"In our greatest hour is when we are our most vulnerable, for it is when we are the most at ease." - the supposed words of the last Emperor of Vaaf, 25 years Before the Resurgeance.

Arrows flew high into the air, whistling in harmony before plunging deep within the ranks of silver, white, black, gold, azure, and rose. Returning in kind was the symphony of hatchets being hurled, praying to Bershion that they might hew their enemy. Marius, whose black mane never ceased to shine, despite all of the dust kicked up by the months on the road, stood proudly amongst the ranks of black and gold. Phillipe patted the side of his white stallion, who too was feeling the heat of the summer sun. Levy all clad in black and white slowly filtered their way passed the main line and towards the rearguard. The soldiers of Nadine and Thijn bore looks of exhaustion, dehydration, and despair. So many of them had fallen in the vanguard, so many soldiers of Obbinkerloo and Bull men of the Chiyou were scattered about the grounds. Only time would tell what the total count was, but the young king already knew it would be too much, too many have died and will die this day. The king of the Desravank had made a decision he knew could cost him dearly, sending in his center column before commanding Zoe and Emilie to follow suit - but he had no other choice. A knight in rose colored gambeson with the black head of a bull on her chest was the one to bring the message to her king, one which punctured his heart deeper than he had thought it would. Going against the advise of his lieutenants, he had raised his sword and sallied forth to provide the vanguard with reprieve. It had become paramount to recover their bodies before it would become too late, before they would be trampled under foot and heel. The one positive, it would seem, was the surprise it gave to Martien Ruuding and his forces with the sudden influx of fresh troops coming at him. In a matter of minutes he had begun calling the retreat of his own, forcing Rikkert and Vaars to begin sending in their own forces. Where was Thierry, though?

The young king found himself searching about the battlefield. Was he hoping to find his uncle, or simply curious of his whereabouts? Eventually they would be forced to come face to face, this was inevitable. A bead of sweat came down his forehead and onto his chin; wiping it away, Phillipe noted the scratchy nature of his face. He had grown the semblance of a beard these months on the road, amazing himself that he had not truly noticed until now. It was still rough and quite patchy, but he felt different because of it - should he? The sound of horns to his north and south overcame his senses. Good, Zoe and Emilie are converging in. Peering north, the young king could see as Duke Vaars VIII fought for his life, appearing to shout commands left and right in an attempt to stall the foreseeable flank from Duchess Emilie and Duke Fleury from the north. A cacophony of splintering wood, shattered spears, slashing steel, and agonizing screams were all that the senses could take in for what felt like hours. Captains and lieutenants, all of them knights and lesser nobility, boomed orders all down the lines. The occasional messenger would greet the king with news of the front, always the same - a stand still. Bodies piled atop bodies, shields smashed shields, and spears pierced heads, necks, shoulders, and any other parts of the body not protected enough from the wrath of war. Would this be my legacy? The Battle of Jacque's Triangle and the loss of an entire generation. The young king snapped his head off to the distance as the sounds of chaos left his immediate periphery and came from far beyond.

The ranks of the Biljvank were scrambling from the rear-center, as spears, pikes, and axes all clattered to the ground. Horns blared and a clear line could be seen within their ranks, as though carved by a giant knife from the sky. Phillipe's eyes widened as he looked for the commanding nobles from the Biljvank forces - Duke Vaars Zelderloo VIII was pacing back and forth atop his horse, arms waving frantically as those around him circled back and forth, unsure of which way to go. Flags began to wave ferociously from the ranks of the Zelderloo, but they were not towards the Desravank. No, they seemed to point back eastwards. Reserves? Turning his head, pulling forth an eyeglass and looked intently, the young king could see their forces in reserve, just a quarter mile to the north east. Thousands of soldiers, all wielding banners of crimson and carnation seemed poised and ready to strike. Sweat began to seize his body - would they attempt to come around and strike at the back of their northern flank? Looking for a messenger to send to Emilie, Phillipe stopped himself as his attention was once again drawn to the east. They are not moving. The Biljvank reserves were not moving. Vaars was seen waving his hands even more so, nearly toppling himself from his horse as his body moved about with such force. King Phillipe brought his attention back to the scar in Rikkert's square, and then the realization washed over him. Rikkert is not there. And that scar was not healing, and rather was becoming a funnel for troops to begin deserting. By the gods... It had worked. Their gamble had worked, and it seemed far more than they had anticipated. Hein. Emperor Phillipe of the Desravank thought to himself. You shall not have died in vain, cousin." The young emperor unsheathed his sword, raised it high, and signaled his banners and horn blowers to signal his allies to the north and south.

