*Just a note - I actually did not write this. I just compiled it after someone in the thread requested it. Some people were asking me what the fresh hell this all was, so I gotta have this disclaimer*
 
The Lesfranc Chronicles: A KSG medieval drama
 
Synopsis: In a kingdom crippled by ceaseless war, two noble brothers of the Lesfranc House of the Kingdom of Mirrios have made the choice to act against it. Spurred on by the murder of their lord father and the burning of their land, they ride forth against the power of the usurper King Marone, his power gotten through ill means. Upon their journey, they discover a conspiracy beneath the war, a pact between regents, and an organization known as the Flared Fist that runs it all.
 
-Characters-
 
Lionel Lesfranc: Elder brother of the House Lesfranc and first in line to the succession. Normally level-headed and just, the razing of his house and murder of his people leads him to confront Marone on his own.
 
Sedric Lesfranc: The younger Lesfranc, Sedric is confident and cocky nearly to the point of his undoing, yet possesses a charisma unnatural for his personality. Seeks to liberate the four kingdoms of the world and unite them under his banner.
 
Crane: A knight of the House Lesfranc.
 
Marone: The despot ruler of Mirrios and leader of the Flared Fist, a shadow organization that seeks the proliferation of war across the world for unknown purposes. A stout, brutal man who deposed of his brother to openly seize the throne.
 
Elias: Marone's messenger and steward.
 
Whisper: A gruff assassin under the employ of the Fist. Apologizes to his victims under his breath. One of the Fingers of the Fist.
 
Shaester: One of the Fingers of the Fist. Defeated by Sedric Lesfranc.
 
Calumbert: A flamboyant illusionist and one of the Fingers of the Fist. Prefers to deceive her opponents than fight them.
 
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-Rebellion-
 
Elias: M'lord, the elder Lesfranc is requesting an audience.
 
Marone: Lesfranc? I thought we burned that fuse.
 
Elias: I know not what to say, m'lord, but a man calling himself the Duke Lesfranc is in the yard requesting your presence. He claims it is an urgent matter.
 
Marone: The Duke? Well then, bring him in.
 
Elias: The Duke Lesfranc, your Grace.
 
Marone: So it is. Now leave us. I want to speak with the Duke alone.
 
L. Lesfranc: You call yourself King, but no self-respecting countryman respects your title, Marone.
 
Marone: Oh? This coming from an upstart lordling who stumbles into the reign of a ruined duchy mere days after his father's death? What right have you to speak of titles, Lesfranc?
 
L. Lesfranc: Right? You question my right when my fellow countrymen and I have seen your men aiding and abetting the razing of your own kingdom? If these are the actions of a true king, then I have no idea what royalty means anymore!
 
Marone: Mmm, and does that anger you Lesfranc? To see my hand at work in ways you don't understand? I am King. My right is absolute, my word is absolute, and my power is absolute. To criticize that is treason. Are you aware of this, Lesfranc?
 
L. Lesfranc: You...why are you smiling? You had my men, my people, and my father butchered, and you sit there on that tainted throne grinning like a fool, with reasoning even a child would dismiss? Treason has no meaning when your actions are full of it. I've come to put an end to these sick games of yours, Marone, through either persuasion or steel.
 
Marone: Geh...geheheheh! Are you sure you aren't auditioning to be court jester, Lesfranc? Are you so blind as not to see that you are as good as dead? Your country is rotted. Your allies are burning as we speak. And this...this is still but the beginning of this "game", as you call it! There's still so much more to witness! What I have set in motion, it cannot be stopped! The world is going up in flames, Lesfranc, and a corpse like you will be the first to catch. You would have been better off to stay buried with your Duchy than to come here with delusions of slaying me. Therein lies the humor, I suppose.
 
So come then, corpse! Entertain me with your final spasms! I will crush your body and return it to the maggots!
 
