Titus ducked a hammering strike, rolling under the Deep One alpha's arm and stabbing upwards, the gladius biting deep into an armpit. The monster hardly seemed to notice as Legion steel tore rubbery flesh and corded muscle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a colossal skeleton preparing to attack. Too obvious. Its strike was telegraphed. A distraction.<br/><br/>The Deep One averted its attention from the meek fleshbag nipping at its heels and turned on the bone golem. It roared a challenge and attempted to charge the more obvious threat. This was his chance. Titus hacked into the monster's vulnerable legs, hamstringing it. With a gurgling scream born more of anger than pain, the Deep One stumbled. They could think, but they obviously were not very intelligent. With another strike, Titus sliced open a femoral artery, the ensuing blood spray painting his mail and shield a deep red.<br/><br/>Of course, the Deep One alpha was huge. It had plenty of blood yet to lose before it gave in. Pivoting, the monster backhanded Titus, throwing him into a shanty. Flimsy walls and decayed wood gave in, collapsing inwards and trapping the Legionary's legs. Heavy footsteps shook the ground over the din of battle. This was it. He could hear the sounds of tearing flesh and the screams of men as the Deep Ones finished the others off. The monster moved in for the kill. Head ringing, heartbeat pounding, Titus fought to raise his shield and blade, or at least to free his legs from the rubble. It was then that he saw the true source of the footsteps. A Titan warsuit.<br/><br/>His hearing returned. Those were not screams. The fight was not lost. Those were the sounds of cheering Legionnaires, elated at the sight of their battle-brothers. The skeleton was gone, probably an illusion cooked up by Absalom on the fly. A second patrol, much larger than Titus', laid in with swords and spears, finishing off the remaining Deep Ones while medicae staff pulled wounded and dead out of the fray. The alpha faltered under the strikes of a colossus of steel and righteous fury. Another patrol stood with them. The<span style="font-style: italic">Honored Dead</span>stood with them.<br/><br/>Since the first days of the Legions, every soldier swore the Death Oath--to serve even in death by bequeathing body and soul to his brothers in arms. It was voluntary, but no Legionnaire would dare to shirk from giving his all for the empire, even in the XIV. Most of the time, a dead soldier would be handed to his home Legion's sorceror cabal. Flesh and organs were removed, burnt, and sent to next of kin in well-decorated urns, specially crafted using the Legion's funds and craftsmen to honor that Legionnaire's personal accomplishments. The soul was used as fuel to imbue life into the bones, granting the Legion a reliable, cheap supply of skeletal laborers and soldiers. And like all heroes, the Dead Legionnaires were treated with utmost reverence. They stood at the forefront of parades and ceremonial functions and held the line like their living comrades.<br/><br/>Sometimes, a hero in life would be granted special service. Brother-Ancient Octavius was one of them. Struck down long ago in a battle even he had half-forgotten, Octavius was interred, mind, body, and soul in one of the Legion's suits of powered armor, his soul providing the fuel in place of an engine. The Honored Dead were a class of their own.<br/><br/>Octavius, his armor resplendent and strung with oath papers, led the counter-charge. The Honored Dead landed a thunderous blow against the Deep One alpha, a vicious uppercut with his arm-mounted pneumatic siege hammer. He followed up with a headbutt, cracking the alpha's skull with a ring of hollow steel, before pulverizing its innards with a gut strike. The monster collapsed and, impossibly, continued to spasm and twitch, attempting to leave one last wound before it died. Octavius gave it no such chance. On his other arm was a heavy-duty flamethrower. With a hiss, the flame unit's jets fired out an arc of brilliant burning fluid. Titus was familiar with the fuel. It was an ever-burning mixture, nearly impossible to extinguish by conventional means. A nasty, painful way to go, and perfect for close combat and sieges. Piscine eyes melted, flesh peeled, and fat flash-burned as the monster thrashed in its last moments.<br/><br/>Titus felt the pressure on his legs ease. The rubble shifted. Sitting upright, he found himself face to face with Centurion Lucibius, his direct superior. Lucibius was Legion Champion by dint of his experience, charisma, and tactical brilliance. A master of Even Blade, the First Centurion was universally respected even in this Legion of thugs. The Champion wore his relics of office: the enchanted Lorica Fulminata, bedecked with the thunderbolt and skull symbols of the old XIV, and the Black Sword, sheathed at his side. Titus knew not what magics were worked into the steel, or what sort of tempering methods were used to achieve the latter's coloration, but he did know that wherever the Champion was, a trail of corpses followed.<br/><br/>'Get up, boy,' said the First Centurion. 'We need everyone back at camp.<span style="font-style: italic">Now</span>.'<br/><br/>'What's going o--'<br/><br/>'We're under attack. Haven't heard a thing from the Legate in the past half hour. Last message I got from his mage was a garbled mess of shouting and fighting.'<br/><br/>Titus didn't bother to inquire further. He hauled himself up on aching muscles and collected his gear. He signaled his patrol group to reform. 'We march on your word, sir.'<br/><br/>[Edited for grammar and diction]