Completed The Despoiling of Alliria

Left Flank
Behind the Lines - Observing Hillside


Visha Sofka | Galen | Geladryx

There was nothing more to say to Dauner, so Vardan let his comments pass unanswered.​
The lesser necromancers had by now completed the ritual circle, ornate and precise, etched in bone ash. Perhaps these meager attendants had not been so lesser as he thought.​
He rubbed his skeletal hands, “Gather the shamans. The time draws close.”​
They departed to do as much, and the boy Galen passed them by on his approach. A small flame which anchored something greater to this plane. Vardan said nothing to him at first - staring just over his shoulder where a calamitous firestorm exploded. In the wrong direction.​
Sofka, of course.​
Another retainer?” Vardan eventually rasped, empty sockets settling on Galen, “Lord Geladryx spoils me. Seek the siegeworks, young fry, and recover our liege’s pyromancer.”​
He had no love of Sofka or her mannerisms, but if Geladryx saw need for her, then they would be ill-advised to let her pass without lifting a finger.​
The shamans came up from behind, shouldering rudely past Galen. They grimly made for the ritual circle, passing Vardan by as well. They knew their duty well enough.​
Ah. I shall begin then. Thou’rt welcome to bear witness, shouldst thou survive long enough to return.”​
---​

Vardan took his post in the center of the circle, and the orcish shamans gathered around him - they who claimed to speak for Sagar, the god-titan of a distant mountain. Their exact superstitions were irrelevant to Vardan. Only that magic, primal and unrefined in its power, shone brightly within them.​
They knelt along the ritual circle and began their crude chants. Some novitiates hammered drums. The unseen weave of magick bent slowly, and it bent into Vardan.​
There was not much he could feel these days. To be undead was to be bereft of crude sensation. And yet he perceived it nonetheless: the chill wind upon flesh, the crunch of snow underfoot, a cold and pitiless sun, stagnant in the sky.​
The power of Sagar was alive and well in these orcs. He would wield it now for hideous purpose.​
Vardan spread his arms and the black flame ignited once more, swelling until it enwreathed and obscured his form.​
 
Last edited:
The Main Assault
Defending the Outer Wall


Numerous as the raiders were, powerful as they were, they fought against a city that had stood and accumulated wealth over a thousand years of history and far more. Wealth that allowed the city to buy defenders and mercenaries and mages alike, thousands and tens of thousands strong, that allowed them to train their own sorcerers and their own clerics and their own warriors. They had survived a thousand years of raids, in the face of orcs from the Spine and dragons from the deep, and this would be no different. So when the Alliria had sent out the call months ago as raiders repeatedly tested their border steadings and settlements, they offered money enough for all who were willing to fight for the city. They had priests and clerics who proclaimed of the heresy of the raiders against the Celestials and the Gods, serving Dark magics and the Dark Ones, calling for a Holy War against the orcs and the centaurs who despoiled their settlements and drove out the inhabitants.

For months Alliria had prepared, and rhe preparations became clearer as time went by and more and more defenders joined the fray. Instructions were disseminated amongst the mages by horn calls and amplified instructions, as sorcerers, wizards alike sought vantage points all over the Outer City behind the safety of the Outer Walls, giving them the ability to see the entire army. Warriors waited on the walls and ramparts, and held behind them, waiting to see if any managed to make it through the barrage of arrows and ballistae that Alliria was sending back towards the orcs.

Not many did.

Then, ballistae bolts began to drop amongst the Outer City itself, causing explosions and starting fires. And the mages of Alliria, many of whom had seen such upstart raids before, began to take the raid much much more seriously. For now, it was their own homes that were being burned, not the slums beyond the Outer Walls, the people of which could never afford their services. No, now it was time for them to show the raiders, that the might of Alliria was not to be trifled with.

They spoke in kind with a voice of Fire.

It began with a single orb of fire, no bigger than the palm of a hand that wafted into the air from a single tower. Then a dozen, then a hundred, all rising from different vantage points within the lower city, all of different colours. Then a thousand, ten thousand and more, as anyone with any basic magical training, from all over the city took advantage of the fires that had been started. A spell, no more complex and draining than that of lighting a candle, made manifest in the voices of thousands, maybe tens of thousands of Allirians with magical potential, the majority of which had no more than the most basic of training. And yet they still fought. They took the fires that the enemy had started, and used them to act as fuel for their spells and so much more. The sound of the fireballs blossoming into appearance, a pop-popping noise, was so loud it was almost deafening as more appeared every second.

The people of Alliria continued to cast repeatedly, sending more and more fireballs into the air, until they filled the sky above like stars in the sky, a beautiful and deadly display. Ballistae bolts aimed at the city came into contact with the leading wave and burst ineffectively against the wave of fire, set alight by the spells they came into contact with, creating supernovae that bloomed and vanished in an array of dazzling displays.

The wave of fire then crested, and began to crash down upon the raiders, the ballistae, the centaurs, the orcs, the undead, the lich.

An unending barrage of fire.

~

The lightning strike that Ignisa called down resulted in an explosion that she did not entirely expect. The power and magic that had been gathering released erratically and without any sense of control, blasting apart trees and causing a shockwave that threw down the rear elements of the raiding army. Centaurs, orcs that had been hiding near the treeline were thrown about in the wake of the explosion, and Ignisa sniffed disdainfully at the lack of control.

Power without control, without skill, was a double-edged sword. She had expected at least some magical defense, some awareness of the surroundings, some support from other mages in the area. But no, it appeared to be every raider for themselves, charging blindly at the walls and throwing the most powerful of spells and assaults they could muster without thinking about what could go utterly wrong.

"Nice work." Aorion murmured right in her ear. "We could probably wrangle more from our negotiations when this is over, if you keep this up."

Ignisa snorted and threw another fireball. "Not if you don't watch my back, nephew. But thank you for the warning. It was opportune."

There was a short, synchronized snapping sound, causing them to turn their attention back to the battlefront. Arrows were launched into the air, but the trajectory was high, arcing over the walls and down into the Outer City. At first, Ignisa didn't think much of them, but as they landed, fire bloomed and small explosions shook the walls, causing them to stumble.

But the city of Alliria responded in kind with their own volley of fire. Fireballs as numerous as the stars in the sky, no bigger than her head or her hand even, began to fill the air. She could feel the simultaneous spellcastings, individually minor, no more than the most basic of spells, but together forming a sea of magical power strong enough to give any mage worth their salt pause. Lifting up her own hands, she joined the chorus of magic, and started to send her own fireballs along with the wave of magic that the Allirians had released.

Geladryx
Visha Sofka
 
This place is a mess!” Lyra whined, her voice rumbling throughout the air. It’s just what happens when one was a big dragon floating in the sky. It seemed that no one had tried to attack her, which was good. Really, she wasn’t a fighter, she had very little experience with any of this.

But the Kobolds insisted, oh how they insisted for the KnIgHtS oF aNaThAeUm. Just think of your shoes, Lyra, just think of those heels that fit perfectly and never hurt your feet no matter how much you dance in them. She reminded herself, eyes still looking at the chaos that was ensuing beneath her.

Black fire doesn’t look good.” Yep. That was her thought process.

And because she was a dragon who could fly in the sky, why not just… well, fly over there? Was there anything stopping her? (Actually yes, there was plenty but none that registered to her).

Meepo. Ark. Hold on.” And as obviously as one could, she uncoiled her languid form as she went straight towards that strange black fire. She was a dragon! Fire didn’t hurt her! Unless… black fire was different? Oh well, time to find out. And if it did hurt her then she was going to be pissed.

Meepo Arkobold Vardan
 
“Oh,” said Galen in response to the Lich. “Uh, sure.”

