Quest The Battle of the Blades: The Assault

Organization specific roleplay for governments, guilds, adventure groups, or anything similar
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Owen Mason

Owen lay in his bunk below deck. The swaying of the mighty warship, the Braun Virak, on the waters of the Cortosi Coast. The berth was tight and cramped. Bunks made to be lean and three high.

In his hand he held two dice. Shifted them around. Watched absently the different numbers as they appeared and disappeared with the motions of his hand and the dice themselves.

Today was the day.

* * * * *​

The mighty force mustered by Vel Anir finally arrived at the island known as The Blades.

A large number of vessels carried the combined force of the Auxiliaries and the Anirian Guard, the total number around one thousand fighting men and women. And these vessels also had an escort from ships carrying no troops, but that came for protection and for the show of force. The Master of the Blades had crossed Vel Anir in so egregious a way that the only proper response was the iron fist of overwhelming military might. And the Houses of Virak, Weiroon, and in particular Pirian were all eager to unleash it.

Storied vessels all, these ships so assembled now in the vicinity of the island. The Braun Virak, the Mandred Weiroon, the Juliet Pirian, among many others. And the crews of these ships and the troops aboard all sought to add The Master and his forces as another accolade to the list.

Nothing less than total victory was acceptable. The landing and holding of the beach by the Auxiliaries, the formation and assault by the Anirian Guard, and the liberation of Kristen Pirian from The Master's capture.

All of Arethil needed a reminder of who the greatest fighting force in the world happened to be.

They would have it.

* * * * *​
Elan stood on the deck of the warship Juliet Pirian, near Boat One, the landing skiff she and the unit of Auxiliaries she was with would board.

The journey had been long, even by boat. It spoke to the vastness of Arethil. But there in the distance now as she leaned with her hands against the railing she could see it. The island. The Blades, as it was called. All the tropical trees she'd not seen in the world before now. The large rising hill to the right of the beach. That point to the left and right of the beach where the island's namesake, the dark and jagged rocks lurking in the seawater, broke the surf and the white foam, splashing up in displays made tiny by distance but reflecting the noontime sunlight all the same.

She could almost see them. The fortifications of The Master's forces. Miniscule and faint, abnormalities in the treeline just past the beach.

And there on that island and hiding in that treeline and behind their defenses was her enemy.

The enemy of all Vel Anir at this instance in time.

And Elan was here to do her part.

For her city. For her home.

* * * * *​

"Hey." Lienhard. His brother. He had the middle bunk, the one just above Owen's own.

"Yeah," Owen said.

"Nervous?"

"Caint reckon why I wouldn't be."

Lienhard leaned out over the edge of his bunk and down just enough to catch sight of Owen below. Smiled a bit. "I was nervous too, you know. Settin' out on my own back then. You know I vomited when I first killed a man?"

"Ain't why I'm here."

"I know, I know, I'm just sayin'. I didn't like it but it had to be done. Bandit, man." Lienhard shook his head and rolled his eyes a bit. "Like we ain't got enough monsters in the world."

"Guess Arethil rolled and came up short," Owen said. Eyes on the dice.

An upside-down nod from Lienhard, as it was from Owen's perspective. Lienhard said, "You take up gambling?"

"From time to time." And Owen looked to his brother. Smiled a bit too. "I may be in the middle of a war here without intent to kill anyone, but I figure jus' me bein' here gonna help someone live who otherwise wouldn't. And that ain't gamblin'. That's somethin' I know I can do."

A horn. The loud sound of it above deck. And indeed, the sound of other horns from other ships over the creaking of the wood and the constant splash of water against the outside of the vessel.

That was it. The call for the Auxiliaries to board the landing skiffs.

The time had come.


(((Thread is open to all)))
Xyrdithas Faerlin Selene Avar
 
Their vessel rocked against the waters, and with each crash of the hull a shimmering rainbow mist fell faintly round-about them. The air was different here, and the briny aroma of the sea offered a comforting sensation.

Erën had been many places in Arethil, but had never spent much time at sea let alone as much as they now had. He’d been comfortable enough, though he did detest the conditions in which they had traveled. Had his Order ever seen a need to take to the waves, he imagined it would be a much more… hospitable voyage. Nevertheless, he kept his complaints to himself for the sake of his own well being. The last thing he needed to do now was piss somebody off.

He was already conspicuous enough. So instead, he would blame the Master for these things as well.

As the island came into view, he examined it. He stood with Elan and the other Auxiliaries, waiting for their time. As he looked out onto the beach and on past to the treeline, he wondered.

Then the horn sounded.

Out from under his arm came a weathered helmet, and with a sword sheathed at each hip and a bow across his back, he took up his shield and spear and loaded himself into the skiff.

"May Nykios be with you," he shouted to Elan as they entered, "and Tychan guide you."

And may Astra watch over them all, yes even the Master's men. For with the combined might of Vel Anir and the likes of Elan and himself, truly what hope did they have?
 
Normally Faerlin would be praying to her god before a battle, both for victory and for energy. But today was, well, a little different. Today she had a squad full of mercenaries to command. As the Braun Virak approached the shoreline, she stood at the front of her troops, standing at attention. Though it was dangerous aboard a ship, she was in full armor: seeing as she’d gotten a mage from her old unit to inscribe runes to make it lighter and more flexible, without sacrificing the strength, she wasn’t too worried about drowning in it.

She regarded her mercenaries with a critical eye. Obviously she’d prefer actual soldiers—no amount of last minute drilling could compare with the training of the Anirian Guard—but even the paladin would be forced to admit that they were well prepared for this day.

Or as prepared as anyone could be. She still didn’t like the answer she’d received about not knowing what to expect when they landed. Intelligence was critical to any military endeavor, and going in blind could prove fatal. Although Faerlin was an aggressive fighter, she wasn’t stupid or reckless; rather she’d found over the years that people expected her, a female fighter, to be cautious and defensive, right up until she cut them to ribbons with her sword.

“Boat Three, attention!” They saluted her, knowing from experience that she wouldn’t continue unless they did. Discipline, even among the Auxiliaries, was necessary. She was pleased that they’d taken that to heart. “We can’t control what those pirate scum will do. But we can control what we do, and I know that we have been working our asses off every single day. So I know we can make this work. And I expect to see all of you on the other side. Remember your training, look out for your squad, and we will triumph.” Unsheathing her sword she thrust it into the air. “For Vel Anir!”

“For Vel Anir” they cheered back.

She nodded. “Now go double check your gear. Dismissed.” They shuffled off to do just that. Seeing as Faerlin had already triple checked her gear—her bow and sword were strapped to her back, a quiver of arrows was on one hip and a knife on the other, along with knives in her boots—she made her way over to her skiff.

Kneeling down, she took off her helm and bowed her head. Nykios, hear my prayer. Let me bring glory to your name and mine in this upcoming battle. Let me show the world your might, that they might come to worship and believe as I do. Let your hand guide my blade and my mind, so that I may triumph over our foes.” She kept praying silently, until the horn call to board the skiffs arose.

Rising, she put on her helmet, then grabbed a shield and a spear. The shield was different from the one she was used to, but she wasn’t worried about that. Although the spear wasn’t her weapon of choice, she’d been well trained in it. Besides, she’d be working in formation, so she wasn’t too worried.

