Fable - Ask On Toward the Burning Dawn

[Erën]

Ripples between the waves... that was the best they could do.
While an Aerai's mind could reach far for one of their own, it wasn't easy. It took time.

Little more than inclinations. Nothing truly coherent.

Only the most entuned could ever tell - and thankfully, by Astra's grace - they did.

And so a council of many came together.

Scout parties were sent, swiftly, by boot and wing, heralding upon their return exactly what had been feared.
​

---

From far out in the dark, what could only be trebuchets or something of the like, great orbs of fire were hurled toward the city. Great magicians, masters of magic, channeled their strengths together to thwart the coming threat. It was revealed high above, swirling as a whirlwind of light. The monsters' fiery attacks struck against this light with great flashes and arcs across the sky, then fell to the ground in harmless, smouldering heaps.

Soon enough, the smell of burning flesh filled the air, and it became apparent what the projectiles being launched at them really were.

Upon the wall, Erën stood upon the battlements, donned in new armour, sword in either hand. One, curved and elegant, but dimmed by the other: fashioned of enchanted steel and crystal, burning with magic. Helm upon him, visor set, he peered out over the great flatland before the city. Their enemy's herald was a thickened fog, masking any approach, even to an Aerai's eyes. Upon the wall, on either side of him, warriors uncounted, of various sorts and many castes, all those who had answered their desperate plea.

Another great flash across the sky. Another sorcerer, fallen to their knees, their strength waned by the onslaught.

Erën cast a glance, and then returned once again unto poise.

It had been like this for hours. Each strike against them seemed to be another sorcerer that would be useless in the coming battle. And with each unsettling flash in the sky, those upon the walls and those beyond began to wonder. How long until those start to hit them? What then?

He drew in a deep breath, contemplating the monsters' newfound patience.

If what The Thirteen's scouts had said were true, and Arkhivom had indeed beaten them back here, then perhaps he had grown somewhat leery. Caliane had nearly bested him before, and if he knew she was here then...

He grinned.

"They feign their patience," he called out, "they are afraid of you. He..." he shouted, "is afraid of you!"

 

[Vordrakel Deaz'renith]

Four candles burned in an arc. Four golden beads of light reflected off the intricate elven curve blade laid reverently on the floor before them. Vordrakel sat cross-legged behind the weapon, his emerald gaze never leaving the flame of the candle in front of him. His breaths were slow and even in a meditative trance, his expression placid despite the battle beginning outside the temple's walls. Even in this repose, he was far too aware of the telepathic calls to war; another trickle in what seemed to him a neverending deluge of blood and conflict.

"I fear that oldest of enemies is wearing me down," he confessed. The unspoken words resonated in his mind's eye where the tiny candle flames appeared to expand into a great forge of light. He was not alone in this place; in front of him a golden-armored elf hammered away on the curve blade. Always the same blade, endlessly being re-forged.

"War wears down all, but still we must keep fighting to earn that prize that is peace. To carry the flame of hope to the next generation," the figure replied without looking up from his work. Aondrakel was Vord's grandfather, a renowned warrior from the far past. His spirit was bound to the blade, from which he could offer his scion advice and training on how to properly wield his birthright. Vord came to this place as much to find consolation as wisdom from his forefathers.

"If there is to be a next generation," Aon continued wearily. He turned to Vord, the golden dragon design on his armor glittering as if by its own internal light. "Perhaps our oath of sacrifice will soon be at its end." Vord understood Aon's concern. It was one that he had voiced on the eve of other battles: Vord no longer had an heir of his own. If he fell in battle, the oath binding the souls of his predecessors to the sword would be broken. He often considered if that was what some of them secretly desired. No matter how strongly one is bound by honor, it must be tiring to see a thousand years' worth of wars.

Vord himself had largely faded into the background of the war with Arkhivom's forces, appreciating the times he could devote his skills to defending his people without wading through the carnage of the front lines. Now he had no doubts that was where he was needed.

"Another battle is starting. I must get to the wall." Though Aondrakel could no longer hear the thoughts of the other living Aerai, just as he could not interact with the world of the living, Vord could very clearly. Aon simply nodded understanding and went back to his endless task.

"You ought to practice your Sun Strike more often, boy. It's getting clumsy."

300-odd years of practice, and grandfather still somehow found something to criticize.

Vord took himself out of his trance, his mind and body transitioning effortlessly from rest into action. He took up his sword and rushed out of the temple towards the city's outer wall. If Eren'thiel's observation about Ark's forces was correct - which it likely was - the real fighting was not far off. Vordrakel sent out a focused thought to those on the wall to advise them he was on his way. It was but another single thought caught in the tidal wave of response to the siege.

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas

 

[Kristen Pirian]

Missives came as they did to Lady Kristen Pirian's desk in Vel Numera, from lands near and lands far, each bearing tidings as broadly ranged as their places of origin. News from across the various Anirian territories made for the bulk of it, yet there were some which hailed from beyond Vel Anir's borders. And there was one in particular found at the bottom of the day's stack. Kristen—weary of the mundane reading featured in the rest—might well have skimmed over it and discarded the parchment...save for her eye gracing the word "Aerai". She read further. "Sharyrdaes", another word which gave cause for curiosity and excitement. And indeed, found at the bottom of the missive, the familiar name which she had been anticipating once her interest was piqued.

So it was as Kristen had said to Blair Rennick before departing for peril in Salesia: some things could not wait.

Kristen quickly kitted herself in her full battle harness, and, throwing her Pirian red cloak over her shoulders and securing her sword, she departed from her office chambers. She went to the chambers of Mayor Caspian, the steward of Vel Numera in the absence of its Lord or Lady.

"Mayor Caspian."

"Yes, my Lady?" said the same, rising from his desk with some haste, for Kristen's sudden entrance was least expected.

"Vel Numera is again in your hands. I must depart for a time."

Mayor Caspian, in his secret heart, was always pleased to be the de facto ruler of Vel Numera, yes. But he did need to know at least something of Lady Pirian's errand. "What should I say to those who inquire of your whereabouts, my Lady?"

Kristen smiled, and said, "Tell them that the Darling Daughter goes to battle: far away, and long awaited."

* * * * *​

Kristen rode alone and at great speed.

Destiny had a way of aligning in much the same way as the motion of the stars. And here this alignment started ten years ago, at the Battle of the Blades. Many Anirians had been mustered for the assault upon that dreaded isle where Kristen was being held hostage, but as well there were fighting men and women from outside Vel Anir who pledged themselves to the cause.

Erën'thiel Xyrdithas had been one of them. He had come to a land hostile to his kind, resolved himself to plunge into the grave peril which awaited everyone on the beaches of the Blades, and this he did selflessly. By his efforts, and the efforts of scores and scores of other brave warriors, Kristen had been saved from the clutches of the Warlord who held her.

