The story so far

In 2006, the United Nations (as it was then called), decided to gather two hundred billion seeds from all the food crops deemed essential to human survival and freeze store them in a three hundred acre ice vault, seven hundred metres below the Siberian permafrost for use by future generations. The idea being, if their ever was a global disaster, man kind could replant the stored seeds and protect the human race.

For seventy years, this system worked, with the Governments of the World working together, more of less, to keep this ‘last chance saloon’ functioning and frozen.

But, as the seeds slumbered in their crystalline beds, the World began to age, quickly. It was only a matter of time before the Earth had stopped giving up essential supplies, such as oil, coal and natural gasses. Earth stoped surrendering these supplies, because; well, because there were simply none left to give.

So, humans did what humans do best. They fought.
Starting out as squabbles between internal states, the arguments and threats quickly reached global proportions, pushing century old alliances and vows to the limit, and allowing other, more extreme forms of Government and rule to fester.
Europe again witnessed running street battles between extreme socialist and communist forces; Asia was torn apart by coup after coup, toppled Governments, often before the last could even be sworn into office.
The Middle East now more closely resembled the moon, as it did the once fertile oasis of the rich and truly powerful, as group after group of extremist militia had stolen, looted and stripped anything of value, leaving only skeletons and memories.

As governments scrambled with under the table deals, and tangible threats to ensure secure supplies of dwindling natural resources, a little known group of multinational corporations began their putsch.
Having in many cases, larger GDPs then nations, these corporations were able to purchase huge shares of the precious reserves, and as demand far outweighed supply, charged accordingly.

Once the cost of fuel soared past five dollars a litre for fuel, people began to try and sell their cars. Cars that could not be sold where abandoned, or torched in fields, swamps, any open space people could find. Eventually, just going to the park was impossible for many children, as they had been used as dumping grounds for cars on their Waterloo drive. Destroyed play equipment and abandoned cars soon became the norm for children’s outside entertainment.

One hundred and seventy years after the nuclear revolution, human civilisation had peaked, and regressed, slowly returning to the barbarous days of folk tales, but with the complexity and fear of a world aiming nuclear arsenals at each other.

Meanwhile, forgotten, the seeds sat. And waited. Water levels rose as ice caps slowly melted. The Nile Delta flooded and never receded, California, Sydney, Fiji, Hawaii all joined Atlantis as once great cities which now existed only in the tales of rheumatic old men.

Ch2

As corporations bloomed under their new found superiority, they began to dabble in arms markets. Namely, markets usually reserved for the Governments of Superpowers.
As political turmoil destroyed the credibility of all but the mightiest nations, multinational corporations were only too happy to step into the void.
These corporations quickly armed themselves against all comers, changing the meaning of hostile takeover for ever.

As the corporations gained nuclear capabilities, the highly structured food supply of the world began to collapse.
With the strength of tariffs, international aid and charity gone, the price for food was steered by the forces of the marketplace, driving prices beyond the reach of the many.
Meanwhile, corporate food supplies were such that most food spoiled from becoming over ripe, or simply going off before it was able to be used, such was their surplus.
The starving sold what they had to afford basic grains and rice stocks, until those to were exhausted. People where quick to discover the low nutritional content of grass. For the first time since the take over of government by the corporations, a quiet unrest could be heard among the starving multitudes.

The first the corporations new something was wrong with their ‘citizens’ as they called them, was the raiding of guard post food supplies and the beaten guards, telling stories of a seething beast of people, offering a clear choice. Feed us or die.
The corporations quickly hired mercenaries to replace the guards and refuse to give up without a fight.
When the mercenaries were finally found, no piece of flesh had been wasted. Villages and towns had been reduced to cannibalism, and the first to go were strangers, and those enforcing the corporate jack boot.

The reaction of the ruling corporations was swift, and merciless. Entire villages were destroyed, women, raped and dragged away to gulags and as sex slaves. Children, cold into slavery and the towns raised to the ground. The odd orphan allowed to escape to tell the sorry tale, and act as a warning to other towns and villages contemplating an attempted uprising.

In the tinderbox atmosphere of desperation and fear, all that was needed was a spark to ignite the moral fuse of the people, and illicit a flame that could not be put out.

Ignoring the warnings, and brutality levelled against their kin, people in towns and villages, on every continent, took up arms and attempted to reclaim their fates by force.
It was not to be a successful ploy.
Against the advice of even their experts, a combined force of corporate military might was formed. But the need not even had bothered putting their boots on. For 6 days, all areas suspected of being populated by what the corporations considered traitors and renegades were bombarded by nuclear rain. Followed immediately by every nuclear weapon the combined corporate might could lay hands upon. For days, the jet powered monoliths howled fury and fiery death towards the ground, in many cases, for only corpses to hear.

And the human race stumbled.

