The Last Primal

Whilst Captain Ixorak and his men have sprung the trap that was set for them and were now suddenly forced to face a battle from two fronts at the same time, back at the entrance to the rebels camp the situation remained the same. 

Whilst the assault of the Temple Guards was now being unleashed with their full might, the steadfast elites of Draghan's still managed to hold their positions and stand their ground. The loud clinks of the robust shields withstanding the relentless assault filled their surroundings. Together with the violent and loud war cries and shouts, added together with the occasional blood curdling gurgles, the front line remained the same.

From behind the shields, the tips of lances, pikes even some trident-looking sharpened farmhand tools shot out, ending the misery of whatever skink grunt they could reach.

At the same time, the constant chipping of their stamina, and strength did begin to show their wear and tear. Whilst Draghan's Elite was undoubtedly the strongest force in Aiden's rebel forces, they too were mortals, with a finite amount of stamina at the end of the day. 

With the constant, relentless battering, the tireless onslaught of attacks, did begin to slowly wear down and numb their arms, their shoulders, and eventually their resistance. Heavy beads of sweat glistened atop their golden scales, tainting them into a deeper shade of yellow, gradually transforming it to a distant shade of an orange-tinted red. Yet, there was no pause in the enemy's charge, they were not given any room, any time for some breath, for some clean air. 

Eventually, their attention slowly began to falter, their stance was continuously ground down. Some of the weaker members of the force slowly began to sway, showing the first signs of their exhaustion. 

"[Reptilian] Aaaargh!" The sounds of the last bloodied gurgling cry put an end to Aiden's silent contemplation and brought him back to the abusive reality. He quickly turned his head towards the source of the sound, which whilst did mostly merge with its surroundings, at the same time, it was much clearer, closer. 

Turning his head towards the front line, Aiden revealed the worst displeased-looking frown over his face since all hell broke loose and this battle for survival have started. He looked at the men, one of Draghan's elite, bathed in blood from top to bottom. His kneeling posture, his trembling, shivering body, his empty listless gaze told a not-so-welcome tale. 

Clearly, obviously the Skink, the elite was on his last breath, clinging to the last remnants of his escaping vitality through sheer willpower and determination. Even in his very last moments, he refused to give leeway to the enemy, and let them push through. He knew his duty, like every single one of their frontline brethren, he was also keenly aware of the sour, hollow prospects that were their slim chances of survival.

Still, despite or perhaps because of that very reason, he refused to give in. Even as the last ounce of life was escaping his very being, he pushed through with his very soul, his very existence, and held his ground for as long as he could.

However, that moment was just like that, a fleeting instant, a couple of seconds of obstinacy. A metaphorical goblet of saliva, carrying all his emotions, be it pent up, or freely let loose, that he spat in Fate's twisted face.

As the second passed and the instant was wafted away by the merciless time, the man felt as the colors slowly escaped from his vision, turning everything grey and gradually darker. Still, there was only a bright smile, stretching his tired face, he watched the tip of the spear that was sailing the space towards his face without an ounce of fear. He was pleased, he held no regrets, his heart, his soul, his mind was clear and happy. He did what he could. His life, albeit unfortunate, was fulfilled, knowing he fought for a brighter, better future.

The man slowly closed his eyes, not bothered by the whims of reality any longer. He welcomed that sharp glimmering metal, the bringer of death, the tool that would carry him towards the afterlife.

Pain? Pfft! That didn't matter. His belief, his heart, and soul shielded him from such whims that tainted mortals! He did not care even if the so-called searing, burning, electric sensation, that cold, merciless feeling would carry some sort of torture. He wouldn't give in, he would lay down and wait till he crosses the threshold, and succumbs to his injury with the same smile plastered across his face.

Another second passed, causing the smiling skink, that had just welcomed Death itself to his embrace to frown, and raise his eyebrows above his closed eyelids. Strangely… something seemed to be amiss, he felt nothing different. Yes, he was tired, exhausted beyond anything he had felt anything before, but the cold metal didn't seem to pierce beneath his orange-tainted scales. He did not feel his own blood ooze only to be hungrily gobbled up by the metal head of the spear.

Following the confusing, confounding moment, the skink suddenly felt as if something warm, something emerged inside him. A seedling of some sort, a coalescence of some sort of unknown energy, bright and brimming appeared just before his very core. His bewilderment only grew as he suddenly felt as if he felt the tire, the wear swiftly leaving his body. He felt the soreness of his muscles relax, and no longer convulse. He felt as if the tightness in his chest calmed down. 

He felt his energy, his vitality return, reinvigorate his very being.

Confused and baffled, his eyelids sprung open only for them to grow wider by the second at the baffling, perplexing scene playing out in front of him! His mouth turned agape and ajar, unable to comprehend, to process the situation that was going on.

Standing in front of him, guarding and shielding him from accepting the death the skink elite have already accepted the leader of their resistance, the Archbishop stood. 

As he held the large tower shield with his right arm, whilst he blocked the incoming spearhead with his left arm was a sight the man knew he would never be able to forget for the rest of his remaining life.

The figure of his leader, the archbishop was no longer something mortal. No, in his eyes, this figure, this creature was more. He was like a god, a hero, the only source of light in this vast despairing darkness. 

The skink warrior couldn't react but just stare blankly and wondrously at this godly being that has somehow, miraculously saved him from the clutches of the afterlife.

Though he did not turn to look at him, the man somehow knew he was smiling, almost grinning under his nose.

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