Dismissed out of hand once again. Some things never changed.

Wearing a frown, the mage turned and started walking through meadow of misery. Everywhere, small tongues of fire flickered - clinging to burnt grass and corpses. Smoke wreathed the place where the pyromancer had been. The ground crunched underfoot, even it had been charred to a crisp.

Galen’s walk turned to a jog as he saw the body. He ran forward, falling to his knees at the side of Visha Sofka. She was missing an entire arm and that side of her chest was a charred mess of angry red and black.

“Fuck.”

He didn’t know if she would make it.

“Can you help her?” he asked the Dark One.

No. But there is another.

Fireballs began bursting nearby, hurled from the walls. Galen waved a hand, summoning shadows from the earth that rose to blanket everything around him. The air grew cold and dark amidst the void.

“Who then? I don’t know any healing magic.”

Fool boy, I will not assist you to enlarge the domain of my rival.

Galen frowned thinking back, then glanced sharply down. Had she said… Maho?

Telemachus had done a pact with Maho once, but… could that save her?

“Visha. Visha can you hear me? I don’t know how long we have, but I think I know a way to save you. Maho made a pact with Imamu. It’s what made him so strong.”

There wasn’t a student of magic who did not know the great Maho Sparhawk, but not all knew of the source of his power.

“You could make a pact with Imamu too.”

The Fire of Lions might see fit to bring her back from the brink.
 
The Hilltop

There was a moment between when Dauner came closer to him and when the crackle of lightning and subsequent boom caused the expression of the Emerald Death to sour. An unexpected element, he had not thought Visha Sofka would have been spent so early. It was disappointing to him. Narrowed eyes wavered but only barely and in doing so Geladryx would see the barrage of fireballs shooting from the Outer Walls in response to the attack made by the Ballistae and archers.

If all magic had a price the dragon wondered what the Mages of Alliria were paying. In bolstering Visha’s vigor he had given up some of his own but this was the extent of his exertion to this point, Geladryx wasn’t frivolous with magic. In fact even as fireballs bombarded their auxiliary lines the Dragon did not necessarily consider the Horde to be at a disadvantage. Eventually the Mages, hurling magic so freely from the Outer Walls would gas.

Until they depleted themselves much of the backline suffered in the carnage of explosions and fiery destruction. Orcs were thrown to the air, Ballistae splintered and several were sent running. Turning tail the sight of Geladryx at their rear bolstered the courage of any Orc that dared the thought of running past him though, galvanizing their mettle and turning them back to combat.

The Dragon looked at the spittle he’d deposited into the pad of his forelimb then back to Dauner before his lips curled into a toothy expression that showcased the maw filled with dozens of powerful teeth, ideal for crushing armor and rending flesh from bone….

“Attempting to kill me would present a missed opportunity.”

…his snout ostensibly gestured skyward where the silhouette of another dragon, Lyra could be seen…

“That one is larger than me, certainly she would a greater trophy for one looking to slay a dragon.”

…there was a sarcastic overtone when Geladryx hissed his words however he would further content…

“Perhaps you’ve heard of Aivrid the Destroyer, a monstrous example of dragonkind. Certainly much better quarry for you. Of course the best way to lure a dragon is for another to expand its territory so that it challenges its own. Razing this city would certainly do that.”

…the Emerald Death was large, dwarfing men and beasts but he was not nearly the largest example of his kind. Geladryx was mighty but his mightiest attribute had always been his mind and his ability to manipulate the forces of magic, Necromancy specifically. Regardless he was a fearsome opponent capable of crushing mortal and immortal alike.

Nonetheless the seed was planted.

-----

The Rear Line
The Auxiliary


As for the rest.

Visha Sofka’s body, what remained of it would quiver and the smoke that she had breathed in would slowly leave her and return to its source. Little by little the dragon’s strength left Visha and returned to Geladryx. Perhaps he would bestow it upon her again if she could make better use of it the next time. In his own way the Dragon hoped Visha would live, she served an important purpose.

As for the Ballistae, many of them were reduced to tinder’s but there were always some survivors, and anything was better than nothing.

The Trumpeter sounded again.

This time Orcs, Shamans who had remained sidelined and conserving their power (those not already assisting Vardan) would set forth. The Savage Clergy, dressed in skins, furs and with trinkets of bone would react quickly so that any subsequent barrages of fireballs or magic would not be as successful. Moving to the fore of the auxiliary they stood and began chanting.

The Winds of Magic conjured themselves, the Shamans working defensively to deflect and block the magical attacks from the Outer Walls sending fireballs and other projectiles off course and wide. Nothing was completely successful but it would help. The Horde had known this was a bloody battle from the beginning. The Orcs among them were warriors all and the Undead numbered several legions, every body killed along the way adding to their total.

The Ballistae were about a third of their original number now yet still they fired, another round of naptha outfitted arrows angling higher to sail over the Outer Walls of Alliria. If they were fired true they would cause more explosions throughout the Outer City, damaging more of the buildings and infrastructure there. In the case that they may not have fired true they would still strike the Outer Walls themselves and no explosion was a bad explosion in that case.

The Archers fired another volley too, their bows angling high and lit with pitch and oil. Orcish bows didn’t have the range of Ballistae however the second volley of arrows would have come down over the heads of the defending line making war in the Slums. Nowhere to run, sandwiched up against the lines of Undead they were free to rain down and pick off or wound anyone, leave it to fate to sort out who lives and who dies.

Ignisa Aravell Elra Mistfall Galen Blackburn Fane

 
Dragon Tales

Lyra would fly high at first, cresting over the barrage of fire that would now rain down on the field below. It pained the venerable kobold to see the once lush greens outside Alliria reduced to ash.

His gaze had been fixed on the dragon that was ordering about the legions, though suddenly, his view would shift as Lyra shifted back down and angeled towards a rising column of black flame.

His eyes would narrow. Villainy. "Meepo prefers the bright of day! Evil must see the justice Meepo dispenses!" Those narrowed eyes would fill with the color of righteous fury and his sword would point heavenward before falling to point at Vardan.

"Feel the burning stare of JUSTICE, and change your ways!" Meepo howled and as his sword moved, the heavens would open, as a beam of pure radiant sunlight wreathed in the energy of the divines struck the mass of black flame where Vardan was performing his ritual. The divine would cut its way through the shadow slowly. The earth around the black flame would begin to grow life, and enchanted vines would spring from the healed earth to wrap around the flames, empowered by the light.
 
Arko yelped, head a swivel, his wide eyes looked left and looked right. "So fast, so fast!" he quivered as Lady Lyra surged across the sky and fire flew and streaked and arced in every direction. So many lives just. No no. Don't think about it. Mind palace. Calm waters. Cool lakes. Warm rocks. In the pursuit of his calm, Arko saw a scene from on high. A lady knight. No, not all people in good armor were knights, but still. A lady! Horse ripped apart like a rabbit torn through by wolves.

Calm waters. Warm rocks. Hot buns. Double for double the fun.

Another yelp-near-screech-almost-hiccup popped out of his maw, sizzle and snap of electric flow bounced about his scaly lips.

"I do this," he said to himself, and unfolded his miniature war-machine, its metalic body surprisingly light despite its bulk. He pulled a lever on its side and its bow like arms sprang open. He set the weapon in his lap, lined up his shot as the whole world flew them by. "See weapon, see rune, feed magic," he said, mantra like, and in his little lizard-kin brain he saw the shape of his bolts, loaded in the belly of his machine-bow. Remembered the runes he had carved into them. The symbols of flame, the symbols of loch.