The corporations quickly learned that, to their detriment, bombing their own food supply had not been wise. With no one to subjugate, no income, and no food, many began to recede, becoming reclusive, content to fight their own internal power squabbles.

And the Earth slept.

Slowly, through nature and nuclear heart, seeds, long forgotten began to germinate, pushing through what was left of the permafrost, and bloom.

ch
A soft tinkling scale of glass was the only sound to break the still silence of the dawn. As the tangerine red sun slowly clawed its way into the sky, it threw its struggling light onto charred buildings whose names and purpose had long been confined to dust.
Half dressed urchins ran helter skelter through scorched I beams, pushing their way through crumbling blocks of plaster board.
Amot, the eldest of the children kept a close eye on both the horizon and his six sisters. As the only boy, he was expected to watch over them, and try and keep them clean for his mother, although, looking at them now, covered in flecks of plaster, glinting ethereally in the morning sun, he wondered sometimes why she bothered.

He would be fifteen snows old this freeze, and that meant becoming a man. He had hoped the council would send him to learn his trade as a logger, a cook, even a shanty guard, anything that would keep hi close to his mother and six sisters. His heart and hopes had shattered when the head of the council announced that he was to be given to a warrior.

Drinking in the taverns, Amot put on a brave face while boys, now men told their latest tales of honour and bravery, and let the envy surge through him, knowing that at least these men, Server willing would see their families every night, sleep in their own beds, and unless the routine was chattered by an invasion, or battle, die as old men in their beds. While, with every day closer to the frost, he felt his life was slipping away, crumbling, escaping almost, like sand through fingers.

Finally, the frost arrived. Amot’s fifteenth frost.
A member of the council had been dispatched early that morning to Amot’s mother’s house to advise her to expect company at high sun, and to make her son as presentable as possible. Amot hadn’t liked the way the councilman had smirked the sentence out. Just his luck not be born to the wife of the high councillor.
ch
It was not to be an introduction, a polite shaking of hands and small talk. A warrior was coming to claim Amot as property and take tear him from the bosom of his mother and sisters.
The sudden screech of metal under stress tore Amot from his sullen musing, as his mother tensed, fussed over him and settled into her place near the specially prepared food made from their meagre resources.

A knock, much softer then anyone expected set the room on edge, as no one seemed able to break their trance and open the door. Finally, Amot’s mother hurried to the door, not before fussing over him and his six sisters lifted the heavy latch and curtsied deeply.
The man standing in the doorway looked at Amot’s mother in stunned disbelief.
“Get up woman!’ he barked, taking Amot’s mother’s hand, and helping her to her feet.
The stranger stormed inside and quickly began firing off questions.
“Where is the boy?”
“Is he ready to travel?”
Amot stepped forward.
“My name is Amot and I am to come with you, if you are the warrior I was told about”
“I don’t care what your name is” spat the visitor
“You’ll probably be dead in a week. It’s easier if I don’t have to learn your name”
Amot’s mother and sister visibly blanched under the tirade from the stranger, but managed to hold their nerves.
“Get your things so we can go boy”
“but what do I call you?” Amot asked, his voice carrying strength and courage his legs refused to feel.
“You can call me Ropa” the man called over his shoulder, walking to what was obviously Amot’s bed.
“This all there is? That’s a good sign. You aren’t trying to burden me with all your rubbish.”
Ropa bought Amot’s bags to the middle of the room, then picked up Amot by the belt buckle and by the back of his top cloth, and heaved him outside, like simple refuse.
Stunned. Amot had to roll quickly out of the way as his bags gouged into the ground where his head had been spinning not two moments before.

As Amot’s head cleared, he realised he was sitting in front of a shanty house sized block of metal on wheels. Ropa grasped what appeared to be a solid piece of steel on the side of the monstrosity, and effortlessly seemed to tear open the hull to allow their access. Lighting the way inside was a flickering blue light, which as Amot realised on entering the vehicle, had no source.
“Meet the Micam” Ropa called from somewhere far ahead, or seemed to, “the most secure vanimal around. Bit temperamental. But brilliant in a tight spot”

Finding the front of the Micam, Amot saw Ropa seated in a huge chair, squared on either side by what looked to be tusks, or great curved teeth, with handgrips carved into them.
“So what exactly are we sitting in?” Amot asked, looking around, a little distastefully at what seemed to be flesh covering the interior walls of their ‘vanimal’.
“Basically, we are sitting in the brain of a large mammoth that has been armoured and set on wheels. Don’t touch the walls. They bleed. And I don’t want you infecting my Micam with any of the filth you shanty folk carry”

Amot felt that he had been very harshly judged, and considered running for home even now, but knew it would be of now use. He had been claimed by Ropa and with Ropa he would have to stay, until either Ropa died and he was released, or he died and was no longer any use.

