Open Chronicles King of Kings

[Aratus Seldomus]

The Devil.

That's what Aratus fought like. Like hell itself had manifested into his body. The Athallian was slaughtering the undead, switching between being unarmed and taking the weapons from the dead. He wasn't retreating at the incoming forces-

The Athallian was going at them. He had a spear in hand, taken from one of the undead. He launched into the air, soaring through- and impaling one such of the undead. He broke the spear off, and used the stick that remained to batter another into submission. He was breaking skulls, shattering sockets and crushing their will to fight.

He looked over at Gerra, looking to the incoming undead forces. He picked up a sword and shield, standing tall as they charged at him. He rapped the shield with the sword, egging them on. The warriors of Thelios had earned their reputation for years upon years-

Aratus was simply demonstrating it in the flesh. A trove of undead lay as evidence of his passing. Warriors of no equal caliber, weighed and found wanting. He looked to the ceiling, eyeing the massive dragon. He turned his head back to the approaching undead. The Atthalian charged at them, taking one by surprise. He crushed his skull by thrusting the shield into his face.

"Stay dead this time, creature."

 

[Halul]

A sidestep and push with his free hand sent one undead careening behind him. They were mindless, clumsy, and slow. But there were so many of the damned reanimated. Off to the side, some beast of a man crushed bone under his shield.

Some approached fighting like a dance, with great grace and technique. Others may fight like the Devil, ravaging the battlefield as wrath incarnate. The mercenary with the eerie mask, however, appeared as an agent of Death that spread his inescapable tendrils over the field of battle. His manner of fighting was far from graceful, yet also far from brutish. He fought without a single wasted movement and was adept at exploiting the weaknesses of his opponents.

The weaknesses of the undead were many.

Legbones shattered under his boot, and festered, decayed skin was severed under the edge of his sword with almost no effort. Blows were somewhat weak and slow. Even as he became surrounded, the masked mercenary showed no signs of falling to the horde.

The tall, armored one that had sent him flying appeared to be a walking fortress. It was clear that blades would do little against it, and even as the King of Kings beat down on it, the ungodly being showed no signs of fatigue or damage.

Just then, while he was in the midst of a great wave of the resurrected, the ceiling above seemed to groan under the weight of what was above.

And a reckless idea spawned in his head.

He quickly carved his own path through the hall, again escaping into the great hallways of the palace. He found himself descending a great stairway, and was soon faced with a large closed door.

Ragash's royal vault. The handle had five large spokes, one of which Uvogin began to pull, twisting the handle until the locks on the door retracted. He pulled the door, straining to pull it open. His side screamed at him. Inside the vault was a trove of countless treasures, though he only sought one. Tales of great, powerful rings were often told throughout Amol-Kalit.

At the far end of the vault, two rings sat in a glass display. They hummed of power. Uvogin approached, smashing the glass under his sword's pommel, and took one ring, leaving the other in its place.

The Archlector himself had spoken of the ring that Uvogin grasped. The mercenary removed a glove and slid the gold ring over his forefinger, then pulled the glove back over his hand.

He then turned and marched out of the vault.

 

[Amankh Kaltar]

White mist turned to cold darkness, as sudden silence overtook the chaos of ice and fire. Through the inky blackness, a form could be seen, lumbering and heavy, the audibly shifting of armor with every footstep. Whispers, barely audible yet at the same time nearly overwhelming, lurked at the corners of the mind with their entrance, remnants of Pandemonium. Magnasandree. The undead giant immediately traded blows with Gerra, sparks from their impact brightening the darkened hall.

However, Amankh's attention was focused elsewhere. Cries, dozens of them, all echoing out in a cacophonous unison. The anguish and pain clawed at his mind, the feeling of life being ripped from their bodies inescapable as they screamed it out. At once, the voice of his assailant was at last acknowledged, the prior whisper at the edges of his thoughts now piercing them with a sharpened edge.

As he was wracked from the inside, his appearance seemed unchanged, stagnant despite the constant shifting of forces around him. The mummy spoke, the voice one of an unearthly calmness. Unlike the angered and unrestrained voice of the dark mage, his was undisturbed, as though he were stating fact.

Despite your cowardice, Child, you will be found. All who defend you will be struck down into the sands as you gaze upon them. Their souls will be wrenched away from the afterlife and returned to their corpses as they kneel before me. As your life finally leaves you, nothing will await you. Your afterlife denied, your body shattered until it cannot be discerned from the desert it rests on. Your knowledge lost. Your followers in the service of another. Your name lost to time, your actions amounting to mere footnotes in history. There will be nothing.