L. Lesfranc: The only place I will return to is my castle, with your head on a pike to show my brother! For every man, woman, and child whose life you have stolen, I will have each of them repaid with a drop of your blood! Now Marone, I shall bring death to you!
 
Marone: Ahhhhh...aha! Ahahahaha! Lesfranc, this was too simple! For all your vitriol, sentimental ranting, and idle threats, this is all you can muster? I cannot live off of hate fueled by this sort of weakness! It's not enough! Not even close! Look, you cannot even force your body to cease its trembling as death takes you! A pathetic whelp like you is unworthy to live in a world under my fist!
 
L. Lesfranc: Gahhh...what kind of monster are you, Marone? I...this wasn't enough...in the end...Sedric please...sever this butcher's hands...it hurts...
 
Marone: Still clinging to life with a blade in your belly? Spare me your sniveling, corpse. Perhaps the souls of your countrymen in hell will appreciate your dramatics.
 
L. Lesfranc: Sedric...
 
Marone: Steward! If you would, remove "Duke" Lesfranc from my sight. Preferably in a burlap sack delivered to Sedric Lesfranc, wherever he may be. A fitting ascension gift for the new Duke Lesfranc, hmm? Geheheh!
 
Elias: A-as you wish, m'lord.
 
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-Declaration of Royalty-
 
Elias: Your Grace? Might I request an audience with you?
 
Marone: Eh? I haven't sent you off to die in my name yet, Elias? What a mistake I've made. I hope this is important, for your sake.
 
Elias: A letter arrived by carrier pigeon this morning, your Grace.
 
Marone: You have a minute to read it before you leave this room a corpse. I haven't the time for letters when the Lesfranc boy is ruining my game.
 
Elias: Well, you see, your Grace, it's about that... but I should warn you, the contents are...inflammatory to say the least.
 
Marone: Your presence is inflammatory enough. Thirty seconds.
 
Elias: Ah! Well, it reads such:
 
"To the people of the kingdoms of Vassier,
 
As you are undoubtedly aware by now, our land lies throttled within the clenched fist of total war, a conflict that has hence claimed the life of both the kings of Doorte and Fillaya, in addition to that of my former King of Mirrios, Filibre. His usurper brother, Marone, stands guilty of these crimes.
 
Under the guise of royalty, he and the black society of the Flared Fist have engineered this war by way of deception. In return for their cooperation in the proliferation of this war, he has made promises of future prosperity. However, he has instead chosen to reward this land's rulers with murder in return for their complacence.
 
To this end, Marone desires only one throne, commanded by him and dedicated solely to him. He has demonstrated that the lives of strong and weak, intelligent and simple, brave and cowardly are equal to him in that they hold as much value as the dirt beneath his blood-stained boots. If we are to rise above his oppression, now is the time. I call upon your aid, people of Vassier, because without you I am too weak to wrest your lands out of his grip. My army stands valiant, but small, and no amount of bravery can emerge victorious against Marone's legions and the strength of the Fist.
 
As such, I implore you for your blades. I implore you for your hearts, beating with pride deep within the resentment of oppression cast upon you. I implore you to bring this pride to our side and end this war that was meant to have no end. Together, I guarantee to reclaim what is yours and grant you closure.
 
And to the people of Mirrios, the homeland that I love, I understand your pain more than any other. This beast has stolen something from all of us: homes, futures, and families, including my family, Dukes Alfos and Lionel Lesfranc. Mirrios deserves far better than what Marone can offer, and as of today, you have no need to bend your knee to him any longer. My only wish is that I may be worthy of you.
 
Your servant,
Sedric Lesfranc,
King of Mirrios
 
Marone: Get out, Elias.
 
Elias: Your Grace?
 
Marone: Upon what basis does he name HIMSELF King? I've wiped my sword upon more worthy men than that whelp!
 
Have you...seen this letter elsewhere?
 
Elias: There are whispers of its contents throughout the kingdom, your Grace.
 
Marone: Then Horace must have caught wind of this farce as well...steward. King Chelvus must not fear our betrayal yet. We must encourage him for the time being.
 
