The Legatus [Closed]

[Merri]

[align=center]The Engineer

Chapter 1: Prelude[/align]

"Rosethorne!"

 

A wrench whizzed past the slumbering Midlander, knocking over a pile of loosely stacked scrap metal. The resulting clatter abruptly snapped Merri awake from his light doze. "What, yeah, no, I wasn't-" He did his best to play off his sleeping on the job, though it was clear his assailant wasn't buying it.

 

"You've been here for sixteen hours, Merri. You need to go home and get some rest. That comes straight from the boss." The Miqo'te stretched his arms out behind his head, yawning tiredly. "And I think I might heed the same advice."

 

Merri smirked faintly as he lazily staggered up onto his feet, stretching his own limbs out. "Oh, Vhelo, did you get the..?" He trailed off before he could finish his sentence, quirking his brow as he pulled his goggles up onto his forehead. Vhelo reached into a pouch at his hip and procured a small metal tube, which he shook gently.

 

"Of course. Popo left with the batch that just came in for you. Figured I'd save one in case you stayed here longer than he did. Looked like your reaction time was starting to wane back before you dozed off." Vhelo gestured towards Merri's left arm. "That time of the week, yeah?" The Miqo'te winked and tossed the vial to the Hyur.

 

Merri nodded as he caught the tube. "Observant as always, huh?" The two shared a brief chuckle at the comment as Merri began to roll up his left sleeve to reveal the mess of steel that was concealed beneath. It was a sight that sent most Eorzeans fleeing in terror. There were few who were familiar with Imperial technology, and the sight of such an inhuman device attached to some one was enough to send a chill down their spine. Then there were those who knew all to well what Imperial technology looked like and reacted even worse, mainly Ala Mhigan refugees. Suffice it to say, it was not something he was very open about with the general public - regardless of the few that might find it the most amazing thing they had ever seen. Thankfully, under clothing it appeared completely inconspicuous. The only issues were the occasional creaking of plate shifting about, and the fact that his left arm wasn't exactly soft to the touch in any way, shape, or form. However, his choice of heavy platemail and chain easily concealed these issues. It was only in casual wear that he had to be careful.

 

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To him, it wasn't some mystical device. It wasn't by any means the most impressive piece of imperial technology he had the pleasure of working with, either. Though the design of the prosthetic was ingenious in it's own right, it was merely an example of what Magitek could accomplish. The arm functioned as flawlessly as one made of flesh and bone, and had the added bonus of being far more durable and in possession of strength that made even the mightiest of Roegadyn pale in comparison. It was powered by Ceruleum, the same substance used to power all Magitek.

[align=center][/align]

 

The interior was a mess of synthetic cables and artificial muscles that worked in tandem to provide flawless motor function. Control of the arm itself was entirely natural, as the prosthetic was connected to the body through a series of intricate aetherically-attuned plates that reacted to the body and it's innate aetheric flow. By simply attempting to move the arm that wasn't there, the signals were translated directly into the arm in the blink of an eye - allowing for complete control.

 

Endemerrin had lost his left arm and a large portion of his shoulder during the Imperial siege of Ala Mhigo. Though left for dead, he was brought back from the edge by an imperial alchemist and engineer by the name of Kototo Whimsywood. He would be the same Dunesfolk that would eventually recruit Endemerrin into service of the empire - more specifically their twisted and secretive officer program. For more than a decade Endemerrin found himself tied up within the empire, brainwashed like many into believing his cause was just. It wasn't until a traumatic event snapped him out of his daze that he realized what he had become. The past decade of his life seemed like one long, horrible, nightmarish dream.

 

He managed to convince the Whimsywood family to see the folly of their ways, and together they fled to Eorzea. While he left many ends untied, Merri vowed to one day see to it that all the wrongs he had committed would be set right.

 

While the Whimsywood family eventually settled in Ul'dah and quickly became a prominent and wealthy family of Thaumaturges within the Azzraneth Ossuary, Endemerrin laid low and joined up with former Ala Mhigan citizens in what eventually become the Ala Mhigan resistance. It was only one of many tasks he undertook to help ease the burden of his past mistakes.

 

He also joined what was known as the Garlond Ironworks, a band of former Garlean and Eorzean engineers working in tandem to bring Magitek technology to the fore-front in Eorzea. A noble effort to arm the city-states against the impending imperial invasion. The vast knowledge of Magitek that had been obtained during their stints in the empire gained both the Whimsywood family and Rosethorne immediate entry into the organization.

