Laaz Asoriel

A human male is seen sitting at a bar, in some small frontier town. His cloak is wrapped loosely
around him, revealing worn but well made leather armor covering him. Pockets and pouches are placed
sporadically around his person. On his thigh is a larger pouch, with several, thin hooks pierced through
for easy access. A few knife handles can be seen here and there, but not in a threathening way. The two
kukri’s strapped to his chest, however, provide more attention: one’s handle is in the shape of an angel,
the other a demon. The man’s blonde hair is close-cropped, reminiscent of professional military only
slightly grown out, or “relaxed” as ex-army like to call it. His face shares the same appearance as his
armor: worn, but well made. It seems clear to you that this man once would have been considered quite
handsome, but a trio of scars lacing across his face ruined that title some time ago. It is also weather
worn – whatever this man has done, he has done it in wind and rain. As you near him, watching his nurse
an ale, you notice a silver chain around his neck that tucks into his armor. As you order a drink, you sit
next to him. You turn to say something and only then notice a pressure near your groin: one of those
kukri’s is pressing gently – but threateningly – near your prized jewels. The man takes a drink, and then
turns his eyes, a startling green, turn to you. A hard threatening glare. You gulp down your words, trying
to come up with an apology. The man looks you up and down, and puts the knife away.

“Sincere apologies, lad, I assumed you were someone else. Didn’t your parents ever tell you to leave
armed men alone?”

“Uh, sorry sir, no sir, I uh, my father, he…he died in the Laterax crusade, and my mum died earlier.”

“Hm? Laterax you say? That wasn’t a pleasant one. I’m sorry to hear that. What was his name?”

“You know of it? Were you there?”

“Obviously. What was his name?”

“Oh, sorry sir, his name was Geoff Hansriel”. You notice the man’s eyes glaze for a moment.

“Yes, I met him, only briefly however. Did they ever tell you how he died?”

“For the honor of Elysium, in all glory.”

“in all glory, indeed. Now, that’s what they tell everyone who’s kin dies in a crusade. But they meant it
regarding your father. He had been wounded by one of those strange hive-monsters, which is how I met
him. I was stitching his shoulder back together, and was trying to reattach his fingers. Somehow, a band
of flying buggers broke through our Thrones (a military rank) and attacked the triage station. They came
in, chitin and claw, and began killing those that mostly couldn’t defend themselves. Your father got up,
grabbed a sword, and began fighting these cretins off. Mind you, he had 4 fingers total and half of his
arm was falling off. Of course, I joined him, and that’s how I got one of these scars. Geoff died there, but
he saved a lot of wounded in doing so.” You’re quiet for a moment, taking this all in. It’s the first you’ve
really heard of your father, so this is a lot of news.

“Wait…you were doing surgery on him? Are you a Virtue?”

The man’s explosive laughter bursts out, breaking the relative quiet of the bar. Some denizens look
disturbed, others move away, angry. “Boy, are you seriously asking me if I am an angel? Do I look like an
angel to you? No? Good. I was a chirurgeon, and I was placed under the supervision of a Virtue, one
Al’keera el Maranata, the so called “limb-sewer”. She is, by my opinion, the most angelic person I have
ever met, even for an angel. I served in the Elysium army for most of my life.”

“How’d you get here then? This is just frontier!”

“I know that lad. How about this, you keep buying me drinks, and I’ll tell you a good story.”

“That sounds like a deal!!” You order this man a drink, he gets up and you follow, as you both settle into
a more comfortable booth. You notice he sits so that his abck is to the wall, and he can watch everyone
who enters the bar.

“Well, I was born deep in Elysium. My parents were supposedly nobles or higher ups, I don’t really know.
I just know that when I was born, both the Thriae and Avernus were on the warpath, and Elysium got
worried, so they did one of their draft orders. The order that year was for every firstborn son to be
conscripted into the army. Usually, children of certain ages are ignored – who’s going to put a baby in
steal armor and expect it to fight? But, one…shall we say zealous administrator of my home region took
the edict by the letter rather than by the spirit, and forced even babies into the army. We were to be
raised as a military force from birth. As we grew up, I didn’t have the body to be front-line, but I had the
dexterity and intellect to be trained as an apothecary. So that’s what I did. I participated in the crusade
for 2nd sphere expansion, and my cohort was at all the major fights: Al’sera, Al’hurm, Seeka, Parthina. I
didn’t see so much action myself, but I was busy keeping everyone in one piece. I was 10. We had roughly
7 years before the third sphere expansion, and again, my cohort was at the forefront. G’kinka, Hrud,
Banigina, that damn barbarian fortress of Osk. I turned 18 while assisting the head surgeon try to
reattach Goron the Pure Flame’s arms back on after they got ripped off by the Grand Mind of one of
Thriae’s hives. That’s how I got my first scar, from Goron writhing in pain. He threw himself like a man
possessed, bit the head surgeon’s arm and threw his head, thrusting the knife at me. *laughs* Man, that
Goron, so zealous and worked up he still thought he was still fighting. Well. I suppose he was fighting for
his life. And he lost.