And now she was a grown woman. Now she had been forged by the Academy of Vel Anir into becoming a warrior in her own right. Now, it was Erën who was in need of aid. Now, it was she who rode through a hostile land and toward battle. The stars of destiny had aligned in such fashion that, if one could hear them, their music would be harmony, and if words could accompany them, it would be the rhyming of poetry.

This Kristen would do, for even as she felt the subtle guidance of Aionus affirming her path as true and good, it was all that she needed to repay kindness and bravery in likewise capacity. As much as she was able.

* * * * *​

Without incident Kristen had ventured through the Falwood, and she came now near to that coast from which Sharyrdaes was separated only by scarce leagues. Turning southward she began her final approach to the city itself.

In time the great flatland of Sharyrdaes revealed itself, taking the place of thick forest.

The city itself Kristen had seen for miles off, as it stood, proud and as a beacon, there in the shelter of the grand defensive magic which shielded it: that whirlwind of light, swirling, fending off what to Kristen's eyes seemed fell, red, terrible stars launched in violence from afar. Was there time yet? Did Erën and his Aerai kindred hold fast? It must be, else that majestic light emanating from the city's heart would be no more than mere deception.

Kristen urged her horse onward. And as she approached the city walls, she did not spend time going to a gate. Kristen stood up in the saddle of her racing horse, and from her artificial hand shot forth a Chain which snared a battlement up high, and thus as the Chain retracted into her palm was she propelled deftly up and onto the rampart.

Immediately as she landed two Aerai watchmen seized her.

"Who are you?"

"Speak your name!"

"Where is Erën'thiel!?" she said urgently. "Tell him that Kristen Pirian has come to Sharyrdaes!"

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas

 

[Oriane]

She was used to this unsettling in the pit of her stomach; the anticipation increasing her heart rate but the strength and knowledge she would get through this kept her grounded.

The Spear stood ready within the unit of The Thirteen, and yet her thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.

Oriane recalled the strangeness that clouded the night at those camps, felt the despair waiting to befall them.

Wars were never easy. Getting to know the Thirteen had not made things easier in all this time serving as the Spear. She was not close with many of them, only Rûhn knew her better than his daughter and the Arrow, Danika, and even then Danika knew very little of Oriane.

Get too close, your heart becomes wounded. Just how many cuts could it take?

The Spear did not bother to remember names of their allies, at times this left her feeling guilty... She had danced with many of them at the celebrations in the City Square, but at the end of the night, those names were long forgotten.

 

[Erën]

Vailë was quickly upon Kristen when she appeared. It was deduced during her approach that she did not seem outwardly hostile... but the Dark Army had many lieutenants. She arrived just as she proclaimed her name and purpose to those who had seized her.

"Wait," Vailë ordered, inspecting the Anirian with an air of distrust, "the First has made many allies, I will take her to him."

---

Beneath the streaking light of yet another strike against their waning, magical wards, Erën turned to see Vordrakel arrive. He regarded him with a telepathic greeting, one laced with concern for their current situation and relief from the arrival of another able warrior.

And then too, his attention turned to Kristen's escorted approach.

"There is no need to guard against this one," he spoke allowed as she and Vailë drew near. He nodded to the latter, and imparted an unheard instruction, to which she nodded and departed. "You have come at a perilous time..."

Were there more time, he'd offer her a much more respectable greeting, warrior to warrior. But the time for such tradition was short. A thudding in the distant dark began, like the beating of great drums. Then many howls cried out, and other horrid sounds. Erën moved to the wall's fore, looking through the battlements. And then they appeared.

---

They moved out of the fog at first in small groups here and there, and then soon they appeared like a great shadowy mass. Their number was... frightening, and it became obvious that Arkhivom had withheld many of his forces for this endeavour. Erën steeled himself as the shouts went out, ordering all to the ready. And then with it given, archers and trebuchets from across the defensive line loosed upon the dark host. The monsters responded in kind with a flurry of projectile spines and arrows of their own, and above, the flaming debris continued to soar overhead.

With a speed fueled by ravenous hunger, the monsters were soon at the city's walls, and encroaching on the city's gate. Though ladders were hoisted, many of the more monstrous entities simply began to climb the wall, threatening to pour over its edge. And though the initial defense was proving admirable...

---

Erën turned sharply as the first of them launched themselves over the wall's edge. Without hesitation he was upon it, his swords both driven into and then through the creature. Wrenching the blades either way left it split in half, and very quickly lifeless. But in the short span of time he'd dispatched the monster, dozens more were upon the wall. He called out to Oriane and the other Avariel, requesting them to the gate. With forces on the wall occupied, they'd be unhindered from trying to break it open.

---

Vordrakel Deaz'renith | Kristen Pirian | Oriane ​

 

[Vordrakel Deaz'renith]

Vordrakel tried to take a measure of the battlefield, but in the chaos he could only manage brief glances as the first of the enemy infantry surmounted the battlements. He theorized about their strategy by imagining himself as the enemy general shouting orders: to make as many ingress points as possible in the walls or the gates. The siege engines with range would batter the walls and the forces within. Meanwhile the back line archers would harry the enemy archers on the walls to cover the army's advance, at least until the infantry could take them out.

Many of the defenders would have no choice but to protect the archers and sorcerers who were barely keeping the visceral projectiles from bombarding the city. All Ark's forces would need to do, given superior numbers, was find a weak point and concentrate their attacks on it.

He heard the command for those gifted with flight to attend to the gate defense. He, having only his legs to depend on, would have to cut a path in that direction.

Before Vord could make a move, three monstrous attackers vaulted themselves over the wall between Vord and several of his allies. He parried instinctively as a claw came in low to eviscerate him and wrenched the creature's arm out to its side. It tried to come across his face with the second limb, only to have it detached mid-swipe. A final arc of the curved blade put the surprised horror out of its misery before it could contemplate the extent of its injury.

The soldiers on the other side of the group had cut down another one. Trapped between them, the third stood little chance of defending itself from an onslaught from both sides. Once the immediate enemies had been dispatched, they turned their attention to the ladder now mounted against the wall.

Together, they pushed it back. The invaders who'd been scaling it looked like a clump of ants as they plummeted back to their deaths below. Like mere raindrops in a river, he thought.

Vord continued around the battlement towards the gate, moving to intercept any infantry that made it onto the wall. He turned part of his attention inward as he advanced, calling upon his ancestors' borrowed magic and his own inner fire to protect him. It appeared as an expanding blaze of golden light from his sword that settled over his normal clothes like a translucent set of armor.

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Kristen Pirian Oriane

 

[Kristen Pirian]

A miracle that Kristen's sudden and unorthodox intrusion upon the city walls did not result in anything worse than seizure. One of the elves, Vailë being the name unknown to Kristen, told her compatriots to stay their hands, that the "First" had made many allies, and this at least was enough to not have Kristen thrown from the walls. Had Kristen arrived in a more timely manner, she wouldn't have needed to hazard so alarming an entrance to the defenders' city.

So it was that Eren himself, when she was brought to him, summed her arrival: come at a perilous time indeed, and with hardly a moment to spare.

"And yet no better time to offer you the reward of your kindness, Erën."

