The Legions United in the Loss
What if the Dominion won? What if… The Dominion had needs?
Commission for Remy
The Legions United in the Loss
What if the Dominion won? What if… The Dominion had needs?
“Queen Jennah, you called?”
With her delicate fingers on her forehead, the current queen of Kryta peeled her eyes away from the missive, to get a faint glimpse of Logan Thackeray. Then, with a motion of her hands, she sent all her servants away until they were but two in the brilliant throne room.
The white marble was as spectacular as the immense carved stone placed right behind the comfortable sofa she’d designed as her throne.
Much like the illusory waters, much questioned the nature of the stone itself, though Jenna never answered it… And neither would she be, as she sighed and finally peeled her eyes from the missive. She held it up and then threw it at Logan.
In return, the Captain of the Seraphs, clad in white armor, caught the missive and had his broody brows lifted.
“What is this, Jennah?”
“A declaration,” answered the Queen, leaning forward with her hand under her chin, elbow on her knee, while she observed Logan’s brows knit from the frustration of reading the parchment. What an old-fashioned declaration.
“The Dominion won?” mumbled Logan. He blinked, then he turned at the closed door behind him, then back to the Queen, who acted stoic. “We need to send allies.”
“Read further,” said Jennah, waving her fingers. “It gets interesting.”
“Interesting?” scoffed Logan, rolling the parchment as he finished. “They’re using Rytlock and the Commander as hostages. We need to send mesmers to get them out of prison.”
“This is exactly why we cannot do that,” replied Jennah with a sigh.
“Why not? Rytlock… He might be rude, but he always means well and-“
“The Commander Royce is the commander of the Tyrian Alliance, I know. But that’s exactly why we cannot do a thing,” replied Jennah, standing up on her uncovered feet to approach Logan, her poise impeccable.
Meanwhile, the Captain of the Seraph looked puzzled to a fault while looking at Jennah.
“What are you thinking?”
“They sent that missive to us before they declared their victory,” said Jennah, holding her hand out to receive the missive. “Bangar is not an idiot. This missive is as much a declaration as it is a threat. By telling us they won and have our friends in custody, they are not afraid to say they could retaliate should we attempt to free them.”
“Are you sure? What did Anise say?” replied Thackeray, already brooding.
“She said, and I quote, ‘This missive is a blade pointed at us. They declared nothing to the other factions in Tyria. We cannot interfere, but I will have my Shining Blades ready.’”
Jennah even took on Anise’s voice, or rather, imitated it, before she turned her back on Logan.
“Then what?”
The question came… And Jennah stopped, eyeing the stone in the middle of the throne room, at the concentric circle leading to the sofa, like an adornment, or a ritual.
“Why did you call me if you had already made up your mind? Should I do something?”
Jennah paused, then smiled: “I appreciate your solicitude. We need to prepare the guards for when the public declaration has passed. And to receive refugees.”
-
_Royce Morrowind grunted as he lifted the dull blade once more and parried another blade.
Ahead, the helmeted Charr looked like a machine. No expression, no snarl… Only a helmet covering that face and muffling every sound down to the grunts or the speech.
But the ice sprouting all over the Charr’s arm, over his right side, down to his legs, while covering his armor, was enough of a tell. And Royce grunted, overpowering his opponent with sheer strength before lowering his blade once more, breaking through the ice blade before he planted it in his opponent’s heart._
_Then, with a growl, Royce raised his head.
He wiped the sweat clinging to his orange-and-black-striped fur, moving his eyepatch slightly to adjust it after a misstep. And then, he turned to the rest of his troop.
The Commander, in that regard, earned all their attention as they saluted him after that fight… Watching how his attire, a side-covering chest-plate with broad pants, was coated with blood. Charr blood._
_His four ears fluttered, listening to the distant sounds in the valley… But not a peep, not a cry of combat. Luckily, they’d taken down the scouts before they could warn the others or send a flare. However, in the ambush, they’d lost three soldiers.
Only twelve were left, and they looked as tired as the Commander.
Even Rytlock, so eager to fight and push for his cub, was flagging. The way he wielded his blade, Sohothin, showed that he was starting to doubt it.
Not that he wasn’t feeling it, either._
_“Commander. We are all accounted for. What do we do?”
“We push forward. Remember, Smodur needs us there.”
“Like he needed us to-“
“Silence,” said the Commander, raising his hand. Surely, Rytlock grunted and definitely reacted poorly. His tail swayed, and he planted his claws in the ground after an order.
The other soldiers were not even peeping a word, only awaiting what was to follow. But only Rytlock reacted; hot-blooded. Yet, he fought back against the urge to contest the order and to speak his mind.
In that, Rytlock was definitely not like a Charr. Too different, too prompt to initiative. And so… So would many say about the Commander as he squared his shoulders.
“Smodur had clear orders for us. Remember, we need to make the Blood Legion proud and take hold of that cleft before the Dominion notices us in their territory. It will be necessary for the final assault from the Iron Legion.”
“We are stretched too thin. This is stupid,” grumbled Rytlock._
_The Commander turned towards him, his brow in a frown.
Not because Rytlock was wrong, no, quite the contrary. With little support from the Tyrian Alliance, the United Legions were stretched thin and showing gaps. The Ash Legion’s cunning strategies were twisted against themselves due to the turncoats. The Blood Legion’s numbers were too thin. And without a care for their survival, the Iron traitors were turning every little machine into a potential bomb.
The civil war was turning worse… And it was becoming a nightmare in which the Charrs would face the other races and see them oppose them as they had before._
_They saw a creativity in war, a brutality in creation, and a dedication to the art of killing.
No wonder they offered only paltry support, hoping for Smodur’s decision to turn for the best. But the best wasn’t enough, and the Commander grunted at Rytlock’s retort.
“Are you contesting my orders, Rytlock?” asked Royce, his snarl obvious.
“No. I do not contest your decision, but Smodur’s, Commander,” replied Rytlock, before he went on, stopping any response. “You know we are about to lose. They are reaching the base camp. We are fighting with scraps and eating the rations of our enemies. Does that sound like we’re winning?”_
_No. They were not winning, far from that. They were losing so badly, it could also be an achievement.
