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Arrival From the Gate: Gate x Warcraft crossover.

Hirpus stood to the side of the great oak table that divided the tent nearly in half, writing down with his stylus a personal recounting of the previous week.

"And within the ides, they had surrendered. I had an arrow lodged in my left shoulder, it was all I earned in that damned war. Zorzal thus 'ended' the rabbit war, but not without my men, who sacrificed themselves dutifully, though vainfully. And of the captives, killed women by women, boy by boy, the rabbit barrens burned, and nothing for my men to bring home, no great spoils, Zorzal having claimed the victory, took all the spoils." The master recounted to his son.

"Ten-thousand curses on him..." His son replied.

"Go, watch from the walls my hour of triumph." His master replied, dismissing his son from his tent. The teenager broke off a piece of the bread he was eating and offered it to the patera before standing. He turned and put his hand to Hirpus's right ear, scratching him as one does a dog, before leaving.

"Hirpus, my armour."

Hirpus, his ears slanting in that distinctively Volralden way of his, slotted the stylus to the side and closed the diptych on which he had been writing and approached his master, who was donned only in his calligae and his padded woolen thorocomachus. Beneath this he wore his tunica, but it could not be seen.

It had been two weeks since Hirpus, his master and his master's army had arrived through the gate. A week ago, a centuria of men under his standard had been ambushed, and thus his master was inclined, through insult of his pride as viri, and insult to that of his whole army… if he did not strike down those who attacked the centuria, and avenge fallen pride and men by the enslavement of the enemy and the devastation of their army. Hirpus didn't know how to feel about this eventuality.

Grabbing the bronze musculata by his paws, Hirpus adjusted the halves to fit over his master's frame before buckling the two halves tight. To this, Hirpus placed the balteus about his master's hip, there was no need for the cingulum militare, as his master's thorocomachus had two levels of thick, embroidered, felted tassels on the bottom and shoulders, with the tassels being a pattern of one red-dyed paired next to a woad-dyed tassel and so on and so forth.

As Hirpus went to gather his master's cloak and fibulae, His master opened the wax diptych and began to read what was written, a faint smile forming on his face. As quickly as it came, it was gone, back to the face of stern stoicism as usual.

Hirpus returned soon after and settled the cloak down over his master's head and pierced the woolen fabric through with the fibulae before locking it.

His master rose at that moment. He walked twelve paces, and arriving at the end of his stitched rawhide tent, created a canopy from the tent flaps.

"Hirpus, follow me. Gather your stylus and wax. You are to write for me in the coming months, should you prove yourself worthy."

Hirpus beamed with happiness and pride.


The air was cold, the horizon was dark. Campfires blazed from the fortified castrum that had been erected from the night previous, built by the legions from cut planks, her walls filled by loose sand which made the dry-moat which surrounded the castrum, seventeen-feet wide by five-feet deep. And so the castrum occupied many Iugera in space, with bucellatum stored to last two months in the supply tents, perhaps three if rationed out, and enough vinegar to last for perhaps a month when turned into posca.

Doctors were stationed, their tools prepped. Immunes waited in their tents or otherwise watched on, exempt as they were from the battle to come… with the exception of the siege engineers, who by choice of service were expected to be endangered by the arrows, slingstones and crossbow bolts of all the enemy, that they may operate the ballistae and scorpions in the field that they might aid the empire in all her victories.

At the campfires, near the burning embers lay balls of clay, as hot as the fire that heated it.

From the walls lay a host of manuballista, near twenty pointed forth towards the horizon in a northerly direction, angled high, such that their bolts might fall down like thunder from above. Outside of the castrum, nearly two stadions to the left and placed on a high hill lay the remaining number of manuballista and scorpions, pointed also to the opposing bramble-bush fortress. To guard these engines, the five-thousand strong Legio XIII Fidelis Victrix (Of Bellhnago) was placed there. Upon the commencement of the battle, they were to be the first spear, the vanguard, and thus the first to assault the walls.

'Bruuuuuuuuum, Bruuuuuuuuuuummmm bruuuuum'

"Slingers... loose!" Was the order that was shouted through the castrum, as the orders were interpreted from the sound of the Buccina, and thus relayed to those who interpreted the signal into an oral format.