Now Kristen knew not the whole of the conflict in which Erën and his people were involved, nor the true horror of the foe they faced; very much had she come to a strange land, surely as much as Erën himself must have felt Vel Anir to be strange. Yet with the cries and howls and shrieks which issued from the dark fog encroaching upon the edge of Sharyrdaes, and furthermore with the first sight of the fiendish horde spilling forth from that evil veil, washing over the land like a terrible tide, everywhere a new horror to assail the eyes, Kristen harbored no doubt that this was an enemy worth fighting, and that the cause of the Aerai people was just and noble and good.

And though Kristen recalled the memory of the Siege of Ostia Anir, these creatures fought not like men, no, but were innervated with unnatural vigor and ability.

Presently their vanguard leaped with great strength and agility upon the walls. Erën was already engaged. And before Kristen landed a creature of horrid form, a great hulking body supported by four thin legs terminating in sharp talons each, a head which hung low on a funneled neck, and a singular eye to serve as the sole feature of its face. The eye looked to Kristen, and it turned a dark and hungry red.

Kristen drew her sword with her left hand, and shot forth a Withering Chain from her right. The Chain wrapped tightly about the Watcher's neck. But the Watcher was not harmed nor debilitated enough by the magic of the Chain, at least at first, and it sprang forward, swiping a vicious stroke at Kristen with one of its forelimbs. Kristen gave a small yelp as she was struck, and indeed knocked over the wall itself. She fell.

The Chain pulled taut, and now Kristen hung outside the wall, arm stretched upward, feet dangling above the crash of monstrosities below.

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Vordrakel Deaz'renith Oriane

 

[Oriane]

He called out to Oriane and the other Avariel, requesting them to the gate. With forces on the wall occupied, they'd be unhindered from trying to break it open.

Her thoughts dared to think of Rûhn, of him so close to this battle and his daughter, Ostára at his side. They two were perhaps the dearest in the Thirteen to her, but as Eren gave orders, the Spear was alert.
She nodded to him, turning to glance at the five other Avariels behind her. Rûhn covered the other end with the rest of the Avariel fleet, the decision to divide had not been easy, but they had trained for this in the past.
She was the Harbinger, the Herald of the wings that would soon come to defend their allies... but this time, the others would go before her. They moved as one. Oriane took up the rear, Spear golden and ready in her hands by the time her boots hit the ground by the gate. Attempts were being made to break it down, but the fortifications put into place still unyielding.

The presence of the Thirteen, legendary elites in their field. Oriane had centuries of experience, second to Rûhn. She had no family to bring glory to, no mate to share the glory with. Perhaps if she could wire herself out from her soldier mindset, she would be emboldened to fight for something.

I fight for the Sword. The Shield. The Arrow.

Oriane's Spear caught an unforgivable monstrosity that broke past the fortified ranks of her small unit. Undeterred, she made quick work into putting it down before the next slipped past, targeting her.

I fight for the Hammer. The Scythe. The Lance.

The monster was foolish, crazed enough that sentient thought did not drive it. At least, nothing did after her Spear pushed through it's skull and she felt it's body go limp.

I fight for The Axe. The Mace.

Her boot stood on it's head to give leverage as she freed the Gift of the Spear.

I fight for the Morningstar. Her unit pushed forward, driving back the onslaught. I fight for the Gauntlet. The Staff. The Helm.

 

[Erën]

Quickly after dispatching his enemy, and then very promptly a second, his attention turned to Kristen's altercation with the Watcher. Or rather, the aftermath. The beast laboured the keep itself upright, its spined appendages braced firmly where it stood, its neck hung low as it strained against the Withering Chain wrapped around its forelimb.

He approached, sliding his swords into their sheathes, and he reached out from afar with his hands. Taking the shape of a wispy blue light around the creature, Erën took hold of the Watcher. He lifted it from its place, Withering Chain pulled tight, and pushed the creature upward and in toward the city to pull Kristen back up. He had intended to do so with much more delicacy, but the apparent urgency made his remedy far more... jarring. Regardless, it was the best he could do.

But before he could see the fruits of his labour, a shrill and harrowing sound cut through the dark, drawing his eye.

Dreadful and deep, droning horns sounded after, calling from the distance.

The thunder of great wings boomed through the air, and again the shrill cries rang out.

A shadow cast over the wall, and then others.

Erën looked up.

Above, a menacing foe unlike anything he'd seen before descended upon him. Large black wings abroad, arms stretched wide with sickles wielded in either clawed hand. Jagged teeth snarled and bit as its seemingly eyeless face fixed upon him as it dropped. And as it did, at least a dozen others followed in falling upon the wall.

---

Vordrakel Deaz'renith | Kristen Pirian | Oriane ​

 

[Vordrakel Deaz'renith]

The Aerai on the battlements were hard-pressed to keep their position. Every time they cut down an enemy, it seemed that two more clawed their way over the wall. It was growing increasingly difficult to find footing amongst the bodies piling up on the bloody stones, and more defenders were falling off of the walls to their deaths.

Vordrakel ducked down to his knees, ignoring the jolt of pain from his impact with the ground, grasping the hand of an injured soldier that had managed to clutch the edge of the outer wall. She cried out in pain as one of the scaling horrors stabbed an armored claw through her ankle. Vord braced himself against the stone to help his comrade climb back up, only to nearly be flung off himself as it yanked her from his grip.

He fumbled to reach the blade he'd set down beside him before the creature made it up and avenged his comrade by stabbing it in the eye. Little solace that it was.

A cacophony of horns and guttural cries filled the air. He was nearly to the tower where he could descend to the gate. He spotted Erën in the din...

A great shadow loomed for a fraction of an instant before a nightmare bore down on the First Sword.

"Erën!"

Kristen Pirian Oriane Eren'thiel Xyrdithas

 

[Kristen Pirian]

Seething, writhing, boiling, all that hideous mass below, like a furious ocean comprised not even of spoiled sea but of the endless variation of fiendish corruption, mockeries of life each and all, there some warped form of spider, there an orc in face alone and bearing extra blackened limbs, there a hulking brute in the likeness of a troll but from its neck sprouted a swirl of snakes.

Mercifully Kristen need not look long. Even as some of the taller creatures, or those made tall by clambering callously atop their wretched kin, reached and swiped for her feet, so did her feet, and all of Kristen, ascend. The Chain rolled upward. It clinked rapidly against the stony edge of the wall. Surprise came over Kristen—this was not her doing!

Yet cresting the battlements of the wall once more, climbing up and firmly planting her feet, she could see that the Watcher was gone and Erën had taken its place. Kristen flushed with mild embarrassment. A poor showing, yet perhaps for her the finish of the fight would be greater than its beginning.

Kristen's Chain retracted swiftly into her palm. Then came the dread call from above, and the heavy beat of fell wings filled the hearts of those who heard with despair.

