The wise man says to be cautious of the old soldier, for it is either unfathomable luck or indomitable skill that keeps him fighting... and Ramparte is ancient.
Even a mighty empire at the apex of its glory has those that would see walls crumble and cities razed to rubble. To Ramparte and his fellow guardians, existence itself was a battlefield. Life had no other purpose than to protect the homeland that had created him, and to defend the walls of a city he had never seen the inside of. A mountain of metal and might, Ramparte would stand tall before the soldiers tasked with defending the city, or meeting the enemy in far off fields. Without fail, he would lead the charge and break the ranks of his foes, watching as their war machines were torn asunder and the banner of his empire flew high and proud over the field. But no soldier can fight forever.
The war raged on for far longer than anyone had anticipated, and Ramparte soon began to feel the wear of time upon his body. Armor became dented and rusted while his body slowed. As he tallied his victories and his repertoire of stories grew, he found that he could not swing his tower of a sword with the same speed and strength. Blows he should have avoided would land, and the doubts that plagued his mind became harder to suppress.
He remembers his last battle well. The enemy had pushed them back to their very doorstep as the empire he had spent his lifetime serving grew weaker with every passing day. The only sight that would have been worse than the banners of the enemy marching closer to the hallowed walls would be them hanging over the battlements of his conquered home. Ramparte watched as a sea of soldiers threatened to break down the barriers of the crown city, towering cannons that seemed to be carved from blocks of solid marble towered in the distance. Beams of bright light fired from across the field and shattered against the mountainous walls. Ramparte, sword raised and boots leaving craters in the mud behind him, bellowed a mighty cry and pressed his troops forward.
The battle began like many, but Ramparte would not see it concluded. As he led the assault against hostile ranks, a marble tower hummed to life. A beam of white hot energy connected to Ramparte’s chest plate, his heart overheating.. He was tossed back like a toy struck down by a child. He reached for his chest, feeling his strength wane as his senses quickly faded to nothing. He experienced only brief flashes of the world around him as he struggled to come to. The battle around him, the sound of stone falling, metal clashing, war machines battering the barrier keeping the city safe. His was not a time of rest but fear, unease, and the shame of having finally been bested by a cowardly cannon. When he finally regained control of his body, he found he could move nothing more than his fingers. He couldn’t see, and in his mind he was restrained by the enemy–a prisoner of war. He pulled and pushed his body, slowly starting to regain his strength.
When he could finally see the world around him, there was no enemy camp, no dark dungeon, and no interrogator ready to pry secrets from him. Ramparte looked down at his arms bound in vines and roots and took great effort to pull himself out of the ground he was half buried in. He looked at the dirt and rust that caked his once shining carapace, something he had only seen in the most ancient of relics. How long could he have been unconscious? It had only been a few moments, surely.
He looked around frantically as, in what had seemed like a brief moment to him, the world had suddenly changed. He reached for his blade, pulling it from the depths of the earth and swung around to meet a foe that had vanished. Where had the armies gone? Just moments ago he felt the heat of the cannon beams firing overhead and the rumble of soldiers rushing to meet one another. Now it was calm and still as the grave. The mighty soldier looked back behind him to see what state the defenses were in, and the site of shattered walls brought him to his knees. The fight would have moved into the city, and if that were the case then things were far more dire than he had feared. He couldn’t sit and wallow in pity, he had to push on. Ramparte rose to his feet once more, his chest aching as he forced himself forward.
Ramparte had never stepped foot inside the walls of the crown city, only ever planning to come home when peace had finally been earned at the end of the war. He imagined he would stand tall and march through the streets with his brave comrades at his side, his armor covered in medals and awards as crowds of cheering citizens looked on from the streets and from the massive arching buildings that reached the heavens. These fantasies were part of what kept him going in his darkest hours, but stepping through the shattered gates, he was met with nothing but his own footsteps and the hum of nature overtaking the city. Just how long had he been gone? Clearly it had been so long that the very city had fallen apart in his absence. How high did the towers rise above? What color were the banners and flags that fluttered in the breeze? What sounds and smells and sights would he have seen had he arrived earlier? Questions he might never have an answer to.
