Beyond Light's Reach (IC)

[The Republic of Atria]

Francis

Rudolph Thorbecke

As he made his way to the temple he was a approached by a hooded knight. The knight was asking him if he'd seen any Priestess of Oadot go by. He glanced around, not seeing who the knight was referring to so he looked back and replied with a rather dry. "No. I haven't." A second or so after he spoke, he realized that maybe he came off a little coarser than he needed to.

"My apologies for the tone. I've been traveling alone for the past week. But, no, I haven't see one. I just arrived mere minutes ago. I was sent here to investigate some rumors. While I can see where the tensions lie, what exactly is it that has three separate armies just looking for an excuse to slaughter one another?" He asked. While he had quite a bit of faith in his combat ability, he certainly wasn't going to be taking on an entire army, let alone three. "I know it's in the temple, I just got permission to go inside. Are you headed inside as well?"

While he talked, he closely examined the man. The armor wasn't like any he'd seen before, dark metal. The sword he wielded was still in it's scabbard so he couldn't judge the material, but he seemed to be a Slayer. Decently skilled dispatchers of the undead. He'd always wanted to go fight some undead, but fortunately, he's never had to. "Stranger, correct me if I'm wrong, but you're of the Slayer's guild, correct?"

[New Neros]

-Randolf-

Huddling his way into the tent of the giant, Zog was impressed by the lack of amenities most noble lords would have afforded, instead seeing the simplistic room he kept. Nodding in approval, Zog listened intently as the Red Dog explained the situation at hand and gestured to a map he had procured. Zog studied the map as well, committing it to memory as Sir Randolf explained their positions, the enemies, and what needed to be accomplished by the Dascusan forces. Sir Randolf gave out his orders, and Zog straightened himself as the Knight gave the cavalry commander his instructions.

"Good observations and instructions, Sir Randolf," Zog began, "But my riders are trained warriors first and foremost before they can properly ride their mount. They have earned their right to mount by proving their worth on a field of battle, you have nothing to worry about, I can guarantee you that." But, as Sir Randolf gave the Eshonie chieftan an alternative set of orders, the man was quick to accept the special task the knight had handed him. "My forces will focus on destroying the enemy siege equipment and keeping out forces safe inside the temple."

Then, the two mages in the audience began to bicker back and forth, but Zog felt as if Sir Randolf would not be privy to the arguments of rival sorcerer factions, that the pair of them trusted sword and steel more than the pretty magic practiced in the far reaches of the capital. Though Zog himself wielded deep arcane secrets, he too was a soldier of armor first and foremost. He followed the knight outside of the tent, moving past him to order his men and rally them, preparing to give them assignments and orders for the skirmisher screens and anti-siege operations they would be undertaking. "We move on your command, Sir Randolf."

[Skyggeheim]

Traven Faust, The Cardmaster
Approaching Haden Hill

---

It was early dawn by the time that Traven crested Bull Mountain and the scene of the day come fully into view. The morning sun to the east illuminated the valley below him in a pinkish-red hue, and he let his eyes naturally follow the contours of the land, from the grassy knolls to the surprisingly tall Haden Hill, to the three massive encampments that surrounded the temple jutting out of the hill. Word travels fast on the road, and Traven had been dozens of miles away from Haden Hill when he had heard about the three armies that had gathered here. According to the rumors that had been circulating from village to village as Traven had traveled, there was something intriguing hidden inside the temple that had drawn these three armies to the point of conflict. To Traven, the idea was both novel and silly: endangering thousands of lives for what could possibly be nothing. He had never been one for politics, and years on the road had done nothing to enhance his understanding of it. Much of what he knew, he learned from conversations with those he met whilst he was Wandering, rather than spending time in any nation's court or army.

To him, it all seemed a bit...heartless.

But of course, the brewing battle was only a small portion of why Traven found himself at Haden Hill on this particular morning. He cared very little for jwhy the three armies were gathered around the temple, but some contingents of the Tashar had left tragedy and injustice in their wake. From the reports he had gotten from some Dascian townsfolk, a small group of Tasharen regulars had raided their village for food and women. After running rampant throughout the village for a day, they simply went on their way. He had picked up their trail several days ago, and has been slowly gaining ground on them since. He knew the roads around Dascus, as his family had traveled them all throughout his childhood; and, simply put, the Tasharens were getting lost.

Traven didn't have to travel long down Bull Mountain before the scent of cooking meat wafted past him. He just barely heard a guffawing laugh and entertained shouts. Much to his delight, he could hear the Tasharen accent. Turning off the path and following his nose and ears, he quickly came upon a clearing. Gathered around a cooking fire were six Tasharen soldiers, and one other was off to the side, manhandling a young woman who was struggling weakly against his advances. This was all the evidence he needed that there were the men he was looking for. As Traven approached, the six men at the campfire collectively gazed up at him with curiosity and more than a little bit of hostility. They could barely see his face, and the billowing cloak that he wore covered the unsettling nature of his corrupted arm. Reaching up, Traven lowered his hood and offered the men a charming smile.

"Good morning gentlemen, d'you have some extra space for a hungry traveler?" Traven asked, about as innocently as he could manage.

"Fuck off," Came the reply, uttered by a thickly-muscled soldier - tattooed nearly from head to toe - with considerably more food in front of him than the rest of the crew. Traven surmised this was their leader. He sighed, grabbing a small purse of coins from his belt and tossing it in front of the man.

"Enough for a small plate, I'd wager," Traven said. The Tasharen soldier gave him a hard look before finally grunting, snatching up the purse from the ground, and jerking his head to welcome him. Traven offered another smile before sitting, once again surveying the group. They seemed outright suspicious of him, but most of them just shrugged and went back to their meal as Traven reached into the cooking pot and took a portion. One soldier, however, stared at him.

"You're either a liar or a fool," The Tasharen said, with venom in his voice, "No traveler would come this close to Haden Hill and not turn around the other way."

"And why is that?" Traven replied while taking a bite of food.

"Have you not seen the armies already? Haden Hill is about to become a bloodbath,"

"For the Dascians and Athelaians, brother. For us, it will be a victorious day!" Interjected another Tasharen, but the man questioning Traven seemed to pay the interruption no mind. Instead, he kept his gaze solely fixed on Traven. He had to give the Tasharen credit, he had seen through Traven's initial deception. Fortunately, now that he had a full belly and energy to fight, it was time for Traven to make his move.

"You're right, then, I wasn't completely honest with you," Traven began, shrugging and adopting a half-shameful face, "I'm actually a performer. I was hoping that I could find some easy coin in the camps in the area, cheering up the battle-weary and the injured. Maybe I'd even get hired by some fancy lord or lady and find a place to live."

"You perform?" Asked the leader of the group, who was now much more interested in the conversation, "What's your art?"

"Oh a bit of this and a bit of that. I can sing and dance, but my real talent is card tricks." Traven said with a coy grin, now procuring one of the decks he kept on his belt. Slowly, he pulled a Thundrus card out and showed them. With a flick of his wrist and some deceptive finger movement, the card was gone. Then, he flicked his wrist again and the card re-appeared. The men nodded, mildly impressed.

"Never seen a card like that before," one of the Tasharens commented.

"Oh, I'm sure you haven't. These are my own cards, and they're quite unique." Traven replied, winking at the man.

"What's so special about it?"

"This!" Traven shouted, throwing the card face-up into the space between the soldiers and throwing his cloak over his face. In a blinding flash, the card exploded. The men found their vision to be blankets of white, but Traven's eyes had been protected. He rapidly threw another Thundrus card at the Tasharen who had been struggling with the woman, this time the card rocketed forward with stunning speed, raking across the man's neck in a deep, clean cut. He sprayed blood onto the dirt and onto the woman he was standing over, and she screamed, paralyzed with fear. The Tasharen thudded to the ground, dead before he landed. Then, Traven whirled around, whipping the cloak off his body to reveal his corrupted arm and the rest of his attire. Procuring his staff, Kileshania, he ran two fingers across a rune on its grip. With a shudder, the weapon transformed into a glaive with a lethal edge.

Before the Tasharens could fully recover from the effect of Thundrus, Traven lunged forward and brought his weapon in a upwards cut at the closest soldier. His belly opened and the man fell. Turning, Traven flicked his wrist and sent an Arcturus card into two of the Tasharen's that were just pulling their swords from their scabbards. The magical icy blast from the card froze both of them in their tracks, turning them into statues. The remaining three charged Traven as one, seeking to surround him. He shot the bottom of his staff outwards, thumping it hard against the skull of one of them and stabbing outwards at another, severing the muscles in his sword arm. He then stepped towards the man he had struck, bringing the blade of his glaive down into the man's collarbone. With a sickening thump, the weapon cut deep. Traven heard approaching footsteps, and ducked just as a wide swing of a sword would've separated his head from his body. He simultaneously tugging the bladed end of his weapon out of the Tasharen's collarbone and slamming the opposite end into another's groin, doubling the man in pain. A stab with the glaive through the ribs, and the man died. Before Traven could search for his last enemy - the one he had simply wounded - he felt blinding pain lance as a sword hilt slammed into the back of his head. His vision swam as he was savagely kicked to the ground and felt his weapon wrenched from his grip. Turning and facing the final Tasharen, Traven crawled away rapidly as the man approached slowly.

"I'd cut your fingers off right here, trickster, but I bet my commander would take greater pleasure in it than me, and I might even get paid," The Tasharen growled as blood poured from his main sword arm. He held his weapon in the other, and his face was twisted in a look of pure rage, "Mages like you make me want to-"

The man's words were cut off as Traven flicked his wrist and threw a Fyris card that embedded itself in the Tasharen's stomach. There was a brief instant - as the rune on the card glowed an angry orange - where the man simply looked down in confusion. Then, the card exploded with a fiery detonation, showering the ground around the clearing with charred bits of gore. The fight had ended in truly spectacular fashion. Traven slowly stood, rubbing the back of his head.

Defective rune, just my luck. Though I should thank my stars it still exploded. He though as he retrieved Kileshania and ran his hands across it, reverting it back to its staff form. Slowly, he walked over to the woman who had witnessed the entire affair. Her eyes were as big as plates, and she stared up at Traven with a look of both fear and gratefulness.

"Go back to your village, and remember that The Wanderers are always here to protect you." He said, and it seemed that the woman needed no further impetus to leave. She leapt up and fled the scene of the battle with surprising speed. Traven smiled, as if he was watching a child take their first steps. He then sighed, walking back to the center of the clearing. Taking another piece of food, he popped it in his mouth and idly chewed before dropping a single card on the ground: his Mark. He saw no further point in staying, and so he threw his cloak back on and started back towards the road. As he left, Traven lightly tapped Kileshania on the frozen Tasharen statue he had made. The icy construct cracked and shattered, breaking the two Tasharens into pieces.

Once back on the road, it took Traven until the early afternoon to reach the Tasharen camp. All around him, people milled about. Some were preparing for battle, but countless others looked as if they were just doing their daily work. He had never been in an encampment before, and he didn't realize how much support was required to truly field an army. For every one Tasharen soldier he saw, there were at least three regular individuals aiding with various tasks.

Traven sighed, scratching his head in idle frustration. He knew exactly what he needed to do here, find the commander of whatever piece of the Tasharen army that his earlier quarrel had been a part of. That, however, seemed like a monumental task. He lamented at not asking their names, but recalled how heavily tattooed the leader of the group was.

But for now, he would simply find lunch and enjoy the coolness of the afternoon.

[Union Princes]

Aleksander Zog
snip

LORD CALTHANIUS SWYRFE
snip

Natasia
snip

The Calm

“There’s already a scout inside the temple gathering information. Commander Holland sent him” Randolf replied with a huff. “Either he comes back in time to relay us what he found or he will tell us when we arrive.”

Upon hearing Calt’s suggestion, the knight couldn’t help but hold back laughter. “Sorry, Lord Mage.” Randolf scoffed, “You don’t strike me as a commander of men so I’d say you and Natasha should only lead your own. My light infantry will assist you in your fights.”

While the mages talked with one another, Randolf turned to Zog. “Counting my light cavalry that will accompany you, you will command 50 riders unless I can convince Commander Holland to reinforce the vanguard with more troops. Expect an additional 100 light riders with you.”

Once the mages were done with their small talk, the knight turned to them. “You two will reach the temple before I do since you will be on light feet. Light up some torches in front of library to signal that you have secured the section. I’ll have a courier run back to the main force to tell them that a foothold has been established.

“Not only that,” Randolf continued. “We’re also fighting Athela as well. Once you two have finish securing the library, you will be split. Lord Mage, you will take your mages to secure the main courtyard from Tashur. Lady Natasha, you will secure my left flank by moving into the main temple. I’ll be leading my armored infantry to try to contain Athela in the main entrance. And remember, the goal to defend the library. You mages are to try to fight in a delaying stance in order to slow down the enemy’s advance long enough for the main army to arrive. Set ambushes and stick close to my light infantry. That is all I have for you two.”

He then turned to leave with Zog in tow until he remembered another command he needs to give. “Blow your horn once to signal me that you have succeeded in your mission. Blow it twice if you failed.” Randolf said to the lord before departing to request an audience with Lord Holland.

The conference was quick and Commander Holland granted his request. 500 more men will be part of the Vanguard, greatly increasing its fighting power. However, all of them are light infantry and cavalry which means only Zog, Natasha, and Calt will benefit from the support. It will just be Randolf and his 300 men-at-arms holding a chokepoint against Athela if he manages to reach the main entrance in time.

The knight led the reinforcements back to his side of the camp and saw Zog with his forty Moose Riders. “We need to wait for Holland’s signal for advance.” Randolf told him as he met up with him again. “For now, I have got extra troops and more importantly, an extra 100 light riders at your command.”

The knight then stepped around Zog to examine his retinue of 300. These men-at-arms were veterans of countless campaigns under his leadership and they have the skill and scares to prove it. Dressed in full chainmail over leather armor, plated greaves and gauntlets, and open-faced sallets, these men were as rough and vicious as the red dog running on their green chest armor. Years of service made them unflinching and unyielding in combat. Randolf likes his men ruthless, it keeps him from having to kill them for cowardice. After all, Lord Holland would not want him to repeat the Battle of Stonehollow where half of his army died not because of combat but because he had executed all of the deserters and cowards.

“Get into position! And make sure every man has a dagger!” the knight roared like thunder at his vanguard, “We’ll advance as soon as Commander Holland gives his orders.”

[Galnius]

Tenna the Reluctant

As Tenna watched, more and more people began to arrive, complicating things even further and making everything that much more....annoying. Beyond those who had entered the tunnels previously, another lone person seemed to come quite close to the temple. They wore nothing but black, though clearly not for hiding. Perhaps intimidation? Quite a bit of the elf's boredom was spent trying to figure out what faction was represented. Perhaps if she spent more time among the more magical members of the Crawlers she may have known, but even her information was not infallible.

The welcomed distraction, however, had not lasted. People began pouring near methodically, organized and wielding a strong lethal aura. Theres was tons of them, too many too count. A war party had decided to make the first move, and this was clear en masse. But...who was the start of it?

Something that quickly dawned upon the she elf that it didn't really matter. It just mattered that someone was about to instigate what very well could become the bloodiest battle of this generation. Even with her sneaking suspicions....no, it truly did not matter.

Before she knew it Tenna was nimbly launching off the wall, leaving behind her semi safe hiding place. As she hit the ground she cursed her own stupidity. As she took of running she tried to convince herself it was because she was afraid whatever treasure lay within might get destroyed. As she dodged and weaved through the temple's outer structure she begged silently that her idiotic action wouldn't get her killed. As she took off after the search party she slung muted insults at the dimwitted denizens she was about to warn.