Most of the time, she’d have lead from the front. While it was more dangerous—although if a soldier wasn’t in danger every once in a while, they were doing it wrong—it also fit her better. This time, though she was in charge of the hoop. So she made her way over to her station, and watched as the skiff filled up. Hopefully her words earlier had been enough, since rousing speeches weren’t exactly her specialty.

Killing people was, though, and she’d prove that all to them soon enough.
 
Szesh had been on boats before. Small ones, those meant to shimmy up coastlines and ferry across rivers. When flying was too tiresome or too conspicuous, boats had helped maintain some air of anonymity. Or at least as much anonymity as a towering dragon-man could ask for. But none of those vessels compared to the behemoth he had boarded in Vel Anir.

A true warship, the Braun Virak was as much a symbol of the great city’s power as it was an extension. It cut through the waves with an ease that belied its great bulk, and stood firm against crashing walls of water and foam in the night. Yet in spite of its great size, there still seemed to be no room to move. The vessel was packed from prow to aft with crewmen, soldiers, mercenaries, and commanders. It was a tight fit for a small man, and Szesh was no small man. Even hunched low, his horns scraped the ceiling below decks, and his wings, folded tight, still buffeted against angry men. None ever protested, of course. They would face their death soon enough on shore, no need to tempt fate by angering “the dragonborn.”

That is what they called him. In the short, rushed training the mercenaries were given, in the barracks on shore, and here on deck, “the dragonborn” inspired both fear and hope. Fear of being thrown overboard by an unknown behemoth, but hope that he was fighting on their side. All in all, it wasn’t the worst thing he’d been called.

Szesh did his best to ignore all of them. He hadn’t spoken for nearly the entire journey. The common tongue was difficult for him, his mouth simply wasn’t built for it, and he had nothing to say to these men and women. This war was just one very large job with a very, very large pay day at the end. All he had to do was throw some shields onto a beach and not die.

As he made his way up to the deck to vomit for the fifth time today, however, he started to question if it was truly worth the coin. But it was too far to fly back to shore, and the horn had started to sound.

Their commander was perhaps the only person Szesh had developed an ounce of respect for, and he watched as she spoke, staring over the heads of those around him. She was small, though not particularly small for a human woman, and she had a sense of duty that radiated from her like a beacon. It had been many years since Szesh had been a true soldier, but order, discipline… those were things he understood. Szesh snarled when the crowd cheered, feeling the blood pumping through the battalion. He enjoyed it.

Below deck he found his equipment. There was no armor that would fit him save for an undersized breastplate that had been split in half and fitted with leather straps. It covered perhaps half of his chest, but did not restrict his movement too much. To compensate he had been given two pavise shields, one for each arm. Finally, a spear was strapped to his back for after the shields had been planted.

Squeezing through the trap door and onto the deck, he moved toward one of the skiffs. The soldiers aboard grew silent as he approached. He stared at the men in the back.

”Move,” he hissed. Szesh was no seafarer, but he knew if they wanted that boat to stay upright, he was sitting in the middle.

The men watched with apprehension as he stepped in. The boat groaned in protest, but held his weight. He knelt in the back, and waited to be lowered.
 
Selene stood patiently on the prow of a ship, her eyes settled on what would soon be the battlefield. Briefly her gaze flickered to the would be attack forces, her lips thinning for just a brief second before she pulled her attention back to where the fighting would be.

She had sent her apprentices already on ahead with the rest of the warriors.

None of them was an equal to a Dreadlord, but each a match for most mages that had been raised as wildlings. She knew they would perform adequately, and even if they didn't...it would help her see just what they were up against.

Meat for the grinder.

An age old Anirian tactic, if not a cruel one.

Her eyes folded closed for a moment, her senses within the ethereal reaching out as she attempted to sense any magics upon the shore.

The Dreadlord knew that somewhere within that expanse lay the enemy mages, though just who they were and the extent of their ability...she could not quite yet tell. She would have to get closer, and watch carefully.
 
The rocking of the warship. The sound of the waters against the hull. The brightness of the sun.

All of it seemed more real as Owen ascended the stairs up to the deck of the Braun Virak. As if somehow the knowing of what was to come made him more aware of everything. Little details made thunderous. The breaths through his nose, the weight of his body upon his feet, the sheen of sweat draped over his brow.

He stood on the deck of the warship and just turned and glanced all around, spinning in a slow and full circle, taking in everything. Never before in his life would he have even imagined such a sight as he saw now. The fleet of vessels both small and large, the sheer number of people upon the decks, the lowering of skiffs down into the water, the island itself off in the far distance with its exotic and majestic silhouette and the hill and the trees and the faintest sliver of the beach itself.

Gods, it was all mighty diminishing in a way, wasn't it? Being part of something so big that you could hardly see yourself among so grand a tapestry.

"Boat One!" Line Sergeant Damacline called. Owen and Lienhard looked his way. A beckoning wave. The sergeant stood by one of the four boats suspended up by ropes and the pulley system.

Owen and Lienhard walked across the deck. Joined their unit and were the first two to begin the boarding process. They took their seats at the front of the skiff. Pavise shields out in front of themselves and ready to be raised.

Lienhard tapped Owen on the shoulder and gestured off toward one of the other boats with his head. "Take a look at Boat Three. They got the dragon-man."

Owen looked, as did the two red-headed not-sisters of their unit who sat behind them. One of the not-sisters whistled. Said, "Lucky bastards."

One of the dwarves behind them said, "Yeah, how come we don't get a dragon-man?"

Lienhard grinned and called back, "Go fuck a dragon and make one then."

Some chuckles from around the skiff.

And then sergeant Damacline boarded and took his place at the back of the skiff, sitting by the large enchanted metal hoop and the plate that controlled its magic. He yelled out so all the unit could hear him, "Keep your wits about you. And for the gods' sake don't bash your buddy's head when you lift those pavise shields."

The slow lowering then. Down from being on the level with the deck of the Braun Virak and into the waters of the Coast. The sergeant and Owen and Lienhard and another detached the four ropes that had suspended the skiff.

Sergeant Damacline lightly tapped the hoop's plate for tiny bursts of wind magic. He turned the rudder as necessary to steer the skiff out and away from the warship and pointed the bow of it toward the island. And there only a short distance from the collection of gathered vessels did the skiffs wait as they all got on line with one another.

Owen closed his eyes and ran his hand down his face and thereby wiped off the sweat. He opened them. The island still in the far distance.

Awaiting.

And there in these moments of stillness, doubt and apprehension stole into his chest.

* * * * *​

Elan found it cumbersome. Sitting in the cramped skiff with the massive pavise shield in one arm and the bow across her back and the sword at her belt. But she sat next to her friend Erën, who was loaded down in much the same way. Really it was the bow on the back that was the pain. Hopefully it wouldn't get caught on something once they had to disembark.

A jerking of the skiff as the lowering began.

Elan glanced over to Erën and said, "Nykios. Tychan. Any other gods you want to invoke is fine by me."

One of the sailors on the Juliet Pirian leaned over the railing as the skiff was lowered and yelled, "Have fun on the beach!"

Hmm. Fun. That was a way to put it.

And Boat One of the Juliet Pirian descended to the water and joined the other skiffs already on the line. Other skiffs from other ships were joining the ranks and lining up. A fair amount of spacing between all of the skiffs. Staggered ranks so no skiff was directly behind another.

The gentle swaying of the skiff in the sea. Softly up and softly down.

A bit of a nervous laugh escaped Elan's throat. "Lovely day, innit?"

All that they waited on now was the last few skiffs of the Auxiliaries and the sounding of the horns.

