Chapter Text
A swing. A scream.
Another scream. Blood splatters
The blood trickles and gathers, thus forming a pool.
Yet, the armoured figure moves with such ease despite each obstruction and the risk of slipping on the iced over snow beneath his feet. In a battlefield where one man stands against many, were it a random soldier, most would say that it is foolish to even attempt such an act. However, this man is no mere soldier. He is one of the greatest of the Fatui under Her Majesty the Tasritsa, right out of Snezhnaya. This man is Il Capitano, one of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers, one of the best fighters and one of the strongest.
Unparalleled is his strength when he swings his cumbersome claymore like it is naught but an extension of his arms to him. He slices through one enemy after another like they are soft butter instead of bodies of flesh and bone, biting and tearing into the tender vessels that once housed those lives. Oh, and the lives he took.
Many Fatui speak in awe of this Harbinger and his battlefield prowess. He is a one of a kind soldier with experience and strength like no other. In fact, he has a decent group of fans within the ranks because of this. Capitano can be described as a one-man army who takes down armies alone. It's not often that he comes out to fight personally. Usually, if he does, there is a guaranteed bloodbath. The giant of a man turns his heel deeply into the snow, crunching the fallen precipitation as he plunges his blade through another foolhardy soldier. This one thinks that they have a chance of winning against the Harbinger with a sneak attack with a flimsy knife in their hands. However, it is idiotic to not consider the amount of experience that Capitano built up over the years of fighting battle after battle.
"Go to the Abyss, you dog!" curses one of the soldiers loudly. He aims a shot at the Captain, hoping to injure him with his elementally charged bullet. However, much to the man's hasty decision and dismay, the bullet hardily does anything to the Harbinger. He brushes off the embers of the pyro shot like mere snowflakes to be dusted off after being outside on a snowy day, and slowly turns to the direction from which the shot came from. The poor soldier freezes at the sight of the behemoth, the silent predator, that turns his attention towards him. I'm in so much shit right now, he panickedly thinks, I'm going to die.
Just his presence alone halts the very thought of running away or escaping. The sheer intimidation that rolls off of his figure was immense. The seemingly empty hole that his helm created makes it seem that whatever is inside is just as abysmal as the scene before them. With the amount of blood shed and bodies piling up around the man like they create an arena for him to contend to, where all his opponents become fodder to his might, slain by his blade if not his very own blood-covered hands.
Capitano moves forward, stalking after his prey. The poor soldier takes too long to find the courage to scramble back. He is stopped, of course, by a corpse of his brethren. Around them are the fearful remaining survivors from this very encounter. To think that they all hoped that their numbers will be able to make up for any potential losses, without knowing what they are fighting. They have no idea that they are fighting up against one of the monsters of the Fatui.
Indeed, Il Capitano is no mere man. Never should he be underestiamted or underminded. In fact, never should he be seen as a man. He is anything but a man once he has his weapon in his hands and is ready for a day of battle.
The one at the other end of Capitano's empty gaze looks like he is so scared that he might soil himself. Before he can utter a word or have a chance to beg for mercy, the blade comes down quickly and beheads the frightened soldier. The head rolls in the snow as the crimson droplets splatters over the pristine snow that it lands upon. A thin woven path lies before the violent scene. The remaining body tilts to the side as the oozing life fluid spills over the edge, drizzling onto the snow while also seeping into the clothes.
Everyone else backs away ever so slightly. Blood drips down from the bloodstained claymore. The Captain flings off the what blood he could get rid of before it dried a patch on the metal like its predecessors. His coat isn't in any better shape. The white material didn't survive the slaughter very well because of its colour, making it very, very obvious how many lives he took over the course of the fight. Each frightened man shouts something in disbelief despite their trembling in their boots.
"Monster!"
"Abomination!"
"What is he? Is he even human!?"
Well, truth to be told, there was only a sliver of humanity left within each of the Fatui harbingers but no one needs to know that. Such words spoken with such dread are not news to the Harbinger's own ears. How often he heard them within his lifetime of cleaving straight through the armies. The masked man lets out a long sigh, silencing all the frightened fighters around him. From his mask, a puff of hot air escapes the empty void, misting up the metal of his chinguard. What a pitiful bunch, he thinks, they fought so valiantly against me and expressed great camaraderie, but all fell apart too easily before my blade. The fragility of mortal life is so ephemeral. They snap too easily under pressure.
"You have lost your courage," he observes, scanning down at the battlefield around him, and all it took was the significant reduction of the enemy. By all means, he doesn't mean to mock them. It is the pure fear that he can visible see and tangibly feel that makes him think that way. It is thick like a fog that hangs in the air during the early morning. It is a pressure upon the soldiers that they never felt before. It is the moment when they realise how helpless they are before the Fatui Harbinger Il Capitano.
Fatui are not known for being merciful to their targets. To the Captain, all this killing is not pointless. Not only did he break their ranks, not only did he reduce their numbers, he also broke their overall morale while increasing that of his own men. Around the outer ring of the battlefield are the rest of the Fatui, battling their way through to their leader.
Around them, their enemy screams for mercy and surrender. However, Capitano has no plans to let any of them survive today and tell the tale. He always does his job efficiently and cleans up just as well. Brandishing his blood-frozen claymore once again, he joins the fray and the screams continue. Thus begins the slaughter and thus ends the incessant thrall of screams. Once it all ends, Capitano makes sure that the only evidence that the battlefield will leave behind is the bloodstains that come from the corpses that fell to his blade. Even then, it doesn't no matter. A snowstorm will come soon. By the grace of the Tsaritsa, may a fresh layer of snow cover the carnage. He gave the grey-covered sky a nod and left the work to his men. Truly, it was a shame that he wasn't able to witness more chivalry.