When she finally caught up, Tenna struggled to catch her breathe, knowing not only that her cover was blown, but that she very well may have just commited nigh suicide. Even worse, it struck her that she had no clue how to warn them of what lay outside, damning her muteness for what certainly was not the first, or last, time.

[The Anarcho-Syndicalist Commune]

Prax

The Lion scratched his chin at the response, staring out the window at the young man. If the Enchanters wanted him, it confirmed Prax's own suspicions and made having the boy in battle that much more valuable. He turned back to the commander and said simply "While I honor the institutions of the Empire while I serve them, I believe mine own claim upon the boy to be a small bit more pressing than that of the Order. It is a sad but short tale, and one I was trying not to reveal while I was within earshot of the boy, for I did not want him to know that the hour of his Jagrash, that is to say, his judgement was upon him. Please allow me to explain.

It was several moons, or months by the human calendar, ago that I was last among my people. In that time there was much celebrating and feasting for the brother of my sire had just earned a major victory against the snakemen of the desert. We are not like the flying thalari where I am from. Humans who roam our lands are welcome to join in on our celebrations and lifestyle as mere observers. It was during these great feasts that I first saw the young man who sits out there now. He skulked in the shadows, with a mean look in his eye. I thought nothing of it at the time, for humans are often perturbed by our festivities, given how wild even our normal culture must seem to you. I wish now that I had taken the chance to stop and inspect him.

Later that night, as I entered my, (what is the word in this language for that relation...), Oncle? My Oncles tent to bid him farewell and congratulations one last time, I entered to a horror show. That welp had murdered my oncle's consort and would have slaughtered him as well, if it were not for me puncing on him where he stood. However, the shadows around him seemed to merge togther, and like water he slipped through my hands. Now, however, I am prepared."

Prax removed a small, shiny, sphere from his back pocket. It was a curiosity of his culture, one not often seen outside the Wastes, known as a Dalar. The Dalar were spheres of dirt, that through a short process and some tapping into the Thalai, became as hard and shiny as a diamond. Prax nodded and said "This sphere was enchanted by a powerful Dascian warlock I met before the battle of Eckers. It shall bind the user to one form and to this eart. Please, if you would, send any interfering Enchanters to me, and allow me to deal with a man who has haunted my people's memories for nigh on a year now. For, unless I am mistaken, Murder is a higher offense than desertion in your society."

[Turmenista]

---

Day One
Well, Trish, I think I’m almost here at Haden Hill, and let me tell you—it looks just like a beautiful painting that you could see hung up on the walls of some well-off Lord's estate. Of course, I can marvel about all this, since I obviously won’t partake in the fighting here. That’s not my job.

It's currently overcast, foggy, and midday where I am. The wind is blowing softly, the air is crisp with a tinge of smoke and cooking meats, and there is an overall sense of dread looming over everyone. Except me, of course. Reminds me quite like that one time when I met with that trader guy from the Street Crawlers that I found out was going to kill me if I didn't give him what he wanted. Needless to say, Trish, here I am.

I really think today is the day, Trish. The Bank is offering me a hefty sum for serving as some sort of “civilian contractor," or whatever that means, for their interests at the hill. This could finally be my chance to get some money and take a much-needed break to the beaches. Maybe we can finally get back to that R&R we were missing out on. I can’t wait to come back to you. Writing these entries and mailing them back to you gives me great nostalgia.

The quill suddenly slipped (and rather comically so) Arwin’s hand as the carriage rolled over a deep bump and came to an abrupt halt. Quickly grabbing hold of the now-airborne quill and ink, Arwin messily flopped over and fell out of his seat, giving a sigh of relief after finding out that none of his belongings were soaked in dark black ink. That slip right there was close—almost too close. Months worth of pages in his journal had been saved yet again by his excellent penmanship and quick feline reflexes...no thanks to the carriage driver. “Thank the Gods. The ink didn’t splash out into the pages. Now, where was I..”

“We are here.” The driver announced sternly, stepping off of the front of the carriage and walking away, presumably to receive his pay from a bloated Bank man not too far away. This left Arwin to come out alone and inspect the area by himself, finding it to be much like the poetic description of the area that he had given not too long ago. Stacks of smoke from the fires of the nearby camps of Dascus, Tashar, and Athela rose up into the sky, mixing a dab of light gray into the gloomy and foggy overcast skies. Whereas the other camps were almost totally prepared for war and patrolled constantly by their respective soldiers, the camp belonging to The Bank of Ashar was ready to make a profit from the violence. Its strategical placement meant that Tashar's regular forces could effectively serve as a buffer to the neutral, third party forces of the Bank that were here to survey the area and, as always, make deals...thus allowing them to remain effectively "far away" from any of the fighting.

Of course, this also gave them a good, elevated view of the situation, watching a bunch of people fight over something that was otherwise pointless...but not to the Bank's interests.

The Bank of Ashar's tent city was lavish, guarded by fully-armored soldiers and distinguished from the other tent cities in that they were all white, and all flew the symbol of the Bank of Ashar. When walking among the white tents, Arwin had a sense of security and safety...it was a bit of a strange feeling to describe, but whereas the others in the area getting ready to fight could all be seen as vicious predators, the Bank and its security forces were like a..

What's the word...? Ah, yes! A 'like a protective mother bear.' Partially speaking what he wrote out aloud, Arwin noted the metaphor down in his journal as he approached the largest tent, presumably where he was requested. It towered over the others in an almost comical fashion, standing out tall and proud like a sore thumb in the white tent city. Making his way into the over-sized tent, Arwin then continued to transcribe what happened in his journal. "A few minutes after I arrived at the Bank of Ashar encampment, I have arrived in the main tent...this looks to be the work of some compulsive clean-freak like Pascal. Everything is so clean. Let's hope and see they don't have someone like him on the desk toda—"

Then, he stopped, actually dropping the quill as he locked eyes with the one person he'd been writing to all this time. The other Ana'el stopped what she was doing at the "front desk" as Arwin came in. "Trish Venellia..?"

"Arwin Tannhäuser?" Her voice, as high-pitched and squeaky as ever, had a sense of confusion to it as well, but this soon turned to excitement as the two quickly came together in an embrace, Arwin practically almost dropping his ink and journal as he set it upon her desk. "Well, this is a pleasant surprise, isn't it, Trish? I was just about to get these notes mailed off to you, like I usually do. They, uh... they sent you here, too?"

"Apparently so." She smiled. "I knew you were coming here, but I didn't know I was coming here, if you know what I mean." She laughed awkwardly—a typical sign that she was nervous, or just flustered. "I didn't know if you were already gone or had just arrived, but they put me on front desk duty again. I was going to find out either way."

"And on whose authority?" Arwin inquired—at which point, the drapes over an entrance-way to a different part of the massive tent parted way, revealing a stocky bearded man with flowing ginger hair and clothes typical of a bureaucrat, who came in smoking a pipe. Some small contraption was also over his ears—he knew little of what it was, but Arwin knew by the man's face alone (and the fact that he was a dwarf) that this was a high-up figure in the Bank. He turned to the two Ana'el, practically throwing his arms around the male. "WELL, IF IT ISN'T MY GOOD FRIEND ARWIN TANNHÄUSER! I KNEW YOU'D MAKE IT! HOW THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN KEEPING?"

Trish practically plugged her ears in pain as the two men greeted each other with a powerful handshake. "Well, Bardur Gralarn, I'm fine today! I've got in just fine, thank you very much."

"YOU KNOW, ARWIN, YOU REMIND ME OF A FINE WINE THAT ONE COULD ONLY GET FROM THE MERRY MEN OF THE VINE...WHICH REMINDS ME! ARWIN, WHY DON'T WE DISCUSS THIS LITTLE BUSINESS VENTURE OF OURS OVER A BOTTLE FROM THE VINEYARD?"

Arwin's ears perked up. "Sounds great! Also—Bardur, you've met my confidant, Trish, right?" He sneered (mostly out of Bardur's earshot, of course) as Trish was unexpectedly brought into the limelight. "UH, NO, I DON'T THINK I HAVE! PLEASURE TO MEET YOU, MISS TRISH. I'M BARDUR GRALARN, REGIONAL OVERSEER. THAT MEANS I OVERSEE PEOPLE LIKE YOU AND YOUR BOYFRIEND HERE." He gestured to Arwin, much to both of their chagrin. "SORRY ABOUT THE YELLING, TOO, HEARING LOSS FROM MINING INCIDENT. LONG STORY."

He took his walking stick and gestured for Arwin to come with him to a secluded office, promptly pouring him a fine glass of wine and offering him a seat. "So, Bardur, I'd advise lowering your voice. Confidentiality, you know?"

Bardur paused while pouring their wine glasses, seeing Arwin's mouth move. "WHAT WAS THAT? BAD HEARING, REMEMBER?"

"I said we might have to lower our voices if we're going to be talking about confidential things!"

"OK." Bardur set the wine goblet down, tinkering with something in his ear and cursing about a high-pitched ringing in his eardrum, before abruptly giving a sign of relief. "That's the spot. Okay, SORRY ABOUT THAT, ARWIN. I was up in the noses of a bunch of bureaucrats for the BANK AND TASHAR as of late, some super hush-hush stuff." The dwarf paused to take a sip of his wine. "But, now that you're here, we can finally get to work."

Arwin crossed his legs. "Before we begin, this is about those..artifacts, right? And my new job as a "special salesman," "special agent," "courier," whatever you want to call it." Arwin, too, took a sip from his wine, swirling the goblet. "That's what this is about, right?"

"Right on, my boy. The standoff outside, the armies all preparing for war, more deals with unsavory individuals." Bardur set down his goblet. "You see, Arwin, you know about these new... how do I say 'em... artifacts? Relics? You know enough about these things and how they've been getting unearthed lately, and how much people are paying for them. The Bank of Ashar, as you know, is at the forefront of these things in terms of sale. Thats why we're here—this whole tent city, the big mercenary guard force, all this. The Bank needed a presence at Haden Hill in light of this artifact, and we're in the perfect place to take advantage of this situation."

"Elaborate." Arwin set down his goblet.

"Simply put, there's an ancient artifact in this temple that we think is better in the Bank's hands." Bardur slapped his hand down onto the table. "And you came at the right time. Arwin, I have a new job for you. It's inevitable that these guys are going to start killing each other over this thing, so we might as well get our way with things while we still can! You've worked with my confidant, Pamela, right?"

"I think I've worked with her once. What's it to you?"

"She's led a team of hired diggers that have discovered a network beneath the tunnel. We've started the dig site at the tent directly adjacent to this one. What I want for you to do," he paused for dramatic effect, pointing at Arwin. "Is to go in, scout out the interior and, if possible, locate the relic. When it seems like fighting is going to happen—again, fighting IS going to happen—take it, and return it here for safe travel back to the Bank. On that note, let's get you ready for your mission. Now I'll finally be able to stop whispering..."

Both men stood up, finishing their goblets. Bardur briefly tinkered with the device over his ear, then offered his hand to shake. "WELL, ARWIN, GLAD YOU COULD MAKE IT HERE TO THE CAMP! PLEASURE TO WORK WITH YOU!"

"Always a pleasure to work with you, too, Bardur!" Arwin smiled, then lowered his voice. "I'll make my way over to the dig site now, see what I can find."

Bardur tilted his head to the side, as if he were a bird trying to make sense of something. "WHAT WAS THAT?"

"I SAID I'LL BE SURE TO MAKE MYSELF RIGHT AT HOME!"

---

---

Day One, Page Two
Trish, I trust that you won't spoil this information to anyone else, but I've made my way now into the temple now. It's cramped, dark, the kind of place you'd expect a monster to come out of nowhere and jump you at. Right now, I can see a sizable group of people here...and some beautiful hammer thing, resting atop a stone mechanism. It's quite shiny. I'm on a bit of an elevated position atop the people in here, giving me a birds eye view down into the chamber. People from all different sides are here, and there's a palpable sense of...really, I don't know what this feeling is. I have a bad feeling about this, and it's not just me being in here without their knowledge..

Right now, I am thinking of moving up. Once I put this journal away and get from this position, I'm thinking of taking a running leap onto the pillar near me and sliding down from it to get a closer look. Another piece of the ruins nearby that's on ground level may prove to be a better, more close-up vantage point than this one. I'll have to stop writing for this one. See you in a bit.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Saelaam of Trelia
Haden Hill Temple

As the Knights of Shotarr and the lone warrior from the Order of Evrouin dismounted their steeds and continued on foot towards the temple, a winged figure landed next to them - softly, so as to avoid frightening the horses. His pristine white robes, adorned with depictions of the phases of the moon and the face of a vigilant white owl, was a stark contrast with the black of his hair and feathers, but it also made for a clear indication of his identity and, more importantly, his lack of hostile intent. He, a young Thalari by the name of Saelaam, offered Commander Quentin and his men a polite nod and then advanced towards the ruined temple alongside them, tucking his arms into his flowing sleeves as he walked the ancient path.

While outwardly the winged cleric did his best to display an aura of serenity, his thoughts were another story. He was terribly nervous about his assignment. His long career with Oadot's Chosen had seen him aid a great many people - as his reputation grew, some among them had even taken to calling him 'Paragon of Trelia' - and travel to various battlefields and disaster sites across Tashar, Sarthares and even Dascus. Yet, in all those eight years, he had never been at the site of such a massive battle, where three armies were waiting for an excuse to slaughter each other in a struggle that promised to be far more destructive than even the bloody battle of Eckers. Moreover, here he was, headed into the temple that was the source of the conflict at the request of the Knights of Shotarr, knowing that if a fight did break out, he would be right in the middle of it all. He did not even have the comfort of the moon and its power, with the sun high in the morning sky.

Calm down, Saelaam. Trust in the head priest's judgment, and in the knights' duty. He told himself as he took a deep breath in an attempt to ease his fears. Trust, most of all, in the Goddess' protection. He thought, silently praying to the Lady of the Moon that this peaceful expedition led by the Knights of Shotarr would be successful in defusing the situation.

Soon, the group finally arrived at the entrance to the temple, and much like some of the knights in their group, the young priest found himself awed by what remained of the ancient ruin. By what hands had the temple been built? On whose orders? Had they known that it would fade into obscurity and be reclaimed by nature? Had they ever suspected, by chance, that it would sit at the center of what might become the bloodiest battle in the history of Eboris? All these question swirled around Saelaam's head, but louder than all of them was the statement made by the commander of the Knights of Shotarr.

"Hardly worth dying for."

I sure hope nobody will have to, then. He mulled as he walked into the narrow passage that led further into the temple. The main chamber, despite being hundreds of years old, was a work of art: a beautifully ornate golden altar behind which sat several reliefs that depicted brave warriors of ages past, facing off against dark creatures heard of only in myth and legend. Busy as he was studying those scenes, he didn't notice the stairwell behind the altar, or the lone Dascian soldier standing by it. Suddenly, however, a hand clasped around his shoulder, bringing him out of his reverie.

"We're not here for sightseeing, kid. Stay with the group." Spoke the gruff voice of an older man clad in full plate armor, who nodded in the direction of the stairwell to emphasize his point. Saelaam looked over and noticed that the rest of the group was heading downstairs. Hastily muttering an apology, he trailed behind the rest of the group, where a fat nobleman was guarded by two Dascian battlemages and three heavily armored soldiers. One of them stood out - her armor was blackened, but it bore a form that was familiar to him. A member Honor Guard? Protecting a Dascian nobleman?

His sweeping glance quickly moved away from her and back to the Lord, whose treacherous words made him scowl - he reminded him of the scheming crows of his homeland, feigning kindness but with venom in their voice. There was clear tension between him and the Knight Commander, and the healer felt unnerved by this. He knew, of course, that the Knights of Shotarr would not start a battle here, and despite his quickly growing dislike for the nobleman, he had to admit that Sampson did not seem interested in a conflict either.