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Endemerrin snapped open the panel on the underside of the limb's forearm. "Yeah, it was starting to feel a bit sluggish." He delicately began to unhook the current canister of Ceruleum from it's port before easing it from it's resting place. The prosthetic immediately fell limp, hanging lifelessly at his side. After discarding of the expired canister, he quickly inserted the fresh vial and once again the arm sparked to life after emitting a brief tuft of the ever-familiar blueish-green smoke that accompanied the activation of Ceruleum.

 

Slapping the panel shut once again, Endemerrin shot Vhelo a quick hand gesture in acknowledgment before heading off to exit the workshop. It was bedtime.

[Merri]

[align=center]Chapter 2: Beginnings

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[align=center]Seven years ago[/align]

 

They were diabolical constructs. Aberrations of steel to cage the lifeblood of the world, tools to sap away the land's very essence in an effort to rival the power of Eikons, of gods. Abominations -- nothing more. Yet the twelve remained silent, watching as lands burned and civilizations fell one by one. There was no counter to their madness, no way to fight it. Those wise enough to submit were spared, and those that resisted were erased from existence. It was not long before the countries of the north were abolished, and in their place stood a mighty empire. Garlemald.

 

It was a cold, dreary day. A perpetual rain had fallen all morning, leaving the ground covered in mud and small puddles. There were no breaks in the clouds, only the gentle rolling grey of rain clouds as far as the eye could see. Thunder drummed gently in the distance, echoing the approach of rougher weather. Sadly, it was pretty much like this every day. There was rarely a break in the clouds or the rain. Eventually it got to a point where one would just accept it, and grow to have a strange fondness for the gloomy atmosphere.

 

"Ser." The soldier barked out, standing at attention. "They refuse to stand down. Your orders?"

 

The Hyur the soldier was addressing remained silent. It sent a nervous chill down the soldiers spine, and rightfully so. Their leader always seemed so cold and detached. Garbed from head to toe in the empire's finest armor. The unique, horned, ornate helm he adorned instilled fear in all that crossed his path, even his own men. No one even knew what he looked like behind the mask. Even his true voice was obscured, carrying a deep metal ring whenever he spoke. On top of it all, he was notoriously skilled with the Gunblade. A crack shot and an incredible swordsman all mixed into one twisted machine. An elite soldier of Garlemald, trained since he was a young child. A fearless leader.

 

"Crush them." The Hyur dismissed the soldier before turning to face a Lalafellin who had been standing behind him the entire time. As the Hyur's adviser, he too was garbed in a similar fashion, though he wielded a strange staff instead of the empire's famed Gunblade. He spoke no words to the Lalafell, but his companion still knew exactly what he wanted to say. He did not need to see the Hyur's face or hear his voice to know. His silence spoke for itself.

 

"Unfortunate, yes, but this comes directly from command. The resistance must be destroyed, less it gain momentum. We cannot afford to spare more soldiers on this front. Their leader is a rather powerful Conjurer -- you know what you must do." The Lalafellin droned, turning to face the village.

 

And he did know. There would be no surrender from this enemy, regardless of how futile resistance was.

 

The ring of battle echoed throughout the village as the Legatus slowly made his way through the muddy streets. Bodies fell left and right as his men advanced, overwhelming the resistance's fighters. The air was filled with the heavy, beating drone of Juggernauts as they circled above, making certain there would be no escape from this battlefield.

 

Though even as chaotic as it had become, the Legatus kept his slow pace, walking calmly through the field of battle. He occasionally lifted his gunblade, firing with pinpoint accuracy into the throngs of resistance members that engaged his men. They dropped like flies.

 

It was not long before he came across the resistance headquarters. A simple discharge of the aether-cannon mounted upon his wrist sent the guards out front tumbling to the ground, allowing the Legatus to waltz into the building un-opposed. He knew he was walking into a trap, but it did not phase him. Several resistance members leapt from their heading spots, though they quickly fell upon the blade of the Garlean.

 

And there he was - the resistance's leader. He was not forty years old, and garbed from head to toe in a simple brown robe. His hands were tightly clutched around an old, gnarled staff, and he bore a simple look of determination upon his face. All it took was a glance to see he was a humble man. A leader of great potential.