Elias: Give the command and I shall do whatever you ask.
 
Marone: Abandon our operations in Fillaya, they shouldn't require many men to keep in line at the moment. Send them to Horace's side.
 
Ah, and if you wouldn't mind, summon the Whisper to me, would you?
 
Whisper: You called, your Grace? Command me as you will.
 
Marone: Already here, eh? Although I suppose that's what I like about you - I never have to wait long. I want you by King Chelvus's side. Mirrios's new "king" will likely be mobilizing to remove Horace from my game. I want you there to reassure him of our dedication.
 
Whisper: And a knife 'tween Lesfranc's ribs, I suppose?
 
Marone: Make it a priority. When the commoners see their young savior is mortal, we should have nothing more to concern us from those worms. I leave it in your hands. Do not disappoint me.
 
Whisper: I 'aven't yet, 'ave I? By your leave. The Fist is ever clenched.
 
Marone: Heheheh. If the Lesfranc boy wants to be taken seriously, he's gotten his wish. Come now Lesfranc! No more words or letters! Paint a trail of blood to my doorstep like your brother and I'll grant you the same fate!
 
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-Birth of the Rider-
 
Marone: You're back. More wretched news, I assume? You only show your face when you want to ruin my mood.
 
Elias: And I will pray for the day when I might be able to visit under better circumstances, Your Grace. But unfortunately, I must bring news of another defeat on the battlefield.
 
Marone: Of course you do, you stinking cur. Which one of my mongrels has failed me this time? Shaester? Or maybe Calumbert? No, she wouldn't give the Lesfranc boy the opportunity...
 
Elias: Your first guess was spot on, Your Grace. I'm afraid Shaester sorely underestimated the younger Lesfranc's cunning. He's gathered some talented men around him, but it seems your subordinates only see the boy and grow drunk with their hubris. Did you know Shaester begged him to live when he stared down his blade? A grown man, his memories stained with the blood of his own conquests, a man of the Fist, begging a boy not yet into his 20th year? It was...disappointing to say the least.
 
Marone: He did what? And you didn't kill him yourself when you saw him about to put on a display like that? If word of that gets out, the other lieges will think the Fist is weak! I won't have it! Not from a whelp like Lesfranc! It's time that we send the boy a message, one that will carry to any other man that doubts my strength.
 
Elias: Mmm...would you have me give the order to mobilize Calumbert's battalion?
 
Marone: No...I can't send an entire legion to eliminate a band of less than two hundred. It can't look like I'm giving him any legitimacy. The power of the Fist was constructed on the shoulders of men. Individual men, freaks of men whose name made women shudder and men cross themselves. I need a freak, Steward. Not just any freak. The Freak. Tell me, how has he healed?
 
Elias: His wounds have been healed for quite some time. But his spirit...well, that's another matter.
 
Marone: I don't need him sane, just desperate. How desperate is he, Steward? That's all I care about.
 
Elias: Quite. He raves nightly, and his curses and lamentations are beginning to frighten the other prisoners. If you want my opinion, we can have him horsed and slaughtering by the morrow.
 
Marone: Is that so? Heheh...geheheh...
 
Heeheehee! Excellent! Why didn't you let me know sooner? There's no finer weapon I'd rather use to handle the boy! Give him the armor I had made and a sword. But first, bring him to me. I want to speak with him.
 
Elias: Here he is, Your Grace. I apologize for leaving him chained. Safety measures, you see. I will take my leave.
 
Marone: Fine, get yourself gone.
 
Now then, I understand you've had an epiphany of sorts since we last spoke. Is that so?
 
Freak: ...Will I live?
 
Marone: Only if Lesfranc dies. That's something you can do, isn't it? A small price to pay, really, all things considered.
 
Freak: I...I am not ready to go yet. If you ask me to cut him down, I will only ask you when to stop.
 
