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The Northern Wall, Fort Tarsis, Northern Bastion, Mirrus, Summerset 22, 466 LV

"In the beginning, there was the Legion.

"We struggled in a world that knew no order nor mercy. Men huddled inside defenses and prayed to the Gods that had left us for respite. Generations of those who sought cover wished for the chaos to end in any fashion; those wishes were in vain.

"Until General Helena Tarsis created the first Javelin and the Legion of Dawn.

"Those first few years came with the rising knowledge of heroes and legends as men and women adorned their armor and battled a waging war against the world, to press back the Anthem of Creation and its many threats and dangers. Scores of adventures and thrillseekers filled the ranks of the Legion as engineers, Arcanists, traders, and the sensitive joined the ranks to fulfill the need of those stalwart guardians with whatever they needed; better armor, better weapons, knowledge, research, supplies, communication. Years turned to decades as the first of the Legion retired to make way for the next generation, leading with experience as new heroes arose to protect the settlements and cities of Bastion. Where there was danger, there was the Legion.

"It has been centuries since those times. And those times are long since gone.

"It is hard to pinpoint when things began to crumble, when the numbers of Lancers began to drop, and the forces outside of our cities and settlements began to push back. It has always been a threat, but it became a reality. Contracts were slowly piling up with too few members able to accomplish them. Those that took them found themselves even more outnumbered than before. Expeditions and advances were fewer and farther in between as the many Guilds and Teams began taking losses, failing their contracts, losing the respect and acknowledgment they deserved.

"The loss of Freemark was a hard, hard blow.

"The Heart of Rage… even worse.

"It was with great sadness to see our defenders brought so low, their vastly-dwindled numbers barely able to forage into the wilds. Hundreds of Lancers had died protecting Freemark, fighting a new enemy that no one had expected, never giving up or giving in. Guilds, both old and new, were extinguished that day, the names and memories lost like the lives that were vanquished under the tyrannical boot of the Dominion. Those heroes of old, the ancient Guild of the Legion of Dawn, had nearly been wiped out by the Dominion, its legendary members holding the horde of aggressors back with their very lives as the city was evacuated. It was said that only five survived out of what was once a hundred members, and even then those survivors did not make it out without a heavy price. Too many Lancers died that day, more than on any other day on record. They died doing what they did best; meeting the threat head-on, with weapons in their hands and fire in their souls. Those very fires extinguished was the first clear sign that the Age of Heroes would soon be coming to an end.

"And it was the Heart of Rage that was the hammerfall.

"The greatest of cataclysms ever known, the Heart of Rage produced threats unlike any before in numbers never recorded. Dozens of Lancers came together under the auspices of the Emperor to silence the threat and restore their falling honor. Led by the last members of the Legion of Dawn, the strike was one of a scale never before known, bearing numbers and forces that had never been so concentrated. The threat was very real, and those we had known our whole lives to protect us all would not fail us in our time of need. They came out in numbers, they came out strong, they came out prepared.

"Gods Above, so very few came back.

"It's been over two years since that time, and the Path of Glory has fallen so low. Once there had been thousands of Lancers; now there were a few dozen at best. What had once been seen as heroes were now viewed as failures. There were those who used the situation to their advantage, leaders and Sentinels calling out the failure for what it was, the reduced numbers privy to negative public opinion and backlash. Those few survivors who had went to save us all came back to an ungrateful people, licking their wounds in the shadows we had cast them into. Those ancient defenders, those who we needed most, only got to see our back when they needed us in return.

"So few survived. Oh so very few.

"Of the Guilds, they are no more. The few operating Lancers left work mostly on the auspices of the few Arcanists who want the use of someone willing to brave for a trinket or relic, or a family member who wishes to know the fate of a lost loved one. Contracts were few and far between, and the few Lancers that still sailed the sky could barely afford the repairs of their Javelins, meeking out a bare existence amongst a population that looked down upon them. Some have quit. Others are in debt eyeballs deep. A few sell their services to any and all who will pay them, the reward but a bare fraction of the lucrative funds they once enjoyed. Times were hard on those stalwart men and women, and we only made it harder.