A new voice cut into the conversation, and a woman walked in, followed by a group of Tasharen soldiers. She was content to mock the Lord of Haden Town and converse with the Knight Commander, who appeared to be an old friend of hers, but the men under her command wasted no time to look in his direction, their glares betraying suspicion and even hate. He frowned, but said nothing and turned is attention elsewhere - he was no stranger to that sort of look, being a winged Thalari living in Tashar. He would see it often whenever he ventured away from his home in the sanctuary of Trelia.

Before long, a third group arrived, that which belonged to the Theocracy. They were quiet, and the welcome they received from the other factions was far from warm. Finally together, the expeditionary party headed deeper into the temple. As they advanced, a foreboding sensation gripped him, and he began anxiously looking all around, the symbols on the walls suddenly looking a lot more menacing.

"Calm down, kid." The same soldier from before spoke as he noticed his apprehension, stomping forward just behind him. "We'll keep ye safe if anyone here breaks the peace." He stated. Saelaam nodded and muttered a quick thanks, but he neglected to say what was on his mind - he didn't fear the soldiers from Athela, Dascus or Tashar, even though a single one of them would be enough to make quick work of him without the knights' protection. He was afraid of something else.

As they entered the large subterranean chamber where the hammer rested, the feeling intensified, and the young Thalari nearly froze as he walked inside. The ornate altar surrounded by black gems might have appeared as wondrous to him, but in his fright, it had a threatening presence instead.

Ignoring the question of the nearby Knight of Evrouin, Saelaam walked up to the Knight Commander and spoke. "S-sir Raeden, I don't... we should not disturb this temple. There is something dangerous here... something dark." He spoke, eyes fixing on the hammer for a moment before turning back to Quentin.

"We should leave at once."

[Tomia]

Brialya
Soon all of the armored elves that had gathered in the woods had taken their place on their mounts, and were lined up to charge. Brialya was among them, admittedly scared at what she had gotten herself into. If they charged forward they would be on the front lines of the greatest battle in centuries. She considered escape, but that would only tip them off, and she didn't imagine they would just let her go. She just had to stay put and pray to Faenar that she would make it out alive. Just then the commander rode up front of the troops. Brialya was in the third row but could still make him out as he stopped and turned to them.

"Today, we set in motion a war that will change this continent forever. We will bring these foolish armies to battle, and as they slaughter each other, we shall capture the real prize! The Purifier calls you to arms, he demands your service! And when this war is won, your plunder will know no bounds!" The troops gave out a cheer and Brialya's eyes widened. The Purifier? This is his doing? She thought incredulously. How far did this shadowy figure's influence spread? This wasn't a sanctioned mission, which meant the Purifier was leading an insurrectionist faction within the Athelan army. This conspiracy was making her head spin, but she didn't exactly have time to put all the pieces together sitting on top a war horse on the edge of battle.

Just then the soldier next to the commander raised his arm and was holding a horn. He sounded the Athelan battle cry. The noise shot through the air and echoed through the open field for all to hear.

They just called the whole fucking army to arms.

After two or three tense minutes they heard the stirring of armies, and soon the bulk of the Athelan cavalry was charging towards the temple, and their infantry wasn't far behind. Brialya looked over to the Dascus and Tashar camps and saw a similar scene. The armies were now charging towards each other and it wouldn't take long for them to meet in the middle. Brialya had a look of horror on her face, but looked up to see the commander grinning.

"Hold steady, we wait until they thin each other out. Then we strike at the heart of the temple."

They weren't even going to charge. While this thought relieved Brialya, she felt a sick pit in her stomach watching from safety as thousands charged to their deaths.

Whoever this Purifier is, I swear by Faenar's Cloak I will kill him.

Quentin
"Something dangerous." Quentin said in response to the Dragon Killer in his party who asked what the artifact was.

"Nonsense, you Tasharians immediately equate unknown with dangerous." Lord Sampson said in response. "This artifact needs to be studied. Its potential could be limitless."

He then turned to the healer who had accompanied him, who seemed very unnerved by their discovery. "I can't say I disagree friend. If it were up to me, I would say we all go home."

Just then they heard the faint sound of a horn and Quentin's blood froze. It was a war horn. Someone had called a charge, and the armies were on the move. All that work and negotiation for nothing, the fight had started.

Everyone in the temple looked at each other uneasily, as if wondering who was going to draw the first blade. The ground above them started to shake from the marching horses and soldiers.

"This is your fault!" Lord Sampson said pointing at the Athelan's. "That horn was from your people, you broke the truce!"

"Sampson be quiet!" Lena shouted. Her voice raised and her eyes glowing with a fierce determination. "We came here under the banner of peace. Anyone who breaks that will rot as a dishonorable traitor." She looked around, daring the other parties to act.

"Damn it this is my land! And therefore this hammer belongs to me!" Sampson reached for the hammer as Quentin lunged forward to stop him.

"No you fool!" He managed to tackle the lord but not before he had grabbed the hammer. It fell onto the side next to them. The ten stones seemed to come to life, glowing and pulsing red.

Suddenly the ground shook again. This time it felt much more like an earthquake.

"What have you done?" The Knight of Shotarr said to the horrified lord of Haden.

On the Surface
As the armies came ever closer to each other the ground shook violently, and on both sides of the hill it seemed to give out entirely as two ramp like tunnels emerged. This was clearly a supernatural phenomenon as the rest of the land remained unaffected. All three armies came to a halt, having no idea what was happening. Then from underground emerged a fourth army. This army was made up of neither humans, dwarfs, elves, beastfolk or merfolk, but demons. The creatures said to be myths marched in the thousands out of underground portals. Their formations looked professional, and they looked ready for war. Wave after wave poured out from underground, charging at the shell shocked armies. As a massive battle raged on the surface, a group of demons rushed down into the temple, overwhelming the few guards left at the entrance. Soon those in the temple were staring down three dozen demons, armed with spears, swords, and bows.

Quentin forced himself to snap out of a fear induced stupor and drew his sword which sparked with lightning. He had no idea what these things were, or where they came from, but he knew one thing: they were the enemy.

"ATTACK!!" He shouted, hoping to force the others out of their shock as well as he charged forward towards the demons.

[Absolon-7]

Francis

Rudolph Thorbecke
Rudolph nodded at the man's curt yet straightforward answer. He appreciated for he had no time for pleasantries getting in the way either. It looked this fellow was a hired hand to investigate the temple. He was curious of what the ancient structure held inside. Could there be something so truly important as to instigate one of the largest battles in recent memory? If not there far more fools and idiots in the world then he had hoped for there to be. If worst came to the worst and he wan't able to find the priestess in time he was sure he could slink out in time to avoid the worst of the fighting. In fact, searching the tent cities whenever the battle commences might be the most opportune time since there'll only be noncombatants.

"No actually. I was going to sneak into the Tasharan camp to see if I had any luck there finding her," responded Rudolph but the man's sudden question made him shift his head suddenly, "You'd be correct but I'm afraid that's all I can say. We have a need-to-know oath. Kinda stuck up if you ask me but I'm not one to break promises."

"Skwaaa! Skwaaa! Danger! Danger, Rudolph!"

"Oh what is it now?" sighed Rudolph at his crow circling the sky above him.

Out of the corner of his visor a sight straight out of some of the most horrific artwork in the world greeted him in a molten glee. These creatures not resembling anything he had ever encountered were marching step by step from earthen ramps that had suddenly emerged in the hills and there were thousands of them. Possibly enough to match all three armies. Their molten, cracked hides looking like hideous renditions of burning coal.

"By the gods," gasped Rudolph as he drew his sword and grabbed his shield from his back. Well it was out of the question going to any camp and if he charged headstrong he could forget finding the priestess. Best choice for now was to regroup somewhere,"Say stranger you still heading to the temple? I reckon there might be less of these abominations in that direction."

[Aidannadia]

Meanwhile, In a quiet corner of the Antoran League....

A doe, standing above a stream, bends over to take a sip of water. A breeze wafts by the gazelle, and it stands to attention, but along that same breeze, an arrow pierces its neck. The creature falls to the earth, and a lion's head peeks from the grasses, then rises to the height of a man. The Thalari said a small prayer, then began to strip his prize, immediately breaking down the corpse with his skinning knife. "Thank you." He said in his native tongue.

Upon returning to the his village, he was immediately greeted by his closest friend, Vega, whom wrapped his arm actively around his shoulder. "Badar, I see you've brought by a kill! How exciting." A few other lionfolk were gathered around Vega. As per usual, his presence brought with him his posse.

One of the followers scoffed. "He didn't even kill it with his maw. Look at the wound. He used the coward's weapon."

Vega laughed. "And yet he still brought home something for the pot tonight, and you did not." The lionfolk was quiet in response, tail between his legs. Badar smiled, yet shifted uncomfortably in the eyes of all of Vega's followers. Vega noticed and shooed them away. "Leave us, we must speak alone for a moment." The pair walked together, away from the group.

Badar scratched his mane nervously. "Vega what is this about? It isn't like you to just give up the spotlight like tha- oh." Badar looked into Vega's steely gaze and was lost in his determination and amibition.

"I wanted you to be the first to know- I intend to take my birthright, and challenge the leader of our village for the title of chief." Badar was initially shocked, though nodded.

"You've wanted this for a long time-" Badar's voice drifted off. The idea of his old war buddy being the chief brought a smile to his maw, but there was something sad about it. As if.... as if Vega was moving on from him to better things. The feeling that Badar was being left behind.

"I have." Vega nodded. "And I intend to give you full rights as kin of the Chief." Vega smiled, putting his arm on Badar's shoulder and pressing his forehead to his friend's. "You won't be an outsider. You'll be part of my clan, brother." Badar rested his head deeply in the grooves of Vega's, almost being brought to tears. To finally have acceptance of his village. To become part of a clan, and part of the family of The Great Vega of all people. It was all he had ever wanted.

Vega continued. "And besides, the old man can hardly try to lead a nation with gray in his beard. He'd never be able to take me, even with all of his experience." Vega stood tall, and the pair continued their talk for the rest of the night, unawares to the pair of conniving eyes that were watching them the entire time.

[The Republic of Atria]

After his conversation with the Slayer ended, Francis made his way into the temple where he sat on a nice pile of rocks, waiting for something or someone to start something. At least enough to justify him getting his pay. Unfortunately, nothing seemed to be happening. Just other guards standing around, probably as bored as he was. The idea to go prod them for some information about what exactly was going on popped into his head. Though he figured he'd just get told off. And he knew that after a few too many insults he might just sock someone in the jaw. Which would be inconvenient as far as payment went. Plus most of them looked pretty clueless and were probably probably just thinking about how their army was so much better than whatever other army their enemies had.

So he opted to just be quiet until his services were needed. Services that would quickly be worth their weight in gold. Not a minute later, the sound of a war horn sounded and he looked up. The sound didn't come from any of the directions of the three camps. On top of that it didn't sound much like a traditional war horn. Almost like there was something not quite human behind it. He readied his massive blade as the other guards in the temple looked around confused. The sound of many, many things rushing towards the temple was loud and clear. And then Francis saw them.

Dozens of dark gray skinned... Demons. That was the only thing that popped into his head when he saw them. He'd read the history books, but they were among the few beasts that there was no true anatomical studies done on. Or at least if there were, his little town didn't have access to it. They looked relatively similar to humans, even wielding more traditional weaponry like swords and spears. Part of him was a little unnerved at such an incursion of beings long since thought gone forever. The rest of him was actually a little giddy. He would be the first hunter to have added "Demons" to his Kill List. He definitely needed to preserve a corpse, though he doubted that any of the camps had brought such tools with them.

He drew out the hand, the blade snapping and locking into place. The left side of his lips smiled a bit as he rose to his feet, several demons approaching him. One with a spear, one charging on a demonic horse, and one with a sword. The half smile on his face turned to a frown. He wasn't sure what he was expecting when he thought about demonic battle tactics, but they seemed as conventional as could be. Which meant they were relatively predictable. The foot soldiers would steer clear of the "horse" as not to get trampled. Which meant that the cavalry would be on him first.

As he predicted the other demons gave the horseback one a wide berth as he charged at Francis. The man waited until the precise moment. The demonic horseback rider drew closer and closer. Francis squinted his eyes, firm grip on his scythe. Inhale. Francis swung the hefty blade with incredible speed and the horse sped right past him and stopped to turn around. As it did, the demons head rolled off the body which also fell off the horse. He exhaled slowly, turning his attention to the other two who were now charging at him. The spear-man in front.

Francis stomped his foot on the tip of the spear that was thrust at him. The weapon getting stuck in a crack in the stone ground and throwing the demon off balance for a moment. A moment that Francis used to block the sword swipe with the handle of his weapon. Francis adjusted his hands on the massive weapon and rolled with the swing. Letting the demon throw his weight forward and stagger. Francis brought the tip of the scythe down into the demon's back. The blade piercing through it's chest, letting the glowing orange blood leak onto the floor as he pulled the weapon out, the blood dripping from the blade.

The final demon had ripped his spear from the ground still read to fight Francis. He was going to try to convince the creature to give up, but he quickly realized it was going to be very unlikely that it could even understand him. So killing it was the only option he had.

He and the remaining demon circled. It was being far more cautious than the other two, knowing that this opponent was more than capable of ending his life as efficiently as he had the other two. He had learned from the first attempt, trying to thrust low was a bad idea. The human would kill him if he did that. The only reason he survived the first time was because of the other one being a more immediate threat.

Instead, the demon swung his spear at Francis's left side. Francis used the handle to block the swipe, creating an opening where the Demon threw a fist at the human. Francis bobbed his head back, and then thrust it forward, smashing his forehead into the demon's nose. The demon recoiled in pain, and looked up to see the heavy scythe freeing his head from his body.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Saelaam of Trelia
Haden Hill Temple

---

Saelaam found little comfort in the Knight Commander's words. He agreed with him, of course, but his words made it clear that leaving was not an option for them - for better or for worse, as the goal of this peace expedition was to explore the temple, they'd be forced to wait until all of the present parties had explored it to their satisfaction. The healer could only continue to observe the hammer, a pit rapidly forming in his stomach.

That, however, was nothing compared to the dread that came afterwards. The sound of a war horn piercing the air suddenly reached the inner sanctum of the temple, and Saelaam's face immediately went pale. A fight had broken out. A war was about to begin, and he and everyone else inside the temple were in the middle of everything. As the accusations began and hostilities nearly broke out between the parties from the three warring nations, the winged healer backed away in fright, his back against a wall as he watched the scene unfold in front of him. The knights would protect him if a battle truly did break out, of course, but would they protect him from the combined might of three armies? could they even protect themselves?

Then, for the second time in a row, everything took a turn for the worst. Sampson, an old fool clearly blinded by his arrogance, claimed ownership of the artifact at the heart of the temple and rushed to grab it, despite the Knight Commander's protests. He succeeded, and the earth itself trembled with a force Saelaam had never felt before, as if Eboris itself voiced its disapproval of what had just taken place. For several seconds, the young man said nothing - he couldn't find his voice, not after everything that had just happened, but the worst was yet to reveal itself. As the seconds passed and the sounds of a desperate struggle filled the air, he saw them appear on the doorway: demons.

"T-those are... those are..." The young Thalari muttered to himself, eyes wide in shock and face pale from horror. The abominations from ancient myth, from the stories of the Second Great War that had shaken the foundations of Eboris itself, they were here.

In a single instant of lucidity, Saelaam realized what was going on. At that moment, all his fear turned into anger.

"You did this!" He shouted as he rushed at the Lord of Haden Town, shoving him up against the wall. "This is your fault, you fool, you damned everyone up there, and all of us as well!" He continued, grabbing the fat nobleman by the collar.