Marone: Geheheheh! The fear of death makes people say the most amusing things? But you... I suppose you're not so much a person as a monster for swearing to me like this. Putting yourself over family - why, only a true monster would do such a thing! But do not despair, for you are in excellent company! If we are paving our road to glory with gold, then we must also polish it with blood! Victory does not come without sacrifice, and for glorious victory, so too must our sacrifice be glorious! Remember this: there is no price too high to pay for power.
 
Now go and send the world a message of the Fist's true power!
 
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-Lesfranc vs. The Red Rider-
 
S. Lesfranc: Sir Crane returns from the pass...and without his scouts. I don't like the looks of this, Sophie.
 
Hail, Crane! Where have you placed our scouts?
 
Crane: At the end of the Red Rider's blade, damn the devils that birthed him. He cares not for the typical conventions of war, m'lord. We rode naught more than a mile over the crest of the pass and he was on us, completely alone. He slew the three at the head of the wedge with one stroke of that monstrous blade of his and then dispatched the other two before I could blink. I expected to meet my end as well, but he stayed his blade to have me deliver you a message.
 
"Send me the Duke Lesfranc by himself," was what he said to me, m'lord. I believe he desires single combat.
 
S. Lesfranc: Then he'll have it. I'm going to relish the opportunity to send him to hell. Perhaps then Marone will know to fear our house. I'll send him the Rider's head as he sent me Frederick's, see how he fancies that.
 
Crane: M'lord, I would rather you exercise caution, this Rider is inhuman - he boasts skill I've seen in precious few men. I mean no disrespect, but he will slay you if you ride to meet him face to face.
 
S. Lesfranc: None taken, Crane, although now it seems I must shame both you and Marone. If I'm to unite these four kingdoms under my banner, I can't be seen as a craven. Is it foolish? Yes. Is it hopeless? Hardly. I'm of no small skill myself, Crane, and you are welcome to test me yourself if it will put your mind at ease. But know this, I will meet with the Red Rider. It's high time Marone's butcher be returned to the earth.
 
Crane: Then may your sword run hot with his life, m'lord. He waits just over the pass, as I've said. I await your victorious return.
 
S. Lesfranc: Rider! I've come to lay claim to your life! Yield your blade to House Lesfranc of Mirrios and I'll permit you an escort to my lands to be sentenced to death by the families of the men you've murdered.
 
Rider: Do you fancy yourself a savior, Sedric?
 
S. Lesfranc: I've made no such claims, and I'll not be lectured on the subject by the likes of you, Rider.
 
Rider: I do not intend to impose lectures, merely questions. I seek to discover what manner of madness would drive a man to forsake power unmatched in favor of becoming a martyr.
 
S. Lesfranc: A martyr is never named such until he's dead, Rider, I wouldn't get used to referring to me as such. And what power is it that you speak of? The power to thieve honest men and women of their pride, property, and lives? Or perhaps Marone has you bought with promises of some pithy lordship in return for your crimes? I'm proud to say that I'm not the sort of craven who would exchange his honor for honors.
 
Rider: Land? Lordships? Honor?!? Hellsfire, Sedric, do you still believe that's what this game is about? Damn lordships and gold and women! I've drank from that cup once and I've lost a taste for it. What the Fist offers its loyal is more enduring than those trifles, Sedric. Let me remove my helmet and stare into my eyes and perhaps then you'll open yours.
 
S. Lesfranc: Lionel? Brother? This is some foul illusion, this cannot be real! Your head...I saw it with my own eyes...your blood was the first to oil Marone's gauntlets, his messenger said it himself!
 
L. Lesfranc: Hahahaha! And if His Grace's messenger told you he had enchanted Mirrios Keep and flown it across the sea, would you leap to the telescope? You believed only what you wanted to believe, Sedric. You thought me dead the instant I rode to challenge His Grace, and even the head of his squire would seem mine if it helped you write the end to my story that you envisioned. Honestly, I had thought you would out me the first time we met in battle - I made no effort to alter my riding or my swordplay.
 