But there were other occasions to contest orders, not here. Not at that moment, not in front of the troops that were definitely shaken. But Rytlock… Rytlock wasn’t thinking clearly anymore, not ever since the attempt on Smodur’s life.
“Rytlock. We cannot contest our orders,-“
“We-“
“We cannot contest our orders. We are the Blood Legion. Whether the conditions are against us, whether we are put against impossible odds, this is what we endure. We are the Blood Legion. We Charr are born into battle. Our mother is Conflict, our Father is War! We care not for the ties if not of our Warband!”_
_This was a war cry, with his fist raised. His soldiers followed. But he could see in their eyes the tremor of fear, the seed of doubt. And as he turned to Rytlock, he saw the shame.
Only Rytlock could understand the admonishment it was… But he had his tail tucked in, and so, he nodded somberly. His feelings for Ryland were impacting him. His son had already proved his devotion to the Dominion, and Smodur’s actions definitely cut their ties.
There was nothing but bad blood… Nothing but violence and unanswered feelings._
_“Come, now. Grab the supplies you can,” said the Commander, going for the officer’s corpse he’d slain before. His blade was broken, but he still had ammo, and his rations were barely stained. Sufficient for the day.
“Shouldn’t we stay here for the night?” asked one soldier.
“No. We need to move on before we get caught. But I still have the maps, and there is a cave nearby we can wait in for dawn. Scouts, make sure we leave no traces behind.”
“Sir… There are no scouts left,” said one Charr.
“Aye… Then, I shall do it. I’ll teach you how to do it.”
“To do Scouts work?” asked the Trooper, stunned under his helmet.
“It is a different time. We need to learn from the other Legions,” said the Commander, turning his back and reaching for the blade he’d used. It was almost done for… But even broken, it could still stab things._
-
There was a cry: a roar, an outcry.
The eye couldn’t peel away from the sight. He had to see it, to observe the whip crack and hit… And take its bite. It wouldn’t be a surprise if Charrs were gritting their teeth and showing no sign of weakness when interrogated.
But this was different; this was entirely different because the Dominion won, and they were earning nothing from torturing them. And yet, the whip cracked while Efram Greetsglory roared. His cut horns were not as impressive, nor was his shaved mane or his cut claws. All to humiliate a male. Worse, he’d been stripped of his Shaman attire so he’d look like any other Charr, except for his glowing hands, signs of his power.
He roared, his mouth opening while spit flew. And then…. His head lowered while the Charr behind him chuckled and grabbed the whip between his fingers, licking the leather.
“You don’t look so well, Flame Legion,” scoffed their Torturer.
A warden with a terrible reputation, a bastard with a broken jaw, an ugly snout, and an arm smaller than the other. Which would have led him to death in the Fahrar if not for the willingness to fight… or the sadism he presented as he waited for Efram to catch his breath.
Efram… He was the first of the Flame Legion to attempt reconciliation, even before the All-Legion rally. Perhaps the best shot for the Legions’ reunification, if not for Bangar's expansionist desire and attempt at creating his own Dominion.
The Commander could only pity him as he watched the torture through the bars, watching as Efram caught his breath before burning iron was pressed against his back to cauterize the wounds, before more would be inflicted. A torment that wasn’t to end, not as long as the Warden sought to torture them.
And so, the Commander turned his back and sat down in his cell, his back against the bars, while he exhaled and closed his eye.
“When do you think it’ll be our turn?” asked Rytlock.
Just as naked, just as exposed. The dark-brown-furred Charr looked way smaller without his armor, but still as striking and impressive. A true Charr, with a Charrhood to impress, the Commander thought.
He would have loved to share a night with him… In better circumstances. Not those. Not as they were stuck in adjacent cells, stripped off their clothes except for the minimum… Much like the Commander’s eyepatch, though, it was only the minimum of decency.
“Not us. He focuses on the Flame Legion. Never us, never the Blood Legion.”
“True… Do you know why he hates them so much?” asked Rytlock, grunting and eyeing the Warden as he was back to whipping. “Efram doesn’t look so good.”
“He lost his Warband to a Flame assault,” replied the Commander, looking indeed at Efram, who roared again, his tail even clipped. “But Efram has seen worse.”
Then, he turned to Rytlock… Then to their cells.
They were in a block, in a prison. Not the Blood Keep, however. Even though they were stuck in Blood Legion territory, retaken quickly during the Civil War, they were not… Well, in the most exposed ground.
No, they were probably at the Claw Stronghold, the headquarters of the former Blood Legion. But that place wasn’t familiar to the Commander. He’d never been there, even before he was dispatched to the Iron Legion.
Those tall halls, the aligned cells, stacked atop one another. It differed from the Prisons he was used to visiting. In fact, the place was dreary, without a hint of sunlight, and even the time outside the cell was spent in an underground hall where the Charrs could stretch but interact only minimally.
That’s also where they were fed, given rations one by one before they ate in their corners, Warbands with Warbands, factions with factions. The light was eerie… And though they were underground; the place was warm, perhaps from all the prisoners, with a significant portion coming from the Flame Legion.
“I don’t envy him. It’s worse today,” said Rytlock. Prosaic.
Again, the Commander turned, seeing as the Charr was beaten and even spanked. No rape, perhaps, today.
“Maybe there are rebellions in the Flame Legion lands. They were still pushing back in place.”
“And he has to take it on him… We need to get out, Commander. Don’t you think you can do something?”
The Commander scoffed, shaking his head.
“I’m strong, but those bars are stronger. What about you, you can’t mist jump or something?”
“I wish,” grumbled Rytlock, knocking against the bar. “Whatever they used for those bars, I can’t push through. They’re always there.”
“Always there?”
“I don’t know how to explain. I’m not Glint. I don’t have the words.”
“So, you admit you’re useless?” commented the Commander, his head pressed against the bars. “Poor Rytlock runt-“
“Can you stop? You’re hurting my feelings,” growled Rytlock, amused and cynical.
“Yeah, I-“
“VISIT!”
