Completed The Siege of Belgrath

[Gash]

"The Manreaper!"

"Don't stare at them scars fool, less you make him mad..."

"Chosen from the pits by Methalus hisself, or so is said."

Trudging through his legion's warcamp, Gash ignored the occasional overheard snippets of conversation, baring his fangs to hurry along the wide berth he was being offered wherever he stepped. A blight orc camp such as this is surprisingly organized, though its architectural aesthetic leaves much to be desired. Neat rows of campfires stretched beyond Lor Holdram's arrow range, and already crude tents were beginning to pop up.

There were a few scattered pallid skinned humans and hulking outcast Nordenfiir, but Gerra's legion was predominantly comprised of orc kind. Teams of orcish legionaries seconded by the centurions Dur-Gil had assigned to assist the Molthal engineers labored under the threat of lash to haul siegecraft material into place. It would still take some time before their heavy support was assembled, but properly motivated his fellow warriors were fast workers.

His destination was far removed from the front lines, a massive tented pavilion structure which had been raised just short of the rearguard. Gruesome ornaments surrounded it, some hung from the tent itself and some staked into snowy earth forming a crude perimeter. Offerings to the dark ones who had shown them nature was not meant to be worshiped but dominated, its raw power extracted to strengthen those who were worthy.

"Nazj! I am here," Gash called out into the tent's darkened maw, his usually confident tone undercut by a current of unfamiliar fear. A cacophony of indecipherable whispers seemed to surround him, and some otherworldly force pulled him inside. Much of the pavilion was obscured in smoky incense, but what little the legionary could make out chilled even his spirit. Through a thick haze he could dimly perceive the form of Dur-Girl's shaman, Nazj.

"You come seeking more power for the battle to come," Nazj said. It was not a question, but Gash nodded anyway. The aged blight orc tossed a jagged edged dagger at his feet, "You know what you must do."

 

[Telemachus]

Astyanax happened upon Telemachus again outside of Gerra's tent, erecting what appeared to be a scarecrow. Scrapped armor - some leather and some metal, deemed improper for Blight Orc use - composed parts of the body and torso. A tied sack filled with soil constituted the head. Disappointing that Maho Sparhawk had been too busy slumbering to help him, but...

"My my, far-fighter, I never took you for a sculptor."

If Telemachus had only the time to conjure up some entity to tear out Astyanax's rotten tongue. Perhaps then he would know peace. But his magic was geared towards other ends now, and it was better not wasted on one such as Astyanax. Besides, the necromancer doubtlessly had an answer for it. He had not survived this long by pure happenstance, as much as Telemachus preferred to believe it.

"His grace did instruct us to use only our own means," Telemachus replied, tightening a strap to ensure the dummy's decrepit tin helmet remained on straight.

Astyanax looked behind him, at the small wagon being pulled by two Goblins he had pressed into his service. Flies danced around the bed of the wagon, despite the heavy tarp thrown over it. Something inside groaned, and shifted slightly under the tarp. He stroked his goatee.

"Did he now?"

Telemachus turned away from the dummy, taking up his staff. "Such was my understanding."

"Well then, get gone, you two! Go!" Astyanax snapped at the Goblins.

The goblin shrunk away and vanished into the night. The Sidereal Elf Adepts began to gather back in the area, muttering speculation among themselves. Once Gerra showed himself, the demonstrations proceeded.

Telemachus went first.

Spoiler

A gust of wind tore through the assembled crowd, chilling some and whipping robes this way and that. The wind sounded like it wished to howl, but it only came through as an irritable whistle every now and again. “Mind the breeze,” Telemachus warned, and began his spiel.

Telemachus talked no more enthusiastically than a steward listing off a kingdom’s mundane expenses.

“The outer planes are home to a multitude of creatures, but the ones we know as Elementals reside under the sign of the Child of Dragons,” he explained. “They are primitive and mercurial, but easily trained by a skilled conjurer.”

The wind cut through them again, billowing past Telemachus and splaying his hair wildly out behind him. And so this repeated throughout his dissertation. The wind gusted from one direction, then another, and so on again and again…

“Air Elementals are of some use. They most typically appear in the forms of clouds or cyclones. Quick and suitable for scouting, capable of flight, but poor guardians on their own.”

Abruptly, the gusts stopped.

“With the application of certain magicks, conjured Air Elementals may be warped, and their talents adjusted for more murderous intent.”