"But… there was one…

"I met her, before. Before the Heart of Rage. Her father was a member of the Legion of Dawn, the one known as the Titanslayer. Trained her himself, went out to the Heart of Rage together, father and daughter working together for the first time. No one knows what happened out in the depths of that cataclysm, only that she alone return, her armor practically irreparable, the remaining Legion members dead. She spent weeks in recovery, her wounds needing healing from the fight that only a bare handful were have said to have survived, never speaking of it. Of the six members of that ancient order, the Legion of Dawn, it now only boasted a singular survivor. No one knows what happened; the wise are smart enough not to ask, and the foolhardy only need to take one look in her eyes and think otherwise. All that is known is that she returned in her nearly-destroyed Javelin; broken, bleeding, crashing into the tarmac with failing systems and a leaking power core, her cypher dead and she nearly so.

"Some label her a coward, though never to her face. Some a traitor, but in even more hush tones. You can still see her, heading out into the wilds in that very same Javelin, a mere ghost of its once prestigious glory, held together by low-paying, few and far between jobs done by a woman who is the last of her kind. When you see her in the Market, know she will never talk to you. It isn't personal; she has nothing to say to a people who have scorned her and spit on the memory of the hero she gladly called 'father'. When you see her in the Plaza, do yourself a favor and don't point and stare; it's rude, and you certainly don't want to be the target of that scarred face or those haunted eyes.

"Yet despite all that, she is here. She goes out into the wilds where once Guilds and teams foraged to protect us, but she does so alone. When there is a threat on the horizon or at our very gates, you will find her there. When a Strider is attacked, when Arcanists are in danger, when reconnaissance is needed, when a relic is needed recovered or silenced, seek her out. When a family member goes missing, when a Sentinel patrol goes dark, when the Scar becomes too aggressive, look for her face. For those who have turned their back on her, know that we have never seen hers. She answers the calls, completes the contracts, returns victorious to a population filled with disdain for a pittance. When you are in need, know her name, our last member of the Legion of Dawn. She may be called Yanya Valencia, but that will not be the name you use when you are in need. She is the hammer of the heavens, the scourge of the wilds, the vanquisher of foes. When you are in need, you will call her name;

"The Fury of Storms."

- "The Legend of the Fury of Storms, the Siren of Tarsis", Cypher Owen Corley, c. 467

Sentinel Lieutenant Ryssa Brin stood her post in her Sentinel-oriented Javelin Ranger-Class Suit, manning the great walls of Fort Tarsis in her duel-role of both protector and supervisor. The sun had come to Bastion under a blood-red dawn; the old tale that spoke of future tragedy that would occur before dusk. Ryssa wasn't one to give into tales and legends, but the portent had her at unease, especially upon a day like today, where dozens of Lancers and their remaining forces had set out on the great expedition known as Operation: Stormbreaker. The Lancers had fallen on hard times these past few years, their numbers having taken a drastic fall during the Siege of Freemark, hundreds dying protecting the great city to buy the populous time to evacuate on Striders ten years prior. Many Javelins and pilots had been lost that day, and many amongst the people whispered that it was the dawn of the end of the Age of Heroes; that the Lancers had taken a crippling blow that they had yet to recover from in almost a decade. While the Sentinel Lieutenant wasn't exactly keen on the Lancers, a ragtag motley bunch of thrillseekers and gloryhounds that reveled in boastful deeds and draped themselves in the spoils of their victories, she had grown up admiring them when she was a child. As had they all. When the call came for the Lancers to prepare to launch a great offensive against the growing cataclysm known as the Heart of Rage, it filled people with hope, hope that had slowly been extinguishing these past years. Hope for the return of an Age where honor flew high and Lancers stood amongst the people of the great cities as the heroes they were.

Yet the news had come just an hour prior. News of loss, news of failure. Hope had died with the announcement of the loss of over sixty Lancers that had failed to quell the Heart of Rage.