"You let the demons into our world!"

Before he could say anything else to Lord Sampson, one of his guards stepped forward and struck him in the face with a fist clad in metal, sending the cleric to the ground. He hastily tried to get up, but a sword was drawn and pointed at him, threatening to cut him down if he made any sudden moves. Freezing where he stood, Saelaam could only glare at Sampson's henchman as Quentin and the others went to meet the demons in battle.

[Auropa]

snip

snip

Cyradil Vask
Inside the Temple

Despite his rash, irrational and self-serving nature, Cyradil felt a flicker of hope after hearing the Shottar healer’s words, if any group could maintain the peace and take everyone from the brink of war, it would be the Oadot's Chosen. But then it all came unceremoniously crashing down with the damned horn signalling above.
“Idiots” she muttered under her breath as she pulled her mace free from her side and putt herself between Sampson and as many of the other parties as she could, she didn't like the odds and the inevitable bloody results of a fight in such close quarters but if it came to it, she wouldn't hesitate to see her duties through and strike with fury. When the Tasharen woman spoke up though, the room seemed to freeze for a moment as everyone seemed to very carefully think about their options and chances. Just as Cyradil made her own choice and even began to holster her weapon, Sampson made his move for the mace as Quentin dashed to stop him.

Not suspecting her charge to run from the formation’s safety, there was little she could do to catch up or stop the Shottar knight from reaching him. Unwilling to risk waiting, she broke from the stand off and chased after the toppled duo, as things were though, the knight still hadn’t drawn his weapon or heavily attacked Sampson meaning that through some stroke of good fortune, she didn't need to strike the exposed member of Shottar. But as much as she would’ve preferred to let things play out, her duty was to her lord.

“M’lord, the temple isn’t secure. We need to withdraw, now.” She said simply as she once again placed herself and shield between the man and present parties. Before she could do anything other than raise him back to his feet, a new sound broke out. The once distant hoof beats suddenly felt closer and backed by clanking metals and innumerable storming footfalls. ‘Something’s coming’ She realised as the noises grew louder and closer, turning to face the entrance, she readied for the fight to come and attempted to peer through the darkness, depending on who it was, any of the other parties they were trapped with could become hostile. Though instead of banners and the tell-tale armours of nations however, her eyes were met with a dull orange glow and alien plates adorning unnaturally grey bodies.

‘By the gods…’ She thought to herself as she tried to place the unworldly beings. The Shottar knights were thankfully faster than her to recover and with a warcry to fill the caverns, their apparent leader began a charge to counter the new foes. At the same time, a new internal danger emerged.

"You did this!" the healer shouted as he rushed at the Lord of Haden Town, shoving him up against the wall. "This is your fault, you fool, you damned everyone up there, and all of us as well!" He continued, grabbing the fat nobleman by the collar.
"You let the demons into our world!"

‘Demons!?’ Cyradil thought ‘But how? They’re only myths. Tales of old…’
Snapping herself out of the sudden shock, Cyradil refocused herself. Whatever the approaching creatures were and whatever the healer was trying to accomplish, he had just made a potentially grave mistake as the surrounding guards moved to draw their blades and approach the distracted patron of Oadot. ‘Damnit! There wasn't any time to fight amongst themselves!’

Moving her weapon to her shield arm, she stepped closer and slammed the cleric across the jaw with her gauntlet covered hand and with enough force to knock him harshly to the ground. It would leave a mark and hurt for a while but he would live on, she only hoped the others in the room would realise too. In the next instant, metal was unsheathed as another guard pointed his sword towards the prone cleric.

“We are not damned yet.” She said flatly as she looked over the toppled man and back towards the approaching foes.
“Watch him.” She said to the other Dascian guard as she began to move forward. Panic aside, they would need all the healers they could get. “Everyone else form up at the room's entrance and brace! We do not let them get behind us!” She shouted to the other guards as they started to form a rough unit.
“We can't stay here forever, whoever has an exit plan should get to work while they still can!” She called out to the room as she moved past her fellow guards and deeper into the tunnel. However strong the expedition was, they couldn’t stay down here forever, and if the muffled sounds of the surface meant anything, it meant that they needed to get far away from the temple as fast as possible. Looking towards the greyed bodies rapidly closing in, she braced as best she could and narrowed her eyes, however they might get out, they needed to survive this fight first.

[Ihsalihna]

Sayyida ul h'Ehlam
At the Beginning, and Perhaps the End

---

Loud, gnashing screams and warcries echoed throughout the encampment as a full regiment of men-at-arms charged through the tents, an unearthly roar raised up to heaven, to Shotarr, to every god and ancestor and religion, invoking their strength, aid, mercy - steel plate clattering and horns sounding their doom upon the earth, every man's blood rising in its veins and calling for its brotherly rivers of life to be burst their banks and fill the furrows of the ground, drained from body and flesh-

Sayyida blinked slowly as the last of the charging, screaming men ran past her, leaving her holding a long curved knife against her breast and standing very still as her robes billowed around her, suddenly alone once more in a post-stampede ruin of tents and abandoned cooking fires.

"...Ah."

Well I had been hoping to look around a bit more before... Hm. The merchant woman frowned and looked around, a bit shaken by the suddenness of it all and the distant clamour and sound of thunderous charges. Nothing to be done... Her instincts told her to get as far from here as possible, but her brain told her even in this place where life was cheap and the markets and soil were saturated with blood, there was a wealth waiting in that temple that would keep her above water for months, even years — but how in all the Boiling Cauldrons of the Hells was she supposed to get to it now? And really, maybe she should just sneak in after the battle was over and hopefully there'd be something left- no. No risk, no reward, but a fool I shall ever be.

Dusting herself off slightly and slipping her knife back into her sleeve, Sayyida looked around carefully. With every setback is an opportunity, that's what a wise one knows... moments before she had been considering a Ga'el and what appeared to be a group of Tasharen prisoners. A warrior of the Folk of the Pride, hailing from the Wastes — an imposing figure to any, but Sayyida had spent much time among Thalari and at times felt more affinity to them than she did her fellow humans. It would be nice to ask him of how Antora fared and exchange pleasantries, if those could even be found with a warrior as fierce as him, but it seems in the confusion of the horns sounding she'd gotten a tad lost.

It didn't help that the sea of tents had been partially trampled and roughly rearranged by hundreds of screaming soldiers. As she picked her way quietly and cautiously through a ruined campsite, her heart beating faster in her chest, she became intensely aware of the suddenly abandoned world around her - and the paradoxically all too close clamour of war and death. The distant sounds - not distant enough really by far - were nothing short of horrifying. At any moment that same carnage could spill back into view and envelop her. Like a child's paper glider in a monsoon wind... it was an electrifying, lonely feeling, of utter vulnerability and imminent fatal end. But she crept onward... they had been heading this way, hadn't they?

She peered past a flapping canvas wall, ignoring the soft inquisitive hiss at her wrist and slowly pushing Vahid's head back down into her sleeve. Narrowing her eyes at the place she had spied a flicker of fabric, she turned back a ways and stood before a curtain covering the entrance to what appeared to be an officer's tent. Banners flickering in the breeze and dark clouds circling overhead, Sayyida tensed her brow and lifted a single finger, pushing it forward slowly and deliberately into thin air.

She was rewarded with a rather satisfying click, followed by a soft glow at her fingertip that trickled along the floral dyes on her hand - her eyes watched as burning blue fire etched itself in mid-air, forming the shape of a lock and trickling outwards in a mystical spider-web of interlocking runes. She pushed her finger forward into the small burning void and turned it like a key, before stepping forward and closing her eyes and embracing a familiar feeling of cold cloth brushed across her body and -

Suddenly she was clasping the handle of a wooden door and pushing it open, gazing into the overcast world outside the dark shadow she now stood in. Gently, she eased the door open a crack and stuck her head out- "Ey khoda goh kooni ahmakh f-ffuck—"

The merchant woman stumbled backwards and swore at herself in two different tongues, trying to still her beating heart as she gazed at the shaft of light streaming through the outhouse door past the arrowhead now jutting through it. Taking a moment to close her eyes and take a deep breath - regretting it immediately - she listened until she was certain it was only a stray missile. To tread on False Paths is not always safe, and all the more risky when you don't know if the door you'll walk out of is directly inside of a raging battle or in the path of a stray crossbow bolt. Or renegade war oliphant... she continued on her way, escaping the heat and smell to return to tracking the footprints in the dirt until -

As it were, there was something else of interest she'd spotted before all Hells broke loose. And she was very good at finding what she sought.

Sayyida casually walked up beside the man, clasping her hands behind her and looked at the impressive looking book in his possession with polite interest. "...peace be upon you, kind stranger. Is that a very interesting book?"

The merchant peered at the runes on its cover in curiosity, before her inquisitive blue eyes glanced slowly up at the man's face. "...we suppose now is not very ideal time to discuss literature. Actually, we would like to inquire if..."

She raised a finger and indicated the distant hill, where currently the burning legions of the damned were marching forth, striding upon the earth in all their ungodly, accursed glory and charging at the assembled armies. "...if you can see that too? Or if someone has slipped the luna sugar into our drink again?"

[The Anarcho-Syndicalist Commune]

Prax

Prax was waiting for an answer when the earth itself shook beneath their feet. Muttering a curse in Antoran, he stepped out of the tent to see what the damned Dascians were up to. Only one nation would be so bold to mess with the earth itself. Grabbing his weapons and pushing past the various rushing soldiers in the camp, he looked out onto the battlefield to see the three armies entering melee. The Tasharians were barely ready to fight, caught with their pants down. Quickly shifting into pure Lion form, Prax rocketed off towards the front lines. Several soldiers parted for the utterly gigantic beast that was now running through their ranks. Reaching the front with the other running soldiers, Prax returned to Thalari form, drew his Farx, and uttered his dread roar, filling the nearby Tasahrians with hope while his enemies felt great dread.

Then, just when he was ready to cut some more elves, the most Thalai blasted thing occured. With another great tremor, a great tunnel opened before him on the hill. Standing close to the men of Tashar, Prax gripped his farx tight. Out of the tunnel began to march ranks of humanoids in grey armor. They rode on unnatural lizard looking creatures and carried cruel weapons of hard looking steel. A low growl emenating from the back of his throat, Prax muttered "Demons." Tales were sung at any major Trar'el celebration of the glorious Bas, the Panther Trar'el who led the great pride into battle alongside Antores against the Demonic Horde. It was perhaps fitting then, that Prax should be present for what by all perspectives appeared to be the return of Demons to the world.

Prax watched as the Demons began to charge. Offering a quick prayer to the Thalai, he gestured for the nearby soldiers to gather in formation near him. In a low, growling voice, Prax said "Men of Tashar. Today we stand not as mere soldiers, but as future legends on the brink of glory. Songs will be sung for generations of this day in all of Eboris. Do you want them to be in whatever foul tongue these newcomers must speak, or shall it be in songs in praise of you, the brave legions of Tashar, who stood against the coming horde. Stand now, and claim what is yours!"

Prax finished his speech mere moments before the Demons were upon them. Grinning his cat's grin, Prax brought his farx back, prepared to strike. He wasn't dissapointed. The demon formation crashed against the Tasharians. Prax shoved the wide head of the Thalari weapon into the gut of the demon who charged him specifically. A spurt of blood the color of molten rock burst out of the creature. Ripping the blade from the now dead demon, Prax spun the blade around and used both ends of it to slay two demons fighting with soldiers near him. Slamming one of the ends through a demonic corpses neck and removing it's head, Prax raised it above his head and uttered another roar. Hoping that it reverberated into the depths of the tunnel before him, Prax threw the head towards the next charging wave, and helped clean up the last members of the previous group. Turning around and preparing his weapon, Prax let loose a laugh. This was combat, and he loved it.

Cutting down another three demons in the next wave, Prax let himself catch a quick breather. Watching a Legionnaire finish off a demon, Prax nodded and said "Clean work, for a human at least."

The man removed his sword and cleaned it on the corpse. Spitting on it, he said "Well, whatever these things are, they aren't any tougher than an elf persay. Gods, I wish I could see what the Dascians are doing to these fuckers right now. I reckon that they weren't quite prepared for magic like whatever is going on over there."

Prax cut down a survivor of the last wave that had gotten back up. The new army was falling, but they inflicted moderate casualties after every charge and they clearly had more numbers underground if they were willing to mass attack like this. Soon, even Prax would be overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of them. What a glorious fight that would be. Giving the man one last nod, Prax asked "What's your name human."

The man cracked his neck and said "Vladimir."

Prax nodded and said "Well then Vladimir, let us fight together with honor!" before he rushed at another enclosing demon.

Natasia

Bliedny ratteled a little beneath her feet. Clearly some of the geomancers were preparing ammo, as Natasia's horse was not one for... well any kind of independent function. The Battlemage kept a small miniaturised horse skull in one of her supply pouches. Most who knew her ignored it, considering it another one of Natasia's many oddities. They didn't consider the power such a skull might have. Tapping on a small amount of her runic knowledge from her homeland, Natasia had enchanted the skull she had shrank to be able to grow into a full size wraith of a beast, which she had named after a childhood mount of hers. The other mages in her group rode upon normal animals. Mathias asked quietly "Are you sure m'lady, we do not need to join the Vanguard."

Natasia merely shrugged her head and said "I do not fear combat Mathias, nor am I particularly scared of what comes after. I must be among the first in that temple, and this is the way to do it."

"... as you wish, m'lady."

The horn sounded from Klefford's host. Charge. Urging Bliedny forward, Natasia rode towards the Library the dog had sent her to capture. The Earth rattled again, this time hard enough to cause Bliedny to rattle like an unfortunate instrument. Nat watched as nearby where the Elves and Dascian forces were to meet, a large stone tunnel appeared from the shifting dirt. At first all was silent, but then... dread warriors in dark armor of steel began to work their way out of the tunnel. The Dascians began to take a defensive position as the new army charged them. Natasia simply watched for the few moments before the new army hit Dascus's line. Already, a great hail of various magical energies was raining down on their new enemies. That didn't stop them from killing a large number of the infantry in the front line.

Nat sighed as she looked at a young man, pinned to his side by arrows, begging for a healer. Knowing that he was probably a goner, she pointed her blade at him and focused. Shaking the life force loose from within the dying soldier, she poured it into a nearby demonic corpse. Watching it's blood go from molten gold in color to frigid blue was disturbing for most around the area. Bringing the zombie over to help watch her side during the upcoming battle, Nat drew her dread corrupted weapon and prepared for war, which was rapidly approaching with the next charge.

[Utceforp]

Yaleth Yshfaethel

Knight Commander of the Guardians of Light

Haden Temple

When the horns sounded, Yaleth finally drew his sword, and the other Guardians followed suit. Idlaith quickly retreated between the armoured Elven soldiers. "Our fault?" Yaleth spat at the pompous Dascan lord. "I doubt it. Do you think the Path would abandon us in some forgotten temple outnumbered two to one? We're not as stupid as your kind." Against his better judgement, Yaleth didn't do anything other than draw his weapon and taunt the lord - He was chomping at the bit to fight, but he wasn't sure if his party could take on all the people present at once, and he was certain that if the Athelans attacked first the humans would band together against them. He sneered at the Enchantress beneath his emotionless helmet. When the fighting started, he would cut her down for trying to manipulate his sense of honour.

When the Dascan lord knocked over the hammer, Yaleth laughed angrily and leveled his sword at the man. "Humans! Humans! Children playing with knives, all of you! This is exactly why you cannot be trusted with such dangerou-"

Yaleth's rant was interrupted by an earthquake, causing him to lose his balance and drop Clarity to the floor. When he came to his feet, what he saw chilled his blood in his veins and drained all colour from his faith. Demons. Not just any demons, but an organized fighting force - riding molten horses and carrying weapons of disturbingly intelligent design.