With the loud protestations of seemingly metal components in the Mical, they began to move, slowly at first, but picking up speed at an alarming rate, until outside was nothing more then a blur of yellow sand, and red from the occasional inferno of town and flesh, showing the defeated members of two shanty towns petty squabbles.


Ch
For the first time, Amot really got a chance to study Ropa properly, to take in all his features. He had only been able to have a brief glimpse before he was unceremoniously flying through the air.
Not a large man, but with obvious strength rope like tendons and muscles thinly veiled under bone white skin. Angry puckered red scars ran up the length of Ropa’s arms, where they travelled across his chest and met up in the pit of his Adam’s apple. To Amot, it looked as though someone had tried, and almost succeeded in removing the front of the man.
A strangely feminine neck gave way to a roughly hued face, with thick black beard poking through the parts that were not scarred of crusted with dirt.
But his scalp. Roma’s scalp to Amot was fascinating. Knotted black hair, down to the middle of his shoulders had been cut in a Mohican style, while the rest of the scalp bore witness to terrible undulating scars, like those Amot had seen caused by flame, apparently to prevent the hair ever growing back.
Ropa seemed to sense Amot starring at his much deformed head, and chuckled, more to himself then to Amot,
“Live long enough, and too can be this handsome. I’m the ladies favourite I am!”, finishing with a skull shaking cough, making it sound as though not only Amot, but also Ropa’s own bones were thinking about escape at that very moment.

Ch
Not two minutes after Amot had lay himself down, he felt Ropa’s full weight, as he threw himself upon him!
“Get off me you cut up bastard!” Amot roared in surprise and adrenalin driven rage, thrashing wildly Ropa’s sheer strength, not to mention his weight held him firmly in place.
“This is for your own good!” Ropa growled through bear clenched teeth, “although it is going to hurt you much more then it hurts me”
Amot felt the bond tie down his arm before he even was able to reposition himself for another escape attempt. Soon, all four limbs were tide down, and it didn’t take long for the bonds to bight into skin and tear at his raw flesh before he realised struggling was useless. He had been out muscled, out manoeuvred, and now he knew he was going to die.
Now he realised why those given to the warriors never came home. The obviously were killed within a day of leaving, and feasted upon, or some other equally despicable experience.

Amot felt the sharp prick of a syringe being forced into his arm, and the acidic burn as some unknown fluid began its sojourn into his blood stream.
“Why are you doing this to me?” cried Amot, his adrenalin now ebbing away, to be replaced by cold fear.
“You hold onto your life too fiercely little man. It’s not yours to protect. This will either prove you belong by my side as one of the chosen, or it will eat you from the inside out. We’ll know in the morning.” Ropa gently cooed to Amot, almost like a lover.
Then, calmly, Ropa checked Amot’s bonds and then reached up to remove a powerful looking shotgun from a cloistered compartment.
Stroking the shotgun like a favoured pet, Ropa sat down directly opposite Amot, and waited.
Amot felt the acidic burn of the IV drug course throughout his body, constantly waiting for the first sign of the grisly death Ropa had foretold as one of the options of the drug.
He felt the nerves in his arms and legs fire again and again as his body convulsed and danced what he was sure was his final jig.
Then, the darkness overcame him. Amot went willingly into the darkness, knowing full well there was no escape, but at least it was a respite from the pain.