Something slithered past Gerra and his close lieutenants, if it could be called that. It felt more like it was moving over them, passing harmlessly past his body as easily as the gust of air had.

Slow and deliberate. Like a snake trailing its quarry. It was a chilling sensation, and it headed straight to the dummy.

“Wind Stalkers are invisible to the common eye. They can kill without notice.”

A slit appeared at the sack that served as the dummy’s head, as if carved there by an unseen knife. Soil tumbled out in a crude representation of blood. Muttering broke out as the sack gradually slouched.

“As for armored foes who may be better protected about their neck…”

The rending of metal is an awful sound and made more horrific when the source is not readily identifiable, but so it was that the Wind Stalker took to tearing apart the scrap-armor effigy. Gashes and punctures appeared all along its form, metal split and bent.

Eventually the stalker took to attacking the base of the effigy itself, first bisecting the wooden pole that formed its back. Nearby adepts shielded their faces for fear of debris – rightly so. Earth was kicked up, splinters and shards of metal shot away from the carnage harmlessly.

Whatever constituted a Wind Stalker’s hands must have gripped the upper half of the bisected effigy, as it slammed it on the ground once, twice, and then flung it away. It flew some distance over the heads of the clustered adepts, landing in the no-man’s land between Lor Holdram and the siege camp.

“…There is little issue, as one can see.”

The first among conjurers stamped his staff into the ground. Some sort of command must have come from that. There was another gust of wind as the Wind Stalker departed through the crowd once again, likely to linger back near the summoning circle Telemachus had used until it was needed again.

“Though not particularly intelligent, a swarm of five can infiltrate the gatehouse of Lor Holdram during the siege. The Dwarves within will be slain by surprise, and the Wind Stalkers may open the gates for the rest of your host.”

The walls of Lor Holdram were formidable, but if Gerra’s forces bypassed them through the gate… There could be no accounting of the potential deaths. It was likely there would still be heavy casualties, but at least they would take the fortress faster than by repeatedly assailing the walls and attempting to bring battering rams to bear.

The Wind Stalkers themselves, meanwhile, were not as powerful. The actual armor of Dwarven regulars could prove something of an impediment, not to mention they were no less vulnerable than those assembled to being stabbed and slashed to death. It hardly mattered, Telemachus supposed. Their strength was the element of surprise. They did not need to last in open combat for very long.

Telemachus bowed, “That will be all from me, your grace.”

Astyanax coughed and slunk forward after Telemachus had departed the clearing. He kicked the stump that remained from the dummy out of his way and came to his cart...

Spoiler

“Disease is the bane of all living things,” Astyanax said, grinning his hideous grin to the assembled crowd, “But I have mastered it. Remember, if you will, that old story about the Siege of Culverton? Did you hear about it? No? But you are sure to have heard of the Black Lysis that struck that place?”

Of course they hadn’t. The Black Lysis never spread from Culverton after the siege, and for good reason – Astyanax was its architect, and the disease rose and fell at his direction. But on the off chance they had, it would prepare them for what they were about to see.

Astyanax waved away some bothersome flies, stooped over and reached under the tarp. He made a face after touching something, moved his hand, and now found what he wanted.

“Ah, there you are.”

Astyanax pulled the severed head of an ox out from the cart by the horn. He could not lug it very far, so it simply fell off the edge of the cart and landed on the ground. Astyanax pulled it a bit forward so it could be seen more clearly. Some people would later regret that he had done this.

Although Gash had only beheaded this ox mere hours ago, the thing looked to have been subjected to rot for many days. The typical festering of death had taken hold, but black, pulsating buboes hung out in clusters along its nose, the base of its throat, and around its eyes.

The quasi-undead ox head groaned a quiet misery and Astyanax hissed at it. “Quiet, you.”

Astyanax retrieved a small staff from where it hung on his belt and used this as a pointer. “Here on this ox head you might see the Black Lysis in microcosm – a small sign of the poor fortune to befall our enemies.”

“See here these modules,” Astyanax indicated the ones about the throat with the staff. “Normally these only form one at a time along the eyes, but the ox was dead when I found it and took more readily to it. See how, when burst…”

Astyanax gave the module the slightest tap with the staff, and it burst. Black pus seeped out, and steam rose where it began to melt away the rotted flesh of the Ox. Another pitiable moan. One adept covered her mouth, several more looked away.