The cries from the lashes stopped, and so did the beating. Like one, every Charr, every prisoner in their cell, turned to see what had happened. Rytlock and the Commander exchanged glances, too, knowing something foul would happen, as visits rarely occurred or were announced.
This was unnerving as they turned, twisted, and sat to face whoever was coming. They watched the Charrs of the Dominion, clad in armor and exuding a cold aura, approach. Among them? Well, it didn’t take long to notice the features similar to Rytlock’s… And the snarl he had for his sire.
“Ryland,” grunted Rytlock, sitting while the Commander scooted back, but remained close enough to listen.
To see Sire and Cub facing one another, as Ryland looked like an Officer, with his red armor yet with hints of ice sticking to his body and climbing on it. He was less affected than the soldiers, whose bodies were almost overtaken, their faces hidden.
But they moved with control, holding onto their rifles with one keeping aim on the Commander.
“Rytlock Brimstone,” replied Ryland.
For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Ryland’s green eyes danced upon Rytlock’s naked frame. Eyeing him up and down… Before he scoffed.
“What’s so funny, Cub? You want to say something?”
“I wanted to see you. I imagined you would be in a better condition. Where is your armor?”
“Stripped. We were all cozy and decided we looked better without them.”
“What happened to them?” asked Ryland. Not to Rytlock, but a soldier.
Meanwhile, the Commander noticed the Warden approaching. He pushed Efram ahead, forcing him to stumble onward before he ended up in a cell, right beside the Commander. But as he listened, he heard the pained breath from Efram. The grunts… While the Charr was clutching his body, he was definitely bleeding and freezing.
The cells were made to counter their abilities, and for Efram’s… Oh, it was icy.
“We’ll get it to you,” interjected Ryland, catching the Commander’s attention once more.
“Yeah, yeah. Guess Bangar wants his little parade with us?”
“He wants more than that,” said Ryland, chuckling and crossing his arms. “But he doesn’t need you to degrade yourself any further.”
“Good to know. I wouldn’t want to shame our new Khan-Ur.”
Certainly, the exchange was spiteful with Ryland’s jaw tensing.
“He won. You lost. You’d better learn where your position is if you don’t want to die.”
“Empty threats? Go on, Cub. You want to kill me, do it.”
The Commander frowned, but he saw Rytlock’s words for what they were: calling Ryland on his bluff. No, even facing him as he stood up and had his hands on the bars despite the visible pain they produced. But he held them, leaned forward until his muzzle was through.
“Come now. Do it. Take one rifle and aim at my head. The Fahrar taught you that.”
Ryland’s fingers twitched as he turned, watching a Soldier readily offer his rifle. Standard issue, something every Charr ought to know how to use. Yet, the Commander watched as Ryland’s fingers grabbed the weapon.
“That’s right.”
“Rytlock,” groaned the Commander, only to be shushed.
“Let him. He has to do it. That’s why he came. To see me. To see how much better he is than I am. Do it, Ryland,” grunted Rytlock.
The rifle was held. Ryland opened it to check the barrel, then slipped the offered ammo. The lever was pulled, and then the rifle was pointed.
Meanwhile, Rytlock continued to grunt: “That’s it. That’s how you do it. Take aim. I’m not moving, it shouldn’t be hard.”
The nagging continued, even with the Commander huffing to catch Rytlock’s attention. But both Charrs were facing one another, with an enmity…
One that culminated with Rytlock having the rifle pointed at his forehead.
“Yes. That’s here. Pull the trigger. You can do it,” nagged Rytlock, his voice heavy. Rumbling, powerful. And…
No, the rifle was lowered with Ryland eyeing Rytlock… With the Charr’s shoulders dropping and Rytlock… Rytlock’s attitude shifted with a thin smile, almost a smirk.
Bang!
Rytlock fell.
He clutched his shoulder, where he’d been hit. A clean hit as the bullet went through the shoulder: only blood, no bone shards, nothing. Ryland shot clean under the collarbone, avoiding the shoulder blade. And… Though Rytlock grunted in pain, clutching his bleeding shoulder, he smiled.
Ryland scoffed, throwing the rifle back at the soldier before he turned… Not to Rytlock, but towards the Commander.
“I do not grant death wishes… But I don’t know what you desire from him. But you should know, I’m the improved version,” he said, his voice filled with scorn. With disdain… One equaled by the Commander’s frown.
“I don’t think I understand what you want, Ryland,” scoffed the Charr.
“But you do. It’s a shame you put your chances with someone who will never reciprocate.”
“And so? Do you want me to feel sorry for myself? Or to hit on me? Get lost, Cub.”
Ryland’s frown returned, his expression definitely soured. But as Ryland watched his soldiers, he pushed against them, forcing them to head back to the prison entrance. Leaving him… Abandoning them, as even the Warden followed, obsequious.
For a moment, the sounds of footsteps continued until the Commander turned his eye towards Rytlock, seeing him still clutching his shoulder.
“Rytlock. Are you still with us?”
“Yeah, Commander,” grunted the older Charr. “What was that?”
“What was? The gunshot? You were having a death wish or what?”
“No, not that. Ryland hitting on you. What’s his deal?” grunted Rytlock.
A question that made the Commander’s eyes almost roll as he approached his hand through the bars, waving at Rytlock.
“Come closer, I’ll press on your back,” said the Commander.
“Good to know you have it,” growled Rytlock, going back to the bars, while the Commander pressed on the bleeding wound, but not without watching around. “But tell me.”
The Commander grunted while eyeing the wound. Sure as hell, a clean shot.
“I don’t think this place is good for commitment,” he said, his hands sticky.
“Commitment. Come now, we’re making a good couple,” said Rytlock with a chuckle… Before he stopped, he looked over his shoulder.
The Commander had a scrunched-up expression, a mix of surprise and displeasure.
“What… I’m not serious. I’m pulling your leg.”
“Yeah. And I’m sure Ryland must have picked on it, Rytlock,” said the Commander. “He knows I love his sire. And he won’t have it otherwise.”
“Wait? You?” said Rytlock, his eyes wide before he shook his head. “I’m flattered. But I am… Well, I had Crecia. And I’m not swinging that way.”
“Drop it, Rytlock.”
“Are you sure-“
“Drop it.”