Amankh turned his gaze, his eyes meeting a group of soldiers attempting to catch him in his distracted gaze. Their movement slowed as though the air was thick molasses, joints beginning to frost over as they came closer and closer. A cold wind followed and as it passed over them, their skin turned a crystalline blue, ice covering their bodies. They remained trapped, eyes frantically moving within a prison of frigid, uncaring winter. A skeletal hand was clenched as it grew colder and colder, the mummy commanding, "Tell me of the dark mages and their location." Their mouths began to thaw out, able to move once more. They all spoke variations of the same, ignorant response. The group's very existence seemed uncertain to them.

Their mouths crystallized once more, their eyes flashing with terror once more as the cold began to creep further and further in. "Eila," he said, "There is a group of mages here, led by a coward hiding in the realm of spirits. Find them, and tell me when you do." Though unspoken, there was a clear addition to his command: Make them suffer.

 

[Magnan Smithson]

The mace came down with enough force to set Magnan's skeletal body rattling, Gerra having obviously not grown any weaker in the time it had been since Magnan's last encounter with the large half giant. Yet he himself hadn't been idle either, and now that eilasandree had curiously given up the control she usually guarded so jealously, he found himself able to hold his own against the onslaught of blows. The mace came down, again and again, and it was only Magnan's skill that kept his soul from being shattered as his shield lifted and angled itself, the steel of the mace skittering off with enough force to create sparks, scoring gouges in the steel that... sent shocks of pain coursing through him, forcing Magnan to cry out in shock and pain at something he hadn't felt in a long time.

And yet still the blows came, over and over and if Magnan still had any feeling or muscles left in his arms he was certain it would have long since been deadened by now. Yet he didn't, and because of that the lich knight was able to push on through the battle. Timing it just right, he pushes his shield to the side with as much force as he could muster the moment the mace made contact once more, aiming to open up Gerra's guard. Not stopping to check if it was done, having faith in his own abilities, Magnan's sword flashes forward and aims directly for Gerra's stomach... before at the last minute flashing up to try and pierce through the arm holding the half giant's shield, expecting him to try and protect his stomach.

**

Eilasandree was having something of a hard time, to the point she had (regretfully) retreated from her hold over their body as she forced herself to focus. Soldiers needed to be ordered into place, there was an annoying battle happening in the spirit realm that kept fading in and out of view as her power fluctuated, and to top it all off she could feel the swell of power within the city long before Amankh informed her of it. Taking a deep 'breath', the Banshee began to focus upon one task at a time. First of all, the soldiers were not allowed to just rush in there anymore. Tightening their leashes, she forced the most unruly members of the horde back into line as their footsteps became uniform and an actual formation began to make its way into the building.

Secondly, the screaming coming from the mages was giving her a magical migraine and that little soul mage was actually something of a threat, which just wouldn't do. "Amankh." She states, form materialising within the spirit world, looking exactly like her old body with the noticeable exception of countless purple strands of light bursting from her back. "It seems you could do with a little help." Raising both hands, palms up, the Banshee Queen begins to glow with a dark purple light as all behind her a wall of shadowy beings appeared. Dressed in rags and without legs, the Shades teemed forward past her and the spirit of the Archmage. "Find the soul mage. Bring him out of hiding." Eila's voice rings out.

Lastly, the growing amount of magic was very concerning, and Eilasandree knew it had to be something to do with the army. Fortunately, which she herself could not take them out, she could certainly find them and direct her tools towards the targets. It just so happened she had a very useful tool, up above. Beginning to slowly fade out of the spirit realm once more, Eilasandree does her best to begin to track the sources of the magic even as her fists clench once more and she grabs firm control over Sathirena's soul, twisting it to ensure that they were happily servile. 'Dragon. Find and kill the ones channelling the magic. I will show you where.'

 

[Selene Avar]

A single snap seemed to oddly echo within the Audience hall.

Among the chaos it was out of place, never being thought able to drown out the noise or chaos. Yet as Selene's finger's pressed against one another it was enough to crack the very air. Something shifted around her, and then the undead that had slowly begun to encircle her burst into flame.

White hot heat overtook bone and soul, burning through whatever magic had forced the creatures to rise from the dead and scorching out the meager existence that they had crawled back into.

A dozen of them collapsed into smoldering ash.

Their deaths gave her enough time to glance towards the warrior she had seen smiling earlier. He was in the midst of battle, just a few feet away from her own. Beyond him stood Gerra, a hulking Knight nearly the size of the Half-Giant, and then the Lich that had begun all this.

Her fingers flickered, and another Undead burst into flame as it dared to reach her.

The creature let out a guttural cry, the collapsed in upon itself.

Selene gazed at those in the audience hall, some of them of Gerra's legions, some simply frightened bystanders. Among them were dozens of undead, each of them crawling and attempting to slaughter as they could.