Decimus waited and watched as the auxiliary slingers, a motley collection of human men of the Romalia mountains and orcs from the southernmost region of the range of snow and ice, men selected from locations where a shepherding tradition remained strong, and thus the shepherds there were well accustomed therein to the use of the sling. They selected their longest slings and waited for a slave or assistant to fetch one of the red-hot slingstones from the fires. And when the stone was seated in the water-soaked leather pouches from the iron tongs, the stones were slung in quick procession.

Cracks descended through the castrum, as the sound of the slingers as they slipped the release cord from their grips was much like that of the whip. High the red-hot stones went, streaking in the night air before they began to descend downward in an arc.

Sometimes, if you listened closely enough, you could hear the sound of a rock as it struck against timber, sounding faintly like thunder, though with the distance between the legionary fort and the opposing bramble-bush fortress it was hard to hear.

The bramble-fortress on the other side appeared as though it were blessed by the goddess of fertility. The bramble-bushes were thick and wide… and it would take some time for them to burn down.

"Manuballista, loose!" Came the shrill sound of one of the chief centurions.

Decimus saw the commotion, as a sortie of pigmen made to attack the castrum… in vain. How could fifty pigmen, or perhaps a little more, unaccustomed by armour and bare of clothing, armed with flails and javelins… hope to have any impact? How, when of 12,000 men, 7,000 were safely ensconced by wooden walls?

How rapidly they were repulsed by arrows loosed and glandes slung, how woeful it was brought to them, so quickly that their ugly hides were embeded with the shafts of arrows or had the sharpened ends of glandes sticking into the flesh, leaving a fair number of their companions fallen in the dirt, dead or dying within a span of a moment, their calling out in some pig language that was their own.

Decimus mused to himself, though it was little more than a whisper. "And so, the pig-faced porcupines have donned themselves with arrow-quills."

It was imbecilic, even barbarians and orcs had a better grasp of stratagem, than to run forth as a few against thousands… unless you were gifted by the gods themselves. And without shields to bar the progress of bolts, arrows and glandes, let alone armour, they died quickly.

Soon, warps of column-like smoke rose from the horizon, as streaking red-hot clay slingstones and manuballista bolts formed the weft, slowly rising, slowly descending in arcs. It seems that houses, likely with thatched roofs… were the cause of this smoke.

And, Decimus hoped, should the wind find his favour… the thatched roofs might burn with such an intensity as to engulf the place with tumultuous flame.

Watching the scene before their eyes, you could feel the eagerness for combat with the quaking of mens calligae as they tapped their feet anxiously. And when the commotion became far-too-much to be contained, individual men resorted to singing… until almost all began to sing.


"We are the mules of Italica,

We trample your fields and fuck your wives,

We are the mules of Italica,

We piss on your graves, (Weep whores weep)

We are the mules of Italica,

We are the Virtus of the viri,

Weep wives weep!

We are the mules of Italica."


Hirpus's ears slanted slightly downwards in vexation. Decimus saw this and patted him on the head as one would pet a dog. He stopped after a moment.

"Master?" Hirpus mused quietly, to which Decimus replied "Yes."

"Isn't that language rude and vulgar?"

Decimus thought to himself for a moment, contemplating on what he could say to the young slave. "So it is, Hirpus. I have cursed you with Innocence, by giving you a good home and a good life. This is how commoners spe.."

When the men of the legion had quieted down, the orcish voices rung out louder, disturbing Decimus's speech.


"Citizens beware, watch your noble wives,

The brown-haired one, the real 'fucker' of the Hares,

Is leading us today,

So we can fuck your women green!"


Came the tune from the cohorts miliaria of the orc auxiliary. Decimus could not help but grin internally. How the usage of the word 'fucker', implied that he was the real man responsible for 'fucking over' the Hares. Zorzal, however, was really a fucker of Hares in the literal sense, as many tongues voiced rumors of his predilection for non-human women.

If only Lex scantinia, the law rumoured to have existed in ancient days, were still in effect... because then Zorzal could be tried. Rumours spoke of the way in which his eyes once winked to a male centaur delegate, which suggested something altogether... 'scandalous'. Zorzal quashed those rumours... which only lead them further credence.