A Tasharan knight infused his sword with lightning and yelling to attack. A healer, a more recent arrival to the temple, slammed the pompous Dascan into a wall. A Dascan battlemage attempted to salvage the situation, punching the healer and giving commands. Yaleth stood and thought, picking up his sword and aiming it towards the Dascan woman while staring her in the eyes. His first thought was that this was a trick - some magic conjured up by the Dascans as an elaborate distraction, to befuddle the elves as their armies prepared to destroy them. While highly unlikely, it was certainly more plausible than what he feared was true - a genuine demonic invasion. Time seemed to slow as he considered what to do.

Finally, Yaleth made his decision - he couldn't risk the chance that this was real. He lifted his sword and turned his head from the woman to his fellow Guardians. "Right then, we better get to work! Fengol, Oglaid, stay with Idlaith and protect him. The rest of you, with me, to the entrance! We brace!"

Yaleth closed his eyes, and breathed slowly. When he opened them again, they shone with flickering holy light.

[Finland SSR]

Quentin

On the Surface

Theodor Arnulfsson

---

In what was a cascade of conflict and stupidity, the absolute worst possible outcome had to take place before the Dragon Killer's eyes. The leaders of the mission dissolved into petty conflict over who gets to hold the hammer, until finally, Lord Sampson tipped it, at which point all hell let loose. Not only figuratively, but also literally. The ground shook, and it didn't take long before the first hellish, infernal creatures stormed into the depths of the temple.

The winged beastfolk among their ranks called them demons, but not before attacking Sampson and then getting punched to submission. Seeing him collapse and get a sword pointed at him sparked some sympathy out of Theo - he didn't seem to be evil or traitorous at all, just someone frustrated with what had just happened - but the Dragon Killer did not act upon it. Instead, he pulled out his spear and yelled:

"Someone keep tabs on that hammer! If not because it might hold the key to stopping what just happened, then at least so Lord Sampson doesn't make things even worse!"

And with that order out, Theo rushed forward, joining the Shotarr party led by Quentin in charging at the descending demons head on. A reddish, sparkling flame came to life around his body - a terrifying sight to see a man on fire, perhaps, but it did not burn him nor any of the humans he rushed past. With his boon activated and his weapons ready, Theo charged to the front, joining the vanguard of the party. The corridor they were fighting in was narrow enough that his pavise shield covered much of the path, which only made things easier. As soon as the first of the demons slammed into the shield, he dug to his heels and tightened his grip.

Wisps and tongues shooting out from the Dragon Killer's holy fire whipped and slammed into the greyed beasts in front of him, forcing them to let out screams and recoil from the searing pain. After briefly spinning the spear in his right hand, Theo sent a few stabs in retaliation, piercing through flesh and dropping one of the monsters to the floor.

"They're mortal, just like us." the Dragon Killer confirmed towards the rest of the team, just in case they needed more motivation to go out and fight.

---

Riki Farinhait

---

The young necromancer pulled himself off the ground as soon as the tremble ceased, his eyes set upon a peculiar sight in the distance. Something... something was going on. The three armies stopped to a halt, two tunnels opened up from the sides of the hill, and thousands upon thousands of pitch black, infernal creatures marched out in formation. There was panic, there was confusion, all around Riki, but he knew exactly what they were about to deal with.

Demons.

They played a peculiar part in the mythos of the Order of the Fading Butterfly. To the necromantic coven, they weren't just a mere legendary threat from the depths. They were the legions of the false gods, seeking to overthrow Datune, the only true goddess, and all of their followers. And so... after millennia, Riki got to witness first hand as the Great Wars which the manuscripts mention renew before his eyes.

"Let's go, kid!" a voice called out from behind the necromancer's back. It was the same one-eyed criminal he had talked to earlier. Using the panic which set across the Tasharen camp, they were planning an escape, crawling over one of the wagons which made up the walls of the prisoner grounds. Riki offered a dismissive glance towards the bandits, but did not offer a single word to them. Instead he ran forward, finding the first Tasharen soldier in his path and shouting:

"Hey! Wait up!"

"H-huh?!" The soldier in question was a rather young looking and frightened footman, who looked like he was barely old enough to get drunk in a pub. Thankfully, he was responsive and didn't immediately run away. Riki stepped forward, stretched his arms and exclaimed:

"Set me free. I'll help your side."

"Who-who are you? Helping... against those things?"

"I'm a mage. You're fighting demons. I can't let a single one of them step on the soil of this world."

"D-demons?!"

Riki did not answer, just spread his binded arms as much as he could and offered them to the young soldier. He hesitated for a second, but eventually yielded and said:

"F-fine." A single sword cut punched through the rope, cleaving it in half and letting it drop to the floor. Riki rubbed his wrists slightly, then sighed, nodded and replied:

"...Thank you."

Leaving the frightened and confused Tasharen soldier behind, Riki ran straight to the fray, running past tents and marching soldiers alike until the sounds and scent of battle became overwhelming. The Tasharen lines were facing demons head on, taking the brunt of the attack, and while the first of the hellish waves faltered against their defense, there were a lot more to come, while his "allies" were suffering significant casualties. Not great... but also great. There's going to be a lot of second chances to grant.

Riki cowered behind a small birch tree, standing in the middle of a killing ground, surrounded by dozens of human and demon corpses alike, and reached into the depths of his clothing. His hand grasped and pulled out an ornate knife - a fairly pathetic weapon in such a battle by any means, but its edge was far too dull to deal any damage anyway, so its purpose was different. The necromancer knelt down on the ground and started drawing - the tip of the blade, upon touching the earth, would leave a narrow glowing trail, extending continuously until Riki gave the drawing the shape of a pentagram, and pressed onto the center with his hand.

"Santa Datune, Mundu Ama
erregutu ezazu gu bekatarion alde
orain eta gure heriotzako orduan."

As soon as the incantation was complete, the glow would recede and everything around Riki would suddenly start to move. Slain soldiers would rise from their rest, picking up their weapons again, and so would the demons which they had manage to take down before their demise. So the demons are not immune to necromancy... He'll have to note that for the future. Outside of the killing ground, dozens upon dozens more zombies arose, sometimes even among their living peers, seriously scaring them. While most of the horde would start to lumber forward, before going for a frenzied sprint straight at the enemy lines, a few of the zombies would lift Riki up and serve as both carriage and shield from stray ranged attacks.

For a time, Riki thought he was going to simply let his minions charge at the demons while watching from behind, but as soon as a familiar white mane showed itself in the distance, the necromancer instantly twitched his hand to divert his horde elsewhere. The Thalari warrior and his allies nearby would suddenly witness several dozens of zombies, human and demon alike, rush past them - however, they did not even try to touch any of the Tasharen, instead smashing straight into the demon lines, gnawing, biting and mauling any enemy in sight as if they were animals, or using the weapons at their hands, if they carried any at time of death.

Riki's zombie carriage stopped a few meters away from Prax, the necromancer dismissed the corpses carrying him and let them charge forth, while he turned to the Thalari and said:

"You left me behind. Is that honorable among your people?"

[Sarderia]

LORD CALTHANIUS SWYRFE
Dascus War Vanguard, Haden Hill

---

The Vice-Mage smirked as he heard Natasia's answer, even letting out a chuckle. "We shall see, Necromancer." Her boasts about his units - prime Consortium mages straight out of the Yupari Institute - not quite up to her and her abomination of a servant's strengths are just that, boasts. While he certainly did not doubt the powers potent in Necromancy, he still need to witness beforehand its effects on battle. Clearly the Lady Natasia could serve as an example of how necromancers practice their darkest of magic in field, and how dangerous it was.

The Knight's answer certainly did not please him. It would do better if he had a retinue of non-mages to assist in securing the Library, but the foolish knave did not think past the glories of battle and brawls, judging him as not a 'commander of men'. He answered with a mocking tone, eyes low as not to suggest anything. "Commander Sir," Calt pressed the word explicitly, to state his position, "Clearly you did not understand how magic works and how we can exercise it most useful. While I am sure Lady Natasia here could do her own work perfectly," he gestured to the woman, "my branch of the Consortium had been tasked to retrieve any magical artifacts potential to our kingdom, safely and securely. Surely, as the vanguard commander of a Dascusi army, you can understand this very well, don't you?" His tone was now very deep and mocking, prompting several soldiers to laugh.

"But no matter. I brought my own lordly retinue here. A portion of your army, even." The soldiers he was referring was standing outside in an orderly line. "I will take thirty-five men from the army nonetheless, and you can keep the rest. As with your plan here to have us charging blindly first, it would not do well to put us, those who would secure your precious center of strategic importance first, head-on with an enemy army while your own scout is yet to arrive. Moreso, you disregarded the use of scouts firsthand. 'He will tell us when we arrive'? I thought you'd think better than that, Sir." The Knight's wordings and decision brought yet another laughter, this time from the Consortium mages.

"Anyway, I have sent my own archers first into the hill's bottom, just in case." The reference to Randolf's decisions and his own scouts had been crystal clear. "Since Lady Natasia preferred her own path and objectives, I will take the Consortium's retinue directly into the library, as I said before. You will know when we've gained the foothold in it." Torches, what an un-magely thing to do, Calt thought. He grabbed one of the map parchment and threw it to one of his subordinates. "Keep it close."

Calt walked back to the table and addressed the Knight once again. "For you to know, I do not take orders from you. I am the Consortium's representative, and the damned hill is full of magical artifacts. You can go on and order your men anywhere; just do not interfere with my works." His lashing out had ruined Randolf's plan from the start; his goal was not to defend the library, but to break through the main temple and salvage whatever shiny things they can put their hands in. The library was just a damp place with damp scrolls and mite-eaten books, hardly worth dying for. But for the sake of duty, he would not leave the place empty without protection nonetheless.

"We mages can appear and disappear everywhere, and anywhere we want," he continued. That might be untrue and boasting, as most teleportation ranges were usually just a hundred metres of distance. Powerful enough mages, however, could increase it a lot more. Calt was certainly not. "There would be no need for couriers. I thought you want everyone dying in the frontline." As to demonstrate what he meant, Calt clasped his fingers, producing several strands of magicka, and spread it out around himself. He disappeared with the sound of a snap.

"My lord will inform you if the Library had been secured, Commander Sir." There would be no need of horns for them; horns would only tell the enemy where they are, and what they have. He already sent a mage of his to scout off the hillbase, although not reaching up to the temple grounds. He waited for the scout to return, and then decided to go on a quick inspection, as the scout's reports had no hostiles in particular.

Beneath the Temple, Haden Hill

---

Several of the mages followed him after the discussions, arriving one by one in the hill's feet. Calt himself had rode on his mare all the way from the camp. In front of them was the archers and spearmans he had snatcher from the main army. There are fifty of them, a dozen mages including. Calt walked towards the temple with caution. No-one would know whatever army or horror lies inside.

He muttered a simple spell and made a gesture with his hand. He expanded his arms in opposite directions, producing a great sparkle of magic in his fingers. Calt then made a circle shape in the air, producing a magical shield, glowing with a red and orange hue. With another spell, he extended the Burning Shield to cover twice his body, glowing even in the middle of the day. His companions, subordinates, did the same gesture. A dozen shields now covered the first party from Dascus to reach the temple. The spearmans made a compact formation of four soldiers each, spread out behind the mages. They still maintained a spread and subtle way of approach, however; hidden in the tall bushes and trees that surrounded the hill.

His archers behind and his shield hovering above ground, Calt quickly took his bow and snatched an arcane arrow from his quiver. There is something lurking up the hill, and he's sure as hell it was no beastfolk or elf or dwarf or whatever peasant Tashar or Athela had thrown to kill each other. He had the feeling that this is something - not someone - different. They were not near the hill yet; Calt was wary, and he dared not to take an army directly into the temple. The thing that came running down the hill after, was a complete different matter. He let out a subtle scream looking it, putting his bow and arrow yo the ground.

Witnessing a fucking thousand of them running in every direction was only terror. With their flaming swords and hell-bows and spears of devil raised upwards, they made a horrifying scream that he knew no beast could produce. Some of his men had even ran to the camp. But he know, that in order to even survive this hellish onslaught, they need to fear him more than they did a demon. He cast a tendril of magic from his fingers, and then muttered a spell. "Arise, the strands of magic incarnate. By the Crimson Bands I bind you into my will!"

Shining ropes glowing with bright red hues lashed out from his hands. He opened his fist, and the bands multiplied thricewards. But Calt did not use the bands on the demons straight forward; he would not attempt a foolish move like that. He thrusted the bands into thin air, swerving it off like a lasso, and thrown it into several archers that had ran back into the camp. He closed his fist and yanked the crimson ropes back. Making yet another swerve in the air, he tossed the deserters full ahead into the charging demon horde, face first landing in the ground. "Fight, you bastards!" He screamed loudly, releasing them from the bind and lashing the nearest demon present. "You," he turned to one of his mages. "We will retreat to the camp. Inform the Commander of what is coming." He made it clear that he did not request further reinforcements. As the mage popped off into the camp, he casted yet another barrier in front of the remaining archers. His mind had began to strain now; the spell was still yet to complete.

"By the holy vapors and the eternal storms." The simple spell was easy to cast, yet it requires the strongest of magic energy to perform. He made a vortex of magicka in the air, snapped his fingers, and the round shape of it expanded thrice his stature. Drawing the magicka from his surroundings and himself, Calt made a gesture that sent several orange tendrils of energy right to the vortex's center. The circle began to spun around, gradually faster and faster, like a massive fan in the wind. He put his hand right at the center of it. Pulling his hand from the vortex, he snapped his fingers again, and the vortex unleashed a sudden, large gush of wind at the demons' direction. It had done a good work stopping them, even sending a legion, about eighty of them, stumbling backwards. Calt fell to his knees afterwards. There was a soaring pain in his thorax, and his hands felt so burned it can't even move. His head was pounding faster and faster; his surroundings moved a little, the trees and the bushes…

"Milord!" one of the Mages shrieked. "My lord, should we take you back?" asked another.

With whatever last flicker of energy he had, he screamed. "Obviously! I should- I sh-"

Calt fell completely into the ground, his sight pure grey. He had managed to slow the demons enough for them to retreat, and already killed many a count of them. The strain of casting such a large Storm-Eye spell was too much for him to bear.

For what seemed to be hours, he lay wasted on the ground. This was what he hated most of being unconscious. As a Mage, the energies one had mastered and used, could sometimes return in many forms. When one is unconscious, it would usually manifest in visions. Memories, of old and recent, of deeds dark and bright. For him, however, all of his past was dark. Overly dark.

He was back in the Swyrfe dungeons, a boy peeking at the secrets of his home. The grey and dim stairs are a hundred miles away. The room he was in, dimly lighted by only a handful of torches. It was large and spacious; with andesite pillars thirty-feet tall. The room was damp and humid, it was hot yet eerily cold in ways. Calt was cloaked in grey robes, matching with the color of pillars and the wall. Even as a kid, he had learned the importance of subtlety. He would not risk being caught, but he knew what would be of him in the end; he did not want to remember it the slightest. There is screams, and torture devices to stretch one's bones until the person was ripped in half. The screams was getting louder, and so was his curiosity. He was a fool then, approaching pillar by pillar quickly. While he had masked the sound by walking heel-first touching the floor, he still did not thought of shadows - particularly because it was dim. The floors are now puddled by water. He approached the screams, and saw his father. His father, the man he had looked on for much of his childhood. And on top of all, he slipped.