 

"Why do you do this, demon? What purpose does this serve?" The man was as calm and collected as the Garlean before him, even as he moved to attack. He unleashed several darts of aetheric energy at the legatus, though they bounced harmlessly off his magic-resistant breastplate.

 

"The empire offered you their ultimatum, their protection. You refused. As a blemish on Garlemald's landscape, you must be cleansed."

 

All calmness that was present in the conjurer quickly melted away, and he lunged forward with a burning madness in his eyes. A massive wave of fire engulfed the Garlean with enough force to reduce even the hardiest metals to nothing but cinders. Yet against all odds, the soldier emerged from the flames almost completely unscathed. The gauntlet on his left arm had been literally burnt away, and his tabard singed slightly, but nothing more. He lunged forward, plunging his left fist into the stomach of the Conjurer. The sheer force of the blow sent the Conjurer tumbling back several feet into the wall. It was no ordinary fist that had pummeled him, but an arm of metal -- gifted with the strength of ten men. A Magitek Prosthesis.

 

He began to make his way to the collapsed Conjurer, but was stopped by the sudden laughing of the man.

 

"You're not even Hyur anymore. You're a monster -- of course they would send you to do their dirty work. You just don't get it, do you?"

 

The Garlean remained still for a moment before reaching a hand up to remove his helmet. Gentle locks of brown hair cascaded down, framing around his face as he shook them out. His features were smooth, albeit slightly pale. The only discrepancy was a lone scar that ran over his left eye. He appeared young -- not even twenty years of age. Yet already he was a ruthless killing machine, twisted by the empire's ways. A lost cause.

 

The Conjurer continued to laugh as the Garlean began to come closer once again, coming to a stop with his Gunblade resting against the Hyur's forehead. "Nothing but a demon."

 

Bang.

 

The shot rang out through the building, and the Conjurer's slumped to the ground in a pool of his own blood. Though his last words had initially had no impact on the Garlean, that all changed within a matter of seconds. The wail of a young child pierced the air. It was the key he had been hunting for. All it took was the horrified look upon the child's face to unlock the memories that had been repressed long ago.

 

Those words would forever be burnt into his memory.

 

 

Endemerrin bolted upright, chest heaving heavily as a cold sweat covered his body. He remained in his shocked state for a moment before slowly relaxing his tense muscles, coming down from the abruptness of his waking. It was then he realized he was not alone. Popo sat at the Hyur's desk across the room, smoking his pipe, eyes fixed upon him.

 

"You had the dream again." Popo confirmed, seeming to not need an answer from Merri. The Hyur still nodded regardless. Popo exhaled smoke from his nose slowly, falling silent again. There were no more words to be said.

 

Some cuts went too deep. Some memories could never be repressed.

[Merri]

[align=center]Chapter 3: Imperial Iniatives[/align]

 

It had been almost ten years. Ten long, grueling years. He was only eleven years old when they came - razing the city to the ground. Slaughtered his father in front of him, stole his kid sister away into the night. They had broken him, and it was all one cold calculated plan. A child's mind was easily manipulated, easily corrupted. Take everything away from them and they don't know what to do. The second you offer it all back, they'll latch on without a second thought. Pledging allegiance to whomever they paint as their savior. They were perfect candidates for the empire's new program.

 

Some resisted, and were cut down for their actions. Not all died from their wounds, and it only served to drive them even harder. One child had both his legs removed, and another had an arm severed from his body. Both were saved by Lalafellin engineers, and easily converted with the promise of revenge against the men who had destroyed everything they had. Outfitted with the empire's finest in magitek prosthesis, these children quickly rose to the top of their class. Whether it was their enhanced performance, of the seething rage that had been brewed inside of them, they conquered all that was set before them. Ten long years they were trained alongside their peers. They were bred for war. Brainwashed, and battle hardened. They had no personal lives, they were tools of the empire. Nothing more, nothing less.

 

A part of the empire's new officer program. A concentrated effort to weigh the effectiveness of children bred with the sole purpose of leading Garlemald's legions. Experimentation to see whether or not their fragile minds could handle the pressure. Were it successful, Garlemald would be blessed with a generation of strong, young leaders capable of seeing to the will of the empire over the course of long, successful careers. They would be the empire's elite. They would be unstoppable.

