[Cyrus Marius]

TS: End of the first brightening of the third cycle of Cryxatium, in the season of Summer, Era XIV PF

A lone candle illuminated the small, spartan quarters that had been appropriated by the figure that now hunched over the small desk in the room. A suit of barbed Hoplite-style plate armor rested on an armor rack in the corner, gleaming with polish and obviously well-cared for, and beside it rested a second rack with two long infantry spears, tipped with narrow, pointed steel heads atop wooden hafts carved of solid ash, as well as a standard, Imperial-style longsword, it's sheath and metalwork chastened with crimson, denoting it's wearer's rank as an officer. Aside from these tools of war, little else decorated the spare abode; an unlit brazier in the corner provided little heat and light next to the collection of straw and blankets that constituted a bed, a small, cracked wooden chest contained the man's personal effects and clothing, and the small chair and desk which he now occupied completed the room's meager furnishings.

Cyrus, however, felt the room suited his needs. He could have chosen to remain in the barracks with his men, and often did spend the majority of his time amongst them, however certain customs must be maintained as well, and officers required seperate boarding from the enlisted men. One would not follow the orders of an officer one was too close to or had lost the respect and even fear that comes from the badge on his collar. Cyrus remained as close to the men as was prudent for a commanding officer, sharing every risk and experiance with the lowliest infantry grunt and often going beyond what was expected, and they loved him for it. But there was a time to be a commander as well, and so now Cyrus sat beside a flickering, sputtering candle, ignoring the candlemarks that melted away as he turned page after page of the imposing tome he was reading.

The young legionnaire was going over the recorded logs of the previous commanders of the Manjet Legion, the records of the state of the Legion before and during the fated Narim campaign. The Imperial defeat had been staggering, due in large part to the arcane assistance of outside forces, and now Cyrus went back through all that he could to try and arm himself for the future. His lone cobalt eye flew over the spider-fine handwriting on the pages below, absorbing all pertinent information and history that his mind could. Cyrus was so absorbed by his study that he didn't see a second book, a red-bound volume on Orcish seige tactics, mysteriously slide from the pile of tomes before him and land on the desk beside the others.

Suddenly however, the soldier heard a strange rattle behind him, and he turned in his seat just in time to see one of the tall spears that rested in the racks fall forward as if pushed, landing against the stone floor with a resounding crack. Cyrus' eyebrow rose, and a chill went down his spine. He was alone in the small room; Pandora busying herself by roaming Darkblade's vast halls and labyrinthine corridors in search of food, and it was not the first time he had seen or heard strange things when inside the fortress. The servants and the workers often spoke of hauntings and curses, but if one paid heed to every tale told by a gossiping washer-woman, one would go mad. Yet, was there something to the rumors and whispers of Darkblade Fortress? Did something haunt these stone halls, longing for someone to answer it's call from the other side?

Cyrus rose slowly from his seat and made his way to the fallen spear, his lone sapphire eye wide and looking around in suspicion as he knelt to retrieve the weapon and once again propped it up in it's rack. The soldier continued to look around for a moment, a sudden chill causing him to shiver slightly, and the hair on his arms and neck began to rise from some unseen tension or energy in the room. The legionnaire's left hand fell to the familiar pommel of Karvaaka that still rested at his hip at this hour of the darkening, and his cobalt eye continued to scan the room, searching for anything that sought to appear to or communicate with him.