Decimus was there during the Rabbit war, he had been the man who raised the orcish auxiliaries, for as he was a governor of the province to the south of the range of snow and ice, It was his right and privilege to do so. And so Decimus, following orders, had lead Legio XII Firmus through ruin and through glory, alongside his orcish auxiliary cohorts. Zorzal… a repulsive man, lead the battle. He was the cause of much death… incompetent as a leader and woefully lacking virtus, he got too many men killed and the majority of legions secretly hated him, except for a few. And now, Zorzal feared him, feared that Decimus, being that he sought the creation of a new 'Demi-citizenship' status for retired non-human Auxiliaries rather than a monetary sum payment... thus Zorzal was afraid, and so was the Senate, of Decimus's rise in popularity.

Hence the words "Fuck your women green." For it was commonly held that if Decimus had his way, he would grant them 'Ius Connubii'. Decimus did not focus very much on that most 'carnal' matter as he was focused more on the mundane things, such as setting out the workings for the provision of some form of grain-dole for Demi-citizens, or of the rights of trading and other such matters, and to provide them with benefits and bonuses that would provide positives that would cause other 'Peregrine' non-humans to seek to become 'Demi-citizens'.

Decimus sighed to himself. Most of the senators loved Zorzal, for they, unlike in ancient days, had long lost their propriety. Their virtus as men, if they could be called as such, was woefully lacking.

Now that there was some quiet, Decimus spoke again. "This is how commoners speak."






Was the shouted cheer from Legion XIII Fidelis Victrix… however the alternate translation was "Beautiful, beautiful war!", depending on the usage of the word used.

Say whatever you would about XIII Fidelis Victrix, their shout might be simple, their arrogant bravado overbearing (For they constantly bragged about their supposed valour in the camp), but their lust for violence was always sound and so was their sense of loyalty. And, as the XIII Fidelis Victrix was accustomed to do, which began upon their founding as a unique tradition, was to have minotaur auxiliaries as part of their contubernium as auxiliaries. It was appropriately fitting, given that a goddess of hell was the patron of Bellnahgo.

Minotaurs, when lead well… were hell on the battlefield.

Being interrupted for a third time, Decimus waited before he could speak again. "They wish to be home, Hirpus, yet by the auspices of our emperor, we are charged to explore this strange and foreign land. And so we shall." Decimus pointed out towards the enemy. "They preemptively, and without provocation, ambushed a centuria of my men. I sent a lone envoy, bearing a small gift of silver… to allay any... unforeseen complications that might have arisen to cause such action against my men. He was returned back, headless. For this, there is no excuse. And so the ram has touched the wall, without the ram. No chances, no mercy."

Decimus thought back on the event. One of his centuria fought off an ambush, having been used to encountering surprise attacks from the rabbit war (For which much of his men were veterans of that war), they maintained cohesion, reformed into a square and fought off the opposition by the sword. four men were killed and twelve injured, for though the pig-men were few in number, they were ferocious. All assailants, five in all, where killed. These dead were brought back, such that Decimus and the men might know what they were facing and thus be better prepared.

On the second day, Decimus issued a centaur, from one of the men of the foederati, bearing a gift of one hundred denarii, with the order to find and provide the gift to any leader who presented themself among the pig-men. The pig-men threw his head in a ditch where the ambush first occurred and thus Decimus had casus belli. Lack of knowledge regarding the language and customs of this foreign land notwithstanding, Decimus had only one recourse.

And now, half a week later, he was here in a wooden castrum that bordered the enemy fortification.

Decimus turned to face one of the men on the wall. "Buccinator, signal attack."

'Bruuuuuuuuuuuuum Bruuuuuuuuuuumm brumm bruuum bruuuuuum'

Decimus then turned to face Hirpus. "And now, you will write. Begin with today's date, the nones of Augustus. Today, you write about victory, and stand with the victors to be."

"War War War!" Came the shouted cheer of Legion XIII, having heard their order.


One week later.


"He's been captured." Came the gruff voice of the centurion of the second centuria of the fourth cohort of Legio XIII, Graccus of the Volurnii.

"Where is my son! He was last seen near you." Decimus shouted, his face pointed firmly on Graccus.

Hirpus cried out in response. "No!" Hirpus paused, before he pleaded to Decimus. "Please find him, master."

"Shut up!" Decimus shouted to his slave.

Graccus raised his voice. "He went to take a piss, so I sent Kraxuul... or whatever the fuck his minotaur name is, to watch over him. He's one of the auxiliaries over with the Decanus Fulvius, of the seventh contubernia. I can fetch him?"