That was definitely awkward. Especially with the way Rytlock’s tail swayed to cover his ass now. But the Commander tried not to think about it, or not to have dirty thoughts while he had his fingers pressed against the wound. But it was coagulating and… Well, he didn’t have to press on it much longer though it formed a neat hole under the fur.
“Watch out if it bleeds again. We have no medic here,” said the Commander, pushing against Rytlock’s shoulder.
“Yeah, thanks,” said Rytlock, grumbling. “So… That’s why Ryland asked you?”
“Blazes, Rytlock,” grunted the Commander, shaking his head. “Your cub wants me to rub it against your face. But you don’t even notice it.”
“Yeah… But I assumed you were talking nicely with the others, too.”
“Nicely? I was polite,” scoffed the Commander, sitting back on his butt.
“Yeah. And you often watched Smoldur’s armor.”
“It doesn’t mean I cannot admire the merchandise,” said the Commander, rolling his eyes while watching Rytlock lean sideways so they could see one another. “Point is-“
“Point is, you want me.”
“Point is, I want you. But your Cub wants me because it should get to you.”
Again, an awkward silence with Rytlock’s breath being fast and painful. But he wasn’t about to die. He suffered and could not use his right arm until the wound healed.
“I should have been with him. Instead of letting Bangar fill his head with lies.”
“Believe me, Rytlock… Ryland must be filling his head with his own lies. He is your cub… But the way he wants to erase you? No. That’s his own problem.”
“Then-“
“Then cut it. He’s your cub, yes. But you’re a Charr. When a Sire cared for their Cubs’ troubles?”
The question remained in the air… Until the door to the prison reopened again, with the Warden stomping forward. He watched the prisoners. He even checked on Rytlock and the Commander before that ugly snout released a sound of snort and suction… Something from the wound before the Warden had his eyes set for another prisoner, another Flame soldier.
Another guy he dragged out of his frigid prison, yanking on the Soldier’s arm before attaching him by the arms and beginning to… Well. Not brutalize him, but rape him.
Even with the distance, the Commander could see the Charr being prepared with grease applied to his posterior before the Warden went in with his dick… And it was raw, brutal, without love. Something the Commander looked at with disdain.
“Is that what you want to do with me?” asked Rytlock, cutting in.
“Rust! How dense can you be, Rytlock?” groaned the Commander, smacking his forehead loudly.
“You can’t stop a Charr from being curious. Plus, I interrupted you when you did it with-“
“Shhh!” groaned the Commander, leaning forward and bringing his index finger to his lips. “Not… A. Single. Word. Got it?”
“Fair.”
The Commander sighed and dropped back on his bottom. He closed his eyes, relaxed… And huffed. He tried to ignore the grunts, the cries, the pleas… But.
“It looks painful, though.” The commander’s eyes opened wide with ire.
-
“What should we say?” asked a Human in a sarcastic tone, stretching his fingers and arms.
Wearing the typical attire of a reporter for the local news, he was among the many waiting by the Black Citadel Gate. Well, or what ought to be the Citadel Gate in Lion’s Arch.
A few weeks ago, most Charrs fled through it before it was forcefully taken down from the Black Citadel side.
And now… Now, news had come that the Asura Gate would reopen.
Hence, the place was crowded. With dignitaries, diplomats, merchants, and whatnot. With the Asura Gate down, most trade with the Charrs stopped, and so the climate of instability brought by the Charr civil war had worsened. So much so, there were apparitions of refugee camps moving further south, encroaching on the former lands of Orr so that they could survive and avoid the Dominion.
Beyond that, even the Norns had noticed changes among the frontiers between their lands, eliciting a few more questions.
“Let’s wait more. Patience is a virtue,” replied a young Sylvari by his side, wearing a flowery open robe, though her bag was full of Asura contraptions to record videos and images, while she held onto a clipboard. She looked less prepared than him. But it was the opposite.
The situation was getting worse as he bit his nail, watching as the crowd grew rowdy.
There were a few Charrs at the front, even Evon Gnashblade was there… And the tension was ever-growing, with whispers that the dignitaries might step away. A wasted day.
“That’s a bust. I should have tried the Copters.”
“And get taken down? Let’s just wait until the Gate opens.”
Still, the eyes were drawn around the amphitheater-like Coriolis place… On the variation of Races living in the white stone houses of the rebuilt Lion’s Arch. He followed the anxious glances, then… He returned to the Sylvari as he was about to speak.
And yet, he heard it, the faint ‘Bzzt’. Beyond, ahead, the Asura Gate had reopened, and the shimmering purple of the threshold attracted the eyes as the people rushed inside.
So many people. It was chaotic, hectic. And though the guards tried to stop it at first, the crowd’s pressure forced them to step back as a sea was unleashed upon the Gate, which absorbed it… Until the two journalists were dragged through it… And ended up in a place. Not… Not where the Gate was supposedly posted, hanging above the ruined city of Rin.
No. As they dusted them off and checked their bodies for wounds, the two were standing on rigid steel while surrounded.
The Gate was still disengorging itself, though the pace was slower until it stopped, lest for a few souls passing every minute.
However, in the meantime, those who’d passed were now surrounded by Charrs. Charrs in armor, their faces covered by helmets, all wearing the blues of the Dominion. They formed a square with their blades ready. Those behind held their rifles up, aiming at the Gate and those who crossed through.
“Shit. This is a trap. We need to get out,” mumbled the Human, looking towards the Gate as they’d been pushed to the edge of the crowd, near the Charrs… And yet, almost at the feet of the immense sphere of metal that was the Imperator Core.
An impressive structure that cast a long shadow, with a wide door linked to a ramp leading to the central place they were.
A ramp with Charrs positioned on either side, with the posture of soldiers at the ready… Or a parade. A surprising vision, replaced by the apparition of the Blood Imperator. Or the leader of the Dominion. The new ‘Khan-Ur’
Bangar Ruinbringer.
It was obvious the old Charr was quite a looker. His auburn fur that didn’t betray his age. He advanced with the poise of a lord. He wore a helmet that embraced his head but did not hide his muzzle. And his shoulder pads were adorned with spikes, all made in the likeness of the original Khan-Ur representation.
