Completed The Battle of Ninagal

[Traecon Maxwell]

Damn that Gerra. He warned him about the elephants mere hours before! The dragon was as he anticipated, whimsical, burning whomever it wished so long as it was the enemy. This would be a bloodbath, in the end.

*Shink!*

The assassin behind him was dispatched, dagger's hilt protruding from his neck. Wrenching out the blade with naught but a grunt, he strode out into the chaos of the main battleground. He would not have the luxury of choosing the fights to partake in, and try to shield the giant from being trampled like the men before those war-beasts. He would take his pound of flesh from those elephants as compensation and save that charred ass. "Tsk."

First... wait.

What was a bloody wolf doing in a desert? With a quick, sharp whistle, a steed rode forth, saddled and ready. He leapt on, and snapped at the reins. Blimey, and he thought he had enough of surprises in this attack alone. If a rabid beast was around, no telling just what could happen.

"Hiya!"

With a scimitar drawn from a holster on the horse's side, he dove into the chaos alongside the light cavalry, his sword bisecting limbs and bodies alike. Like a battering ram, he cleared a path of blood and steel through the chaos of the battle, straight towards the chariot where Gerra was struggling. The elephants, lumbering heavily yet not less dangerous, had clumped in formations, their feet deathtraps of rumbling earth.

That wolf was seemingly headed in the same direction, darting between the limbs like the agile beast it was.

Bloody, a trained assassin dog? He did not know what to think about that. He was still too far away to make a difference for Gerra, and his own charge had already attracted attention. Scores of foes in armor had begun to march, right at him, in addition to an angry elephant looking down in his sights.

"Ugh, damn it. GERRA! BEHIND YOU!"

It was all he could do, shout out a warning and leap off his horse, the poor stallion brutalized by a spiked trunk swinging down like a mighty hammer. He liked that horse. Blast it. Bloodies sword still in hand, he faced the enemy with a chuckle.

"Fine, I suppose I will do it personally."

The chaos he tore in their ranks would be one of legends.

 

[Zelx the Dreamer]

The flash from the pavilion begins turn into into a purple glow which then started to twist and morph. The glow grew into the a large, amorphous sphere which then grew two large horns and multiple tentacles with a large orb on there top of each. With one final purple flash, Zelx the Dreamer manifested before the Shah, his eyes closed.

Zelx slowly opened his eyelids and began to look at his surroundings. He then turns to observe the dragon behind him burning the land. Zelx sighs and rotates back to the worried Shah, staring.

“Why do you call?”

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

"you're scared!"

Scared?

Of course i'm scared.

You think I don't know that.

I've stood on piles of bodies, taken of my own volition. I've seen things most Sorcerers won't see in their entire life-times. I've seen armies rage across the land, tear down villages, destroy homes and lives. I've seen the worst of humanity.

No.

Sparhawk was lying to himself. He'd been in one bad siege, yes, but that didn't mean he'd seen true war. He'd killed, of course, but on one primary occasion, and he wasn't even fully aware. If he ran now, would he be a coward? Yes. Did it matter? Not likely. But the look in Alistair's face was something Sparhawk could not deny. He had the look of someone wanting to do good; someone desperate to emend a great wrong being wrought against innocents. He reminded him of someone, long ago. Before time had changed us all.

Himself.

"listen, Gerra has the camp surrounded, so we have just as much chance of surviving if we try to run, we'll wait it out in the stables, and I'll heal any soldiers who need it,"

Something strange was happening. He could feel his stresses lessening, and his worries decreasing. He didn't know whether it was some form of magic on Alistair's part, or just his words striking a chord with Sparhawk, but in any case, he felt better.

So, what you're saying is, if we run, we'll die, and if we stay, we'll die.

He thought that Alistair's sentiment was naive, but brave. He couldn't leave the boy, and he certainty wasn't going to let him die.

"...I'll ward us when we make it to the Stables. Hopefully I can shield the Stable from attack."

We'll be fine. Alistair will be fine.

 

[Infernal]

Particles of sand passed through the starry form of Telenar, and his attention was immediately brought to the Necromancer. He spoke something, words of accusatory ignorance, claiming the elf a fool for what he was doing. Yet another who could not comprehend the grandeur of what magic could bring onto the world.

While his men slaughtered the forces of the Sha, Telenar would deal with this rabble. He was certain it would only take a small amount of time to deal with this ostentatious pretender.

Movements at blinding speeds passed through the carnage of the battlefield, his left hand conjuring a chromatic orb of differing colors. From the left, the sphere was hurled, the colors now a roaring force of lightning arcing in random directions. From the right came the elf, his dark blade thrust forward to stab into the chest of his opponent.

 

[White Swallow]

Fast like the wind, Zakariyya rode towards the assembled troop that had meandered from the conflict between various engaging parties.
With The Swallow and Nariman, he briefly united to give order before the men had separated, yet rode in unison towards the flank of the aggressor's army. With shields held high they deflected some of the arrows of the archers that focused on them.
For a brief moment, the Swallow even got to stare at an iron point gleaming through the rim of his shield.

There were three companies of riders in armoured horses. Nariman had split from the two and rode further out to encircle the Djinn's men. He held his spear tightly but now was not the time.


As the White Swallow rode past the front, he could not prevent himself from trying to gaze past the roaring fires. If the dragon truly worked for Gerra, was it the safest to fight in the frontlines? Alas, only the silhouettes of rhinoceroses and elephants darkened before the hellfire. It was unclear to him what lies beyond the fires, what hellscape the tents had become since the first breath of fire was unleashed.

He pinned down his shield and rose his bow, nocked an arrow and like many more of his troop, in a medium dir, aimed at the backs and sides of the infantry.

 

[Smiling One]

From a distance, the battle between the Sultan and the Shan was beginning. The sounds of War Elephants smashing against the chariots combined with the Elephants trumpeting and bellowing in pain. Screams and curse were shouted out some in Elvish, some in Orcish different words sure but they had the same meaning. Honestly fighting chariots and Blue Orcs was preferable from the utter chaos that was transpiring within the Shah encampment. Hundreds of soldiers ran around panicking at the Dragon circling around blasting anyone it saw with purple flames.

Hundreds possibly thousands of men and women were reduced to charred and bloody meat scraps. Some were cooking alive in their armor. The Dragon made another pass and unleashed another torrent of fire to the fleeing soldiers with some of them being consumed by the flames. Willis saw the commanders rallying the people for a counter attack. Two legions of archers placed their arrows on the bows and aimed high. "Let your arrows sing!" A commander cried out in a Shaarian accent.