Chaos formed around the old king, encircling him in an attempt to climb up and choke him. Spinning wildly on his horse, the old king barked orders at those fleeing all around him. Cowards. He thought to himself. You flee when we are so close to victory! King Thierry Desramaux turned to his captains.

"Huang Gui, we must set the example! We cannot allow the Biljvank forces to flee! Turn your warriors about and charge!" The purple skinned elf looked left and then slowly brought their eyes across to look right. He took his time bringing them back to the center and onto those of his employer.

"This venture no longer seems profitable, King Thierry. My warriors and I will kill for coin, but not coin we cannot collect upon. May the gods watch over you." Mouth agape, the old king watched as the two legions of Sun Warriors ran through the ranks of the Biljvank forces, far away from the ever encroaching Desravank. Clenching his jaw nearly to the point of cracking a tooth, Thierry stood tall in his stirrups as he prepared to bark more orders, but stopped as he finally took in all that was around him.

To his south, soldiers bearing the standards of House Pascelet and House Garlen pushed northeast, halberds and claymore's leading the charge to slowly encompass the left flank of the shattered Biljvank forces. Few captains were maintaining the front lines, vain attempts to hold back the oncoming storm as more and more filtered east and away from the battlefield. To the north, the colors of Renangers and Aurrennes came crashing down upon those bearing the Silver Dragon of House Zelderloo; Vaars had brought himself forward and slashed wildly from atop his steed. It would only be a matter of time before Phillipe's center column had made their way passed Martien Ruuding, who had managed to rally some of those within Rikkert's ranks after refusing to stop fighting even after most of his forces had filtered back east. The wild man of Rodzijl would stop at nothing until he met the gods this day, of that Thierry was certain, unless he truly lost his mind and his lust for carnage was all that drove him. The day was becoming hopeless, and to continue fighting would ensure defeat. As the enemy closed in, the forces of the false king, of the child emperor, the window to retreat and regroup grew smaller and smaller. Wiping the pouring sweat from his forehead, the old king turned to face the soldiers of the black rose behind him.

"Soldiers of the Bilvjank! You are the strongest! You are the mightiest! Our enemy cheats and lies to surround us and betray us! Follow me! Follow me back East! We shall strike them when our strength is back and our teeth sharpened!" Thierry encouraged his horse onward, expecting soldiers from all around to begin rallying behind him, following him east where their rearguard would be waiting to support their retreat. If the Van Niljveld can still be counted on. He thought to himself. Baring down on his steed, he raced further and further from the front lines, the sounds of battle slowly fading away from his ears. He would not lose this day, not entirely. He could not, he refused. They would regroup. Yes, they would regroup under his command. Loyal to him because of his name, because of his title and not for the lowly reason of his purse. I will win this day, and then I shall find the legions of Huang Gui and Wei Yan and they shall see the errors of their ways. A grim smile overcame his face unconsciously. However, the excitement quickly faded as he turned to the unfortunate reality that none were following him.

None. Not a single soul had broken from their purpose to follow him back eastwards. Those at the very front still followed the orders of Martien, who with all of the glee in his heart only wanted to kill. The rest of the Biljvank forces turned to their captains, who had become split in their decisions - half continued to hold the line, waiting for the arrival of the Duchess Mathieden and Counter Lutherloo with their thirty-thousand forces. The forces of the Silver Dragon continued to hold against the flank of Emilie and Fleury, but the old king could see the cracks in their spear walls. One push after another continued to test the will and strength of an army whose morale was shattered and only leadership was crazed or ineffective. Why will they not follow me? Why do they not listen to me? I am king! I am the only king on this battlefield today! Searching for any reprieve, the old king watched on in horror as the forces of Mathieden and Lutherloo seemed to begin squabbling amongst each other, banners now turning to face inwards as lines began to form. It came as no surprise, thought Thierry, that the Biljvank's would shatter the moment he needed them most. This only served to reinforce how wrong Phillipe is, how wrong Francois was. It was plain as day how ineffective of an ally the Biljvank are, and how terrible the union will be. Despite their numerical advantage, they still had managed to lose the day. Lose? The old king thought to himself. Yes, yes they have lost the day. I should have led! I should have been entrusted with a command! It would take a Desramaux to defeat a Desramaux pretender, afterall. Furious at the lack of response from the black and gold soldiers around him, Thierry took once more to bellowing at those who could hear him.