Frustration grew in her chest as she raised her fingertips. Each individual undead she killed was a waste of energy. Each one that she had to focus on was a thrown away minute. It would have been so much easier to simply scorch the entire room.

Lances of fire burned from each one, lacing through the crowd and striking skeletal beings while leaving those still living untouched.

Among the ice that had so saturated the room grew flames, the stench of burning bones filling the room.

As she saw them fall her gaze turned towards Gerra, a thought running through her mind of his ancestry. How much does he care for his followers?

She as an undead warrior exploded behind her.

 

[T’suris Flameblade]

Small, slitted eyes stared into large slitted ones. Her voice reverberated in his chest, rumbling to the core of his being. He felt esteemed to hear her voice.

"I mean no disrespect, Great Mother," he bowed his head as best he could, still gripping the roof with one both feet and one hand. The scent of decay assaulted his senses. He couldn't fathom why she would allow herself to be ruled by the undead, or any creature at all for that matter; it broke his heart. Dragons were above mortals and immortals alike, brave, wonderful, the beginnings of his species and thus deserved his utter and complete deference. Did he listen to and obey her, as he would in life, honouring her wishes? Or would he truly honour her by break the chains that bound her to the undead?

There was no time to think about such philosophical debates: his eye caught something - someone - on the Great Mother's back, just as he heard a scream behind him. He turned in time to see Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk land on the great dragon. He was shocked and horrified - how dare they touch her!

Rage at the violation and injustice done to her fueled him, and he was overcome with the instinct to enact justice and protect. She deserved more worthy opponents than these.

"Forgive me!" He shouted at Sathirena before leaped onto her side, scrambling up her scales and facing the first of the two humans who dared to touch her: Ashuanar, claws out, teeth barred, ready to tackle him from Sathirena's back without thought or care to his own wellbeing.

 

[Zufar el Hassan]

'Ooooh, what do we have here?' Zufar thought as he watched as the masked mercenary hurry out of the vault, a curious but amused expression behind his mask.

The entire fight had been just so entertaining, the only thing Zufar had been missing was a beverage and some snacks. The only thing that was more exciting was the idea of turning all of this into some sort of opera or play, the kids would certainly love the action! He'd have to get Otto to help him write it...

Back to the present moment, Zufar had been idly watching as the chaos escalated to new proportions. He might of stayed idle as he did, clinging on to the pillar, when he noticed an individual break from the battle. Big masked man, whom Zufar was certain suppose to be defending the honor of his lord, was running away from the fight. Oh, scratch that, the masked man was opening a vault.

Now curiosity was often what got people killed, more often then not, but like he said...Zufar had been playing things way to safe these days...time to play things a little riskay.

Leaping and jumping, the Captain had no issue making his way over to the other side of the palace. Seemed that a life or death battle with the undead during a royal's coronation was quite...distracting to say the least. Compared to what was going on, Zufar was way to insignificant; which worked for him.

As the Captain finally made it to one of the more ornamental ledges, he observed the masked man exit the room with just as much urgency as he went in. Leaping off the ledge, Zufar swung himself into the vault and graceful landed inside. With the chaos going on outside, hardly anyone would be able to hear his antics on the inside of the vault. Again, that worked for him. A quick look around would indicate that the place was some of...treasure room? Any typical pirate or the like might have squealed at all the gold, but to Zufar...well first, there was no way for him to carry it all away on his own...second, it just all seemed rather typical. Honestly, Zufar was expecting somthing much bigger.

Now what was interesting was the half smashed display on the other side of the room. Bingo, that was where our masked friend had been. Not wasting a moment, Zufar sprinted over to the pedestal, observing it as he arrived.

No doubt power echoed in and out of the ring, so naturally the greatest idea was to pick it up.

It was odd that the masked man didn't decide to take both, but maybe there was a reason. Infinite power of sorts? Probably not, the masked man had enough restraint only to pick up one.

Could be anything, the Captain thought...as he held the ring up to a finger...

"Naaaah" Zufar laughed to himself, as he casually flipped the ring up into the air like it was some sort of coin, before catching it as such. The captain had transported/hunted for enough magical artifacts in his lifetime to know that it was never a good idea to use somthing without knowing to the fullest extend of what it did and the price it demanded. Zufar was not about to be torn to shreds or be internally combusted by some sort of cursed artifact, at least not today.

Instead, the good captain would retrieve a pouch from his satchel. This particular pouch was rather special, as it was coated with a sort of anti-magical lubricate that would have fully dampened any other more minor artifact. As Zufar dropped the ring into the pouch, it certainly did dampened the object's potency, but it was "leaking", so to say. Still safer then handling it otherwise, at least till the captain could figure out what it did.

