A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

The General Blackwell practically growled. General Karstly tittered beside him. With a wave of his great hairy hand, he waved them away.

"I told you they wouldn't budge," Karstly said.

"A shame," Blackwell said resolutely.

"They're not a mannerly folk, are they?" General Broadstone said. "That's negligence on the part of the Captain, I do believe."

"Ohh, and I wonder whose name is next on the list?" Karstly said, peering over General Blackwell's shoulder. "That's good timing, isn't it? You'll be able to tell him off, General Broadstone."

"I had planned to leave the talk of Rogue Commandants and General slaying until we had rid ourselves of the Violet Commandant slayers," General Blackwell grumbled.

"Are the men not all looking in the same direction? Do they not wish to ask the same question as we?" Karstly said. "Better to get this out of the way now, lest they be distracted for the achievements of the other folk. It wouldn't be fair to them. It was we that fielded an irregularity in the likes of the Patrick. We ought to see it explained."

General Blackwell heaved a deep sigh, but from a distance, you would never have thought it. He kept his expression frozen behind that thick yet tightly cropped black beard of his, and he carefully intoned his next announcement. "Our next man in need of reward is a Captain. A Captain on his first campaign.

Young enough that he might have been disallowed from the draft if he had been just a few months younger. His achievements on this campaign have been numerous. Under General Karstly, he played a significant role in the victory through Khan in the Mountain Pass. He earned himself the head of two Rogue Commandants in such a battle."

"Then, in the battle against Phalem, he slew another Rogue Commandant, with the assistance of Captain Lombard, and Vice-Captain Tolsey. Since arriving at our battle on the plains, he increased his number of Rogue Commandants slain to seven," Blackwell continued. He allowed those words to hang in the air for a while.

Oliver was surprised at the generosity of the speech. The last he had spoken to General Blackwell, it had not been on good terms. He would not have expected for him to sing his praises, as if he were a hero.

"I say that once more for you men that might not have heard me. A Captain slew seven Rogue Commandants," Blackwell said, continuing emphatically. "That is an achievement a veteran in the position would claw out his eyes for. He bears the same name of the Patrick that you all know – the famed Dominus Patrick – and he does his name all the justice that it is worth.

Throughout this campaign, we have seen the blossoming of many geniuses of warfare. Those that will see our Stormfront military far into the future. Ser Oliver Patrick is one such man. Those of you with an interest, I bid that you look, and you recall the face of a young man that is sure to play a significant role in our conflicts in the future."

At Lord Blackwell's urging, thousands of eyes flickered Oliver's way. He had to grit his teeth in order to bear that pressure of it. He kept his gaze facing forward. He thought this speech to be too much for the likes of Blackwell. He thought the man to be more straightforward than this.

"In every age, heroes are born," Blackwell said. "We were fortunate enough to witness Arthur Pendragon and Dominus Patrick in our lifetimes. Now, despite our unworthiness, the Gods have seen fit to bless us with another. Not a lone man – we have witnessed a handful who have made Patrick's mark in the course of our work – and perhaps not even a man at all.

He extends beyond the wants of a single man, the thoughts of a single man. He bears the hopes of the Stormfront. He is the wheel of all your wills. Where you push him, he will turn."

With Blackwell's gaze firmly fixed Oliver's way, he thought he began to see a secondary meaning in those words. Beneath all those sounds of praise, he caught the tittering of what sounded like condemnation. He could practically feel the long sigh of Blackwell's disappointment. What he spoke of were his expectations for Oliver, and the undertone was how far away he yet was from meeting them.

Oliver clenched his fist.

"Seven Rogue Commandants, gentlemen," Blackwell said. "If you think yourself to be mere flesh and bone, think again. Claudia's will acts through all of us. She weaves the magic of the impossible, in accordance with her laws of progress. Oliver Patrick is an example of such – but that magic is available to all of you.

Behind what many might call sleepy unfocused eyes, in each of you, there lies a dragon, and I tremble whenever I catch sight of it, just as General Zilan of the Verna trembled when he saw it in Oliver Patrick."

"A man with a strength far superior to the young man he was to cross blades with," General Blackwell continued. "Yet he did not find his victory, no matter how he pushed. With the will of a Stormfront man, Oliver Patrick stood his ground. The blood of our founding fathers flowing thickly in his veins, just as it does in all of yours.

Zilan bashed away the glass, and there was revealed the eye of a dragon. There were revealed the weapons necessary for his demise. And by the blade of Oliver Patrick, he struck that very man down, claiming his head, and pushing us all towards victory. That glory, gentlemen, is within reach for you all. The Patrick son has not been the only Tiger stirring.

We have seen it in you Commanders, and you Sergeants. We have invoked a great wrath in the Verna – but we do so willingly. Without the slightest shred of fear. We know that for the Stormfront, a mighty foe is the fire that will set us ablaze, and carry us to the further heights of Claudia's strength. We hear the Verna threats, and we state our impatience to see them carried out.

Men of the Stormfront – a glorious future awaits."