The sun was high before it’s faltering winter heat woke Amot, blinkingly looking around him in amazement at what he knew could not be death. Death was supposed to be the eternal and peaceful rest, but Amot felt neither rested, or peaceful. He could feel the pressure of a migraine behind his eyes, and the sun’s light slicing into his consciousness like a scalpel.
“Good, your awake!” Ropa called in a far more cheerful voice. Amot didn’t know wether to be gladdened by the sudden change in his companion or to be more alarmed. After all, he had been bound and drugged last night, and Server knew what had happened while the darkness held him.
“What the hell was that last night?” Amot roared, now furious at his master, “and more importantly, why?”
“When the corporations launched their nuclear attacks, the vast majority of the population was exposed to extreme doses of radiation. Most died. A few had the luck of genes which could, for one reason or another, repair the irradiated tissues and heal themselves. The strongest are usually easily recognisable. Wasn’t sure with you. Those with the corporations hid in their bunkers and developed no genes against the radiation. Just gave you a little dose of plutonium solution, see if you could fight it off, or if you were a set up”, Ropa replied, seemingly annoyed at the need to explain himself.
“the corporations are still alive and well. Their favourite places to watch and infiltrate are the places people most flock to. Religious schools and institutions, or what’s left of them, and they love getting deep into councils in the outskirts. Like in the shanty towns.”
“So, are there corporates on my town’s council? Who? I’ve grown up with the kids of all the councillors!”
“Really, it doesn’t atter who is and who is not corporate on your little shanty’s council. The point you should be appreciating, is that you are genetically NOT corporate, and more importantly, you’re not dead.”
Ropa, obviously frustrated with Amot’s inability to understand the point he was trying to make stormed over to the Mical, and began to hum and sing softly to it.
“Anyway, now that we have established you aren’t dead, its time for you to start a little training.” Ropa called to Amot over his shoulder, again touching a panel that seemed to have no edges. Amot watched as the skin and steel seemed to simply evaporate under Ropa’s touch.
It took some time for the warrior to turn back towards Amot, and when he did, the boy’s eyes almost fell out of his head.
Amot realised immediately how much he had underestimated the warrior, expecting him to be still fighting with sword and dagger. Instead, Ropa held in his hand a highly polished and deadly looking set of rifles and pistols.
“You need to learn how to shoot. Your no good to me in a fight if you don’t know how to look after yourself, or watch my back, and I want to be confident your not going to panic and shoot me in the back anyway when the shit really hits the fan. Don’t forget though, if you have to use these, you’ve used up every other possible choice to help those your fighting for.”
“Fighting for?” Amot snorted, “I thought all warriors just went around as bounty hunters, killing for the reward and the thrill?”
“Yeah,” Ropa said. There are a few of them.
“Before the whole world swan in nuclear mud, we were the guys watching the backs of the helpless, and the downtrodden. Now, I don’t wanna sound like some sappy, come to daddy and I’ll save you sort of thing. You annoy me, or we get into an argument, and you end up dead, then you had it coming” Ropa paused to smile and chuckle to himself, obviously recalling some previous bar fight, or altercation which could not be called a gentleman’s disagreement.
“We were the guys that stood in-between the corporations and the people. The guys that would come to settle the disagreement without people being killed, straight away.”
“So who told you all what to do?” Amot asked, still unsure wether to believe that Ropa was a brother in some form of peace keeping force.
“Originally, there was a group called the House of Nations, where every country on Earth had a representative. The idea being to have clear rules about what you could and could not do to your people. Even had rules about how to fight wars. Very proper. Then, Governments starting collapsing, they just couldn’t afford to keep their people fed, or even give them water. War after war was fought. Then, the corporations came along. Told every one how good life would be if they let them run their lives for them. People were desperate. The saw no other option, so they handed all the power over to the corporations. By the time they realised how much worse off they were, it was too late. The corporations owned and controlled everything. You didn’t obey the rules, they wouldn’t give you food, you starved to death.”
“Wow” ejaculated Amot. “That still doesn’t tell me why I shouldn’t think of all warriors as being gun slinging treasure hunters, people that live fast, die young, and always leave a corpse you wish you hadn’t seen.”
“Shut up and listen then you arrogant little prick” Ropa spat, “when I’m finished, then you talk. Not before.”
“So, after the Governments collapsed, and the corporations had taken over, there were still a few parliaments strong enough to keep themselves going. A few of the American nations lasted for a while, Brazil the US, also Australia and England. They forced the corporations to obey the laws they set for them, unlike elsewhere, where they had full control. This coalition of countries did all it could for the rest, setting up huge portions of their own citizens as peace keepers between the corporations and the people. They were armed men and women, and the originals did all they could to protect people.”
Ropa pulled one of the pistols out of its polished leather holster. Monogrammed on the handle was a circle divided into quarters, each with a coat of arms inside its quarter.
“We still use the same emblem. The US collapsed first. Then Chile. They each had just too many people to feed and water. It was inevitable then that the others would fall. England fought for as long as it could, loosing a battle on it’s mainland for the first time in history. The Australians fought like men possessed. They refused to stand down, even when the Australian Government fell, they still fought. To the last man was the Australian’s battle cry, and from what you hear, they almost did it. The corporations had to bomb the country under the ocean in the end. Not many Aussies left. You might meet a person that claims to be one thirty secondth Australian, but you know their not. They just like the legend”,
“Right.” Amot mused, “so if the whole thing was set up by Governments, why didn’t you guys just fade away after the corporations owned everything?”
“Pride, I think mostly, the fact that we believed in what we were doing. We get new blood in every once in a while, those that pass fight the good fight, those that don’t want to, or are already tainted by the corporations end up in a ditch with an aerated head.”

“I wouldn’t spit on your hand yet boyo! You’ve got a long way to go before you can stand nest to me and be an equal. You still have to pass the inspection of the elders before you’re even put to the tests to become a warrior.”
“Now, to shooting!” Ropa called, the joy in his voice clearly evident as he lined up a vast array of different sized rocks at all compass points.
“when you can shoot everyone of these rocks, from your feet, from the hip and laying down, we’ll move out and begin for the elders.”