And they would be off.
 
Cumbersome indeed. Nestled into the skiff he found it difficult to find any comfort, so he resigned himself to the nuisance of it. Being so confined before battle was an unsettling feeling in itself, a hint of claustrophobia gnawing at his neck. He stirred, and with a gentle shrug he removed the burden as best he could.

Shortly after their boat began to descend, he turned his head to Elan with his visor flipped up. An inquiring gaze for the sailor's remark. She seemed equally disenchanted with the ignorance, and so he too kept his silence. While at times he could admit that there, on those hallowed grounds where steel met with flesh and horror filled the air there was a sense of familiarity, even a comfort. But it was far from enjoyable. Far from fun.

What a cruel sense of humor, he thought.

His eyes scanned the other boats around them as they drew near, and before long witnessed their number. Many, many skiffs, each one as brimming as much as their own. Their landing party was formidable indeed. But this troubled him. Even as far back as in Ostia Anir where more and more kept filing in he'd began to question, even in the case of Vel Anir, why so many? And this was only the first wave.

What waited for them on that island?

Lovely day?

He detected her uncertainty. Aye, he felt it too, but he had enough confidence in the destination of his soul regardless of when he would be parted from this life. He realized that his present company…may not share in such assurances. He turned to her again and his expression eased as he offered a half smirk.

“It is indeed a lovely day,” with his right hand he steadied his shield, and his left fell firmly onto her shoulder, “to lay waste to the enemies of Vel Anir and Elan the Brave!”

With the horns second call he turned back to the island ahead, “no other gods need be bothered on our account,” he slammed the visor back into place and steadied himself, “it is them who truly need pray.”
 
Faerlin watched with hooded eyes as the lizard man got on her boat. As far as she knew, he hadn’t been assigned to her command: indeed, he ordered one of her soldiers out of the way as if it was his place to do so. Still, she remained silent as the tall reptile shoved his way to the middle of her skiff. The boat tilted worrisomely and more than a few times she felt it might capsize, causing her to grit her teeth. If this lizard caused their mission to fail before they’d even started off she would gut him and feed him his own entrails.

But he miraculously made it and settled down in the center, as much as a giant reptile person could settle. The paladin let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Although she didn’t hate the non-human races as much as others from Vel Anir, she held no great love for them, either. Mostly she found they were undisciplined and uncertain allies; unlike her human comrades, who could actually stick to battle formations, the other races seemed to have trouble with that.

Still, it was hard to get too upset at a giant lizard person being added to her ranks. At the very least he’d draw fire away from the smaller, more vulnerable, and more valuable troops. So Faerlin simply waited by her hoop, head bowed in prayer. Nykios watch over us in the coming strife.” She prayed for herself, for those under her command, and for victory over her foes. While she was already full to the brim with divine power, a little bit extra never hurt.

Besides, smiting her enemies felt so good.
 
Szesh tried not to show how uneasy he was as the boat swayed over the water. He balanced himself with his shields, holding his wings and tail tight to his body. Each time the pilot touched the metal hoop at the back of the skiff it jolted forwards with a jet of air. It smelled of metal, and a strange tang of magic.

He tried to keep his eyes on the island at the horizon; a stable reference point helped to quell his protesting stomach. He kept glancing at the other soldiers in the boat, however. His dark eyes hid the exact direction of his gaze, but he darted quickly between faces and the beach in the distance. Most were apprehensive, nervous. Understandable given their imminent contact with a relatively unknown enemy. One lad in particular had gone paler than Szesh’s own scales. He looked no more than a boy.

Their commander had also boarded this skiff. Szesh has not noticed at first, but she wore a look of disapproval. Or perhaps that was how she always looked? Seasoned warriors each faced battle in their own way, and Szesh decided not to dwell on it.

The man on his right, however, certainly disapproved of him. He glared with dark eyes from a hard face, and he bore a nasty looking scar from forehead to chin. Szesh recognized the look from his brief visit to Vel Anir and the surrounding area during training. He had often met with disapproval due to his appearance, but it had been thickest in the human stronghold.

He understood. Outsiders could be a danger. Draconian villages were fiercely guarded, and long ago his sole duty was to defend against anyone who might threaten his small mountain settlement.

But that was far in the past. This man could hate him if he wanted, so long as he kept his blade towards the more immediate threat.

Their boat found its place in the front row of skiffs. They would be amongst the first to make landfall. As the second horn sounded, Szesh steeled himself for the chaos to come.
 
She waited.

Selene had always been a patient one, biding her time, waiting for just the right moment. It was a quality that many admired. In the game of Houses and Politics played around Vel Anir Patience was a quality worth more gold than most Keeps.

That was why she had learned it.

This battle had not yet begun, so there was no need to worry, no need to stress. She had to wait to see what happened, who fell first, what soldiers acted, whom prevailed.

Then she could play her cards. "Captain."

Her voice was firm enough to snap the man into attention.

"Once the battle begins bring us closer to shore." Selene looked back at the Captain in time to see him pale.

"But the water...the shore is-"

Selene cut him off. "Don't concern yourself with that, just do as you're told."

She had a plan.
 
The sun in the sky. The rhythmic sound of the sea. A few birds overhead, calling.

And no going back.

The second round of horns.

"Hold on," sergeant Damacline yelled. And he put his hand to the plate.

Owen clenched his teeth and held the side of the skiff with his free hand. The speed granted by those enchanted devices was incredible. Like being on a horse going from a standstill to a full gallop, yet capable of moving faster than such at the top end. The wind whipped at his face, the skiff seemed to jump with every little crest of the water, and Owen--probably everyone else aboard too, he reckoned--was now more terrified of falling from the boat than the actual beach landing.

Godsdamn. Godsdamn! How in the world could anything be made to move this fast? Even sergeant Damacline seemed awfully wary about it. Owen could feel the stop-and-start in the whole of the skiff as Damacline pressed his hand to the plate and raised it off and pressed it down again, attempting to keep their speed in check. A glance to the left and right at their fellow Auxiliary skiffs suggested that other sergeants were doing much the same thing. The line had become bent and crooked in some spots, but overall it held together admirably.

They were getting closer. The island and the beach looming larger.

And Owen squinted. Saw something. Flashes of something.

"You see that?" Owen shouted to Lienhard. Had to. Even sitting next to him, the whipping of the wind was prohibitively loud.

"What?"

"Do you see that?"

"See what?"

Something snapped by them. So fast and at such an angle that they noticed it for only the briefest of moments. A splash of water to the right of the skiff. More splashes. Unseen to Owen and Lienhard, a man in another skiff had been impaled by a lance of magical ice.

More flashes. Brighter. Bright like fire.

"I think I see it," Lienhard shouted.

A moment passed. The skiffs raced toward the beach and the latest volley of magic raced from it.

And a huge fireball streaked past their skiff so close and so hot and though it missed them it hit and exploded a skiff behind theirs. An instant inferno, a breaking apart of the boat, ignited bodies falling to the water as the back end of the skiff with the enchanted metal hoop broke off and spun about wildly in the air for a second and crashed back down to the sea.

"Fucking hell, I think I saw it, alright!"

Other fireballs in the volley. Missing and hitting the sea and flash vaporizing water into great columns of hissing steam.

"Almost there," sergeant Damacline called. "Another minute or two. Keep your steel."

