Dreams and Romance, Battles and Bloodlust

[Guest Broghamir]

Chapter 2 Image

[Guest Broghamir]

Prologue

 

It was a somber day in the eastern fields that afternoon. The smell of sulfur was upon the air, as pillows of smoke rose like jagged pillars in the distance. Everywhere, black ash was falling slowly to the earth, creating a haze of darkness midst the sun. As the wind lashed them across the knolls in a frenzy of soot and cinders, a call suddenly tore across the rolling hills. It’s gale, wretched and piercing, echoed upon the blackened air; calling for uprising. Calling for war.

 

Across the burning lands, at the edge of a great wood encircling the valley, an army was assembling. Soldiers of every stature and make, bounded in armor bearing crests of a noble creed, were lining the field in their respective companies. A tone of fear was upon the air, as the battle call from across the way bit at their bones with cold maws. Every eye was hesitant, every heart stricken with apprehension.

 

“The ranks ripple with anxiety, m’lord Alexander”, said a cloaked rider wrapped in blackened armor and a sable cloak, as he turned to look upon his general. “They’re hearts are fearful.”

 

“Aye,” Sir Alexander answered, his eyes dancing with thought.

 

“Perhaps, m’lord…” The figure paused, waiting for his master to meet his gaze. Once Alexander, eyes still weighed with thought, turned to the cloaked figure, the man finished, “They need to hear assurance. All men fear death my lord, but all men love what they’re hearts know as true”.

 

“Then I shall give them that,” Alexander said, kicking his horse to a walk. Nodding once more to the cloaked rider, Alexander rode out to deliver a call of his own.

 

“There comes a time when we must stray from our fields of grain, to take stand on the fields of battle!” the troops cheered as their lord drew a breath, “We may not emerge unscathed, we may not slay all our oppressors… but with faith as our guide, and certitude as our shield we will emerge heroes! And heroes never go home without a fight, nor do they whimper from the battle when the war has yet to be won, and the enemy still stands nigh upon the horizon! We will fight, and we will… not… be… defeated!”

 

* * *

 

The scent of fear carried on the stagnant wind like a festering wound left open to rot and spill. As fires burned the lush Western fields to blackened corpses, twisted hands worked swiftly to prepare for the noon’s arrival, and the events that it would herald.

 

Like grotesque shadows, they moved swiftly underneath the daylight. Their voices, guttural and menacing, screamed tirelessly as they completed their wretched task. With blades and great chains, they tore from the earth the ancient trees that lined the western field, only to bring them forth and burn them. Towering blazes, clawing toward the heavens, spewed forth black smoke as they devoured the once beautiful trees and grass lands in a fiery slaughter. As the fires burned mercilessly, the skies began to fade behind a screen of black. The army of shadows was building a cover in which to lurk in on the battlefield. A shroud, in which to conduct their art of slaughter.

 

The shadows, creatures of nightmarish design, were vile but mortal. They wore black, ragged armor, rusted and bearing no crest. Their skin was a dark yellow and green, and their eyes were cloudy opal. They bore weapons of all makes, some unrecognizable from standard arms, and were unkempt exempt from the sheen of silver along their edges, indicating a jagged and deadly edge. Their tips were poisoned, and their hearts thirsty for war.

 

As another tree was slain and ripped from the earth, a sudden piercing cry echoed over the landscape. The shadows, wretched as beasts and wanton in their destruction, suddenly erupted in a frenzy of howling and horrid cheer. They waved their blades in the air, answering the call of the cry, knowing its purpose and delighting in it. Soon they would descend upon the land like a plague.

 

Whilst the shadows worked furiously to manifest their shroud of synthetic darkness, another army stood waiting. This army was comprised of men, laden with plate armor of fine make. Standing at attention, they seemed as stone, save for their eyes. Their eyes, fixed on the shadow creatures and their horrid work. Darting from one shadow creature to the next, an unspoken unease was felt amongst them as they watched the desecration of nature. They understood why it needed to be done, but their hearts still ached from the sight.

 

No man questioned, however, the alliance they now held with these creatures. A pact existed now, forged with blood, so strong that they now could call these creatures brother.

 

The soldiers, ignoring the Howl of War from the shadow creatures’ ranks, now waited for the appearance of their leader to sound the charge. They awaited the appearance of their High Commander; the most feared Warlord in the Western and Eastern Territories. They waited for Marionus, the Dread Lord; High Commander of the Armies of Rekmor, and right hand of the Lord of Nightmares, leader of the Hand of Rectitude. The Dread Lord, a legend spoken only in whispers, had been sent to lead this excursion, and few could understand why.

 

“I still don’t believe or understand it,” One soldier whispered to another, “Why would the Dread Lord be sent to lead this battle, of all the fronts the Hand is fighting? Why would we be pulled from the Northern Front to support them? From what I hear it’s a dispute between these Gorogs and the Antaean Confederacy. Why risk it?”

 

“I have no idea,” answered the other soldier, “I heard it was because the Lord of Nightmares wanted to reward the Gorogs for joining the Hand of Rectitude. A sort of perk for increasing our influence in the East. I think it’s because this is the of the first interceptions of Confederacy and Hand agendas, and the Lords want to put up a strong face, stab as much fear into the heart of Antaean while no direct conflict exists.”

 

“Well, whatever the reason, I’ll believe the Dread Lord is coming when I see…”

 

As though to spite the soldier, suddenly he perceived a living nightmare.

 

The rows of men suddenly drew back in shock, dividing into two groups as a rider came from the forest and began to slowly walk through their ranks. They gasped, and some even fell from the sight of the rider, all responding to natural fear, for what they saw was vice manifested. Draped in a black cloak, tall and menacing, was the Dread Lord. Bound in deep black armor, with a horned bone helmet and a wicked scythe in hand, he walked amongst them as death. Dark, immortal, and fearsome. Marionus, slayer of men.

 

The Gorogs, who still scampered in bloodlust to their work, suddenly screamed in fear as the rider descended upon them. Their screams of war changed to whimpers in the presence of the War Lord. Cowering, they quickly made out of his way, though his pace was not swift.

 

Alongside the High Commander rode several more riders. All draped in armor and weapons of sorts, all bearing the crest of the Hand of Rectitude. The sight of these men was awesome and fearsome. As they dismounted and entered a tent out from the wood, all were silent. And, as they disappeared into the canvas garrison, they heard one, a man in Grey armor and a winged helmet, call to the armies, “Give call again. Let them hear us coming. We attack at noon, and nothing shall spare them now from death. Soon the blood of our enemies will stain the ground, and our victory will echo into the East. Let them fear us. Let them die!”

 

The Gorogs erupted into a bloodthirsty howl, and the men of Rekmor’s army drew their swords in salute.

 

It wouldn’t be long now.

[Guest Broghamir]

Explanation

 

OOC: Alright everyone, the following is a quick explanation on the format that this thread will be undertaking. Please bear with us for a moment.

 

There will be three threads started for this RP. One thread in which both parties are involved (and perhaps the more major events of the RP) and one each for each individual party.

 

This has resulted from the aspect that there are two distinct opposing forces (The Hand of Rectitude and the Antaean Confederacy), as well as the option given to both sides whether or not they will intercede one another. A story and plot HAS been constructed, but the players have the option of complete world and roleplaying freedom.

 

At any point in which roleplaying must recommence on another thread, or if directions are needed, there will be instructions at the end of each post (by Bhurin and Foe Calibur) as to what to do.

 

On another note, consider Broghamir as a neutral persona; one in which Bhurin and Foe Calibur are both correlating the story.

 

One last side note: Those who belong to the Antaean Confederacy must NOT post on the Hand's thread, and vice versa. What occurs on those threads, unless brought to the attention to everyone in the main thread, is, for all intents and purposes, undisclosed. (But feel free to read )

 

Any other discussions will be conducted OOC in the Green Room.

 

So that's that. This thread will come under full way very soon. Enjoy!

[Guest Balladore]

Taming of the Forest

 

Balladore watched the battle preperations from a distance... the forest was being destroyed, and for the sake of more destruction... Sooner or later, he would have to declare an oath of loyalty... and even the thought of it made him nervous. What shall I do? The Confederates at least are mainly honest... though the Hand appears to be more powerful...

 

The druid sighed as he continued watching the two massive armies, about to clash together in the madness of battle. As he watched, he fingered his amulet mindlessly, which was definately his strongest ally... the amulet had an enormous power... but also an enormous weakness.

[Gyrfalcon]

Gyrfalcon bowed to Alexander as the leaders of his forces were dismissed, and with a small hand signal, he gathered Karl in. The two of them were the first ones out of the tent, and Gyr chuckled softly as Karl nearly slumped as the tension of being around so many higher-ranked officers left him. "Come on, Karl, lets go get the unit ready to ride... again." Karl groaned, and Gyr suppressed his own noise... a week of hard riding, and then more hours of riding and off to battle.

 

They found the 2nd Special Ops unit easily, off to the side, clustered in small groups and talking quietly. They straightened up as Gyrfalcon strode into the middle of their formation.

 

"Okay people, you most likely already know... especially if you're doing your jobs and keeping your eyes and ears open... the camp is forming up to attack a force of the Hand of Rectitude, who's entered the fringe of the Confederacy's territory and is burning down the forests. We're going with them. Mount up, and fall in behind the main formation. If we're needed, we'll be called up. There will be more orders then." The soldiers nodded, and murmured "Yes, sir." before climbing into their saddles. Gyrfalcon sighed as he swung atop his own horse and patted its neck.