If it was really bad, he might just anonymously return the damn thing or throw it into the ocean or somthing. Maybe pawn it off to some greedy individual, let the curse be theirs.

Within seconds, the Captain had quietly exited the room, rapidly scalling the ledges of the nearby wall. Seemed liked no one had noticed his little foray into the royal vaults...or so he had hoped...

 

[Sathirena]

Her violet pits stared at the little one as he made an impressive leap across the chasm that span between the two.

She let out a deep snort as he made his way across her back, she couldn't feel a thing, not even a step. Observing him for just long enough to notice one more on her side. Her face slowly neared the pitiful elf if only to just...
'Dragon. Find and kill the ones channelling the magic. I will show you where.'

The great skeletal beast stopped in her track. Her neck turned to the frosted palace.
I shall.


It was almost instinctual. Threads of magic, traceable in her mental map of the area. The dragon lurched and her whole body shook violently before turning into a steady but cautious walking gait.
Her legs brushed against the many buildings and villas, levelling some balconies and decorations in her wake. A tail wrapped around a nearby tower, skewing its balance until it collapsed on its own.
She made her way onwards and people began to screech and scream. in the streets. no one had any idea what was happening.

The great dragon stopped before another building, she shifted her weight to her back legs, stomping a building to the ground with multiple thrusts.
It almost appeared as if the buildings being levelled were picked randomly.

 

[Aivrid]

Ice and fire.
Tag: Sathirena
​

Drums.

That was what was heard first. From all around. A heartbeat, perhaps. A deep, ringing tone sounded above the frozen palace, but across the makeshift battlefield it was heard. A flicker of light flashed where the beat emanated from; purple at first, then growing into a deep orange. The flame danced across the sky for a few moments, as if probing the gathered creatures for their attention. And then...

A dragon never enters without a little flamboyance.​

The little flame seemed to flicker out for a moment, giving a sort of calm before the storm.

And then the storm came.​

The sky above the palace exploded, the sheer force seeming to halt the icy storm in its tracks. An uncomfortable heat did battle with the biting cold as the fiery head of a dragon emerged, wreathed in orange flames. Upon closer inspection one might notice that there was little true substance to the dragon -- in fact, Aivrid had emerged purely represented by the hellfire he had summoned.

The black dragon still resided in his mountain home, but visions of this battle did not pass him by. Even from so far away, he had managed to gather the power to project himself through his magic. Keeping this up would be costly -- but losing a valuable piece in the Great Game would be an equally grievous wound.

The fiery head surveyed the city. Nothing escaped its gaze. These puny spellcasters, weak undead, and... a dragon. Aivrid recoiled at the sight of the dracolich brought by the Eternum. It was disgusting, an affront against his kind. Moreover this creature was one he recognized, making the offense even more unforgivable. The fiery creature roared, and after another moment the full form of the flaming creature made itself known. The pure orange flames held the vague form of a dragon; its wings spread, almost covering the palace. Once more the magical creature roared, before launching itself towards the icy undead blue dragon.

"Svent Kaegro!" His words shot towards the other great beast, the magical force shattering skeletons and zombies in his wake. Perhaps a simple incantation would not be enough to bring down the other behemoth, but they would certainly hurt it. He hoped it hurt.

 

[Gerra]

Almost no one noticed Zufar's foray.

But almost no one is not no one.

Archlector Snaaib stroked his beard as, in between the shrieking undead, snowing sandstorm, and raging dragon, not one but two people snuck into the vault of Ragash and plundered it for the two rings of power, which he could sense like beacons in the wellspring of Heka.

How utterly fascinating.

He tucked their faces away for later, reminded by a skeleton stumbling toward him that he had more immediate concerns.

 

[Sathirena]

(Just tidying up the posting order, don't mind me (◡‿◡✿)

Thrashing a designated building until it was no more, a flash of light flickered upon the walls of Ragash, a flash which illuminated through the sandy blizzard.

Sathirena, the great blue turned and shifted in her place, facing the emanating manifestation of the fire dragon that formed before her, atop the frozen palace. Curious indeed.
A bout of roars was exchanged as Sathirena responded in well.
From her maw shot out a burst of pure magic, colliding with the blast spell right before her snout.
The now harmless, violet plume was blasted behind her, now stagnated and drifting towards the ground as if it were ash. The great beast shook lightly as the force threw her centre of balance further back, if only momentarily. Her wings had spread, grabbing hold of buildings for support.

They say magic was unique to one another. »Aivrid!« Roared Sathirena as the dragon sprung towards her.

 

[Gerra]

A campaigner, a soldier, a tactician. All these were Gerra, and more beside.

