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“Rome!”
The throaty cry when up in the desolate town square, an open challenge to those hidden within its woodwork. The mudded streets were empty, the thatched roof houses the only hospitable respite in otherwise open towns and fields. And at first, there was silence.
It was true that he detected a spineless Assassin perched atop the roof of the Town Hall, and a cowardly, pitiable Caster hiding within one of the houses. But neither dared approach, nor could they offer him a challenge. They were unworthy of Rome, merely scared children in the presence of divinity.
And it was true. Both stood in fear, weapons tightly gripped, yet with no will nor intention to use them. Their will to fight sapped, and desire to remain within the village strongly diminished. Making use of their excellent speed, the Assassin made haste away; were it not for his unworthiness, the Caster may have no been able to escape, yet his own weakness saved him.
The imposing figure dominating the town square continued to stand, unimpressed. He lowered the solid, red lance he held in his hand, and turned to see if anyone else dared answer. There had been all but silence, with not even a bird making sound; the only noise the slight fluttering of his long, red cape, and the divine echo of his war cry.
And finally, someone came.
Even as she trembled, she knew this was an evil that she had to confront. That only she could confront. It would be easier to run or hide, safer to retreat and fight another day. Such an open battle without any element of surprise or advantage would be hopeless. It would more convenient to dream this problem could simply go away, that someone else may deal with it. Yet she knew inside that it was her problem, and her responsibility.
She walked slowly into the town centre, one precise, deliberate footstep followed by another.
In truth, the power disparity between them was too great. If she was not careful, the battle would be over within a moment, and everything for naught. His strength was immense, unprecedented to anything she had encountered in life, or even death. He was much greater than even the sum of his mighty empire, a symbol that exceeded even the height of its reality. But what drove her was something much greater.
Further she stepped, until she stood opposed to him, within the centre of the Town. It was situated within a clearing surrounded by rows of old houses, with her opponent standing directly in front of the Town Hall. She had made her choice. Whatever happened to her, she knew that she had stayed loyal to herself.
“Father of Rome!” she shouted, without showing any sign of flinching or fear.
He received her statement without recognition, a stoic, unimpressed glare striking across the plain. She felt a jolt of panic shoot through her body, but made herself still. Her shield already held tightly in her left hand, she motioned the sword in her right forwards, directly at her opponent. She then raised it vertically, bringing it in front of her face, eyes closed and focused.
“Slowly, calmly…” she said, before stating boldly, “Goddess Andraste, lend me your strength! I swear this Oath to the Goddess, and pray for thy Protection! May I continue fighting until my body no longer draws breath!”
As she spoke, a miraculous aura of magical energy formed around her, filling the air. A wind raised, so powerful it began to blow apart the thatch on the roofs surrounding the square. And then, everything came back to her. She absorbed all of the hopes and dreams of her past. She dreamed of Prasutagus, her husband, and his proud proclamations before their People; to the innocent laughs and smiles of her daughters; to the traitorous Romans who betrayed her husband’s trust and legacy; to the cries of her daughters, abused and strewn like carcasses in the mud; to the heinous, mocking image of Nero.
A mother filled with rage, but – even more than that – a desire to protect. To ensure those who were vulnerable were protected. To prevent Rome’s rapacious hand from destruction ever again.
“I will protect you…” she spoke softly. And then, raising her sword to the sky victoriously, she cried:
“Chariot of Boudica!”
A circle of light formed along the ground, its golden glow capturing her within its radiance. And finally, it arose: the Chariot of Boudca. The magical energy created a fearsome gale, her blaze of red hair and long, white cape blew furiously behind her, yet neither she nor her the crown upon her head were disturbed. She stood within her chariot, carrying the hopes and strength of the entire Iceni.
The surrounding area was blown apart by the gusts brought about, and all thrown into chaos, but Rome stood unaffected.
As it settled down, she focused her gaze upon the embodiment of that she hated most. He stood there; lance now raised imperiously, still save for his own cape rustling behind him. In response to her, he had scarcely muttered a gruff utterance. But unlike before, his face was no longer disinterested, replaced with a more focused glare.
Stirring her reigns, she charged her chariot forward towards the stationary figure.
“My name is Boudica, Queen of the Iceni and nation of Britain. To victory!”
Finally she was within a swords-length distance, and so, without hesitation, she raised her sword, and struck.
And then…
…it begun.