"That's an Elven saying," Willis mumbled locking eyes with the Dragon. The young man that saying amongst Elven archers. They were considered to be the best in Arethril and considering the battles they've one thanks to their archers alone, It was hard to argue with that.

The red headed man didn't want to kill the Dragon which Willis understood. Dragons were a dying species but this is a battle and people are dying from the Dragon's attack. There really isn't any time to think about nothing else other than taking out the winged beast. "Tell that to the people burning alive!" Willis yelled. "We need to draw that Dragon to the Balista's range! Got any ideas?"

Willis has some ideas of his own but it was risky. He preferred safer methods if they were available.

Trahaearn

 

[Achates]

The large black dire wolf moved around the charging army and she held onto the scent of the Sultan. She had to get to him, she couldn’t leave him without her help. Achates was soon cut off by several glimmering blades. The wolf growled and snarled at the waving swords as she dodged them with an agile grace.

Leaping side to side, she ducked and moved away from the blades until she found an opening. The large dire wolf lunged forward and ripped the neck from one of the attackers and threw him aside. The others had similar fates as she used the razor-sharp teeth gifted to her through the transformation. Another growl and a howl echoed the battlefield, as she finished – Achates once more caught the wind of Gerra’s scent and she took off again.

It didn’t take long till she caught up to the man’s chariot. As others attempted to attack him, she did her best to guard the back of the Sultan as he continued forward. Times like this she wished she could speak, but the wolf swiped, tossing aside the bodies of the enemy.

There were tell-tale signs that the girl was the wolf, her pack was the usual one she wore, but it was a small detail that she didn’t expect to be noticed. Though, she knew she needed to watch out for her own side attacking her – keeping a secret was obviously not working for her here.

Gerra Smiling One Traecon Maxwell Infernal Rhiannon

 

[Halul]

A dragon that spewed flames, violet of color. One of the Four Lion Generals of Gerra's army unleashed magic beyond the mercenary's understanding. Elephants sent chariots, men, and horses alike soaring through the air. Rhinoceros ran down any unfortunates that stood in their path. Uvogin questioned, for a moment, his place in the battle.

His thoughts came to an abrupt halt as he let loose his last arrow from his longbow. He strained his eyes to find targets in the darkness. The purple flames that tormented the Shah's camp illuminated the battlefield somewhat, but with all the bodies of man and beast between him and the source of violet light, it did little to help him. Despite this, his arrow found the neck of a human mounted on a rhinoceros. As the beast bucked, the limp, lifeless corpse atop it flailed in an uncontrolled manner. The body was tossed off and left Uvogin's sight.

He threw the bow down and drew his sword. The purple light that lit the battlefield gave the high-quality Anirian made sword a ghastly appearance. With a deep breath, he entered the fray, fighting his way to his Bronze Claw comrades. He soon found his way to Grozkalla. The Third Talon was an impressive fighter. His large, curved blade cleaved men in two with a single swing. For his size, he moved with impressive skill and speed. The blue Orc's style of fighting left an impression on Uvogin and had been the reason the masked mercenary joined the Third Talon's company.

The mercenary focused through narrow slits in his mask. His sudden inclusion in Grozkalla's unit saw the Bronze Claw mercenaries carve through the mass of footsoldiers in front of them. Men, one by one, fell dead from single trusts and slashes of Uvogin's blade. An arrow grazed the plate that covered his shoulder and ricocheted into the darkness behind him. The mercenary turned to locate the archer. The momentary distraction was enough for some soldier to strike at his neck.

The blade clashed against the gorget that protected Uvogin's throat from fatal blows, but it still knocked the mercenary back. He stumbled backward and tripped over a comrade or enemy. It mattered little, for the soldier that knocked him down quickly closed the distance. The charge was abrupt; a large, curved blade met the soldier's dash. The edge of the sword severed head from body with no apparent resistance. The corpse fell forward while the head twirled through the darkness. Blood sprayed over anything nearby.

Grozkalla made himself visible and swiftly pulled Uvogin up, "We continue forward." The Talon had to raise his voice for Uvogin to hear over the chaos of battle. The mercenary rose with a groan and, as Grozkalla ordered, continued forward with his companions.

 

[VREILAR THE NECROMANCER]

The all encompassing orchestra of war began to change as Telenar charged, tempo inching ever higher- Andante, allegro, molto vivace! A howl crowed over the battlefield, accompanied by the distant sound of Dragon's-Fire rent anew; Neither gut-melting sound served as much distraction for the necromancer. The celestial mage had made a great many errors, first of which being his inability to read the inscrutable mind of VREILAR, THE NECROMANCER! If there were two things the necromancer knew, they were the powers of death and the error of hubris, both of which Telenar carried in spades.

VREILAR, THE NECROMANCER! stepped back from the encroaching sphere of lightning, bringing a stiletto dagger of tarnished silver slashing upwards at the crackling doom. Telenar's spell went off prematurely at the contact, searing his target's robes and blasting his hood back without doing much else in the way of damage. The necromancer sprang back amidst the magnesium flash, narrowly avoiding the elf's blade as he brought his knife to bear once more.

"THE GRAVE IS MY BIRTHRIGHT," the nasally lank shouted, flipping his much too long knife and holding it defensively. "IT IS OFTEN BEST TO LET THE DEAD LIE, BESPAWLER!" The magically adept could feel tension tug in the air, pinching down on the space between the two arcanists with a force of faith so bullheaded that it may as well be a wall of bricks three meters deep. Even in Telenar's elevated state, it would be a hell of an effort to crack through VREILAR, THE NECROMANCER!'s stubborn warding.

Infernal

 

[Infernal]

"If you have such fondness for the dead" Telenar stated plainly "Then let me provide you with more company."

Sickly green tendrils of magic shot forth with the speed of a hundred arrows, finding purchase in the soldiers around the two. Their screams reached a mighty crescendo before their bodies turned to dust, leaving the unoccupied magical appendages to find new hosts to drain. Friend, foe, it didn't matter, all that mattered truly, was acquiring the power needed to put down this impudent little whelp.

With this new font of power, his movements could hardly be tracked, his aura turning into a palpable feeling of dread that overwhelmed the senses. Attacking without end, he slashed, pierced and struck, certain that whatever pathetic ward that was put in place to protect the Vreilar would shatter when contact was made. He would show this fool the idiocy of attacking a warrior as powerful as him, how the world itself should shudder in fear at his prowess. There was no one, no wizard, nor dragon, nor even a god who could challenge him, the power roiling inside him, like the very earth shattering power of a star was blossoming within.