The splash and crack of his knees hitting the stone was painful, but more importantly loud. He saw his father inspecting the sound, walking quietly. Calt's cover was blown; he ran as fast as he can to the stairs, not minding subtlety any longer. The walls and pillars seemed to be a maze now, a myriad of turns and bricks. He saw one of the nearer pillars and took a turn. Just when he sighed, thinking of safety, his father was directly in front of him.

"You should not have peeked into matters not of yours." His father - no, his ghost - spoke with full venom in his words. "We all have secrets, Calt. You know mine. I wonder what yours is." A cold dagger was struck to his feet, several slices of it now gushing warm blood. He screamed.

The scene changed into a camp of soldiers. Dead and poisoned, the lot of them. The stench of bodies filled the air with an unnerving reek. Calt looked into his hands; he could see the golden color of rhododendron honey. And blood.
One of the dead soldiers rose up. Then another, and another followed. Now all of them was walking towards him, chasing him. "My lord," they muttered with a baritone voice. "Save us. Someone poisoned us. We cannot breeeaatheeeeee-"

He screamed again, and the world turned upside down. The place changed again.

This time, it was a grand courtyard, decorated lavishly. Cakes and all sorts of food was present; he was in a feast. The guests was laughing and celebrating, and he could see his brother with a ducal crown in the head. The moonless night was glimmering with stars. A loud sound of music was played, and in the center of it all, he saw his mother. He heard her last laughter as she sipped in a cup of wine. Instantly, he ran, so badly wanting to knock the cup off, but he could not even move. The cup fell and shattered in the ground. Her mother was choking painfully, blood coming from her mouth and nose, and tears from her eye. He could clearly saw the heart-broken look from her eyes.

"I had always loved you," his mother's bloodied and decayed form appeared from his back. Her head was now covered in maggots. "Why, Calt? Why the honey?" The image of him placing a drop of azalea honey into the wine appeared. Him, poisoning his own mother. He could not hold back tears now, but he was thrown all over again, and an image appeared.

It was the Grand Mage's chamber at the Sorcerer's Citadel, a beacon of learning not far from Halsha. The chamber was filled by all manners of arcane items and tomes. Illustrations and drawings of spells, potions and glass bottles stacked one another. In the red brick wall, he could clearly see Swiftwind - his precious bow, his pride - and the Rune of Mind. Just as he wondered what other horror this could be, the form of the former Grand Mage appeared out of thin air. An old man infested with demons - with horns and tendrils of fire in his body, tortured from inside.

"You are a disappointment!" the old man screamed. "Look at me! Look at me! You do love sending people to be condemned, to be tortured in the deepest of hell." The screams of "Murderer!" and "Traitor!" filled his head, as well as the face of all his victims from the past. He remembered every one of them, and now they resurfaced all around, like a horde of demons ready to eat his flesh.

Calt screamed his loudest sound possible, his larynx ready to snap off. He was awake, albeit still in the field. Several of his mages was standing around. He quickly rose up to his feet, casted a magic spark, and sent a blast that shattered a large rock to pieces.

"Milord, please calm down. You are just being healed. In magical energy, of course-"

"Do we have reinforcements?" He had forgotten his prideful thinking earlier. Regaining senses isn't particularly easy for him.

"Ah, yes, my lord. A retinue of thirty men had been sent. The vanguard is still behind us, of course."

"How long did I passed out?" The mages are now confused. "Why, no more than a minute, milord. The demons there are still regaining their senses," the mage pointed.

How? It all seemed like an eternity to him, stuck with the horrors of his memories. He saw his bow and quiver still laying on the ground. He picked the weapon, pulled an arrow, nocked it to the string, and aimed for a stray creature now charging alone at them.

"Bullseye." The magical arrow stuck into the demon's head and released a light blast. Scattered brains of molten rock was now spread in its place. "Well. As I said, retreat. We will be joining the Vanguard and Sir Randolf again. As much as I despise him," he made the enmity clear now, "we still need to stick with the group."

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

Bethelomet Marter

“What in the Name…”

Marter and Rhogar were stirred from their conversation by the distant sound of a battle-horn. An Athelan horn, the sound of which well-known to the battle tested Dwarves in the service of the Empire. They looked at one another for a moment, as if they had both dreamt a sudden dream and were hoping the silence would prove it untrue. Then, a second blast of the horn shattered all illusions. Outside, shouts in a dozen languages erupted, the clang of weapon and armour rising to a cacophony as the army readied itself to march. Both Marter and Rhogar jumped to their feet, rushing to the tent opening.

There, the world seemed to erupt. From the encampment sergeants and knights were driving columns of levies through the main alleys unto the battlefield, quite eager to get into the battle line first. Banners of all shapes and sizes fluttered about, with capes too being caught in the breeze. Men and women from all corners of the empire, armed with a plethora of different weapons, now marched in the name of its emperor. Bows and crossbows, maces, bucklers, halberds and pavices, glaives.. Nowhere did you see the multicultural nature of the empire better than in its battle line.

“Well, I guess this is it…” Rhogar said. He held out his arm to Marter, who grabbed his wrist and linked arms with the Dwarven king. “The Deephold Awaits…”

“It Can Wait Longer” Marter replied. “You still owe me a Duskfeast, you thrifty bastard!”

With that, the Dwarven runemaster sped off, as his Dwarven friend began to rally his own soldiers. Getting to the artillery park was hard, as he had to go against the current of soldiers streaming towards the battlefield. Every few meters, Marter looked over his shoulder, seeing the other armies prepare as well. The Athelans were already prepared, and it seemed like they had readied to step on some unprepared enemies. They had probably not counted on the level of preparation of their enemies, as the Dascan army in the distance was slipping as easily into their battle line as their Tashar counterparts. Banners were unfurled, and the distant drums of war began to pound across the field, announcing the pace of march. The pace, Marter heard, was quite quick indeed.

A few curses and growls later Marter arrived at the artillery park. Most of the crews had already assembled, including the noble lads that made up part of his staff. All were gawking at what was about to become the biggest battlefield in modern history. He knew that, at least for the nobles, this was their first taste of combat. The tension was probably only just bearable for them. He saw them, restlessly walking around, their eyes fixed upon the horizon. Even the most extroverted of them had fallen silent, and Marter could almost feel their heartbeat thumping through the ground. If it had not been for the marching of tens of thousands of boots and the vicious drumming of the drum crews. For a moment, Marter stood there looking as well. He had seen plenty of battle before, but the scale of this… This was beyond anything.

“I HOPE YOU ARE TAKING YOUR TIME TO PICK TARGETS, YOU LAZY BASTARDS!” Marter suddenly shouted, rousing the crews to their labour. Swinging his cane above his head he began to shout abuse at everyone who was not working hard enough, getting them to man their stations and trying to get all the weeks of drilling kicking in. For a proficient trebuchet crew, the best thing was to forget that the enemy was there at all, to run siege equipment as if it were a water mill or a milling stone.

“Get those stones in line! Run down those arms! Mark ranges! Secure those arms! Load incendiaries and blaststones! Get to work, you mongrels, or I’ll launch you all instead!”

While the engines were being prepared, and the crews waited for the enemy armies to get into range, Marter sped to his personal tent. There, he strapped on his red-plate breastplate, worked with golden details and figurines from Dwarven history. On some of the exposed plate, golden runes had been etched remembering the battles he had been a part of. A Dwarven tradition, one could tell by a Dwarf’s armour how experienced he was in battle. After strapping his rune-covered blade to his side he left his command tent again, now looking as stern and unwavering as bedrock in the underdark. For a moment, he looked up at his own banner fluttering on a pole next to his tent: a golden gar rune on a bright red background.

“Here we go” he muttered.

Before long, he joined his staff of noble youngsters on a slight elevation between one of the trebuchets and a ballista. The wood and rope of the machines creaked heavily, especially as the firing mechanisms were cocked and the ballista was put at a 45 degree elevation. Oxen pulled up the heavy rune-laden counterweight of the trebuchet, milling up the ground as they performed the massive task. From his leather belt Marter drew his telescope, pointing it in the direction of the two opposing armies.

“It’ll take them a few more minutes to get into range. Wait to release until they are well in range, we don’t want to slow their advance and…”

Before Marter could finish his sentence the ground began to shake violently. A deep rumble, as if the earth itself was growling, emanated from the ground. The wood of the siege engines began to creak but they held firm, although one of the lads carrying a stone lost his footing. Luckily, the stone was not activated by the lad dropping it.

“What the hell was that?” Karsten asked. He had lost his silvery-white armour for a more appropriate steel grey, while his cape was still the white-and-silver of his family colours. The fanciful blade he normally wore was replaced by a more sturdy, boring steel blade. His helmet he held under his arm, a sturdy if a bit worn thing he probably got from a father or an uncle.

“Was it an earthquake, or…”

“In this part of the world?” One of his compatriots said. Marter could not fault him. There were never earthquakes or volcanic activity in this part of the world. It was seismically dull. Then, their questions were answered. With a crack like that of lightning, a tunnel opened on their side of the hill. It had not been there before, Marter knew. A sudden feeling of dread filled him throughout, as if it came from that very hole. From the pitch-darkness within, a red hue began to emanate. It was like looking down the mouth of a fire-breathing dragon. The armies stopped their march, and there were a few seconds of silence. Even the birds stopped their song, and the drums and horns stopped calling. Then, their blow was replaced by the heavy clang of metal, disembodied dark horns blowing and the sound of unearthly drums. Dark figures emerged from the tunnel, in perfect formation.

“What are those?” Karsten wondered, looking towards Marter. “Are those with us, or…”

“Daemons” Marter said, almost growling as the pushed the words through his teeth. He lowered his telescope and sighed heavily, inhaling deeply with every breath.

“Dark creatures from below the world”

He had heard the stories. His mother had read them to him as a youth, and he had heard them referenced in many dozens of speeches and prayers. Daemons, demons, the spawn of the underworld. Ancient enemy of the living, destroyers of worlds.

Murderers of millions upon millions of Dwarven lives. When the world had almost perished at their hands, the Dwarves had stood their ground, being massacred man, woman and child by the advancing armies. The ancient kingdoms had been put to fire and sword, impaled upon a thousand stakes by their vicious enemy. The fact that so many Dwarves were now minorities in the world, without a homeland, forced to work for lesser kingdoms, was due to their mischief. The Children of Ashar, ten thousand little boys and girls, thrown into the fiery pit as a sacrifice to their dark lord. The most ancient and vicious enemy of the Dwarves, the sole cause of their ruin. The reason Marter now answered to a foreign emperor instead of the old Emperor of Dale and Peak.

Marter gnashed his teeth. His hand almost crushed the telescope he held, as his face turned red with a deep, seething, burning anger.

“RESET TARGETS” he shouted forth, much to the surprise of the crews.

“RESET!” He repeated, now very clear. “Aim to the army coming from that tunnel! As if the world depends on it!”

The Dwarf leapt from the elevation he and his staff were standing on, using his cane to do a half-jog past all the trebuchets and ballistae arranged in the artillery park.

“Aim! Reset! Come on, put your back into it! As if the world depends on it! Load blast charges!”

With loud creaking of heavy wooden beams the engines came into motion. They shifted slightly on their axis, pointing now towards the army gathering before them. Orders were relayed down the line. As the last devices reached their new position, Marter drew his sword and stood before the machines, raising his sword towards the sky.

“By Qrodia the Sun, and Shotarr the warrior… LET LOOSE!”

At that command, the artillery park unleashed. Hammers came down, releasing triggers that held ropes and levers in place.

“Rhutarr Nong Huerlo Ut Vevupon” Marter shouted, and at that the runes on the trebuchet counterweights began to light up. It was as if the counterweights suddenly doubled in weight, being forced down by the magic of their runes. They crashed down with incredible force, launching large stone balls in an arch towards the enemy. Their own runes began to cast a blue light as they flew towards the enemy, and as they hit the ground they blew apart with a low boom of blue energy, casting their enemy aside and creating large gaps in the enemy lines. The Hell of Bethelomet was bearing down upon them.

[The Anarcho-Syndicalist Commune]

Prax

The great lion of the wastes was drawing his weapon from a demonic corpse when he saw the pack of undead rush past him, barreling onto the demons ahead of him. An interesting new development, but not one he was neccisarily opposed to. His people operated on a very different moral system than the human empires, and at the end of the day, the undead were merely hunks of flesh, given power to move again. It was making true use of the Thalai and all of it's gifts, and most Anotran tribes were open to using it if it was available to them. Cutting down another demon who made it through the wall of writhing undead, Prax looked to his side to see a most peculiar sight. The young man he had tried to save earlier, charging forward on a wave of flesh.

Laughing at Riki's question, Prax shook some of the demonic blood from his mane and said "It is neither honorable or dishonorable, wielder of flesh. I was merely doing it out of my own interest, not because of some obligation. Now come, let us bathe ourselves in the true honor of combat!"

Prax stabbed the farx into the ground, given some breathing room by Riki's mob. Instead drawing his greatbow, Prax began to rain projectiles into the bloody melee in front of him. Arrows ripped through undead and demon alike, sometimes pinning two bodies together on the ground. The zombies however, kept moving unless they were unlucky enough to have their head blown to pieces by one of Prax's arrows.

The man Vladimir ran up next to Prax as he continued to take popshots into the horde. Riki's zombies were containing the current wave, but who knew how long that would last. Vlad let his shoulders relax a bit and said "Bloody hell. I don't suppose you got a plan do yah? Otherwise, when that next wave comes, we're going to be swimming in the fuckers."

Prax let another arrow loose, and as he was reloading, he nodded up towards the temple. "The Demons do not seem to be overtly concerned with taking the hill or streaming out of that place. In fact, if my hearing is right, they also seem to be dying in there in droves to what sounds like other mortals... upworlders? Blast it. In any case, even if all three of our armies banded together, we have no idea on the horde's true numbers, nor if we could beat them. I believe our best bet for survival and perhaps even victory lies in taking a defensive position in that temple."

Noticing another one of Riki's zombies go down from a mace strike to the head, Prax returned his bow to it's place on his back, and ripped his farx from the ground. He nodded to Vladimir and said "Gather any survivors. We push after this wave." Prax then rushed forward, cutting down any demonic survivors of the previous waves. Seeing that Vladimir had gathered what was left of the Tasharian vanguard in the region, he pointed his farx up the hill, and yelled "Onwards, into the Temple!"

Prax rushed up the hill, cutting down the few demons who had also seemed to notice the structure. The Thalari purposefully slowed his steps so that his human comrades would keep pace with him. Minutes passed as the charge of the Tasharians parted the light resistance up the hill. A brief look back would show the utter devastation caused by the demons. Where before there had stood the grand army of the empire, now was a scourged battlefield, choking with the bodies of demons and human alike. Prax had never seen such wanton devestation, except at Eckers when the entire Thalai damned city collapsed into the Earth. Arriving at the pinnacle of the hill, the Lion was greeted by a sight that confused even him, a shorter woman with glowing blue eyes leading a small contingent of Dascians and apparently demons.

---

Natasia, a few minutes earlier

The dread blade pierced through another demons armor. The creature screamed in his foul tongue as dark shadows crept up his body and choked the life from him. Natasia used the life the demon bled out to feed the cold winds and ice that had begun to blow around her and the small force of undead that followed her and her guard. Mathias had a similar group raised and the fire and frost mages that accompanied them did their own brunt of the work as well. The Demons were everywhere. From what her raven had been able to percieve and tell her, the Dascians were taking the largest brunt of the demonic assault. Cutting down another of the horde, Natasia used his life to heal a cut on the back of her leg that had cut her tendon and made it hard to walk. Pausing as a small break in the demonic assault came, Natasia halted the blizzard, no longer supplied by dying demons to power it. Mathias plopped down, seated for a moment, before saying "M'lady. This is suicide. We should flee while we still have the chance."