Lightning sizzled and zapped and sparked along the loaded bolt. Lightning. To fly faster. To fly further. To punch through. Click.

Out spat the bolt, a-sizzled with bright blue. Another click. And fast flew bolt number two. Both magicked crossbow bolts enlighteninged aimed for one of the big wolves that tried to eat the blonde maybe-not-knight.

Arko only hoped it helped someone stay alive.

Jane Lyra Meepo
 
"Necromancer."

The word was like a curse from his cracked lips. The air was hot and arid. He couldn't remember the last time he'd tasted water. It had to have been hours ago, but there had been no time to stop for luxuries; not when so much was at stake.

The Emerald Death stood apart from the siege. He had separated himself from the carnage below and remained aloof. He was almost completely untouched. In that instant, he realized that he had done much of the same. He'd simply tried to convey along the battle lines, not getting involved directly with the battle below. Too long had Methuselah stood back and kept watch. That darkness within him felt like an immense weight today. No man was perfect, he'd broken his vows in minor ways before, but this one would hurt. Out of all the things that pressed upon his consciousness, breaking his word to that boy in the shelter would hurt the most.

He needed all of his strength, though. If he held back even for a moment, his plan would go for naught. He laid a hand on Solon's shoulder as he muttered, "If I should survive, you will need to bring me back."

With a heaviness to his steps, he pulled himself up to sit upon Kadmos' saddle. Every sense of self-preservation told him that he should stay here and try to help from a distance, however there would be no one left to help, if that dragon was not dealt with. He dug his heels into his horses flanks and made his somber way along the battlements. There was a set of stairs nearby that would bring the knight to a small door within the greater gates. He would use that to enter the battlefield.

Piles of bodies had already begun to pile up.

"I'm sorry, my friends, but there is no time for rest today."

Pools of darkness filled low spots in the ground around him as he moved through the carnage. He didn't need a lot of bodies, just enough to keep him protect until he was done.

"Necromancer."

He muttered once more, but the sky itself seemed to respond to his call. Small dots of black began to change their patterns and small screeches could be heard over the sounds of war. A small contingent of undead followed him. Men and women who would give their lives once more. Not to protect a city, but a single knight. Such a paltry thing to give a second life for. Unfortunately, it was necessary.

A murder began to grow.

"Necromancer."

"Necromancer!"


His own voice was echoed by the voice of a thousand crows that now swirled and frenzied in the burning air above Allaria. They darted and swept through the smoke and the arrows. Some landed upon his visage. Small black feet resting on black armor. Most were in the sky, though. The dead provided their own haggard cry to his challenge. Each voice sang together, and apart. It was like a mistimed symphony, and all those disjointed voices called to the Emerald Death.

The dam had broke. All the darkness that he held back swirled around him as he pulled his sword from its sheath and held it to the side of Kadmos. The horse continued forward, unperturbed by the crows the flocked about, or the dead that followed. Kadmos had always need to be brave, and he had not yet let the knight down.

The murder became erratic, and the birds were no longer in sync. They began to collide with one another, and as they did so they fuse. Bodies stitched together from wherever they collided as they became one and hideous little winged monsters began to dot the sky. Still, even in their disfigured state their many mouths echoed the cry.

"Necromancer! Necromancer!"

The cry became even more frantic, even more desperate as the crows continued to grow in size and shape. It only took a short time for the murder to converge into his true familiar. Koronis, the many eyed, many winged bird of the void. A desperate hunger clawed at its stomachs. Its all seeing eyes looked down upon the battlefield and found it wanting; for it only sought one prey. Only dragon's blood would sate its hunger.

It would find its prey, for it must, and so its many beaked mouths continued their unholy chant. "Necromancer! Necromancer! Necromancer!"
 
SAVING G.I JANE

A single black horse and its rider would race for a woman was being held between the maws of two wargs and their two snickering riders. Paladins never fought alone, they had the gods at their backs, and their brethren at their side. "Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter."

Where many of the Redeemed embraced their new lives, Jane had always struggled with it, some might say she resented it. But that made the Paladin of the Sacred Flame think no less of her. They had fought together in the past and won, and today, would be no different. "Blessed are they who use the holy flame to burn away the wicked."

His eyes would narrow and as he passed an orc that had seemed to lost their way, his blade would cleave through their neck and end their confusion. ".. Blessed are the Vigilant, the champions of the just." The red mist would ignite the flames of his blade. "Vekna.. quicker!" He would shout and his courser would pick up speed, closing the distance between him and Jane.

Several bolts would rain from the heavens, piercing the rider of one warg in the back of the head and killing him, while the rest peppered his Warg, causing its hold on her leg to disappear as it keeled over.

The rider of the second warg would look up to the heavens, his mistake. Vekna would leap up and over the wargs back end and as horse collided with rider, Keldorn would dismount, bringing his sword downward into the beasts throat and dragging the blade downward to nearly behead it.

"Jane!" Keldorn would shout as he hefted what weight could possibly have fallen on his comrade, off of her. "Vekna! To me!" He would shout, just in time to see his trusty steed trample the orc beneath its hooves. Before a spear flew in from the side, striking Vekna through the barding. The pained snort would be silenced as warg set upon his most trusted of friends. "VEKNA!" Roaring, Keldorn would swing his blade, the cascading wave of flame bringing a painful retribution to those that struck his mount down. One loss was all he could bear in this moment. Hos gauntlet would slide along the blade, extinguishing the flames before he sheathed his sword.

Keldorn then reached down for Jane and throw her over his shoulder before turning to head up the incline to the gate. He could hear the whistle of arrows and so he would shift her into a cradle and shield her. A silent curse escaped his lips as several arrows pierced his back from behind, one in each shoulder, and he still would push onward until he finally reached the gate.

There, Landros would help him inside to where the healers waited. Keldorn would finally drop to his knees as he set Jane down. "Tend to her.. tend to her first.." He hadn't felt the other three that had peppered his back before doubling over, leaning against Landros.

"We need more healers! Now!" Landros would shout.

Jane
 

Left Flank
Behind the Lines - Observing Hillside


Lyra | Arkobold | Meepo | Geladryx
@This is cause for concern for most people, actually. But it won't last much longer.

On Vardan’s hill, the black flame roared, its tendrils snapping the air, desperate to be set loose. The maelstrom began to grow, expanding and enveloping the ritualists. It was an ancient power that Vardan wielded, stolen long centuries ago from a depraved fae prince.​
The black flame did not burn, but it did consume. It was primal enervation, consuming life and magic like a leech supped on blood. To the living and their clerics, it was anathema. To the undead, a blessing beyond price.​
Bolts of fire cascaded from the walls of Alliria. The torrent scorched the battlefield, mangling friend and foe alike. Those bolts that struck the black flame ritual were devoured, feeding its strength. It rose even higher now - a tower which loomed over the battlefield, swirling and crackling with fell energy, though it cast no heat and did not move from its point of summon.​
It was only natural that a paladin should seek to smite it. And one did - from atop a dragon, no less. A ray of light cut the sky and struck the flame, vines rose from the ground and attempted to quell it. But all things born from magic were only sustenance to the flame.​
The vortex appeared to bend from the blow, as if it had been physically struck, and for a brief moment it illuminated Vardan within - his arms raised in rapture, the shamans around him now shriven and lifeless husks.​
But like all things born of magic, the scorching divine light was consumed. The vines withered on the ground. In the end, it was only more kindling.​

Within the storm, Vardan cackled, dry and wheezing. He gestured, and a great tendril tore free from the inferno. It coiled first, and lashed out with great force at Lyra, seeking to scour her and her passengers, or at least knock her off course.​
Another tendril peeled itself free on the opposite side, coiling in preparation to strike the battlefield, but for now it did nothing.​
 
Last edited:

The Hilltop
Teatime with the Emerald Death

Dauner afforded the dragon some of his time to see if it could persuade him. However, it's insinuation that Dauner would do battle with Lyra was way off the mark. Perhaps if it were some bearded old man, or maybe an old hag with at least a thousand years of age to her name, he would consider the offer. But, it was neither. From its aura, Dauner could see it was still a kid, not even a century old yet.

