Open Chronicles Battle of Shay Tirloc

“How.. enticing”

From behind the drow commander, a long serpent-like figure emerged from the ground itself like a ghost. It was a dragon, with cold purple scales and piercing silver eyes; the creature was adorned with shawls of spider silk and finely polished jewelry. The rarely seen dragon of Maelzafan who towered over Zahria like a lion before a mouse.

“I had assumed that the rabble at the capitol was nothing more than noble houses drawing wasted blood with empty bravado” Hebemarri said, her voice deep and sly: with a hiss to her inflection. “So imagine my surprise when a priestess told me that the Onyx throne was marshaling a host to reclaim lost holdings.”

The purple dragon bowed to Zahria, lowering her head to eye level with the drow. It was clear at this distance that Hebemarri could rend the robust drow in half with a single bite of her monstrous jaws. But those jaws did not snap, merely flash a grin Zahria had surely seen countless times on the faces of noblewomen deep in their schemes and machinations.

“Such unity. Such ambition, it pleases the Dark Mother. And, as the instrument of her will, I am pleased just as well…”

Hebemarri nudged Zahria with her snout in an affectionate gesture, like she was kissing the back of a maidan’s hand.

“So let it be known…” Hebemarri continued, slinking past the drow to where the onyx throne forces were gathered. “That your mistress has stirred Great Maelzafan’s dragon, and the Priesthood offers its blessing to this campaign.”

—then, Hebemarri suddenly stood on her hind legs and unfurled her wings while facing Zaharia’s assorted troops. The dragon now stood no less than 30ft tall and her wings stretched nearly 60ft across. Scales and gemstones sparkled in the cave light while her silks were filled with a dark magical glow.

“SISTERS!” Hebemarri proclaimed, her voice booming and grand.

“WHAT YOU FACE TODAY ARE NOT DROW, BUT VERMIN!” All eyes were on the dragon with many in attendance overwhelmed by a sense of witnessing the sublime. “THEY DESECRATE A MONUMENT TO THE DARK MOTHER’S GREATNESS, TURNING THEIR BACKS ON THE TRUTH BECAUSE IT WOULD REVEAL THEIR LESSER NATURE!”

A furvor was beginning to grip the soldiers as Hebemarri spared no kindness in her debasing of the defending forces. Calling them treacherous filth that was underserving of any mercy. How they were a blight on drowkind that only felt strong because the noble houses had been too busy infighting.

“…SO LET IT BE KNOWN THAT HERE YOU MARCH FOR DIVINE VENGENCE AND THE WILL OF MAELZAFAN! SPARE NONE BUT THOSE WHO ARE TO BE CLAIMED AS SLAVES! A RIVER OF BLOOD AND THE SCREAMS OF DYING HERETICS SHALL MARK THE FIRST CHAPTER OF THE ONYX THRONE’S DIVINE AMBITION!”

The drow cheered, victory seemed won before the first arrow had loosed. Their battlelust was enough to rival a legion of orcs, like a torrent held back by the flimsiest of dams.

“FOR THE DARK MOTHER!!” Hebemarri commanded, and with that, the floodgates were shattered.

At first it was nothing, a wisp of vapour on the tunnel wind but it grew features and hair and a cape and dripped dark blood on the ground as it half stumbled half walked into both visibility and the presence of Zathria and Hebemarri.

"Muh... Mistress Za..."
Sazalam's voice failed him and he doubted he could be heard over the cheering but he stumbled onward collapsing a short distance from her feet. He had attempted to turn his fall into a kneel but his leg gave out completely under him. Black blood ebbed from his lips as he stared up at her and held out a single object in his shaking fist as his other hand closed over his belly where the wound stained his clothes.

It was a dagger, not of their kinds making but familiar to all in its crude efficiency and slick with his own blood.
"Orcs... south tunnel... hur... hundreds..."

The cheering had died down somewhat.
"Coming... they ah... they are coming..."

For an infinite instant Sazalam closed his eyes and almost slipped into that waking ever dark of promise but he had one more thing, one more moment yet to serve and with a haggard breath his body jolted and he spoke again.
"Must... collapse... tunnel..."