 

I'm getting too old for this. he thought to himself, sardonically.

[Falcon2001]

Cioden smiled wanly down at the young elf. "You...you wish to be my apprentice?" after a few seconds, a nod was made by the nervous elf.

Cioden looked him over. "Hmm...good. Well, at least you have the physical capacity for it. I hope that sword of yours is of any use on the battlefield?" the inflection at the end turned it to a question.

Mathew nodded vigorously. "Y-yes sir, I mean mage, I mean...uh..."

Cioden cut him off.

"From now on I am either master or shalafi, or even Cioden. I do not take offense to people using my name."

"V-very good...uh...Cioden. I have trained for well over ten years and have mastered many forms of battle with the sabre." Cioden looked at him again, this time more appraisingly.

"There's more to you than meets the eye, boy. Much more. But in any case, you will need a few things...let's see here..." He waved a pale hand, and a bracelet and a knife appeared in the air in front of Mathew.

"This is a rather crude copy of my own bracelet, but it will serve it's purpose: to keep the fear from my forces from overriding your mind." The bracelet was a good half-foot long and had runes etched on it in spiraling curves. "If you direct spells into it, you may transfer the energy more directly to your weapon than a normal enchantment spell, and it goes for all weapons you pick up too."

He handed his apprentice the knife then, long and slim and sharp as a razor.

"This too, is yours now. It belonged to me for a long time and now I have much better. It's only enchantment is the ability to return to your hand after being thrown, so throw as often as you want. Now, what studies have you pursued in the arcane arts?"

Mathew stuttered for a few seconds, then coughed. "Well, I know almost all the basic attack and defense spells, along with all of the Death and Illusion summoning spells...I also know many other minor cantrips that I can't see as coming in too useful in the battle."

Cioden laughed. "Everything is useful, student. Everything. Time will tell."

Then, he strode off to where his forces were waiting in the woods outside to prepare for the battle.

[Guest Broghamir]

Drifting slowly, slowly down,

The hourglass drains slowly now,

The hours undone herald great

Tragedy to be struck, the time is late.

And dies without recourse or sound.

Wretched hands with wretched tasks now

Gather nigh, seeking warm flesh to tear

Intent to fulfill a murderous vow,

The companies march, betwixt warfare.

Signaled now by murderous howl…

Fear invades both just as foul…

 

The daylight shadow shrouded the sun as it reached its height in the noon sky. The skies were dark, as though a black storm had encompassed the valley, but now refused to roar with storm. The stench of defiled nature wafted on the air, offending even the most numb of senses. Unwary eyes stung with tearful pain, and those that needed to breath burned their lungs with each breath. And, to add sound to the onslaught to the senses, the call of war echoed across the landscape.

 

Finally, like two great storms gathering, the armies of Rekmor and Dainlock; the forces of the Hand of Rectitude and the Antaean Confederacy, became visible and known to one another.

 

It was no common task for man or beast, to slay another in such a manner; to slay for the sake of slaying was far from humane. That did not bother those who stood astride the burning lands asunder, for they were for from any notion of humanity. But here, blades still sheathed, the righteous warriors marched in perfect formation.

 

Their leader had known no defeat, but had suffered many losses. His years in battle as a soldier had taught him to disdain those who stood across the battlefield, even before their faces were shown. It is much harder to kill a man you know. Even so, his years as commander had taught him to sustain this, but with caution; no man knows his future, as none can truly predict it… but within this life there are certain variables none can ignore. His life had been full of these, and he had learned to embrace them.

 

Here he rode atop a large warhorse, massive war hammer in hand, to meet his supposed oppressors. Behind him his grand army spread across the rolling hills as mail on the chest of an earthly titan. Clad in a banded mail of sorts, with helm on head and bearing the various weaponry of their platoon, the soldiers marched to Alexander’s command. Twice as many astride as deep the army moved in step to the omnipresent sound of the drums.

 

The first four ranks brandished deadly composite bows and large quivers of long shafted arrows. Behind them marched two ranks of spear wielding warriors, for protection against mounted fighters. Next marched row upon row of shielded swordsman, each with both long and short sword for various purposes. And perhaps the more intimidating; on either flank rode Alexander’s cavalry.

 

Many abreast on either side the mounted warriors stood taller than the others, half with large spears, the rest with various forms of adapted weaponry. Most held cavalry long swords, made for mounted fighting, but modified by Alexander’s smiths for easier ground fighting if needed. The larger riders wielded flails, a strong wooden shaft with chain and ball.

 

Lastly at the back of the massive display of well-trained military prowess marched Gyrfalcon’s division of mounted scouts. Of no small skill these men rode with confidence behind their Captain. In times of war Gyrfalcon and his division were never far from Alexander’s side. And to either side of this proud battalion rolled a few of the Confederacy’s massive siege craft. The crafts were made for battle and had witnessed many, the large wooden supports rose like monstrous pillars for the rolling frame. The catapults would be used to project the large oil satchels and grapeshot into the oncoming fray.

 

Alexander strained his eyes to make out faces in the abominable mass opposing him, failing to do so, yet still able to make out the army, Alexander ordered a halt to his soldiers. The Duke’s forces stopped immediately after the order was relayed throughout the ranks with practiced precision. Straining yet again he waited for the diplomat he did not expect to see, but hoped for nonetheless. Seeing none Alexander righted himself and turned to speak to Miducus.

 

Heralded by the sounds of drums, beating a dreadful march into the air, the horizon of the nearest hills began to fill with figures. Like thousands of insects, infesting the land with their numbers, the creatures came over top the hill, descending into the valley like a liquid nightmare.

 

The Gorogs were in front. Hideous and vile, sweating pus and bile, their skin was a slimy green and their hair greasy black. Their teeth, jagged and malformed, lay rotting in their gapping maws like festering bone. The Gorogs, of whom lived in moors and caves, were monsters who feared the sunlight and hated all men. They resembled most closely deformed humans, roughly of same height and build but hunched over. Adorned with darkened armor, and gripping weapons rusted and poisonous, they screamed with terrifying frenzy. They waved their limbs, and marched in chaos down the slopes of the knolls.

 

Behind them, led by cavalry, were human soldiers, clad in steel armor. These ones, graced with quality weapons, held bows and swords and nothing more. They marched in obedient lines, following a mounted horseman with winged helm and commanding voice. These were the General Forces of Rekmor, its largest and most effective army. At their lead was Ghorn, His sword out and held defiantly out at his side. He shouted indecipherable orders to his army as it marched behind the Gorogs; a steel wall in front of black waste.

 

As the hills became blanketed in the black plague, more and more of their numbers were revealed. Like a never-ending tide, comprised of creatures of every design, the ground shook and the air shuddered with their approach. The smell of Gorog, detestable and offending, filled the air as well, adding more poison to desecrated air.

 

Behind the soldiers of Rekmor, lagging somewhat behind, were the shadows. Monsters and men, fallen to the world, and carrying weapons of fearful design. All of them were dead in their eyes, but solid of form and presence. These were the Weapons, granted to this army as gifts from the Lord of Nightmares. Amongst them Giant siege weapons, terrible and deadly, were pulled and pushed onto the field. Creatures larger than the mounts and beasts moved with them, some towering over the others like giants, and soldiers with fanatic insanity torturing them behind their eyes and voices; driven only to battle and un-fearful of death, sulked forward like graceless corpses as well.

 

At last the massive army stopped. A line of the black figures had formed across the hills, as though an ebon hand had gripped the hillside into darkness. Suddenly, one of the Gorogs blew into a one of their wretched horns, causing the whole of the army to erupt into a frenzied howl. The Gorogs screamed, brandishing their weapons in the air in a sickening display of blood lust. This continued for some time, only dying as a single rider came forward.

 

The figure was unnaturally tall, nearly as monstrous as the beasts surrounding. He was clad in black armor, black as pitch, completed with chain mail guards and deep leather boots. In his hand he held a scythe, wicked and large as a two handed sword, this figure rode a black stallion until he was at the very front of the armies.

 

The figure then struck its scythe into the ground, leaving it rigid in the grassy terrain, and pulled up from the side of its saddle a large, sable bow. It was arcane in make, and reflected demonic origins in its craftsmanship.

 

The figure notched an arrow, then slowly drew the massive bow and fired.

 

Off on the horizon, just above the horde of dark figures, an arrow erupted from a massive bow bearer. It sailed effortlessly through the smoke laden air, aimed at Alexander’s turned head. It sailed nearer…

 

“Midicus…“

 

Nearer.

 

“I am…“

 

Nearer.

 

“Concerned…”

 

Nearer.

 

“They are…”

 

Nearer.

 

The slight hum of the large arrow was muffled by human flesh as the arrow made contact…

 

“Alexander!” Midicus howled, a wretched sound to come from a mortal throat.

 

“My Lord!” The other high ranked officers yelped in panic as the arrow hit. Alexander’s hand was wrapped about the lower shaft of the arrow as, to everyone’s surprise, Alexander pulled his had away and the arrow came with it. There was no mark in the Duke’s helm, nor blood on his hand. The arrow its self had been caught from the air before hitting!

 

Midicus’s face showed no concern, only relief and understanding. Alexander had long been his friend, he should know better than doubt his skills. Few arrows surprised Alexander, he had an ear for these things; the subtle hum of the arrow’s feather’s cutting the air was all but naught to his senses.

 

“M-My Lord… you are alright?” The others were not so easily pleased, they didn’t understand how Alexander could have caught it.

 

“I am fine, I will not die this day… rest assured.” Alexander looked back over his shoulder to see a large cloaked mass in the enemy lines setting a bow upon it’s massive shoulders as it turned to give orders.