“The Black Lysis breaks down those it infects slowly and surely. The modules burst on their own given time, and dissolve their host in due course. It is a cruel and painful death, and so those who die of it typically animate on their own accord.”

Astyanax cocked his head and regarded the ox head, as if reviewing his work for the first time. “Or what remains of them animates, I should clarify. It is mostly sludge given animus, similar to those Slimes so common to some areas. But once active, they will automatically seek to spread the disease and consume the living around them.”

The corner of his mouth quirked as Astyanax remembered something. “I should make note of the manner in which it – quiet, you!” Astyanax hissed again and gave the ox head another light smack after it shuddered and quietly complained again. A bubo burst. More steam. “Excuse me, spreads. See here…”

Astyanax parted the ox’s mouth with his staff, revealing a bleak interior. Mucus. Black mucus. It clung to the inside of its mouth in abhorrent quantities. Its teeth appeared to be dissolving under the strain of it. At this irritation, the ox coughed, and black sludge flew out several feet and landed pitifully the grass.

An adept groaned and several more sifted about. “It is the coughing that serves most well in the spread of the disease. A few errant drops of spittle are all it takes.”

Astyanax glanced around, half-expecting applause. No such luck. Not from these soft wizards with softer stomachs. He could not see Telemachus in the crowd and so imagined him elsewhere, quietly retching, stupid Wind Stalker holding back his hair for him…

“Your grace, you of course expressed concern over the state of the fort once my art has cleansed it. Now see this…” Astyanax returned to the cart and fished around inside. He revealed a glass jar, filled with a clear substance. Water? It looked like water, but it bristled with magic.

The necromancer wrenched the cap off the jar and poured its contents on the ox head. More steam, and the ox head made a single sound like relief. Dead. Really dead, this time around. When the steam cleared, the disease was utterly gone from its form. Nothing remained save the head itself, which looked as any other rotted cattle head could.

“The Black Lysis is my gift to the world – one I can extend or retract as I see fit. Your troops have nothing to fear so long as I am among them.”

While perhaps not unique among diseases, the Black Lysis was the sole magical work of Astyanax. Countering it with even magical means would prove a difficult task. But by the time they figured it out, Astyanax hoped to have whittled down at least half their number.

Astyanax clipped his pointing-staff back to his belt and bowed ceremoniously.

“I believe I have said my piece, your grace.”

He could see Telemachus now a little ways off with one group of adepts, looking dispassionate and disgusted all at once. So he hadn't gone to vomit. How disappointing.

Maybe next time.

 

[Lagakh]

The Shaman's round face hardened into a jagged sneer as she looked up from her toiling, spotting the origin of the high pitched and boisterous rabble. A Nordenfir, standing at common height to an orc, was slapping shields and rallying the troops in ways that perplexed the woman. What was the point of battlements if these men wanted to fight? Might as well just jump from the ledge and engage the horde of Menalus directly.

The thought of the man comically leaping from the fortress walls, like a well equipped and deranged bird of prey, softened the smile of the Shaman.

The dented and dinged chiseling rod clamored against the ground as Laga leaned back, looking over the rune. It was far more complicated than what the original detail suggested, implying that activation could have wrought calamity in its former state of disrepair. Content that this Dwarven story, told from the lens of Metisa, gave an appropriate retelling of the birth of magic, Laga set her hammer down.

Reaching around her haunch, she pulled a leather strapped demijohn away from her body. Gripping it by the wicker covering, clawed digits grasped at the cork and withdrew it from the stained glass neck. Tilting the bottle over the complex rune, the blood of a particularly sad Hill Giant began to fill the carving. Suddenly, those around her had ceased in their conversations, turning to watch quietly.

Complacent and given freely, the blood gulped through the runes like the marching forces of a invading world, crusading through empty and abandoned streets. The deepest trenches were quickly and aggressively washed in the sticky red as the filling seemed to take on a life of its own, devouring every empty space. Once she was certain that the amount provided would be enough, Laga pulled the half empty bottle back and replaced the cork.

“No one move.” She uttered loud enough for those around to hear. Whether they followed her directions or not was not her concern, their undoing would lay at their own feet. Sliding her left hand in the left-over blood, bubbling within the intricate rune, Laga pulled the rune covered bone club from her back. Bleached white, it spoke of countless fights and the silencing of countless Blight Orcs lives.