There were no more coordinated volleys of magic. Rather, the spellcasting had become free-for-all. Intermittent fireballs and icicles launched in the direction of the incoming skiffs. Arcs of wild lightning crackling from the treeline of the beach all the way out into the sea as if they were all in some massive thunderhead cloud.

And then as if that were not enough, the sky darkened.

With arrows.

"Shields up! Now!" Damacline called.

Owen almost forgot that he had it. His body gave a start and then he hastily raised his huge pavise shield up like a parasol against the rain. The red-headed not-sister sitting behind him accidentally bumped the back of his head as she raised her own. Owen swore.

Under the shade of their shields the arrows hit. They smacked into the shields and most hit the water and some stuck in the wood at the sides of the boats. For a long moment it seemed the hail of arrows wouldn't cease. That they would all be trapped under such withering fire forever.

But, in a happenstance of timing, the thumping and thunking of arrows bouncing off and embedding into their shields stopped a few seconds before the skiff itself ran aground on the shallows of the beach. The sand brought the skiff to a gut-wrenching halt, almost throwing Owen and Lienhard from the front.

In one single instant, it hit Owen then. A little moment of internal quiet amidst all else. Just a flash of separation from the world and his place in it as the thought occurred to him.

Holy shit, I made it. I'm here now.

"Get off the boat!" Damacline shouted. The explosion of a fireball nearby seeming to punctuate his command. "Form the line! Move! Move!"

* * * * *​

Elan the Brave.

That sounded nice.

And then she saw that one fireball score a direct hit on a skiff. Watched as everyone aboard caught fire and the boat itself broke apart. Watched with a horror she struggled to suppress.

But she had to. Put that horror and fear and all else aside. Push it down. Keep it contained. Don't show it. Of course she was scared. Everyone was scared, yeah? Only the drunk and the foolish and the mad wouldn't be.

There wasn't much of anything they could do against the incoming magic, aside from hope that the Master's mages had poor aim.

But they could protect themselves from the huge volley of arrows. Their boat sergeant called for them to raise shields, and Elan carefully maneuvered hers up so as not to hit Erën or anyone else. Interlocked her shields with the others and soon they had curtain of solid protection above them.

And the volley lasted until they hit the beach. The speed of the skiff taking them out of the sea and onto the sand for a short distance. At least they didn't have to jump off and trudge through waist-deep water like they had practiced.

"Just like training!" the boat sergeant said. "Now get off and form that--"

Another skiff rammed their own from behind. An accident. It was at an angle, so the sharp jerk of the boat from the impact caused Elan and a few others on her side to tumble from the skiff and onto the beach.

Elan lifted her head, her face coated with sand, and spit some of it from her mouth.

And an arrow lodged into the ground right before her eyes. Falling short of her head.

The free-for-all arrow fire had begun.
 
Neither the onslaught of magic nor arrows were enough to give him pause, but even as aware an elf as he was, he was caught off guard. The following skiff mercilessly slammed into their own, and he like many others was flung several meters ahead. He’d have caught himself well if it weren’t for the weight of the shield, but with it he faltered and slammed hard into the beach. He slid and rolled to an abrupt halt.

Anger roiled within.

He rolled up and covered himself with the shield which guarded him from another volley. He pulled himself to his feet, slammed the shield down and reached for his bow.

Gone.

That and the spear were both missing, lost in the accident. He ducked behind the cover of his shield and held. A few other Auxiliaries clambered to their feet around him, and some fell as quickly as they stood as the arrows found their mark. Erën lunged for a fallen comrade’s weapon, managing to draw the spear back behind the shield. A noiseless curse left his lips. For the moment he was pinned and other than his swords which were quite useless to him now, all he had was a spear.

In all the confusion he’d lost track of Elan but hoped that so far, she fared better than he.
 
The order to advance came, and Faerlin settled in by her hoop, activating it as she’d been taught. As they sped ahead, she kept her eyes on the formerly distant but rapidly approaching shore. They made a tempting target: as fast as they were moving, it was clear what their destination was, and the enemy had to have known they were coming. So there were no doubt plenty of nasty defenses waiting in store.

The paladin wasn’t afraid. She’d trained her whole life for this. And she had her faith, in both Nykios and Vel Anir.

Then the attack began in earnest as the enemy retaliated. As the spells started flying—thunder lightning and fire and more esoteric attacks—and the arrows too, she felt her blood begin to sing in anticipation. ”Shields up! Mages, deflect those spells!” Her order came out in a bark that easily carried over the sound of their skiff hitting the water and the booming of spells and screaming of dying men. Her own shield snapped up, though she kept her hand on the hoop.

Others were not so quick or lucky: an arrow took one soldier in the chest, and he fell, gurgling blood. Another was struck by an errant lightning bolt and left a charred corpse in his wake. ”Put out any fires!” She snapped out the command, and a few soldiers dropped, to put out any embers; their comrades moved in to cover them. Good. They were holding.

Then she felt the thud as they landed on the beach and the skiff skidded on the shore. ”Go, go, go! Form up on the beach and hold those shields steady!” They complied in a controlled rush. Though most fighting forces would’ve been terrified and died in a frantic attempt to get off the boat, Faerlin had trained her people better than that. She herself followed at the back of the formation. While she’d have preferred the front, the hoop and the fact that she was acting as sergeant had forced her into her current position.

Slamming her shield into the ground, locking it into place with the two men next to her, and finally bringing up her spear, Faerlin felt her magic uncoil within her as she sought out a suitable target. A group of enemy bowmen were preparing a volley nearby, targeting the troops from two skiffs that had unfortunately collided and her eyes narrowed. None of that. A crimson bolt sped from her, spreading out into a cloud: it was a curse designed to foul their accuracy, making all their arrows go far wide of their intended targets. It took much less power than a more dangerous curse. Unfortunately, she had to conserve her strength for the battle ahead.
 
The drone of the second horn had not even begun to fade as their skiff shot forwards. Szesh leaned forwards and planted his tail firmly behind himself to keep from being bowled over backwards. They were going so fast that they barely touched the surface of the water, skipping from wave to wave and leaving a fine white spray behind them. The wind whistled past Szesh’s horns and made his eyes water, and he tucked his wings in tightly to keep from being blown overboard.

Something small and fast whistled past their boat, then a bright light and a wave of heat came from the left. One of the skiffs had exploded in a massive fireball. Looking forward, Szesh saw more flashes of light and realized what was happening. A second fireball passed overhead so close that the air rippled with heat as it passed.

Szesh swallowed nervously. His scales could protect him from most natural fire, but magic played by different rules. That boat had been reduced to ash in seconds, and Szesh very much doubted he would survive if their own boat was hit. Even if the fire did not kill him, he was a poor swimmer, and they were still far from shore. Lost in this worry, he did not notice the sky begin to darken.

Shields up! the order came, and, snapping back to reality, Szesh hoisted his two pavises over his head. The arrows came screaming down at them in a deafening hail, peppering their shields and landing with dull thuds into the wood of their boats. Hot blood hit Szesh’s arm as a soldier to his right was struck.

A sudden, blinding pain erupted in his tail, and he roared loudly as an arrow buried itself through his scales. Painful, yes, but the appendage still moved. Nothing important had been hit.

Another flash, this time more bright than hot, and the smouldering corpse of the solider on his left fell from the boat and danced off the waves. Szesh’s shields tingled with energy as the lightning bolt hit its mark.

Another order, this time to put out fires. The lightning bolt had left glowing embers in its wake. Still holding his shields in defensive position, Szesh brought his tail around and smothered the burgeoning flames with a dull hiss. The arrow shaft stuck out jaggedly, and he watched the thin trail of blood that seeped from the wound.