Hebemarri quietly loomed behind Zathria, watching the drow bear the weight of command. It was charming, adorable even. Seeing her run about so desperate to keep a steady face, it made Hebemarri want to pluck the Drow up in her mouth and thrash poor Zathria around like an oversized chew toy. —But, such actions were quite unbecoming of a high priestess of Maezefan. So Hebemarri wisely stayed her fangs.

Zathria At'Arel said:

Lady Hebemarri! Break their morale! Go to the stalagmites and begin burning the nobles out of their hiding tunnels. Make the cost of resistance too high, she said. Zathria was furious. She wanted blood. She would have her vengeance and deliver the Queen's justice. So it shall be.

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“Very well~” Hebemarri replied.

The dragon slipped past Zathria while gently tapping the Drow’s armor with her serpentine tail.

“I suppose this shall keep me indisposed for some time. Try not to get slain by some orc while I am. Such a fate would be oh so sad for a close friend of the queen.”

And with that, Hebemarri took to the skies in a burst of speed that sent her all the way to the high cave ceiling. At the height she flew, the many arrows and spells could not reach her. The armies down below could only point and shout at the draconic silhouette as it phased through stalactites like a ghost or a mirage.

“By the dark mother!” One of the city defenders shouted from atop the wall.
“Up there is that not the saintess dragon Lady Hebemarri?”

“Maybe she has come to aid us? Or speak of something with lady Latherys?” Asked the defender just beside her.

“I don’t know. It looks like she is coming from the enemy camp, but surely that cannot be!”

There was little time for the soldiers to discuss further however, for suddenly, Hebemarri descended with incredible speed— appearing in all her glory before the city wall in a matter of seconds.

Before the many defenders could react in any way, the dark purple dragon opened her mouth and spewed forth a billowing cloud of coal black smoke. The odorless black smoke blanketed the top of the wall filling immediately with screams as it burned and corroded the flesh of all those inside.

Mages and archers from elsewhere turned their attention to Hebemarri, barraging her as she perched atop the smoke covered wall.

The dragons eyes flashed and shadows formed to catch the spells while the arrows broke helplessly against the hide of dragon scales.

“Ah, what joy to serve great Maelzafan. And smite her enemies thusly!”

The advance scouts returned, their vornyxes scrabbling nearly upside down to pass the vanguard marching several abreast through the winding tube-like tunnel. Shay Tirloc lay ahead, promising fresh supplies for the final push to Zor’Ahal. Holding a pike with a red-hooded device at its point as her standard, Tyrnael stood up straight atop her own vornyx to better hear their report.

“Cretok ahead, A’ni Tyrnael! A mercenary band. The sounds of battle joined just beyond them. The orcs are just starting to engage a force before the city.”

“Priestesses and battlemages to the front. Lancers behind. Infantry brings up the rear. Let the priestesses sing our hymns to rally our remnants! And tell the battlemages to amplify the singing voices to inflate our apparent numbers, and cast fear spells on the rearguard to provoke a rout.”

And so the first priestess chorus rang out into the orcish rearguard, sounding as though thousands sang, fell promises of doom in powerful unison and terrible harmonies. Lyre chords and drums rang out as the force entered the orc’s tunnel.

Chaos rippled before them, enchanted orcish warriors dropping weapons and fleeing past their overwhelmed lashers. The flight and the equally frantic efforts to lash it back into order both multiplied with cries of “10,000 dyrch! 10,000 dyrch!” skirmishing with sergeants and captains hollering, axes chopping and scimitars slashing. The priestesses stepped to the outside, as lancers with battlemages riding tandem behond them streamed through the center. Lightning bolts, more fear spells, and flashing glaives decimated the rest of the rearguard.