To stop himself from being overcome by anger, Decimus walked over to a silvered urn and dipped his head in the cool water.

Having dipped his head in the cold water, Decimus reached for a document to his left, finding solace within the words.

"Decimus, my compatriot and loyal friend. I write to you, fearing for your personal safety. My son fears you, politically. He paints you in a bad light and vilifies your name. The senate fears change also, and might act swiftly. I hold all the power in the world, I have the power to stop the senate, but I cannot do the same for my son, and my son could attempt to depose me with the senate at his back, should I raise my voice. For your safety, I am sending you on an expedition, a place for where no harm may befall you, where the knives of traitors and the poison of assassins shall never touch you. Raise your legions and whatever foederati you can summon, and take your family with you. By the Ides, my next message shall hopefully arrive with further instructions. Your friend and Emperor, who thinks most highly of you."

Having been calmed, Decimus offered his reply, and an apology. "Do not cry, Hirpus, for the fate of my son." Decimus then turned to face Graccus. "Captured or not, he is my son. He will return. I will not offer punishment to you, or any of your men."

Graccus replied in a manner completely in-line with the XIIIth. "Like hell. We will bring him back, or failing this I will fall upon my gladius."

Decimus frowned for a moment. "Then you may tell the men of the fourth cohort of Legio XIII, that they are to find my son." Watching as Graccus's face formed up in relief, Decimus dismissed him. "You may leave."
A breakdown of several roman words.

Bucellatum: Roman Hardtack.

Posca: A Drink made from vinegar that has been diluted with water into a drinkable format.

Balteaus: A belt, usually used for securing weaponry.

Cingulum Militare: A military belt, used to distinguish a legionary from a citizen, as ownership of a Cingulum Militare is only allowed by enlisted soldiers.

Patera: An offering tray for bread, often for offerings to the Lares or household gods. Patera are often stored within a Lararium.

Castrum/Castra: A fortification. A castrum/castra can be a permanent or semi-permamnent structure, either made from wood or stone. Semi-permanent castra were often constructed from timbers sourced from the local region and were often burned once a campaign was ended. Wooden Castra could also be used as a supply depot with a garrison force of perhaps a cohort and could eventually become a permanent, stone-fortified castra after a military campaign was successful.
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Chapter 1: An Iron Cage.

Waning winds blew across the open landscape, and it seemed that for nearly a league in three directions there was naught but tall, verdant grasses, the stalks arching to and fro with the morning breeze. But to the north, that perilous north… where crags and rocks and caves were strewn about as though the god or goddess which had formed the place had but tapped a finger and made it so but had left before administering the final, beautifying touches. Without such, it was an eyesore that besmirched this foreign world… which had been very pretty only a few days ago.

And with the wind, the iron-cage rattles and Lucius’s legs feel the cold. There are no wraps of orcish origin that bind around his legs, alas the embrace of finely-woven wool is all that he feels against his flesh, but only towards his shoulder and against his torso to his hips and no further, for he does not wear subligaculum nor braccae, on account of the warm weather, and constantly shifted around to keep his limbs warm.

And Lucius’s fate, much like the wind and the cliff and the iron in the bars that hold him, he could feel that he was well within the cool graces of the wheel of fortune… he wondered if his father would ever know, if his spirit would go to the lares to be as guiding spirit… or would there be nothing in death, would it be like closing one's eyes, entering peaceful darkness that hovers over eternity?

With his bulla gone, what is to protect him from the evil eye but for the purple stripes of his angusticlavia?

To think, a minotaur slain… a beast hewn from coiled clay by the poised hands of Proserpina herself, known in other, lesser tongues as Hardy, or so the many stories tell. Slain by the scourge of magic, of devilry thrown which cast the fatal blow.

And the men from the shadow whom had cast the minotaur down, for they were men, they were a large bunch, green and furnished with tusks like that of a wild boar… They had beset upon him with clubs and the back-end of axes, struck him once and laid him out upon the ground.

Looking at his captors now, Lucius could think only on how he should kill them.

They beset upon him with furious anger as soon as he awoke, beating him with switches as though he were cattle being lead to the slaughter. They made him walk to their place of refuge which was crested on the side of a cliff, well-situated to make it very defensible.

To assault him, the son of a General… was one thing. But, to take that which had been given to him since his ninth day on earth… to take that which protected him from the avaricious eye of envy, it was tantamount to an assault not only to himself, but to the Virtus of his father as paterfamilias and also to the ancestors and the name of the family.

