Even Zeon's well-oiled engine of war needs to pause for respite sometime. ...Or so it is expected. The people of Amestris breathe a sigh of relief whenever dusk falls, having come to prefer the cover of darkness. At the very least, their chances of being subject to attack are slightly reduced under the moonless night sky.
They change their minds a week into the campaign.
The army of the Domain of the Black Rose numbers only about one hundred. ...The living members, that is. Ever prepared for war in the chance of renewed hostilities against their cousins, Roswell's people come eager for battle against those who had no means of countering their well-honed abilities. They make their forays at night, spreading silently across the countryside, sending their servants forth to terrorize all who would stand in Zeon's way. Rumors spread like wildfire - the army of Zeon had bent the power of the Rift to their side, the Zeonites were consorting with demons, the Zeonites were demons. Whatever they were, the monstrous beings that tore through the enemy ranks certainly weren't human.
With each fresh engagement against the armies of Amestris, the death mages of the Black Rose only gather new recruits for their own. Garbed in the uniforms of Zeon, Roswell's people take shelter amongst the foot-soldiers by day and slip away to wreak havoc by night. The secret of the origin of the skeletal and undead warriors is difficult to unravel - the necromancers never engage the enemy directly; when in danger of being exposed, they teleport away, as ephemeral as shadows. Those who are caught profess to being mere soldiers who had been separated from the camp and face their executions impassively.
Death was not, after all, something that a necromancer feared.
Roswell himself takes cordial leave of General Celes Chere whenever dusk begins to fall. He has exchanged his courtly finery for a simple uniform of his own. Each day, the moment the sun's rays no longer illuminate any portion of the landscape, he turns on his heel and vanishes.
"O wretched souls pounding at Hell's gate... It is I who holds the key!"
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They change their minds a week into the campaign.
The army of the Domain of the Black Rose numbers only about one hundred. ...The living members, that is. Ever prepared for war in the chance of renewed hostilities against their cousins, Roswell's people come eager for battle against those who had no means of countering their well-honed abilities. They make their forays at night, spreading silently across the countryside, sending their servants forth to terrorize all who would stand in Zeon's way. Rumors spread like wildfire - the army of Zeon had bent the power of the Rift to their side, the Zeonites were consorting with demons, the Zeonites were demons. Whatever they were, the monstrous beings that tore through the enemy ranks certainly weren't human.
With each fresh engagement against the armies of Amestris, the death mages of the Black Rose only gather new recruits for their own. Garbed in the uniforms of Zeon, Roswell's people take shelter amongst the foot-soldiers by day and slip away to wreak havoc by night. The secret of the origin of the skeletal and undead warriors is difficult to unravel - the necromancers never engage the enemy directly; when in danger of being exposed, they teleport away, as ephemeral as shadows. Those who are caught profess to being mere soldiers who had been separated from the camp and face their executions impassively.
Death was not, after all, something that a necromancer feared.
Roswell himself takes cordial leave of General Celes Chere whenever dusk begins to fall. He has exchanged his courtly finery for a simple uniform of his own. Each day, the moment the sun's rays no longer illuminate any portion of the landscape, he turns on his heel and vanishes.
"O wretched souls pounding at Hell's gate... It is I who holds the key!"