 

Knowing his shot had been well aimed, Marionus instantly turned his horse about and, grabbing his scythe, began back toward the army. He paused for but a moment, to quickly perceive the shadow-like figures amongst the Confederacy’s soldiers, before galloping back.

 

The arrow was a sable arrow, showing that there would be no terms for surrender, as Alexander had suspected.

 

“We stand and let them come to us, we need the advantage of a good flurry of arrows, they have far more forces than us.” The concern was masked by his calm features as Alexander repositioned his helm and turned back to his opposition.

 

Seeing the large figure giving attack orders to his horde Alexander saw no choice but to do the same, “Archers ready your bows! …”

 

Across the battlefield, the dark archer was now before his army, commanding them with a thunderous voice….

 

Shouting now, Marionus’ voice tore across the Black army like a raging gale, his voice full of hatred and rage.

 

“Minions of Rectitude!” He began, raising his arms into the air, “Hear me, and know the will of our Lord!”

 

The army answered with another fevered call.

 

“Before us stands the forces of blight, creatures not purified by our Lord’s Hand! They are infidels, ignorant to their ways of blasphemy, and vile in their stagnant, festering lands! It is time for bathe this soil in their blood, and cleanse them of their sins! Let us slay the infidels, and marvel in their PAIN!”

 

At that, Marionus thrust his scythe into the air, and swung it toward the Confederacy’s army. The hoards of Gorogs instantly reacted, and began to rush the field…

[Guest Foe Calibur]

The ranks of archers drew up their bows and notched the first of their deadly shafts, taking aim at the now charging Gorogs.

 

“Ready the catapults!!” Alexander continued shouting commands.

 

At the rear of the massive army men started drawing and tying the huge timbers as the archaic war machines were loaded.

 

“Archers commence fire until they are within fifty yards, infantry step forward on that mark!!” Alexander’s gaze shifted to the readied catapults, “Fire siege craft midfield until defensive line is broken!!”

 

The Gorog swarm drew forth as a greasy guile to the inevitable clash. The battlefield became ridden with the sweat of the stinking horde as their advance was made, closer still as the first flurry of arrows was launched. Many of which where met by the screams of agony that erupted from their dying hosts. The carnage of battle had begun…

 

Arrow after arrow found its mark in the twisted bulk of Gorog flesh; pushing deep into their horrified oppressors. Those hit fell almost instantly, arrows protruding from their ruined bodies. Lying lifeless, an abhorrent thing to behold, the sweaty warm cadavers provided yet another obstacle to the fray of battle.

 

More struck, and more fell. Gorog blood ran as quickly as their kin advanced. They ran, unscathed by their fallen, as blood from new wounds and new corpses splashed against their faces. Their numbers were less, but not drastically so.

 

The ropes tightened, oil bombs lit, the catapults loosed their pestilent loads into the lurid din. Screams of anguish and surprise exploded from the Gorog ranks. The ignited oils splashed, their horrible maiming mixture landing on the lurid remains of once living things. The putrid stench of burning flesh and the vile sound of sizzling tissue engulfed the battlefield as more Gorogs met their gruesome end.

 

The Gorog horde pressed on, hurling themselves across the fiery pits the Confederacy siege craft had spawned. With savage hatred and a new lust for revenge the Gorogs ignored the searing remains of their less fortunate comrades to press on to the Antaean forces.

 

The archers withdrew their bows now, the Gorogs were almost within melee range. Marching between the archers’ ranks the sword wielding infantry stepped forward to engage the oncoming throng.

 

Alexander watched with pain in his eyes as the catapults payload hit the shambling mass of oncoming soldiers. Though he had witnessed the grim display before, he never got used to the smell of burning flesh, and the garbled screams of pain that accompanied them. The flesh melting from the still erect creatures, struggling to live, was hard for even a hardened soldier to watch. These were the times when Alexander questioned his role, when he saw the destruction his choices could make… when the wars were fought, and the soldiers cried his name as they died…

 

“Wonderful…” Midicus was beaming behind his cowl, “This is working perfectly…” Midicus trailed off as the two armies collided. From within the darkness of his hood the inhuman sounds of archaic magiks could be heard as a spell was woven.

[Bhurin]

As the Gorogs rushed the fields, the remainder of the army stood motionless, waiting for further word from their masters.

 

“Sir?” Said a field commander of Calvary as Marionus rode up next to him, “Why do the Gorogs rush the field without support?”

 

Marionus calmly positioned his horse in front of the other Calvary, looking coldly into the distance. “The Gorogs make up a large majority of our soldiers. Despite their loses at the blades of projected weapons, they shall reach our enemies defensive line. Once they have, and pined down their anti-calvary units and long ranged craft, we shall move our kindred in to offer reinforcements. The Gorogs shall scatter the enemy, and offer us a breaching wall to invade…”

 

“Brilliant sir!” cried the General enthusiastically.

 

Marionus turned to watch the battle unfolding. “It shall not be long. Prepare to advance our Calvary and main infantry. Pull the archers and siege-craft as well. Show them only an advancing tide…”

 

After another moment, Marionus turned his head subtly toward an unknown destination, and nodded.

 

Across the way, behind a solid defensive line of Grol Giants, Yar’cule returned the nod, then turned to Zakuro, Lady of the Burning Scars, and said “My dear, prepare yourself. The enemy is armed with magik, and our skills shall be invaluable in suppression and elimination of that threat…”

 

Zakuro nodded, and returned to motionless silence. Yar’cule, meanwhile, raised his hands and began to chant softly to himself, his form becoming somewhat distorted and wavy in the presence of building magic.

 

Ghorn, meanwhile, stood impatiently but obediently silent at his post in front of the General Infantry, waiting for his orders to charge. He watched with vague interest as the lines of Gorogs fell to the Confederacy’s weapons. “Well this is rather pointless…”

 

“Sir”, came a Captain, running up to Ghorn.

 

“What is it?” Ghorn said with bored digust.

 

“Lord Marionus gives order to prepare to rush upon his command!”

 

“Good,” Smiled Ghorn, turning and whispering under his breath, “It’s good to see a brain under all that shadow and religious rubbage…”

 

As Gorogs fell to a hail of arrows and siege weaponry the other Champions of Rectitude waited or made their way into battle with terms and agendas of their own…

 

 

(OOC: All right everyone, take it away. Have some fun with it, and remember: a killed NPC can alter plot / a killed player can ruin fun, at least at this stage of the game…)

[Wyvern]

Justin Silverblade posted,

 

Jadus had mounted his steed and observed the specticle of battle. How he loved it so. Instinctively, his hand went to his weapon.

 

Soon.

 

Though his face hardened as it was trained to be, joy could not help but escape through his eyes.

 

Jadus had what he needed for battle, a hand crossbow attached to his left wrist, and a long-sword that would, in battle, cling to his right hand. Now he need only apply his skill for his part, of ensuring the Hand's success.

 

From behind Ghorn's forces, Jadus watched as a Capitan told Ghorn his orders. His hearing acute, the Northern Warrior of the Hand listened to the orders to charge on the Dread Lord's word.

 

Impressive tactics. But I think my role here can be better used then as an impressive member of "Ghorn's" army.

 

His eyes gazed for the proper soldiers. He needed 3. Two sharp pairs of eyes, and one skilled blade. If they had been trained well, they could keep a cool head under battle. He rode from behind them to the front lines, eventually finding himself astride from Ghorn.

 

There they are!

 

His eyes met those who were surely doomed to die by this choice. He met eye contact with each of them, and beckoned them with black glove, out of rank and line. Three soldiers that, to the untrained eye, looked like all the rest walked forth nervously. What had they done to warrant such attention.

 

"I need your skills," Jadus stated plainly.

 

"But our-"

 

"Nevermind your army. Nevermind your commander. You are under my command now," seeing doubt in the soldiers eyes Jadus continued slightly, letting his face soften and letting (false) concern shine through. "It is for the good of the Hand. Wait here."

 

Jadus rode half way towards Commander Ghorn, who had by now, caught and watched Jadus' actions. "Ghorn!" shouted the warrior, "I'm taking three of your soldiers." Pointing to the waiting three, Jadus did not wait for an answer, but dismounted. "We're going in."

 

Sending his horse back to the encampment, Jadus started to the edge of the hill. His gloved and gauntleted hand motioned for the three clueless soldiers to accompony him.

 

Protests from Ghorn met Jadus' back, warning him that there was no order to go in.

 

"There was no order for you and your troops to charge, Commander Ghorn. I have the acknowledgement of the Hand. They knew my ways before ordering me here."

 

And so, the four began their walking decent down the hill to meet the dieing Gorogs, and the Confederate scum they would soon be upon.

 

"Uh- sir, what are we doing?" dared one of the soldiers.

 

"It is a simple task I need the three of you to complete," Jadus said, not losing his gaze with the enemy army.

 

Now we'll see how well Ghorn has trained you, without your kindred around to guide your blades.

 

"You, watch for any magick casters on the Confederate side. Concern yourself naught with anything else, and bother me not lest they intend to cast our way."

 

Still walking and gaze unwavering Jadus motioned his voice to the other keen set of eyes. "You watch our High Sorcerer, Yar'cule. I assume you know who he is. A lady will be close by, also a mage. Watch for them. Though on our side, I would know what alterations to our battlefield they make. alert me if need be."