"Lieutenant? An incoming report from Heilost." Came a voice from her right, and Brin turned to see Sentinel Gan Nex standing there in his own Javelin, a Ranger-Class Suit adorn with the tabbard of the Sentinels, a young man who had passed the Sentinel Academy in the past few months to become one of those proud few who manned the wall of Fort Tarsis, rode on the back of a Strider, or pulled patrols in the surrounding environs. Someone as new as him usually pulled duty on one of the many watchtowers that rooked the walls, with defenses ready to hold back anything that would threaten the city and its people. He was a young man with the light in his eye thinking that he had to prove himself in a fashion that would likely get himself into a hot mess recklessly. They were all that young, once.

"Report." Ryssa replied.

"City Cyphers confirm that Operation: Stormbreaker was an utter disaster, Lieutenant." Nex replied, his Javelin-augmented voice coming from the suits' vox and towards her own audio receptors. So, it was as they feared. Reports had been coming in all day concerning the expedition, ranging from travel, readiness, deployment, encounters… and losses. That a Lancer would fall in battle was a sad thing, but not uncommon. But the numbers had grown, swelling quickly after the first hour of battle as the outnumbered Lancers were quickly beleaguered with swelling enemy forces and growing casualties. There had been reports that a brave few had reached the Heart of Rage itself, taking the battle to the apex of its existence to silence whatever was causing the cataclysm. That had filled Ryssa with hope despite the losses of Lancers, Striders, and Cyphers that had been occurring.

An hour ago, they had learned that a full retreat had been called, the operation a failure.

"Is that all?" Brin asked, not exactly pleased that she was being handed a report that was so similar to the one she had received an hour prior… and then another only half-an-hour prior.

"The Legion, ma'am…" The Javelin Suit might have hid his face, but it didn't disguise the apprehension in his voice.

"…they're gone."

Oh, Lady of Tarsis… Ryssa felt her heart lurch in her bosom at the thought, tears building hot in the underlids of her eyes at the thought of… no, not all of them… As a child, she had always loved the Legion of Dawn; they all had. While the many Guilds had their own trappings and banners to identify themselves, decorating themselves with boasts of glory and conquest by marking their Javelins with the number of their kills or adding some sort of memento upon their armor as if to award themselves, the Legion was different. That Guild, the most ancient and prestigious Order, the first and oldest of their kind in which Lancers and Sentinels were born from centuries before, did not make fools of themselves by adding the claws of a skorpion or some trophy of a Scar upon their armor. They did not drape themselves with a dozen fanciful imaginary titles while changing the coloring and patterns of their Javelin, adding decals and adornments to those handmade, handcrafted elegant machines with such frivolity.

No, one knew a Legionnaire on sight for a multitude of reasons; the completely chromed look of their Javelins that would gleam in the sun, the smart-looking uniforms that they wore when not piloting their Javelins, and the pure-white banner of their Guild only adorned with the symbol of General Helena Tarsis herself; that of the rising golden sun. They did not boast; they would tell you if asked. They did not jeer at other Lancers of their conquests and victories; the battle damage upon their Javelins and the blood of their enemies caked upon the greaves and gauntlets was testament enough. They did not swagger the streets, strutting about as if all should hold them in awe; the Order of the Legionnaires were generally unfailingly polite to the populous, acting like the true heroes people wanted them to be. There was a Code that a Legionnaire held themselves to, and the Order only accepted members who followed such a Code before acceptance. While it was true that they accepted the best of Lancers, they would also not accept a pilot if they had broken laws, had a large and outstanding debt, if they were known to start bar fights over slights, had an unsavory reputation, or treated the common populous in a contemptuous manner. They were the best because the people believed in them, and that belief fueled them forward. Heroes and legends had carried the Banner of the Legion forward, their names coming second to the Order. They did not fit themselves with a dozen fancy titles; they earned one and only one, and not upon acceptance or without witness. Legionnaires were expected to hold themselves to a better standard, and a member would be forced out if they didn't adhere to that standard. There were only a hundred Legionnaires at any given time, and their ranks only filled if they found suitable candidates, not with sub-standard personnel meant to fill in a slot. For over a millennium, the Legion stood as the epitome of duty and responsibility.

And they were all gone.

Brin closed her eyes to fight of the tears, hoping that those brave members had vanquished as many foes as they could before they fell.