"Nah! I'll pass. I'm not a fan of battling women" he would say, turning back to Geladryx. Dauner's refusal to battle women was not because he looked down on them, but rather because he just hated ruining cute things.

The dragon's next words somehow sounded familiar to Dauner. It was not much different from the honeyed words used to tempt someone. This was something many had tried to do to him, and that he had done to many more.

It was amusing that someone would try to tempt the demon king of seven virtues, especially since he had spent a lot of time tempering the virtue of lust. From how he saw it, the dragon might have just been trying to drag him into the dragons' territorial fight.
Nevertheless, he would still play along, if only to relieve some boredom before their fight.

Before he could utter a word, he sensed a familiar breath approach the walls. There were many a knight who gave off a familiar aura, but this one in particular, Dauner remembered. Quite clearly too. After all, it was one who had tried to slay him the moment he laid his eyes on Dauner. Keldorn.

 
Powerful indeed were these paladins, with bodies clad in plate and chain and horses similarly armored. What foe could stand firm against their charge? Yet, while they did wield lance and verily did they thrust and stab, the wargs and their riders held advantages they did not. Could horses leap or twist mid-air the way the wargs twisted past spears to bite at the neck of a horse? Could their heavily armored riders perform feats of acrobatics in the saddle, like the orc riders who stood, jumped, and leaped while in the saddles? And while many wargs and riders were born down by lance and spear, many more proved that the swift cunning and strength of the Spine could match the might of the so-called "civilized" world that sneered at them from purpled finery and lives lived in lush and lavish ease. For clad as they were in their deerskin leathers, wielding bow and hatchet, they were fast and mobile, which, when bearing a man in full plate from the saddle and straddling him in the muck as he lay stunned, proved to be more worthy a foe than the derisive paladins might think.

However, the mages atop the Allirian fortifications summoned a massive wall of fire even as they hurled lightning and fireballs. An incessant storm of magic that one might think would be bringing them close to exhaustion. Some warriors became trapped, hemmed in by sheets of flame, and they died screaming as the fire consumed them. But more had lived a life in search of a glorious death and so leapt through the flames... only to die as fireballs and lightning strikes killed dozens, leaving the field strewn with corpses outside the slums.

As the spear-armed forces emerged from the gates of the city and the advance force of undead withered away, more of the orcish warriors poured down from the hilltop and as they rushed down they slung javelins, which arced through the air toward the newly forming line of spears coming from the city gates. Archers amidst their number, used to tracking wild elk and great beasts in the mountains, loosed arrows mid-run with incredible accuracy toward the mercenary mages on the wall. And while the charging warriors bore axe and spear and sword, they did not form a comprehensive line. They were individual warriors, each trained to fight and kill in the forests, crags, and steppes, and they gave no thought for shield wall or conventional tactics. They thought only of glory and battle, chanting cries to the Mountain as they came on.

Some of the loudest chants were from a few shamans interspersed within their charging ranks, these shamans cried upon the favor of their gods, asking for the blessing of Kuljuk, that winged god of the air and heights whom they shared with their Sereti cousins. And lo, did Kuljuk answer, for a sudden and mighty gust of wind came toward the walls of encroaching fire and blew them back toward the Slums and spear armed defenders.

Had any told Khurash that the merchant lords of Alliria, who cared so little for the impoverished that they had them dwell in starving slums of dilapidated hovels outside the city gates, would make arrangements for their evacuation, he would not have understood at all. But of course, it was likely the paladins behind such measures and not the actual merchant lords.

Khurash was busy with his own fight. Be'sennar sought to lock his sword around the haft of the tomahawk and throw him. Khurash went with the force rather than opposing it, rolling forward upon the ground. Rather than let the binding of blade on axe head free, Khurash twisted his wrist to lock it tighter so that the paladin could not withdraw his sword, then as the orc knelt upon the ground he stabbed with his dagger. Stabbed for a gap in the paladin's armor at the back of the ankle, where greaves met sabaton.

The orc, who had fought in many battles and slain many foes in search of regaining honor in the eyes of his tribe, growled out his answer.

"You knights know nothing of the soul."

How many times had knights in their shining steel rode out and slaughtered entire tribes of orcs, simply because a warband of orcs from an entirely different region had razed a village and taken prize-slaves? They did not understand, nor did they care for the ways of the orcs. Not in the Reach. Not in the Spine.

When he kneeled above the knight's chest in the muck and slit his throat, perhaps then he would see what soul lurked in the man's eyes as it fled his body.

Be'sennar
 
BEHIND THE WALL


Pained growls from the riders, pained yelps from the Wargs.

And the pressure was released.

Jane dropped down roughly to the ground, the joints of her left leg and right arm burning terribly, the muscles acidic with their aching. A groan made its way out through her clenched teeth. And then she hazarded moving her shield away from her face, to see who had come and who had been the death of the two Warg riders.

"Keldorn," she said. "I thought you'd never make it." She had suspected she heard her name in the commotion. It shouldn't have been so surprising, the Redeemer was here after all, and yet it was. Maybe the surprise was that he'd killed the Warg riders before they'd ripped her limbs out.

She gave out a restrained yelp of pain as she was lifted up and shouldered, tingling daggers in her leg and her arm flaring up. Goddamn it! Just her luck. Summoned by the Redeemer's Call to a battle she didn't even care to be in, actually start to have a spot of fun scoring a few kills, only to have it ruined by two oversized dogs. Talk about rough seas.

It didn't take Keldorn long to haul her through the gate. He'd suffered a few arrows (one even bounced off of Jane's own armor, perilously close to penetrating into the nape of her neck) for his efforts. Pity it wasn't Jane herself taking those shots. She thought that would've made for an excellent reward.

Jane winced harshly when she was set down among the other wounded behind the wall. Small beads of sweat were dotting her brow now.

She looked up to Keldorn. Chuckled. And said sardonically, "Want me in good shape so you can do the deed yourself one day? I'm touched." And she chuckled again.

Jane wasn't allowed to have such a sharp tongue with the Redeemer—she'd tried that already. But she didn't get reset teasing Keldorn with these little quips. Because they were all in good fun...right.

Keldorn
 
THE TREELINE


Visha was rolling listlessly from one side to the other. Laughing in an agonized, exhausted way.

"Who says...lightning doesn't...strike twice...? Ha, ha!" That big scuffle in the desert with Hanuman and the Dead Men. The Empire fighting the whoevers, nobody cared. But! Somebody zapped her with lightning then! And she ate it like a champ! Like a champ! Who needs something as dumb as defense (eww!) when you can just be awesome instead?

Visha puked. An involuntary reaction. Greenish-yellow bile, bits of a meal from hours ago, and red flecks of blood stained the ground where she'd vomited.

She closed her eyes. You know what? A nap sounded good...real good...try this battle again tomorrow...after some...sunny-side up eggs...yeah...with pepper...and tomato sauce...because I'm a savage...

Visha. Visha can you hear me?

"No. Go away. Imma sleep."

Maho made a—

Visha's eyes jolted open. WIDE open. And she cemented her blazingly intense gaze on Galen.

You could make a pact with Imamu too.

She reached up and, with the shallow apex of the strength she was able to muster with her sole remaining arm, clamped onto whatever part of Galen she could reach.