Nat merely shook her head, saying simply "Come now Mathias. We have been able to bare the assault well enough."

"M'lady, you may not tire, but we are but mortals. We cannot uphold this assault." It was the frost mage that spoke now. Nat had never really spoken to him, but recognized the characteristic scars of an Ientry student when he had first been assigned to her. Recognizing their fatigue, she had a quick moment to look around. The Red Dog's forces were being swamped by Demonic infantry. Looking for any major respite, she saw it. The temple was being largely ignored by Demons.

Natasia saw the next wave fast approaching. Waving her hand at her guards, she said in her soft echoey voice "Gather any survivors you can in this area. I will hold off this wave. When you have found all that you can, prepare to take the Temple." The two men and women nodded their head and split up. Natasia raised her blade at the encroaching demonic wave, and in a booming echoey voice uttered "THANAGOR DRAO LO PIRAPS, THENT IR LORSV NOX CALIS. PALSTRO!" The words drifted across the field, carrying power with them. Nat had learned the dark spell from a tablet she had salvaged from Eckers, and it's name spoke it's true nature. Legion of the Damned.

A purple glow surrounded the wave, and like flies, the Demons fell over as they ran. Then, slowly, as purple smoke filled their corpses, the wave rose again, their eyes and veins glowing a cold blue. Reforming, they awaited their orders.

Natasia felt her body keel forward. Not feeling pain or fatigue had it's benefits, but at other times it left her completely oblivious to the true toll she exerted on it. Feeling something catch her before she could go face first into mud, she looked to her side and saw Mathias helping her up. Seeing the few suriving members of the Vanguard her guard had managed to find, Natasia nodded and said "We shall hopefully find shelter in the temple. Follow me."

Slowly, much slower than the Tasharian charge on the other side of the hill, Natasia and her group cut their way up the hill. Natasia replenished her own energy as various demons were cut down around her, stealing their life force to fill her own. Though several members of her Legion were cut down, the group managed to reach the pinnacle of the hill, only to be confronted by a Tasharian division, led by a massive lion shaped Thalari. Natasia believed she had seen him before, perhaps at Eckers, but couldn't quite tell why he was with the Tasharians if she had seen him there. Perhaps a mercenary? Regardless, she lowered her blade slightly and said "I believe it prudent that we acknowledge that none of us will survive should we fight each other here."

A Tasharian soldier from the other group stepped forward and nodded "Agreed. Name's Vladimir, this fellah here is Prax." The lionman growled a little. "Our plan was to hole up in the temple and hold off any demonic incursions until the main forces could mobilize and join in to cover our retreat."

Natasia nodded and said "Natasia. We had a similar idea. Shall we agree to work together until this... rather apocalyptic issue is dealt with?"

The lion spoke this time, in a deep growling voice "That seems like a good idea, yes. Into the temple we go then."

The great beast stepped into the empty altar chamber. Several demonic corpses littered the room, along with a few human bodies. Crouching over one and examining it's armor, the Thalari said "These bodies are fresh, but not from any of the three nations. I'm unfamiliar with many of the holy orders that roam this land, but I would bet this are what remains of one of their soldiers. Perhaps this is the remains of one of their temples."

The sounds of clashing below down a staircase caused the beasts ears to prick up. Meanwhile, behind the group, another large wave of Demons began to stream into the temple. Natasia let her voice boom once more and said "Into the below! Now!"

The Lion led the charge as Natasia had what remained of her Legion form a shieldwall infront of the staircase. Rushing down the stairs, the combined Dascian and Tasharian unit found what appeared to be a group of Athelans and the Knights of Shotarr engaged with a large group of demons. The Lion let loose a terrible roar as the survivors from above joined the fray in the temple.

[Tomia]

On the Surface
Despite those fighting valiantly on the surface and killing many demons, the larger battle was not going nearly as well for the surface races. Wave after wave of demons continued to pour out of the ground, every fallen demon being replaced by another. Meanwhile the surface armies were not nearly as organized. Most of their lines had faltered and many of the conscripted footmen and mercenaries on all sides had ran for their lives. The soldiers among the armies that stood their ground and fought were mostly disorganized and being routed by the charging demons. The demons had even unleashed wild looking beasts onto the battle field.

To make matters worse, if one looked closely within the ranks of Tashar and Dascus they would noticed havoc being wrought by strange creatures that were once mages. This was caused by demons using their innate ability to corrupt living things, forcing mages they targeted to turn into abominations. It wasn't only mages they effected either, non-mages could be seen senselessly attacked their own troops. As more surface warriors ran to the temple to aid those who already down there, another few dozen demons followed them. The demon army was clearly determined to take that temple for their own.

However for Alexius, the surface fight seemed far more important. He trusted those down in the temple to survive, at least those who were needed for destiny to come to pass. He had already seen their survival, but what was still up in play was the fate of the three armies. If they were all massacred the surface races would be vulnerable in the war to come. As he saw mages around him turning into demonic abominations, he realized that should take priority.

He turned to the people around him, who were now a mix of Dascus, Tashar, and Athela.

"Target the demons with the glowing hands! They are turning mages into monsters! Kill them!" He shouted as a battle cry as he rallied men around him and raised up his staff. A thunder cloud started to gather around him and lightening crackled in the air. It struck down at a nearby corrupter, striking him right off of his horse. Alexius fought like a man unafraid of death, because he was.

I have seen my death, and it is not today.

Brialya
The elven archer sat atop her horse in horror as a demon army ascended upon the field. The others around her seemed equally as shocked, but she didn't exactly take a long look. She decided her cover be damned, she wasn't going to sit back and watch as thousands were slaughtered by living nightmares. She spurred on her horse, rushing forward as she ignored the shouts of the soldiers behind her. Arrows flew passed her as she drew ever closer to the battlefield. Suddenly an arrow struck her horse's hide, and it let out a pain filled screech and bucked Brialya off before sprinting away.

Brialya hit the ground hard, groaning as she pushed herself to her feet. "Damn it..." She grumbled before grabbing her bow and charging into the fray. It was overwhelming, demons with fire dripping off their skin facing off against mages and purifiers alike. It was a chaotic sight but she forced herself to focus. She drew an arrow, loaded back, and fired at a nearby demon who flew off their horse. An abomination approached her, growling in a beast like way. She drew another arrow, this one glowing with blue rune marks and struck it right in the head. The arrow exploded in an icy blast and punctured the demon with icicles, forcing it to the ground as it bellowed in twisted rage. Arrow after arrow Brialya kept firing as she made her way toward the temple. Whatever Purity wanted, Brialya wasn't going to let him have it.

Quentin
Quentin had charged forward at the demons, cleaving one of them in half with his sword. However he was forced to quickly recover and block a spear that flew right towards him from the second row of demons. His guards fought next to him, two of them fell in the first few minutes of fighting and the other was wounded in the leg by a wayward arrow.

Luckily Quentin wasn't alone, the Athelans joined the fray, as did the Dascian contingent. The demon out numbered them though and soon a demon with a spear found himself behind Quentin and nearly took out the knight's leg before a blast of frost suddenly froze the demon in place. Quentin turned to see Lena working a spell in one hand and her blade in the other. Her eyes met his and she gave a quick nod before turning back to the fighting.

Just then he heard a loud roar, that recognized to be a beast-folk, it seems they were getting reinforcements from above.

"Push forward! Trap them between us!" Quentin shouted as he slashed away. He then heard Theo suggest holding on to the hammer. The knight begrudgingly agreed. "He's right, someone grab that hammer and keep it safe!"

[Finland SSR]

Prax

Brialya

Riki Farinhait

---

Hearing Prax's call for battle, Riki merely responded with a stern nod and fixed his pitch black cloak. For the Thalari, this battle was means to satiate his bloodlust and warrior honor - the young necromancer, on the other hand, saw nothing glamorous in the entire ordeal. They were here not to fight any ordinary opponent - they were here to battle the hordes of the underground seeking to overthrow the one goddess, Datune, from her rightful place. The only positive feeling they may extract today is the pride of saving all of Eboris from this fanatical scourge. Riki cowered behind Prax and Vladimir while the two of them released a hail of projectiles at the demonic ranks, watching his horde charge at the monsters of brimstone with fury and yet get thwarted regardless. This horde was not going to last for long.

The necromancer knelt down and started drawing on the ground again, activating his spell a second time, at which point he instantly winced and looked down to his right hand. As always, his palm was covered in various symbols, engraved upon it during his years of training among the Fading Butterfly, and almost all of them were now glowing in a faint purple light, as if it was pilfering from his hand like an insecure water bag. This meant that the amount of risen under his command was easily above a few hundred - an utterly insane number. At that point, not only was it taxing on his stamina to command and order efficiently, but each of the risen dead would see their connection to the necromancer cut off far faster than normal, if receiving damage. Regardless, it was a feat which Riki had never accomplished before. A few corpses brought from a cemetery would be what he used to practice in, not the dead of an entire battle.

Datune, thank you for giving me strength... I will make sure to repay it.

This time, Riki went for a different approach. While hundreds of dead humans and demons alike rose from their shallow graves to rejoin the battle once more, the necromancer motioned them to move slowly, defensively, instead of a full frontal charge. An offensive would be far too taxing for his stamina to handle at this point. With the corner of his eyes, Riki heard Prax and Vladimir decide on retreating towards the temple and using the defensive position there to their advantage.

"I'll cover the way! Get to position as quick as you can!" Riki yelled out in solidarity towards the plan, then turned his focus back towards the battle. Much like the two warriors feared, a new horde of demons spilled out of the portal, charging straight towards the Tasharen ranks. Even with so many risen under his command, Riki held no illusion that he could stop the attack all on his own. But, but, by sacrificing a portion of his horde, he could delay their advance while Prax and the rest manage to advance to the temple. And that was the objective here, not stopping the horde outright.

Riki's arm and fingers twitched, sending orders to the undead under his command with the slightest twitch and movement, while the necromancer himself stood up and fell back. Much as he as anticipating, he fell not to the ground, but to the grasp of several of his risen, who promptly started carrying him away in a throne of limbs. Riki's horde started to slowly retreat, leaving small groups of undead soldiers with each march - these soldiers would stand their ground before the advancing demons, forcing them to stop and destroy the resistance before charging again. A simple, but effective strategy.

The head of the Order of the Fading Butterfly, a rather mysterious and elderly necromancer, whom many believed to be a lich rather than a human, would state that the commanders and strategists of our era make a mistake by dismissing the power of necromancy. What army is easier to control and order around, one of five thousand living, or one of five thousand dead? Sure, you can make all kinds of excuses for why a living soldier might be better when fighting individually, but imagine what kind of strategies one would be able to pull off if you could control the slightest twitch of every single soldier under your command? Unfortunately, Riki was no strategist. Riki was not even a warrior, either, nor did he study the art of Necromancy to use it in combat at this scale. But there is always a first time, and if that first time is helping save all of Eboris, then it was worth it.

Riki's rather orderly retreat got scuttled, however, when a burst of flame suddenly tore through the ranks of his horde. The necromancer dropped off of his zombie carriage to witness a complete abomination, a monstrosity which might have once been a mage, corrupted into servitude for demons, rapidly approaching the necromancer. One of its hands was flickering with a powerful flame, a source of Magicka, aiming to strike the horde again. That... was going to be a problem. A frown formed on Riki's face, and the necromancer looked down to his arm to see how many of the marks scattered across it are still glowing. I still have a hundred or two hundred second chances at my disposal. This might be enough...

The necromancer leapt back to his carriage, twitching his right index finger twice. The zombies carrying him charged towards the temple as fast as they could, while the rest of the horde split into two. One half continued following Riki, while the order charged at the abomination at full speed. Thinking about it, I could have sacrificed all of them there... but I don't know if the temple will have enough corpses to replenish me. Preserving what I still have is necessary here... The abomination took the bait - fearing that the swarm of zombies might take its life, it started flailing with various spells, burning more and more of the charging, unwavering undead with each strike. A few of the scorched, heavily armored zombies which had once been Tasharen soldiers leapt straight at it, but failed to slice and bite through its hide, getting tossed away as a result. Though the rest of the horde got mopped up relatively quickly, the abomination did not get to run after the retreating necromancer - an arrow suddenly pierced it through its "head", exploding and covering the corpse in a layer of ice.

Riki forced out a faint smile, and glanced to the far distance to see the hooded Elven archer who had taken down the abomination from afar, presumably without even being aware of what it had been fighting. The necromancer escaped the battle unscathed, and while he lost the majority of his horde, those which were left were going to be easier to control. As Riki scaled up the hill, however, he soon realized that Prax, Vladimir and others were nowhere to be found. Have they entered the temple already? And the temple itself... it looked old, but magnificent. The One Goddess surely enjoys such a dedication to her.

Unfortunately, it was being infested by demons, a small congregation of them had busted down the entrance and were charging inside. If Riki's guess is correct and his allies are holed up inside, then...

Let's make a wine press.

The necromancer leapt off, retreating to the trees dotting the surroundings of the temple, while the remnants of his zombie horde went for a charge and rushed straight towards the temple. The demons, already struggling with the shieldwall raised by a legion of undead inside, would see an another horde rampaging through their ranks from behind, biting, slashing, gnawing and mauling all which get in their way. Riki himself, on the order hand, stopped by a birch tree, taking a moment to catch his breath, look down to his arm and watch the glowing marks to keep track of the casualties, and occasionally glance to the utter destruction unfolding in the battlefield below.

"Are... are we winning?"

[New Neros]

Aleksander Zog
The Battle of Haden Hill

Commander Zog moved ahead of the vanguard as ordered, taking his moose riders and the extra attachment of light cavalry assigned by Commander Holland ahead to prepare the way for their infantry advance under the orders of Sir Randolf, but before the bellows of battle could be blown, a rift tore open the ground below, and another army came to bear arms. "By the Gods..." Zog muttered, bearing witness to the dreaded bull-horns of what could only be described as hellspawn emerging from the very ground itself. "Demons," He spat, "Tall-tales to scare your children, yet, they're here in the flesh. How could this be?"

"Commander," one of his lieutenants declared, "Scouting parties had already reached the temple several hours ago. Perhaps they roused some ancient evil within the crypt?"

"We must pay for their actions? Delightful." Zog said with venomous sarcasm. "Ready your weapons, we will use our moosemen as shock cavalry two waves deep and our light riders as flank and rear guard. Lances high." Zog commanded, his men shuffling into their spaces with the use of flags coordinating their formation, watching intently as the demons snarled and barreled toward them with immense speed. Zog took his eyes from them and looked on further, seeing the demonic cataphracts stomping in the distance, having sent their weak infantry to bear the brunt of the first wave and soften the enemy before they would storm in. They clearly had no regard for friend or foe, and sought only chaos and destruction. "These are not men, elves, or beasts, my compatriots. They want blood, and we shall only give them theirs. Forward!"

Steadily, the mounted moose riders went forward, a slow gallop that steadily turned into a thunderous charge. The slapping of hooves would create an unsettling last sound of many men, enough to cause some to flee, but these lowly demons knew no fear, and thus, would fall victim to the armored column. The animalistic screams of the Eshonie riders added to the terror, the brandishing of longswords and lances meant death, and the lowering of the moose heads, showing the massive antlers of the beasts, signaled they had reached top speed. The first wave crashed into the demon horde with great impunity, the armored cavalry effortlessly tearing through the wave several demons at a time.

A sickening orange-blood ran from the bodies of the first wave, Zog himself leading the charge, his bull moose Spartak crushing several demons with his antlers and trampling several more underfoot. The Eshonie chieftan swung his greatsword in a mighty cleave, liberating life and limb from a particularly dense cluster of demons as his mount slowed after impact. As the first cavalry shock began to weaken and fade, the second wave slammed into the gaps the first had left behind, Zog personally witnessing demons being thrown nearly one hundred feet back from the moosemen's impact. Remaining mounted, Zog let Spartak duel and stomp on the hellspawn, his giant mount well-protected from their small arms with his own thick armor plate.