At the other end of the tunnel, orcs both unarmed and armed began streaming out, running madly toward, then past Captain Achaean’s shock troops, just as the first notes of the magically amplified hymns burst out, driving the oncoming rout, a dark green flood of panicked, sweaty bodies swiping as much at each other as at the shock force meeting them, trying desperately to win past to the out-tunnel beyond. The unexpected sight of the enormous purple dragon awaiting them only heightened the orcs’ despair and panic.

Bitter elixir melded with his own blood and saliva, creating a sizzling sensation that flowed into his belly and he knew that he would live.

The slave who brought it barely got a glance as he stood, his thanks was not for them and it came in the best form he had to give it.

"Your will, my hands Mistress!"

His reply came with a bow and a heel turn away as he set off, not much of an idea as to how he would actually complete this task.

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The wheels of war were turning fast as Sazalam reached the walls of the city under the cover of his concealing spell.

Picking his way past battle lines took time he had been loath to sacrifice but he needed to live to complete his mission.

Now that he was there he knew that whatever breaches in the rough hewn stone were long filled or guarded and he had no time to search them all anyway.

His eye cast upward to the long and arduous task of scaling the wall.
The elixir healed him but the stain of his own blood and memory of pain in his body kept trying to trick into believing that he had reopened himself but it was a lie.
As he approached the halfway point and the slim window there he felt his strength wain and with all the stealth he could muster Sazalam slipped into the window only to narrowly be missed by two soldiers on their way to the cities defence.

Step one complete, now he merely had to find a way to open the main gate.

Part of him missed the encroaching ever dark.

Tyrnael’s psychic, riding behind her, relayed Zathria’s message. The reply came swiftly:

To A'ni Zathria, stalwart second-daughter of House At'Arel: greetings and congratulations. A’ni Tyrnael, Ilharess Myrlochar, approaches leading 3,734 faithful souls on the side of Maelzafan’s newly anointed Valsharess of Zar'Ahal. Dalrithia is dead.

Over 10,000 drow had left Zar’Ahal with Dalrithia; just over 4,000 still stood when Tyrnael ended the siege at the Duergar gates. The late queen’s victories on this campaign had been numerous but utterly pyrrhic weighed against the bitter cost. No noble house or shebali hearth was left unscathed. Some would not fully recover for centuries, if ever. ‘Duanda Dalrithien’ was already being muttered among the ranks: "Dalrithia's Folly."

The Duergar had not pursued the withdrawing drow forces far from the gate, but they took their due: 281 more had fallen among the rearguard repelling their attacks. Many to their own comrades after falling victim to Duergar mind-mages. It was of these drow that Tyrnael thought as her vanguard scaled the hideous pile of bodies nearly blocking the tunnel exit, her forces filing out to each side, the fell hymns filling the cavern around the city. She stood in her stirrups before the remnants of Captain Acharan's shock troops, folding her arms and standard over her chest before bowing to them respectfully.

Her eyes now snapped to seek out A'ni Zathria's vanguard. Scanning the field, they widened and her mouth curled with delight to see Maelzafan's most wrathful priestess in all her draconic glory, wings unfurled before the city gate. Hebemarri!

Carnage composed the battlements atop the city walls. Corpses lay in every which direction, undone in ways both brutal and numerous. The last living guard, Hebemarri grasped in her claws. The guard pleaded and struggled before speaking a prayer of desperation towards the Dark Mother. Hebemarri spoke only to correct her on grammar and pronunciation. The dragon was otherwise busy catching her breath, and watching the defenders scurry about in th city just beyond the wall.

Shay Tirloc was a city built for military purposes, and the layout reflected it. Behind the outer city walls was a web of narrow streets that gave advantage the planners could manage to defense. Then, beyond that was the inner wall, and beyond that the twin fortresses that stretched higher than even the spires of Zar’ahal.

“How must it feel to be vermin?” Hebemarri asked. The Drow in her grip was unsure of how to respond or if she even should. “To know that doom is so inevitable and yet still scurry about to inconvenience your betters.”

“We—” spoke the last defender of the battlements, before the clawed grip tightened its hold and tossed her limp, lifeless body off of the wall.