Days past of Amot running, spinning and throwing himself to the ground firing at all Ropa set for him to aim at, until he knew the location of every rock, and the precise moment to fire. And when he had mastered that configuration, Ropa would change it, and shout obscenities at him when he missed one of the new rocks
“Stop trying to remember where the rocls are and just look for them!” Ropa’s now grating voice carried clearly over the sparse terrain.
“Your enemies aren’t going to ask before the fight where you would like them to stand! They’re going to hide, and try and shoot you in the back like a dog!”
Eventually, Amot had learned to use his eyes and not his memory to look for his targets, and Ropa was satisfied with his progress.
“Now hit what I’m about to throw!” yelled Ropa from behind his protective rock, avoiding the shells as Amot fired them off.
Something small and round flew into the air as Amot drew a bead and fired off a single shot.
The sharp smell of hot metal filled the air as Amot’s shot hit the mystery object, sending it tumbling to the ground, terrible off balanced.
“You move well, you shoot well. For a beginner” Ropa sneered, walking over to meet Amot next to the mystery object. A single gold coin lay in the sand, a perfect circle torn right through, slightly off centre.
“When you can hit one dead centre, I’ll take you to the council. By the way, you owe me one gold coin.”
“But you’re the one who through it and told me to shoot it!” an exasperated Amot wined.
“You’re the one who took the shot. That’s your first lesson. Take responsibility for every shot you fire. It’s time to move out. We’re meeting up with some of the others at a place called Symtec. Never been there, so be on your guard. Oh, and here” Ropa said, almost begrudgingly throwing the holster and two pistols to Amot.
“Keep them clean, Look after them, and they’ll look after you. A man with dirty guns is just begging to die”.
Amot looked at the heavy pistols in his hands. Their highly polished metal seemed to glow in the dying twilight. Ropa quickly ran him through removing and reloading the clip, as well as the best way to clean his gins on the move.
The leather smelled heavily of protector, mingled with sweat and the sharp, sweet tang of gunpowder as Amot fastened them around his waist, and appreciated the extra weight, while practicing a quick draw and quickly holstering his weapons.
“That’s alright in the bars to show off to the ladies, but if you have to draw your guns quickly like that, you’re already in trouble” Ropa quipped, in a surprisingly fatherly kind of way.   

Amot and Ropa climbed back into the Mical, Amot still amazed that they were in a living thing, all be it one who’s organs and life systems had been replaced with mechanics.
The road to Symtec was long and tiresome, broken only by the occasional wild animal considering an attack on the Mical, or a brief stop at a shanty town to collect basics, such as water and dried meats.

The temple of Symtec rose like a mountain peak on the horizon, dwarfing the hillocks and buildings surrounding it from which it drew its nutrients and servants.
Surrounded by great walls, ten spans thick, and made of blocks of steel taller then a man, the wooden gates used to seal them were surprisingly flimsy and rotten, the wood criss-crossed with the scars of countless generations of wood boring insects and the occasional mark from a battle long forgotten.
“This was once a holy place for our people, were we would come and rest, meet and if need be fall back to defend. Now, rumours have been heard that the Primarch has forgotten his vows and uses the temple and the people for his own devices” Ropa said, looking at the great temple with fevered respect.
“If he has forgotten his vows, he will need to be reminded, and shown the error of his ways. If the rumours are true, he will do his best to thwart us. He knows the penalty for treachery and treason as well as any other warrior.” A faint smirk covered Ropa’s face, showing Amot that the warrior’s tale of being just and not attacking pre-emptively did not extend to those of his creed who had forsaken their vows.

“Halt and make yourself known!” a great voice boomed out over the sand from the wall of the temple.
“I am Ropa, Lord of the Eagle Head, hero of the Tri rebellion, and slayer of heretics!” Ropa called back, astonishing Amot. He had not known that the warriors had a leader, let alone that he was travelling with him. He had never heard of the tri rebellion, nor did he know if Ropa had been rebelling, or had been the force used to quell the rebellion, but he still felt new respect and admiration for Ropa. Any man who could announce himself with such acclaim was worthy of his respect, he decided.

“The hero Ropa died long ago, slain by his own while he slept. You are not him. Ropa would not bear to have a mere child by his side! He was the lone warrior!”
“Come down and inspect me then nameless minion!” Ropa chided back, “but be prepared to inspect my boot as I introduce it to your backside!”