Zog reserved his energy and took gargantuan slices with his great-sword when he could fell more than a single demon in one blow, but as his shock attack began to wear down, he noticed no end to the demon horde, even as his own light cavalry began to approach and harass, protecting his sides and rear from envelopment. He made the decision to pull back from the depth of their charge, and grabbed a small cattle horn. Blowing it three times to sent out his order, his mounted moose cavalry began to fight their way backwards, allowing the demons to fill in the gap as the Eshonie tribesmen clustered closer together with the protection of the light cavalry supporting them. The infantry had, finally made their own appearance, and from the rock-solid wall of the moose, the Dascusan Army slowly advanced into the demon horde.

At that point, the great beasts unleashed by the army of hell tore through their own ranks in a fever to reach the front lines and spill the blood of men. One leapt to attack the armored moose, but a bull moose met the monster with a upswing of his giant antlers, snapping it's neck upwards and sending the beast back into the endless demon horde as a lifeless mound of flesh. As the battle progressed, however, Zog found himself in the company of men who would have been his enemies, the elves and Tashar, who seemed to group together in an effort to survive the onslaught.

Corpses piled higher and higher, most of them demon, but enough humans and elves to prove worrisome if the trend continued. Sickening abominations entered the fray as well, humanoid-looking balls of fire that corrupted the men and women they touched, turning what little friends they had left into foes. Zog yelled his orders over the sound of steel and screaming, "Demons with fires for palms!" He hollered, translating as fast as possible, "They're corrupting our men! Break them!" With a great heave, the Commander finally dismounted, slamming his feet upon the dead corpses of demons. His greatsword already drawn, Zog swung his heavy blade forward, slicing three demons at once in half through their plate metal protection as he advanced toward a pair of Corruptors.

"Abominations!" He yelled, drawing a dagger from his boot and impaling a demon on his main weapon, swing the dagger he had just drawn and slicing the neck of a demon preparing to attack him. Heaving his sword overhead, Zog brought the weapon down on two demons in front of him, crashing them apart and splitting the ground where it impacted. Digging his heels into the ground, and hesitating a moment as two more demons came to replace the ones he had just killed, he violently ripped his sword upwards and utterly destroyed those two as well. In the dust and blood Zog kicked up, one of his subordinates launched himself forward, armed with a greatsword as well, and crashed his own blade into a group of demons.

Having cleared a path to one of the corrupters, Zog leapt forward as well, stepping over the slain demons and jumping at one of the long-gone sorcerers, who was in the middle of practicing their unholy rituals on an armed mage of Tashar. As he kicked off one of the bodies and raised his blade to destroy the creature, time seemed to slow, and a putrid voice entered his mind, beginning with a short, almost giddy laugh. "My, my, what a strange little creature you are, bringing sword and steel to face magic."

"Begone from my thoughts, hellspawn." Zog thought, the abomination not speaking to him out loud, but inside his own head.

"But what is it that you desire, young king? I should call you king, no? Such fine skills, wasted on the likes of weak men within your Confederacy."

"You speak on things you know nothing of." Zog retorted, "You have nothing to offer me but your life, and I shall take it without thought and but a single action."

"Let me make your dreams a reality. It has been so long since I've feasted on the blood of Black Speech."

If Zog could smirk in his mind, he would. "So, you know of my ability, then?"

"It puzzles me, why do you battle with swords when you could speak things out of existence? Your ancestors must feel some disdain for such a waste of magical talent."

"Do not speak of my ancestors again, abomination. Even they knew the worth of steel, that killing men with your blade is much easier than killing them with your tongue." Time began to slowly start back up again, Zog feeling the hot breath of life return to his lungs, and in that moment, knew he needed to obliterate the demon with his voice rather than his blade. He spoke in a hushed whisper, the ancient tongue of his forebearers coming forth, magicka infusing with his words as they left his lips. "P̸̺̚E̴͍̕R̶͈̄I̴̺̎S̸̨͂H̷̩̉" He spoke, his blade falling into the ground, the demon and the mage he was corrupting being sent several meters away, the glowing handed demon being broken and bleeding in several places.

Zog reared his head, seeing the horde still had no end, but catching sight of the temples' white walls behind the line of trees. Placing his tongue to his teeth, the chieftain whistled sharply, Spartak crashing through lesser demons to get back to his master without wasting a moment. Grabbing the side of his mooses' armor and swinging himself aboard, Zog once more gave his orders, "To the temple!" He cried, "We can defend there better than here on the plains." His remaining cavalrymen mounted their armored steeds as well, and as a wall of steel, fought slowly toward the forest, allowing the infantrymen and other gathered forces to protect their rear as they pushed forward. The ruined walls of the temple were coming into view, their push steady enough to wipe out demon resistance as they moved forward, but a thought crossed Zog's mind.

"What about the camps?"

[Skyggeheim]

Danica Tryss
The Battle for Haden Hill

---

At first, the scouting run was fairly uneventful. Danica's forces were, unfortunately, hardly noticed as it would seem. She was disappointed. The chance to spill blood seemed to be lost for her and the Fangs. Though, admittedly, they would've had stood very little of a chance against the amassed might of one of these nations' armies. A hundred-odd Hercynians - great warriors though they might be - could do very little against what surmounted to be a significant portion of each nation's power. Yet, still, Danica could picture the tales of legend that would spring from such a heroic stand.

The Last Stand of the Fangs, She thought to herself, but quickly shook the thoughts away as the forces below her stirred. It seemed each was making their own move. The battle had begun. Danica smiled and raised her spear, turning the formation in the sky and down closer to observe the battle in gruesome detail. Then, she noticed something that chilled her to her core: a fourth army had entered the field. An army of cracked grey skin and burning hatred. They twitched and shifted, but yet formed professional formations. The aberrations suddenly rushed forwards, intent to consume every other living thing on the battlefield.

Briefly, Danica felt fear. She had always heard legends, every tale that was told making demons to seem a much more terrible enemy than the last. Her people called them "Pariahs" often, due to their propensity to be relatively resistant to fire compared to other creatures of flesh and blood. They were something that she never thought she would see in her lifetime, far less expect to be so close to. She waved off the myths and fancy ways to scare. What could resist the fire of a dragon? What creature of Eboris could face the mightiest predator on the continent, and live?

Now, as she raced above their ranks, she understood. But, far more so, she feared.

Yet, no quicker than the pit of fear had formed in Danica's stomach, it disappeared. She felt it replaced by something far more natural: bloodlust. The Fangs of Hercynia would get their chance to spill blood today. Pulling on Tayne's harness, the dragon halted his movement forward and held position in the air. Rapidly, her three captains approached and awaited her orders. She saw an equal mix of fear and anticipation in their eyes, and she felt a twang of sadness. Something in her mind told her that they would not live to see the next sunset.

"Qor'nath and Kozmin, take your companies to the ground and await a sufficient opening in their formation to break their line. Imleran, ride with me. We will rain fire and hatred upon them from the skies," She said, now surveying her soldiers as they waited.

"Fangs of Hercynia!" Danica bellowed, her voice carrying much farther than it should, "Today we spill the blood of those who would burn our nation to the ground! Today, we show the world why Hercynians should be feared in fields of battle! We will fight with fang, claw, tail, and wing until the enemy has been shattered upon the sheer force of our rage! Ride now with me! Ride now for death! Ride now, for Hercynia!"

A thunderous war-cry threatened to crack the sky as Danica turned Tayne and brought him into a dive. As the wind whistled in her ears, she could just barely make out the belching of a horn sounding the charge. Tayne slowly picked up speed as they rocketed towards the enemy ranks. Soon, she felt him quiver as he reached terminal velocity. She let out her own primal roar, drowned out by the rage of wind in her ears.

The demons turned their heads up too late. Danica and Tayne slammed into them with frightening speed, breaking apart pieces of their formation like paper. She gored one on the tip of her spear, and brought her heater shield down to crack the skull of another before Tayne rose once again. In his claws, he carried seven more demons that had been caught in his grip. As they rose, he let them free of his grasp. They plummeted back into the ground, never to rise again. As they turned for another pass, Danica watched as her comrades landed on the grounded and charged forward, breaking into the gaps of the formation that she had made.

Smiling, she edged Tayne forward for another dive to support her brothers-in-arms. Once again, she felt the rush of wind in her ears. Tayne flapped his wings furiously, flying just barely above the ground. Danica lowered her spear towards the demonic host once again. She gritted her teeth as they edged closer, feeling the bloodlust take control of her actions. She was one with Tayne, the ultimate lethal weapon. They were nigh-unstoppable, even to mythical enemies of ancient apocalypses.

Or so she thought. That is, until, one of the demons turned toward her. He raised one decrepit hand, and a fireball the size of a small pumpkin rocketed forward and struck Tayne in the chest. The dragon roared in pain, faltering in his path just enough to catch one of his wings on the dirt below. At the incredible speed they were travelling, Danica was thrown forward and off her mount, slamming into the ground with shocking force. She rolled for several meters, then sliding on the soft dirt before stopping. Tayne landed not far behind her, and whined weakly as he tried to stand.

The sounds of struggle from her partner forced Danica to move. She groaned as she rose to her hands and knees, pain lancing from every part of her body. As she breathed, she felt a strange twang and a rattling. She had most assuredly broken a rib, and possibly worse. Yet still, she used her spear as an aid and stood. Shakily, she turned and surveyed the scene around her. The Fangs of Hercynia were engaged in in vicious melee with a contingent of demons that far outnumbered them. Even as they cut down the monsters by the dozens, dozens more crawled from cracks and fissures in the ground. There seemed no end to them.

"Ḯ̴̯ ̷̳̿W̷͉̓Ì̶̳L̶̥̍L̴̥̄ ̸̜͛F̶̹͊Ŏ̴̮R̸̬͗M̷̜͆ ̸̩͝Y̷̝͗O̷̺͝U̸̟̓R̶͉̕ ̷̙̌B̷͕̑Ǒ̵̱N̷͔͌Ë̶͚́Ś̴̱ ̴̯̅Ǐ̴͖Ǹ̷̰T̶͕͠O̷̍͜ ̴̹͋A̷͉̓N̵̬̈ ̷̟͌Ẻ̶̫F̷̱̑F̵̪̿I̸̫̕G̷͓̈́Y̵̲͘.̶̗̏"

The growling, deep voice that rumbled inside her own mind snapped Danica out of her haze. Slowly, a demon that stood at least a head taller than her lumbered forward. In his hands he held a greatsword that ran the length of her body, yet he seemed to wield it as if it weighed nothing. The massive monster stood and faced her, an air of arrogance around it that penetrated even the hatred and pure anger radiating from it. Suddenly, without another word, it brought its weapon downwards towards Danica. She dove diagonally away from the blow, outwards and towards the enemy. Rolling and slamming her spear forward, she watched as it punched clean through the demon's thigh. The thing roared in pain, slamming its massive fist into Danica's side and sending her reeling.

"M̶̬̌Ỷ̴̠ ̵͓̐M̶͖̒A̴͓̋Ś̶̲T̵̫̐Ḛ̸̊R̷̲̔S̵̙͌ ̷̺̔W̷̩̏İ̸̱L̵͔̈L̶͍̕ ̷͕̓T̸̿͜Ù̶̯R̶̲̾N̵̦̈́ ̵̬̆Y̵̲̆Ö̷̠́U̴̞͆R̸̟͘ ̸͇͘B̷͙͒Ḛ̷̿A̶̠͊Ṡ̶̼T̵͚͘ ̴̱̑A̵̮̓G̷̹̅A̶̩̔İ̶͎N̵̡͂S̴͎͐T̶̢̐ ̵̳͠Y̸̙͌O̷̢̅U̴͚̎R̴̟̿ ̶͚̕O̷̳͐W̴̢̏N̶͗ͅ ̷̭͐K̶̯̃Į̷͘Ṅ̶̯D̸̪̋.̵͈͝ ̸̓͜Ỉ̴̢T̶͙͘ ̷̝̽W̷̘̾I̸̜̓L̸̲̈́L̴̦̀ ̷͇̏B̸̢̌U̴̠͝R̴̠͝N̶̼̍ ̴̱̀Y̵̟̆O̵̕͜U̶̘̾R̸͚̿ ̴̹̃F̵͉̈I̷͕͒Ȩ̷͠L̷̦̈́D̷̢̕S̸͔̚ ̶̳̈A̷̞͋N̷̍͜Ḓ̶͑ ̶͚̅İ̴̖N̵͓̾C̶͚̄I̷̡͌N̶̞̒E̷̬̓Ȑ̸̨A̶̗͋Ț̴̆E̶̟̅ ̸̞̈Y̵̮̋O̸̗̐Ű̸̢R̴̍͜ ̵͙͑F̵͈͋Ṙ̶͉I̷͔͐E̶͍͛N̴̻͐Ḓ̸̐Ś̶̹.̴̦̃ ̸̼̓Y̵̜̐Ȯ̸̗U̸̘̔ ̸̪͌C̸̰̃Ḁ̶̛N̴̺̚Ṋ̴̋O̵̧̔T̷̥͒ ̴̪͊S̸̠͘T̶̗̈́Ä̷͉́Ǹ̴͙D̵̳̈́ ̵̯̐Ȁ̴̬G̷͍̓Á̷̠Į̷͒Ṇ̴̃S̸̝͗T̸̜̅ ̸̲̆Ủ̶͔S̷̳̃.̵͇̈" Came another grumble that seemed to reverberate around Danica's skull. At the mention of Tayne, who was still struggling to get on his feet, she bared her fangs and growled. Drawing The Serpent Blade and adjusting her grip on her shield.

"You will not touch him, abomination." She replied. This seemed to throw the demon into a rage, as it tugged out Danica's spear from its leg. The wound spurted molten blood, but the demon seemed otherwise unaffected. As Danica watched, the demon snapped the spear in two. She felt cold hatred fill her veins. The demon had just shattered a prized weapon of the Ko'el without so much as a second look, but now he would pay for it. With a roar, the monster charged forward. Danica matched its roar and rushed forward as the demon brought its sword around in a horizontal strike, aiming to cut Danica in half. Carrying her momentum, she dropped to both knees, sliding on the wet dirt. As she traveled underneath the strike, she stabbed her blade forward and watched it plunge into the demon's stomach. Switching her grip and standing rapidly, she yanked the blade upwards, opening the demon from navel to sternum. Tugging it out, she looked upwards; the light faded from the demon's eyes and he dropped his weapon. With one final, rasping breath, the thing fell backwards and died.

Danica flicked the blade of its blood and stood upon the corpse, drawing a deep breath. With every ounce of anger, rage, and bloodlust within her, she bellowed a primal scream: a rallying cry to the Fangs of Hercynia that remained. Yet also, a challenge to any demon that would seek to touch her or her beloved steed. Slowly, she watched as the Fangs closed in around her, battling back the horde as they formed a defensive posture around Tayne. Charging forward, she joined her brothers in the fight. Demon after demon fell to their blades, their claws, and their fangs. And yet still, more came. They seemed endless, and it wasn't long before bodies began piling up around the slowly dwindling Hercynian numbers. Soon, Danica found herself fighting whilst standing on the corpses of both the enemy and her allies. Every swing she took was a fatal blow, and yet every kill she scored another leering face took its place.

Yet, even as she slew without compassion in a nearly-beautiful dance of death, she could feel the creeping cancerous growth of doubt fill her mind. One thought permeated the rage and bloodlust that willed her body to move forward and fight against the tide.

This truly may be the Last Stand of the Fangs.