But he was no duelist.

In battle, he raged like a charging bull, horns lowered and relentless. No skill, only overwhelming strength.

Thus, Gerra sought to block the incoming thrust for his midsection with his shield, only to watch the blade change course and stab at his arm. Gerra felt the tip meet the chain maille shirt he wore beneath lamellar, burst several of the rings, and then continue on to rip open the black thawb beneath and puncture flesh.

A sharp stab of pain, the the warmth of hot blood trickling down his arm.

The half-giant abandoned all pretense of skill or art, hurling his shield at Magnan, then gripping his mace in two hands Gerra swung at him with most dolorous blows.

 

[Ashuanar]

He was now quite sure of himself. He'd found his bearings, growing accustomed to the behemoth's movements. He drew his polearm from off his back, and when necessary he used it to aid his balance. He looked ahead and beheld the eyes of the great beast bearing down on him. He froze. His eyes darted from left to right, up and down, looking for something. Anything.

She drew close and he prepared himself, brandishing his weapon. But then, much to his amazement her attention was once again diverted.

But alas, if he thought dealing with one monstrosity of a beast was enough then he was sorely mistaken. For now, even as Sathirena now chose to ignore him, a miniature dragon had decided to join the fray. He was unfamiliar with Komodi personally, but had heard tales of them. He knew that was what approached.

And from the looks, this one was not at all friendly toward him.

That suited him just fine.

Careful with his footing. He let out a relaxed breath, and then…! He threw up his polearm in defense to hold back his attacker’s claws, moved to drop one knee beside one of the dragon’s frills to brace himself and attempt to hurl his opponent over top of him. Beneath them the mighty dragon lurched and leaned, engaged in her own toil with someone her own size. And now, in the heat of battle his thoughts had left him. He now only acted. He now only felt.

He felt angry.

You’re in my way.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

What the-

Both one of Gerra's warriors and a Komodi landed on the back of the Dragon along with him; the Warrior looking towards him, as if looking for guidance on what to do next, the Komodi - furiously climbing up the back of the Beast, with a look of fury directed towards the pair.

Oh christ.

Now, not only did he have to attempt to deal with the Dragon, but now he had a dragon's descendant crawling after him. And if that wasn't bad enough, the Beast was stomping it's way through buildings, Sparhawk having to desperately hold on to it's horns to not fall off, slipping only slightly, having to readjust himself.

What do I do...

But before he even had enough time to decide what his best course of action was, he could feel a heat glow upon the Dragon, until - suddenly - a great beam of energy burst from it's maw, clashing with the Dragon from Ninagal, roaring with immense power.

He looked back to the Komodi crawling up the Dragon's back. The first problem.

"TIO EWEN!" He shouted. The clay of his right arm began to malform, working it's way into one, sharp, uniform spike. He pulled his arm back, and threw it forward, the spike detaching itself, flying in the direction of the Komodi.

 

[Infernal]

A great thundering boom filled the city, and all at once, the air seemed thick with the feeling of magic. The ritual was completed, and while some had died, the others were able to hold it in place, and now the doom of the undead was at hand.

The weakest of them were the first to fall, disintegrating into dust particles as their bodies were assaulted by the Arcane forces. Vultures began to fall from the sky, the throne room was turning into a cacophony of unnatural agony as the forces of evil were assaulted by this powerful new weapon. Both Amankh and Magnan were likely to feel as if their bodies were immersed in acid, each one of their atoms separating from each other to be released into the air. Even the dragon was not immune, as whatever flesh was left upon its frame began to evaporate into nothing.

Telenar could feel victory just within his reach, all he needed was to deliver the right attack, and by prize would be his. Unfortunately, his attention was otherwise focused on other things, like the handful of shades clawing at his body.

Try as he might, he could not fight them off, and they piled atop him, prying off his armor, clawing at his face. He felt them tearing off one of his cheeks, and so he did what he knew must be done, or else he was going to die. While screaming in pain, he forced himself back into the physical plane, where the shades were destroyed by the anti undead field. Panting, bleeding, a sizable hole in his face, one eye closed shut from the amount of blood flowing down it, he stood, mere feet from the throne, and felt his triumph at hand.

"You...are finished..."

 

[Amankh Kaltar]

Amankh watched as fire spiraled out to each of the undead in the room, piercing rotting flesh as it moved from corpse to corpse, decimating each on in its path. Spires of ice were quickly conjured in front of the remaining few, just managing to survive the onslaught of heat. Despite his best efforts to quiet the screams summoned by the pain inflicted upon his pupils, they continued to ring throughout his mind.

