. A pearly, blue-white light washed over them, sending the rats skittering back into the dark. Only now did he take one good look at this figure. This wasn't a skinny-looking man. The man was emaciated. The face was thought to be pale, now it's a sickly grey. His greasy, filthy hair, used to be blond, now it lay across his head like reeds bleached by the scorching desert sun.

"Now this the only thing that can keep me alive."

Hase stood on his knees. He fished around in the rusty kettle to bring out an early proto-type energy accumulator shaped like an ampoule. The crimson essence that nearly got himself executed glowed like a diminutive fire, far more captivating than the Sentinel's blue light. "People here call it 'elixir'. ‘Devine elixir’. I don't know much of what's behind all these. I only find out my body could... absorb it. It works better than food ever did. I know I need it to survive but they don't sell it no more, so I had to..."

"This is the last bit I had now." He cracked the casing between his front teeth. Glass shards cut deeply into his gums and the soft of his lip with blood oozing out. Hase drew in a long breath. The essence was climbing to the top even before its seal broke. It did not look like a plasma.

It pulsated - like blood vessels then slipped into the man's mouth and up through his nose and the corners of his eyes before merging beneath the skin completely. At the same time colour returned to Hase's face. New cuts and the welt on his forehead started to heal. His eyes looked more alive now, reflected in the torchlight with a wrong kind of red sheen.

Marok made no effort to hide the grimace on his face as he watched on. It wasn't completely unheard of in the barracks, that a new substance did more than just powering Her Highness' castle-in-the-air. Engineers and Practicals were ordered to keep their mouths shut when it cured incurable diseases and granted extraordinary sthenia. This stuff worked extremely well with living things. But knowing where it really came from? That was enough to keep any sane Night Sentinel from even entertaining the thought of letting it into their sanctified body.

"Staying alive is hard for me." Hase looked at him and said. "But I want to live."

The Major regarded him for a little longer than usual, letting the silence hang in between. His long, steel-like arms seemed to droop so slightly, though it surely wasn't from sympathy. Then, he let out a small, dry laugh that made Hase felt as if someone had dragged a knife along his spine. "You have a lust for life, Hare, like a true Argenta. Born to overcome, aren't we all?"

Commander's son had a face full of scars. The deepest one cleft into his upper lip, showing his gum. Later on, whenever Hase tried to picture that face, it would be the first thing to come to his mind. Sentinels do not hide their scars at all. To them, scars are a symbol of true warrior whose skill or violence were put to test on the battlefield. On events where they wear their traditional green regalia armour, their entire history was written on the skin. Some would even use specialized ink to stain the smallest scars on their faces to keep them from fading. At least his scars didn't need any ink.

Something else Hase caught himself thinking: Still, what a nasty scar. Compared to his own, this one might make a man speak funny. Yet the Sentinel spoke this elven language of theirs, even better than everyone else Hase had heard, without a trace of slurring. Could you imagine this guy practicing his speech in front of a mirror, ripping the fresh stitches over and over again?

"To me, staying alive must be the easiest thing to do." Marok pressed a thumb over that scar, feeling the familiar contour. "But I am far too combative. A militant, they say, like my father used to be-"

"-Do you know what the so-called most successful officers are doing these days? They command the military parades and tournaments in the palace square on festival days. They orbit His Majesty the King; when Princess Her Highness travels to her summer palace, they escort her royal ships."

"I can't stay in the capitals." With a flick of his hand, Major Marok flicked away the image of the royal envoys and privy councillors, who had once groveled before his war-winning hero of a father now turned to bow and preen their future master. It seemed that every time he visited the Prime, they bent just a little lower to her, and less to his father. "Court doesn't suit me. I despise nothing more than their social events or delivering speeches to a waiting crowd from my balcony. My very existence there stings the pride of certain nobles. Yet I am a first-rate commander and my men follow me, that much no one could deny. Hebeth became the perfect place for me, then: a barren outpost notorious for its corrupt and unruly local governer, far away enough to please everyone."