"I am your king! King Thierry Desramaux! Follow me, now! We must fall back to Jacquignon and allow Lowie to cover for us! Follow me, damnit!" His sword raised high, the king's words continued to fall upon deaf ears. Armor clattered about, screams filled the air, and the stench of blood echoed throughout. The sound of hooves could be heard approaching. Thierry turned to see Prince Claude had rounded the forces to the north and come back round from the east with his contingents of cavalry.

"What in the name of the gods are you doing here? You are supposed to be coming at them from the back!" An inconsolable Prince Claude hobbled through the chaos to meet his cousin. After moments of blubbering, he finally managed to give an audible response.

"My son... My son! They killed my son!" A chill shot down Thierry's spine. Jean-Claude was dead? Jean-Claude was dead. Another prince, another Desramaux fallen. We must retreat, we must regroup. Thierry's eyes widened, his head darting back and forth at the Biljvank forces still in an upheaval around him.

"Soldiers of the Bijvank! Follow your king! The cavalry have come to provide us cover!" King Thierry shot his gaze now over to his cousin, who still blubbered through tears, his voice cracked and barely audible.

"Cousin, you must take revenge. You must avenge Jean-Claude. Take your cavalry, charge into the enemy lines! Break them as they have broken us and give us the chance to fall back. You must avenge him." The old prince continued to shake, rocking back and forth slightly in his saddle with a quivering lip. His eyes opened wide enough to lock in with his cousin's, responding to his words only with the slow nodding of his head. Raising his sword, the old prince dug his heels into his horse and drove through the Biljvank forces. Horns of his followers rang out as a quarter of his cavalry followed suit. Adding to the chaos of the front lines, now, Claude led his soldiers directly into the back of Martien Ruuding's center, shattering it from behind as he drove deeper into Desravank lines. Once again Thierry attempted to rally the Biljvank to his side, and once again they continued on without so much as noticing him. They scrambled to and froe, knights and captains retreating while others struggled to hold their lines. Vaars Zelderloo could be seen attempting to make a retreat, those in his square running backwards as the tried desperately to follow their commander before being completely encircled by Emilie's forces. To the south, Zoe and Serge had managed to break the thin lines of the Biljvank, pushing closer to the center, closing the circle from the south, engulfing any unfortunate enough to be caught in their path. Thierry screamed in a rage of frustration. Looking for anyone who would follow him, he searched for Claude, who by now he was sure was falling back.

Much to the old king's dismay, he found his cousin within the ranks of the enemy. His sword swung wildly, no retinue in sight to help him carve a return path. Then, as if in slow motion, and arrow from the false king's side pierced the side of his cousin's neck, exiting halfway through the other side, and bringing forth a fountain of what could only be crimson water. The old king felt himself grow cold as he watched Prince Claude Desramaux descend from his horse as a sack of flour might fall from the rafters of a barn. His eyes grew wide. His hair stood on end. Soon, the old king felt himself begin to shake with a clenched jaw, the blood vessels in his face bulging forth as he skin turned pale, then green, and then a deep red. Rage boiled all throughout his body. He was right. I was right. He thought to himself. They are coming for us. They seek to destroy us, and so they have. Was Rikkert in on this? Was Hekket? Guyard? Dirk-Jan? What have I done? Made allies of enemies? They would all sooner see me dead! Just as Phillipe would see us destroyed. It has always been this way, it must have been. They have all plotted against me from the very beginning. And now we are all to die. Francois. Mathias. Claude. Jean-Claude. What of Guillaume? Surely he had not survived, less I would have seen him. Mathias too? What will they do to Louis? To me? I must stop this. I must stop this all. I must. I must. I must. They will not stop until we are all dead. The last of the Desramaux, I am the last of the Desramaux, and I am surrounded by enemies. All around me are enemies. They will not listen to me because they seek my death. They will not hear me because they seek my death. All of them, all of them seek my death. I will not give it to them. I will not give it to them! They shall not take me! They shall not take the Last of the Desramaux!