My brother...Lionel...he is no butcher. He gave his life in defense of his countrymen, to protect their right to live freely and without fear! You are a monster who slaughters without compulsion. My brother would never consent to ally with Marone. Your lie is undone.
 
L. Lesfranc: You speak the truth. Lionel would not do these things.
 
But the Red Rider faces no such limitations.
 
You may name me Lionel. You may attribute his actions to me. But it means nothing, Sedric. In a way, you were right. Lionel ceased to exist the day he rode to judge the King. But he did not die. He was born again, brother! Instructed by the fist and baptised in pain, I was made a new man! His Grace punished me dearly for Frederick's insubordination, and as my bones cracked beneath his boot and gauntlet, as my blood abandoned me to caress the stones beneath his throne, I gained an appreciation. An appreciation for how powerless I was, for the way His Grace abandoned such trifling things as ideals and justice to make his dreams into reality. Here was a man who let nothing hold him back, here was a man whose power made him untouchable. His Grace acts with impunity because there are none who can defy him! No man, ancient beast, or god is his master because he has made himself master of all! And so I shall make myself master when the fires run high across the earth and I have men like you beneath my boot and I will feel that glorious satisfaction of a man who wants no longer.
 
That power sleeps beneath the earth, and it will be mine for the service I do His Grace.
 
S. Lesfranc: I see. Then that simplifies things considerably. I wasn't sure that I would be able to kill my brother, but a piece of filth in his skin should pose me no such issues. Prepare yourself, Red Rider, there is a grave in Lesfranc Manor that beckons you home. And I will make it known that you were done in by King Lesfranc the Powerless.
 
L. Lesfranc: Look at my armor, Lesfranc. Since the day I donned it, three hundred and forty-eight men have made it the last thing they saw. Look at my sword, Lesfranc. It is the largest in the world, unwieldable by all but two men. It was made so to cleave through more than one man at a time. Look at my eyes, Lesfranc, and know your life is forfeit! I am the Red Rider, and you are but another dead man!
 
S. Lesfranc: I would ask you to yield, Rider, but I do not repeat myself. A pity my brother is dead, as you say. He would have given me a far better fight than a cur who clings to fairy tales and brute strength like a babe to his mother's teat. Your sword will have to accept only one body to cleave this time - it will be its last. Farewell, Rider. Perhaps hell will accept your taste for power better than I.
 
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-Lesfranc vs. Lady Calumbert of the Fist-
 
Calumbert: Well now, this IS worthy of applause, boy. Here I had expected you to wander my halls of illusion until you finally fell on the sword of one of Horace's lackeys, but here you are blade drawn, those thin, severe lips drawn into a scowl, trying so desperately to be a man and kill me with a frown.
 
Or maybe it's my fault in the first place for trusting the Whisper to do my job in the first place. Oooh, what a conundrum. Someone needs to "punish" me for my failure, but I need to punish you for your crimes against His Grace. Mayhaps we could take turns, Duke Lesfranc?
 
S. Lesfranc: That's "King" Lesfranc, wench. I'd beat you with my blade for a mistake like that, but that seems redundant seeing as that's what I'm here for anyways.
 
What have you done with King Chelvus?
 
Calumbert: Still playing at High Court, I see. Pity, I was hoping to have more fun with you, but I've no desire to commiserate with boys.
 
As for Horace, I've done nothing with him. He's been in his chambers quietly soiling himself since you arrived. Poor man, I told him he had nothing to fear under the Fist's protection, yet his faith is ever so tremulous.
 
S. Lesfranc: I can't blame the man for being skeptical of your parlor tricks, harlot. I assume your gift for illusions must be how you fooled the Fist into believing you possessed any sort of competence, Lady Calumbert.
 
Calumbert: Hahaha! If you truly believe that your trials up to this point reflect the extent of my powers, then death will find you easily today.
 
