“The Empire is Law.”

Another mortifying crack rang out.

“And the Law is Sacred.”

This time the Centurion turned to face the assembled garrison of Gnisis, his bloodied flail hanging limply.

“Legionary Varus Artellian is a hero of the Ninth Legion, and he has broken the Law. No man escapes the judgement of the Emperor. He has brought disgrace to himself, to the Legion, and to the Empire.”

The battered man before them, until now silent, spit at the boots of his sanctimonious tormentor. He lifted his head, squinting in Magnus’ harsh blaze, and dug a few more feet of his metaphorical grave: “Malacath’s thorny cock, you’re a smug g-”

Another lash from the Centurion, now accompanied by a palpable amount of satisfaction, silenced whatever slur had been ready to emerge. The Orc knocked Varus’ face into the ground with a swift kick in the square of his back, and signaled to two waiting Legionaries. “Maro and Truptor – take the prisoner back to his cage. The Knight-Protector will want to deal with him now, Talos have mercy.”

Kelborn sighed. It was his turn to meet Varus Artellian, and assume the shame of this nightmarish task.

This was Vvardenfell.

The Frontier.

Whatever Gods-forsaken yurt now housed the golden Dragon of the Ninth Legion, he was at least certain this cursed land and its barbaric inhabitants would do everything in their power to kill him before he ever found it.


Divines protect me.


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