The Blademasters of the Folk are renowned for their extraordinary skill with their weapons of choice. Their reputation is such that it exceeds that of even the golgari Stoneswords, whose techniques were forged in the Dungeon during the Rending.
Their extraordinary methods are beheld with some trepidation, as the tension between the Old and New races is such that none can ever be comfortable with the achievements of the other. Not monsters, though originating in the Dungeon, the Folk are always held in some suspicion wherever they go.
The exact nature of their mastery, and how they have achieved it, remains a closely guarded secret among their enclaves. What combination of Classes and Skills is required to produce these fearsome warriors? Or is there some innate property to their people that makes it possible to achieve these feats? There are many who would sacrifice much to know, though to our knowledge, none have succeeded in replicating it.
Several outside the Folk have claimed to have achieved the status of Blademaster, but quickly found themselves challenged by the real thing. Since Blademasters only fight duels to the death, these false positives quickly dried up.
– Excerpt from ‘The Reclusive Masters: Warriors of the Folk’ by Xinci
Titus took a deep breath, hesitated, then let it out in a long sigh. Minerva caught onto his mood in an instant.
“You’ve gone soft, husband,” she grinned, “I can remember when the whiff of mana in the air was enough to get the fire burning in your eyes. What’s changed?”
The commander turned to the former Consul, almost exasperated at how little she’d changed over the years.
“I would’ve thought the responsibility of leading the entire Legion would have tempered your own hunger for battle, my love. I can see now that it hasn’t been the case.”
Minerva threw back her head and laughed.
“You can’t be serious. If you actually expected that to happen, even for a single second, then you don’t know me as well as you should. I’ve been suppressing my rage for over a decade, and now I can finally let it loose.”
A living legend, the walking disaster, she would never be kept from the fighting for long. That was exactly why Titus felt that slight melancholy.
“It’s been nice, though, hasn’t it?” he asked.
His wife stood from where she lounged on the other side of their pod and approached to wrap her arms around him.
“It’s been wonderful. She’s grown so well, Titus. You did an incredible job.”
“Nothing I did,” the commander snorted, “she practically raised herself after you left. Ran away as fast as she could.”
“You brought her back.”
“Aye. I did.”
“That’s all that matters.”
She squeezed him hard, hard enough he thought he heard a rib crack before she let him go.
“Come on then, you big softie. Let’s go tell her.”
Titus nodded.
“Let’s.”
They left their pod, opening the bulkhead, waiting for the filter to sweep them, then stepping into the corridor of the residential area they stayed in. Resources were tight in any Legion base within the fifth, and it was largely due to Minerva that they’d been able to stay here at all.
Navigating the narrow corridors, the two endured the awe-struck gaze of the Legionaries deployed for training, and from more than a few of the instructors. It didn’t bother the pair overmuch, they were used to attention.
Eventually, they strode up to their daughter’s door and knocked heavily. Even through the reinforced and enchanted metal, they heard her scrambling to tidy up and they both smiled.
Then Titus frowned.
It occurred to him that there might be a boy in there. Perhaps that sound was Morrelia trying to stuff some fool into the closet or under the bed. No matter, he decided, regardless of where he was, he would die.
“Relax, would you?” Minerva whispered. “You look like you’re going to commit murder. There’s nobody else in there.”
“You’re sure?”
She shot him an offended glance and he nodded. She had the Skills to sense a rat, let alone another person. After another minute, the door was pulled open to reveal a harried looking Morrellia, her dark hair a jumbled mess shooting off in all directions.
“Mum, Dad?” she said. “What’s the problem?”
“Wave’s coming,” Minerva said as she stepped forward and wrapped her daughter up in a hug. “Your father and I can’t hold it off any longer, we need to get deployed. No more lazing about for us.”
“A wave? Already?” Morrelia was stunned. “Is that even faster than before?”
“Yes,” Titus confirmed, his face grim. “They’re getting larger and closer together. Unless something changes, we may see a repeat of the Rending.”
He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder as he stared into her eyes.
“Make sure you take care of yourself. It’s going to be dangerous here. The fifth during a wave is… tough.”
Less interested in thinking about herself, Morrelia turned to her mother.
“But what about you two? Where are you going? Where will you be?”
“Hah! Don’t worry about us. I’ve been enrolled back into my old unit. Fourth Praetorian. I’ll be wearing the armour before you do, daughter. Tough luck.”
“I’ll be back with my Legion,” Titus said. “We’ll be deployed to the third under Liria. There are some assets there to take care of, and I think the brass wants to try and contact the survivors of the Garralosh incident.”
Morrelia’s eyes widened.
“Does that mean you’ll be fighting the ants again?”
Titus shook his head.
“Unfortunately not. Information gathering only. From the reports we have, the ants have grown far too strong for a single Legion to handle.”
Minerva tsked and shook her head a little.
“You’re not going back to your Legion,” she said.
Titus blinked.
“What?” he rumbled.
She grinned at him.