"Thank you, Sentinel. Is that all?" The Lieutenant finally said, looking to her subordinate. She dismissed him when she realized he actually hadn't had a report; he hard heard the news, and like a rumormongerer, had spread the news like a magpie. While it could be possible that the news was inaccurate, Ryssa didn't think so. She couldn't see a Legionnaire retreating from battle, though that standard had existed when there had been a hundred members, not six.

Over sixty Lancers dead when there was barely a hundred. The Legion of Dawn… no more. Somehow, that last part was worse.

[Lieutenant? I have something coming on the horizon to our west], came the voice of Sentinel Senior-Grade Maxwell Darvan, standing watch one the Western Watchtower for any threats to Fort Tarsis. As the Commander of the Watch, it was her duty to be informed of said threats and make determinations upon their existence and severity.

"What is it, Darvan?" Brin asked, knowing that there would be no Lancer who would go out to inquire upon a report; there were none in Tarsis, all the remaining active Lancers having answered the call of the Emperor to quell the threat of the Heart of Rage. In retrospect, that had been a poor decision, to leave themselves without a quick reaction force that was their primary investigative and response force. Sentinels pulled patrols around the surrounding countryside of Fort Tarsis, but usually only within a few kilometers of the walls of the city. Their Javelins were more geared towards defensive measures and long-term sustainability, not flight and quick-action. While many a Sentinel would said that they were the equal of any Lancer, Ryssa knew that not to be true. Sentinel Javelin Suits were created and tailored to a degree that spoke of holding the line and conducting an assault with numbers and logistics. They weren't the high-flying responders that the Lancers were, bringing Relic Technologies and innovations to a fight to meek out performance and devastation tailored to their own personal tastes. If there was a threat out in the wilds… they would have to wait for it to come to them to respond to it, engaging it with the city's heavy defenses and turrets. Going beyond Tarsis' blanket of security was a dangerous proposition for a Sentinel, their patrols generally numbering in the dozen. And they never left the envelop of the city's artillery save when on top of a Strider.

[Gleam coming in… a… flyer], the man finally said, sounding not so sure. [Hard to tell. Whoever or whatever it is, is either flying really badly, or can barely fly at all].

"I'll be there." Brin promised as she faced to the west where the Western Watchtower was located and engaged her boost-assisting jump jets to thrust herself up in the air an easy dozen meters with a leap that carried her both upward and forward to cover the distance much faster than if she had used her boosters to aid in her running to the location. Plus, while aloft, she might possibly see whatever had gotten Darvan's attention as she landed upon the parapit of the wall and leapt high once more, needing about four or so more jumps to reach the Watchtower. She saw the gleam on her last jump without the use of a scope or binoculars as the Lieutenant landed on the Watchtower next to Sentinel Senior-Grade Maxwell Darvan, manning the heavy-caliber machine gun turret with its auto-correcting stabilizer and electronic telescopic viewer for long-distance acquisition. Ryssa unholstered her Whirlwind Sniper Rifle and peered through its electronic scope to take a closer look at the distant gleam that appeared to be on approach. If it were a Lancer, they weren't in communication with the city's defenses, announcing their approach. She took a look with her scope, the crosshairs touching the gleam.

"It isn't a wyvren." The Lieutenant confirmed, seeing the flight trajectory of the approaching subject. Wyvrens were a pretty standard threat for any city, one of the few aerial creatures that boasted enough of a presence and threat to be a concern, and more so with numbers. The fact that they belched out fiery darts that could melt armor wasn't exactly endearing, either. A wyvrens' silhouette was pretty distinguishable, often soaring on thermal drafts of wind and their wings making them bob up and down slightly when gaining in altitude or speed. They generally looked like a large silhouette of a bird in the distance. This… wasn't doing it. She could see something reflecting in the distance, not the shading presence of a silhouette. It was also flying very erradically, sometimes dropping what appeared to be several to dozens of meters while trying to stay aloft. Could it be a Javelin on approach? Brin wondered as she lowered her Whirlwind, looking on thoughtfully. If they are, that has got to be the worst Javelin pilot I have ever seen. They can't even fly straight.

In a minute, the Lieutenant had her answer as the figure in the distance approached and attempted to make a landing on the walls of Fort Tarsis itself.