Down bellow, Hebemarri could see slaves and soldiers preparing for the upcoming breach. A host well smaller than Zathrial’s but quickly entrenching with further lines to fall back to.

“I suppose there is still some initiative to yet claim.” Hebemarri sighed. She leapt from the battlements and took again to flight, soaring over the city as she contemplated where best to strike it. —then, suddenly, a bolt of shadow whizzed towards Hebemarri from afar. The dragon dodged but soon then came another, and another, and another. Hebemarri continued to dodge but could see the damage these dark magic arrows could do by the booms that flashed behind her. Then Hebemarri saw the source, a Drow on a distant roof who was dressed as a priestess and held a finely carved long bow.

Hebemarri readied a spell in retaliation but was stopped short as something heavy impacted her in the torso. —it was a drow knight, adorned in silver armor and armed with an obsidian spear. Hebemarri could tell at a glance that many spells had been cast on this knight as the pair plummeted down onto a city roof. Creating a crashing noise that echoed throughout the cavern.

The gatehouse and within the pulley mechanism for the cities main gate.

That lay beyond the current room which had four archers firing at the troops below with all the frustrating skill of his people.

He stepped in to take advantage of their focus sword in hand he could at least get the first, perhaps the second as well, before the others clocked to his presence.

Then the room shook and all eyes alerted about and of course his cover was blown.
Sazalam and the archers had no way of knowing that Hebemarri's might shook the room as she landed atop the wall, only that for a moment nothing was still or certain except the presence of the enemy and it landed with a slow dawning on each of them as they shared shocked glances.

Sazalam panicked and sent a boot to the chest of the archer before him, sending her screaming backwards out the window.
The other three did not wait for him to get close and turned their poisoned arrows on him, forcing him back out the door way as fletched death struck the wooden wall as he hid behind the corner.

Then the drew blades and followed him.
The first he felled with his Dark Arrow spell, leaving them writhing on the floor bleeding out. The others were on him before he could cast again and despite his experience Sazalam was beaten back down the hallway as the duo made excellent use of the twin shadow discipline which covers the partner as they attacked the enemy switched positions again and again. It was meant to overwhelm and overcome a generally more skilled opponent and when your people could live hundreds of years it was a vital military tactic for most troops.

Another attack defended and another step lost from the gate house. It was time to try something drastic before they cut him down.

Sazalam opened himself up to a hit from his right side while he thrust into the defender and the attacker using both his sword and the orc dagger that had earlier been buried in his guts.

The three figures hung motionless for a few seconds like a complex statue until the two archers fell leaving Sazalam standing nursing a deep slash across his right shoulder. The arm was useless now but he was alive and had his left arm in working order.

Just less blood.

The first step gave him vertigo.

A lot less blood.

Hebemarri emerged from the collapsed building she had fallen into just as a pack of assorted slaves were being made to fortify the street beside it. The slaves, along with their drow drivers, soon found themselves crying out in pain as black smoke flooded the street and Hebemarri lumbered out of the wreckage.

“And now I recall why battles can be such a chore.” Hebemarri said, shaking dust and debris off of her self.

“I certainly hope this city has a decent bath, *hiss*. My scales are filthy!”

“They’ll be more than that!” A woman’s voice shouted from back in the wrecked building. Hebemarri turned to see the knight, dust covered, but remarkably intact, staring at Hebemarri with a look of seething rage.

“Yes, I do believe your blood will hardly make things better when I drain it from your corpse” the dragon said, baring her fangs in a devilish grin. “But I do so like to take very long baths.”

“SHUT UP!” Yelled the knight. “I am Ser Vivul’Nitri the onyx spear of house Suulet’jabar! I shall avenge my sisters and brothers who have already fallen and save those that still draw breath!” Vivul’Nitri pointed her black stone spear at Hebemarri, it was crackling with dark magic. “While once you held my respect. I see you no longer as anything more than a beast I have needs to slay, Dragon! May Maelzafan spit on your corpse!”