 

They continued, and the third soldier stayed silent, nervous as to his role in this. Finally, as they began their decent onto their opponents, the sounds, sights, and smells of battle started to became real to them. No longer was it background noise. The hardened look upon the face of Jadus disappeared. It was replaced by the smile of a long lost pleasure. He released his long-sword from it's jail and weilded it readily.

 

"And... and me sir?" the last soldier piped up quietly above the noise they would soon become a part of.

 

"Keep them alive." Adorned in his black and red platemail, Jadus noted that the battle lines had become visiable. There were faces now. He could see faces, and they could see his. A slight laughter emerged from his throat.

 

"I'll do the rest."

 

Only moments now. Precious moments...

Wyvern00 posted,

 

As the wretched wave of nauseating filth known as the Gorogs draws closer to the frontline Confederate infantry of pikemen, Lance grimaces and tightly clutches his spear. Something stank to him about this entire situation... why would the forces of Rekmor blatantly waste their minor infantry on the battlefield? The Gogors were being slaughtered out there, but Lance knew very well that those in charge of the Army of Rekmor were no fools... What were their true intentions behind this mindless slaughter...?

 

Lance's train of thought is interrupted, however, as an enormous cry rings out from the ranks of the pikemen and they begin to charge into battle. Quickly glancing back to his friend Bobor (who was in charge of one of the major catapults) Lance briefly waves, then clutches his spear tightly and prepares for the onslaught. After taking a deep breath of what may be the only semi-fresh air he'll be breathing in a while, he lowers his helmet visor and procedes to rush into combat along with the other pikemen...

 

The violent sounds of weapons clashing and horrendous battle cries suddenly break out in the battlefield as the infantry division meets head on with the remaining Gorogs. The sound of spears connecting to half-rotted flesh rings through Lance's ears as he parries the blade of a hideous creature that looks vaguely human...

 

"Die!" cries Lance, shoving his spear through the chest of the Gogor and managing to impale a second directly behind it in the process. Quickly turning, he fends of a third by means of the wooden backbone of his spear and decapitates a fourth with one swift vertical motion. Noticing a Gogor raising a sword directly behind a Confederate pikeman, Lance rushes and tackles the would-be assassin, shoving his spear directly through the vile creature's throat and saving the Confederate's life in the process...

 

Wiping a mixture of sweat and Gogor blood and pus from his face, Lance turns to meet his next opponent...

[Lady Celes Crusader]

The Lady with the Burning Scars nods at her master's comment. She knows that if the wizards have to be on the battlefield, they'll be more likely on the back.

 

Hum... an assaillant from the back door? I wonder how they'll react to millions of little cratures. It might be risky, but I know ways to destroy them easily if any of our opponent takes control of these

 

She closes her eyes and her hands form a triangle. While whispering a summoning spell, fire bursts out of her scars, causing a pain that the War Sorceress learned to deal with. When she is done, another black swarm with thousands of tormented squeals can be heard from afar. A million of blood thirsty rats made their way behind the Confederate forces and savagely attacks the catapultes and the unfortunate who were simply outnumbered.

 

- Now, lets help the front line. I want to smell blood, lots of blood.

 

She concentrates again and casted a spell that makes the tips of any weapons from the Hand's army to ignite within fire. Flame are still burning out of her scars as she chants the final words of her spell. She opens her eyes again and smiles when she heards the screams, the sword clash and the agonies.

 

- That's what I call "music"! Let's finish the writing of the first movement of this "symphony of chaos".

 

She then concentrates to throw ponctual fireballs when she feels its needed. The pain from her fire-bursting scars is easily forgotten at each scream of agony and pain she heard. Her yellow eyes are now dancing with a maniacal and fanatical joy.

[Justin Silverblade]

Everything slowed for Jadus.

 

Only moments now, precious moments

 

As he and the three behind him plunged into the sea of men and demons alike, his brain sped up, aided by the experience of previous battles. Each precious moment was an package of information, easily picked apart.

 

The hum of an arrow had gone by his left. The archers had reloaded, and there was chance that later, they may aim for him.

 

In the distance, he heard the noise of a catapult being fired, to his far left. He had little to worry about there.

 

He heard commanders and captians shouting orders, disorganization had not yet struck.

 

Beyond it all, Jadus had found his first target. A swordsman had just slew a Gorog to just to the right of his line of sight. He smiled and made eye contact with the swordsman. Putting a gauntleted hand forth, he pointed to the swordsman, whilst not breaking stride.

 

To the eye,

Daring to look upon Dark's great gaze.

I warn you now,

Your lands will glow, set ablaze.

 

Two motions simple and quick. The swordsman brought his weapon up high. Jadus thrust his free hand up to grip the swordsman's arm, and pushed him back slightly. Taking advantage of the of-balance soldier, Jadus took hold of his blade with both hands and impaled the soldier through the stomach, just under his armor. He withdrew quickly and began to turn, there was a presence behind him.

 

"SIR! Don't!"

 

The voice merged with the surroundings as Jadus swung. His eyes met the new target before his blade, and he saw the Hand's symbol on the breast-plate. He halted the force, inches from his soldier's chest. "What is it?" Jadus commanded, an annoyed look emerging on his face.

 

As the soldier stuttered on about something the lady mage was doing, Jadus noted his surroundings again:

 

A few arrows continued, as did the catapults. Something was missing. The shouted commands from the Confederate army were less. Something had disturbed them. A swordsman had begun his decent against the group of four. Jadus broke his attention from the soldier and turned to the new enemy who held his sword passionately.

 

To the hand,

Holding steel against our army’s force.

I warn you now,

Your fate will run its short course.

 

Jadus swung his long-sword hard into his new enemy, and watched in joy as the swordsman's face dropped. His sword had gone flying, and Jadus took the opertunity to move his long-sword to the swordsman's neck, slicing through it like butter. As it went through, he ignited in flame. Jadus jumped back and looked at his blade. It's edge was ignited. What had he hit?

 

"And she looked like she cast something on our guys!" emerged a voice from behind him again.

 

Jadus stabbed his longsword deep into the ground, as a test. His temporary disarming had caught a young swordsman's eye. He ran towards Jadus quickly. Shrugging, Jadus lifted his left arm over his right, aimed for but a moment, and fired his hand crossbow.

 

To the heart,

That beats only to do the just, and right.

I warn you now,

The candle shall be snuffed, as will the light

 

It met it's mark and the soldier fell to the ground with a scream, his hands dropping his sword and going to his face. Jadus removed his sword from deep in the ground, and noted that it's edge still burned. "Magic..." Immeadiately assuming that was the only reason that the flame still burned, Jadus turned to survey the scene.

 

Catapults still in full bore, far off. Another line had been called in; Jadus could hear the shouts. A brief look around caused him to understand that it was a unit called in to his right. They were doing well. The hum of the arrows-

 

"Sir! I think our lady mage's casting someth-"

 

Arrows! Jadus' hand shot out to grip the voice and pulled him unwillingly in front of him. Seconds later three arrows pierced the soldier's body, aim true to Jadus' position. Jadus threw his soldier to the ground and made a mental note that he was down the information of the Hand's mages, and that Zakuro was casting something.

 

He trusted that the other two were still there, and shuoted instructions. "To the right! Pikemen are succeeding!" Obeying his own orders, Jadus turned and continued his calm walk towards his next victim. As he approached he sheathed his sword and reloaded his crossbow. Noting this, was a pikeman nearing Jadus' position. Reacting quickly from his training, he went to impale the warrior. A step to the left and a quick (and sloppy) chop from Jadus' gauntleted hand broke the pike. Jadus withdrew his longsword and smiled as it still flamed.

 

And to the opposition,

Who would try to break this truth so real,

I warn you now,

Attempt it so, and you shall die for your ideal.

 

He locked eye contact and sliced low. The pikeman dodged it, and went in for an attack. Jadus continued a follow-through tequnique, bringing his longsword up and slashing at the stomach of the pikeman. The magic enstilled on his sword by Zakuro caused the man to start to ignite. Jadus kicked him back, and noted three more pikemen advancing on him. He took a step back, and as he began to put on a defensive stance a fireball came wizzing down upon them.

 

As the pikemen screamed, patting down their ignited bodies, Jadus sighed a thought. Good help, though the range of Zakuro's power was still too unknown to him to be of any reliability. He would have to count her powers as an added bonus. Always welcomed, not expected.

 

His eye contact was met with another pikeman.

 

You're next...

[Gyrfalcon]

"Kill the rats and make sure to keep the mages protected!" Gyrfalcon roared, from the ground now. Beside him, his horse was merely a boiling pile of rats. Rats clawed at his bootleather, and several of the scouts who were thrown from their horses when the rats appeared from nowhere had not risen again. The rest of his battalion were frantically smashing the vermin with their boots, their horses stamping as well, so that it seemed the entire group was engaged in a frantic and single-minded dance.

 

In a sense, they were.

 

The mages had not been severly put out, their stoneskin enchantments keeping them from any immediant harm, and then their flameshields burning any vermin who strayed too close. Most rats simply avoided the mages and attacked the less fiery bowmen and scouts.

 

Gyrfalcon whirled in a stamping, stomping dance, keeping the rats from swarming his legs, and caught only glimpses around him.

 

Glimpse: archers using their bows as clubs to keep the rats at bay, stomping on any that get closer with their heavy boots, forming rings and holding their ground in the swarms.

 

Glimpse: mages, unaffected by the plague with their fiery shields, forming and launching fireballs, force missiles, acid arrows, and lightning bolts into the massive battle ahead of them, and summoning monsters nearby to deal with the rats.