"I don't know who you are...but I love you!" This was probably the most aggressive utterance of the words I love you ever to grace the winds of Arethil.

And then she said three simple words, each a tiny inferno.

"Tell...me...how!"

Galen
 
“Huh?”

Loved him? Galen honestly couldn’t remember if anyone had ever told him that after his mother died. Certainly Telemachus hadn’t. The mental image of the elf saying those words was so ridiculous that Galen almost burst out into laughter. He smiled nervously down at her. She was delirious of course… from the pain. And they had never met before.

Right. The contract.

He opened his satchel and rifled through the contents. It was probably still here somewhere… a copy of the Imamu contract he had made from Telemachus’ scrolls back when he had been thinking of making his own pact.

Fingers scraped the bottom of the leather bag and seized a crumpled up piece of parchment. He pulled it out and in crumpled it, then found a magic quill in the side flap of his satchel. A quill that would never run out of ink and would write anywhere.

“Here.”

  • Minor Count Imamu, the Fire of Lions
    • Whose portfolio includes Fire, Conviction, and Strength of Arms
    • Whose domain is the Sweltering Jungle, the Subjugate Sphere of PELASGIA the Orator.
  • Price: 1800 souls
  • Methods of Service:
    • Kill people with fire magic OR ritually sacrifice them.
    • Win a duel. (Souls added for every duel won)
    • Win battles. (Souls added for every enemy killed during the battle, doubled for victories - you must be the commander)
    • Found a cult. (Souls added for every member of the cult)
  • Reward:
    • Increased Arcane Potential
    • Inoculation against Non-Magical Disease
    • Immediate mastery over Fire-based magic
  • Potential Boons:
    • After 50 souls delivered, you may be eligible to receive a Fire Spiritling as a familiar.
    • After 300 souls delivered, you may be eligible to be inoculated against fire. Nothing will burn you. Nothing.
    • After 700 souls delivered, you may be eligible to have fire-based spells further empowered - melting steel and stone as easily as another might burn wood.
    • After 900 souls delivered, you may be eligible to have your current arcane potential doubled.
    • After 1500 souls delivered, you may be eligible to receive improved strength, stamina, and health.
    • After 1800 souls delivered, you may be eligible to have your current arcane potential tripled.

“It… it will cost you if you sign. Your soul. Imamu will get it when you die…”

He handed her the quill. His fingers trembled.

Visha Sofka
 
The Main Assault
Defending the Outer Wall


The resources of Alliria weren't infinite, true, but they were of an order of magnitude above anything beyond that Tarnossia could command. While the Elves of Tarnossia held sway over large territories, they lived in the forest, in woodlands which lessened the density of their cities and their towns. Few besides elves could survive within the territory anyway, aside from the beasts of the wild. The population of Alliria rivaled, and in truth, likely significantly surpassed that anything the Elves could command. No wonder it was, that they could afford to pour magic onto the battle like water upon sand, and still have an ocean of reserves left over. They were home to one of the three great schools of magical learning - the Allirian College. And though they were not as renown as either the Elbion College or the Dreadlords of Vel Anir, their reputation still ranged far and wide around Arethil, enough at least, that the Dreadlords of Vel Anir would give them their due.

They wouldn't tire as quickly as the raiders hoped. True, most mages were wealthy, but magic was a prized commodity, and just though many mages did indeed come from wealthy families who had resources, mages from poorer families still fought to learn, that they could lift themselves out of poverty. Enough that they could at least make a living out of whatever they specialized in, and even then if they all went through the Allirian College there were some basics that they likely would have mastered, such as the basic manipulation of fire.

When the orc shamans finally came to the forefront and began to ward off the wave of fireballs, so too did the more capable of the Allirian mages begin to respond. Those who were trained in the basics continued to use the fires started by the enemy against them, drawing power from the fire, fueled by naphtha, simultaneously preventing the fires from spreading while throwing them back at the enemy. The wave of fire, while initially overwhelming, lessened somewhat in intensity before stabilizing. Though no longer doing incredible damage, they still shone as they crossed the wall over Ignisa's head, twinkling like multicoloured stars and continuing to explode amongst centaurs and orcs, the pops and crackles coming in tune with the rising howl of the winds that the orcs had summoned, clashing against the cresting wave of fire, pushing it back towards the Outer Wall. Mages along the wall summoned their own winds from the high air, forcing the boundaries between the two sides back. Both sides struggled for dominance, though Alliria's defense was implacable and seemingly unbreakable, counting on the orcs to eventually exhaust themselves.

Divine magic or no, all things had their limit.

There was another snap of ballistae, and arrows were fired towards the wall. Yet, they still collided with the falling fireballs, all bursting into flames and tumbling to the ground before even hitting the Outer Walls.

But spells were being worked even as the fire burned its way through the slums. Ignisa's voice was raised, and the elves beside her singing in unison, working and weaving their magic with each other, whilst Ignisa delicately wove a guiding hand in the spell.

The winds called down by both sides were strong, but they were being wielded as a blunt instrument. Air was flexible and infinitely powerful, infinitely bendable. Ignisa concentrated and gestured, and a portion of the wind detached itself from the main, broad gust called upon by the shamans. She guided it, the motions of her hands delicate and precise, winding it and twisting it. The fireballs that the stream of air caught twisted upon themselves, outlining the currents of air that danced before her as she shaped it like an undulating rope, spinning about itself. The end of the rope began to thin, fining itself into a point like the tip of an arrow. With a simple cutting motion, she flung the drill of air, now spinning and twisting with fire, right towards the middle of the orc shamans.

The point smashed into the wall of wind that the orc shamans had conjured, and started burrowing through.

There was always a chink in the wall. She just needed to find the weak spot.

And along the walls, shadow and dark magic gathered in the distance, a pure tone rang out, building up and reinvigorating the spirit of the defenders. Light shimmered along the walls in response as Clerics and Paladins chanted their own prayers, calling upon their gods to protect them against fell magic. For months now, the priests and clerics who proclaimed of the heresy of the raiders, calling for a Holy War. These followers of divine faith started to show their strength in numbers, calling upon a multitude of gods, from the Celestials, to other faiths, to protect them from this scourge.
 
Last edited:
Meepo and Ark were doing, well, knight things. Perhaps Lyra should have paid more attention while forced to be at the monastery, but at least these two knights, or squire or whatever their knight-speak was, did seem to affect a few things— and for the good of Alliria. Well, Lyra couldn’t afford to be outclassed! Sure, she was no fancy knight or had any real fighting skills but she was big in this form, and ladies were always saying bigger is better so with her size and the strength of her sinuous body and hardened scales, Lyra had nothing to fear—

What the heck was that?

Lyra veered her head away from the strange black coil of magic that aimed to stab at her, but while her head may have been safe, the other parts of her were not. A deep, rumbling growl that shook through her entire form could be heard as she gritted her teeth, trying to ignore the fact that she was in serious pain from where that coil had struck her, directly under the soft spot where her spindly shoulder connected to her body.

The quick veer to the right and the sharp pain on her left side caused Lyra to lose focus, and her massive form fell down to the ground around the hilltops, gliding and slithering along as she heaved a great huff of annoyance and pain. Her tail swished about, angrily like how a cat would as she began to lift herself up.

Perhaps going towards the black fire wasn’t a good idea.

You boys alright?” She asked, getting back up to her feet and going back into the air, not realizing she had squished a few things underneath her weight and they were now plastered along the underside of her long, silvery-white belly.

Vardan Meepo Arkobold
 
Main wall
Kill the rich



Abject hatred boiled in the mercenary's breast as he approached the field.