One hit, one touch of his blade, and there would be nothing left of this simpleton to vexed him, not even a soul to haunt him afterwards.

 

[VREILAR THE NECROMANCER]

VREILAR, THE NECROMANCER! could do little more than stare as the petulant fool before him ripped away countless lives all in the pursuit of a swift victory. Had the mage simply bit back his ego and held out a touch longer, he would have easily destroyed his foe in a battle of little more than arcane attrition. There was something to his lust for power that changed that outcome, though - Were VREILAR, THE NECROMANCER! of a poetic mindset, he may have turned the abomination towards that tale of the candle which burned twice as bright. Instead, he just got mad. Here was this fool, trouncing all over the natural order of life and death, sapping souls for strength like some protein-guzzling buffoon! THAT WAS VREILAR'S JOB!

As Telenar continued to slash away at the faithful shield, he would find it only growing stronger with his continued subsistence off the forsaken afterlives of those he kills. "I WOULD NARY EXPECT A DEW-STOMPER OF YOUR MERIT TO UNDERSTAND THIS," VREILAR, THE NECROMANCER! snarled back in defiance, feeling cold metal slip into his hand from somewhere deep within his swaddled robes. "BUT I HAVEN'T THE TIME FOR YOUR SENSELESS DRIVEL!"

Vreilar ripped his dagger back through the air, thrusting his other arm forward in one rapid motion. Instead of holding out his knife, crossed and protective, he instead presented a symbol as wretched as it was sacred. Shiny black metal took on a shape utterly foreign to all those living the comfortable lives cities and ivory towers provide, flashing dully in the middling pre-dawn light. In his gauntlet's clutches stood a small skeletal arm, holding aloft two scales of that same tarnished silver.

"I COMMAND YE BACK, INTERLOPER TO THE WAY OF THINGS! BACK FROM WHENCE YE CAME!" His will pushed outwards as he thrust the symbol forward yet again, shoving that indomitable ward out with enough force to dizzy three dozen mountain giants. Of course, nobody would feel this wave but Telenar, for they had not forsaken The Way of Things nearly as gravely as he who would deprive the dead of their rest.

Infernal

 

[Alistair Wren]

As Alistair finished siphoning Maho's stress and fear, he noticed the older mage visibly calming down. Hand held above his head, he recoiled, the negative emotions having been transferred to him. His heart beat increased and he shook a little, but swallowed and dismissed as merely the cost of the spell. Lowering his hand, he finished putting on his robes and darted to the front of the tent at Maho's order.

"Alright, we'll make a run for it and you cast the ward, hopefully we can wait it out there until the fighting stops," the opening of the tent in hand, Alistair turned around and spoke.

Alistair ran outside the tent. Torrents of fire rained down upon the camp and everywhere he looked, the bodies of men littered the sand. With Maho behind him, the young mage breathed in, eyes wide wit horror. If he hadn't been scared before, he was now. Swords clashed left and right and at every turn he took, bodies were thrown into walls. Darting from side to side, he yelped as he ran past Gerra's forces, the roof of the stables in sight. As they ran, a soldier swung his sword directly over Alistair's head.

"Fuck!" Alistair cried, then ducked and shot out his hand, "force by which turns the earth, wrench thee!" He shouted, his chant lifting over the camp's defenses.

When the soldier lifted his sword to strike again, Alistair threw him back with a telekinetic shove. He crashed into a wall and dropped his sword, winded, but otherwise unhurt. Grabbing his robes, Alistair tugged at Maho's sleeve and urged him to follow. The two of them darted between the fighting, flames and swords thrown over their heads.

The roof of the stables emerged into view. As they made their way towards, a soldier swung his sword in front of Alistair, slicing the head clean off of an enemy. Blood sprayed the ground, covering the young mage's robes. His stomach dropped. The colour drained from his face. He froze, struck in cold horror by the sight. Eyes wide, he shook, struggling to pull himself away from the headless body of the man. The other soldier swung his sword, aiming at Alistair.

Without thinking, Alistair swerved to the side and ran for his life. Maho ahead of him, he ran towards the stables, it's doors within his sight.

 

[Traecon Maxwell]

The war raged for hours without end, and eventually, amid such destruction and carnage, there would be... cowards.

Those who dared flee from the battles that raged in this night war, now approaching the first rays of dawn, would be captured and tortured for the crime of desertion. Accusations and claims of betrayal called to further disown the soldiers who fled the scene of carnage. And in the end, execution, to discourage further acts and serve as a warning to the others. But to such men, such and end would be a blessing. A release from the horrors of that war of Ragash.

It could not be helped for these deserters. They were not prepared for a mighty dragon, to raze the sandy grounds to glass and bodies to charred remains. For magics that crossed boundaries of life and death, bringing those from beyond back into the living as vengeful wraiths. Angered warbeasts raging in battle, crushing all beneath their feet to bloodied messes.

Save one.

A leaf in the blood-choked wind, silvery and alight in the pale dawn sky, the sun yet to even rise from the horizon. Fleeting and light, moving to and fro as the breeze dictated. It darted to and fro in the bloody battles, from the Bronze Claw mercenaries pushing against the main front, the cavalry harassing the sides of the enemy. All would see it once.

None alive to see where it would flow next.

The dual colored edge would forever remain in the minds of those runaways, a wound carved into their waking dreams. When questioned, the answer ripped from the minds and throats of every prisoner, the captors would hear one, damning word.

"Dreamsbane..."

With but the wind to guide his blade, Traecon Maxwell truly joined the fight in earnest, mercurial eyes almost ablaze in concentration. The dual-colored edge of his sword cleft through metal and bone, anathema to armor and flesh. No shield or enchantment seemed to even deflect the sword, piercing even solid steel as if it were water. Those who prouded themselves as practitioners, masters of either blade or magic, could only die like the miserable rest, their skills rendered null by that inhuman blade.

He moved between the clusters of soldiers as a snake moves in the desert sands. Each flash of mercurial, twilight blade, was a fanged strike. Its bite carried poison, coursing through thought and dream, invoking but one image, one sensation; Fear.