With a great groan of age old wood and steel, the gates parted slightly, to allow a contingent of heavily armed guards to march towards them, sabres drawn.
“Who is this filth who claims to be the mighty Ropa?” a withered and battle scared man called as he approached them.
“The same as who gave you that scar old man, when you thought you were still young enough to challenge me for my title!” Ropa spat in reply, but with a smile that belied a deep humour and many battles fought with the ancient speaker.
“It is you! My little welp has come home!” exclaimed the ancient man, embracing Ropa in a fierce hug, which could only be shared by those who have seen battle together.
“He told us all you were dead!”
“And who might ‘HE’ be?” Ropa asked, his eyes now back to their sharp ble flint.
“The Primarch. He told us all to a man that you had fallen, and that it had been willed that all that was yours was to become his. None of us saw the will, but he was the Head Priest, and a man to be trusted. Now we find you alive, and more! You have taken an apprentice! I never thought you capable of it!”
“This one has yet to prove his use. Amot, this is Spir, most trusted of my Captains. I have brought the youth to Symtec to be tested and schooled, but I find the welcome far from what I am used to!”
“The school is not what it was, and I would not send him there if you fancy he has even a touch of ability. The School has fallen under the exclusive tutelage of the Primarch. But the ones being sent for testing have become very young. They are being called before they have grown their down. It is not as it should be.”
“Perhaps the Primarch has developed a taste for young flesh. Either way, I must speak with him. Announce me, if you will. Tell him I have returned to reclaim my title and all that goes with it, and that he has one sunrise to return to his former chambers. 
“As you wish my Lord”, Spir replied, with a fool’s grin playing from ear to ear.

Ch
“What is the school, and why must I be tested?” Amot asked Ropa, suddenly concerned that he might let the warrior down, although unsure why.
“It is where we bring those that show promise, and those we have been watching for a long time come to be assessed. If they have the strength to withstand the testing by the priests, and they survive the schooling, they are given the chance to prove themselves worthy to be considered for a warrior’s training.”
Amot thought on the new information for a moment. Then it dawned on him.
“So, I have not automatically been chosen? I am going to have to prove my worth over and over again before I am considered?”
“Correct, boy” Ropa replied absent mindedly, his thoughts obviously on other matters.
“What if I don’t pass the test by the priests, or I don’t survive the schooling, what if I die?”
“Then you die. There will be more to choose from. But as I said, you are being given an opportunity that most will never receive. I suggest not wasting it.”
“What if I choose to leave?” Amot challenged, thrusting out his chin in a half hearted show of defiance.
“Leave if you want. But look around you. We are surrounded by desert. Even if you managed to survive the heat and lack of water, the beasts would claim you. It matters not to us.”
The situation began to sink in for Amot, that, like it or not, he was with Ropa until such time as he could be tested, and then, it was all up in the air.


Ch
Amot and Ropa followed the guards and Spir inside the gates and looked upon a great court yard, a thousand strides across, filled with statues of men and women in different garbs. From what was obviously the uniform of the Warriors, others robed in great flowing clokes, to those wearing what appeared to be rags. Amot wondered what men and women dressed in rags had done to deserve such acclaim that great statues had been built of them.
“Welcome to the city of Symtec, home of the great temple.” Ropa said, more to himself then to Amot. “Spir!, fetch a trusted man to care for the youth and keep him from trouble until you and I are done with the Primarch.”
Spir seemed to talk into his collar as Amot watched and wondered a man reduced to talking to himself had been granted the rank of captain, when suddenly a man, no more then five summers older then Amot ran from a nearby building and presented himself to Spir.
“Look after the youth until our guest and I return” Spir orderd the soldier, “keep him from dying on his first day”
Chuckling, Spir waled over to where Ropa stood and fell into step with him as the two marched down a great boulevard towards the immense temple.
“So is this whole town designed just for the temple?” Amot asked the man.
“No”, he replied, eyeing Amot, not bothering to hide the fact that he was sizing Amot up for an opponent if a fight were to break out between them. Seemingly happy with what he saw in Amot, he extended a calloused hand.
“I am Jon. And no, Symtec is a city in its own right. The temple just happens to be here. You must be someone they expect great things from to be brought by Lord Ropa himself! We all believed him dead!” Jon said to Amot, again, obviously sizing him up.
“I have no idea what they expect from me!” Amot replied, feeling almost as lost as he was sure his voice sounded.
“I was told that I was to go with a warrior, he arrived on the day the edlers said he would, and since then, I have not had a chance to take in half of what I have seen or heard. It feels to me as though something is expected of me, but no one seems to be telling me what tat something is, or when I will be expected to find it”
“I wouldn’t sweat it too hard, Amot is it? I think that’s what the captain called you, among other things”, Jon pushed Amot playfully, trying to break him from his dour mood
“No one likes a sulker Amot. Come have a drink. We may even find some girls!” Jon smiled good naturedly at Amot, no more fun then a drink with new friends and checking out the talent on show”
Amot wondered if his sisters were ever referred to as talent when they stopped to quench their thirst in the food houses of his home town. At the same time, he wondered what sort of amazing talent Jon was referring to that the girls of Symtec possessed that made Jon so keen to find some.