The fated bulla, how they had ransacked it from his neck. How they had overturned the silken purse that lay beside it and tipped out the fascinus, the lares familiaris and lares privati and the tiny cloves and cubebs and cinnamon of the east, the appearance of the fascinus first surprised them, but then they laughed and spoke in a barbaric tongue.

Lucius would kill them, as the Cerunii had done to the Corluvenii in the days of yore, when Sadera was a young tribe amongst bold wolves, when the other tribes sought to bring her down, to rape her women, to take her cattle, to steal her crops and settle her lands. Remember well the lesson of the Corluvenii, of those who captured the daughter of Amelius Paulus Cerunii and held her down and raped her, remember those whose bodies arise’d with the mid-day sun, the squeals of those crucified, men, women and children all. So complete was the destruction that the tribe of Corluvenii was extinguished within twenty years.

How he wished for revenge.


A day later.


The sound of Decimus’s tent-flaps resounded through the room, followed by the rustling of hamata. “Legatus Augusti!” The soldier stated in short-form, interrupting both Decimus and Gnaeus Septimus, whom were previously discussing on logistical matters.

Decimus flatly corrected the soldier. “Legatus Augusti Pro Praetore…” With a waving of the hand, Decimus bid the soldier to continue.

“The reports you requested from the Exploratores have come back.” Having said this, the soldier handed over the rawhide-covered box which held several scrolls.

“Salvete.” Decimus said, dismissing the soldier.

It took several minutes of reading before he understood the reports. What he had read, in hindsight, had seemed damning.

‘If I had but focused my time on scouting, rather than reinforcing our positions…’ Decimus mused in his head. ‘It seems there exists minotaurs and orcs...’

Decimus turned to face Gnaeus Septimus, Who was the son of Tiberius, one of Decimus’s best friend. In honour of this friendship, Decimus had Gnaeus stationed as his Tribunus laticlavius, so that he, like his own son, could learn about the management and commanding of military forces at his lap. As it was, Gnaeus was leading Legio XIII… loaned to him by Decimus, it was a strong and trustworthy legion which had few quarrels, and was thus a relatively safe legion… so long as the leader was not fully incompetent and had the trust of his centurions and tribunes, all should be well.

Decimus passed the documents over to Gnaeus, who having read it, formed an opinion.

“What are we to do?” Gnaeus replied.

Decimus sighed for a moment, putting thoughts to mind. “What are you to do?” Decimus uttered. In his mind, he felt that it was time to test Gnaeus and his current abilities. He had shown himself to be acceptable when in the field, but he had never been in charge of an ‘idle’ legion, for which the challenges of leading were different than among more active troops, but despite being given a lesser legion it should be a safe post, given that the world outside was entirely foreign… and god’s knew whatever Decimus would face himself looking for his son. Decimus needed the best.

Gnaeus seemed dumb-struck. “What am I to do?” he repeated, his ‘I’ being elongated to give emphasis.

“Yes, What are you to do…” Decimus stated. “Until I say otherwise, henceforth… I am passing Legio XII Firmus into your hands. You will control my Legion, that is what you will do.”

Gnaeus tried to decline. “Data Venia!”

“It is decided.” Decimus stated in a decisive manner. “You will sit back and manage the Castra that borders the Gate. You will not fail me.” Decimus then slammed his fists into his oaken table.

“What are you planning to do?” Gnaeus stated.

“I shall reconnoiter these strange villages and towns as stated in the reports, with Legio XIII and my Orcish auxiliaries in toe…” Decimus paused for a moment. “Not so much for conquest… but to show that I hold Imperium… I shall have a likeness of my son drafted by those with the art to do so… And I will nail them to every town, every village, to every damned tree… until he is found!”

Decimus calmed himself down after a moment. “I will find my son again…” He said, more for himself than to his guest. “And if he is not found, I will have vengeance on those who would commit the act, on the Individual who has done so, or on the tribe or town which has willed such to be done, or to a nation if it be so.” It was not so much a display of outward anger, but rather he was voicing the honest truth that came from his soul.

“Salvete, I had best leave you.” Gnaeus replied, giving a salute before retreating. Upon reaching the end, however, he turned around with a sudden thought. “I shall send for some of my funditores to assist you, then. Quick of the foot are these men and their cast stones of lead, indivisible as though they were air itself in flight… injures men quick as the strike of the asp.”