They came, the black flyers. Upon Erën and upon Kristen and all whom they could savage they did so at their delight. They'd a certain likeness to Gargoyles, and so this was the name granted to them in Kristen's mind. Distantly, through all the clamor of battle, Kristen heard someone shout Erën's name. But joined into pitched struggle were both Erën and all who stood near him as the black flyers, the Gargoyles, descended with all their wicked fury.

Kristen slashed at the Gargoyle who flew for her, but agile was its landing and her sword struck naught but air. It rose to its full and ominous height, standing as tall as any ghastly harbinger of death might, and it brandished its sickles as well as its jagged teeth and a growl like grinding stone issued from the depths of its throat.

And it would be here, in this desperate hour of Sharyrdaes, that Kristen Pirian invoked the gift, mayhap the first of many, that she in her pilgrimage to sacred Mount Dincia, the holiest site of Celestialism, had gained. There in the heights of Dincia whose very peak reached to the stars lay the Pool of Eternity, those waters said to have bathed the Goddess Astra herself in the time before time, and so in ancient ritual had Kristen herself come to be submerged in them, reborn in them, thus made fit for blessings and holy work beyond mortal means.

Into her upheld hand the Symbol of Radiance was conjured. A holy icon of Aionus, shaped like a golden sentinel, vigilant and ever on guard, it shone with light so fierce it turned Kristen's close proximity from dark to day. The Gargoyle was engulfed in it, and the creature's shrill cry was one of pain.

"Back! I am a servant of Aionus the Holy Sentinel! And I say: away with you!"

And the Gargoyle thrashed and lamented, yet inexorably staggered back, the foul flesh of its body slowly peeling away under the Symbol's light as a fire consumes parchment.

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Vordrakel Deaz'renith Oriane

 

[Oriane]

Her small unit of the Thirteen fought well in their formation.

Each of them tore down their foes with brutal efficiency, almost a choreographed dance as they held off their ground. And when the tides of darkness began to recede, pride and proud in their efforts, the Avariel wasted no time in their seconds of reprieve.

On her order, they were to advance, but Oriane was drowned out by a beastly call that showered dread down her spine. It's cold prickling stilling the trained warrior, her amber eyes raised to meet the shifting and airborne darkness. Pieces broke away from the mass, and the Spear had no idea how she had not recognised the collective sounds of multiple wings in the wind.

"Brace yourselves!" Came her call. In unison, they held their ground, ready to anticipate the beasts that came for them. Their gilded armour became flickers in the shadows, fighting and wounding as the monstrosities began to push their small unit back to the gates they were charged to protect.

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Vordrakel Deaz'renith Kristen Pirian

 

[Vesic]

"Do we go?" Arella asked from their perch, each of the nine Drow hidden within a shade of light and magic. All of them wore the strange leathers of their people, colored a dark black which seemed to shift and move to blend with the darker colors in their surroundings.

Below, before the city, stood the tide of their enemy.

Vesic stood among those whom he had lead to the surface. His face an implacable mask as he peered onto the battlefield below. Eyes tracing after the great winged form which seemed to crash down among the walls and harrow their newfound friends. "No."

He answered calmly, perhaps cruelly. In the expanse of the battlefield that rage, hundreds were dying. He knew this, he could see it, feel it, but the time was not yet right.

There was no betrayal here, no knife to the back. Vesic and his had sought refuge within this city, and it had been granted. The pact they had made was one that he would honor, but he would not throw away the lives of the men he had left.

They had started with a hundred. A hundred of the greatest warriors in Akah. He had thought the time was right then. He had thought that they could win.

He'd been wrong.

He wouldn't be again.

"We wait." Vesic said as he slowly pushed up through the others, touching the edge of the cliff with his boot as he squatted down and watched those below. "They are the anvil, we are the hammer."

A few of his men grimaced at the words, and he knew why. They wanted nothing more than to join the fray, to kill, to prove themselves and banish the weary eyes that had been watching them. But it was not yet time. "Patience."

He commanded, straining against his own.

 

[Erën]

"Erën!..." Vordrakel's call rang in his ear as his eyes turned up to see the fell beast come upon him.

He avoided it, narrowly, spinning around to face it with his sword drawn from its sheath and brought ready to repel an attack. An attack which never came. The winged beast was stopped firmly in its tracks by Kristen's holy magic, and Erën took this moment of to hurl himself at the monster, swinging his sword, intent on bringing it down.

---

Not many of the dark army's monsters were capable of flying, the number of those that had assailed the wall being around a dozen. They were vicious beasts, augmenting the first wave of abominations by swooping down to take the heads off of those unsuspecting. All the while monsters climbed the ladders, and those that could, scaled the walls. But it soon became obvious that the defenses were too great, and more and more attackers dedicated themselves to assailing the gate. Behind the gate, into the grand plaza, many soldiers waited, prepared for the inevitable.

But as desperate as it may have seemed, after a time, the enemy began to dwindle.

"Retreat, regroup in the mists..."
​

---

Out at the gate, Thaurius hoisted his shield up, deflecting another hammering blow. The monster before him swung a spiked club at him wildly, smashing against him with a ravenous fury.

He shoved back, putting the once-orc on its back foot. His wings outstretched and gave a thundering boom as they smacked against the air. His feet lifted from the ground, and he was propelled backward several feet, putting even more space between him and his attacker. Time enough to reclaim his sword, just there at his foot now - a sword much too big for him. His enemy charged him, and with the gifted magic of the Gauntlet, Thaurius lifted his sword from the ground and swung it up with such ease as to have lifted a feather, and it cleaved clean through his enemy.

With almost child-like glee he shouted. But celebration was cut short by sight of the flying fiends above, and he ducked his head down in just enough time to avoid losing it.

"Watch out!" he called out to Oriane.

---

Vordrakel Deaz'renith | Kristen Pirian | Oriane | Vesic​

 

[Vordrakel Deaz'renith]

Vordrakel was relieved Erën had managed to keep his footing against the attacking creature; but he was not yet close enough to help, and at that moment other enemies were successfully clawing their way over the wall. In his path stood a gaunt figure with fangs and claws, probably once a human that had been bizarrely mutated in Arkhivom's thrall, and a bulkier monstrosity that might have been an orc or ogre in a past life.

The once-human distended its bottom jaw in a sickly wail, but Vord kept his attention solely focused on the winged giant that had descended on Erën. He crouched slightly, tightening his leg muscles like a coil tensing. He felt the heat building around his knees, his calves, then down around his feet. He had to maintain perfect focus to keep that fire at bay -- until just the right moment.

The bulky creature came at Vord swinging one arm that had been turned into a spiked club by a cruel implantation of iron spines. The club-arm came down, but to the monster's surprise, its target had turned into a gout of white-hot flame that engulfed the front of its body.

Upon releasing his control of the chaotic energy, the Aerai charged forward, leaving a wall of shimmering fire in his wake. The creatures that had been unfortunate enough to think to swipe at him as he went by were met with pain and the burning stench of their own flesh.