As he gazed upon the contained battlefield, ice and flames scattered recklessly upon the once ornate hall, a sudden surge of pain pulsated throughout his body. In unison, the undead stumbled, an abrupt wave of pain washing over them without warning. A few moments later, the screams began, as every Eternal realized that the pain would not cease. Vultures dropped from the air as soldiers bit back horrid screeches of pain, the ward taking immediate effect upon the Eternum. Amankh remained quiet, although if lungs were to exist within his mummified body, they would be breathing heavy.

His gaze shifted forward, meeting the form of an elf seemingly phasing into existence beside the throne. The Shades had done their duty well; a gaping wound marred his face, bloodied and recent. The one from the other realm. The mage. The torturer.

A silent fury filled the Archmage as he took a single step forward. Then another. And then another. And another, each second spent within the field sending a wave of pain across his body. The edges of his bones began to dissipate, fractures beginning to adorn his skeleton. A hand thrust itself to the site of the gravest injury, crystalline ice filling the wound. The screams sent by the elf were gone from his mind, replaced by yet more screams, more cacophonous and pained than the last.

The Herald of Abtatu gripped the frigid air, tearing a wave of ice into it that blasted towards the soul mage. Caring not if the magic had landed or not, another came, this one a flurry of wicked spikes. "And you will suffer."

~​

The Abtati, defects from the court of Gerra to that of their ancient ancestor, fought with righteous fury and skill against those attacking his forces. They found themselves alongside the undead themselves, seemingly recognized as allies rather than enemies. In particular, there was one group of undead who shared a rather similar skill on the battlefield to them: the Honor Guard of Amankh. Together, they were a whirlwind of armor and cloth, of staff and sword, blazing a trail of mercenaries through the hall.

Then the field went up, and the screams and yells echoed through the hall. The Honor Guard remained silent, but the pain was clear. They were risen with powerful magic befitting their rank among the Eternum, but even then the ritual still held power over them.

The Abtati looked to them, watching as beneath gilded armor, flesh and bone slowly gave way to empty air. Their ancestors could not lose this fight. They gripped the arms of the Honor Guard, heaving them up from their pain. Empty sockets met eyes of the living in silence, one broken by a rasped voice: "Follow us." The Abtati nodded at the undead's request, no more words needing to be spoken between them. The conjoined group moved through the hall, the elves dispatching those that came near to their Eternal companions.

An ethereal message had pierced the Honor Guards' minds, brought on by the Banshee Queen herself: The location of the ritual. The dragon had been sent, but the cries of multiple lessened their hopes. These allies were well-trained, and they had proven themselves able to work together. Their status as one of the living was no coincidence either. they could be trusted. They raced through the halls, the undead of the party trying to disregard the pulsating pain among their ranks as they and the Abtati closed in on the Shadow Hands.

From beyond the windows of the hallway, they could see lumbering forms of bone and flesh bounding through the streets beside them. Undead titans, a project of the Banshee Queen that, with the aid of Amankh and his mages' research, came into fruition when they settled Sanctuary.

They would end the field, or they would die trying.

 

[Halul]

As Uvogin returned to the audience hall, a quick survey of the skirmish gave him a bitter reminder of Ninagal, where the masked mercenary's actions were of little consequence. The ring on his finger, despite being idle, hummed with power. He had a vague understanding of its ability. A single burst of unfathomable strength. With timely use, it would certainly influence the flow of battle into the King's favor.

Eyes quickly fell to the Emperor's own battle, where the outcome was uncertain, and the Bronze Claw mercenary moved to assist. Sword in hand, he dashed straight to Gerra's side, past the half-giant, and with a hand gripping the blade of his sword, he thrust the point of the blade towards the gab in armor behind Magnan's knee while the Emperor brought down his mace with inhuman strength.

The King fought like a brute. For where his ability contained a lapse in skill and precision, Uvogin would compensate and hope to wear down his formidable undead opponent.

 

[Magnan Smithson]

Magnan grunted as the shield was thrown at him, hitting with enough force to dent his chest armour even as the soldier moved on forward. He had created an opening in Gerra's armour, now it was time to exploit it. Taking a forceful step forward the Lich Knight moved to shove his sword further into the wound, not allowing Gerra to back away in time even as the half giant swung with a powerful blow towards his head. Shoving the sword as hard as he could Magnan then lets go of the hilt and raises his shoulder in time to receive the powerful blow instead of his head. Metal crumpled and Magnan let out a groan of pain, which only intensified as... something happened. Pain, so foreign to him, flashed through the entirety warrior's body even as he felt the return of Eilasandree from... wherever she had gone.