Ice, lightning, and fire continued to assail them. Arrows glinted off the shields in a more irregular pattern as the enemy archers fell into a free for all. Another boat splintered into nothing as a massive icicle slammed headlong into it.

And then they were at the shore. The boat lurched to a halt, and Szesh’s shields were brought crashing down onto the small deck.

Go, go, go! He lifted the heavy metal sheets and held them tightly together in front of his body as he leapt from the boat. The sand was soft and slippery, and his claws sank unevenly into it. Three long strides took him to the line of auxiliaries, and he sunk the shields heavily into the sand. They bit deep, and held firm as a fresh round of arrows buffeted against them.

Szesh allowed himself half a second of relief. Tucked into a tight ball behind the shields he was safe from the most immediate danger, but with mages on the field nothing was certain. His tail was still bleeding, but adrenaline had long since dulled the pain.

He unstrapped the spear from his back just as another soldier brought a shield down to his left. They hastily pulled a bow off of their shoulders, and took an arrow from their quiver. The arrowhead was wrapped in damp cloth, and rather than firing, they began to fumble in their pocket. Finally, they brought out a small metal device which they placed against the arrowhead, and began frantically squeezing. Small sparks shot from the device, but none made purchase on the cloth.

The soldier began to breath faster. “Come on,” they muttered, “come on!” They glanced up the beach, and then over at Szesh. He could not tell if it was a man or a woman, only that they were afraid. Suddenly they stopped fussing with the tool. They looked down at their arrowhead, and then back up to him. Then back at the arrowhead, then back to him.

Szesh snorted, but he snatched the arrow from the soldier and quickly blew a small flame onto it. The arrowhead ignited at once, and Szesh shoved it back in the hands of the soldier. Their eyebrows may have gotten a little singed, but they cracked half a smile before drawing back and letting the flaming arrow loose.
 
Selene waved her hand.

A loud crash rang out as a bolt of flame suddenly exploded, the fire splashing in front of the prow of the ship as though it had been struck by a wall of invisible force. Her face remained impassive, listless almost as she peered towards the beach. "Captain."

The Dreadlord called out as her gaze swept towards the Soldiers who had already landed upon the island. Her fingers curled slightly, magic welling within her chest. The small amulet on her chest began to glow, power ebbing into her.

"Full sails." Her eyes closed.

She could feel the pangs of magic all over the battlefield. Her apprentices shielding the soldiers, the enemy lashing out with their full strength. It was almost palatable within the air, the press and flow of battle, the men and women fighting.

Selene ignored them all.

Instead she focused upon the water, or rather, what lay beneath it.

The sands that made up the shore, the earth that lay beneath it. She breathed, she felt the ship surge forward, heard the nervous cries of the Captain. Then she took a step back. Her hand drew, and quietly she muttered something.

At an almost impossible speed the ship surged forward, it's sails pressed full of wind as it rushed towards the beach. Sailors screamed about a wreck, soldiers grasped the rails, but Selene paid them no mind.

Her palm closed to a fist, and then suddenly the earth beneath them began to shift.

Between the lines of Anirian Soldiers on the shore a crack within the earth formed. Placed in a path that would catch no friend. The sand flowed through it, ripping apart the beach and parting it as a great quake in the earth. A torrent of water flowed through the gap, sending the great Galleon directly into it.

Selene's ship was sent upon the beach, The Dreadlord and her soldiers delivered as a great wooden Fortress directly into the front of the army.
 
"Let's go," Lienhard said.

Owen jumped awkwardly over the side of the skiff, keeping his shield up and pointed toward the enemy as best he could. He trudged side-by-side with his brother up the sands of the beach as the rest of Boat One and all the other skiffs unloaded their Auxiliaries and all began to follow through with the plan. Arrows hissed past and one hit the lower part of Owen's shield, close to his exposed feet and ankles. Owen heard another explosion and a scream and looked past Lienhard to his right and saw that a man far down the line had been thrown into the air by a column of flame and who came crashing back down to the beach. It didn't look like the aftermath of a fireball. Something else.

He wanted to go help. To just run straight over across that godsforsaken distance. But the far man seemed dead and Owen needed to play his part here.

Just a little more. Just a little further.

Other Auxiliaries from other skiffs had already planted their shields, and Owen and Lienhard reached the line and thrust their shields into the sand as did the others from Boat One as they came. The line of pavise shields surely wasn't perfect, but it would do just fine. It was all they had against the onslaught.

A peek over the top of his shield.

Gods. Look at it all. Spiked wooden barricades blocking the entrance to the treeline. All of the men, made somewhat obscure by the distance and the barricades and the trees, but a mass of figures firing arrows and all else. The crude wooden towers dotting the enemy line, replete with archers and mages popping up and ducking back down or beside the parapets.

Owen slid back down behind his shield and called out, "Anybody hurt?"

A few others from Boat One called back 'No' or 'I'm fine' or some variation. Farther down the line of shields, an enemy lightning bolt struck someone's shield and the man behind it flew back and into the sand from the force of the magic as his shield cracked in two and the edges caught fire.

"Sharpshooters!" sergeant Damacline called, taking a second to peer up from the cover of his shield. "Target their mages first! And don't make yourselves targets by standing too long!"

The two dwarves and the two red-haired not-sisters were Boat One's sharpshooters. Their shields in place, they took the bows off of their backs and stood and lined up shots and loosed and ducked back down. A body fell from one of the towers and disappeared behind the spiked barricades.

"College boy!" sergeant Damacline shouted to the dropout. "What've you got for me?"

"I need line of sight and a moment to focus!"

Without thinking, Owen called out, "Stand! I'll draw some arrows!"

And Owen stood, exposing his shoulders and his upper chest and head to the enemy. He pretended to be casting a spell and the thoughts of how reckless an idea this was didn't enter his mind until he was well into it. An arrow flew past and one hit his shield and another in Lienhard's shield and his brother swore and stood with him then and pretended to cast a spell himself.

"Lienhard, get down!"

"You're all in, I'm all in, brother."

The College dropout had stood and looked upon one of the towers and concentrated as arrows sunk into the sand behind him. A gathering of wind and a coalescing of a miniature cloud. And a rush of wind magic struck down on the top of the tower and spread out violently in all directions and dust billowed and the wood of the parapets broke and some support beams broke and men spiraled out and they all went tumbling down to the ground below.

The dropout and Lienhard and Owen all ducked back down behind their shields.

Lienhard gave Owen a hard look.

"Hey, it all worked out, didn't it?" Owen said.

"Fucking hell."

They could bicker about it later. Owen started glancing about the line for wounded. There were plenty of dead, unfortunates who had been caught by magic or lethal arrow shots. Some bodies along the beach, some close to the line. He saw that the massive dragon-man from Boat Three had been injured. His tail specifically. But it didn't look critical, and Owen would have to spare as much energy as he could to help the people who needed it most.

And as Owen looked up and down the line, he caught something in his peripheral.

A ship. Sailing straight toward the beach.

He tapped Lienhard. Pointed. Said, "Is that...the Anirian Guard coming?"

Lienhard's jaw dropped. "Ho...ly...hell."

And they watched as the ship, through force of magic, sailed onto the beach through a newly created channel of water adjacent to the line. Even the intensity of the arrow fire slowed for a moment as it happened.

