WARLORD: Just Vibin' In S Tier [FOR HONOR]

Music: Cloud Battalion - Vengeance

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Debris rained down onto his helm. Pebbles of blasted, dislodged stone pinged off the nearly chrome surface, which promptly glinted in the firelight like the angry eyes of its wearer underneath.

"Bring him to me!" Arcturus barked, leveling his gladius at the waiting group inside the nearby archway.

The foundations of the Forge shook. Another heavy catapult impact. As his soldiers brought the beast that had gained his interest, he ground his teeth together, exceedingly frustrated and thin on patience. It took three men to haul the hulking, struggling form of the Warlord over to him, and keep him restrained as the Centurion looked down with a displeased glare in his gaze. He was wounded. A strike from a poleaxe had broken his shield arm, and a deep gouge was rent in the Viking's side.

"Sir," his lieutenant, a Lawbringer by the name of Fletcher, leaned in as they brought the Viking in front of him, "Our position is flanked. We don't have much time."

Sir Fletcher's armor was in rough condition, Arcturus noted. He must've just departed from some pretty heavy fighting himself.

"Sir Damien should have warned us," Arcturus muttered, his ire rather apparent, "Why didn't he warn us?"

"HORFÐU Á MIG!" came a guttural, inhuman growl from the Warlord.

Arcturus snapped his eyes back onto the Viking. An upturn in his lip, a consequence of his short temper, was visible from between the steel cheeks of his open-faced helm.

"You will speak when spoken to, dog," Arcturus said.

"I think not," the Warlord's eyes did not betray any modicum of fear, "Come, Blackstones, are you that afraid of an old man?"

Arcturus turned to face the Warlord, "The only reason you're still alive is that my master takes interest in the strongest of warriors. You proved your might enough that you'd make a fine Wolf."

"Blackstone dogma," spat the Warlord, "I've heard of her. I would rather die a thousand deaths than fight for your wolf-laying mistress."

Arcturus clapped the backhand of his gauntlet across the Warlord's face, "Hic iterum, mongrel. Your tongue is as disgusting as your stench."

"Can't stand the smell of your men's blood?" the Warlord didn't let the air fill a pause, "Fighting isn't for you."

"Fighting is for the driven," Arcturus scowled, "You barbarians are directionless, uncoordinated. Killing just to kill. What gain have you, here, pagan? What do you fight for?"

"What do I fight for?" the Warlord glared up at him.

In his eyes, Arcturus saw the experience not of a filthy, murdering barbarian, but of a seasoned, stout warrior with tales to fill a hall. He saw the years in the wrinkles around his eyes, saw the stories that were told by the age on his face. In his heart, Arcturus severely doubted the "Warlord" wanted to be here at all.

"You call us barbarians, but it was you who crossed the river and burned a peaceful village," the Warlord growled, "You call us without direction or coordination, but we outmaneuvered your mighty Blackstone Legion, did we not? And as for the killing..."

The Warlord struggled against his restrainers, three footmen that had significant trouble keeping him in place.

"I have slain many that are better in the dirt, and tragically more that did not deserve a fate at the end of my blade," the Viking continued to resist. "Because it is always men like you, you and your Master, that put people at each other's throats. How many have you killed to stand where you are?"

Arcturus remembered, the rumbling of thunder as he slid that knife between Ilsa's ribs. He remembered the look of shock on her face, of disbelief and betrayal. Of denial and heartbreak. He found himself unable to meet the Warlord's iron gaze.

"There will always be men like you," the Warlord snarled, "There will always be tyrants like your Master. You call me a wolf, but I do not want it. I want to go home and hug my children around the fire, but you are here, so I must be here as well."

"A sheep, then," Arcturus sneered after a moment of hesitant pause.

"Sheep," laughed the Warlord, "I tend to a few back home. They are kind creatures, and not at all prone to devouring you should they see a weakness..."

Arcturus clenched his fist around the hilt of his gladius, "Sir Fletcher. Take his head."

The Lawbringer huffed and retrieved his poleaxe, the clanking of steel plate filling the silence in the room. The ambience of distant fighting outside was all that permeated the air.

"Horfðu á mig!" the Warlord growled again, forcing Arcturus' eyes back onto him.

He said nothing else. Just those stone eyes, bastions in their own right. The unforgiving stare of the Warlord gave him no rest as Sir Fletcher circled around. The footmen holding the Viking dragged him towards a suitable chopping block. All the while, he did not break his gaze.

"Horfðu á mig!" he snarled, as the Lawbringer hefted his poleaxe, his eyes burning at Arcturus until the bitter end.

"Horfðu á -"