Hebemarri tapped a bloody claw against the flagstone street and chuckled. “The feeling is largely mutual, vermin. Prepare to die~”

Vivul’Nitri was enveloped in a column of black smoke, yet no scream rang out. —Instead, a spearhead pierced the billowing plumes and scraped along Hebemarri’s cheek.

“What?!” The dragon hissed, feeling herself bleed. There was a quick attempt at a follow up by but Hebemarri was quick to snap back, forcing Vivul’Nitri once more to a distance as the now inert smoke dissipated around the pair.

No more words were exchanged but seething rage as both knight and dragon descended upon the other in a flurry of combat. The pair went charging down the city streets as they fought with claw to spear and spell to skill. Vivul’Nitra was clearly no stranger to facing great monsters and the many spells that were cast upon her brought her closer to Hebemarri’s level than the dragon would like to admit.

The fighting continued without slowing as drow and slave fled from the destructive duel that was ravaging through the city.

Meanwhile atop a roof just beside the inner wall, the bow-wielding priestess squinted her eyes to try and make out what was going on. “Oh, brave sister” she said. “How I wish to aid you but my arrows cannot strike true what is obscured by so much dust and debris!”

Tyrnael handed her red-hooded pike-standard to her messenger as she stepped down to formally greet Zathria, bowing gracefully with open palms.

"I am she. When last we briefly met at the elder Matron Suulet'jabar's septcentenarian ball, A'ni Zathria, I was yet third-daughter of my house, and newly ordained within the high temple. I surmise from your return that Vyx'aria is once again acclaimed Valsharess. And I duly offer my service to Maelzafan's anointed, and present the honed but haggard remnants of the army that the Disgraced One led from Zar'Ahal. Maelzafan demanded her sacrifice and I duly obeyed; her head rests there, under the hood."

She nodded upward toward the pike held upright by her psychic, still astride her vornyx.

"We lost fully two-thirds of our shebali infantry, and many illustrious daughters of the very highest houses in prosecuting the Disgraced One's mad crusade against our onetime allies. We still have significant numbers of lancers, battlemages, and priestesses. We were headed here for supplies, as preserving all our train was not feasible in consideration of the need to preserve as much as possible of our numbers."

"Indeed they did; so did all drow in Zar'Ahal with heads still atop their shoulders. Dalrithia demanded frequent renewals of such vows. But Maelzafan finally withdrew her favor before the very gates of Bhathairk, and she demanded the Disgraced One's sacrifice to return it. I dutifully slew her with this very dagger."

She drew her dagger, bowed, and offered it forward to Zathriel.

"I, Tyrnael Myrlochar, here and now swear loyalty to the true queen, Vyx'aria Tor'Rahel. I told the army what Maelzafan had whispered to me, that her chosen Valsharess awaits her army in Zar'Ahal. I heard no cries of dissent. All must of course swear properly before you as I have, A'ni Zathria, but look! The Dalrithian fools in the southern spire now launch ballista bolts at Vallabha-Dalninil Hebemarri! May I deploy my battlemages to stop them?"

It took him a lot longer than he would ever admit to get to the door. Twice he stopped to take breath and the bandage he salvaged from his cloak was a soaking rag by the time he wrenched the door open to the gate house controls which were a series of steel pulleys supporting stone weights. When released the weights fell and the great gate opened.

There was but one issue.
The mechanism was split into two levers which must be operated simultaneously. This he knew from seeing operated gates in other cities.

"By her shadow is nothing ever easy?"
Grunting most undignified Sazalam took hold of the closest lever and tested it, a quick tug with his left hand confirmed his suspicions and he let out a silent prayer to the Dark Mother for resilience.

He looked about the room for anything useful, nothing so obvious as a rope to tie them but on the wrack was a long spear, several. No doubt designed to poke through the slim windows at aggressors or help barricade the door. He was thankful all hands were elsewhere and he had already slain the rooms guardians.

It was heavy and awkward to move but after a bit of... we shall call it convincing Sazalam had wedged the great spear behind both levers and was sweating. His eyes were getting sore, his head aches and that memory of pain threatened to take him again.