His confession was more or less made with pride. His listener seized the chance to peek at Marok again. The face, seemingly carved out of a fine piece of hardwood, left nothing worth studying. But perhaps for a split second, Hase was staring through that and saw a turmoil of passionate thoughts. At the recess of his soul, there was a ruthless, bottomless pit of ambition.

"Many jealous people, ...general?"

"Envy I could deal with. My dearest Lieutenant friend is one of them," Hase swallowed and nodded grimly. Marok chuckled. "Count yourself lucky, Hare, you don't have to see a sorry bunch of elite descendants living in their high towers suddenly start to play soldier. They brag about military operations that had nothing to do with them. They have no concept of the casualty ratio between the militia and our Sentinel brothers, and I couldn't begin to explain to them the scale of engineering required to set up an encirclement tactic. And everyday, I had to open their secret dispatches to the war council all nicely written up - Hear, 'The Offensive operations continue to progress smoothly according to the predetermined plan', 'The Enemies show clear signs of weakening', 'The Anticipated final objective shall be achieved'... Even the most regular routine reports would have some use yet I'm reading these self-congratulation nonsense. You'd think they'd killed all the de- slain a Titan all by themselves. Nothing but big, hollow, windbags."

And when the war was won for them, they collect their little credit and climb onto a balcony to preach about how the Sentinel people must "put faith in themselves" and "returning to their ancestors' ways" - Ha! As though they wouldn't be the first to throw themselves at any Maykr tech they could get their hands on. One thing to make them feel more elevated from the rest of the regular folks, sometimes literally. Argent power is just the newest addition of it.

"What about the King?" Hase asked quietly.

Marok snapped his eyes to him. Hase would have screamed at his own thought, his gaunt face was flushed all the way to the tip of his long nose.

"We need more kings like him." Marok told him."Remember this, he is the only master I will ever serve - who is ever worth serving. With utmost devotion." As of now, the Maykrs were lobbying for another war. A war of ultimate righteous cause, that's how they called it. War is war, there is no such difference. However, wading deep into an unfamiliar, hostile world might be exact what Marok could have wished for. That way he could serve His Majesty faithfully while earning himself a few worthwhile battles.

"...Do you think I can be useful to you, general?"

"I don't know. Can you?" Marok wasn't looking at him now, he looked at Hase's shackles. "Don't worry, no one will know what we said today."

There was something almost charitable in his eyes while he waited for that response; though a mildly sinister sort. Perhaps he was considering killing this man, after all.

"I think..." He murmured, the corner of his mouth twitched into a sorrowful smile. "I think the cuffs are a little too tight. My feet are going numb."

---

Marok lifted one proud brow. Peevishly, he glared at the little man. Then he moved across the cramped space with keys in one hand.

He was still working the small keys that weren't made for a soldier's hand - when Hase suddenly leaned in, almost touching the young Major's emblazoned armours. For just a moment, they were breathing near each other. Hase could control his tremor now, a strange heat emitted from his body and breath. The shackle loose a little under Marok's palm as he just became aware of how little there was between his fingers and this man's bones. How easy it would be for him to break them if he wants.

The Sentinel officer pulled away from this uncomfortable heat: "Where did you come from, outsider? "

The man no longer looked like a ridiculous, meagre creature. His fear vanished completely. At this moment, he even seemed a lot older than he looked. He dropped his broken Argentian, too. Now he spoke in sentences, in a lower, raspier voice: "Does the Major really want to know? "

Those eyes. That face. Always rattling against their chains. Whatever distant planet gave birth to their kind, it had never taught them to truly bend their knees. They might put on a show of submission, they might even be taught some discipline. People made the mistake of thinking they could be controlled. That, their loyalty could be eventually brought out by some gods, goddesses, kings or queens. By the end they would break free definitely. They walked a single path towards their own doom, and they needed no tamer.

Marok's thoughts drifted further from Hebeth - back home. There was another. An Outlander who came from the blood arena, somehow made his way into their ranks. He had drawn a great deal of attention, favoured by the King and his father. Certian young Night Sentinels loved to grumble and patronize, even they ended up admiring him. Those impassioned youth with an uncertain future yearned for a hero of their own times. Marok did not think highly of him, but he knew full well, that sort of man would stir the gravest of troubles.