Running her hand down the club, she refreshed the inlaid runes before wrapping her hands around the leather bound handle. With a guttural grunt, she brought the club down with impressive force, striking at the center of rune. The blood splashed upward, contained by an invisible wall that encircled the footprint of the rune. As the blood turned through the air, for just a moment, it formed a silhouette of belgrath in red.

The blood splashed back down into the rune, turning the club and surrounding battlements red hot. The battlements rumbled and shook, breathing out eldritch vapors of red from the blemished mortar cracks and broken joints. Like the blood running through the rune, the vapor spread out with a haunting gale, filling and reinforcing every broken component of the defensive wall. And while it may have not been noticeable to the dwarves within, Mages of the attacking horde would realize the sudden fortification and something far beyond the original strength of hand carved limestone.

 

[Nelya Ironfoot]

The Siege of Belgrath was personal to her.

Belgrath was her home, and now that an whole army of Blight Orcs had come to destroy everything that she has ever known as home was not something that she or any other that was living in the Dwarven fortress city was going to take lightly. Raised by Dwarves, she has spent more than half of her life in the city, and this was as home as it could be.

They would hold this city, defending until victorious, like they had done so before in the past, and this time would be no different. Belgrath may no longer be in its prime, and while most of the populace had gone, there was still a sizable amount of them to put up a good fight. It was highly fortunate that defending a fortress required far lesser than the one taking it.

She had emerged from the tunnels deep in the bowels of the city below, together with other city dwellers, dwarven or otherwise. They had all come with a singular purpose, and that was to fight to protect their home and their way of life. No blight orc was going to take Belgrath today, and they most certainly wasn’t going to give it to them. They would have to fight every inch of the way, and that was if they even managed to make it past the walls in the first place.

The elf found herself in strange company. A group of humans and Nordenfiir formed part of the defending crew. Apart from the Dwarves, they were an odd bunch. Now to make the group even more odd, throw an Elf raised by Dwarves into the mix. Now that was not something one got to see everyday. Especially with the overly enthusiastic hulking northern warrior who had taken it upon himself to rally the defenders, Dwarves included in a bid to raise their morale.

Nelya commended his efforts, giving him a appreciative nod if he glanced her way and made eye contact, knowing full well that they would need a bit of good luck and plenty of morale boosting, if they were going to see the end of the battle as victorious. She was ready for battle. Was she really? The elf had no idea what laid in store for them in the battle to come.

 

[Gerra]

"Yes," Gerra said, lips curling in disgust at the rotten ox head laying in the dirt. "You have."

The half-giant turned abruptly and began to walk away. "Telemachus will have the adepts. See that you assist him."

Did Astyanax think him a fool? Gerra would not gain a fort only to have his entire army held hostage by a plague that only its creator could stop. Greed could prevent Astyanax from following through on his promise, just as much as a crossbow bolt 'twixt his eyes.

At least these Wind Stalkers could be slain by mortal hand.

One of the cabal's adepts emerged from the night swiftly and whispered to him. Gerra scowled and waved the adept off, then found his way to Sparhawk's tent, where he spotted the mage pacing nervously. Gerra dismissed his bodyguards with a gesture and they retreated out of hearing.

"Maho, you were right, as usual. Telemachus is the wiser between them. The other smells too much of connivery." Gerra adjusted the cuffs of his maille idly. "Thus far you have followed me, requesting no boon, but what I will ask of you next goes beyond anything I have asked before. Already, I have word of the enemy weaving sorcery on the walls. The cabal thinks it blood magic. In their greed, even Dwarves will cling to their gold through whatever means possible. Hunt them down, Sparhawk. When the sorcerers reveal themselves, burn them out, along with any defense engines the dwarves employ."

Gerra turned and looked out into the night at the fort beyond. "One day we will realize our dream, Sparhawk. A place of commerce and unshackled learning, for all peoples. But every dream has a price." He looked away, eyes reflecting torchlight in the dark. "Ours is blood."

* * *
​

Morning dawned, revealing what the engineers of Molthal had wrought in the night. Siege engines towered, their looming wood logged from nearby forests, counterweights enormous. Under cover of darkness, the engineers had assembled them in range, working feverishly to create their splendid children: counterweights the size of carts, arms reaching into the air like wooden fingers, ropes taught and straining.