'Oh my. It seems our enemies have gotten their hands upon a rather pesky ritual.' She murmurs to him, even as Magnan continued to fight. 'If that's not shut down quickly, we could be in some trouble. Also, behind you.' She said calmly, prompting Magnan to lash out with his now free arm, elbow jamming back before his arm rockets forward in an attempt to then grab at Gerra's mace. 'Well, I trust you have this handled. I need to make some adjustments before we both end up burning to nothing.' She could feel the darin upon their reserves already, even as she tried to keep an army from disintegrating. It wasn't sustainable. And so, losses needed to be cut.

All throughout the building and the city, Undead began to crumble away and fall apart, their souls ripped from their bodies and brought back into Eilasandree, leaving only what she deemed the most valuable troops remaining. There would be no more mindless undead or hordes, and what stormed the city and still stood strong was nothing less than disciplined and trained soldiers. Fearless and linked together in ways no mortal could possibly be, they cut their way through the opposition.

Then, with that power, Eilasandree turned towards where one of her most valuable slaves was. It seemed she had encountered some resistance, and at this point that couldn't be allowed. A soft pink glow began to emanate throughout the city, before the bones of all those she had sacrificed began to move once more. But instead of forming individual soldiers, they rocketed through the air towards Sathirena. 'If you cannot serve me as you are, I will just change what you are.' Eilasandree's mind rings within Sathirena's head, before the tidal wave of bone and rotting flesh meets with the undead dragon's form.

She would grow, almost doubling in size as her form shifted to allow more bones. Armour comprised of the various suits worn by those she had killed would clad the dragon, providing a wall of steel and flesh to preserve her. New wings were built upon her back, alongside another tail. Yet perhaps the most notable addition was the extra pair of heads that sprouted from Sathirena's body, one on either side of her head. Of course, they weren't actually other minds, as right now that was a little out of even Eilasandree's abilities, instead acting like extra pairs of limbs.

'Find the targets. Kill them, and don't let anything get in your way.' Eila's voice rings through the heads of Sathirena and the abominations.

 

[Gerra]

Blinding fury.

Rage.

Malice.

So much raw hatred.

It filled Gerra, consumed him. The enemy shoved the blade deeper into Gerra's arm. The half-giant roared, vision tunneled black, flecked with red. Eyes only for this Magnan. This thief. This false recreant who would not accept his own death.

The mace came down, smashing a shoulder plate. Crumpling it like tin. Magnan managed to catch the second blow with an outstretched gauntlet, though surely every bone in his hand would have shattered at the impact.

Gerra abandoned the mace as he had abandoned his shield and stepped toward Magnan. He reached out both hands, one with a sword still sticking through it, and grabbed the dead knight by the horns sprouting from his helmet.

With the terrible strength of a half-giant's rage coursing through him, Gerra jerked on those horns, seeking to shove Magnan to his knees.

 

[Selene Avar]

Selene paid no attention to the titans locked in combat in the center of the room.

Her focus was upon those undead still lingering around the Audience Hall. Most had now fallen to ash or been compelled by some unseen source to return to their state of decay. Some however remained standing.

They were clearly of a different sort. Their bones and meager flesh were adorned with armored of gold and steel, their hands carried weapons that had been crafted and not simply wrought from broken iron. They fought quickly, decisively. Moved almost as the living would.

Two of them came for her, their blades swiping high and low, cutting for her throat and sweeping towards her legs.

She stepped away from them in a careful dance, drawing her sword and deflecting the blade of one while snapping her fingers and incinerating another. Another stepped into the place of the one fallen, and Selene cursed as she was forced back against a wall.

The bite of a blade sliced into her side, crimson splashing against the wall behind her as a cry of pain escaped her lips.

Rage boiled inside her, a breath filling her lungs before it suddenly exploded in a wall of fire. The two undead before her opened their mouths as if to scream, their bones melting into ash as white hot flame consumed them.

Their fall granted the Dreadlord a moment of reprieve, her eyes quickly searching the Audience hall. There she spotted a man in white robe's, his fingers wrapped in lattices of blue and purple light. One of Gerra's mages. Her lips thinned, and an idea formed in her mind. Quickly the Dreadlord rushed forward. "Sorcerer!"

She called out to man. This needed to end.

Picking them off one at a time wouldn't work, her fires needed to burn them all.

 

[Gerra]

Archlector Snaaib stopped prodding one of the corpses of the undead and looked up as a red-haired woman ran at him, shouting.

"Ahh," he thought he recognized her as part of the delegation from Vel Anir. "And how may I assist you today?"

Over a dozen people had congregated around Snaaib, including the other Archlectors, several Thakathi sorcerers in their jewelry and golden masks, and even a few of the Abtati Sheikhs, who wielded whips of sand and fire to rip apart any undead who came too close.

 

[Selene Avar]

Selene did not like foreigners.

