(First of all, yes. I am aware of the redundancy of the title. Deal with it -_-)
Griever stood once more, making himself distant from the fire and the man. "I knew it," he spat, "I knew you were a wizard." Curses! His grandfather had told him that magicians and Fae existed, but he had been sceptical. Even if the records held mystical creatures that could turn into animals and men wielding forces beyond the normal man, surely they had been exaggerated? Animals could be tamed and men deceived! This man however... No, it could be a coincidence, right?
The man stood slowly. "It's no coincidence, Survivor," the man said, causing Griever to freeze, "And you need to stop being in denial or the Red Lion will start to deny even you."
"Red Lion?" Griever cursed. He didn't know why, but he could feel now that everything this man had said was truth. It was no longer a question and he couldn't deny his gut. It hadn't led him astray yet. But even still...
The man pointed to Griever's sword arm with a gloved hand. "The band's name in your language," he said, his voice serious. "I don't have anymore time to talk about it, though. She said you were stubborn to accept things, but still..." The man shrugged. Who the hell was he talking about? "Ask your Gear anything else. I must be off." The man turned to leave.
"Wait!" Griever stepped forward. He was angry at this whole situation, confused at everything the man had told him, and even still wanting to discredit the man and just leave, but one thing was for sure. This man was important. It wasn't a sixth sense or anything. Griever just knew, oddly enough. "What is your name?"
A chuckle escaped the hood of the man. "That," he said, once again amused, "is something you'll have to figure out for yourself, Survivor. But, you can call me the Black Dove."
And just as a man would walk into a doorway, the mysterious man stepped through nothingness and disappeared.
Griever couldn't believe it. He might have grown to believe the gauntlet covering his arm had come from a little metal band sooner than he would believe a man WALKING out of reality itself! God, this day was... awful. First he loses his men...
Memories flooded his mind at the thought of the White Boars. At first they were the deaths he had witnessed, amplified by some mysterious force to generate his anger faster, then came something worse. He remembered all the good times he had had with his men and even with Captain White. Drinking games that left Falk knocked out while Griever and Nathan had gambled on who would have to tell the Captain. Sparring sessions that reminded Griever just how powerful Augustus White was. Even the first time he had successfully led the Right Tusk.
They were like motes of light in the darkness of death. What made them bad was that they were nothing but memories, never to be remade again.
It must have been an hour later that Griever managed to stop the tears and sleep. He should have moved locations to be safe, or been angry enough to storm off and find Lord Droil and kill the bastard. But... Griever had been a child when he ran away. He had lived happily until then, never wanting for anything and unfamiliar with loss. Even when people died on the battlefield, he didn't mourn them. They had staked their life and he felt it would dishonor them.
This time was different. It wasn't a risky battle, or even a battle gone wrong. If the White Boar had lost fairly or been outmaneuvered it would be different. They would retreat, or die. And if there were survivors, those men would have moved on. This was no battle, though. It was a slaughter. It was a betrayal. And for what!? For helping those Lighthaven bastards win their war with Abysma over territory!?
Griever sat up, no longer asleep. He had found his anger. His rage. He would have his revenge. And, unlike those fools in the stories who lost themselves, Griever wouldn't rush. He would take his time, calculate his moves, and close in on Droil's pathetic little neck. Then...
'You break it?'
"What the hell!" Griever shouted, jumping up. He quickly took a look around. The remains of the campfire still smoldered, making the forest dark, but he could see well enough. His clothing - probably left by the Dove - lay just beside his bedroll and was the only other thing Griever could make out of the nature that surrounded him. "Who's there?"
'Probably no one.'
Realization hit him. Griever looked down to his arm, which was now only covered by the single metal band - the Gear. It was hard to believe, but... "Red Lion?"
'I prefer Bashenthar,' the Gear said through a disembodied voice.