If it was a diversion, it sure as hell worked. Arrows were loosed at the deck of the ship and the people standing on it, and bolts of lightning and balls of fire no longer were cast down at the line and instead wildly at the ship.

All the while, the second wave of skiffs were approaching from the sea.

Loaded with Guardsmen and Guardswomen eager for battle.

* * * * *​

Come on! Come on!

Elan stood. A haphazard venture with the unwieldy shield and the dizziness from her fall. The others from her side who had fallen from the boat found their footing as well and they all started to trudge through the sand and up the beach. Elan stumbled as the bottom of her shield dragged against the ground and she fell forward. An arrow soared through were once she had been standing and struck a man in the back as he was collecting his own shield from the ground.

"Shit, shit."

She rolled over so she wasn't laying on top of her shield and stood again and held her shield a little higher this time and walked side-by-side with two other men from her boat. An impromptu moving shield wall as they each tried to the move up and reach the line.

Then all the world deafened save for an oppressive ringing. A rush of searing heat from her left.

A jet of fire had exploded up from the ground itself and consumed the man farthest to her left. The other man, next to her, fell to the ground, his left arm and leg missing. Elan herself had her clothes singed and seared and her skin blackened and burned in spots on her left side.

She couldn't breathe for a moment. The arcane fire from the ground had stolen all the air around it and the concussion of its power had slammed into her body like an ogre's punch. She gasped and fell down to her knees and used her shield for support.

Elan was short of the line. A lone shield, slanted on an odd angle, behind the wall of others.
 
The cavalry had arrived.

Or rather, the giant warship had arrived: through some marvel of magic that had to be the result of a Dreadlord, one of the massive galleons that comprised the main part of the Anirian Guard’s fleet had landed on the beach, and it stopped even Faerlin in her tracks. The amount of power and precision it must have taken was staggering.

But it also filled her with a fierce sense of triumph and renewed her resolve to make this battle end swiftly and decisively. That it would end in their favor, well, there was little doubt of that. However, they needed to crush this upstart rebellion to show that they hadn’t grown soft in peace and that they would respond to threats as they always had. With overwhelming and unstoppable force.

Her troops were mostly intact. While a few bodys had been felled by magic, and a few more by lucky arrows, the formation still held. ”Let’s go people. Medics, get the wounded under the cover of that galleon. The rest of you, shields up and let’s advance to support the Guards as they disembark.” No doubt the enemy would not sit idly by and let the full battallion that must be in that ship get off without trying to take down as many of them as possible. The paladin watched as her unit lifted the shields in unison—herself included—and started marching forward, the shields creating an impenetrable barrier that bristled with spears. There were no enemies close, but it was an intimidating sight, and fear was as effect as blade in battle.

Faerlin’s eyes spotted a lone soldier out of formation in another squad, but the paladin’s eyes skated over the woman. No one soldier was important enough to risk saving. So long as they won this fight, any casualties would be worth it. As the soldiers in front of Faerlin marched forward, she kept an eye out for any tricks or attacks from the enemy as Boat Three settled in front of where Guards had started emerging from the galleon.
 
Throughout the onslaught Erën had held his ground, and rallied many of the Auxiliaries from his skiff near to him. For a time he had been relatively ineffective in the fight, but through the loss of nearby comrades he was awarded the ability to participate. He’d managed to gather himself a bow and joined in the battle. He worried little about his accuracy, shooting halfway blindly into the enemy line, realizing his task now was primarily to keep up the pressure.

Their forward line proved robust, and as the Auxiliaries fortified their position he found the time to scan the surround. He could not see Elan. He only assumed that she had made it to the line, but it took little time for his eyes to show him otherwise. He gritted his teeth, furious at the prospect of his companion's demise. He released a few more shots into the enemy line and then ducked low behind the shield to gather more arrows.

Then there, where he crouched with his back to the wall he looked up from his work and down the beach. The tall-ships arrival was a welcome one, never mind how impressive an act it was. He would praise such ability later, but for now only catalogued the arrival of their new forward base. His eyes left the ship and followed along the beach which was dotted with dead and dying all about, and among the mess he spotted it. A lone shield, offside, not far from where the collision had taken place.

A jolt of hope coursed through him. His brow furrowed, and his mind was made. He beckoned to a few soldiers at either side, and demanded their assistance. It had only taken a small display of his frustration to convince several to aid him.

After a quick explanation of his plan, he acted. He tore himself from the line, leaving behind all but the swords on his sides to allow for his haste. He weaved about to avoid being struck, some shots missing him by mere inches. As he drew near to the lone shield his eyes found another laid nearby next to its previous more unfortunate owner. It looked scorched, but whole.

As he approached, he leapt forward and slid down alongside the standing tilted shield. In the same motion his hand found the other, and with all his might he flung it up and around him, and twisted himself in place to slam the shield down alongside who he discovered, was indeed Elan. And she was in awful condition.

At first he did not speak, but instead moved to raise her to her feet. He hollered to queue those who he had conscripted to his task, and then they too moved back, forgoing their shields to maintain the wall and instead took up those of the nearby fallen. They formed up staggered groups of two some ways down the beach toward them, and slammed their recovered shields into the sand to allow Elan and he a series of checkpoints of cover for them to return to the front.

The closest group to them was a fair distance from them, and would be the farthest gap for them to traverse without cover. Once they reached there the rest were set relatively close to one another, and much safer to travel between as a group. But they had to get to that first point, as they could only afford to move back from the line so far.

Erën noted Elan's condition, but had no way of truly dealing with that. Instead, all he could offer her was a way and it would be up to her to make it. The elf grabbed hold of his shield.

“We must return to the line,” his tone was urgent, “can you run?”

His grip on the shield tightened as he prepared to hoist it from the ground and charge forward toward their first checkpoint, and hopefully provide adequate protection for them both to reach the wall.
 
The beach was deafening. Lightning cracked through the air and fireballs detonated against the sand, sending glass shrapnel shrieking into heavy metal shields. The constant metal rain of arrows against shields began to pound in Szesh's skull, and every so often an unnaturally huge icicle made purchase through the steel, pinning an unfortunate soldier to his own pavise.

More and more soldiers were joining the line, and a long shimmering barricade began to take shape. A few members ran about haphazardly, as was to be expected, but overall the organization was impressive. Say nothing of Vel Anir's politics, their military precision was frightening.

Then a sound unlike any other drowned out the violent chorus. A hideous crack and rumble, the rushing of tons of sand, and the crashing of white waves. Szesh was knocked onto his back as the ground jolted beneath him, and the archer to his left tumbled backwards. Looking to the sound, he could see one of the flagships come blazing into the beach. Frothy waves crashed ahead of it in the canyon that had been formed in the sand, and the galleon halted abruptly.

The hail of arrows lessened on his shield, and Szesh could see the dark cloud being redirected to the ship. It was an excellent diversion, and it was no coincidence that the order to advance followed soon after. About time.

Szesh pushed himself back up to his knees and slipped his arms back into the shields. His spear lost, he got to his feet, wrenching the heavy metal from the beach in a shower of sand. He clapped the shields together in front of his face and tried to fit as much of his body as possible behind them. He looked to his left at the archer, who had also stood with their shield. They nodded, Szesh's nostrils flared, and they moved forwards.

He could feel the fire of battle start to fill him. The physical rush that mingled closely with fear and disguised it. He was walking blind for the most part, but he could see the sand just before him from beneath the shields. Some of the enemy footsoldiers had come to meet them in melee. Three sets of boots came shuffling down the sand. Szesh inhaled deeply.

