[ti]solo[/ti]Nordic Gambit; Pawn to E4

No path appears: yet resolute I stray
Where youth undaunted bids me force my way.
O'er rocks and cliffs while I the task pursue,
Guide me, ye Nymphs, with your unerring clue.

A battlefield is a terrible place. A place that bring tears to the eyes of anyone sane. There's death and suffering wherever the Alchemist of White looks. There's agony. There's corpses piling up and beneath them those that are barely conscious — trapped by these cadavers that will soon become carrion for dark birds circling in skies even darker. There's those injured, attempting to crawl away from their aggressors in tears after having realising that their cruel defeat is near. There's those that allow their rage to take hold, hurting and hurting until another hurts them so much that it's certain that they won't be able to cause hurt no more. They're dressed as knights, but they're all pawns.

Pawns are the ones that are sacrificed in these wars.

Those who rule over the battlefield will gladly trade away their lives for the sake of a swift strike.

WE'RE AT WAR

The reflection of moonlight upon shields and blades sings to her as she walks in her pawn's wake, mud squelching with every step of now filth-coated sabatons. There's blood in the mud. There's sweat, there's tears, and all those other fluids that men spill when miserable and terrified. Saliva. Vomit. Urine. The air reeks of all of it, the scent of their fear being so strong that it's nauseating. They scream. Their bones crack. Their blades clash with the steel of her pawn, attempting to stop it in its murderous path.

They will manage it, she knows that. Like every other pawn in this battlefield, this one had been meant for sacrifice. They always are. After all, Tuesday knows it all about sacrifices, right?

"Is this the best you can do?" She asks without bothering to raise her voice, taking in the horrifying sights Mistra had prepared for her through this battle. The corpses, the screaming, the blood, the lost limbs, the eyes gouged out, and the innards spilled.

Cries of for help, cries for mercy, and cries of utter despair. A red squire that begs for his life before a mounted knight impales him with a black spear. His small, lifeless body is left dangling, broken and pitiful, soon to be tossed to the mud among so many other bodies clad in obsidian and crimson.

Hatred. Hatred for an enemy simply because they were told to hate, hatred for this battle, and hatred for death itself. The horse's hooves tangle on a crimson armour, falling in screams. The knight is tossed of his saddle, the heavy weight of his war-gear making him incapable of standing quick enough to not be trampled by his own mount's fleeing gallop.

Above all, fear. A fear that pushes these knights to follow unreasonable commands; a fear of dying that has them trapped. The men her pawn grabs in its maw had no choice to be here, but now their bones are pulverized by the strength of the steel beast's bite, cracking beneath bloodcurdling screams that die out when they're swallowed whole as her pawn's feast.

She watches it all. She takes it all in. Every nightmarish sight, scent, and sound. And then, once she has had enough, she looks directly into her reflection at the point of her own spear.

"Are you trying to shock me? Good effort, all this is horrifying, but it doesn't make me afraid of you."

The only things Mars truly fears in this world will never reach him in this place, that's what he had promised to himself. That's what Tuesday had come here to prove. That's what she reminds herself of when the reflections hiss in response.

You'll never win against me

Stabbed dozens of times, her pawn falls with one final deep cry, its warm blood spilling all over its assailants. Blades swing for her too at the reflection's command, but she's faster than them, turning the point of her spear towards herself...

"Maybe not yet, but I won't allow you the victory of taking my life today."

Tuesday smirks, steel pierces through the crevice between armour plates, the sky grows even darker, and in its darkness, the battle fades.

ORTHWORM'S HP: 0/100

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