Decimus smiled in reply, before reaching for a sheaf of wheat.

Having left his tent a moment later, Decimus plaited the strands of wheat in a seven-stranded braid whilst he walked, the legionaries watching on with veiled curiosity and interest as he walked past the soldiers tents.

Once he had reached the centre of castrum, where the two pathways intersected, he stood before a tent that was off to the right side, this he entered. Before him laid the Lars militaris of Legio XIII, the scent of incense wafted through the tent, aiding a mysty air to the room.

The Lars militaris of Legio XIII was of a military man, riding astride his warhorse. What made him different than others, was that the man, rather than wielding a sword held upright, he held a cloth-wrapped child, an infant minotaur in his left arm, presenting him out to the world whilst his right hand held onto the imaginary reins of the horse (For as the statue was made from wood, it was impossible to depict the reins).

The Lars was painted with all the finest powdered paints that could be acquired from all across the Empire. Vivid reds made up the cape, vibrant whites made up the horse, lapis lazuli blues made up the eyes of the Lars and also of the man’s military ring. So many colours made up the rest, mixed and matched by skilled painters.

With the plaited straw band, Decimus approached the lars and presented the band towards it. “I offer you this band, made from the wheat of this new land. If you promise to return my son to me, I promise to lead you to victory after victory in exchange, This I vow to you, Oh Lars of the XIII’th, protector of the Legion, bestower of fortune. Please accept my leadership over your men, As I pass from the Lars militaris of the XII’th, to you.”

Having said this, Decimus tied the ends of the straw band together around the forehead of the Lars.

Turning from the statue thus, he walked out of the tent.

Approaching one of the soldiers outside a nearby tent, Decimus gave him an order. “Call assembly.”


They spat in his food, the phlegm raising to the surface in frothy gobs, and they dared to think he would eat it.

For however long he had been captured, they had done this repeatedly, starving him thin… his dignitas bade him not to eat, nor to drink from his captors, not because they were his captors, but because they, through their actions, were his mortal enemies, who sought to humiliate him and drag him low.

‘Oh, impenetrable suffering,’ He thought to himself. ‘Prudentia, I bid you hold… before I go insane of thirst.’

For an hour, Lucius sat there, silently glaring. He could take no more and thus he recited. “Oh gods and goddesses above, I shall sacrifice ten sheep each to all the prime gods on the nearest kalends, or the one after if I cannot find enough to hand... if you shall set me free, this I vow as sacred truth.”

The monster-men looked confused, each and every one. Five sets of eyes that Lucius wished he could gouge out, staring at him balefully.

“Bursga!” One of them shouted, before he walked up to the cage and rattled it with his fists.


Lucius watched in complete silence as a javelin was hurled into the brutish monster’s right shoulder. He slouched down low and shouted in anger as his companions quickly reached for their arms.

“Lok-Narash!” came the shout from his captors… the sound was frightening, yet the volume faltered before the shout that came from the ambushers.

“Lok-tar ogar!”

It was at that moment that a blue-skinned man jumped out from the side and thrust a spear into the man who rattled his cage… the impact of the weapon imparting it into his ribs, to which the blue man kicked the spear out and thrust it again and again to the man’s sternum as the green monster was laid down on the ground.

A minotaur was next to enter the fray, using a large tree as a cudgel, brutally mauling one of the green-men to death.

Several of the large hulking green men, so much like his captors, threw themselves into the fray at the next moment, fighting against his captors. There was little form to their fighting, bashing and hewing with swords or axes they went about the field, it seemed as though it were more for show than effectiveness… and they exceeded in a brilliant showing of aesthetic might… like gladiators in the ring. Lucius wanted to recoil with fear and terror, those outside were ridiculously large… though to his eyes he thought that most of the combatants seemed to telegraph their attacks far-too-much, and yelled too many ‘Wraaghs’... though Decimus himself was hardly a fighter and could not complain all that much. He was in awe.

Aaron Fox

SB's Minor Junker Descendant and Hunter of Nazis
Another one? There is actually a pretty good one on SB that has it's own TVTropes page.

I was referenced to it back on SB when a fan of my GATE fic said that change is certain in Falmart in my fic (and s/he guessed it right off the bat with very little information to go on).

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