No sooner did day break its feeble rays than did the engines set to work. With a snap of rope and groan of wood, they hurled their first missiles up through the air.

Rotted ox heads flew soared over the fort's walls to land amidst the courtyard with sickly splats of decaying flesh.

The steady stomp of feet filled the air as rank upon rank of the legion marched forward, thick shields clattering as they fastened together and above like the overlapping scales of some great serpent.

In the midst of this host, many carried grapples and ladders, while others wheeled a mighty ram, roof covered in oxhide, toward the gate.

Orcs erected pavises within bowshot and began firing their crossbows at the defenders on the ramparts.

Soon, the trebuchets switched their load for stones heavier than a man, which flew forth with a whoosh, as if the engines themselves could suck in a breath.

Some hill giants, wielding Molthal-forged iron and eager to join the fray, stamped forward at a dead run, hoping to simply climb up the walls.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

There was a clamoring of steel against reinforced wood. Dwarven archers- or rather, crossbowman, took their positions as the Orcs began their assault. Their smell, repulsed the Nordenfiir. Their armor, repulsed him. Their lack of care, repulsed him. They would pay for their carelessness, for their brutishness. He watched the trebuchets launch, hurling massive stones towards the battlements. He walked towards the edge, spreading out his arms. The arrows, rocks, and cries rained down an initial firestorm towards the battlements. The Norden stood tall on the edge, holding his arms out.

He was testing fate.

And fate spared him. The arrows, the boulders, some crashing- some impacting the wall, cracking it only in the slightest- one boulder killed at least two dwarves. But none came towards Arnor Skuldsson. He turned and screamed for a javelin- the kind fired from Ballista. A pair of dwarves obliged him. The weight was great, for a dwarf. To the beast-like Arnor, it was...moderately heavy. The Hill Giants came towards the wall, finding no real room to grab onto to climb- at least not at the bottom.

He launched the ballista spear downwards, hitting the Giant in his collarbone. Armor could do little to save him. The ballista went straight through him, hitting all sorts of important things in his chest. Arnor reached down, grabbing his sword. He began to head to the gate, while the Dwarves began to fire back with their (to Arnor) little crossbows. He flexed his powerful body, adrenaline beginning to surge.

And through all that chaos, through all the bloodshed, he laughed. He praised his gods, curling the sword's handle in his hand. He rotated the shield, heading to defend the gate. It was something to have a Nordenfiir on your side. The Orcs would find that out, once they managed to breach the gate. He passed an oxe body, contorted by dark magic. He looked at a dwarf carrying his favorite new invention and pointed at it. It would soon be doused in flames, like the others most likely. He needed to reach the Barbican, making sure that the orcs- once they eventually broke the gate, would find themselves trapped with a terrifying sight.

 

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

The constant rattle of crossbow bolts only picked off a defender here and there but it was enough to keep their heads down. The boulders smashed off the walls, the engineers of Molthal pitting their guile against the masons of Belgrath. A dwarf laying screaming on the ground, stone splinters from a boulder having torn deep into his skin. On Kjaran's left a crossbow bolt caught a defender in the neck. They pitched right over the battlements.

Kjaran rose and shot. He didn't wait to see if he'd hit or not, he was back down behind the safety of the stone. A solid tramping sound could be heard above all the chaos, the relentless sound of thousands of feet. The walking walls of Molthal. He squinted through the arrow slit. There were hundreds of the bastards in his view alone and they were coming on as disciplined as any regiment in Vel Anir.

 

[Thren]

Thren sat quietly against one of the walls.

He'd never been good with a bow, somehow worse with a crossbow, and those giant northerners seemed rather keen on using the Ballista themselves. So the Barbarian did what he usually did during the start of these things...he waited.

It wasn't exactly pleasant, but here it was likely to be long.

The Dwarves had built their wall well, and the Orcs that marched ever onward would find difficulty in reaching their destination. Every bolt they fired would be returned, every boulder matched. There was a rhythm to it, a song of it's own. There would be a sudden jarring slam as a stone hit the wall, then a rattle as the Dwarvish siege engines suddenly returned fire.

Once he saw a boulder strike one of the giants, hitting it in the chest and sending it barreling into a pack of orcs just behind. It was an impressive sight, though a matter of luck more than anything else.