Blood soaked his horses main as the old king continued to swing his blade wildly with one hand, the other hand firmly on the reins to pull his horse round this way and that. Slashing back and forth, he did not know, nor did he care who he was bringing his sword upon. Biljvank and Desravank alike, all would fall to the sword of the Last Desramaux. He did not care that their lines had broken. He did not care that Vaars Zelderloo had all but retreated. He did not care the Martiend Ruuding was being pushed further and further back, his forces completely encircled by those of Zoe Pascelet and Emilie LuRene. He did not care that the center column of Phillipe had continued forward in pursuit of the fleeing Biljvanks. All he cared about was lowering the number of enemies which surrounded him - and there were hundreds of thousands of them. My blade will know no rest this day, nor any day hence forth. His eyes grew wide with delight when they found themselves resting upon an old but familiar sight. As soldiers of black and gold all around him did battle, half in an attempt to retreat and the other half in an attempt to pursue, he saw the False King. The Brat King. The Child King. Gripping his hilt tightly, Thierry charged after him.

Screaming wildly, the old king brought his sword down heavily towards Phillipe, who quickly raised his own sword to block. The two blades hissed as they scratched back and forth upon one another, both horses slowly circling one another, allowing the kings to lock eyes as the world spun around them. Eventually, Phillipe's crimson stallion broke the cycle and trotted to the right and away from Thierry, stopping just twenty feet away and turning to face the old king.

"Uncle! Stay your hand! It is over! You have lost!"

"Lost? Lost? Lost! All of us have lost! All of us! The Desramaux are gone! You have killed them all! All in the name of vainglory!" Thierry did not wait for a response from his nephew, digging his heels in to raise forward once again, this time bringing his blade horizontal for a slash helped by the momentum of his steed. Twisting his sword upwards and leading his horse away, the young king was able to deflect his uncle's blow, but was unable to provide a response as Thierry continued forward another thirty feet before stopping, turning, and trying again. Once again, Phillipe's blade clanged against Thierry's as his horse brought him to the side and away from the majority of the strike.

"Stand still, damn you!" The old king shouted as he sent his horse trotting up to his nephew. This time, however, after blocking his uncle's strike, Phillipe returned with a downward diagonal slash from his left, which Thierry swiftly twisted his wrist round to block. Pulling his arm up, Thierry slashed downward, which his nephew caught with is blade, spun round, and came back with a slash from right to left. The old king managed to just pull himself back enough that the tip of the young king's sword narrowly grazed his side, doing no damage to the skin underneath but fraying the gambeson. Their horses continued to circle round one another again, their hooves pounding the dirt turned mud from the crimson water it had absorbed. They clashed and hacked at one another, each blade hissing and clanging as each blocked the other, parried, and returned strikes again and again. The sound of steel sliding on steel rang out as their blades locked in the center, their eyes locked into one another.

"Uncle, I do not wish to kill you. You have lost!"

"You do not wish to kill me? How strange for you to say. You wish for us all to die. All Desramaux."

"I am Desramaux!"

"No you are not!" Thierry shoved himself away from his nephew, leading his horse to trot another twenty feet away. "You are not Desramaux! Not any more! And now there are none of us! I am the last of us, and I will not be taken this day! I shall not stop until all enemies of the Desramaux are vanquished, and I shall begin with you!"