For two decades had he honed his abilities in the darkest corners of the spine. For two decades had he slain man, orc, and beast. The bloodletting never brought any permanent peace, but there was a calm within the whirlwind. When his body moved of its own accord: when his blood thundered in his ears, when the gore and viscera sprayed across his breastplate and his foes screamed their death wail; only then was the maelstrom the consumed his cursed mind silent.

The scent of sulfur and copper filled his nostrils as his boots sunk into the blood-soaked mud. Never before had the exile set his eyes upon Alliria, nor had he ever been privy to any magics beyond the primal incantations of the foul greenskins. His eyes, pools of emerald, beheld the destruction with a momentary awe that was almost childish in its nature.

The shattered bodies, the blood, the bits of bone scattered about the battlefield were all comfortably familiar, but the fire; the black magic...

A chill shot down Charlemagne's spine as he took it all in. High above, a glittering serpent darted through an ash choked sky, and behind, a similar abomination as green as he directed the carnage. This thing, which he had initially thought to be a warlord with the simple title of 'dragon', was his benefactor today.

Indeed, Charlemagne had always considered such beasts to be things of fairy tale. To see them with his own eyes was -- no, they were of no relevance. Not to him.

Beyond the battlements, beyond the struggle, lay the true prize. He gazed upon the smoking, glittering spires of the richest men in all the world with an intermingling of primal envy and abject disgust.

The people of the Spine lived as beasts clinging to whatever sustenance they could find for the sake of their own survival, and these bastards lived as would be gods?

The hate bled into a fury that made him tremble with anticipation. It only took one look upon those citadels for the money he'd been promised to become utterly meaningless.

All those years struggling within the wilderness. These degenerates sat within their towers playing demigod whilst his mother whored for a loaf of bread? Whilst father bled and slaughtered just to survive another day? He had more in common with these damnable greenskins than he did with any creature daring to call itself human within those walls.

Whatever doubts he might have carried about aligning with the Orcs, whatever revulsion he might have carried at the sight of the undead, all were burned away within the fires of his hatred.

The lone human drew his greatsword, its brutal and chipped edifice twitching in his hand as he sought a target. His gaze fell upon an unlucky soldier who'd just finished crushing one of the Orc's skulls with his warhammer.

Charlemange's lips split with a primal roar that, to him, overtook the screams of war as he charged. The soldier blinked at him in confusion, likely assuming him to be an ally given his obvious humanity. The man was sorely mistaken: Charlemagne's muscles screaming as he swung the greatsword in a horizontal arc with all his strength.

The man could barely utter a scream as the blade cleaved through his steel plate as if it were paper, crushing through his ribs and slicing into the meat within. The wretched weapon burst clean through the other side, the man's torso tumbling a few feet away from his dismembered legs.

Vitae and viscera sprayed across Charlemagne's face, further deepening his bloodlust. This was the civilization spoken so highly of by his progenitors. This was the civilization that had damned all of humanity with its greed.

He would kill it. Destroy it. Slaughter every one of those animals that dared to call themselves nobles, salt the earth that birthed them, and use their bones to build something new.

Something perfect.


The thud of hooves crashing into dirt drew him from his reverie. A man astride a war horse was beaming for him, lance glittering in the blood-sun. Some form of knight, another high-and-mighty oppressor, another LIAR.

The merc slammed a boot into the muddy earth, spinning about, his blade whirling violently with the motion. The lance passed just above his head as he ducked, and he kicked himself up from the earth. His greatsword exploded through the neck of the horse, severing tendon and bone as it too passed through the neck of the rider. The twin heads crashed violently to the ground, spraying blood as Charlemagne stood upright once again.

The orcs around him paused for a moment, eyeing the human curiously before returning to the carnage. To them he stood against his own kind, but they were more akin to Charlemagne than any of these spineless merchant slaves.

Great balls of fire crashed down about him, searing through flesh and bone of man and orc alike. It halted as quickly as it came, a great wall of what looked to be wind momentarily blocking the assault.

Renewed, Charlemagne thrust his gore soaked blade upward in a warrior's salute as he began his march toward the slums, his greenskin compatriots howling as they too pressed the defenses.

Emerald eyes locked upon the greatest of the knights, those that called themselves paladins, or so the stories went. Their armor glittered the brightest; they were living icons of the greed and sloth of this degenerate city.

His blood thundered, heart pumping so violently that he worried for a moment it might shatter. "Why are you running you sycophantic cowards?!" Charlemagne reached down, gripping the helmeted head of the second man he'd killed and raising it high. "Come and meet your god!"

He tossed the head toward the battlements as one might toss a bag full of shit: with disdainful disgust.


Be'sennar, Keldorn, Jane, Khurash
 
The issue with normal weapons? They couldn't take the consistent strain of battle, nor the wrath of the enchanted. Between the tension Khurash foolishly applied, and the gods empowering Be'senaar, the Redeemer would try to apply the force needed to break it, freeing the enchanted blade to swing at the orc aimed for the throat and the killing stroke. At the best Khurash would have to quit altogether to avoid a decapitation.

They always went for the ankles, it was the great joke when fighting the unarmored. So as the dagger careened for its target, Be'senaar would lift his boot and slide it back, avoiding the stab with the dagger, before driving the boot forward to try to kick the orc backwards.

He had hoped this Orc would find the path to a better end, but seeing he lacked the ability to reason, to stand down, and he was intent on harming those who could not defend themselves, he would have to put him down.

Warriors that didn't fight in concert were only useful in a skirmish or an ambush. At the walls of a fortress, they were absolutely useless. These were the professional armies of Alliria, outfitted with the best training, arms, and armor that any army could have. As more of them formed their lines before the Paladins, they would push the enemy back slowly. The brigands before them fought for only riches, material wealth. The Defenders fought for the people, the Allirian way of life. And they were done surrendering an inch.

Magic and arrows rained down from the walls, cutting the reinforcements down before they could reach the front. The Paladins who had done the bulk of the fighting were now at the back for a momentary respite.

If any cared to notice the human fighting amongst the Orcs, they didn't show. He was just another soul consumed by greed.

Khurash
 
Last edited:
Keldorn would offer Jane a bloody grin at her words, his voice hoarse. "If anyone is going to drive forty three inches into your gut.. its going to be me." He laughed, pain etching across his face as Landros began to pull the arrows free from his back. Thankfully, they weren't barbed. "So yes.. I would prefer you to be in your best shape, Jane.."

Several of the cities Clerics would set to work re-setting Jane's shoulder and healing her injuries with holy magic to get her back into the fight.

It seemed like this was only the beginning of a long day.

Jane
 

Left Flank
Behind the Lines - Observing Hillside


Geladryx
@This is cause for concern for most people, actually. But it won't happen again.