 

Glimpse: in the battle, a strange fighter, obviously a member of the Hand, seeming to be in silent communication with a pikeman... seconds before slaying him easily. Like a snake, hypnotizing before striking... Gyrfalcon thought, his katana whirling low to clear a larger area around himself.

 

Glimpse: one of his scouts, his face half gnawed away, lying on the ground, dying even as rats begin to feast at his belly...

 

Glimpse: a catapult crew standing on their catapult, using anything long to knock away the rats who were trying to climb up, with a force of the 2nd Battalion slowly circling the catapult, smashing the creatures where they were.

 

Glimpse: Karl, still mounted, bending low to heave a flask of napatha on the carcass of Gyrfalcon's horse, lighting it on fire and slaying the boiling rats.

 

Gyrfalcon stopped, panting. The rats were all dead or dying, except for the ones fleeing the area, their controlling magic broken as their fear of the creatures around them exceeded the magic's ability to limit that fear. Rats were no doubt huddling under the seige weapons, but they would pose no problem for now.

 

"Battalion, form up! Archers, form into your units and prepare to barrage fire! Catapult crews, get down off those things and start firing again!" Gyrfalcon called out, and his lieutenants and sargents repeated the orders up and down the ragged line. The battalion quickly reformed, and Gyrfalcon suppressed an ache of pain at the empty places in the companies. To either side, the archers formed more slowly, some restringing their bows, others, who had broken their bows smashing the rats, forming up in the rear. Finally, they were formed in their long lines as the first loads from the catapults went overhead towards the Gorog forces, who had been forcing the Confederate lines slowly inward, forming a bulge.

 

"Archers, concentrate your fire on the rear areas of the Gorogs!" Gyrfalcon strung his bow, drew an arrow, and called out "Ready!" The shouts went up and down the line. He drew the arrow back, and aimed "Aim!" Muscles quivered as composite longbows were bent taut.

 

"FIRE!" the unified snap of hundreds of bowstrings slapping against bracers flew across the line, and a killing swarm of arrows landed among the Gorogs, who now bore weapons that flamed until each creature's death, Gyrfalcon noted with dismay. The enemy spellcasters were powerful, but hopefully there were not many of them. Gyrfalcon called out "Arc your shots and fire for effect!" Again and again, the slaying swarms of arrows rained down on the bunched Gorogs who had not yet reached the fighting, joined now and then by barrages of magic from the battalion's mages and the flaming payloads of the catapults.

 

The enemy was obviously using the Gorogs to wear down and tire out the Confederate forces, and weaken them with losses. Once the Confederate forces were sufficiently weakened, the shock troops, the calvary and archers and the darker fiends lurking behind them would move up and punch through, overrunning the Confederate lines.

 

Not if we have any say in it... Gyrfalcon thought grimly, his next arrow taking a Gorog chieftain in the eye, slaying him.

[Falcon2001]

Matthew suddenly jumped as the sound of the two forces colliding reached him. "Cioden, the battle has been joined! Will we wait?" Cioden smiled at him.

 

"Don't worry, we will be there soon."

 

Turning back to the path, he kept walking at a brisk pace. Soon they came to a large clearing devoid of stones or grass. Raising his fist, Cioden made a gutteral cry.

 

Matthew took a step backwards as the wave of fear hit him, muffled as it was by the amulet. The figures that rode out of the trees were not human, and neither were their mounts.

 

The figures were hellspawned, beings of shadow and darkness. Evil they were not, but power emanated from them in waves. They were all similar save one, each one riding high in the saddle with featureless faces above detail-less bodies covered in plain glittering black field armor. The only thing that wasn't pure shadow was the eyes, silver like the moon. In their left hands, they carried huge zweihander swords that they carried easily one handedly, in their right they held black maces. On their back hung huge horn-bows and at their side hung two quivers of black-fletched arrows.

 

Their mounts were no better, twisted malformations of horses with twin spiraling horns growing from their heads. The breath reeked of brimstone, and the eyes were the color of blood. Their hooves were wickedly curved, and speckles of dried blood coated them.

 

There was one different though, who was a full half-foot taller than the others, who were just shorter than Cioden. He wore a helm with two wings, and his eyes burned crimson out of the depths of the visor, not silver. He had no bow or mace, just a single huge axe that looked to be just about as large as Matthew himself. This one rode up to Cioden and saluted gravely, then spoke in a gravely tone that was barely human.

 

"Sir Cioden, we are ready to fight, and hunger for the blood of these pathetic creatures." Cioden smiled then, a wicked smile that sent chills up and down Matthew's back.

 

"I expected no less from a Death Knight of Hell, Arioch. I am glad that you remembered your debt to me and offered to lead my Shadow Knights into battle." Matthew recoiled slightly at the mention of Arioch, Lord of the Death Knights. Crimson eyes swung around to view the elf.

 

"What is this creature, Cioden? An offering to me?" Cioden laughed.

 

"No, he's my new apprentice, Matthew, in time he may even become worthy of your help."

 

The eyes glinted and the creature let out a rumble that Matthew assumed was a laugh. "Mwahaha! Good, Cioden."

 

"Well, Arioch, battle has been joined. It is time for you to reap some souls with that axe of yours. Come, into battle!"

 

All twenty-five shadows and their demon leader spurred their mounts on. Like a dark wind, they moved forward silently. Behind them, Cioden waved his hands. Matthew felt magic take a hold on him, filling him with energy. "It's a haste spell. You'll need it on the battlefield, but it'll wear off quickly."

 

After that they both took off at a run towards the sounds of fighting. The haste spell had them running at about three times faster than normal, and Matthew reveled in the feeling of speed.

 

Soon they passed out of the forest and suddenly they were mere feet from the battle. Cioden leapt into the air and swept his arms out, twisting his wrists as he did. Foot long shining claws, three on each hand, whistled out of his sleeves and into his hands. Landing in between two Gorags, he spun quickly, decapitating both of them. Turning, he buried his right claw in another of this hideous monsters and focused energy into it. The monster exploded in a cloud of blood and viscera.

 

Matthew, on the other hand, was having slightly more trouble taking care of the enemies. Three Gorags had him backed up. Suddenly he dropped and cut the legs off one and kicked out, tripping another. The last one he decapitated with a quick blow before burying his sword in the two others.

[Wyvern]

Admist the confusion of Gorog blades and swarms of rats, Lance rapidly wipes the sweat from his brow and turns to meet a truly villanous sight... A mingle of man and shadow, seated atop a steed that looked as if it had come straight out of the depths of the inferno. Lance pauses and rubs his eyes in disbelief... How had this infernal creature suddenly breached the front lines of the infantry, and why was it slaying Gogors?! Clenching his teeth and holding a firm grasp to his spear, Lance charges at the shadow rider...

 

Arioch, perched atop his mighty steed, slays three more Gogors with a single blow of his sword, laughing grimly at the pathetic attempts of the obviously inferior creatures... He turns his head, however, when he hears a scream and a battle cry coming in his direction...

 

Not giving any second thought to the risk of the action, Lance lets go of his spear and pounces at Arioch, catching the dark rider momentarily off guard and tackling him, knocking him from his steed... The two fall to the ground of the battlefield together and land in a puddle of mud and dead bodies. After a great deal of body blows, wrestling and struggling on the ground, Arioch finally manages to pin Lance down and points his blade at the pikeman. Suddenly noticing he is human and thus a Confederate, Arioch roars:

 

"Fool!!! I am on your side of the battle! I and the other shadow riders aid you against the forces of Rekmor! As you are an ally, I shall let you live this once... but attack me again and you shall feel my wrath!"

 

With that, Arioch angrily remounts on his terrifying steed and rushes back into battle against the creatures of Rekmor. Lance is left sitting in a pool of blood and mud, weaponless and reflecting upon this encounter. The forces of darkness were aiding them...? What was going on here?

 

While Lance was physicaly unhurt by this encounter, the sight had caused a massive blow to his spirits... Raising himself from the puddle, Lance notices captain Gyrfalcon yelling to fellow troops and making rapid hand gestures. Wiping the muck off of his chain mail, Lance rushes to the captain and cries out:

 

"Captain Gyrfalcon sir!!!"

 

The stressed Gyrfalcon turns his head towards the voice and raises an eyebrow when he is met by a lone pikeman.

 

"I don't understand sir! Why do we have shadows aiding us in our battle for the light?! Creatures whose intentions are probably just as bad as the vile creatures we destroy, if not worse?! Why were the militia not informed?! Excuse my impertinence sir... but what the hell's the meaning of this?!!!"

[Justin Silverblade]

He had slain one, and then another. After slaying a third pikeman, Jadus stepped back. He took a long moment to examine the battlefield.

 

He had moved out and around to get to the unit of pikemen, and as a result had barely scratched the front lines of the Confederate Army. The Gorogs in front of him dropped like flies. The Confederate army was reloading their archers, and his soldier informed Jadus that the mages were begining to cast as well. To top it all off, the Hand had not yet called in its reinforcements.

 

Jadus Zennakoth, mighty Warrior of the Northern front, in service of the Hand of Recititude let out a great, aggravated yell.

 

"AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!"

 

Useless! All these Gorogs could not fight well if they had been given blind and deaf oppenents, let alone Confederates! Why must I...

 

His thought was broken by two things. A pikeman advanced upon him, slaying a Gorog to proceed. Jadus lifted his hand crossbow and slew the man with a growl. He could not be disturbed. Second, was a unit flanking the engaged units from the far left.

 

Shadow troops? Excellent. At least something is going well. I did not know the Hand army had brought a... is that a death knight? Impressive.