 

Endemerrin Rosethorne was the first, a Hyur. Known simply as Legatus XVIII; eventually codenamed "Wrath". His arm had been severed off for his defiance against the empire. He had been "saved" and recruited by Kototo Whimsywood, a Garlean engineer. Wrath would eventually be partnered with Popolith Whimsywood - son of the engineer that had saved him. Popolith served as Wrath's adviser, a Magister. Rain Sunderan was the second, also a Hyur. Legatus XIX; codenamed "Envy". He had lost both of his legs during his resistance, and was rescued by a lalafellin engineer by the name of Poro Moroto. Poro would eventually serve as Envy's adviser and Magister partner.

 

Though they were among twenty recruits, they graduated at the top of the program alongside five others. The rest were sent off to serve as centurions within various legions, some even under the command of their former classmates. Some were even killed. Though the top seven had more than proved themselves throughout their training, they were still too much of a liability to be pushed out to the Garlean fronts. Instead, they were each given command of a small, inexperienced legion. It was their duty to see to it the legion was quickly whipped into shape via the policing and enforcing of imperial will within conquered territory. It was their duty to quell any rebellions, and keep the peace.

 

Were they to succeed in their task and their legion grow to fit the expectations of the empire, they would be put on the offensive - claiming territory in the name of their mighty emperor. It was their one and only goal.

[Merri]

[align=center]Chapter 4: The Reaper[/align]

 

http://i.imgur.com/DUzh3.jpg[/img][align=center]Legatus XVIII - Wrath[/align]

 

"They did not name you Wrath without reason, number eighteen." Envy waved his knife about carelessly in front of Wrath's face, going so far as to jab the miniaturized gunblade towards his fellow Legatus. "Yet you're always so quiet and reserved. I sense no Wrath in you! They should have gifted me that title! You're pathet-"

 

Wrath drew his Gunblade and locked it with Envy's before disarming the pugnacious Legatus in one fluid and swift swipe. Before nineteen had any time to react, he was staring directly down the barrel of Wrath's wrist-mounted aetheric launcher. The device clicked once and began to hum lightly, signifying it was active and primed. Though he spoke no words as usual, it was painfully obvious he would not think twice before dispatching Envy -- regardless of the consequences.

 

"Now if only you could maintain that anger." the rogue chirped, pushing Wrath's arm off to the side in an almost playful manner. Envy had always been a strange character, one that never really fit in anywhere. He was very vocal and provocative, though only in a teasing manner. The men of his legion had taken to calling him "The Jester" because of his odd traits. Over time he grew into the persona, even going so far as to having his armor tailored to the likeness of a wicked Jester. His prosthetic legs only added to this identity with the extreme agility they bestowed upon him. Watching him fight was not unlike watching a Jester. He rolled and cartwheeled about like a madman, toying with his opponents as a means to drive them into a seething rage. Yet despite becoming the maniacal character he had become associated with, he never lost a grasp of why he was named Envy in the first place. While by no means a colorful quality, his envious ways drove him to take that which he wanted without hesitation. Once the jealousy set in, he was relentless in his goal until the prize was his, and his alone.

 

Wrath was almost his exact opposite. He remained cool and collected at all times. His own men had taken to calling him "The Reaper" due to the haunting qualities he bore in the field of battle. It was not uncommon to spot him walking calmly amongst the carnage as if he were on nothing but a casual stroll. Wrath just seemed to never be in a hurry. Many affiliated this spine-chilling trait to his quietness. He was not vocal because he was always one step ahead. Never in a rush. However, he was named Wrath for good reason. Though he rarely spoke, it was possible to almost feel the rage and hatred seething from him at times, even if his outward appearance was cool, calculated, and collected. His relentless and often deadly accurate onslaughts were driven by his wrath, and his wrath alone. It was because of his rage that he was recruited into the program in the first place. The empire had taken everything from him. His home, his family, in essence they had taken his very life -- not to mention his arm. He was promised revenge in exchange for his service. They clouded his mind with lies, convincing him the Centurion that destroyed his life was a madman - even by Imperial standards. He was a wicked soul, and his fire had to be extinguished. They would help the young Hyur get his revenge so long as he swore allegiance to Empire. Endemerrin accepted the position without question. Nothing would stop him from having it.

 

Despite his efforts, he was playing right into their hands. They simply toyed with him, forcing him to grow off his wrath. It drove him to succeed at everything he did without a hint of imperfection. As the years rolled by, he slowly began to lose track of why he had joined arms with the empire in the first place. As their brainwashing set in, he became nothing but another weapon of the empire. Endemerrin Rosethorne had been all but locked away deep within his mind. All that was left was his wrath.