His blade led the way, burning down the raised walkway like a tiny meteor before finding its target in the flesh of Erën's opponent. Vordrakel felt the blade sink into the tendons of one arm, but otherwise he was unaware of how much damage he'd done. His inner fire was roaring in his head, and he had to turn his mental efforts back to keeping it under his control.

Without turning from its original foe, the creature reached backwards with one of its sickle-bearing arms with a sickening cracking noise. The move caught Vord by surprise: it would have stetched the flexibility of a normal creature beyond its limits. Vord tried to dodge the attack, but his momentary distraction slowed his reflexes enough for the razor-edged implement to strike below his arm. He fell back, dazed, as pain seared across his side and back.

He moved to strike again, noting with relief that his conjured armor had protected him enough that he could still fight.

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Kristen Pirian Oriane Vesic

 

[Kristen Pirian]

As the Gargoyle fell back, Kristen pressed forward, the light of the Symbol relentless upon the fiend. But the Gargoyle had strength enough to throw itself from the rampart, to lash out its wings as it fell and to take flight, even if its flying was akin to limping through the air. The creature wheeled high into the air and flew back over the wall, sailing away in retreat.

Yet it had only been but one of a dozen.

Kristen turned about and beheld the second of said dozen, the Gargoyle that had made its assault upon Erën. At the edge of her Symbol's light had it been, scorched only with minor damage, and presently both Erën and Vordrakel hewed the beast, even as the creature, possessed of fearsome strength, endured their blows and fought back with equal vigor. And so Kristen, having stepped forward and thus away in pursuit of her own—now departed—foe, strode back to the aid of the embattled Aerai elves, maintaining her Symbol and showering the Gargoyle in its searing light once the gap had been again closed.

"Wither!" she cried. "Wither and be undone, fiend!"

And she as well would lend her blade to the fight. As the light of the Symbol burned the Gargoyle's flesh and drove its foul mind mad with pain and desperation, Kristen thrust forward her sword into the belly of the beast.

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Vordrakel Deaz'renith Oriane Vesic

 

[Oriane]

Out at the gate, Thaurius hoisted his shield up, deflecting another hammering blow. The monster before him swung a spiked club at him wildly, smashing against him with a ravenous fury.

He shoved back, putting the once-orc on its back foot. His wings outstretched and gave a thundering boom as they smacked against the air. His feet lifted from the ground, and he was propelled backward several feet, putting even more space between him and his attacker. Time enough to reclaim his sword, just there at his foot now - a sword much too big for him. His enemy charged him, and with the gifted magic of the Gauntlet, Thaurius lifted his sword from the ground and swung it up with such ease as to have lifted a feather, and it cleaved clean through his enemy.

With almost child-like glee he shouted. But celebration was cut short by sight of the flying fiends above, and he ducked his head down in just enough time to avoid losing it.

"Watch out!" he called out to Oriane.

Oriane was a vision of pure gold as she swiveled around to meet the winged creature that made her it's target. She could not get the right positioning to pierce her Spear into their exposed underside, but it's flight went over the Avariel, enough that she could score an angry scratch from belly to tail.

It screeched something unholy, landing amongst the Avariel and turned on the Spear.

She whipped her head to face it, staring at the chaos behind it's eyes.

Surprisingly, this one was quicker on it's feet than it had been in the air. Wings tucked against it's spine, making it smaller and easier to run at her. She sucked in a breath and braced her position, the spearhead of her weapon growing taller and bearing a sharper point and blade that promised to spill blood.

But with her back turned to her enemy, her senses picked up a creature taking advantage of her blind spot.

 

[Vesic]

“Vesic.” The word was half plea, half frustrated curse. Allera was ready, and so were the others. He could feel the eagerness, the hallow slowly seeping into their veins. Each of them wanted to fight, wanted to kill.

Standing on the edge of battle was not the way of Drow.

He watched the lines of battle for a few moments more. Eyes flickering across the expanse of their allies, and then their enemies. Lips pressed thin as he watched the Gargoyles descend and crash down. Behind him he could already hear the drawing of blades, the others seeing the same as he.

All of them still waited for his command, but Vesec knew that if he did not give it half of them would charge anyway. It was not ill-discipline that drove them, but the ferocity of their blood. There was no avoiding it, no staunching it. This was what they were made for; the slaughter.

”Go.” Vesec said, the breath leaving him as quickly as the gathered Drow behind him. ”Cut them down.”

Within the span of seconds, the thirteen Drow bounded down from the cliffside and through the forest. They rushed forward, and in the blink of an eye burst out into the battlefield below. Three of the coming Gargoyle's found themselves embroiled within whirlwinds of blades. Knives, short-swords, and the edges of spears sunk through stoney gaps of flesh. Cutting into the beasts as Vesic's men swarmed over their foes in a coordinated strike.

None of them used magics, but wielded only simple brutality. There was no need for more, not yet. Vesic and his men struck at the back of their foe like rabid dogs who'd found their first meal in months.

Blood splattered. Screams echoed, and a cry of delirious joy called out from the Drow who were dealing death. More like butchers than soldiers, the Gargoyles quickly found themselves as little more than mangled messes. Carved into pieces and scattered to the ground in swaths of blood.

Vesic followed up in the rear, darting forward with his spear and carrying out the call of a horn. Signalling they had struck.

 

[Arkhivom]

At the flank, the guarded retreat was spoiled. Drow, of all things.

Unexpected. The Aerai had made far more friends than he had truly counted on. But it mattered little in the grand scheme. It would go one way or the other, however the world willed.

His vanguard force had been furious and numerous, and still lingered and battled at the wall, but they were now quickly being cut down. Quicker than he had planned for, and so rather than the dark army forming back into a truly tipped point as he'd intended, they quickly rallied and sprung again into action. They spilled from the mists once again, this time a bit more organized, but it was clear the majority of the force was placed dead ahead of the gate.

A great battering ram appeared out of the mists. Its form was simple, like a great rod, and it burned with luminous dark magic. It was set atop a great stage, and rolled along on large wheels. It was pushed by what appeared to be giants, each one standing several meters tall and bearing grotesque features, like all other monsters that were in their midst.

It was a ram built for one purpose, those blasted enchanted gates that the Avariel defended now. As for them, those winged pests...

He'd deal with them himself.

He appeared from the mist, just there alongside the great ram, and he lifted his hand with his finger pointed forward.

"Advance," he declared, and the bulk of the army started forward.

 

[Sir Nathaniel]

~Two days before the battle~


The midday sun had beaten down hard on the land that surrounded the ancient city, bearing a silent witness to two travelers on horseback that made their way to it through the winding paths and craggy slopes that made up their passage into Falwood. More than a century had passed since the war that had nearly ruined the city, but the old inroads and paths that the inhabitants had constructed or carved remained remarkably intact, a testament to their spirit, their ingenuity.

Of the two, only the ranger, Elias Morn had ever been down in this corner of the world once before, long ago during his days as an explorer. Though he had not yet set foot in the city, never gazed upon its beauty, not yet born witness to the legendary temple that was the centerpiece of it, he had heard wondrous tales of it from his old friend, the elf, Khalil Sandstrider. Since their chance meeting a decade earlier, the ranger had become well-versed in the many different elven peoples of Arethil, been fascinated by their customs and their long histories.

