[Rexan]

The Domitia - The Hounds - The Shields of The Dynasty



From the days before the very first brick of Geladyne was laid; the lands were strife with danger. The harsh climate, the lack of sustenance; and the beasts which seemed to prowl just out of sight, left little in the way for hospitality, kindness, nor charity. These were lands where the next meal was decided by whom wielded the sharpest steel, or sturdiest shield.

And in these days, Bandits reigned. Using the harsh terrain and low numbers to their advantage, these Bandits laid waste across the barrens. The fertile eastern lands, the bounty of the northern sea, the Tribesfolk to the south. These did not matter to the bandits. They were far beyond their scope. But the mountains of the West? Rife with beasts to temper steel; travellers, to leave in ditches--and metal, to prove their dominance? This, was their purpose.

These were their lands.

But such was not ordained, by Fate. For upon these lands, roared the beat of mighty drums; came the heavy stomping of Legions, came the blood-curdling cry of Stalwart Soldiers. Upon these lands, Walked the First Premier. Not yet crowned, not yet adorning such a title. In this time, he was but a man. But no mere man. His strength was monstrous, his courage was infallible. And his mind, was keened on ages of battle. For him, these Bandits were no more then a thorn in his side. But a prominent thorn, they were.

Such was made true; by efforts of their Chieftain. A snake of a man; said to be blessed by the storms themselves, his Fulgurmancy known to reign from the skies upon unwitting legions, a gambler's tactics and roguish sleights, against the Premier's pure strength. The Honorable, versus the Dishonorable. It was a back and forth of which neither side sought to give ground; where rivers of blood ran, and swords littered the ground like grains of sand upon a beach. The Chieftain knew his stake was dwindling, the Legion was stronger; they had more men, more supplies, more 'training'. The Warmachina they utilized, was far greater then any sling or bow. It was only a matter of time, until he joined his men upon the Pyre.

And thus, in Blood, a decision was made.

A clarion call across the mountains; a challenge issued. Upon the lands where Geladyne would later stand, a makeshift 'arena' was formed. Behind the Chieftain, stood his men.  Their arms laid down; all but the Chieftain, whom wielded a axe, imbued with Lightning itself.  In a last ditch effort, a appeal was made; in the name of the Premier's own honor.  General to General, 'King' to 'King'. The Bandit Chieftain, in all his years. Against the singular man who had wrought his plans of conquest for the West.

The Premier answered his call.
The Legion stood behind him.
Only the Premier would step into the arena.

A challenge accepted; a stake, claimed. Both 'armies' watched, as their Commanders stood across from one another. Both men, who had seen more blood--committed more acts of war, then any other. Two sides of the same coin; one, imbibed with Greed, and Self-Gain, and the other; Honor, Strength, Duty. 

The details of the battle, were lost to time. To some, it was close; the two behemoths of their time, clashing for what some say was hours, some say, days. The threads of Folklore skewing fact and fiction into something else entirely. A myth of a man, the first Premier. And the felling of his first foe; the Barbarian Cicero.

But, in the end. Cicero did not die upon the hollowed Grounds of what is now Geladyne. Upon his fall, by the Premier. He saw the man; shrouded in the winter-cloaked light of the Mountains, a figure who was cloaked in such transcendent glory, fearless--powerful.

And when he found himself disarmed, bloody. and broken. All he could do; was kneel.  Not due to his wounds; but due to the revelation that fell upon him.

Blood and Iron, Glory and Honor. It was the only true way to live in this world, and in the Premier; Cicero saw himself remade. He saw what he could be. What could be. It was in this moment, that he bowed his head to the Premier, both in surrender; and in respect--no, reverence.

And it was on this day, and few others, that the Premier would offer mercy. Many would come to question it, that such a Curr be allowed to take breath. That his men, be given rations. But it was a blessing, to Cicero. Upon this day, a new name was taken. One which means To Be Tamed. And such was the truth, from this day; Cicero rose. Not as a Barbarian, but as a Praetorian. A loyal dog, of the First Premier. The family, often called the Bloodhounds of the Lancasters, for the loyalty and ferocity they showed in their newfound master. Be it executioner, or guard, the once Bandits; now joined and aligned with the Lancaster's own forced, and with their own strength, the combined efforts began the groundwork, for the first stone to pave the first street, of Geladyne.

On this day; the Domitia family rose from the ashes of their sordid past, their old names; stricken from history. This was the story of Cicero, the first of the family whom served the Premier until the day his pulse went flat; his axe now enshrined in the Domitia household, somewhere deep in it's vault.

Only for his heir to take his place, the next in line to serve as Hound.  A story, for another day.