The soft haze of cigarette smoke seemed to fill the air, the men and women who led Vastime where all gathered in intense study. All speaking to each other within the large office which was owned by the King Militant himself; great things where afoot. A large map was splayed across a table with various pieces and markers on it, clear hand writing marking key locations and troop movements.
It was a war map.
"Gentlemen, before it lays a great and momentous task."
The voice of Desmond Hayden, their king, seemed to draw the attention of the various people. Officers of all branches and government officials seemed to quiet themselves before the majestic personage of him. As it was only proper to quiet yourself when your king spoke, to hear his words clearly and focusedly. To hang onto his words with raptured attention so you may aspire to his position.
All save for one.
Atlas D'al Decter, the warhound of Vastime, the Colonel of the Royal Dragoons and Director of the legionary program. One of the most influential men in Vastime and in turn the planet, who's vary presence was both an affront to the honor of Vastime and a great asset. It was not lost on him that the circumstances of his birth, his rise to power, and his reputation as a man of blood caused some of the more 'proper' elements of society to avoid him.
But none could deny that he possessed a special set of skills that made him remarkable, a useful asset that could not be squandered. Perhaps that was why he allied himself to Vastime and fought with gallantry and valor far above the call of duty. Perhaps that is why he was Hayden's left hand. But for Atlas d'al Decter- this was the simple will of the saints.
"But I do not think of any better men and women who can accomplish the tasks laid before them. I cannot stress enough how important it is not only for our way of life to succeed, that failure means to the total destruction of all we have built. I will dismiss you with the parting words as laid by our progenitors."
The hazel irises of their king, the soft majestic plural gone replaced by something akin to hardened iron. Raw. Unbroken. It sounded nothing at all like a promise, but a fact.
"'We are the chosen few with whom the enemy would break.' Let us leave knowing that we shall claim vengeance for those slain by our enemies. That we will bring unto them orphaned childern and widows just as they have once bled us."
White knuckles seemed to grip holsters and hilts, thin lines forming on faces as a white hot rage seemed to initate the room. It was a quiet storm, fuelled by the words of their king. They had all at one point in their life felt the painful sting of Shadowfall or more recently the Monsuta. Comrades and the like lost or burned upon the pyre of fallen heroes. Soon, they all would meet their enemies and the source of their hatred.
And visit upon them the pain they had caused.
"You are dismissed. Go and do great many things. Saints ride with you."
"And with you."
The customary response, but there was an edge to it. One which was felt throughout the room, the vibrant white hot rage which reminded them why they had done all this. And soon, very soon: They would have vengeance.
All proceeded to leave the room to begin preparations for the coming conflict, the navy would mobilize into positions. The army would begin to end their war games and drilling, to mass in key locations, and their air force would soon find themselves launch strikes. All was coming together and soon the world would see their sins brought to bare. And when the first bullet was fire, the world would see the rage it had created.
All save for one, one lithe man who's body was coil'd tightly. A killing man, a man of blood.
"With all due respect, your majesty, but are you ready for the coming conflict?"
Desmond Hayden's hazel irises would meet with the heterochromatic eyes of Atlas, his left hand and the man which was nearly opposite to him. A man who he had saw much potential in, but also much darkness to compliment it. If there was someone who could spear on par with him, it would be Decter.
Hayden knew what he was speaking of, and his lips would press together quietly. They would stand there for silence for a bit- before finally he opened to speak..