However, he was not alone, as he was flanked by a younger Charr wearing old Blood Legion armor, with green eyes and a typical scowl towards the recently arrived travelers.
“Bangar?! What is the meaning of this?!” roared a voice.
“Quick, record that.”
The Sylvari pulled a metal box from her satchel and aimed it at the sole Charr advancing, covered in black fur and wearing a rich outfit befitting his stately role.
Evon Gnashblade might not be a member of the Captain’s Council, the leading council of Lion’s Arch… But he was definitely a mogul with the guts to speak up and point fingers.
“We were told the exchanges would resume!”
“And the Black Citadel would welcome dignitaries to discuss a prompt renewal of the treaties,” added a Sylvari, her head covered with pink petals, her looks far more primitive and raw than Evon’s.
“Now, now,” replied Bangar, approaching, waving his hands down. “We were preparing for a duplicitous attack from the rebels. Luckily enough, there were none.”
“Rebels? You mean the Legions?” scoffed Evon.
“Luckily enough, there were none. Unless I am wrong,” replied Bangar, his tone stiff.
Stiffer was Evon, straightening his neck while grimacing, as if he’d bitten into a rotten fruit. Not that anyone could tell he was wrong.
“There are no fighters here,” added the Sylvari, stepping forward. “Bangar Ruinbringer. We have met before. I am Aife, and I will represent the Tyrian Alliance.”
“Where are the others? The Humans? Or the Asuras?”
Bangar’s question cut through, eliciting a look of surprise from the Diplomat Sylvari before she turned, looking back at the crowd of Asuras, Norns, Humans, and other Races. Then she turned back toward Bangar.
“Due to our neutral history, I was given the role to speak on their behalf, with Evon speaking on behalf of the Council and Lion’s Arch.”
“Write that down,” mumbled the Human journalist, taking notes, too, while sometimes eyeing the Charr soldiers. But the information was too interesting as the tension grew.
“Bah. We will do without them,” grunted Bangar, shaking his head while turning his back. “So long as they accept our requests.”
“We will not give away the refugees,” said the Sylvari
Bangar stopped, looking over his shoulder.
“Is that so?”
“They are refugees, and the Pale Tree admitted them. I can also confirm Knut Whitebear, Queen Jennah, and the Arcane Council will not relent on this.”
“Hum. I see. Maybe we shall discuss this in private, then,” commented Bangar, turning his back with his tail fluttering while his ‘aide’ nodded at the Diplomat. “For the moment, we will allow the people to enter the city. Under watch.”
Aife and Evon looked at one another, with Evon frowning and pointing his muzzle at the Imperator Core. Their exchange seemed tense, but the Sylvari shook her head and advanced towards the structure, Guards flanking them. Followed a few aides who brought along treaties and documents that were sure to be used during the exchange.
“I wish I could be there to record this,” mumbled the Human as he watched the round door close, and yet, the square of soldiers remained.
“And I don’t envy them. It is about to get tense.”
“But… The Civil War. We couldn’t report on it, but it was such a topic, such a-“
“AHEM!”
The sound was loud.
So loud, almost an echo. Where Bangar had been standing, a Charr was speaking. Not clad in armor, but wearing blue attire while surrounded by those soldiers covered with ice armor.
While holding a stack of paper, he also had a device pointing at his mouth, amplifying his voice as he went on about the change to the security measures.
Each visitor was to be escorted by soldiers while in the Black Citadel to ensure they wouldn’t trespass.
If someone were caught trespassing, they would be quickly thrown out of the Black Citadel and declared persona non grata. A simple ruling, though the Human journalist grinned.
“Do you hear that?”
“That we’re having babysitters? It’s bad.”
“No. It’s great! It means they’ve got something to hide.”
“Oh no. I know that face.”
“We must see it!” he said with a grin.
A grin that didn’t stop even as one of the helmeted Charr approached them, followed by another. They pointed at the duo. “Purpose for the visit?”
“We’re…” began the Sylvari.
“We’re prospecting merchants,” said the Human, cutting her off. “We need to visit the Factorium.”
“How do you know-“
“Follow me.”
The Charr didn’t ask more. He signaled the duo to follow.
Next, the Sylvari and the Human were stuck between him and his fellow as they went further north, through the mounds of broken steel. Everywhere, there were traces of fights and conflicts. Bullets' impacts were repainted, but the torsion remained… Similar to the holes in the large, round Charr housing.
“On the way back, we need to take photos of the cantons,” said the Human, eyeing the streets filled with Soldiers but oddly silent. Not a cry, not a peep, not a civilian. It was odd, and the tension was heavy in the air.
“Where are we going?”
“The Factorium. If there is anyone from after the war, they must be there.”
“You’ve been here.”
“Many times. Now, hush. Do you see any inhabitants?”
“… No.”
No. The city felt dead.
And it wasn’t only from the Charrs being a bunch of warlike felines with a hard-on for Barracks. No, the whole town was dead silent, though there was a noisy island that formed the Factorium. However, the vision was… Grim.
Charrs were definitely working there, but the number of soldiers was indecent. As for the workers, though they were the majority, they moved with their shoulders low. And their attire… They wore hemp, practically nothing but slaves with collars adorned with blue gemstones. But no bindings, no cuffs.
“Oh. This is bad.”
“What is bad?” asked the Sylvari, frowning as she was close to a working Charr and saw him trembling before he quickly swerved to circumvent them.
“It’s like with Joko. They’re handpicked.”
“Handpicked?”
“Slavery. See the marks on their wrists? They had cuffs, and there are only males-“
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing!” replied the Human, turning to the Soldier.
The faceless Charr was unnerving. But worse was how that body swayed even at rest, with that ice sticking to it. And then… The air was colder as the Charr pointed at the Sylvari’s satchel.
“What’s inside?”
“Asura technology, we want to trade. That’s why we’re here.”
“Nobody wants it.”
“That’s too bad. We need to trade and… Get goods from the Charrs.”
“Goods?”
The question was tense… But the Human trembled as he turned to the Sylvari.
“You record… Go south.”
“What?”