That familiar sense of un-pleasantry distracted him, before something made a faint click sound.

Like a panther did Marok's hand shot out to grab him; but Hase, now quickly freed, sprang himself up against the other, slipped just out of reach for that powerful claw, and all of a sudden the two of them was going in circles in that tiny shelter like a cat and mouse game. With too little room, neither gained the upperhand. Until another sound of click. The Major's left hand was cuffed to the tent's pole. He yanked only once furiously, and the whole miserable building came down on top of him with a huge crash.

"You little shit- YOU Stay Right There! "

Hase made it several strides away, arms full of whatever he had managed to snatch in passing, before slowly turning around. The rats bolted alongside the falling shelter. Marok could catch glimpses of them vanishing into vent-cracks.

Hooked around the left arm of his and swinging lightly was Marok's gun-belt. "Nice gun you got here, General."

"You wouldn't dare..."

"Oh," Hase said. "But I already did."

He pulled the ragged hood of his cloak back over his head and disappeared into the dim gut of the sector. The place fell into silence again, broken only by thuds of settling debris.

Young and promising Major left his post with a heretic thief and returned with a headful of dust, carrying a broken shackle but not his sidearm. He earned himself a formal dressing-down and murmurs in the mess hall for several days. But nothing worse came after.

On next day, he had a new sidearm and a reinforced gun-belt. Some said the matter died quietly only because Marok submitted a report on the breach - and on the fact that the Maykrs were drawing far more than a tithe from Hebeth's Energy reserves.

As for Marok himself? He issued one particular order concerning the next battery transfer, new route was to be reclassified at the highest security level with a double amount of stationed guards. In private he dug up the map for old maintenance passages, finally sealing them up - well, not all of them.

"Should we arrange a public hanging once we catch that thief again?" A Sentinel Guard asked.

Relationship with the Slayer:

When the Slayer first came to Argent D'Nur, Carnelian was a promising and talented young disciple, endeared by the seniors. Like others, he grimaced at the idea of such a blood-stained sinner, an “Outlander” joining their sacred legion. Especially when he saw the Outlander's silent defiance towards those side glances and murmurs around him. Carnelian find it offensive, as if the Outlander was getting too big for his boots after earning their king's favor.

Despite all, he couldn't help but admire the strength this Outlander had within him. His fight, while crude, was relentless, fierce, revealing so much of his truth. Out of curiosity he approached the Slayer with caution, to learn from him and learn more about him. This is when he came to realization how ridiculous those rumors and his own prejudice against this guy were. For example, the Outlander's mutism is not an act of arrogance, but in fact he was suffering from immense grief and PTSD. For someone who had been through literal Hell, a bunch of apprentice-boys' resentment is nothing.

After, Carnelian felt comfortable being around this Outland warrior. It may be the only place He could take off that usual judgmental look on his face and exhume the sensitive, empath self hidden under, without been seen as weak. Carnelian KNEW how losing loved ones feels like, and the Slayer's pain matters to him. He is capable of sharing that burden. - It as well helped him coping with the survivor's guilt he carried after sibling's death. As inarticulate as the Slayer was, he cared for this young boy perhaps more than the latter would ever know.

Carnelian wouldn't admit exactly when did their closeness became something entirely different than brotherhood, it seemed only natural - when he started seeking chances for a well-placed quip, to get a rare laughter from the Outland warrior; when he showed the Slayer his secret base full of a youth's memory; when the Slayer rescued him from shipwreck during the Hell Expedition, first time in years again consumed by fear, thinking he lost another. Another one whom he had loved.

Their relationship continued after the battle of Taras Nabad and the Outlander became the Doom Slayer, savior of Argenta. But everything was toppled over when the Civil war broke out. In the battle of Nekravol which ended in total destruction of the rebellion force, the Slayer did manage to save Carnelian again from immediate death, only to watch the Sentinel fell into madness from all the treachery his young heart couldn't bear anymore, and he breathed his last breath to fatal injuries, marking the end of the once free Argent civilization.

Art Selectives:

<sundeline from twitter>

<terry from twitter>

<Hpz from twitter>