He could have used another of those elixirs just then.
Summoning all the might he had left he hauled with his left hand while the right remained useless. Hauled for all his worth and fell to the ground as the levers surrendered and released the weights.

The great gates of Shay Tirloc were opening.

He did not have much time to rest as what troops remained came with fast feet to undo his efforts.
Two more archers with blades drawn and a third one, a being in armour with a mighty axe came towards him past the dead he had left.

There was no time, using the last of his magics he cast upon them the chains of darkness. A spell that manipulated shadow to hold and grasp an enemy in place I only for a short while though.

The he closed the door and bolted it. Taking a moment, face flat against the grain to rest and take breath.

The gate house had no exits save the window, which was death with his arm in its current state and he could not fight again.

Sazalam was trapped.

By the time Zathria was there Sazalam had backed his body against the door and slid to the floor hoping his dead weight would buy what time his sword could not.

Then the rings of steel made his ears twitch and he dared endure that spark of deceit, that wretched delussion called hope blossomed as an unwelcome thing over his heart and Zathria's voice gave it moonlight to blossom.

As quickly as he could, which was not particularly quickly, he stood and leaning on the door dragged the bolt back to open the gatehouse door.

He could have wept to see the Mistress then if he had the strength to endure it. Instead he took a half stumbling step backwards to make way and dropped to his knees with a bone clattering thud.

"The Gate House is your Mistress..."
His voice was low, his shoulder almost separated from his torso and his clothes more blood than fabric at this point.

"Praise the Dark Mother... May you walk ever in her divine shadow!"
To ask for help twice in one day was beyond any servant. His face bore a smile that he had succeeded in his task as he stared at the floor before her, tenacity keeping him active as much as anything else.

Zathria At'Arel

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Somewhere on the outskirts of the battle near the Southern Tunnel a huddle of well armed Orcs, clearly of sterner stuff than most of their already hardy kind, took council and rallied themselves.

"The city has fallen."
"Then we have lost our pay."
"Only glory remains but what glory is there in defeat to elflings?"
"They came from behind us, they must have been told we were coming."
"I told One Eye we could not trust the elflings. They are lies made flesh."

"Quiet yourselves!"
The one who spoke then was younger, untested in such a vast field but proven in raids and scouting and his eyes were not on the city but the one who raided them into a route. He crouched like a gargoyle on the high perch and looked down from the rocky slope they rested upon.
Below he saw the overwhelming force flood into the city and knew that there was no honour in supporting a dead cause. It was not their squabble. The hood of the white snake adorned him and it rung with his fathers words.
*Do not return until it is coloured in the blood of the elflings my son!*

With a sharp turn he hopped down from his perch and gathered his sword and whip, a terrible thing tipped with manticore barbs, to affix it on his belt.
"Go home, I will take the head of the one who routed us."
The others, all seasoned warriors looked to each other in doubt.
"White Snake you canno..."
"I will not live to see shame in my fathers eye for me. I will not give him that. I will give him this hood heavy in elfling blood or I will give his heart a fire of vengeance that the oceans themselves cannot douse."
Against that statement the one who spoke nodded and taking his knife cut his face that he might carry the moment forever on his person. This act of solemn recognition was followed by all present as White Hood made his way through them off the slope and towards the one he had marked in his heart.

He did not know her name was Tyrnael Myrlochar and he did not care. She had robbed him of his first command and he was going to seek payment for the insult.

A soldier saw him and he drew his weapons, approaching at a steady pace.

"I know the heart of the Warfather!"
His whip cracked at the first soldier fell screaming and clutching her ruined face but more were alerted.
"You seeded my people with false fear!"
The second rushed him quick but his heavy blade broke their bones under its weight and they were left heaving into lungs that now filled with blood at each breath.
"To win a throne you could not keep!"
The third he smashed out of his way with a shoulder tackle and finished with a stomp that broke in the soldiers helmet. The elfling made a noise that might have been begging for his life.
"He keeps us in his anger and gives fuel to my step."

He would meet the commander or die trying.

Upon the slope the veterans watched beating their hands on their chests in unison.
"White Snake, White Snake, White Snake..."

