Prologue: the man, the legend, the monster Garret Lancaster
Oliver stood watching in horror as the little boy’s body fell to the ground, his bright blue eyes staring straight into Oliver’s, as slowly those once immaculate bright blue eyes began to dim and glaze over. Oliver stayed crouched in his hiding place, as the boys blood drained out and he felt his own blood go cold, as if the hand of death now reached for him as well. Upon hearing a gruff voice he snapped his eyes up to look at the boys killers, and was shocked by what he saw, the man who had killed the boy wore a tabard of white thread with a great golden sun emblazoned upon the front. The very same tabard Oliver himself ...view middle of the document...
And then as fast as a coiled viper he released his wrath, faster than Oliver’s eyes could follow he shot forward and wrapped his hand around the nearest man’s throat, and with a slight flex of the hand he dropped to the ground, simply as if he was sleeping. As the next man swung at him he simply tilted his head sideways and took a shallow step back, evading the man’s blade by the thinnest of margins, and drove his hand into the man’s stomach with enough force to shatter his armor. Then he slowly walked over and scooped up the fallen man’s sword and swung it a few times testing the balance, with a satisfactory nod he parried one of the Templars blows to the right and came across with a savage back hand, which seemed to rend through flesh, bone, and armor alike. The man crumpled to the floor as he stepped over him and diverted the next man’s blade into the ground and drove the blade through his stomach. He seemed to flow to the next man with a sort of unnatural grace and deliver the next blow with the speed of a viper.
The fighting seemed to rage on for hours, with the man sliding and gliding from soldier to soldier not a single strike missing its target. And in the end he was the only one standing and that was also the first time I met Garret Lancaster, a man who seemed to defy the world around him, a man who seemed to go his own way, no what matter the cost.
Chapter 1: The same old drills
Oliver woke up with a jolt as the drill instructor slammed open the barracks doors and screamed his routine insults and orders. As the instructor continued going down the line of beds inspecting the room to make sure none of the apprentices had done anything against regulations. Oliver thought to himself “We are thirteen months into our training as if anyone would break regulation now of all times”, all of a sudden the instructor stopped in front of a random apprentice and eyed him over curiously. The boy looked up at him and gave him a patronizing smile and asked
“Hello sir, are you looking for anything specific?” at this question the instructor flushed and said “Alright you brat twenty laps around the compound before breakfast, and don’t think you can get off that easily next time boy.” The boy ran out of the barracks while the instructor finished his routine and gave us leave for breakfast. As Oliver ran to the mess hall he looked over one time and saw the boy running laps around the compound, at this Oliver was confused by why someone who clearly wasn’t serious about becoming a Templar would work so hard instead of just slacking off. Oliver dismissed the notion and hurried to get back to the mess hall, if he didn’t get moving fast all the food would we be gone.
Oliver was seated by himself in his ordinary table against the window, when the boy came by and sat down across the table from him,” hey my names Tyrion, what’s yours?’ Oliver looked at him once and continued eating his food. “So you don’t talk much then? Well fine then I’ll do the...