The pillar of black fire wavered precariously as it righted itself. Swiping at the dragon had left it unbalanced - but with that distraction now afield, the true work could be done. The swirling tempest remained stationary, but the two tendrils that had split from it, acting as its arms, coiled as they prepared to strike the battlefield.​
Much had been brought to bear against Geladryx’s horde. So many gallant paladins and studious sorcerers. Judging from the tide of battle, it would be enough. The invaders would be repelled without having breached the city proper.​
Fine. Let the battle draw to a close. The real reaping would fall to Vardan. He would give this siege its proper climax.​
At the heart of the black flame vortex, Vardan pulled back one arm and swept the air in front of him.​
The tempest moved like a puppet. The tendril he had used to swipe at Lyra coiled back - and then lurched forward. It swept across a section of the pristine battlements of Alliria, sweeping away its occupants.​
Men-at-arms, mercenaries, and shattered ballistae were sent flying, screaming off the battlements - some into the slums below, others back into the city. It was indiscriminate. Those spellcasters who had crowded the walls were consumed in an instant, reduced to ash. More kindling for the flame.​
With his other arm he made a fist, and brought it down like a hammer. The other tendril followed suit. It collided with the battlefield, in the heart of the defenders’ lines, with a thunderous crack. It thrashed randomly, like a snake struggling to right itself, rending the enemy’s lines, flinging footsoldiers this way and that, kicking up clouds of dirt, shredding through a section of the hastily-constructed palisades and earthworks.​
Scores of the redeemer’s precious paladins were incinerated, their magic adding further to the already swollen black flame. Some of Vardan’s allies would doubtless be among the casualties. It was of little consequence to him.​
The tendril rose from the carnage it had inflicted, coming to meet the other one. Vardan had joined his hands together above his head. With one final grunt, he slammed the tendrils down into a section of Alliria’s walls. The venerable stone buckled under the weight, sending a final shockwave of dirt and detritus ripped through the field.

In the resulting haze, it could be seen: a breach large enough to be exploited.​
Enough of these middling magicians. Enough of these witless paladins. Enough of these walls!​
Let it all conclude now: with one more bloody push.​
---​
The tendrils rose again, disintegrating as they pulled from the dreg heap they had created, pulled back into the central pillar of black flame, which now guttered and shrank. Within minutes Vardan was re-exposed on his hill - fallen to his hands and knees. The last small wisps of flame rose from him as the last of his magic abated.​
Keheh, heh… Ah… Alliria. Didst thou witness…?” Vardan wheezed into the dead grass. The shriven corpses of the shamans that had joined him were his only company.​
He dug his bony fingers into the dirt. “I shall deliver thee a proper razing, one day…”​
But not today. His part in this was done. Oh, how sick he felt - knowing the true work had not even been attempted.​
 
The axehead snapped with a sharp report, splinters flying off as it fell apart in Khurash' hand. Close as Khurash was to the knight's body, kneeling on one knee, a swipe at the orc's throat was not possible. Nevertheless, the blade came on toward Khurash's body, even as the knight stepped up and then sought to lash out with a kick.

Rather than retreat backward, Khurash pressed forward, into the paladin. He reached for the man's extended boot with the now free-hand that once held the axe, seeking to wrap his hand around the leg just as he had done countless times in the wrestling bouts of his tribe in his youth.

It all came in the swift blink of the eye, the kick, the attempt to hold onto the leg, and then Khurash lashed out with his own foot, his thick thews rippling as he sought to reap out the Paladin's remaining leg in a sweep and send him crashing to the dirt. The knight in all his armor was well protected, but ill-equipped for a wrestling match.

As he pressed his body close to the paladin's, the knight's blade cut into him somewhere on his back and he could feel his own hot blood sluice down. At the odd angle, the knight would not have been able to slice as he wanted. No leverage. Not a mortal blow. It did not feel deadly. Khurash grunted at the pain, but uttered a prayer to the Mountain and felt as though he was blessed with the strength of five men, despite his wounds.

The knight's overlong sword would likely fare poorly in such close quarters, when body pressed against body and muscles strained.

Meanwhile, a miasma of black energy ripped through the lines of both the would be attackers and the besieged, laying waste to orc and man alike as it blew through earthen ramparts and then ripped a breach in the very walls of Alliria themselves.

In the stunned silence that followed there came a roar of triumph from the attackers, or what was left of their front lines after that, and the survivors poured through the wake of carnage left by the lich's spell. Swinging greataxes and heavy mauls, warriors at the front lines managed to push their way through the earthen ramparts guarding the slums, then charged through the slums and into the breach in the walls proper.

All chanted the name of the mighty lich who had worked such magic.

"VAR- DAN! VAR- DAN! VAR- DAN!"

Charlemagne Be'sennar
 
The Lindwell Estate

Artur's hands were splayed across the papers on his desk. Reports of the happenings on the edge of the city kept coming in. He had known about the orcs like many in his circle of society, but both the dragon and the undead had been unwelcome surprises. Drops of sweet beaded down the left side of his face. He had thought that it would be relatively simple to use this siege as a tool to stretch his influence that much farther. Now, it seemed, that it would be a more difficult game than he anticipated. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, threatening to unveil itself. The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward and unlike his peers Artur knew that he would not shy away from this risk.

"Donos, I have a message for Alkitt and his men." Apart from the Merchant Lord himself, there were two other men in the room. The first, who stood rigidly to the side of Artur's desk, was Henri Locket. A somber man, he was the Lindwell's head butler and Artur's most trusted confidante. The other was the man to whom the Lord's comment was addressed, Donos. A recent graduate from Alliria's schools, the young mage specialized in long-distance communications. A skill that Artur took the utmost advantage of.

The young man reacted immediately. Words, twisted and confusing to both the Lord and his butler, poured from his lips as his hands twisted and turned upon a pre-made tool. A disk of solid obsidian with electrum inlay. The metal filled markings begin to flicker and glow as Donos chanted until a snap rang through the room.

"This is Alkitt, My Lord." A fair, but still masculine, voice reverberated from the disk.

"I have express instructions for you Alkitt. I have just now learned that Ignisa Aravell, a diplomat for Tarnossia, is upon the walls herself. You are to take your soldiers and seek her out. Aid her in any way you can, but make sure she knows that it is the House that extends its hand in this time of conflict."

"I understand, My Lord. It will be done." As soon as the Knight gave his confirmation, Donos released the spell he had been channeling. With a weakened gasp, the young swayed on his feet. His eyes clouded ever so slightly.

"Go, and sit outside Donos." With a weak nod to his Lord the man fumbled through the door. "What is it Henri?" The Butler had moved his hands from his sides to his back. A signal that had long meant he had something to say to his Lord.

The butler's dark brown, almost black eyes locked onto his Lord's own hazel-flecked rings of green. An act that outside the confines of privacy would have been a most egregious disregard for formality. From underneath his coat the man pulled out a small stack of papers. Written upon them were columns of items and numbers, declarations and personal statements, and in the corner of every page was the crest of House Lindwell. A silver sunrise. "This is the information you had requested."

"Yes, those must be referring to the refugees that flocked to my House, correct?" Artur carried on, not even glanced at the shallow nod from his butler. "And the records of the healers. They have been paid and it seems that they are doing their job well."

"Yes, the healers are spreading word that it is House Lindwell that is caring for the poor and destitute. I have taken the liberty of planting informants amongst the vagrants, to keep an eye on the healers and to make sure they are doing the job they were hired to do."

"Good" Artur leaned back within his chair, glancing out at the fires in the distance, as Henri brought a new stack of reports to his desk. More risks and more rewards.

Upon the Walls

Ser Alkitt, Head Knight of House Lindwell, stood tall upon the battlements. Arrows and bolts streaked past him. The shouts of dying men and the grunts of slaughtered pigs assailed the sides of his helm. He was adorned with plate of the finest steel and a midnight blue talbard, upon which the mark of his Lord's House was displayed for all to see. The invaders had yet to reach the wall proper, still being pushed back by Alliria's ranged forces. But Alkitt knew that it would not stay. There was a flood of enemies across the field, not to mention the gods-damned lizard that oversaw the battle.

"Hold Men," His armored fist hung high as the orcs regrouped from the last volley. As they reached the same point, roughly 300 yards from the foot of the walls, his fist came crashing down. And with it sung the snapping of taut bows and the whistling song of arrows as they sped to their new homes. This repeated again and again, like clockwork. But it could not continue. He had received his Lord's orders, and he would complete them. Just as he had over the past two decades.