Tyrnael Myrlochar

The streets just beyond the gatehouse were in a state of panic. Chain of command was buckling over a contested back-line and any semblance of falling back came with a thousand questions of if those planned stages of fortification were even in place to begin with.

“That damn dragon!” The field commander said through gritted teeth. She could see slaves fleeing every which way with some being cut down but most escaping. Every massive impact from the city behind caused more and more panic as the gates appeared ready to swing open at any moment.

“Oh to hell with this!” The field commander shouted while tearing up a booklet of battle plans. “We fall back further into the city, bolster what fortifications still stand and make it for the second line if they do not! Hurry before the invaders are upon us!”

Meanwhile, Hebemarri and Vivul’Nitri continued their duel. Their clashing had brought them to a temple of Maelzafan, with the interior a hardly recognizable mess save for the goddess statue that watched the fight with finely carved eyes.

“It would seem, vermin, that the dark mother wishes to see your blood spilled first hand.” Said Hebemarri.

“Do not think yourself the only one favored!” Replied Vivul’Nitri. “Maelzafan shall be gifed the sound of spear piercing dragonhide and shattering dragonbone.”

“Then perish with your dillusions.”

Magic surged throughout the dusty temple as Vivul’Nitri felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The knight moved quickly to try and prevent whatever Hebemarri was casting, but it was folly to try.

Long black needles materialized in the air around her and closed in with movements like perspiration on the outside of a glass. Vivul dodged as best she could but there far too many… shadows then pierced into her body, leaving no wounds and drawing no blood but searing her mind and soul with incredible pain.

Vivul’Nitri screamed sharper than she ever had before. Had it not have been for all the enchantments cast on her by the defending priestesses, this painful spell might have very well killed her right then and there.

Hebemarri watched her opponent nearly collapse from pain and snickered at the display. “Blessed be the Dark Mother, her secrets grand and terrible.”

After speaking the prayer, Hebemarri lunged—Her claws bared to crush the life out of the knight’s armored body. But, Vivul’Nitri also had something up her sleeve. With her every bit of willpower she could muster, she held aloft her onyx spear in her left hand, and pointed it at the dragon. Then, by speaking a forbidden word of ancient drow, a burst of magic hit Hebemarri in the instant before she could strike. The dragon was sent flying through several buildings away from the temple. Causing small quakes throughout the cavern and a giant cloud of dust that shot up into the air.

Now Vivul’Nitri stood alone in the ruins of the temple. the once blessed spear clattered to the ground inert, along with the mummified remains of Vivul’s left arm. Powerful magic had a cost after all. And there was only so much the drow knight could manage to give.

“Oh great Maelzafan…” Vivul’Nitri muttered, looking up at the statue. “Are you pleased by this.. display…?”

The knight then collapsed upon the dusty floor.

Tyrnael rose as commanded, sheathing her dagger with a flourish and nodding her assent to Zathriel’s orders.

“I shall. For Valsharess Vyx’aria, and all Zar’Ahal!”

She mounted her vornyx, turning to the psychic behind her as she reclaimed her pike.

“Messenger: order the battlemages into ranks opposite the southern battlements, shielded by lancers, priestesses behind. Shay Tirloc shall now hear our song and despair of their treachery!”

The ranks formed ahead of the singing priestesses, chanting the city’s dirge. The young general’s vornyx wove its way up a prominence before the gate, pike held high. Her voice amplified by the fell thaumaturgy of the dark goddess, she proclaimed as she pulled down the red hood cloaking the helmeted, slack jawed head of Dalrithia the Pretender:

“Behold, Shay Tirloc, the inevitable fate of all who stand against Valsharess Vyx'aria Tor'Rahel, and spurn the revealed will of Maelfazar! Cast forth the heads of all betrayers and be spared! Or die in the flames and storm of Her wrath!”

Fireballs, meteor swarms, and clouds of ravening, stinging insects converged upon the southern ramparts as the battlemages and priestesses began to call down the city’s doom.