The tide would not turn so easily, but the sudden, violent path torn to the elephants had soldiers reeling in shock. The beast that had laid the mercenary's horse flat was already dead, from slashes that riddled its sides. The trail of blood was easy to be seen even from the dragon's eye, the sword's glint a beacon in the chaos below. A signal of death.

He tore through to the elephants on his two feet, using whatever means he could to shorten the gap and defend Gerra from the warbeasts. He would be damned if the giant, so sure of his imminent victory, be crushed like a gnat. A volcanic gnat, but still tiny nonetheless.

Climbing onto a nearby horse, he rode and at last, reached the giant's side. The wolf was... defending the lord? Teeth flashing, the mercenary watched as it tore at any fool who dared the coward's angle. That was that, but the warbeasts still rampaged. The troops would be flattened at this rate.

Slashing the spiked trunk of one such elephant aside, Traecon fixed Gerra with a piercing glare, sword still glowing in his bloodied hands.

"The beasts are upon us. Either retreat and join the Bronze Claw, or have that dragon char these beasts to ash!"

Gerra Achates Infernal

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

Oh god.

It was immense. Whilst Alistair dragged Sparhawk out of the tent, and pulled into the fray, both of them had to witness the horror that waited for them;

Fire. Cleansing, purifying, trepid fire. A purple flame that cremated the sky, and all those that fought on the ground. As Gerra's forces stormed the camp, the flames showed pity for no one, not even they were offered defence from it's overbearing heat. It scorched everything in it's path, the dark silhouette in the sky carrying over them like a breeze, destroying all that lived. It terrified Sparhawk - the cycle of Screams and Silence.

What terrified him more than that however, was the look on Alistair's face. He tried to relate to his situation, but to be so young, and to have seen comparably so little, going straight to this...

It was too dreadful to imagine.

But this was not a thought.

This was reality.

As they ran in-between the battling forces, swords swung overhead, the chime of steel crowding the air, terror and aggression being inescapable.

He watched as Alistair avoided the sword-swing, his life hanging by a thread, pushing back the soldier with Telekinetic. Sparhawk would have complimented him on his progress, if it weren't for him dragging him forward. Keep pushing forward, keep pushing forward. As the roof of the stable entered site, one of Gerra's soldier cut the head off of one of the Shah's. Blood sprayed forth from the gaping wound where the soldier's head once was, landing onto Alistair's robes, and the boot of Sparhawk's.

Alistair froze.

Oh no...

In a wild-sprint of emotions and reflexes, he avoided the attack - barely. Sparhawk had no time to react, and pushed forward. He couldn't provoke an attack. He just had to make it to the Stable. That's all he had to do. That was it.

He looked backwards as he ran forwards, and looked upon Alistair; the blood struck across his face was over-shadowed by the over-whelming and sheer fear written there, calling for help. It reminded him of that day, so many years ago, when he'd lost his boy...

"You let him die, Maho."​

No, not this time. I won't let another one go.

"Alistair- we'll be fine! I swe-" He was interrupted, as he heard a war-cry ahead of him.

As he looked in front of him, only a short-distance away from the Stable, he watched as the Scimitar sliced through the air, a trail of wind followed behind it. It's size was enormous, chips following the edge of the blade from repeated use. It was a foot away from his face.

Is this it?

Is this the end?

What about Alistair?

...

He threw his arms forward as fast as he could above his head. There was little time, and it was done with little finesse. He'd been told in one combat training session that, if your life was at stake from a large blade, stacking your arms may save your life.

It saved his life, yes.

But it certainly didn't save him arms.

As the blade came crashing down, there was an almighty crack, followed by a smooth slice. All he could do was shift his shoulder to the right, away from Alistair. Away with the sword, went Sparhawk's arms. His eyes and pupils enlarged, the soldier falling down due to the momentum of the blade. Sparhawk simply looked down, to where his arms lay, cut from his elbow. Blood spewed relentlessly from the stubs, painting the ground in the colour of his soul.

He felt dizzy. The blood quickly leaving his body. His legs were weak. But he did not scream. The pure adrenaline from the situation, mixed with his sheer confusion; all that followed was silence. All he did was look into the eyes of the Soldier, quickly getting back up.

Somewhere, out of almost pure-instinct, he let out a colossal scream. And, from his mouth, plumed a fantastic orange flame, that bathed the Soldier. Every crevice of his being was given no relief from the terrible heat that coated his entire body. His screams were muffled by both the battle, and the sounds of the embers flicking, and the smoke rising. It didn't last long; but when the flames had stopped, nothing was left; even the metal that made up the soldier's armour and blade had gone molten, dripping onto the floor, filling the space where his corpse would've been.

He turned to Alistair. And then there was only one thing left to do.

Fall.

He fell to the ground, blood swimming from where his arms used to be.

I want to go home...

 

[Ashieron]

Ash was originally going to be spending just the night in the camp, but it would seem not even that. As the armies marched on and the battle started he was awoken by the sounds of screams and arrows pelting the small tent that he was staying in. “Holy mother of dragons!” He yells jumping up, waking the small scaled creature that was laying on his chest within their sleeping sack. It gives a slight growl and little chirps, with a sort of glare as it rolled back to its feet quickly, spreading its bat like wings.

It did not even take that long before Ash had abandoned their tent, picking up his little dragon and wrapping it up into his jacket, making it whimper some. “Sorry sorry sorry, I know this is humiliating but it will be easier if we sticked close.” He would say sorry repeatedly as he quickly clasped his cloak around his shoulders and he ran. Holding little Alzros tightly as the dragon breathed its violet flames onto the camp. “If only you were older and could fly.” Ash grumbles receiving a sort of punch in his ribs. He definitely deserved that one.

They needed to get out of there, Alzros was more important than any one of these peoples lives to Ash, even more than his own. They would not be in this situation if he had not had them stop when Alzros gotten heat sick. Much against the young one’s wishes.

Ash would duck and weave in between fighting men and women, eventually having one of his spells prepared in the case he would need to defend the two of them. Taking a cut on his brow and on few on his side. Eventually once they got near the stables, hoping atleast there was a horse, or Atleast something that could help them. Ash would see a man get his arms chopped off as a younger one watched on. But that was going off of his first glance. Ash runs over to the stable and bust the door open preparing his fire spells for any other attack trying to attack the two mages.