King Thierry Desramaux charged forth again, his right arm raised over his left shoulder to bring down a diagonal swipe from left to right. Phillipe caught this strike with a well placed block, slid his sword back, and returned a stab. Thierry swatted his nephews blade away with his own, pulled back and attempted the same downward diagonal swipe from left to right. Once again, Phillipe blocked, coming back this time with an upward diagonal swipe from right to left. The two kings continued to strike at one another, blocking, parrying, returning swings, neither one taking purchase upon the other. Thierry brought his sword down with his right hand, only to find his wrist caught by Phillipe's left, holding his uncle's swing at bay. The two struggled for a moment, neither one successfully able to push the other back. This ended when Phillipe quickly pulled his sword up to strike, which weakened his grip on Thierry's wrist and allowed him to once again swing downward towards his nephew. However, his strike went awry as he suddenly found himself being flung from his toppling horse. It would seem the young king gave up the hold on his uncle's wrist so that he might slash down at his horses neck, killing it and sending both steed and rider to the ground. Leaping down from Marius, Phillipe approached his uncle on foot.

"You cheat! You lie and you cheat! You are betrayers to us all, to our House and to our values! I should have killed you long ago, I should have killed you and my brother when he first came forth with this idea of "unity!" You have doomed us all!"

"Surrender, uncle! You cannot fight this war alone, or else you will die."

"Well, nephew, one of us must." Jumping to his feet, the old king swung with both hands on the hilt, coming down as hard as he could upon his nephew. Phillipe leapt back, nearly missing his uncle's strike. With great speed, the old king continued swinging with both hands firmly on the hilt. After his miss from up high, he swung across from low, and then sliced diagonally upwards from right to left, then downwards again, and rearing back to stab forward with all of his might. Phillipe leapt back, blocked, leaned away, and blocked again, matching his uncle's speed with each of his defensive maneuvers. However, the young king found he was not able to respond fast enough with a counter, instead being forced to only be on the defensive. Swing after swing, each one harder than the last, Thierry came after his nephew. Block after block, dodge after dodge, Phillipe managed to keep his uncle's attacks at bay, the two kings forming circles around the dead body of his uncle's steed. Eventually, Thierry felt his strength begin to fade, his grip grew weaker, as he arms grew heavier and his swings grew slower. Fear overtook rage as the old king now found himself forced to take defensive moves, blocking and jumping away from his nephew's strikes. Thierry swung wildly from right to left, which Phillipe leapt back from, only to return with a stab directly towards the old kings chest. With one hand, he quickly whirled back to block it, but was unable to respond in kind as he was forced to lean his body backwards with the block. This sent him slightly off balance, causing him to lose his window to strike and now was face to face with Phillipe sending his blade in an upward diagonal direction from left to right. Stepping back on his left foot, Thierry swung his sword around to block. Now stepping back with his right foot, he quickly swung up to block Phillipe's strike from above, bringing his sword straight down, their blades clashing just above the old king's head. Thierry felt himself beginning to kneel, placed his left hand under the flat of his blade and tried pushing back up against his nephew. Phillipe only pushed down harder, until finally the reached the precipice and the young king's blade slipped off of his uncles, with the old king now brought down to one knee. Thierry breathed heavily, his blade resting on the ground as he barely held onto the hilt with his right. The sounds of battle continued on around them, though it had grow further away.

"Surrender, uncle. It is over." Thierry stayed still for a moment, his eyes looking down at the pool of blood he found himself standing in. It was his horses. All around them the ground had become littered with the corpses of countless soldiers clad in black and gold. For whom had they fought for? Did it matter anymore? I will not. I will not give in. I will not go like this. I cannot!

"I will not. I will not give in. I will not go like this. I cannot fade into darkness! I will not be replaced!" The old king jumped off his right foot, his sword raised high with his right hand. As he swung downward, he had not noticed how close his nephew had gotten in the few seconds he waited on his knee. Because of this, he found himself leaping right passed Phillipe, who, in turn, jumped passed his uncle with a horizontal slash across his mid-section. Thierry stopped himself, frozen. He felt his stomach grow warmer as liquid started to pour forth. The old king gritted his teeth and slowly turned about face, his sword still raised and ready to be brought down upon the False King. Instead, he felt the piercing sensation in his torso as King Phillipe Desramaux ran him through to the cross guard of his weapon. The two kings made eye contact. Not a word was spoken, for what was there to say? King Thierry Desramaux the Last fell to the ground, eyes wide open so that he might see his world come crashing down with him.