I probably saw more blood than the soldiers did, truth be told. Finally, we were given some R&R. I went
home…which I hadn’t been to in 18 years. I remember knocking on my family’s door, and meeting my
parents for the first time. My mom was tearful, and they were both proud of me. But it was so polite –
we were complete strangers. I stayed there for a few months, and left, with little of my birthright. Shortly
thereafter we had that Latorax crusade. Second scar, met your father, we went over that. By that time, I
was a pretty good surgeon myself. Then we went on a expedition into the frontier, the No Man’s Land.
Some administrator came with us, and he seemed familiar to me. As we progressed, he was adamant
that we press the unaligned peoples into service for the next crusade. The Dominion agreed, but only
wanted to take 1 out of 5 people in a certain age bracket. The administrator wasn’t too happy about it,
but agreed. Anyways, we came into contact with some aggressive folks, and during combat maneuvers,
my cohort moved back to cover our rear – we decided to hole up in a nearby city. We march in, and find
the city deserted – 1500 people, just gone. We noticed doors and windows were broken into, houses
ransacked. We thought it was the barbarians. Except in the middle of town, we found the people, all of
them, men, women, children, the elderly, all of them caged up in large wagons by troops bearing the sigil
of the administrator. He was going behind the Dominion’s orders, rounding up everyone to be pressed
into service. My sub-Dominion challenged the administrator, and it was about to come to blows between
our two cohorts when barbarians rushed in and we were fighting for our lives back to back. We won the
battle at high cost, and I got my third facial scar. As I walked among the bodies trying to find wounded, I
found the administrator under the bodies of a few of his guards and barbarians. He was wounded,
bleeding from his side. One of his bodyguards was there, trying to stop the bleeding, but he was pretty
wounded too, half his head was a bloody mess. Still don’t know how he was staying up. But I saw this
administrator, and he said to me, “help me, and I’ll put you in charge of a fortress in the Inner-Sanctum
region.” That’s my home region. So I asked him “Were you the one that pressed children into the service
during the Threatening?” He says yes, and then sparks of recognition in his eyes. “You, you’re one of
those children, aren’t you?” “Yes” I tell him, and I go kneel by his side. The bodyguard moves away. I look
at the wound, its one that’s easily fixed. But this man disobeyed orders from a Dominion. And if my
search through edict law was correct, he disobeyed the Star Court’s orders. This man, while being
undoubtedly loyal to the Empire, was hurting it. He was going to press children into service to die. He
was going to press non-Elysium and non-believers to fight for us, inevitably weakening our forces in the
long run. So I made my decision. I made his wound wider, deeper. I told the bodyguard it was a bad
wound, and the bodyguard sat there dazed. The administrator died. Unfortunately, I didn’t see the
aftermath of his death. His wife, also an administrator and just as zealous, put spin on the whole event:
this administrator and his forces had been saving the city from barbarians taking slaves, and along with
a cohort, fought off the barbarians, or so she claimed. He fell in battle there, and in honor of his actions,
so she claims, the whole city, to a man and babe, claimed to want to fight for Elysium. It sparked a whole
new set of regional edicts, allowing administrators and whoever else to press anyone into service. Crimes
got punished with being put into penal cohorts. It was madness. I hated it, and I thought the star court
would hate it, but they seemed to be busy with something else going on. Anyone orphaned was
immediately put into the scholam to join the army. *his eyes dart over you*

Following that, due to politics and having actually saved the Dominions forces as a rearguard, all of the
survivors of the fight were given options to retire until called in dire need, or be moved to a scholam to
help teach. I was tired of the shit, and wanted to see the world, not just the world fighting. So I left. Turns
out that was the best decision, because a chunk of the cohort, my friends, were ending up dead in the
scholams. One night, a man tried attacking me, and I killed him. Turns out this administrators wife
wanted everyone associated with the fight to disappear.

The man finishes his drink. It’s been the fourth or fifth one. It is probably close to time. You reach into
your pants, fingering the cold steel of a dagger at your side. One quick swipe, and this man’s life will be
over.

“Wow, Laaz, that’s quite a story you told.” You say.

“And you already knew all of it.”

What?! You think. You stumble over words as your mind wheels and turns. You feel a pressure on inner
thigh. You look down. A kukri is pressed against it.

“You already knew all of it. You didn’t ask any questions. Not for the administrators name, not his wife’s.
You didn’t react to me meeting Goron, or asking anything about him. And also, you said my name, when
I never told you my name. I know Gena sent you. Now, don’t move. You’ll only die faster. I nicked an
artery in your thigh. You’ll bleed out in a minute or two.”

You feel warmth spreading up and down your leg, and notice the blade is back in it’s sheath on Laaz’s
chest. You look down, and just see a dark stain spreading across your lap and clothing. You look at Laaz.

“For Elysium, in all glory” you say. Laaz looks at you, a sad look on a worn face. He nods in agreement.

“In all glory, for Elysium.” He says. He gets up, and walks away. The last thing you see is the silver
necklace slip out of his armor: an angel holding a star up dangles from the chain. And then the darkness
spreading up from your legs takes your vision.

Laaz steps out of the bar and lithely darts down the street in shadow. Who knows who else could be
watching. Its now obvious that the Elysium frontier is not safe. Its time to move. He pulls out a map. A
tiny drop of blood drips from the handle of one of his kukri’s: it makes a tiny mark on the map. Bleak
Iron. Well, its as good as place as any.