He’d be gasping for breath as his side hurt with every breath. He felt a bit of squirming from Alzros with a few louder chirps. “Shhh little one.” Ash whispers holding his hand over the dragon. He blinked his eyes trying to keep his blood from out of them as his hands glown white, before he would fire a large fireball at a few oncoming enemies whim were approaching them out of blind rage and fear. Making the men and women be turned to nothing but partially melted metal from there armor if they were within the center point of the blast. The others sizzling, dying or just burnt corpses scattered around the burnt crater where the fire landed.

 

[Niyu Temuha]

An untold number of hooves trampled onto the dry ground as the war host in the name of the Great Prince arrived into the Battle of Ninagal. Some who have seen the war host that consisted of both calvary and infantry on its way had said that their numbers lied in the tens of thousands, others claimed they were in the hundreds of thousands. Their real numbers remained unknown. The Great Prince has decided not accompanied his army, instead sending his fourth son and youngest daughter to lead the contingent along with handpicked group of trusted generals and officers. Niyu had plenty to prove in this battle. This, she knew well. Her older brother, although new, had been tested in battle. He would take overall command. She needed to prove to everyone that she had what it took to be a warrior worthy of her father and family’s name.

The Steppe warriors were here to provide their services in war to the Sultan of Annuakat who had paid a handsome sum for their upcoming part to play in the battle. It was clear to all the warriors that the battle was well underway by the time they arrived, and what a scene it was to all, especially to new bloods such as Niyu. The fact that there was a dragon involved in the battle caused quite a stir within the warriors. The Steppe tribes worshipped the sky god and considered dragons to be the herald of his will. The fact that the dragon was on their side scorching the enemy forces proved to be a good omen and boosted the morale of every warrior.

Stopping a short distance away from the action, the young prince along with his generals and officers surveyed the battle and discussed amongst themselves on how to proceed. They decided to split up from the main group and headed towards the Sultan’s camp leaving the bulk of the army where it was. Niyu along with the rest of the warriors remained atop their horses for the prince and his retinue to return. While they waited, the orders came from the officers to eat, and the warriors retrieved their supplies from their pack which consisted of dried preserved meat and rice balls. By the time the prince’s leadership group returned from the Sultan’s camp, all of the warriors had food in their bellies and were ready to fight.

The officers reported to the generals for their orders and soon hurried back to their war bands to brief those under their charge. As soon as the preparations were complete, a long horn was sounded and the attack flags were waved to bring the host into action. The war host split into two with one heading towards the right flanks, and the other headed towards the last known location of the Sultan where the elephants were. Concerned about the possibility of friendly fire, the warriors were told to ready their composite bows and pick off the targets that they could identity as part of the enemy. This was no easy judgement, considering most of the warriors had never been in the Amol-Kalit region, and mistakes were sure to be made in the chaos and frenzy of battle, where it was difficult to tell who was the enemy in the mix of so many together.

Many opted to fire away at the large heads and riders of the elephants riders, leaving many of them riderless. The Steppe tribes were well-known for their highly accurate fire, and such large targets as these were no more than child’s play. In fact some of the warriors would say that even their sons and daughters would not miss with such a target. Like the fellow warriors beside her, she fired arrow after arrow at the elephants, of which many had been peppered by arrows by now. Using this to their advantage, they weaved in and out of the mayhem, firing at the lumbering beasts while remaining out of their range.

Their goal was not to kill the creatures, but to enrage the elephants enough by wounding that it becomes frightened and angry enough that they begin to stop listening to their riders. Furious and hurting from the shower of arrows, a war elephant raged, causing a wounded rider struck by an arrow to fall off his perch atop the raging beast. Niyu followed others of her warband as they continued to make headway towards the group of chariots among the Sultan of Annuakat.

 

[Trahaearn]

"While it grieves me that they are, or have died, the living are to be tended to first." Trahaearn snapped back to the other man. The other man with Trahaearn shook his head, knowing full well how tenaciously stubborn and bullheaded the red haired man could be. Having witnessed the man go toe to toe with ogres, trolls, even golems.

The clash of metal ran into the group and cut them them off. The dragon was a hopeless goal now as the infantry of the other army scattered the cover that Trahaearn had been using.

He switched tactics now, pulling the hay hook from his hip as he whistled to his second. Without further notice, the rope was dropped as he too whistled harshly. The other pairs switched as well, dropping their gear for the dragon and focusing only on survival. He looked at the other man briefly.

"I doubt this battle will be won. I'll be retreating. Do what you will. Best of luck." he hollered before moving away.

The hay hook was longer than was typical. Two hands long from the handle while having another hand in length in a spike that hooked to the side instead of out and down. He had placed the order for it when the rumors of a dragon cropped up, paying a bit extra to have it made quickly.

The handle had a basket hilt forged around the grip, his hand only able to hold it from one side but being protected while it was there. Its original purpose of finding purchase in a dragons tough hide, now it would serve for another less noble job.

Which came in handy in his left hand as he spun and found a blade coming down in line with his head. The hook went up, the guard singing as the blade scraped and slid down the hook before catching in the crook. Trahaearn's arm shot forward, pushing the blade back and down while he drew the arming sword and slashed in the same motion. It sang against the scale armor, but he pushed forward still as the hook caught the assailants arm and he was wrenched forward. The tip of the blade slid under the first scale and with his weight behind it, punched through the rings behind it.

The short gurgle of the other man gave him the sure sign of death before he yanked both weapons out and began to defend himself from more attackers. The strategy was nearly the same, defend with the hook, disarm, and strike. A few glancings blows from the exotic blades scraped across leather covered mail, a cut across the cheek making him grit his teeth.

He lost track of his second man, and began to focus on the attackers only while headed for the stable. It was a slow dance of death and steel, more than once being forced to step back and deal with a more serious threat. He was close enough to see a pair of what looked like mages being assaulted outside the stables before an arm was lost and a third man dragged the wounded inside.

He pushed the other inside and guarded the entrance. His armor and sword coated in a fine dazzle of blood and cuts. The hook held gore from the unfortunate lot that had been caught by it. A mix of flesh and cloth dangling from it as another came in as he stopped the enemy from entering the stable.

 

[Gerra]

In the royal pavilion, as tents around them burned and the cacophony of battle drowned out all else, Shah Bardya stared upon the thing he had summoned and felt a tremor of fear and doubt. The monstrosity’s gaze focused upon him with a malevolence that he could feel in the very air. This thing was of the Three. It belonged in the Pit. Could he even command it?

He had to try.

“Destroy my enemies, the dragon, the Sultan Gerra, and his army. Destroy them.”