He swung his left shield out in a sweeping backhand, catching the first soldier flat in the front. He felt metal and bones crunch as the man flew backwards. The second soldier stood in front of him, blade raised and ready. Szesh released the breath he had been holding, and a plume of red flame burst forward, engulfing the soldier who crumpled to the ground. The third soldier was not deterred, and Szesh raised his right shield just in time to catch his blade. He was about to return the attack with the other shield, when a blinding light slammed him to the ground.

A fireball had struck the beach next to them, and his right shield had been obliterated. The force of the blast had thrown him several yards and small bits of golden shrapnel had bitten into his forearm. The world was spinning, and all he could hear was the ringing of his ears. Slowly, things came back into focus.

Gray... dark plumes of smoke. Red fires. White sand. He was lying on the beach, staring up at the treeline. He tried to push himself up, but which way was up? His own muscles struggled against him. With great effort, he raised himself to his elbows. Punching the shield back into the ground, he pushed up to his knees. A blurred figure on the beach, growing closer. The ringing had started to subside, and he heard shouting. Colors... enemy colors.

A spearman charged at him. Szesh went to raise his right shield but brought up only a bloodied arm. The other shield... too heavy... and he couldn't gather his breath to build up another fireball. The enemy closed in before an arrow slipped cleanly through their neck. Blood splashed over the sand as he fell, the spear rolling harmlessly down the sand. In the distance Szesh could make out the soldier from the line, and they gave a quick salute before turning back to the treeline.

Szesh picked up the spear, still panting. Draco's eyes, what a morning.
 
Selene gripped the railing of the ship so tightly that the wood beneath her fingertips nearly began to buckle.


Her chest rose and fell, sweat slowly dripping down the side of her cheek. It felt as though her skin was on fire. She knew the symptoms well, the after effect of doing too much at once with the strands of magic that were under her control. It was another kind of exhaustion, one that she would recover from quicker, but hit her far harder than running even for an entire day. It was a struggle to remain standing.


Moving the ship so far had been foolish. Half the effort would have been enough.

"LOOK OUT!"

The shout was raised just behind her, a soldier running quickly up and tackling her as a bolt of magic struck at her. There was a surge and a loud pop as the deck of the ship exploded where she had been standing just a second before.

Selene and the soldier went flying to the side, her back clattering against the floor of the ship as the soldier landed to her side with a loud metallic thunk. Her head whipped to the man, eyes checking over him in an instant. Half a dozen splinters of wood peppered his armor, pressed through metal by sheer force of the magical explosion that had nearly ended her.

The Dreadlord let out a curse as she crawled to her feet. "LUTHER!"

Selene called for her apprentice as she limped back towards the other end of the ship.

She needed time. Time before she could touch the strings of magic once more. The sun would help, so would her necklace, but for a few minutes more at least she would be vulnerable.

Vulnerable to anyone on the Battlefield, friend or foe.
 
Dominic Foresend watched from an appreciable distance behind his line. There on a small rise, mounted, along with his command group, the captains and lords of the various factions drawn together in his coalition.

It was clear that the cowardly Anirians had sent in their chaff first. How in the world did they convince a Dragonkin to join their cause? He thought he had noticed some dwarves too. Truly astounding if they had some elves in that rabble as well. But they were fools, all of them, men and the rest alike, to fight for Vel Anir.

One of the captains beside him had been growing anxious. At last he spoke. Said, "Master, we've eight times the soldiers on the field now. We could advance right now and crush this first wave and secure that ship! Traps be damned!"

"We won't be giving up our fortified position," said Dominic. "They will come to us."

"Some of their line is already breaking ranks and advancing. We can overwhelm them before--!"

"We will wait for their main force to land." He looked to the captain. "As planned."

It had cost him much. Enough coin and resources that he didn't actually have the funds to pay all of the fighters he had assembled, instead relying upon a shrewd calculation that a good portion of them would perish in battle and thus wouldn't need any compensation.

He could see them coming. The next wave in their boats, hurrying along to the beach. Figures made tiny by distance. These were the Anirians. The vaunted Guard. These were the men and women Dominic truly wanted to kill.

He turned his head and spoke to a robed man on his other side without looking at him. Said, "Tell your mages to prepare the payloads." A dark smile crossed his face. "And await the signal to fire."

Yes, it had cost him much. Hiring the skilled engineers and siegecrafters to build his formidable and hidden line of trebuchets. Transporting necessary materials. Years of time. Years. It cost him as much as he could offer and more. Everything to create the perfect killing field.

And it would all be worth it, would it not?

When the whole of Vel Anir wept in memory of this day for generations to come.

* * * * *​

"Are we stayin' or are we movin' up?" Lienhard said.

"Hell if I know, nobody said anything about a ship crashin' on the beach," Owen said.

Both of them and the rest of Boat One stayed down and braced against their pavise shields. Arrows flying in tall arcs rained on the beach behind them. Bowmen in the crude towers with terrifyingly good angles down on them loosed and arrows skidded off the tops of shields and grazed arms and shoulders and cheeks and the reformed drunk in the unit caught an arrow in the temple as he was about to speak and was struck dead and collapsed. Sharpshooters across the Auxiliary line popped up and shot back and ducked down and a few of the mages went to work setting the wooden barricades at the tree line ablaze or blowing them apart with wind magic or destroying them by more innovative arcane means.

Damacline growled in frustration at the sight of the reformed drunk's body and called out, "Keep it together a little longer! Guardsmen are almost here, then we move!"

"What if they come at us?" said the widow from Amol-Kalit.

"What?" Damacline said.

"What if they come at us? Look at Boat Three over there."

Owen looked that way along with the sergeant. Some of them had moved up. Some of the enemy had even come running down the beach to engage them. It was the damnedest thing, seeing that relatively small group having a melee in the no man's land. A spearwall had even formed by some of the Auxiliaries.

"Well hell," Damacline said, "if they're dumb enough to do that, do 'em a favor and kill 'em quick, would ya?"

The two dwarves laughed and nocked an arrow each and stepped clear of their shields to loose and stepped back into cover.

Owen glanced to his left and right, up and down the line again. More dead, more gaps in the Auxiliary line, some wounded already being treated by a couple other healers behind the shieldwall. He noticed then a tall man--elf maybe?--running back down the beach and to the aid a lone straggler behind the line. He couldn't see much of the elf or the straggler, but that person had probably fallen short of the line for a reason. Owen didn't know if the elf was a healer or not, but he hoped--

"Shit," Lienhard said.

"What is it?" Owen said.

His brother pointed. "The dragon-man. He's hurt over there."

Owen looked and there he saw the smoke still drifting away from the impact of a fireball and the charging enemy shot by the friendly archer to cover the dragon-man. He looked from the straggler in one direction to the dragon-man in the other. And made his snap choice.

"Hold my spot," Owen said as he patted his brother on the shoulder.

"You better come back."

"Before you know it."

And with that Owen stood and sprinted. Probably ran faster than he ever had before, sand be damned. The sergeant might have yelled something after him but Owen didn't let it register. Didn't let anything register. The arrows whistling past or the terrible magic flying around or the sight of the beached ship's deck exploding in the distance and the cascade of broken wood falling from it.

Owen pumped his legs until he came close the dragon-man. He slid once he got close and kicked up a spray of sand and ended behind the dragon-man and his propped up shield.