Let me tell you something, boy. Of all the five Fingers of the Fist, there is but one who commands the respect and awe of the rest. It is not His Grace, nor Chalmer, and certainly not those fools Blisbey or Shaester. It is I. Men fear whatever they do not understand. It is why the regents of the Four Kingdoms bend to the will of the Fist, why you feared the Red Rider, and most importantly, why people fear me.
 
My illusions, they are no mere shadow puppets or tricks of the eye. They are augmentations of reality. Everything you perceive now, is it real, Lesfranc?
 
S. Lesfranc: Why don't I run you through? Seems an effective enough way to answer the question.
 
Calumbert: Tch! So brutish; I'd hoped for a more creative response from you. But if that is what it takes to make you fear, then do so. Run me through, boy.
 
S. Lesfranc: Ah! You...you're not dead? How?
 
Calumbert: Because, my dear, I've been behind you the entire time. A pity about your bannerman you've just slain though. He must have been SO confused as to why you were addressing him.
 
Ahahaha!
 
S. Lesfranc: Wh-What? How dare you! I never meant...
 
Calumbert: Ah, but you believed, and so you did. It is a terrifying thing when a man no longer sees with his own eyes, Your "Grace". I wonder, when was the last time your sight was true?
 
Was it before we began speaking?
 
The moment you stormed Castle Chelvus?
 
Or has your life been mine to direct since you entered this realm?
 
Do you fear me yet, Lesfranc? Even now as I stand before you with nary a weapon to defend myself, do you still have the courage to strike me down? If you are a true king, then show me your dedication! Slay every last person in this room, and you'll have killed me eventually! The solution is simple! Ahahaha!
 
S. Lesfranc: What you suggest is ridiculous. You'll not make me a murderer to satisfy your appetite for this sick sport, wench.
 
Calumbert: Oh? How droll. Then perhaps I may have to drag Horace out of his hole and dispose of him while you grapple with the issue. I am busy, Lesfranc, and I will not wait forever.
 
S. Lesfranc: That won't be necessary. I believe I have a solution in mind. Your skill is frightening, I'll admit. But just as fear is your strength, it is also your weakness.
 
Calumbert: So you say! Please, expound.
 
S. Lesfranc: Why did I not fear you when I first met you? The answer is simple: because when I met your eyes, I saw nothing but fear in your own eyes. You are one of the last two Fingers, Calumbert, the others slain by my hand. I am the Reaper to you, and you do a poor job of hiding it.
 
Yet here you are, suggesting that I massacre everyone in this room, including yourself. A curious move for someone who so fears her own death.
 
So it must stand, then...that you have clothed yourself in the guise of someone who no longer needs fear death.
 
Let's see how well my sword remembers my former bannerman!
 
Calumbert: Gahhh...you...I am so afraid...take away the cold...the darkness from my eyes...if I cannot see...I am just as blind as you...
 
S. Lesfranc: A blind man is only one who fails to embrace fear instead of letting it control him. Or her, I suppose.
 
If I were you I'd hope Marone isn't quite so blind as the rest of you. It's mighty difficult to clench a Fist with no Fingers. It's high time I sever the last one.
 
Good show wench, but I am the only man who controls my reality.
 
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-The Retaking of Castle Mirrios-
 
S. Lesfranc: Well, I was going to call this siege a job well done, but there is a sack of garbage sitting on my throne.
 
Marone: Sedric Lesfranc! The cockroach finally brings himself under my heel! Still entertaining delusions of royalty, I see. I may call myself a god, but it hardly makes me one - yet.
 
S. Lesfranc: Funny thing to say when your "empire" is falling down around you and your war is fizzling out. Do you spend a lot of time eating your words? Is that why your waist is so huge?
 
Marone: Come then! Take your bloodstained blade in hand and slay this fat old man! I stand before you with no crutches, no handicap, merely my blade and the might vested in me by nature, that which I have kept under my thumb since birth!
 