Elsewhere​

Wherever the chariot traveled, it left a wake of death from its scythes, reaping the lives of men as easily as one would reap grain. Bolts of lightning, jets of crimson, and tongues of fire and ice continued to light up the night sky sporadically, as mages dueled each other, or swept away opposing forces in an instant. The battlefield had become disjointed chaos at the front lines, with units losing all sense of cohesion and grouping into to tight knots that fought simply to stay alive.


As Mitu guided the chariot past an armored rhinoceros, the rider atop the rhino pointed a finger at them. A beam of scarlet shot forth and struck Mitu. The charioteer screamed as his body suddenly began to shrivel, withering. In the space of a few breaths, he aged seven decades. Mitu jerked on the chariot reins with the last bit of his strength, then collapsed. The horses ran wild, struck a mound of corpses, and the chariot upended, spilling out Gerra and Mitu. The half-giant tumbled onto blood soaked soil, getting to his hands and knees. He reached out a hand toward Mitu, saw that the man was dead, then seized a javelin instead.

“Djinn!”

“Sultan!”

“He has fallen, protect the Sultan! Protect him!”

A group of warriors ran to his aid, one of them a Napthalite Grenadier of the Kemist Corps, in his fire-resistant leathers. Together they stood, swords and spears ready to repel any who sought to slay their Sultan.

The Sultan of Annuakat got to his feet beside the toppled chariot and stared across the battlefield at the rhino, which had turned around and now stomped its feet. The rider, barely illuminated by the fire from the burning camp in the night, was shirtless, but his arms and chest glinted from many golden amulets and jewels. He raised a hand toward Gerra and opened his mouth. Harsh words, full of magic, poured forth and tendrils of crimson once more spread out from his hand.

The tendrils touched warriors in front of Gerra and he watched them shrivel into corpses, aged a hundred years in a moment.

Gerra took a step forward, then with all his might hurled the javelin. It sped through the air across the distance and struck true, spitting the rider through the chest, sending him to the dirt. Enraged at the loss of its rider, the rhino charged.

Without any javelins, Gerra pulled his hammer from his belt and prepared himself. The Napthalite and the two remaining soldiers stood in front of him and the rhino broke them like twigs. One it impaled on its mighty horn, the two others it sent flying. The napthalite grenadier, lit jar of naptha in hand, went flying before he could hurl his grenade, and collided with Gerra, sending them both sprawling. The jar of naptha exploded and ignited the other grenades the man carried, enveloping them both in fire. The fire-resistant leathers could not save the man as the oil coated him and the fire clung to him, sucking away his oxygen and burning exposed flesh. The oil clung to Gerra too and burned, though it could not harm his flesh, nor his hair. The Sultan ended the naphtalite’s life with a hammer blow to the skull, sparing him the indignity of burning alive, then he got once more to his feet just as the rhino finished flinging the impaled soldier off its horn and turned toward him for a second charge.

The Djinn stood tall, fire enveloping his form, with eyes hot and glowing like two embers and hair becoming a tongue of flame atop his head. He felt a volcanic fury roiling through him, all coursing magma and fiery smoke. He hefted the hammer in his right hand and the five pound head felt weightless.

The rhino charged, churning up the ground beneath it, armored plates and chain rattling, nostrils flaring. Gerra stood resolute as a mountain as the enormous beast hurtled toward him. At the last moment, he swung his hammer and smote the rhino full upon its horn. The blow shattered its ivory horn and sent the beast to the ground with a mighty thud that shook the ground. It lowed in pain, blood gushing from near the base of the horn, yet it tried to rise. Gerra stood over it, the heat of a forge in his eyes, and brought his hammer down upon its head with unabated savagery again and again and again, deforming plate and shattering the skull until the handle of his hammer snapped off. He flung it aside, picked up a shard of shattered rhino horn, and stalked over to where the slain rider lay, javelin jutting from his chest.

Kneeling, Gerra examined the corpse. Even in death, the man looked beautiful, otherworldly and ageless, like the elves of Falwood. A Thakathi sorcerer, then, in truth. Gerra’s eye fell upon the amulets encircling the man’s neck and the rings upon his hands. Something shimmered in the depths of the rubies and the language the gold amulets had carved into them was not one he recognized. He stripped them all.

It was in this state that a unit of Bronze claw mercenaries found him beside the chariot, clutching blood soaked gold and jewels in one hand and a sharp sliver of ivory in the other. Lingering patches of oil fire still clinging to his chain mail.

An enormous wolf loped along beside them, joining, her tongue lolling out as she panted.

“Achates,” Gerra rumbled, though he could not spare her further words, for at that moment the mercenary Traecon arrived and drew his attention, pointing in the distance, where three elephants were shattering their way through formations of troops and coming straight for them. The closer they grew, the more mighty their footsteps shivered against the earth. He could feel them now, yes.

He looked to his toppled chariot, then to the knot of troops.

This was a fight he could not win.

Suddenly, there came an angry buzzing that filled the air as millions of insects crawled from the blood-drenched soil beneath their feet and took to the air on wings. This horde of locusts swarmed upon the approaching elephants so thickly that they became lost in the tide of insects. Maddened trumpeting came from within the swarm, then screams. Finally, all grew silent. The locusts fell to the ground, gorged and dead. Where the elephants had stood were only bones upon the ground.

“Great Djinn.”

Gerra turned toward the voice and saw many hooded figures approaching on foot. At their head was a man in white, with a golden scarab embroidered upon the front of the robe, and his head shaven completely bald.

“Archlector Snaaib, your arrival is both timely and late.”

The lector-priest bowed at the waist, arms crossed. “The will of the gods, Great Djinn.”

Gerra grunted, looking back to the battlefield. They were steadily pushing the Shah’s forces back into the burning camp. However, across the ill-lit plain he could see flashes of magic as two forces collided again and again.

“Archlector?”

“It is not of the Annunaki, Great Djinn.”

Telenar?

Gerra pointed at the source of the miasmatic flashes. “Captain Traecon, find a new mount and investigate that sorcery. If it is of the enemy, kill it.”

Then he handed the blood-soaked tangle of jewelry to a lector. “I found these on a Thakathi. Keep them safe.”

Putting the sliver of ivory in a pocket, he picked up a spear from the ground and nodded to the Bronze Claws. “Leave the Thakathi to the Lectors, we make for the camp. Achates, Bronze Claws, with me.”

Then he set with the rest at a brisk pace, bound for the camp which glowed softly with fires against the night sky.