For his part saving Khalil's life from slavers, Elias had been named Falendil, or "Elf-Friend" in the common tongue. For the greater part of a year, he had learned the many dialects of elvish and from Khalil had been told of the city and its woes. He had been especially troubled when he learned of the interloping monsters that had plagued her were now fighting under a new leader, this Arkhivom. The people's suffering alone would have been enough to draw the attention of his companion, the paladin, Nathaniel Jameson - but the other human also would have come anyway for his own reasons.

Unlike Elias, Nathan was a Celestialist - raised in the rites of the faithful and trained in the arts of combat from a young age.

For his devotion and his purity of heart, Nathan was awarded the favor of Nykios, the God of War. Taking up his sword to defend people against the Dark Ones and their rabid followers was as natural to him as breathing, but then there also was the fact he had always wished to look upon its temples and see for himself if he might find out more about the nature of his faith. A wealth of knowledge, about to be wiped from the world by dark forces, he had said in the meeting before they departed was a travesty that could not be tolerated.

"We are almost there." Elias had said, turning his head slightly. Beside him, mounted on his brown charger and wearing his battle-armor, Nathan was like the sun itself; impassive, unflinching and unyielding. He wore a stern expression, utterly unlike his usually good-natured self, probably because he was attuned to the ebb and flow of the ambient magical forces around them. As part of his blessings from the God of War, Nathan had the ability to sense the presence of malevolent forces. He had described it once as a direct offense to his senses; akin to a powerful stench assaulting his nostrils.

If so, then there seemed to be something in the air that he found especially repellant, for his expression darkened as he only nodded in reply.

Elias pursed his lips and turned his attention back to the city. Surely, getting to see first hand the old city and the promise of a good fight would lift Nathan's spirit. Though it need not be said Nathan was the most courageous, upright and noble man Elias had ever known, he had a taste for the rush and thrill of combat that the ranger did not share.

Elias had an aptitude for diplomacy, which was at least part of the reason why Nathan had recruited him for his group, the Freedom Fighters. His preference was to speak first, then fight, and only if all other venues had been exhausted. But then, there was no negotiating with these enemies, he supposed.

The time for talk here was already over before it began. Now it was time for war.

__________________________________________________________________________


When word had reached the paladin of Arkhivom's assault, Nathan had sworn that he would see to this threat personally. A self-proclaimed champion of the Dark Ones? An attack against the Celestialist faith?

This would not stand, he had declared.

Before departing from his home at Angelos Keep in Alliria, Nathan had knelt in the chapel in solemn prayer before the altar of Nykios, his patron god. Ankle deep in the incense from the censers, his voice a droning hymn, he had invited the god's divine spirit into his soul.

"Mighty War God." He had chanted. "I am Nathaniel, your herald and champion. Lend me your power, that I might stand against your enemies. Grant me your favor, that I might do your will. Let me do your holy work. Give strength to my sword, for my cause is just and my heart, true."

As he had so many times before, when he rose to his feet and took up his sword, he felt invigorated. His muscles had tightened. His senses had sharpened. He felt it, even now, two days later, rushing through him as much as the blood in his veins. The favor of the War God was pressure; a presence with crushing physicality. Yet, it was not intolerable, more like a driving force or a gale of wind behind him, a vast and terrible push that urged him onwards toward his foes.


~Present Day~

His features were strong and chiseled, one of a martial bearing, but also one that was noble and dignified, fitting for a knight. His dark brown hair held in place by a circlet of steel so that he could fight, hanging over brown eyes that held the touch of the divine. It manifested as a brilliant blue.

His armor, forged of silvered steel with the symbol of the Fleur-de-lis inscribed upon the breastplate - meant to symbolize purity. It caught and reflected all light around him, even that of the spells of the enemy were redirected and turned to a golden hue. On his back, held by a simple brown strap against his flowing red cloak was his sword. By the standards of ordinary men, it was beautifully crafted, but ultimately by the view of nobility, it was perhaps rather plain: A cruciform hilt over a long, double-edged, extraordinarily sharp blade with a slightly pointed tip.


The instant that he and Elias had arrived, they found they were already too late to stop the attack from happening. The enemy host had arrived and had begun their attack. The defenders were already at the battlements, a prolonged shootout had taken place, and outside the enemy had raised grisly siege engines to further batter the defenders. They had come upon the enemy from their left flank, just as the bulk of their forces began their advance.

The two took a moment to dismount and walked on foot towards the outermost of the companies of what appeared to be corrupted beasts. Once, they were animals, wild creatures that grazed the fields or soared in the sky, but no more. Tendrils and claws and fangs had grown both in their mouths and on their skin. The filthy aura of corruption was palpable on every one of them.


The enemy hordes felt Nathan arrive first. His presence, positively radiating holy magic made their skin boil and steam even before he reached the first opponent. The stronger of their number, those with a sense of self-preservation took a step back as he approached. They screeched and raged at the sight of him, their frantic cries a mix of pain and fury. Those that were once human drew up their weapons and watched, horrified as Nathan drew Godsend, the blade singing as it left the scabbard.

As his gauntleted hands tightened around the hilt, the sword's length was wreathed in a brilliant golden light. Of the enemy, some of them fled at the mere glimpse of it, others turned on their kindred and began to devour their flesh, futilely attempting to gain the strength to stand against him. Others still screamed and covered their eyes with their own comrades, pushing the weaker of their number against his glow like makeshift shields.

"Let it be known the strongest race shall be My Voice and through them, shall My will be revealed." Nathan quoted as he surged forward and took his first swing. As it had countless times before, the blade bit into flesh - the first creature that it struck was a caricature of what had once been a man, but with horns and an unnaturally wide mouth. It let out an inhuman screech as Nathan attacked. Before it could raise its claws, the paladin was upon it.

With a turn of his wrist, Nathan's blade buried itself in the former man's chest, just below the abdomen. The instant the tip pierced into the blemished skin, it caught fire and began to melt away like ice before a torch. After a moment and a few, final thrashing twitches, the creature fell and dissolved into stinking miasma before it hit the ground.


Beside him, Elias had chosen this moment to draw his spear and leap into combat. The leaf-shaped edge of the blade ripped and punched into corrupted flesh, tearing and slashing his first opponent; what had once been a beast of burden that now had sprouted multiple eyes and additional limbs, tendrils most prominent among them. It was over in a moment as the ranger's spear lunged and struck true, right beneath the creature's face, straight into its neck. A sudden jerk and the creature attempted to push forward, the spear protruding from the other side of its windpipe. The momentary surprise at the beast's resilience passed on Elias' face, and he drew a short knife from his coat pocket. With a speed and a dexterous movement that impressed even the paladin, Elias turned the knife around and drove it into the creature's left eye.