Not because of the typical xenophobia of most Anirians, no. She did not hold the same racist views as many of her countrymen. The problem with people not from her land was simply that they did not understand her power.

Most within control of Vel Anir snapped to attention when she spoke. There was no guarantee that these men would.

Still, as she stalked through the crowd and burned the undead that attempted to touch her, her voice carried such command that she hoped it would be enough. "I am going to burn everything in this room to ash."

As she spoke her skin began to shimmer, her eyes lighting bright in a bright red, subtle weaves of fire lacing through her hair.

"Protect those your King holds dear." Her flesh began to crackle as she spoke.

 

[Halul]

The hulking undead paid no mind to the blade that drove into the gap in armor. Uvogin felt not the resistance of flesh, though the edge of his blade did grind against bone. The point of his blade halted against the inside of Magnan's plate. The emperor had summoned forth tremendous strength to impede Magnan's movements.

He sensed the opportunity created by Gerra and pulled the sword from behind the undead's knee. He raised it above his head, now gripping the hilt with both hands. As if in response to the mercenary's will, the Ring of Kha sent a surge of incredible power through Uvogin's body. Strength that was not the mercenary's own flowed through his arms, and his grip tightened so greatly on the sword's hilt that it bent under his grasp.

With inhuman strength, the sword swung down on the backside of Magnan's shield arm, intending to sever his arm at the gap behind the shoulder.

 

[Aratus Seldomus]

Aratus was caught in a difficult position.

Not by the undead warriors.

No, they were fodder, useless pawns, outmatched by the soldier from Thelios.

Thelios had no walls, only stalwart defenders. And for centuries, it stood, defiant of any army that came across it. Templar, Orc, Elf, bandit- they all fell upon the sword, not the stone of Thelios. But the prosperity of his people also depended on the ships incoming through his ports.

And this was in danger, by the undead. The newly-crowned Emperor and his mercenary were assaulting a great Lich, an undead monstrosity. Gripping his sword tightly, Aratus beamed the shield at another undead soldiers, lodging it the neck of one, sending him tumbling over. Aratus sprinted across the battlefield, shouldering warriors of various creeds out of the way.

If he wanted prosperity, he must be prepared for the war, the brutality.

And in war, fights that were fair were the ones that you lost. So, while the three giants fought, a relatively small man, compared to them came to the back of the undead creature-

And pulled on his cloak, the mighty horned beast's cloak, with all of his might. And a man who rained blows from a shield that could shatter bones- that pull was a bit more than the usual tug from a regular man. But Aratus was not a normal man.

He was an Athallian. He was war incarnate. He was savagery within reach, he was the unfair advantage. He was Aratus Seldomus. He had the best hair in the room, and the most love of violence out of anyone. Fires raged, war raged, and magic filled the air. But between the Emperor, his mercenary, the Athallian, and the Lich- there existed only a brutal fight to survive.

And Aratus intended to survive this. He lusted for life more than he lusted for violence.

 

[T’suris Flameblade]

T'suris slashed at Ashuanar's face only to hit the metal of his polearm causing his claws to ache. He grabbed it as the sand elf went to one knee, intending to throw him from the back of the dragon, but he never got the chance. His hand closed just as Sathirena hefted herself forward, his claws missing the weapon, the force of the movement throwing him away from the elf: which was in his favour, ironically, as a huge spike thrown by Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk missed T'suris's vital places, gouging his arm instead as he was thrown into the air. He barely caught the edge of the dragoness's leg with his claws. The stones of buildings the dragoness brushed against cut into his back, drawing black blood. He held on for dear life, bending to protect his head from the razor sharp edges of broken stone and glass until he grew used to her movements. Scrambling up her leg, her side, and finally up into her back once again, he had just enough time to turn and see another dragon facing the Great Mother.

Another. Dragon.

T'suric felt his blood run cold. He had heard of great battles between the factions of his ancestors, but they had been legends, myths: stories told around campfires to young Komodi to keep them in line, threats of being eaten by the wrong side frightening the younglings so they wouldn't wander away from camp.

But this was real.

T'suris turned back to Ashuanar, narrowing his eyes. He had to get the enemy away from her, if not to save his own life, but to give her the honour of a clean fight with Aivrid. Still, he couldn't bear to see the two ancient creatures fight.

"Grandmother! Grandfather! Please don't fight!" T'suris begged Aivrid and Sathirena.

He lashed towards the sand elf again, aiming for the elf's face, black blood spraying from the wound in his arm. His feet braced into the Great Mother's back this time, claws grabbing her skeleton as he whirled on Ashuanar, whipping his tail at the elf to throw him from the great dragoness's back. He had to get them off her back - Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk was next.