 

[Zelx the Dreamer]

“Destroy my enemies, the dragon, the Sultan Gerra, and his army. Destroy them.”

Zelx observes the Shah with a suspicious expression. Time passes and he lets out a large, bellowing laugh. The halls behind the group begin to echo with laughter, as if many people are in them. Zelx, after the laughing fit, stops along with the hallway's bellowing and stares the Shah in the eyes.

"W-what is so funny?" The Shah asks in a cautious, yet commanding voice.

Zelx grins, showing his toothy maw in it's glory. His eyes almost widen with amusement.

"You haven't payed my fee yet you know," the beholder plainly states, his voice giving a harrowing aura.

"Ah yes," the Shah sighs in relief. "I will pay you after you have disposed of the dragon."

"That will not do," Zelx responds in a more aggressive tone, "I noticed something here that will be a suitable payment." Zelx licks his lips in anticipation.

"Sure, sure, whatever. Just defeat the dragon!" The Shah commands as he himself is becoming irradiated at the monster's game.

Zelx nods and floats away towards the group with Djana Mahin and the Scorpion king. His eyes met the human as Zelx giggles with excitement.

"There you are, your soul is an interesting one young lady," Zelx laughs as he descends upon the group and begins to cast an illusionary iron cage around the woman.

"Your soul is mine..."

 

[White Swallow]

The Swallow had half-emptied his quiver by the time that Masum had ridden past on his greyish horse. Giving him ample new arrows. They smelled of scorch if only lightly, discoloured were they too.
He'd pay little attention to the mildly compromised condition, for they were still sturdy and deadly in the bows of his men.
The question was what feats the crazy man had done to return them to him and doesn't he looks a little redder? And his horse wasn't mottled either.
Before he could assay his condition, Masum had already ridden to other riders, resupplying them before disappearing after Moad and the others towards the smirched camps.

These men were loyal, very much so, and if only because they knew The Swallow would end himself to save them too.
Was it loyalty like Shah Bardya's men? Who routed mid the dragonflames? Before the battle even started?
Was this why Gerra's forces fought in unison? The many different people who historically would have gutted each other?

The White Swallow's eyes focused upon the path that had cleared from their assault. His cataphracts and those of Nariman had since switched to their lances. Zakariyya instead steered their attention towards the mounted archers and keep them at bay.

Returning his bow he instead took his shield and lance that rested on his side. He levelled the polearm with the horizon and took a deep breath.
He was the first to charge.

Mayyadah, the horse beneath The White Swallow, praised by both man and abtati alike huffed out a gust of air as she only ran faster and faster, the horses behind her picking up their pace and soon matched her speed. The backside has since been sufficiently whittled down and broken as the tail of the army kept being dragged forward by the raging chariots.
It was a field of gore and death, but the horses were unstoppable. Mayyadah lept over the corpse of a long-dead best before crashing against the backside of the army. The White Swallow loosened his grip on impact, turned and retrieved the polearm as he ran past the unfortunate victim. Other lancers lost their spears entirely as they got lodged in penetrated armour and flesh.

A heavyset orc turned to The Swallow, he would have pulled him off Mayyadah had not another wave of lancers crashed against him.


A flock of white birds against black have descended upon the warriors, not much different from the charge many moons ago mid the twin arches of Maraan.
Alsanunu could already smell the naphtha and the charred flesh, hear the same voices as he did back then.
Yet things were different.

 

[Infernal]

When the rebuke struck him, Telenar had to put all of his energy into keeping his body from being torn apart. It was by far one of the greater pains he had experienced, shocking him all the way to his core.

So this is the power of a god.

He had never felt such power tearing into him, striking him like a boot stomping upon the head of a helpless animal. Such was the first time he had felt the power of this strange and alien god, his spirit filled with inspiration, hatred, and a yearning to dominate the one who would dare to use this power utterly. If he learned anything from this encounter, it was that in this world, there was always a greater power, but that did not mean he could not grow to even greater heights of magical acumen.

Collapsing to the ground, he was immediately surrounded by the Shadow Hands, their eyes blazing with fury. "Kill the Necromancer! We will protect the General." Four warriors charged after Vreilar, the others cutting a bloody swath through the enemy, carrying the dazed and wounded Telenar out of the fray, and away from harm.

 

[Aivrid]

Power first, and the rest will follow...
Tag: God, you people keep multiplying, stop that
​

There seemed no end to the flames that poured out of the dragon. The battle raged, the dragon's violet breath illuminating the forces of the two sides. In the sight of all this destruction and death, Aivrid was...

Bored.

It was already repetitive and tiring. So much fiery breath was rather draining for the dragon, but without touching any of the enemy or feeling their presence, it all felt meaningless. Despite having annihilated the camp of the Shah's forces and decimating his army, the black beast felt that he was contributing little -- even as the little arrows rattled off of his scales and the spells of dozens of sorcerers failed to break his hide, Aivrid simply decided he was done.

Some kind of projectile slammed into his neck, but failed to pierce -- he'd felt the weight behind it, but the strike was unable to fell the dragon. There was more weight, momentum, and magic than could be shattered by a little bit of wood. Even so, Aivrid took that as his cue to head over and land someplace.

That someplace was the other side of the city, across from the battle. The various mages battling it out likely would have everything covered. The black dragon had already done enough damage to the Shah's army, his absence would be of no consequence.

But the new presence, well, he'd need to do something.

His claws scratched the sand, and the behemoth spoke softly. "Taldaraax ocuir karif."

Sight beyond sight. Power beyond mortals.

Only those beyond could challenge him, and thus he needed to work quickly.

 

[Halul]

The unit of Bronze Claw mercenaries cut their way through the midst of the battle.

"Sultan!" Grozkalla called out, his voice booming over the cries of battle. Uvogin turned his head at the word. Gerra was kneeling. With a single word, Grozkalla commanded a perimeter to be made around the Sultan. The mercenaries fought off any who dared approach. Uvogin ignored the lector-priests, and even ignored as one of the Lion Generals was sent away.

Gerra rose. It had been the closest that Uvogin ever was to the Sultan. Even at a distance, he could tell the giant of a being dwarfed him.

Then, the Djinn called for the Bronze Claw. With haste, they moved directly for the Shah's camp. Gerra led, followed by the large wolf and Grozkalla, who was followed by Uvogin. The rest of the Bronze Claw mercenaries moved closely.