“You’re coming with me!” she announced. “Time to get back to the big leagues, husband of mine. Don’t forget to bring your ax Grey tried to suppress his growl of frustration, holding his wolf-like features in an expression of quiet contemplation. Despite his best efforts, his hands twisted as if wringing the neck of his guest.
“That seems quite unfortunate,” he said.
Sitting opposite, across a low table that held two cups of steaming tea, a fellow member of the Folk sat, a wolf, same as Grey. Red shrugged, causing the blade, still in its sheath, on his lap to clink as it shifted.
“Discussions on a matter this serious are always deliberate and careful. They can’t be rushed. If the wrong conclusion were reached, it would be a disaster for us all.”
Such an obvious statement. It was so blindingly obvious a newborn mole-folk, who hadn’t even opened its blind eyes, had seen and understood it.
Peace, like a lily on the pond. Float above, as the anger sinks below.
“Discussions on this very serious matter have been ongoing for…” he pretended to think, “why, several months now. Were they to move any slower, we may be accused of being incapable of making decisions for ourselves. I would hate for our leaders to be accused of being doddering simpletons, lacking in wisdom, or the capacity for speech.”
Nice job keeping your calm, Grey.
Despite remonstrating himself for his less than diplomatic choice of words, the old wolf didn’t regret them. Discussion between the various Enclave leaders had dragged on, with none willing to make definitive steps for or against any proposal.
Regardless how they attempted to dress it up, they were being indecisive, which did impact on their reputation. The more the Folk appeared to bicker back and forth among themselves, the less unified the front they presented to the outside world. It was that front that had protected and preserved them through the dark days.
Red did not appear perturbed by the harsh words, though a slight edge in his tone gave away his irritation.
“The opinion of outsiders is of no concern to me, or to any of the Folk. We walk our own trail, as we always have.”
Complete and utter nonsense.
“I presume that no blademasters have been sent to challenge others in the past year then?” Grey observed. “An interesting change of policy.”
“I am sure you are aware that they have,” Red said, left eye twitching slightly.
“They have?” Grey feigned surprise. “But why? If we do not care what outsiders think, what need is there to demonstrate our prowess? That would be as if our perceived competence and strength were direct contributors to our wellbeing and safety. Which cannot be the case, according to your words. Please, honour me with an explanation to clarify this mystery.”
To add insult to the injury, he even slid back from the low table so he could bow at the waist, smirking as he did so. Silence reigned between the two as the tension thickened in the air to the point it could be cut by an apprentice.
Finally, Red broke his upright posture and slouched to one side.
“This is why mother didn’t favour you for the seat,” he sniped, “you lack patience. You’ve always lacked patience.”
“What?” Grey snarled, snapping upright once more. “Expecting you to move faster than a titan-stone caterpillar is lacking patience? This is why father didn’t entrust the sword-school to you, no decisiveness.”
“How dare you?!” Red snarled back.
The two lunged forward, teeth exposed, growling and glaring at each across the wooden table.
“Master,” a voice came from behind the screen that led to the next room.
“What is it, White?”
“You asked me to intervene if you and your brother began fighting.”
The two Folk continued to stare with anger-filled eyes at each other.
“We aren’t fighting. This is a diplomatic exchange between family members.”
“Master….”
Silence… then.
“Fine,” Grey sat back, as did Red, allowing the anger to drain out of them.
The screen slid open to reveal White kneeling patiently, a placid expression on her face.
“Would either of you like more tea?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” Red said.
“We are fine, thank you, White.”
“As you say, Master,” replied his apprentice, bowing before she slid the panel shut once more.
A polite interruption, but Grey was able to read the message she wished to send.
Stop embarrassing yourself, me and the tribe!
Which she wasn’t wrong about. Disgraceful behaviour.
“I apologise, brother,” Grey said, bowing his head in apology. After a moment, Red did the same.
“Think nothing of it. It is hardly the first time, nor do I think it will be the last.”
The two sat up and regarded each other once more. The time to speak frankly had come.
“I am frustrated, brother,” Grey confessed. “These are dangerous times, the waves are coming close together, each stronger than the last. It does not require a brilliant mind to appreciate what may be on the horizon. We need allies.”
“The tribes are disparate and do not agree on anything. They will argue over the colour of a stone for a century. You know this as well as I do. I swear, I have represented your arguments as well as I possibly can. It will simply take time before the Folk are willing to accept this… Colony, as a free people.”
“What of the testimony of the Mother Tree? Has that not swayed minds?”
“It has, but not by as much as you may expect. I must say, brother, I do not understand your sense of urgency. If the worst comes to pass, we may witness another Rending. By your own admission, the ants are weak, barely able to preserve themselves in the face of weak opposition. What difference will they make against the Ancients?”
Grey contemplated the question for a moment before he answered.
“Even a single, green Legion cannot be described as weak, brother, as you know. It is not so much the strength they displayed when I left that inspired my confidence, but rather the rate of their growth. As ant monsters, they will accumulate power with incredible speed, maybe even fast enough to be able to contribute when the calamity comes. That is what I believe.”