 

Jadus quickly reloaded his crossbow and watched as the shadows engaged against the enemies. Jadus could not help but laugh as he saw the shadows act on his thoughts, slaying the Gorogs.

 

"SIR!" The yell broke his thoughts. As he turned to see the origin of the voice he was struck throughout his body with a pain. He dropped to one knee, plunging his sword deep into the ground for balance. A grunt came from the warrior.

 

Lightning.... My soldier, to warn about... Magic...

 

Jadus looked up. In the back rows, alongside the mages were infantry, and archers. They were well protected... Train of thought yet again broken by the noise of war.

 

"Fire!" The voice was evident from the back rows. Following the voice, a sea of arrows rained upon the back rows of the Gorogs. Jadus himself had to move back to avoid them. A general, or commander of some sort was still quite effective and organized. The Hand would not move in their forces until orginization had ceased.

 

That was it. Jadus had decided. "Soldiers!" he yelled to the two still alive, and conveniently killing enough to allow Jadus time for thought. "Hurry back to Ghorn and the army. Tell them that our armies welcome their advance here, and more importantly, that soon, their back lines will cease to function."

 

With that, the former traces of joy, and the recent look of pain upon Jadus' face vanished. With one look to the shadowed warriors Jadus nodded. He saw the death knight attacking a lone pikeman, pinning him against the ground. There was little need for him here.

 

May the Hand and Gods grant me,

The strength I will now require,

To send my enemies to the darkness,

Through pain, suffering and fire.

 

Jadus' black hair seemed to float for a moment with the speed that he left his stance. Wielding his (still flaming) sword he gestured towards the mages, and then to all of those who stood prominent at the back.

 

I will rip through the front lines, and plunge unto the middle. I shall swim and fight my way to the back lines where I will wreak the havoc of all my force and breath.

 

And so he began his trek.

[Guest Foe Calibur]

The intricate threads of magic woven to Midicus’s liking, he withdrew his hands from the contemptuous semantics to release his creation. The energy released into the atmosphere in an innate burst from Midicus’s hands… and disappeared.

 

There were no initial effects, the spell Midicus had cast did not seam to have an effect… until shortly after. The shadowy veil of smoke the Rekmorian forces had caused earlier began to swirl in a torrent of horrendous darkness. The smoke whipped its self about vigorously, wailing in the ears of the warring factions. It stretched and waned, howled and thrashed, and began to disappear…

 

The clouds of smoke overhead began to whirl themselves into submission. A few moments passed of the chaotic dance, and then it was gone. Above the soldiers shone a brilliantly long yearned sun, glad to be free of its hazy prison. It’s rays stretched across the desolate fields of decadence, touching its battling inhabitants gratefully.

 

As the morale of the Confederate army soared, the Gorog forces did not. They screamed and tried to hide from the sunlight, as the Antaean forces proceeded to plunge deeper into the Gorog ranks. Squealing in pain from the blades of Confederate forces, and reeling from the sun in all its sardonic splendor, the Gorog forces were being pushed back… the advantage was being lost.

 

Alexander, glad to see the sun over head, began shouting orders once more to his now prevailing army. His cavalry had not moved, as ordered, “Cavalry stand fast,” Alexander did not want to initiate them into the battle until the remainder of the Rekmorian forces were initiated.

 

“Wonderful!” Alexander turned to Midicus and smiled broadly, “They don’t seam to like your little treat.”

 

Midicus had figured there was a reason they had made the shroud, and he proved correct… once again. Lowering his cowl once again, Midicus began the intricate semantics and vocalizations intoned to his learned reservoir of spells.

[Bhurin]

As the shroud of darkness was torn from the sky, and the land was once again bathed in the light of the afternoon sun, a great cry was heard through out the battlefield. The Gorogs, severely allergic to the suns rays, became horrendously agitated at its sudden return, losing morale and fleeing from the waves of Antaean blades.

 

At that precise moment, many things occurred at once.

 

Marionus, from atop his black stallion regarded the sky with sudden, frenzied movement. His helmet looked to the sky, and paused for only a moment, then he reacted.

 

He turned in his saddle, as a sudden barrage of worried faces with sudden concerns looked to him for guidance.

 

First...

 

Marionus turned to his right, his eyes suddenly locking with Yar’cule’s. The Infernal Mage, dropping all manner of work he had been doing, merely nodded at his Lord’s gaze.

 

Next...

 

Next the Dread Lord looked ahead of himself, toward the furious visage of Ghorn of Yain, commander of the Rekmor Armies. Marionus raised his hand palm first toward Ghorn, outstretching it and finally closing it into a fist.

 

Ghorn began to turn…

 

Finally, the Dread Lord raised his scythe, and looked to the battlefield. His gaze wandered the field, before coming to rest on Arioch.

 

Then Marionus screamed with sudden, incredible force.

 

“YYYYYAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR!” His voice tore across the field like a hurricane, drowning out even the sounds of warfare occurring before him. Finally Marionus pointed his scythe forward, signaling the charge.

 

At that moment, Ghorn raised his charcoal blade and yelled, “KILL THE BASTARDS!”

 

And, like a plague, the true forces of Rekmor rushed the field. Ahead of them, leading a charge of Dark Calvary was Marionus, scythe in hand, bearing down upon the battle with nightmarish speed.

 

At that moment, Yar’cule turned to Zakuro. “My dear, the enemy has struck at a tender nerve, forcing our hand. I shall replace the shadow, but remain watchful! That mage that removed it did so with almost casual intent, and I felt powers near equal to my own. Should I be assaulted, you must protect me! Understand?”

 

Zakuro, nearly exhausted from her earlier spells, instantly rose up, appearing to gain youthful vigor once more. “I hear, and I shall obey, master.”

 

With that, Yar’cule descended from his mount, a staff in his hands, and walked till he was at the edge of the hill. Raising his staff into the air, his moustache-less beard hanging grimly on his face, he spoke, “I AM YAR’CULE THE INFERNAL, CHAMPION SORCEROR OF REKMOR! HEED MY WORDS AND FEAR ME!” Suddenly he raised his staff with one hand, while raising the other into the air. When he spoke, his word echoed across the battlefield, though not as prominently as Marionus.

 

Annon ennera facule meurny

 

Slowly, dark clouds began to fill the air, as the sounds of thunder echoed in the distance. A storm was forming, as menacing clouds began to enter the sky. They did not immediately cover the sun, but the little initial protection they provided was enough for the Gorogs to regain some of their composure so as not to be slaughtered without recourse.

 

Yar’cule’s eyes eminated yellow as he spoke the words, repeating them over and over, gripping his staff and shouting with rage.

 

Across the battlefield, nearly perfectly opposite to Infernal Mage, stood Midicus. The potent mage raised his head, still shrouded behind a cowl, ever so slightly at the taste of magic in the air.

 

Behind the Rekmor forces, massive siege-craft and rows of Bow-bearers halted and began to load their weapons. The bow-bearers, mixtures of men and beasts, notched poisoned and flaming arrows and began to take aim. The siege-craft, incredible constructs of power, began to load ballista missiles, boulders, and from several siege-craft, hideous machines of demonic design, the sound of charging magic began to emit…

 

The first blade of Rekmor to reach an Antaean soldier was Ghorn, who shoved his sword into the face-visor of the Antaean’s helmet, running the steel into his brain. Ghorn quickly removed his blade, regarding the red blood for a moment with zestful intrigue, before shouting, “KILL THE BASTARDS! KILL THEM ALL!” and continuing into the fray.

 

Slowly, it started to rain...

[Lady Celes Crusader]

When the rain started to fall from the sky, Zakuro sights of relief. The drops caresses her burning scars, cooling them down and relieving her of her pain.

 

I need to gain strenght or I'll be no use against the opposition. I shall protect my master at all cost.

 

The Lady with the Burning Scars scans the back rows and spotted that something is amiss around Midicus' emplacement.

 

This is one of those I should watch for

 

She turns her gaze over the frenzied battlefield and sees the numerous corpses that layed on the ground. If she wouldn't have to watch for her master's back, she would have done delightful things with all these cadavers. But she must save her strength for her master...

 

...For the one who made someone out of the slave that I was. For those who had seen the potential within me and brought me to Yar'cule. For him... For them... For the Hand...

 

Her gaze turns back and forth over the slaugther that is displayed before her. Lots of memories climbs in her thought but she holds them back. She gets herself prepared to cast a force field strong enough to hold back any attack, physical or magical, directed toward her and the Infernal Sorcerer. After all, there'll be plenty of time to remember, but there's only one time to win this important battle and that time is now.

[Justin Silverblade]

Diving to the seas of onslaught went Jadus. Past the tranquil blades of the surface and into the struggle for breath against the blades of the many.

Back!

 

Jadus swung his blade strongly, catching an arm of one of the three pikemen advancing on him.

Back or meet your end!

 

He needn't speak, his eyes and his gripped teeth spoke his words. Making a swift dodging movement, and then another, an opening was made, enough to kick a pikeman back. The battle was swift, each movement in succession with the other. A pikeman fell to the swing of a sword technique, and then quite eventually a second to misguided eyes and a quick crossbow bolt.

 

Slay Gorog, you'll find no prey here!

 

The last pikeman approached and was subdued with a kick, losing his balance and falling unto the ground. It was a quick movement with Jadus' longsword that pulled the last breath from the Confederate soldier.