 

[Alistair Wren]

Alistair stood, mouth agape as the soldier's blood splattered his robes. Before he could act, the soldier swung again, this time aiming for his neck. Maho threw up his arms to block the attack, and Scimitar sliced straight through them. Eyelids fluttering, Alistair watched in horror as his teacher was dismembered and threw out a hand as Maho fell to the ground.

"Master!" He cried.

Darting forward, Alistair knelt at Maho's side and slung one of his stumps around his shoulder, blood pouring out. Another man arrived to help, to which Alistair waved a hand to the stables, "stand guard, I'll heal him," he instructed. Alistair had no idea who the man was, but he had been kind enough to offer his hand, even though Alistair was quite capable of helping Maho on his own.

"Thank you," Alistair nodded to the other man as he helped Maho towards the stables.

The fighting raged around them. Swords clashed against swords at every turn and bodies fell, all the while Alistair hobbled along with Maho on his shoulder. They reached the stables and he shoved open the door, then set him down on the hay in one of the blocks. Breathing in and out, Alistair stroked Maho's hair and looked him in the eye, fussing over his wounds as he did so.

"You fool," he muttered, "I didn't need you to save me," snapping his fingers, he created a small flame at the tip, just as Maho had taught him how to do. He lowered his hand and held the flame against one of Maho's stumps, cauterizing the wound.

Holding out his other hand, Alistair swallowed and coughed to clear his throat, "fire of the stars and the force by which the earth turns, sear this flesh," he sung, his soft and contemplative voice lifting above the stables. The flame turned blue, searing Maho's flesh and stopping his wound from bleeding. Shifting over to Maho's other side, Alistair started to do the same to his other stump. Hand held out, he singed his bleeding with the flame and sung the same lyric as before.

"You taught us some neat tricks in those pyromancy lectures of yours," Alistair laughed, holding the blue flame above Maho's wound.

 

[Smiling One]

A bolt managed to land on Dragon's hide though it did not penetrate deep enough to affect him. In fact it probably pissed him off. Willis kept his eyes on the winged beast, Dragon's usually stay away from cities and villages now and days. He had to be summoned and to Willis' knowledge that must've required a ton of magic or a days of rituals or sacrifices. Of all the creatures and to summon, Dragons had to be the most difficult to do and even if a mage managed to summon a Dragon, there was no guarantee that it would obey them no matter how much magic they've spent or how much tribute they gave to them.

Just then the camp was invaded by the Shah's forces, Chariots began pouring from the flanks and began mowing down soldiers like they were sand paper. Lizardfolk and Sand Elf archers immediately to launch volleys of arrows on to the tents setting them on fire. Willis eyes rose up in fear as he heard thundering hoof in the distance. "Armored Calvary," Willis said in disbelief. "But how the fuck did they penetrate our defenses so quickly?!"

It was the Dragon sure, but they were prepared to at least hold him off and besides the Shah spared no expense in hiring top tier Sellswords like the Owlbear's Peck, the Seventh Haven, the Ironbark Foresters and the Longspears. They've had lots of experience handling magic based armies and some of them were fellow Monster Hunters. There was no time to think as the first wave of Calvary rushed past Willis slicing and dicing everyone in their path. The young man ducked when he saw an Iron Mace heading straight for his face before turning around and hacking off the legs of one of the charging Horses.

The rider fell forward on to the ground and landed neck first. Willis heard a sickening crack as the brutal fall ended the man's life. Willis turned on his heel doing half spin and slashed the chest of another cavalryman knocking off of his Horse and landing back first. "I CAN'T FEEL MY LEGS!" He cried out before Willis ran and stabbed him through the throat.

"Better to die than to live as a cripple," Willis muttered remembering the crippled beggars back in the docks of Alliria. "I'm such a good person." He said smirking.

Men and women at arms continued their assault the camp as the Shah began to hastily mobilize their troops for a counter attack. Willis and a couple of Sellswords joined in the line and began to charge at them. As the horn sounded the soldiers charged in unison. The cries of: "HAVEN!" and "RUN FOREST RUN!" penetrated Willis ears.

"A sellsword has valor" Willis smiled. "You just need to be on the winning side."

A violent clash ensued, the clanking of armor and weapons combined with the blood curling screams and foul obscenities were heard. Willis hacked a Sand Elf across the belly with his Raipier then decapitated an Orc. The Allirian sidestepped, jabbed and slashed with precision. Blood and gore were splattered everywhere around Willis filling him with a sense of excitement. Even as a man whacked him on the side of the head forcing him to the ground. The thrill to have his life on the line was always exhilarating.

Willis felt right at home even as he shouted how he was going rip the man's balls and shove them in his mouth while he tried press his sword against Willis' throat. While the young man grabbed hold of the sharp sword, the blade penetrating his skin forming huge gashes above his palms Willis began to remanence about the prospect of cheating on the battlefield. Willis came to the revelation that when he's out here killing and cheating death that was when he felt the most alive.

Willis reached out and began biting the man's cheek. It didn't taste as bad as he thought to be honest, cheese and wine. Where the hell did he get wine?! The man screamed hysterically while Willis clung on to his cheek like a Griffin was to their prey. With a savage rip, Willis tore out a piece of the man's cheek while picking up his Rapier and slicing half of his head off. Blood immediately poured from the top of his skull as he crumbled to his knees.

"I'll castrate you later," he said spitting the parts of his cheek onto his corpse. Bloodied and bruised, Willis saw that they were making some good progress until he saw the Shah summon a monster that made the young man's felt a shiver go down his spine. There were also archers laying down some fire on the sell swords. Reaching out for an explosive dagger, Willis flung the weapon straight towards the Lizard archer's skull. The Knife exploded taking 5 archers with it and causing the rest to route.

Turning to where the Shah was performing a ritual, Willis ran towards it against his best interests. He didn't want to interfere if he summoned a beast that would turn the tide of the battle. Still he can't shake the feeling that the Shah did something foolish. Call it a Monster Hunter instinct.

The young man arrived just in time to see the creature absorb the soul of what looked like a beautiful woman. Willis stared mouth agaped as she fell on her knees and began to fade away. But not before she locked eyes with Willis. Immediately his whole body began to burn and his heart began to pound at a rapid pace. It was a strange feeling of sorts and Willis couldn't get what was going on. Who was this woman? And why did staring at her make him feel uneasy?

As she disappeared, Willis covered in blood and guts some of it his own slowly stared at the Shaw and the creature he summoned. But it wasn't any creature.

"The Oracle!" Willis said stunned at the many eyed beast.