The flying object tried to gain altitude when it faltered and lost height, its presence jerking both to the right and the left as a boost got it just high enough to clear the crenlons of the wall. Unfortunately, a foot didn't clear the interior guardrail as the suit (and it was a Javelin suit) spun out of control, smoking and smoldering as it flipped end over end into the interior of the city, taking streamers and banners inside the city as its flight path ended in a diagonal trajectory that ended with a great crash to the ground as the suit bounced several times before slamming into the stone wall of a market building where it finally came to rest. Ryssa was already on the move when the Javelin past by her, leaping from the parapit and landing on the roof of a nearby building to see the Javelin meet the ground in a crash before skittering along the cobblestone streets of Fort Tarsis as she made her next leap to the ground itself, using her boosters to aid in her dash as the people of Tarsis watched in gaping amazement, a few picking themselves up after having to avoid being crashed into by the thousand pound suit. The Lieutenant reached the final resting place of the suit, seeing it lying there unresponsive as she arrived several seconds later, looking upon the charred figure of the Javelin as her eyes noted…

…Gods Above, was the pilot even still alive?

Ryssa Brin slowed her movement as she reached the crash site, the Javelin suit a tangled mess of fabric and steel from its uncontrolled descent. Smoke and heat emanated from the vehicle as one of the foot thrusters sputtered erratically, indicating that its flight control systems had been damaged. Actually, it looked like everything had been damaged. There were heavy scores and scuffs along the blackened, charred steel plates of the Javelin, coated in grime, soot, dirt, and blood of several species. Many of the armor plates looked buckled, a few broken, and a couple torn or sheared off. Most of the left pauldron that represented the shoulder armor was literally ripped off, and the sight of a Rangers' assault missile launcher having been torn in half was an indication what happened to that fragment. The chestpiece was decorated in clawmarks, scores of damage, and a few piercing holes in its torso where something had defeated the armor and punctured the pilot inside. It was hard to tell what Guild the pilot hailed from thanks to the extensive damage and grime of battle; the armor was thick with dirt and mud coating its frame and joints, not to mention sooted and scorched with fire damage. The helm itself was a shattered wreck, the visor having taken such a blows as to have crumpled; Lady of Tarsis… that meant that the pilot had likely been flying blind or at least severely compromised! The suit laid on its flank, unresponsive and unmoving as steam waifed from its boosters, sparks crackling from the starboard side thruster while Brin noticed the flight stabilizers along the greaves were bent and twisted. It was a wonder that the suit could have flown at all with that kind of damage.

"You, get me a physician and an engineer." The Sentinel commanded the first citizen she saw, a man her age nodding once before bolting off as Ryssa approached the still-smoldering wreck of the Javelin, taking a knee beside it to wipe some of the grime off of the crumpled visor, perhaps to let the pilot inside know someone was there.

Her hand wiped away the soot, the grime, the caked blood, and saw damaged metal… and the gleam of silver and chrome.

"Oh Gods…" Brin knew what she was looking at as her gauntleted hand went to wipe away another spot, this one over the heart. The sound of metal-on-metal came as she wiped off the layers of concealing dirt and damage to find the symbol of the rising golden sun upon the breast. The sight had her heart break.

"… it's a Legionnaire." There were gasps from the surrounding crowd of citizens who had watched the failed landing attempt and subsequent crash, gawking at the sight. The identity of a surviving Legionnaire in such a state was… heart-wrenching, but if anyone could be said to come back from the brink that had killed many others, most would have put a member of the Legion of Dawn as that candidate. "I need assistance!" Brin called out and looked to the crowd, seeing many shy away from the call as the Sentinel saw one of the members of her Order step forth, a Sentinel Guardsman holstering his assault rifle. "Flip him on his chest and help me extract the pilot. This could be the Titanslayer or the Farslayer." Ryssa could only hope it was either one of those two, the longest-serving members of the Legion, highly-decorated amongst those who were known for being highly-decorated. There had been six living Legionnaires that very morning, and one had literally landed at the Sentinel's feet; possibly the last. Brin held her breath as she got assistance from the Guardsman to flip the Javelin to lay on its front so as to access the emergency evacuation protocol in case a pilot were unconscious or worse inside their suit, in need of medical assistance but unable to extract themselves. The Lieutenant grimaced at the sight of the backpiece of the Ranger-Class Javelin Suit; one of the back thrusters had taken serious damage, likely just another reason the flight had been so erratic. It was a wonder the suit had flown at all, much less in the general direction it had achieve. That spoke of skill and an incredible amount of luck, especially if the pilot couldn't see through their visor. There was more of the same damage along the back of the vehicle; a host of claw marks, scrapes, scores, bent or broken armor fragments, puncture sites, and even melted steel from when something spewed acid or plasma upon the pilot. Gods… how by the Gods Below had the pilot survive this?