Zathria’s advance to the inner gate was hardly without resistance. The broken formations and crowded corridors made pushing through the city slow as defenders hid behind every corner.

Eventually though, the force Zathria led encountered allies instead of enemies. “Lady Zathria!” Called out the commander of the footman squadron. “Blessed be the Dark mother’s mercy!”

The squadron commander sheathed her sword and saluted Zathria, while her soldiers watched for any archers or ambushes.

“I lead my drow to a spire that stands beside the inner wall. A traitor nests there who is master of the bow and blessed by dark magic. Their arrows strike true and I have seen good women undone by them like fruit crushed by a Minotaur’s club. I fear we cannot hope to take the inner gate while this bow-witch watches the city like a hungry hüsco.”

“Also—” the commander continued. “A captured slave spoke of lady Hebemarri’s exploits. The high priestess caused much destruction, but was engaged by someone only referred to by the traitors as ‘the obsidian spear’. Information seems sparse on where the High priestess is, but I pray for her safety…”

Meanwhile, Hebemarri stirred beneath a mound of rubble. Her whole body ached like it never really had before. The spell that she had been hit with was sloppy, but so overwhelmingly potent that the crudeness of it hardly mattered.

“Praise be to Maelzafan…” Hebemarri muttered, as she mustered the strength to pull herself free of her buried state. Moving around she could tell that the pain was worst around her chest— a symptom of the knight’s spell aiming itself towards her center of mass. No doubt though that the knight’s offering was made a reality; as Hebemarri moved she could tell that she had blood drawn in several spots and her bones were broken in several others.

“A bothersome conclusion, I do suppose. But hardly one that draining the life force of vermin cannot fix…”

Mistress Zathria was far too formal as always but it was the right of women to treat men so flippantly.

"Indeed, yet..."
With reverence he accepted the hand given never minding the blood. Zathria was already stained.
"... I endure by her amusement and your grace alone Mistress."

With gratitude he took the bottle and sipped it slowly to enjoy the lingering bitterness as it set deep into his tongue. For emergencies you may quaff the potion but to knit together the bone and cartilage and ligaments of his shoulders connection to his arm it was better to take time if you had it. The healing would be easier and you would heal stronger.

Already his neck itched, a sign of the deep repair being done to his body and his face worked a wry smile of its own in reply to Zathria's as he gave a jest of his own.
"I can think of far worse fates than that Mistress."

Lack of blood must have loosened his inhibitions. He would later chastise himself for speaking so freely to her but he knew Zathria was not one to take offense so easily.
Living among the surface dwellers gave you thick skin.

Before another word could be said she was off again and as soon as she was out of sight he gave up the act and slumped back against the wall. His shoulders sagging as his legs shook and slowly he let himself onto the floor again sipping the elixir patiently and basking in the knowledge that he had done his duty well.

"It's Sazalam Mistress... Sazalam."

Tyrnael's psychic battlemage spoke to her: "A'ni, the northern rank reports that an orc champion is cleaving through our rearguard."

"Deploy a combined squadron. Trap and bind him. A'ni Zathria and I shall wish to question him later. Once he is dealt with, send our surviving shebali into the gates to aid A'ni Zathria. Tell her when they approach the gate that they are coming; we need incur no avoidable casualties."

From the northern rank, a group of twenty vornyx detached from the rank and deployed themselves in an zigzagging crescent uphill of the rampaging orc White-Snake and the half-dozen shebali spearmen attempting to slow him. A dozen of the vornyx were ridden by glaive-wielding lancers with battlemages seated on raised saddles behind them. The other eight were ridden by priestesses.

First, the ground the orc and the unfortunate shebali spearmen fighting him stood on turned to a clinging, waist-deep mire. Then utter black darkness enveloped them. A choking cloud of gas billowed through the darkness, as the priestesses began to assail the orc's mind with spells of command.

Kneel! Drop your arms! Maelzafan compels you!

The rest of the battlemages continued their assault on the spires' surviving artillery positions. Tyrnael moved to better observe their progress on the southern spire.