"Hey. Name's Owen," he said, his hands glowing faintly. "Just your arm? Anything else, you reckon?"

Touch healing would be the most efficient, save him the most energy. All for the best. He had a feeling it would be needed. Owen was ready to treat the dragon-man's wound at his prompting. Wouldn't completely heal in one go, but it could stop the bleeding, restore some strength at least. Prevent the ill effects of losing too much blood and keep the dragon-man in the fight.

Owen didn't notice the arrow sticking out of his own leg. His left thigh. Couldn't feel it.

* * * * *​

A familiar face.

Erën.

Elan tried talking. Couldn't. Her lungs wouldn't allow her air to speak the words.

He spoke to her. Asked her if she could run.

The taste of ash in her throat.

Words. Finally.

"I...I think..."

She tried to stand. A spike of pain in her left leg and left arm as she did. She cried out and settled back down. She couldn't. Couldn't stand on that leg nor raise her shield from the ground with that arm.

"I can't..." She swallowed and blinked and took in a shivering breath. "I'm sorry."

The tip of an arrow piercing the wood of her shield. The point close to her neck.

* * * * *​

And the Anirian Guard landings had begun. Skiffs arrived at the beach and stopped alongside or behind the Auxiliary skiffs and some drifted to a stop in the water or bumped into the backs of other skiffs and with few shouted commands the Guards disembarked and with shields raised began to form up into their units with precision and haste.

All along the beach the Guardsmen and Guardswomen were forming into ranks for battle.

Soon they would march up the beach and clash with their enemy.
 
He moved to help but fell short of alleviating Elan's collapse. He knelt by her and reached to his side for a small flask. Thankfully, it was still there, and it held within some now cold tea with a relatively moderate analgesic effect and quite terrible taste. As he grabbed for it, he looked down the beach and beheld the devastation that had already taken place. He looked on as the galleon, which had been quite abruptly brought into play, took a tremendous battering from the Master’s defending forces – soldiers even descending the beach to engage in close quarters, likely interested in claiming the ship.

Or insane.

Nevertheless, it had been a great act to behold, for one to move the island itself in such a way. The ship’s arrival had proven a wonderful addition to their force and had allayed much of the bombardment on the first wave. He had heard tell of great power among the ranks of Vel Anir, the kind even he would think twice about encountering alone. He took comfort in the idea that they were fighting on the same side of things this day. Given the initial attack, it was probably why many of them were still alive.

Then he looked out toward the water, where he could see the Guard coming in, boots on the beach, forming rank.

He handed the flask to Elan, urging her to drink it, “there is so little I can do for you now, but this may help.” His eyes shot back toward the skiffs, and then to her, “do not turn back, wounded as you are, the Guard’s healers will help you,” still ducking under the cover of their shields, he reached out at the intruding arrow and snapped it off, “I shall draw any attention from you, hopefully, and finish our business with the Master.”

Then he leaned on her shield, he bid her as fond a farewell as could be mustered in such a circumstance and whirled around out from behind the pavise.

He narrowly avoided several arrows almost immediately after he began, like some force had guided them out of his path. Likely some friendly spell, or ward. There was too much going on to be sure, but he seemed to draw most of the fire. But unfortunately, not all things were going his way.

Ahead of him, the checkpoints he had organized were gone, with the two closest to him reduced to smoldering holes in the sand and the others disbanded and returned to the front, reclaimed shields and all. He could hardly blame them.

He hustled, but inevitably he proved to be too tempting a target, and while the arrows failed to find their mark, when he saw the bright flash of magic hurtling towards him knew neither speed nor spell could not aid him now.

He would be forced to retaliate in kind then.

As he ran, his hand reached to the sword at his left. The light drew close quickly, like a molten stone flying through the air. It rolled over the line and reached farther to fall upon him – an easy target.

He roared, releasing the sword from its scabbard. As it left, it crackled and screeched, a blue light radiated from it, and with its emergence he swung it forcefully, unleashing a vicious assault. A great streak of light shot forth, dispersing the oncoming attack like shrapnel, and tore through the air along the same path. As it drew near its mark, it gouged into the ground before finally flashing in a great flare at its destination, just within the treeline.

Then, in a few hurried bounds he leapt forth near to the shield wall, covering a great distance quite quickly, before scurrying in to reclaim his position. A light, wispy aura floated about him until swirling into nothing very shortly after.

That should draw their attentionor at least he hoped.

A few of those nearest to him looked at him with a dumbfounded stare, unsure of what exactly had just happened. It must have been too much for them: first the crash; then a sail ship appearing on the beach alongside them; and fire and lightning tearing all around from unexpected places. Remembering the possibility of their imminent demise, they resumed their duties.

Erën grabbed up his bow and the spear and prepared to depart. No doubt they would be advancing soon. When he was ready, he held his position resumed firing, anticipating the next leg of their invasion.
 
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Szesh breathed heavily, still getting his bearings. The blow was still ringing in his ears and the sand felt unsteady. The world was coming more into focus each second, and he closed his eyes for a moment to focus.

When he opened them a young man had slid to a stop at his side. He flinched at first, but quickly recognized the mark of an ally, not a foe.

Szesh glanced down at Owen’s hands after he spoke. A healer? But where had he come from? Glancing back behind him Szesh could make out tracks in the sand. Had he run all this way across open beach just to help him?

Szesh saw his own arm more clearly now. The bronze metal had bitten deep, and thin crimson streams had formed through the scales. He held the arm forward to Owen, nodding his thanks.

He felt warmth radiate through the arm, and the pain immediately lessened. The bleeding slowed to a trickle, then stopped entirely. Some of the smaller shrapnel pieces had even worked their way out and fallen to the sand. It wasn’t perfect, but it was far better than before. Szesh felt his breathing grow slower with relief.

He looked down at the sand again. Red, but not from him. ”Your leg,” he hissed, and pointed a large, black claw at the arrow in Owen’s leg.

A loud clang of an arrow striking the shield brought the battle back to them, and Szesh stiffened, sliding his newly healed arm through the thick straps, ready to lift the shield and move. They had been separated from the line, and were quite vulnerable on their own.

”Fix your leg,” he said, more urgently, ”And then we run,” he gestured towards the group that Owen had come from. He was grateful that the doctor had come to him, but he suspected that his friends would not be happy if Szesh ended up getting him killed. Hopefully he could heal his own leg, but if not, Szesh was not above carrying him back.
 
The Dreadlord panted slightly, her body practically stuck against the very back of the ship's final mast as she allowed herself a moment of reprieve.

A dozen or so sailors lay dead near her, most of them pierced with arrows, a few burned to a crisp.

In the distance she could feel one of the enemy mages, his power practically radiating over the sands. She thought it familiar, though something in the back of her mind told her that such thoughts were beyond foolish.

Fingers curled.

She knew that her power was still not fully there. She could feel the ebb and tied of strength in her muscles, the slight pressure in her bones and the way the circuits of magic that radiated through her body were still tying themselves together.

Selene slowly glanced out from behind the mask, witnessing the battle for a brief moment before she ducked back and glanced up towards the sun. Her eyes closed, she tried to focus, pulling herself together as she took deep breaths.

Slowly her strength returned, and with it her ability to fight.

A deep breath flowed into her lungs, and then she darted to the side. A loud thunk erupted behind her a crossbow bolt struck the deck, missing her by just a few inches. The Dreadlord paid it no mind, running across the deck of the ship and bolting over the side to join the battle below.