What had they been facing?

Ryssa and the Guardsman quickly activated the emergency evacuation protocol as the top half of the back piece unsealed itself with a tortured shriek of metal, the Lieutenant forced to lever it open when it only opened a few mere inches. There she could see the upper back, shoulders, and neck of the pilot wearing a pilots' suit inside, and Brin frowned at the sight; there was no denying it, but this was most certainly a woman, not the Titanslayer or the Farslayer, both men. The pilots' suit was saturated in sweat, grime, and blood as the Sentinels both extracted the pilot as gently as they could, never hearing a peep out of the woman as they first extracted her head before slipping her arms out from the suit, and finally the rest of her. A few elicited groans of pain and discomfort came from her, but Brin saw that the woman was unconscious; perhaps from the crash, perhaps holding tediously to consciousness during her flight. That the woman was injured was a certainty; blood streaked her charcoal gray pilot's and her visible flesh. One of her arms was swollen in the middle of the forearm, most certainly broken, and the sound of her labored breathing was an indication that she had either broken ribs, a punctured lung, or both. Ryssa laid the woman on the cobbled street as gently as she could as she looked at the face of the unconscious woman. She didn't know who this was.

The Sentinel was certainly struck by how young she was, though. Twenty… at best. She had never heard of a Legionnaire so young! Yet the charcoal gray pilots' flight suit that she wore born the same rising golden sun just above the swell of her breast that her Javelin did; the flight suit of a Legionnaire. This woman hadn't magically boosted a Legionnaires' Javelin and taken off with it; Javelins had security measures and protocols that matched it with its user, and installing a new user from a previous owner took days if not weeks of connection tests, biometric data, testing, training, and user/suit meshing. One didn't just jump into a strange suit and fly off with it; the internal operating system would never allow it, and attempting to hack into it would likely damage the programs inside and leave one with a thousand pound metal statue to look upon. No, this suit was the woman's, and she its pilot. Despite her surprising youth, this woman was of the Order of the Legion of Dawn.

As far as Brin was aware, she was also the last.

"Where is that physician?" The Lieutenant called out, looking out to the surrounding crowd, seeing the faces of worry and concern on all of them. To see a Legionnaire brought so low, to have gone through so much and to return with the possibility of her dying at their very feet? Ryssa was disappointed that none had made a move or attempt to help. Then again, they would likely get in the way and end up being more of a hindrance than a help, but the act of it was telling. Her attention returned to the figure of the young woman laying at her armored feet, groaning as her bloodied face moved slightly and her eyes fluttered pen to reveal two dark orbs, small islands of white admist the red blood and terrible gash that ran from hairline to jawline on the left side of her face, looking more than deep enough for sutures.

"W-where…?" The woman asked, her voice weak as her eyes locked onto Brin.

"You're safe in Fort Tarsis, Legionnaire. You made it; barely, but you're here now." The Sentinel said softly as she took on of the young woman's hands, holding it with her much larger armored gauntlet. "We're going to get you help." That promise Ryssa would easily keep. "Where are the other Legionnaires? The other Lancers? Did… did anyone else make it?" She hated herself for asking, but the Lieutenant knew she must. This was a survivor, and eyewitness to what had happened to Operation: Stormbreaker. There might have been survivors on the Striders not involved in the fighting, or Cyphers who hadn't succumb to the song of the Anthem, but this young woman had been boots-on-ground during the expedition, and by the indication of her bloody and battered body and Javelin, in the very thick of it. If there were answers to be had, then this woman was likely to be one of a very few who had any to give.