 

But, three steps farther, another two pikemen, and a swordsman approached the Warrior. The swordsman would make attack with false footing, and fall prey to Jadus' quick arm; he was slit, and then grabbed. Using the swordsman as a shield, Jadus forced his way onward, another three steps. He swung at one while shielding against the other, and the alternating the opponents, did this again. Finally the shield was tossed, and a sudden light from above worked as a distraction for Jadus to thrust upon the other. One pikeman left, yet again, Jadus let him make the first move. It was a straight thrust, and Jadus countered it fatally.

Light? But why?

 

Whilst thoughts raced in his head, his fingers were swift; movement ahead was temporarily forfited for a reloaded crossbow.

 

Our Gorogs are useless now....

 

"Yeeeeeeeah!"

 

Your voice gives you away solider.

 

Jadus finished the lesson he started in his head by thrusting his armored elbow backwards, into the oncoming soldier. Then he moved his fist upward, causing a spill of red upon his armour.

 

"My nose! By the..." The voice faded into the background as Jadus noted the return of the dark sky. Another four soldiers, pikemen these, advanced on Jadus. He was in the thick of it now.

 

Magic would be useful now, Zakuro.... The sarcasm rose in his mind. Using a spin technique, Jadus clashed against two pieces of armour, and breaking to pikes. In return he recieved two blows. Falling backwards in defence, he fought against the two oncomers with pikes. They stabbed and swung, Jadus deflecting succussful hits off his gauntlets. He moved in close when the time arrived and pushed them together and back, then following them with his blade. His movements were slightly slower then his head turn, and he noted the other two rushing him. As the crimson of the Confederate blood flew high, Jadus met the charge and overwhelmed both pikemen. Jadus did not even stop to finish them, and continued his trek slowly amidst the hordes of soldiers.

 

One step

 

...

 

Two steps

 

...

 

"Urg..." Jadus stopped. He looked down to see his armor pierced. His stomach had been cut, and a large sword still against his side being removed. His only movements were a couple of stumbles.

 

All seemed to stop. The battle noises beside him floated high above, the details of battle burried deep into the ground. Jadus knew only what had happened.

 

Who...? What...? I heard nothing... saw nothing... An anger came to Jadus' mind when he realized, I felt nothing... Instincts were key to Jadus' battle skills, and they had warned him naught of an enemy.

 

Jadus turned to meet his assailant. As his face turned he was struck in the chest by a mace. The blow was too hard for the injured warrior to take standing, and Jadus fell to the ground in hopes of gaining strength of position. He looked up and the figure he saw made his face grimise. It was a shadow.

 

Rain started to fall as cries of battle were heard far to the distance. It sounded as if the tides of Rekmor had come in. It mattered not. There was only one thought on Jadus' mind.

 

Betrayed...

[Gyrfalcon]

Falcon2001 posted,

 

OOC: I don't normally OOC here, but the shadows are NOT for the Hand. I repeat, they are NOT on the side of the Hand...in case there was any confusion.

IC: Cioden's claws had made some of the Gorags retreat temporarily. Spinning again, he cast out rays of light from his magic, blinding them. Quickly he was among them like a falcon among sparrows, slaying them brutally with a hideous grin on his pale features.

Suddenly he stumbled as the sun came out from behind the clouds.

"What in the nine hells?"

He was temporarily blinded, and he imagined that his forces would suffer similarly. @#%$ that meddling Midicus!

He was seething with anger as he dug his claws into the next opponent, this time drawing the life from him to sustain a spell. Leaving nothing more than a dried-out husk of a shell, he rushed past him to dig one claw each into two gorags that happened to be too close.

Feeling the demon energy fill his silver amulet he kept for such an occasion, he laughed with the sheer exhiliaration of it all.

"To the abyss with you all!"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Matthew had drawn off to the back a ways and was watching the battle like a hawk. His ears detected the hints of movement around him, and he settled in to cast a spell. Tracing arcane sigla in the air in front of him, he breathed life into his creation. It hung there, a glowing elf-rune, for a few seconds, then he released it's power upon the world.

Suddenly hordes of phantom soldiers came rushing out of the trees on the Hand's flank. Matthew smiled as he saw the massed forces of the Hand in confusion. By the time they figured out that the soldiers couldn't hit them, it would be too late.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Arioch drove purposely forward through the massed armies. His huge battleax cleaved a path through his foes like a hot knife through warm butter, and all around, the souls of those pathetic Gorags were being harvested to feed the Death Knight and his shadow minions. They were a wedge driven straight through, spreading fear and discord wherever they went.

Arioch allowed himself a rare smile; today he feasted upon many souls...but it was still not enough.

He wanted human souls, those of the Hand warriors on the other end of the battlefield, behind these worthless Gorags.

Changing direction, he led his deadly lance of knights straight toward the humans...and food.

Gyrfalcon25 posted,

 

Gyrfalcon sighed at the pikeman's earnest questions, and knew that everyone around them was listening carefully.

 

"These Shadow Knights aid us because they were brought to our cause by a man named Cioden. He said that his lands were in the path of the Hand's advances, and that he didn't want his lands to fall into their grasp. General Alexander accepted the offer of their services. That is why they fight for us. This offer came hours before this battle, which is why the milita was not informed. That is why you did not know."

 

Gyrfalcon drew in a long breath and let it out slowly.

 

"If it were my decision, those... creatures... would not be here right now. But it was General Alexander's decision, and we will both have to hope that he is proved correct in his use of these creatures. However, until he decides that they are no longer useful, we must fight on with our… 'allies'."

 

Gyrfalcon bent, picked up a long spear, and tossed it to the impertinent pikeman. "Here, use this and get into formation with my battalion. There is no time for you to rejoin your unit, so stand ready if they should break through."

 

Gyrfalcon swallowed hard as he saw the mainline forces of the Hand race onto the field. The sun had appeared briefly, before being stolen once more, but the Gorogs were fleeing, leaving the lines readying for the advancing forces. However, behind them loomed the counterparts of his forces, siege weapons and archers, readying to rain death in return. "Do we have any spells or siege weapons that can reach their archers?" He called out, and a few mages raised their voices in confirmation, as well as the crew of the largest siege engine.

 

"Fire!" Gyrfalcon called out, praying that the enemy would not be able to effectively return fire.

[Bhurin]

The rain fell coldly now, mixing with blood and clay, mixing into a deep, crimson mud…

 

The Gorogs were fleeing… Their hearts no longer filled with the lust for blood, but for the love of survival. As they fell back, against the cries of their chieftains, slowly they revealed lines of Confederate soldiers; battle scarred but determined…

 

The forces of Rekmor were finally upon the field. They moved with disturbing efficiency, lines of men moving as one. Ahead of them their leader, Ghorn, still called with brutal satisfaction at his fallen opponent.

 

The forces of Rekmor were far better clad than their Gorog counter parts. All of them, without exemption, were clad in Brigandine plate mail, all wielded blades that shone with deadly edges, and none of them knew fear. They had been brought up in the shadow of His service, and fear was like wine to them. The more terrible their plight, the more they understood Him, and the more they wished to please Him.

 

The Confederate army, drenched in blood but still with battle hardened looks upon their faces, drew forward slightly before stopping and rejoining into a powerful defensive wall, awaiting the tide of Rekmor with fearless abandon…

 

“Prepare yourselves…” Said Ghalin, Champion of Rekmor’s siege-craft and commanding his archers. He watched momentarily, noting the reassembly of the Confederacy’s ballistic line. “Amazing… Thrown magic and steel, and they continue to fight. These Confederates are worthy opponents indeed…”

 

“SIR! THEY DRAW TO FIRE!” Cried one of Ghalin’s lieutenants, as he indicated toward the lines of Confederate archers.

 

Ghalin watched calmly with narrow eyed determination as the Confederate’s line of archers made to fire. He watched them take aim, toward the heavens, and fire. As they released their deadly bolts, Ghalin said, “They make to fire at us…” He said with near fascination, “Surely the realize we are out of…”

 

But before he could finish, the deadly rain, as sure as the falling shower of water, descended upon their ranks. Just as they reached, Ghalin cried, “Cover!”

 

Instinctively the bow-bearers raised the shields mounted to their backs, creating an artificial armor to protect them. Though many were spared, Ghalin was too late. Dozens of Rekmor bow-bearers fell suddenly to the blade tipped bullets, falling to the ground either diseased with pain or death.

 

Ghalin raised his eyes again, now with mixtures of rage and fascination dancing in his eyes, “They have reached us… This storm effects the wind more than I judged… We shall prove no match for them…”

 

Quickly Ghalin turned and ordered, “Bow bearers! The enemy possesses a range beyond ours! Retreat back, and await further orders!”

 

Instantly the lines responded, gripping their bows, the archers of Rekmor quickly retreated. In their stead they left corpses of their fallen, some still screaming for aid…

 

“What now, sir?” One of Ghalin’s Captains asked, his voice strong but his eyes concerned.

 

“Move in the siege-craft!” Ghalin said, his voice now filled with scorn and sternness, “Fire full bore upon their archers. Bring me Dreadmetal and Ironfist now! I shall show those mages and archers the power of Rekmor’s craft!”

 

The Captain paused only momentarily at the mentioning of the only two siege-craft with names. Dreadmetal and Ironfist were magical siege-craft, born in the shadows of Shadowkeep. They were dealers of death like none had seen before: Ironfist firing waves of flame and magma, while Dreadmetal fired bullets of necromatic energy. Both were indestructible and terrible.

 

“Aye sir!” Nodded the Captain, who made for the ranks of siege-craft behind them.

 

The rain fell now steadily, pouring upon the armies with vicious accord…

 

Behind the far back forces of Rekmor’s troops, the sound of approaching men and monsters filled the air. Many of those who stood behind, lining the background of the army just in front of the forest, turned to see fearsome opponents emerging from the woods.