ch
Jon and Amot sat on the roughly hone wooden slabs that passed for seats in the ale house, Amot wide eyed in wonderment of all that was going on around him. In his home town, his mother, a fervent believer in the Great Eagle and the Server had forbidden him from entering the local ale houses, so Amot, like his sisters has spent their few spare coins eating what, in their minds, passed for fine foods in the local eating houses.
Even though it was only just sun high, the ale house was crowded with both men and women, drinking heavy brown ale and evilly coloured spirits, and shouting encouragement and threats at the games of chance being played in the corner.
Occasionally, one man would rear up in disgust, or anger, accuse his opponent of cheating and strike him to the ground. The crowd would then emit a raucous cheer, and scuffle, it seemed, until their thirst once more overtook them and they began ordering more huge rounds of drinks.
“I never thought it would be this filled at this time of day”, Amot exclaimed, surprised, trying not to watch the wanton debauchery, but like an animal caught in a flare, unable to look away.
“This is just the morning rush”, Jon replied, smiling from ear to ear, enjoying every cheer, and wincing every time a well aimed blow connected.
“Wait till it really gets busy at sun down! That’s when all the pretty girls come out and let their hair down.”
“Do they all work on their parent’s farms, or keep house? What keeps them out of here at this time of day?”
Jon laughed and took a deep swallow of the ale which had been delivered to their table by the barman, seemingly without needing to have been ordered.
“The temple is locked down at sun down, all priests in, all worshippers out. The rest of the city looking to let their hair down a bit wait till the temple closes and there are no priests around to ruin the fun. Having a priest looking over your shoulder tends to ruin one’s fun” explained Jon, calmly ducking as a stoll flew over their table and collided with another group of people playing another game of chance on the other side of the ale house
“The people here now are the ones that have nothing to loose, or who have committed some crime that the priests won’t help them make a living. They are probably being taxed some ridiculous amount to look after a tiny patch of earth that has never and will never grow anything. They figure they may as well be here as on their lots waiting to be given a week in the dungeons of the temple for not paying taxes.”

A huge man clutched his head where the stool had hit him, as a thick trickle of blood ran down his face. The atmosphere in the ale house suddenly became thick with built up aggression, drunkenness and an air of desperation as people tried to avoid the giant’s eyes as he searched for the culprit who had drawn his blood.
“Looks like we’re in for a bit of fun anyway!” Jon smiled, quickly downing what was left of his ale, and thrusting Amot’s tankard into his hands.
“I’d drink this if I were you, and fast. Lovely little drop. Numbs the pain after a fight, not too hard on the head either”

Amot, keen to follow his new friend’s example put the tankard to his lips and began to take hearty swallows. As the ale first hit his tongue, he had to fight his instinct to spit the bitter oily brew from his mouth, but he quickly swallowed and continued to swallow until only the grainy black sediment remained at the bottom of his glass.
“Not bad for a young pup like you!” Jon called, with admiration and mirth, as the giant threw the first punch towards a staggering drunk.
Amot was sure he felt the crunch as fist met face, and the drunk fell to the floor, howling threw handfuls of teeth and pulpy nose.
Amot looked around to see if there was going to be anybody step in and try and stop the brawl as it’s momentum began to increase, only to see the barman duck around the bar and throw back the trap door to the cellar and dive in, slamming the door behind him.

A sickening crack on Amot’s back told him that now he too was involved in the bar room melee, and that atleast now he had a reason to join. He turned to see a man staggering, holding what remained of a stool, preparing for another attack with the legs. Amot drove his fist into the nose of the man, thrilling when he felt the bone give way, and sent the man to the ground in a hail of blood and mucus. Beginning to feel the effects of the heavy ale on his mind, he enjoyed to slow befuddlement as the alcohol numbed his senses, and seemed to awaken with him the need to attack and enjoy the swift justice the brawl gave.

Amot had no idea how to fight, but he paused a minute in the outer ring of the action and watched as men much bigger and older then he flew like dervishes, delivering their own brand of drunken revenge on those in the bar they felt had cheated them. Amot also noticed that their seemed to be rules to the fighting. Apart from a few who had used the furniture a weapons at the start of the brawl, it was all fist to fist fighting, and anyone who chanced to have a weapon other then their fists was soon set upon by a score of unarmed assailants, forming fighting alliances which broke as soon as the threat was neutralised. Amot felt a fool’s grin spread across his face as he leapt into the fray, for the first time taking on others in simple combat. Throwing punches left and right, he let out a raucous cry of joy as he let the battle lust overtake him and plunged further into the melee. 


Ch
Ropa and Spir reached the mighty stairs of the temple, cut entirely from great slabs of black granite, wormed through with the threads of gold that had inhabited the Earth where the stones had been cut from. The Great black temple, originally built by heretics to worship some heathen God  had been claimed millennia ago in peace bargaining, and since then had been dedicated to the Great Eagle chapter of Warriors, as well as a place for the local population to worship the Server.
Its gigantic black stone carapace towered above all else in the city, as well as being visible for miles on all sides. Powerful lights threw dancing shadows over the many gargoyles and stone figures decorating the rooves and outlooks of the mighty structure. The newest edition, placed on top, seemingly by some giant hand was the Great Eagle, wings outstretched as if showing the sky all it watched over and challenging the forces that opposed it to dare rise and face it in battle.
The intricate stone work, cut deep into the outer walls of the temple appeared as intricate patterns, designed by some long dead race as decoration, to all but those taught to read the script.
To the warriors of the Great Eagle, it spoke of eons of battle, both before and after the rise of the corporation, telling tales of heroes and great deeds, and reminding the warriors of the ultimate victory for which they strived.