"I… think… someone from the Blood Dragon Guild, perhaps one of the Bhaalspawn. Two from the Wardens." The womans' eyes started to roll back in her head, but much to Brins' surprise, they snapped back to her armored visor, the young woman staving off unconsciousness. That took a feat of will. "Everyone else… fell." There was pain in those brown eyes, pain and rage. "Jansen, Adam, Victor, Sonya…

"…my father."

Gods, I know who this is, Lieutenant Ryssa Brin realized as the young woman slipped into unconsciousness, her eyes lolling back as her head came to rest upon the cobbled street, still breathing. She had used the names of four of the six members of the Legion of Dawn that she knew of; all names that Brin knew, that everyone knew. The Soulcleaver, the Wrath of Light, the Farslayer, Foehammer…

…and the last… the last had been the Titanslayer.

Brin remembered the first time she had met Legionnaire Paulo Valencia, the Grandmaster of the Order. It had been… six, seven years ago? There had been a plague of Scar incursions, more than what the several Lancers in Tarsis could normally handle, and the Legion had come to quell the threat. The Titanslayer had been every inch what Ryssa had thought of a Legionnaire; a hero personified, a paragon of honor and lethality. A giant of a man with a quiet voice and somber disposition, the five Legionnaires had come from Antium to silence the threat to Fort Tarsis on the back of an intercontinental Strider transporting their Javelins, their gear, and themselves. Brin remembered there being a girl on the cusp of young womanhood amongst the Legionnaires, never far away from the man that was easily twice her height and three times her width, the one she called 'Poppa'. No matter that they didn't look alike; the Titanslayer wouldn't be the first Lancer to adopt a child rescued from the wilds and raised as his own. No, the only judge to that had been a young girl who had seen in the man a father, and that was that.

"Yanya. Yanya Valencia" Ryssa recalled, remembering a girl with dark hair, dark eyes, and dusky skin. It was hard to believe that this was the same person; six years was a long time for a child, and the person in question had survived a bloody disaster. It certainly explained how one so young became a Legionnaire; likely her father had been grooming her for years. Father and daughter serving together, fighting together. Strong Alone, Stronger Together was the unofficial motto of the Lancer, and the Sentinel wondered how they paired off together. No doubt a time of pride for both of them; for the daughter who likely saw her father for the hero he was and being able to serve at is side, and the father to see his child coming into her own on her own accord.

And now the father was gone, the daughter looking to be right on his very footsteps.

"Where… is that physician!"

Ryssa would be damned if she let a Legionnaire die at her very feet.

Especially the very last one.

Author's Notes: The is the first time I've created a story in a franchise so new (literally the Public Release Day of Anthem, 2/22, saw the idea forming up). Having said that, a good deal of canon will be… suggested if not followed, and other things missed or having to make do without. Bastion is the name of the continent that Fort Tarsis resides on, but the planets' name is Mirrus. For a date, I came up with something cute for the month, and I remember seeing somewhere that the year was recorded as LV (Legion's Victory, so I assume when the Legion of Dawn defeated the urgoths (or whatever the threat was that I missed out on initially in the Codex/Cortex). I finally found the Cortex entry that put the physical year of the Assault of the Heart of Rage as 466 L.V. under the Shaper category in the file The Cenotaph.

In canon/Cortex, the Legion of Dawn fractured itself into three philosophies, subsequently turning into the Sentinels, the Freelancers, and the Dominion. Like all political entities, they have their own views, and I will work with that like we see in politics today.

Instead of calling everyone 'Freelancer', it is simply 'Lancer'; both job title and job description, much like Lancer Yarrow and Lancer Rythe. Members of the Legion of Dawn, on the other hand, are known as 'Legionnaires'.

I guess the missing two years in Anthem were better than the missing three years in Dragon Age 2, where absolutely nothing changes.

For some Guild names, I went with BioWare history; the Blood Dragon Guild is based off the of the Blood Dragon Armor from Dragon Age: Origins, and the Bhaalspawn Guild is based off the infernal-lineage children like Imoen from Baldur's Gate. What will be the Black Wardens, based off the Grey Wardens of the Dragon Age Series, you will see later. But there were two survivors.