Her voice became a shrill cry as the Human grabbed her and pushed her aside, before he ran north. Deeper into the Factorium. The Guards stopped, eyed one another… Before they ran towards the Human who cried, fleeing them.
Leaving the Sylvari alone, lost in a captured city… And clutching her satchel.
“Record… South. G-Got it,” she mumbled to herself.
-
“What is this?”
The question was asked not out of curiosity about the topic but about the method by which it was acquired. And how much a disgrace it was to observe this in the Omphalos Chamber.
Located atop the Pale Tree, the very home of the Sylvaris, the Chamber had housed many parleys, many political discourses, especially during the War on Thorns.
But the situation was different now.
The Pale Tree was ailing, forcing Aife to represent the Sylvaris. Smodur the Unflinching was the loser of the Charr Civil War, hence his absence. Queen Jennah was there, as well as the recently anointed Councilor Jehro, representing the Asura. And since Knut Whitebear was busy reinforcing the Norns' holdings, it was the duty of his son, Skarti, to represent them.
Everyone, minus the Charrs, was represented.
And yet, the Tyrian Alliance still shuddered at the vision produced by a projector at the center of the room.
The machine thrummed with life, projecting a purple vision of what had been recorded.
Many Charrs, mostly females, were aligned and bound so they couldn’t move while in different stages of pregnancy. Male Charrs bound, their horns cut, their nails clipped, their manes shaved; they were forced to carry ore and scrap to the Imperial Smelter.
Of course, those two parts were shown one after another, displaying something utterly revolting, enough to make Aife scrunch up her nose and Skarti frown. Jennah, as typical, maintained a stoic composure, whereas Jehro observed the projector more than the display itself, perhaps used to it.
“A recording of the Black Citadel, from one young Sylvari journalist who snuck her way in.”
“How did you procure this? And where is she?” asked Jennah.
“We do not know.”
“You do not know? How’s that?” pointed Aife.
“We do not know,” replied Jehro, shrugging. “It was one device we seeded in the population for recording. As per the- Hum. Arcane Regulatory Code 33, Paragraph 8-“
“Are you telling us you seeded recording devices in the population without their consent?”
The question was a pique, almost a stern admonishment, from Jennah. Even her perfect expression had that scornful frown.
“We. Yes. They were meant to be kept within Rata Sums’ confines, but after a smuggling accident, we extended the scope to- “
“Can we focus on what’s happening?” retorted Aife, clutching her arms while observing the display. “This is not what I was told.”
The eyes turned towards her as she shuffled nervously. She kept eyeing the looping recording, with the Sylvari Journalist seemingly shaken as the focus was unsteady. Whether it was on a female or a male, whether in those breeding rooms or near the smelter.
The Dominion had enslaved their own kin, their population, and limited them to concentration camps with a singular goal: to repurpose their enemy into something productive.
It was pragmatic. It was cold. It was Charr.
And not. It was the opposite of what they’ve been pushing against since the fall of the Flame Legion.
“Indeed. It is adequate to put the topic of the recording and its origin aside for a moment,” commented Jennah, ever so tactful. “And refocus on the origin of our meeting.”
“I merely desired to… Offer the knowledge we possess,” said Jehro, his face going white from the glare the Human Queen addressed to him, before all eyes returned to Aife.
She continued to shift nervously, her arms crossed with her fingers thrumming against her elbows while she continued to eye the projector even as it was turned off.
“Aife? If you may?”
“Oh, sorry,” replied the Sylvari to Jennah, uncrossing her arms and taking a deep breath.
“When we met the Impe- the new Khan-Ur, he seemed reasonable. He explained that he desired to reopen the diplomatic channels that were cut during the Civil War,” began Aife. “It all made sense with him wanting to make sure the exchanges and trades would return. But…”
“But?” asked Skarti, with the young Norn nodding forward.
“When I asked him about the new goals from the Dominion, he took time to answer.”
“What was his answer?”
“I think he lied. But he told me he solely desired to reinforce the Charrs’ holdings in Tyria.”
“Or he told the truth, and he’s planning to expand,” said Jehro.
The eyes turned on the Asura, who tilted his head.
“We all thought about it. No?”
“Yes,” added Jennah. “And if the recording is real, their recovery will be… Faster.”
“That’s not all,” interrupted Aife, waving her hand. “He often asked about the Refugees and their situation. He was quite probing about those who might be in Kryta or the Norns’ holdings.”
“He’s planning to attack them,” added the small Asura, ignoring the stare.
“I answered the majority moved around Lion’s Arch and are protected by the Vigil. But he started asking about the Vigils’ ties to us. But whenever I lied, he asked me… He asked me questions that implied he knew I was lying.”
“We saw Dominion Scouts alongside the borders, and it must be the same with the Vigils. The… Ash Legion, some joined the Dominion, right?” asked Skarti.
“The Dominion welcomed every Legion,” confirmed Jennah with a nod. “We must assume some former Ash Legion are spying on us at the moment. Aife? What else?”
“Sorry. I thought about a different matter,” explained the Sylvari, shaking her head. “I wrote everything down, but now that I think about it. There was…”
“There was?” probed Jennah.
“It’s stupid,” commented the Sylvari, waving her hand. “I asked about Smodur the Unflinching and what happened to him. He showed me the prison.”
“He showed you Smodur?”
“I thought that was him, but now that I think about it, it couldn’t be him.”
“How can you be certain?”
“His eyes color. They were different. But he must have been using a double.”
“For what reason?”
-
Efram groaned.
But so were most of the Charrs being dragged altogether, chained, and forced to approach the ‘processing unit’ as it was called. There were only a dozen, at best, high-ranking individuals who had a hand in opposing the Dominion during the Civil War.
Chief of operations, logistics, naval operations; the list could go on, and the roles were handed out without a care. However, the Charrs, all males, were definitely grunting and panting.
It all started in the morning with a few Guards coming in, their faces covered with masks, before something was planted in each Charr’s neck. The result had been atrocious.
As all prisoners were moving forward, they did so while covering their modesty or ignoring their erections pushing out of their sheaths, dripping on the floor.