As the two warriors approached the mighty iron doors of the temple, each door anointed with the head of a hug eagle, bearing a highly polished gold ring in its mouth, the silently opened. Ropa was always amazed at the silence with the doors opened, when he knew that it would take a huge score of men to force them, and that it was all but impossible to cut threw them with weapons as simple as an axe or a sword.
Ropa stood to his full height, towering over the diminutive priest guards, cowled in cloaks of deep maroon.
“I am Ropa, Lord of the Eagle Head, hero of the Tri-rebellion and  I have come to reclaim what is mine, and what has been taken in the name of the Server.”
Upon hearing the name, and recognising the face and physique of Ropa, the guards quailed and seemed unsure of themselves, or of what they should do. Quickly, they retreated inside the temple, the doors closing behind them.
“Well, if all it takes to make them prepare for a siege is for two men to some to the door and for one to announce himself, Server help him if ever an army appears!” Spir laughed, his sides shaking, making his well fitting armour rustle and quake.
“I agree” Ropa replied, stoking the scars on his scalp, “that was pathetic, although Spir, you are one very ugly man! I would not be surprised to see your own mother lock her door against you when you returned home”
“Atleast my my mother would know which man to blame for my ugliness, My Lord”, Spir joked, causing both men laugh heartily at their own humour.

Moments later, the doors again parted and the warriors were presented with a site that took a moment to comprehend.
“Is that you Rip? You pathetic slug of a man?” Ropa called, his voice now dripping with malice.
“I thought I forbade you ever to return to Symtec on pain of death!”
The bestial man gazed at Ropa as if seeing a ghost, his oily blond hair falling over his one functioning eye, acting as a curtain to hide the terror residing there. His other eye, set slightly higher then the other showed the milky blankness of an orb that had never experienced sight.
“I have been summoned by the Primarch to represent him in all matters not of State significance”, his voice slurred and uneven, belaying the corruption inside the man.
“My Master has no wish to see an impostor and has sent me to inform you that you have until sundown to renounce your claim and leave the city before a warrant for your arrest and execution on sight is issued.”

Ropa could see the recognition in Rip’s eyes and could smell the fear sweat as it glistened over the man’s malformed brow.
“No filth can talk to the Lord Eagle in that way!” Roared Spir in disgust and rage.
“He is among us again to reclaim what is rightfully his, and I will follow him!”

A brief look of terror intensified flittered over Rip’s eyes as he quickly calculated the number of trained Guard Priests he held under his sway against the number of battle hardened warriors the combined forces of Ropa and Spir could bring to bear.
“You should watch your tongue Captain!” Spat Rip, “It is treason you speak of, and even a, Guard of the Gate, should know there is only one penalty for traitors.”
The way Rip had stressed the saying of Guard of the Gate had obviously been a calculated slur against Spir and his men, since the Primarch had decreed they were to be disbanded and demoted to regular gurads. A move that the Primarch had hoped would cause great shame among the Warriors of the Great Eagle.

“Enough!” Roared Ropa, drawing his short sabre, a weapon designed to fit over the muzzle of his melee pistols.
Ropa hand darted faster then Rip could avoid and grabbed him by the scruff of his coul. Ropa roughly pulled Rip downwards, as he drove his sabre up into the the man’s stomach.
Rip emitted a soft gurgleas the colour seemed to drain from his face. Just as his life blood drained over the blade and hilt of Ropa’s sabre.
“When I say you are never to return on pain of seath, I am not talking to hear myself.” Ropa whispered to Rip, in much the same way lovers might talk to each other.
Ropa spat into Rip’s dying eye.
“I am Ropa, Lord of the Eagle Head, and you may consider justice served upon you.”
Pulling his sabre from the stomach of the dead man, his entrails making a soft sucking sound as cold steel and cooling flesh parted, he threw the corpse aside.
“It seems we will have to cleanse our temple with fire, shot and sabre”. Ropa quietly thought out loud to Spir.
“So it would seem<” his Captain repliedm, “I’ll call the other Captains to a War Council. Although, perhaps this would be best handled quietly my Lord” advised Spir, now using his leader’s and friend’s title.
“No Spir. The time for biding our time and hiding among the many is over.” Ropa replied, the cold hard flinty steel returning to his eyes.
“I have returned”

this limit sucks