After being replaced by one of his Captains, Alkitt sought out the Wall Commander. Thankfully the Knight had set his men just next to the stretch of battlements over the gate proper. Running between rushing bodies of young men, his foot caught. As he looked down, the dead eyes of a boy, roughly the same age as his son, looked back up at him. After all these years, the Knight had hoped the horrors of war would fade, but it would always be sights like these that would bring them rushing back.

But he was a Knight, and to let his emotions overtake him would be unbefitting. That was the realm of mercenaries and other despoiled cur. So he shoved them down and locked them in that dark box that all men knew of. They would come for him, like spectres and shades of a dark wizard's make. He steeled himself once more, his hand gripping the pommel of his blade, white-knuckled inside his gauntlet. He would slay those demons, just as he had every night he dared to close his eyes.

Pushing forward, Alkitt came upon the Wall Commander. The man was hunched over one of those disks that the mages used to communicate. It was a well known fact that the man had a respectable talent for magic. A skill that had set him apart and allowed him to grow from being a farmer's son to one of the most decorated defenders of Alliria. "Wall Commander," Alkitt spoke loud but clear, his back straight and strong.

Corphus, the Commander, was clad in black scale embellished with silver inlay. It was rumoured that it was enchanted to make it impervious to all manner of arrow or bolt. Though Alkitt did not know if this was true or not. The Commander's electric blue eyes bore into the Knight from underneath his barbute (A style of helm). "Ser Alkitt, an unexpected pleasure. It seems that Lord Lindwell is among the few that dedicated his personal guard to the city's defense." A trickle of venom seeped into the Commander's words. Venom that in any other setting would have been masked and hidden with nary a trace.

"Yes Commander, though I have received new orders." Alkitt bowed his head slightly, an unspoken apology from one soldier to another.

The Commander grunted, "Damned politics again. They have no place in war." With a sigh the aged man straightened. His broad-shouldered form towering over those around him. "I suppose that he wants you to make contact with those elf diplomats. No, no need to say anything. Look there." The Commander's hand pointed up and to the distance where a beckoning storm began to brew. "Just follow the storm and you'll find her and her brother. Now go Alkitt."

Bowing lightly to the Commander he turned on his heels and made his way back to his men. Rounding them up He marched them to the battlements underneath the growing storm. Like him, his men clutched at their weapons. They did so in earnest after the sky turned into a storm of fire. Explosions rocked around them as his men marched up the battlements. Eventually they found themselves next to the elven dignitaries.

With short, direct orders Alkitt got his men formed upon the wall where they resumed their earlier activity of firing upon the orcish masses. The Knight himself turned to the woman in question. She appeared young to his eyes, though that meant nothing when dealing with elves. Her brown hair matched the shade of her eyes. It was a healthy brown, like the bark of young pine in a northern forest. She had fair skin, almost snow-kissed., and she was tall, only a few inches shorter than Alkitt himself. He immediately made note of the blade hanging from her waist. It's pommel and guard, while slightly embellished, were practical in their design. And the grip was not made from wired gold, but cloth and strips of leather. The sheath itself, a thing of beauty, was not drowned in jewels and precious metals, but intricate leatherworking. An item created by a master of his craft who had come to understand and love the medium of his work with a passion few attained.

Alkitt knew that this was no spoiled brat of some noble. This was a woman to whom the rigours of the world had called, and she had welcomed them willingly. Much like another young woman Alkitt had once known.

Bowing to her as she finished casting her spell, "My Lady Aravell. My Lord has sent me and my men here to aid and support you." As he looked up, his own blue eyes met her brown ones. "What would you command of us?"

Ignisa Aravell
 
Locale: Breach In The Walls
Objective: Third Party - Kill The Rich



All about him was cacophony, but he registered naught but silence.

The berserker's chest rose and fell violently as he stared up at the battlements, lips pressed into a foul scowl, bits of sweat and foreign vitae dripping down his ruddy face as his challenge went disregarded. Logically such made sense; there was little room for bravado in a true war.

But Charlemagne was of The Spine's blood, a realm in which tradition and minor skirmishes were the way of things. To disregard a warrior's challenge was anathema to his way of life. The mercenary, already a choleric thing by his foul nature, descended into a manic fury.

It did not so much matter that their forces were faltering, nor that the number of Orcs fighting alongside him were growing dismal in their number: only that the glittering towers still lorded over him in the distance, mocking him for his peasant's blood and his paltry ambitions. Why, in truth, would creatures that deemed themselves so close to the heavens pay one such as him any heed?

The skies screamed above him as the skeleton mage's magic did as it was bidden. The ringing in his ears was overwhelmed by the sound of wood, iron, and stone cracking, and then giving all together. A terrible heat fell over his face as his eyes were drawn toward the sky: toward the progeny of Vardan's efforts.

The twin serpents seared through man and beast alike. Those warriors closest to Charlemagne were utterly obliterated, many not even having courtesy of retaining their forms amidst the flames. A few blackened bones poked out from the blood-soaked mud, but most were rendered as naught but ash.

The walls suffered a similar fate.

The horrid screams of the dying sung in his ears as the pillars faded into nothingness. In their place stood a massive hole within the once impregnable fortress.

"VAR-DAN! VAR-DAN! VAR-DAN!" The sorcerer's name roared across the battlefield.


Consumed by his desire for violence against those he deemed his oppressors, Charlemagne joined his voice to the choir. "VAR-DAN! VAR-DAN! VAR-DAN!" The youth screamed until his lungs were empty and his throat became raw.

Those warriors that remained charged the hole with reckless abandon. Charlemagne flew with them, the weight of his paltry breastplate and heavy sword seeming as a feather to him, to drawn was he into the murderous chorus.

His gaze fell upon a tiny battle in the midst of the charge. Emerald eyes focused upon Khurash and Be'sennar as a hawk might look upon two field mice locked in a territorial struggle. Indeed, it was only the glittering of the venerated paladin's armor in the murderous light that drew some sentience from Charlemagne's blood-addled mind. He would have simply cleaved through both the Orc and the warrior in his boundless rage, were it not that his hatred for the hallowed defenders of Alleria overwhelmed his banal desire for blood for blood's sake.

"Slaughter that slave!" He roared, spitting bits of blood and spittle across the dirt as he attempted to intervene. His greatsword whistled its death song as he pressed on the two of them, the blade arcing and falling in a violent two-handed downward cleave backed by the strength to carve through a man's armored torso. It was intended to rend the paladin's head from his shoulders whilst he was pinned by the great orc: if the Allerians would not show him any honor, then Charlemagne would return the savagery tenfold.
 
Last edited:
BEHIND THE WALL


"Just make sure you ask the Redeemer for permission first," Jane said, trying to grin before it was rudely interrupted by some of the clerics popping her shoulder back into its proper place. "I'd hate for you to get into trouble."

Wisps of shining, holy magic seeped through her armor and the familiar warmth of being so healed by this particular brand of magic tingled across her aching muscles and bones. The clerics ran into a bit of a problem though. The Wargs had severely dented the parts of Jane's armor their crushing jaws had gotten a hold of—her left greave and her right vambrace. So much so that the armor was actually constricting the skin (through her arming garments) beneath.

They decided that they had to remove the damaged pieces. One of their number went hurrying away, seeing if he could find suitable replacements from among the more critically wounded, those who wouldn't be returning to the battle outside the wall.

Jane sat up, sans her greave and her vambrace, and looked up to Keldorn as arrows were being plucked from his back. "You'll be waiting a while. I've been a good girl as of late."

And she smiled her most innocent smile. Perhaps it was even better than the one she flashed to the Eunuch...right before she killed him.

Keldorn