Another moment of futile struggle - and the creature fell silent. Unlike Nathan's first kill, its body remained intact. His weapons, though master-crafted, were not blessed and he wrenched hard upon the spear shaft, attempting to free his weapon, even as he left the knife embedded in the thing's head.

Leaving his companion to his own device, he fixed his gaze upon what he supposed was their dark leader, this then was Arkhivom. Nathan's eyes narrowed in resolve as he took in the sight of his enemy.

"I am the Voice of the God of War and the instrument of His will." He growled as he raised his sword in a two-handed grip. "His representative on the mortal plane - and soon, I will come for you, foul one."

He knew full well his enemy could not hear him over the din of battle, but to invoke the name of the War God gave Nathan strengthened resolve.

"But first I must deal with your minions."

 

[Erën]

Erën's sword came down. A wisp a blue light whirled around him. And in a flash he moved from one place to another. The gargoyle, now at his back, slid apart, his sword having cleaved it in two down the center.

Slick with blood his blade flourished and he turned on his heel, surveying the situation. The defense of the wall had been, so far, successful, and the dark army seemed to assuage. But it was only a momentary reprieve, and not long enough for them to dispatch the total of their initial assailers and catch a breath. Small skirmishes persisted as Arkhivom's army, now reordered into formation, started forward.

Erën slew a wayward wretch, one of the few remaining around him now, and then leaned over the battlements.

Just there on the flank, where the northern road met the meadow, Erën perceived a conflict. There, Nathan and Elias were embroiled in combat, but if they lingered out there too long they'd be cut off from the rest of them.

"Vordrakel! We have to get them inside!" He pointed, and just below, stationed in the plaza, a small group of calvary assembled.

The emblems on Sharyrdaes' gates thrummed, and the great stones threatened to move.

On the opposite flank, a group of Drow - who Erën himself was unfamiliar with but he knew to be allied - gave chase to and disassembled the assailing vanguard there, and the sound of their horn rang out. The timing was impeccable, and would hopefully provide more time to recover their ill fated reinforcements.

"Kristen! Give them cover on the flank!" And he pointed that way now.

He knew not the full scope of her holy magics, but from what she had displayed so far, she would no doubt be of great aid to them.

Finally his eyes fell forward, upon the great ram and the dark figure just alongside it... his eyes dropped even further, where the Avariel were embroiled in battle still, and upon them gargoyles continued to descend.

"Oriane, get out of there!"

 

[Vordrakel Deaz'renith]

"Vordrakel! We have to get them inside!" He pointed, and just below, stationed in the plaza, a small group of calvary assembled.

"On my way!"

He hurried onward, toward the end of the wall. Ahead of him was a wide tower containing a protected post for archers as well as a staircase that descended to the plaza. With the enemy busy regrouping, he had an open path.

The tower's interior was a beacon of silence amidst the sounds of battle outside. A group of archers stood ready at the arrow slits facing the front gate, nocking a set of enchanted arrows that were especially damaging against large targets. Vord sensed that target was the enemy's battering ram.

He should have left the archers to their vital work, but something about the scene stuck in his mind like a hidden object in a painting; a feeling that seemed to almost pause time just to demand his attention.

The archers' shadows, dim in the light cast by a brazier hung from the ceiling's wooden crossbeams, shifted suddenly. The archer farthest from Vord gagged and spit out a glob of blood before dropping to the floor. One by one, the others followed before they had a chance to react to what had befallen their peers.

No... the thought came not from the thoughts shared through the Shorai, but from one of the ancestral spirits in the blade, and along with it a sense of ancient dread.

Don't blink!

A shadow grew around Vord. At first he thought an enemy had come up behind him, and by instinct shifted his footing to duck and turn, but found he was frozen in place. His blade almost burned his hand. Then, as if his arm was being guided, he brought the blade up to meet the unseen dagger that would have found his throat -- a blade apparently wielded by his own murderous shadow.

 

[Kristen Pirian]

Erën's sword split their foe in twain, but it was merely one of countless many. Truly, the plight of Sharyrdaes was dire! Hardly could the letter Kristen received back in Vel Numera have communicated the full urgency of the Aerai, and the terrible scope of the threat it faced.

A regrouping of the enemy followed, as though the felling of the Gargoyle by Erën and Kristen's swords had given the army of monstrosities cause for doubt. The Symbol vanished from Kristen's hand; costly was that spell to maintain, and she'd yet to achieve any measure of mastery of it. Still it would be useful in dire need.

"Kristen! Give them cover on the flank!" And he pointed that way now.

Kristen followed the track of Erën's pointing hand and saw what he meant and cried, "Swiftly!" before running along the wall. Some of the Aerai's men were out on the ground, elves of darker hued skin than Erën and his kind, yet if they raised their blades to the fiends who imperiled Sharyrdaes then they by their steel and courage made themselves kin.

Kristen ran along the wall of the city until she was as close as she could be to the skirmish between Drow and Monster below.

Her Impalers she could use from afar. Care would be needed, for the farther she did use them, the more difficult it was to aim them properly, and she didn't want to risk hitting friendly Drow. So she resolved to strike at foes who were quite clearly not within arm's reach of the Drow—the ones that were in arm's reach the Drow cut down with ruthless vigor.

She stretched out her runed hand, eyed the field the distant and fleeing enemy fled across, and began.

Metal spikes burst from the ground, large and terrible, one after another, impaling the enemies of the Drow in rhythmic fashion. From the earth these Impalers would emerge and skewer some mutated man, some twisted beast, and then with equal violence slide back into the soil and disappear and drop their doomed prey. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. Corpses dangling high above the ground. CLANG, CLANG, CLANG. The slain raining down all about the Drow's advance.

These were the weapons Aionus had blessed her with to perform his holy charge.

 

[Sir Nathaniel]

Back on the left flank, Elias had successfully wrenched his spear free from the creature's neck and it soon became the first kill of many, at least half a dozen soon fell in as many minutes. The spear rose and fell; whirled, punched, slashed and stabbed through corrupted flesh as its wielder spun, leaped and pirouetted about the battlefield. Every time his foot planted he would alternate between fast stabs and long slashes. More and more of the hordes began to close in on their position, and though the pair were fighting back with determination and skill, they soon were surrounded on three sides by foes.

Still, Nathan thought, every enemy slain was one less capable of attacking the city - and diverting the horde's strength would give them valuable time, especially when he noticed the spikes erupting from the ground.

That, he recognized, was the handiwork of another follower of another of the Celestial Gods: The god of time.

There was, however, no time to think about what that meant, as Elias leaped into his field of vision.

"I don't suppose now-" he called to Jameson over the ringing of steel and the shrieks of the dying creatures. "-Would be a bad time to..." he paused and raised his boot and caught another corrupted man in the chest, knocking him right over. He finished with a downward, two-handed stab to the midsection, right through the diaphragm. A moment later and the creature ceased to struggle. "-Voice my regret at volunteering for this mission?"