It culminated in a humiliating walk, as they were handcuffed and forced to waddle with their steps minded while the other prisoners from all the units, all forced into boxes, eyed them. Their leaders, their chiefs, whoever was atop the totem pole…
They were all walking ahead, their heads hurting, and their genitals pointing ahead and sometimes brushing the metal or the cuffs.
Either way, it was torture. It was a rough punishment as their genitals were so sensitive that even a small breeze could make them totter.
“Ah… I’m burning,” groaned Efram, his voice low.
“We are,” groaned Rytlock on his left, definitely sporting the largest erection of all, though he didn’t have low-hangers like Efram… Or the Commander on the other side.
“Do not show weakness. That’s how they are singling us out,” groaned the Commander.
But he was definitely having his fingers sometimes touch his erection, almost stroking the tip that continued to spurt, and sometimes hitting the Charr’s ass ahead.
Charr, who growled and turned his head to snarl at the Commander.
But the moment he turned, his steps slowed, and the soldier in charge of that column yanked on the chains. Making it so that they had to step faster and readjust.
“What’s with that thing? What’s the gain in doing this?” grunted Rytlock. “Pfah. I’m sure Caithe would say something about it.”
“It is a poison to affect your mind, Commander. I am sure,” said the Commander in return, trying to imitate Caithe’s tone and voice. The sound was grating, but fitting enough to get Rytlock to chuckle on the other side.
“My Wyld hunt isn’t about boners, Commander.”
“Ugh.”
Efram’s grunt in the middle was fairly obvious, with his head hung low and his face burning. But even if he could wield the fire within him, which wasn’t the case, it wouldn’t do much about the alloys employed by the Dominion.
“How can you be so cheerful? They are probably doing this to cut your horns, too,” he grumbled, shaking his head. And yes, his horns had been cut and even reshaped so they looked like little nubs. Practically fitting cubs for cubs or someone reduced… Or deficient.
“We try to make fun of how we can. That’s how we endured the worst.”
“He never let me sleep in peace after the Balthazar incident.”
“Not after you put a white cloth over your head to resemble a ghost,” corrected Rytlock, shaking his head. “But yeah. We’d better not care too much. That’s what they want.”
By ‘they’, Rytlock pointed to the prison Guards who eyed them but seemed not to care about their banter. Moreover, the icy breath pouring from their helmets made them even less appealing to look at. Not as Rytlock turned to Efram.
“It’s only horns. And nails and the mane. They can’t do worse.”
“I care for my horns,” replied the Commander, shaking his head. “They’re well grown.”
The answer was Efram’s head hanging lower. In the end, they stepped into a white room with cages to house them all. But it wasn’t the only type of furniture around. No, there were examination beds. There were strange machines at rest and yet buzzing with energy… Throttled while waiting for their purpose to be filled.
The air was also heavy with hints of alcohol and cleaning supplies, making each breath caustic. And yet, it wasn’t ending there, as the Prisoners were put in the cage save for two.
One was a younger Officer, probably recently appointed before the end of the War and another Veteran whose horns had already been cut.
Both were dragged to the examination beds, with Guards assigned to each.
“Is that how it happened?” asked the Commander, watching as the two Charrs were secured before a flock of other Charrs entered the room. No soldiers. They wore white aprons, their blue eyes behind glasses, and their claws trimmed in white gloves.
They looked like those Asura practitioners, but far more terrible. Far more clinical as they grabbed the young male, who grunted and pleaded not to have his horns cut.
“That was how,” confirmed Efram with a nod. “But I don’t… What they’re doing.”
The Flame Legion ‘Imperator’ raised his chin towards the other and older Charr. He was on the examination bed, which shifted, becoming akin to a seat, though his legs were raised thanks to wooden supports.
Just so his genitals were examined, touched, prodded… Before the older Charr roared.
“DO NOT TOUCH ME HERE!” roared the old Officer, spitting at the scientists.
They shrugged, nodded to a nearby Guard who grabbed a plastic ball to stuff into the old Officer’s mouth.
He who groaned, grunted, huffed… Right before, with a chuckle, he peed on the scientists who cried, grunted… And then had the Charr choked. A vision of abhorrent violence, completed by the young Officer having his horns cut.
With a chainsaw, one of the scientists was directly cutting the base of the ram-like horns, cutting them to a bloody nub before an unguent was applied to make the blood coagulate… Even then, the Charr’s face was covered with blood as he whined, trembled, and was definitely far more devastated than Efram was.
“Poor lad. He’s already lost his chances with the females,” said Rytlock, clicking his tongue.
“Females? How can you think about that in that moment?” asked Efram, his tone tense.
“Because that’s probably what he’s thinking about. Isn’t it what you thought when… heh?”
“No… I thought about how my people wouldn’t recognize me,” grunted Efram.
A remark that made the Commander reach out for the Flame Shaman, putting a hand on his shoulder in cold comfort.
Meanwhile, the bloody scream continued.
Not only for the young Officer, whose horns were stripped of the rigid exterior after they injected an anesthetic. Nevertheless, it was gory to watch… Quite painful for the Charrs to watch.
Yet, they also frowned and grunted when they saw the older Officer having his chest fur and his mane shaved. Same for his testicles, though they went with a far more delicate touch, despite how they roughly handled the older Charr’s nuts. They pulled on it, yanked on it… And far from being done, they began shaving his posterior before examining it.
They plunged their fingers inside that entrance, making the older Charr yelp and howl before the scientists nodded to themselves. And then to the soldiers, who left the room before they brought a cauldron filled with burning coals.
The heat it gave off was daunting… Yet Efram seemed called to it like a moth to a flame when another machine was brought… One of those throttled machines, the Commander could tell.
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” somberly commented Efram. But he observed. He was definitely watching the rod attached to that machine. And then the soft plastic ball attached to the tip. It was… Worrisome, more so as it was pointed to the Old Charr’s asshole and then…
Every Charr in the cages snarled, huffed, or grimaced while the Old Officer had that rod extending and pushing into his depths.
Even the Commander clenched his teeth, imagining the burn of being penetrated with no lubricant. Raw, dry… He even clenched his buttcheeks while the old Officer was thrashing against his bindings.
He cried, roared, teared up… But the machine continued to pump, relentlessly.