 

The back rows of the army consisted of many fearsome monsters, such as trolls and giants, and all these turned now, without order, to face this surprise enemy. Among the sudden fray amidst the reinforcements, Yar’cule lowered his arms and stopped chanting his spell, turning to see Zakuro between him and the new enemy.

 

“What manner of treachery is this?” Yar’cule demanded, raising his staff into the air defensively.

 

“Master! Foes emerge from the wood!” And with that, Zakuro shot a ball of fire toward the new opponents. However, just as the fire ball reached the opponents, it passed through them and continued until it struck a nearby tree.

 

“What?” Zakuro demanded, “They are as ghosts or phantoms!”

 

Yar’cule snarled, his eyes suddenly filled with rage. He shouted, “Do not engage! They are only illusions!”

 

But the forces of Rekmor did not listen, turning instead to fight, scrambling their outter lines. Yar’cule shouted once more, but was not heard.

 

With a cry of fury, Yar’cule turned to the battlefield. He closed his eyes for a moment, seeming to relax suddenly, his shoulders dropping and his face becoming calm.

 

Where…

 

Yar’cule’s form became rigid again, becoming large and menacing.

 

There!

 

Raising his hands into the air, Yar’cule shouted forth words guttural and wretched to the untrained ear.

 

Arnnon ennule gurrol tenaah

 

At last, Yar’cule raised his hand quickly, pointing it toward the battlefield. Suddenly, on queue with Yar’cule’s gesture, a large and bright bolt of lightening struck from the sky.

 

Across the battlefield, the bolt struck somewhere behind the lines of Confederacy militia. Where it struck, only meters away Matthew, apprentice magi of Cioden, was suddenly flung from his feet, falling to the ground. He was uninjured, but his body was buzzing with electricity, his hair standing on end. It took many moments before he rose to his feet. Where he did, he heard within his mind but few words…

 

Your magic betrays you, little one. Do not poke a sleeping bear…

 

As Matthew lost his bearings, the phantom forces began to disappear from view, fading with his concentration. However, their intent had been well met. The reinforcement squadrons of the Hand were suddenly in disarray, confused and agitated from battle preparation without cause.

 

“Reform the ranks!” Yar’cule shouted, his voice strained, as he fell to one knee. A crew of commanders instantly went to re-gather their troops, but without the word of the Dread Lord, it was difficult.

 

“Master!” cried Zakuro, looking at him with determined visage but angered voice, “Your strength leaves you! Do not tarry from your purpose.”

 

Yar’cule nodded, his eyes matching Zakuro’s in exhausted determination, “Aye, my apprentice. My carelessness reflects badly on us. I shall not make the same mistake again…”

 

Yar’cule rose again, looking to the battlefield. Slowly he raised his hands, and began to repeat the spell that had called forth the lightening…

 

The rain was relentless...

 

Marionus had now overtaken Ghorn and his men. As they battled furiously below him, lines of Confederate men stood before him. With blinding speed and soft movements, the Dread Lord waved his scythe with deadly accuracy, and began to mow down the lines of men like grass. Their blood ran quickly, as man after man fell before the fearsome rider with the Black Scythe. Many men wept or cried in terror in when facing Marionus. Their screams drowned the air.

 

The Calvary, true to form, ploughed through the ranks of Confederates like an unstoppable blade through flesh. The riders were too powerful, and could not be stopped, as the pikemen of the Confederacy had more than been dispersed or crushed by the Gorog rush. What few were left could not hope to reorganize to fend off the mounted fighters. Now the riders were free to cut their way into the heart of the Antaean armada.

 

However, as the riders pushed forward, Marionus paused momentarily and looked around him. Finally his eyes found two targets.

 

This one reeks of the Antaean ways…

This one, of malicious accord...

 

Slowly Marionus watched the movements of Alexander, Duke of Dainlock, and Arioch, Lord of the Death Knights. His mind was torn between his vows to destroy the ancient enemies of The Lord of Nightmares, and to fell the lords of the remaining force against Rekmor; those that ruled the Antaean Confederacy.

 

To smite the false shadows, or crush the light.

 

Marionus paused a moment, swinging his scythe smoothly through the body of a rushing soldier. Finally, he knew his course.

 

He turned his horse, and made for the lines of the Confederacy’s Generals, slicing his way toward the heart of his enemy…

[Guest Foe Calibur]

Casting evermore in the continuous entropy of battle, the ranks of mages drew the magics from about them and mingled the measly solid components of the prime material plane to devastate their opposition. Their spell power was running low as the mages threw spell after spell at the Gorog forces.

 

The siege craft had been reloaded and fired many a time now, and so it seamed it would continue… for there was more coming. Their fiery payload devastated the enemy ranks as it splashed liquid hell across the blood soaked earth.

 

The enemy ranks were dwindling, very much so, but the Confederacy was not without its casualties. Many had fallen, but the count was still much on the Antaean’s side. Many Antaeans had fallen; the Gorog'

s had fought well, but were not nearly as well trained as their opposition.

[Guest Foe Calibur]

Standing in his saddle Alexander watched the abominable acts unravel before him. The blood of the Gorog soldiers ran hot across the desecrated soils that had been chosen as grounds for battle. Cries for mercy and cries for blood echoed across the now sun soaked valley as the remaining Gorog soldiers scattered before their opposition.

 

The battle was not nearly in its decline though, for as the Gorogs ran, the sky filled once again with the ominous presence of darkened din. Rain fell from the heavens as the ill-fated beings scattered before the Antaean forces. Leaving, in their dolorous wake, the ranks of their fallen, left to rot no the Confederate soils.

 

Alexander’s eyes scanned the field as the Gorogs fled, letting his eyes follow the sounds of charging men, and the crack of thunder, his glance was met by the rushing tide of Rekmorian soldiers, the siege craft forming on the hillside.

 

“Fire!” The command rang across the baneful entropy as a shower of arrows was released from Antaean bows. The arrows flew straight and true, guided by the forces of the now brewing storm, but their marks were defended, the arrows slew few, but it was enough. The Rekmorian archers drew back, at their leader’s command. Leaving the siege craft open range of the Confederate forces.

 

Alexander sighed, he knew that the tides of change would afflict them once again… it was time to act…

 

“Cavalry, charge!!!”

 

His command was met by the spurring of many horses, the battle has far from over. Riding in on either flank of the advancing forces the cavalry made its first attack, leaving in its wake few soldiers…

 

They are very well trained…

 

Alexander watched as his Cavalry slayed the Rekmorian forces.

 

I must help…

 

Dismounting, Alexander charged the Hand’s foot soldiers…

 

Midicus released his spell with a burst of magical energy, sending a large boulder of magical means bounding into the oncoming forces of the Hand. The boulder was a mass of swirling power, humming as it blundered across the ground, leaving a short trail of magical energy in its wake. It quickly advanced on the soldiers, who’s, when their gaze befell the horrid contraption, actions were swift, fleeing its path. Most escaped, but a few weren’t so lucky, left trapped under the magical ball as it rolled through the ranks.

 

Those whos paths did not diverge in time were quickly killed by the device, left in a hideous state of physical, and magical, devastation. Most, much to Midicus’s dismay, fled his creation in time, remaining unscathed by the magical bombardment and quickly reforming to continue their advance.

 

When the magical weapon met its end, in the midst of the Rekmorian forces, its energy dispersed in a glamorous display of lethal chocks, leaving those close enough, wounded or dead. But, like before, the victims were few, but more; Marionus’s troops were well trained and had been taught to avoid such contraptions.

 

Frowning, Midicus sat on his steed, contemplating and recovering. There was more he could do… there must be…

 

Moments later, Alexander was erect beside his horse, pulling his massive shield from atop its hindquarters and trudging through the blood thick muck. Picking up speed as the Hand’s forces engaged his own, Alexander ran towards his assailants.

 

One of the lesser-trained soldiers turned his head to address the single charging soldier… his cry was cut short as he fell to the ground dead, Alexander’s massive war hammer caving the unfortunate man’s skull.

 

Now the other’s turned, but not before another of Alexander’s mighty blows met its next victim. His swing left another man dead, crushed under its force. One of the dead men’s comrade’s stepped forward failing angrily at his opposition, only to fall by its hand. Yet another swung, a better-trained sword arm, but not well trained enough, Alexander blocked the swing with his grand shield recovering from his previous swing and continuing its momentum through to its next prey.

 

The bloody endeavor continued immeasurably, many left dead, Alexander in the midst of the carnage bellowing war cries as more foes met their crushing death by his titanous hand. Death knew well its mark this day… and Alexander was not it.

[Lady Celes Crusader]

Meanwhile, amist the chaos in the back of the Hand's force, Zakuro is nervously watching around her. Yar'cule is still focusing on his lightining spell.

 

I have to do something! I can't stay like a sitting duck forever. Think!

 

She gazes over the battlefield again and checks the humongous quantity of corpse lying here and there. Although she knows how to puppet one zombie, she knows that puppeting an whole army of them will be way too exhausting for her. But, she must guide the zombie just a bit, so that they wont hit any Hand's forces. She notices the crests embedded in the soldier's armor. She smirks and laughs.

 

"That is all that I needed"

 

She began to cast her spell and, while flames dances on her scars, corpses raises on there foot, crawls on the gound and aims any soldier that bears a noble crest on its armor as she instructed them to do so while reviving them. Although they'll be clumsy and mindless they'll distract the Confederate dogs just enough to give room to both her Master and the Dread Lord without eating her concentration or strentgh away.