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Heivald didn't understand it. He and dozens of other fellow Vikings had been scouting this fortress for over two weeks now. They'd taken care to study and keep track of every possible entry into and out of its reaches. They'd brought plenty of supplies with them, hiring the most skilled and prolific warriors from numerous clans, while the Knights they were attacking were supplied with a few competent officers and freshly hired rabble. The Vikings also attacked under the cover of the stormy darkness, the rain lowering visibility and drowning out their approach, and while most of the enemy forces were asleep. By all accounts, this should have been one of the easiest victories any of them had ever seen. The situation now, however, told just the opposite story. Half the Viking forces lay dead or dying, strewn about the premises. Yet more had routed by this point, leaving only a small handful remaining to fight to the bitter end. Heivald had become separated from the rest of his forces, deliriously staggering through the corridors. How? How could they have been beaten so thoroughly? How could so many skilled warriors be sent retreating or be butchered like farm animals? How could so much planning and preparation end in such disastrous results? Something hard struck Heivald across the chest. He groaned in pain and fell forward on his hands and knees. Several of his ribs were cracked, and the coppery taste of blood began to fill up his mouth. He knew something inside of him was bleeding. As he knelt there, doubled over and wheezing in agony, he heard heavy footsteps circling him and the sound of plate metal sheathing against chainmail. Slowly, he looked up to behold a massive suit of silver armor trimmed with gold, clasping a large ornate poleaxe, staring down at him through two black slits in its helmet. Camael. A warrior more akin to an unfeeling instrument of war than a flesh-and-bone man. Rumors had circulated that he never ate or slept. Nobody could even say with any confidence that they'd seen his face. Some rumors even stated there was no man at all, that the armor was possessed by some otherworldly willpower determined to carry out the bidding of its masters. He drew closer, the rain covering his armor glistening in the torchlight. "Thy crimes...noted. Thy verdict...guilty." He spoke with a voice like molten steel. "Thy sentence...death." And in those last fleeting moments before the blade of the poleaxe crushed his spine, Heivald finally understood. It didn't matter how many able-bodied men he brought with him. It didn't matter how well-trained or prepared they were. It didn't matter how much they planned and plotted and strategized. It didn't matter how certain they assumed victory to be. It didn't matter, because Camael was there. -- Music Used: Type 03 - Killer Instinct #forhonor #forhonormontage #lawbringer