His cock was hard… So were the Charrs, as they were still feeling their erections brushing their legs or taunting them. They were not feeling one hint of pleasure, but their bodies were desperate for a release, their testicles aching and sometimes forcing through some precum release.
But the Charrs were too proud… Even as they observed the Old Officer crying, roaring… And then cumming, right when one hot iron was planted against his shaved chest. One number: 56.
A strange sight… A terrible sight, both for the eye and the nose. The scent of burned flesh was strong, but the Scientists ignored it as they collected the semen sticking to the Charr’s shaft, examined it… They were talking among themselves, nodding or something.
Next, they convened on something because they waved at a Guard… And had that Guard planting a hot iron onto the Charr’s scrotum.
A hot iron that burned, that made the Charr cry until he passed out… Until there was but a red X on that right testicle.
“Next! Now we split!” shouted the Scientist, those in charge of the machine.
In one motion, the guards dragged two horn-cut males outside and placed them on the examination beds. Not one, two. And they were placed right, like the old officer, lying on a chair with their legs spread while they were shaved.
They whined, they cried, they huffed, they pleaded. But the result was the same as they were penetrated, and they howled. They howled while the Commander winced. And so did Rytlock and Efram.
“Fuck… You’re into that co-“
“Can it,” growled the Commander, shaking his head. “Not… Into that.”
“I don’t think anyone could be into that,” added Efram, nodding.
They watched.
The Young officer was finally done. Dazed, stunned, with his horns bandaged atop his head… He looked bloody and was still left on an examination table while another table was ready, and the staff moved around.
Two sets for the fucking. Two sets for the horn-cutting. The Commander turned to the Prisoners. Only one-third had their horns. So… They were counting on those Charrs being examined first.
“They were planning this,” grumbled the Commander.
“Yeah. That’s a prison, Commander,” huffed Rytlock. “Weird prison. With boner. Why are they… Fucking them?”
“I don’t know.”
The Commander would know soon enough.
He would have to know as he watched Efram being taken to an examination chair, being fucked, shaved… And then branded with a 65 on his chest.
However, by the time Efram was out, Rytlock was taken to the examination bed to have his horns cut and trimmed. The former Tribune roared and cried, even shook his head, despite the chainsaw approaching his head.
Perhaps it nicked his ear, but as soon as it did, there was conflict and shouting from the Charrs and the Soldiers, with fingers pointed at Rytlock.
Then, the operation resumed with Rytlock… Definitely looking lessened. His horns were reduced, and his anger was visible, even as he was drugged and had to be carried to another cage next to the Commander.
“Rytlock… You’re with me?”
“Hehe… Cum… Cummander. You cum? Hehe,” replied Rytlock, definitely dazed before he hit his head against the bars and drooled through.
Then, before Rytlock was taken away for the fucking, it was the Commander’s turn to have his horns reduced.
And it was painful. They cut through the horns, and only after that did they inject something inside. The pain receded, but the result was there because he was dazed and stunned. Because his thoughts were muddy even as he tried to listen.
“Beware with that one. Bangar wants to keep him around.”
“Yeah. Like Rytlock. Damn. Why do we have to care for traitors?”
“We only do. Now work.”
The Commander’s mouth opened then closed, as he had nothing to add. Nothing to say. No, his head bobbed back before it hit the bed, and someone kept it steady while his horns were trimmed to nubs, cleaned with disinfectant, and then bandaged.
But even drugged to a fault, and as the daze washed off, those horns felt like throbbing blades planted in his head. More than that, he could feel… Holes in them, something surprising.
But as he tried to poke the bandages, the Guards were quick to smack his arms, making him understand he shouldn’t touch them. No. He would have to wait and see…
Wait while Rytlock was shaved: neck, chest, and balls, then fucked. He certainly sobered up because they had to have his mouth shut with a gag before the Charr scientists nodded and stamped his balls with a hot iron. Not a cross, though. But a checkmark.
Something the Commander observed before he, too, was dragged to the examination chair.
His face burned, his eye was swollen. And so, it would be the turn of his ass as the rod expanded and penetrated his ass. As it rushed inside his guts without pleasure or delight. Just raw abuse as he was stuffed, his prostate molested, and his body trembled in pain.
In sheer pain while his vision shifted, blurred… As what could have been an orgasm, but muddied, shook him.
“High-quality reaction. He’s a prime subject.”
“The Khan-Ur will be happy.”
“And the Imperator. Quick. We need to mark him.”
Their exchange was weird… But the Commander paid it no heed as his eye rolled and then… He closed his eye, only to reopen it when the iron was applied to his chest and testicles. 78. He was number 78. Yet, he also had a check mark on his testicles.
Testicles that throbbed and were painful, so painful, he couldn’t even stand on his feet.
No, like the others, he was dragged outside, his legs dangling under him as everything around was a blur. A pain to see. A pain to process. A pain even to see, as the artificial lighting or the fire was burning his eye.
It was a blur that continued, stretched, before he was thrown into his same dirty cell.
All around him, he heard groans. From the Prisoners. From Efram. From Rytlock.
They were on either side of him. But so many Charrs groaned. Some who were brought. Some who might have been injected with the same poison.
Either way, the prison looked less like a proper prison… And closer to a torture chamber, with the Commander crawling on the floor.
“Hey… Commander. You alive?” asked Rytlock, against the bars.
“As… Much as I hate it,” groaned the Commander, dragging himself until he grabbed the bars… And yet, had to push against something fluffy. Rytlock’s posterior.
“Good. It doesn’t… Seems to end.”
“Oh. No. Problems always follow me,” grunted the Commander, pushing and even ending with his muzzle pressed against that fluff before he dragged his legs under him.
His body felt so heavy. So darn heavy, as he grumbled… And tried to look around, before listening to the Warden’s entrance while a few more Charrs were dragged around, their cut horns banded and dangling.
“Hey… It’s torture time,” groaned the Commander, his voice slurring as he sat, and yet… Pressed his body against Rytlock’s back.
No words. No reply. They heard a cage being flung open and another Charr being dragged out… Before he was attached to a pillory, ready to be whipped.
-