Yes, come after me with that blazing hubris! Bring my crimes to justice and save the land, just like your brother did, Sedric. I am the only one left.
 
S. Lesfranc: That was the idea.
 
I hope you weren't expecting me to back down and lose my nerve, it's too late for that. My men and I, we've played along with your wretched war games for too long. This world has been battered to hell and back thanks to us. I hesitate to praise the cleverness of a man who births total war in any capacity, but you knew how to ensure results. Leave things alone and you and the royals take us all to the grave. If someone stands up, then our fighting achieves the same result.
 
Marone: Then you understand why my victory is complete. So, am I to assume that this confrontation is a part of some drawn out suicide?
 
S. Lesfranc: And this is the part that you just don't get. This is what drives you insane inside; I can tell that it takes all your effort not to let it show. Why am I here? Why did I perpetuate your war, march to your doorstep, and point a blade at your throat if it all meant nothing?
 
Well, I have two reasons.
 
The first is because as long as you're king, Marone, it's just going to go on forever. I don't think you'd know what to do with yourself if you just stomped everything into the dust. You'd just start over again with new, gullible kings to swindle and ruin. As long as you have the Flared Fist backing you to lend credence to your promises of favors from the Sleeper, there always will be. It's time for us to let go of that. Our god abandoned us a long time ago because of a war just like this. There's no one we can turn to but ourselves. You know this. I know this. But I'm the only one who will let the land move on. You're a grown child who won't relinquish control.
 
Marone: And your other reason?
 
S. Lesfranc: Well, that one's a bit more selfish - my brother set out to stick a pig with this blade here. You denied him that right and made him a monster. Did you think I wasn't going to hunt you down? Even if I didn't care one whit about this world, I care about that. The fact that I made it here to you right now - that should scare you. Your best chance of surviving was to not let me see your face. Because now that I have, I just can't stop thinking about how much I want to bash it in.
 
So raise your blade, because I can't wait any longer!
 
Marone: Do you want to know how he whimpered as his life fled him? He wallowed self-pity and disbelief, unable to comprehend how he could fail now that he was finally Duke. And yet he still pleaded for you, the younger, to pick up where he had failed. He was unworthy of painting my sword. But you, yes, you ARE different! Entertain me as he could not! Provide me a satisfying climax to this grand tale!
 
S. Lesfranc: Keep squealing - that's how I can still tell that you're afraid.
 
Marone: This body....is not...enough. Give me another! I am not finished! ANOTHER! I am the Fire that burns within the Fist! Rekindle my flame...so that I might...set the world on fire anew.
 
This...is too good...to end at your hands...
 
...Why are you letting me die?
 
Elias: Oh my dear Marone...you forget your place. Your fire burned bright, but flames can always be rekindled. The boy Lesfranc was right - your fear of losing control made you too weak to finish the job. Pity control was never yours to begin with. Or did you forget?
 
Marone: Steward...? No...no, it's you...my Spark...my Lord of the Flared Fist...
 
Please, grant me life once more...he is weak now...and I will grind each of his bones to dust...and then we will begin the game anew...
 
Elias: Ahhhhh...I think not. I've grown tired of you, Marone. Let the boy have his battle. I will teach him the futility of his struggle as you could not. Now be extinguished. I grow tired of you.
 
S. Lesfranc: You stole the final blow from me.
 
Elias: Slaying him is no accomplishment. He wasn't even able to sustain my game with a quarter of the Fist's devotees. I've had many Flames handle the game for me, but Marone was by far my most disappointing.
 
I would ask you, but I can see the idea of the game holds no excitement for you. As such, I will be resuming play with the Fist's full might.
 
S. Lesfranc: What...what do you mean? It's over, he's dead.
 
Elias: I invite you to the Sleeper's Shrine as a reward for besting me in this phase of the game. I feel that you deserve to understand the magnitude of this undertaking of mine. You may bring your army, but you will not leave alive.
 
Congratulations on your victory, Lesfranc. Now, we get to play again!