"You talk too much, brother." Said the paladin as he held off his next opponent; a horned beast that stood a full head-and-a-half larger than him with wicked claws bared. "Excuse me a moment." He said as turned his attention back to his foe, raised his sword and rushed forward.

The creature roared and swung its claws, attempting to take his head from his shoulders. With a left-to-right slash, Nathan parried it and ducked down low, then redirected the slash into a stab in a graceful arc. Once more, the blade bit into tainted flesh until it was driven all the way to the hilt in its chest. The monster's flesh began to boil and in moments the wound was open; reduced to steaming ichor as he brought it further up.

Screeching in rage and pain, the beast brought both claws down, only to cleave at a man that was no longer there. Nathan had ripped his blade free and somersaulted right underneath it, through the open spot between its legs. With a cry of exertion and a two-handed swipe, he removed the creature's head, the blade severing its neck as easily as wheat before a scythe.

With a short exhale and a flourish, Nathan watched as the body toppled with a dull thud. In seconds it too had evaporated.

His eyes made a quick scan of the battlefield and he took note of the situation. He and Elias had cut down more than a dozen enemy fighters, but they were quickly replaced. Though he and the ranger had driven a wedge through their line, it would only be a temporary reprieve. No doubt more enemy troops would fill the gap, but the defenders needed every bit of help they could get.

At first singly, then as a pair, and then back-to-back, Nathan and Elias fought their way towards the city, cutting down every opponent that came their way. Their movements were well-coordinated - and each time one of them made a move, the other covered him; Elias going high, Nathan going low or vice-versa. Each slash, stab, punch, kick, parry or riposte, all were executed between them in flawless coordination.

The fight came to a head when they found themselves surrounded on all sides. Despite himself and the situation, Nathan grinned.

"Jameson." Said Elias teasingly as he looked over his shoulder. "You look as though you are having the time of your life. Is this truly so enjoyable?"

"Indeed." The paladin replied. "Nothing excites my blood more than a good, hard fight." He flashed a quick point of his sword towards the enemy's leader, still off in the distance. "Except, perhaps the thought of driving my blade through his cold, black heart."

"You might just get your chance." Said Elias, bringing his spear around. He blocked another incoming strike from a pair of claws, then kicked his attacker in the chest, knocking the creature back. "But first, we need to help secure the city."

"Too true." Said Nathan, finishing his comrade's attacker with a two-handed, downward stab. "And I think I might have a way to speed that process."

With that, Nathan narrowed his eyes, inhaled sharply.
__________________________________________________________________


Suddenly, the glow surrounding Godsend began to expand in coruscating waves, the air around Nathan crackling and popping with ambient magical power, so bright and intense that Elias had to shield his eyes until they adjusted to it. Though he was not sensitive to magic, what was happening behind him, the tangible force of the power that Nathan was giving off made his mind reel. The hostile forces surrounding them felt it as acid on their skin. The nearest of the creatures, those that were the lesser of their number turned away and shrieked as their flesh was charred and burnt by the radiant aura, their putrescent forms blackened by its touch.

"Blessing of Holy." He heard Nathan murmur behind him and the instant he finished the last word, he was off - moving at such speed even Elias had difficulty tracking his movements. In a flash, Godsend was sweeping left and another of the corrupted humans fell, headless to the ground before he could react. Its comrades turned about and headed for the ranger, deciding instead to try their luck against what they perceived as a weaker opponent.

Before Elias could blink, one of them suddenly had a glowing blade jut from its chest - scream and fall, just as Nathan reappeared in front of them. Then he was moving again, the blade rising and falling, spinning and reaving the enemy.

He immediately regretted his choice to stand and gawk, as he felt a sharp pain in his right arm, just in between the pectoral and the shoulder. A quick turn of his head and he felt a wickedly sharp dagger embed itself in his flesh. Thankfully, his attacker was unskilled with his weapon, as he withdrew it before it could do serious damage, but still the blade drew blood.

Its wielder was undoubtedly one of the enemy, but bore no mark of corruption on his flesh. Instead, he wore black and purple robes - like those of a monk, but bearing the enemy's mark on his tabard. Beneath the hood, the man was bald and had violet eyes that were alight with bloodlust.

"Ouch." Elias said as he drew up his boot and kicked the man, hard, in the chest in a standing side kick. His attacker fell and slid across the ground, only stopping as he slammed into the legs of another enemy, a considerable distance away. "Don't you know it is not sporty to attack an unready opponent?"

Instantly, he felt the pain in his arm intensify and he gripped the wound with his free hand, trying to stem the bleeding. It had been a long time since he had been caught off guard so easily. He made a mental note not to be as careless. Nothing else for it, he thought now. Since his right side would need treating, he would have to switch to his left. Not a difficult change, as he was ambidextrous, but he preferred to use his right hand more.

With that, he switched hands and held his spear aloft - aimed and reared back before he released it, hurling it like a javelin. The spear sailed through the air before it embedded itself, tip first into the back of the leg of a larger creature, like the one Nathan had beheaded, causing it to roar in pain. Only a wound, he knew, but every little bit helped.

With that, Elias reached into his jerkin and drew another knife, one much longer than the one he had abandoned; double-edged and serrated on one side, perfect for close quarter fighting or as a backup weapon, though it was one of at least six backup blades he carried on his person at all times.

Arthur, his twin, had once jokingly compared Elias to a porcupine with the number of knives he carried on his person, but Jameson had lauded him for his preparedness. He thought the description rather apt, truth be told. It meant even if the enemy disarmed him of one weapon, he had plenty of other options.

With a new blade in hand, Elias followed after Nathan, still pushing his way through the press of bodies - cutting down any stragglers with short but swift stabs to their necks.

 

[Oriane]

"Oriane, get out of there!"

She heard the call to retreat, but it proved difficult for herself and the small team of the Thirteen to make a withdrawal.

They were wings and flashes of steel.

They would go down fighting, but Oriane and her team were warriors made of centuries of fight. One foe went down, then another. It would have filled a newly blooded soldier with confidence, for they would not see the onslaught still coming for them.

The Avariel gritted their teeth.

"We need an exit strategy!" Called someone from her left.

Oriane surged forward on wings of gold, drawing the attention of those flying ahead of the horde. Another set of wings came at her side, and and Harbinger called out to the rest, "Make your retreat!"

The Spear in her hands glowed, thrummed with a magic that Oriane began to pour into the legacy weapon from her own wells of energy. "You must go now, too!" She called to the Avariel at her side, a command that demanded to be heard as the golden winged female had every confidence in what she had to do.

Only when she was alone, she would allow the swarm to stifle her. This would not work unless she could take down many of their numbers or even to cover her own retreat. From the belly of the aerial swarm, a piercing light cut through every crevice to be found in the dark cloud of gargoyles. Some may even be blind from Oriane's light, many would need to recover, but the distraction was all she needed to burst upwards from their ranks and soar back towards the battlements.

Blood covered her spine, trailing from where wings connected to flesh at her back. She grimaced upon her safe return, but it was clear her wing had become a bother.