It became clear to Ramparte that the city was never made with him in mind. As he hobbled down the streets he had to make himself small to keep from bumping into ruined walls and the remnants of abandoned buildings. With every step he left heavy footsteps, like boulders crashing to the earth. They echoed through the empty streets, metal scraping on metal. He soon stopped his trek to imagine a park lush and green instead of dead and barren. He stood still, trying to take stock of his surroundings and make sense of the ruined city before him. But even as he stood still, he heard the sound of metal greaves on cobblestone. The crashing footsteps did not cease. Ramparte was not alone.
Finally, someone was alive! And not just anyone, nothing could make that kind of noise but another guardian. His kind was made to be loud, imposing, to inspire strength in the troops and dread in the armies they broke. He fought against the aches and resistance in his old, battered body. Until he finally turned the corner of a street and in an open square, he saw him. A guardian, a brother, just as worse for wear as Ramparte was. He stepped into the open to greet himself. What is going on? What happened after the battle? How long had it been? He asked these and a dozen other questions before he realized something was wrong. The guardian didn’t turn to face him, instead standing in the square staring off into space. His body twitched and his voice was nothing but garbled gibberish. Ramparte approached slowly, hand outstretched to touch his brother’s shoulder.
The sword strike came so quickly that Ramparte hardly had time to raise his own to block the strike. The guardian’s single eye in the center of his mask flickered an eerie red instead of the cool blue light that should have been there. In the blink of an eye his opponent raised his sword to strike again, Ramparte drove his fist into the chest of the guardian and realized the strength in his arm was no longer what it used to be. Instead of knocking the rogue guardian back it threw them off balance and sent the broadside of their blade into Ramparte’s chest, sending him tumbling backwards. Ramparte heard more footsteps coming from around alleyways and across streets. He hesitated, knowing what a foolish fight it would be to stand alone against so many foes in his state. For the first time in his career, Ramparte fled from a battle. As fast as he could carry himself, he left the city behind. Stomping through the old battlefield and towards a treeline in the distance, the sounds of his fellow guardians had grown silent over time, their mindless screeching and chittering obscured by the trees.
Ramparte had only been inside of a forest once before, when passing through between one battle to another, and even then he was on high alert. They made terrible places to fight; too many blind corners and positions to be ambushed from. It took dozens of hours and thousands of footsteps for the old warrior to lower his guard and allow himself to stop and process the moment. He stood still in a clearing beside a still pond, listening to the sounds of the wilderness. Not keeping watch for creeping scouts or the sounds of battle. For the first time he listened to the wind brushing the leaves in the branches and the lapping of the pond water against stone. Was this the peace he had fought all of his life for? If so, it was better than he imagined. He had spent so long fighting for peace, some vague idea of a life after the war was over. But he had never stopped to think of what a moment like this might be like; simply existing in harmony with the world around you. A noisy parade suddenly seemed less pleasant than this moment of serenity.
Contemplating by the pond, he almost let himself drift off into a trance when a scream pierced the silence of the forest. Instinct took over as Ramparte stood, unsheathing his sword. Trees splitting in his path as he charged through the thick underbrush. He acted without thinking, taking in the scene within a brief moment. A pack of monstrous creatures cornering a small civilian, backed up against a large stone. All it took was a single swipe of his massive blade to dispatch of the beasts, the cowering gatherer staring up at Ramparte, now concerned that they had run into an even greater problem. But the giant stranger would be a friend, not a foe, and Ramparte knelt down on the ground to extend an oversized hand.
Ramparte asked about his old home. The city, the empire he fought for, and was only met with a curious glance. The stranger told Ramparte that nobody went into the city. It was full of nothing but rubble and babbling giants.
Ramparte didn’t have the heart to ask any more questions, not ones he feared he already knew the answer to. The stranger was kind enough to take Ramparte to their meager camp set up in a nearby cave. A half dozen of them had banded together living off of twigs, berries, and wearing clothes sewn from grass and fiber. They told Ramparte of this world, how they scavenged by day and hid by night, how they were unable to make it further than a few minutes outside of the cave. Every time they attempted to venture further, some new beast chased them back to their hiding place.
Ramparte’s first instinct was to offer protection. But even if he did, how long could he? He could feel his body resisting him, his strikes weaker and slower. He might fend off wild beasts for a time, but what if a greater threat came? What if he could no longer stand on his own two feet? What would happen to this group?
“Take that pile of twigs and sharpen them to a point.” he said, hunched over in the cave. “I have much to teach you.”