Still, there seemed to be an endless sea of orcs, and every time Thren glanced through the murderhole they crept closer and closer.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

He'd woken up about an hour after he'd initially rested. His mind had cleared - mostly - the voices exiting his head, like an arrow from a wound. His bed was soaked with sweat, blood staining the corner of the pillow he'd been clinging too, likely coming from the scar that inhabited his neck. Oddly, he felt empowered; as if he'd been filled with energy and power. However, he was still plagued by his self-doubt, and immense fear for what would follow the next morning.

What am i doing here? I don't belong here, i never did. I'm surrounded by killers, marauders, murderers, the likes of whom would think nothing of sieging a fort or taking a life, nothing of watching the light of another man's eyes slowly leave, the body an empty, limp husk. I-I can't do it... i'm not a murderer. It's not who i am. What would Myles think? What would Jerik think...

"Maho."
​

Gerra?

Sure enough, Gerra stood there, the immense atmosphere he brought with him ever more prevalent. He felt at ease in Gerra's presence. Although they hadn't known each other for long, they both shared a common goal, a common aim in life. Although on the surface you'd see a hulking giant of a man, his strength unfit to match his drive, you'd miss the look Gerra carried in his eyes: within them was a softness. Hidden in Gerra was his humanity, something that could never be driven from him, no matter how much he wanted it gone. He knows the stakes can't be higher.

Gerra turned and looked out into the night at the fort beyond. "One day we will realize our dream, Sparhawk. A place of commerce and unshackled learning, for all peoples. But every dream has a price." He looked away, eyes reflecting torchlight in the dark. "Ours is blood."

He was right. He hated to admit it, but the world they strove to build had a hefty price, one that couldn't be paid for with all the gold and riches in Alliria. As Gerra spoke, Maho began to see his dream form. All this wasn't just to please Molthal. No, to think that was the only reason would be an insult to Gerra. He had his life's goal already planned out. Pathetic. Sparhawk thought. Gerra knew everything he planned to do, the route to get there, the lives that it would cost, even the toll it would take on him. And Sparhawk stood there, a Sorcerer with no family, no standing in society, not even a reason to go on.

No, that wasn't true. Gerra was his reason to go on. Gerra had a dream he wished to fulfil, and Sparhawk was desperate to help him in anyway he could, no matter the cost. That was his dream.

"A long time ago Gerra, i thought i was going to die without a legacy. I made peace with that. I was just another sorcerer doing his duty to the people of Alliria, as all others did. You. You. You are the one who set me on the path my life needed to be led in. If it weren't for you, i'd... i'd be nothing..." He stopped pacing, his heart-rate slowing to a soft beat. He looked deep into Gerra's eyes.

"I have much to thank you for, more than is expressible... I- I would gladly do whatever you ask, and i am more than happy to duel these sorcerers, if it is you who commands it..." He stood up, determined, ready, and sure of himself.

"Let us show them the power of Gerra and his armies." He smiled, and parted Gerra as friends. His only friend.

Walking back into his tent, he saw his staff. It lay resting on his bedside where he'd left it. The staff he'd made so many years ago. A symbol of who he is. No, of who he was. He picked up the staff, gazing at the engravings he'd made over his life, the drawings he'd etched from his visiting of villages in the southern wastes. The gems he'd encrusted from his last visit to the Spine. He frowned, snapping the staff in two, small blue sparks crackling from the breaking point, and the splinters of wood fell to the floor, indenting the soft carpeted floor. He dropped the two sections to the ground. The Hawk of the West is dead.

****************************
​

He hadn't slept. Sitting by his tent, he watched as the stars went by, symbols of the gods, signs of fortune and misfortune, until the sun reared it's head over the horizon, day-breaking in it's usual, beautiful fashion.

He'd made his way to the where the commanding leaders of the battle were standing. The vantage point loomed over the battlements and siege weapons, and gazed towards the great gate they hoped to fell. He strolled to Gerra's side, no staff by his side, and the cowl of his robe removed.

"At your side, my Lord."

He knew what he had to do. However, to get into the Fortress as soon as possible seemed like an issue. He needed to find a way into the fortress, whilst not being attacked by the entire force of the dwarves.

Of course. Nemesis.

With a wide grin on Sparhawk's face, he began whispering Elvish Rune-words under his breath. For 3 whole minutes he stood, talking to himself like a madman, before finally, he sent his hands forwards towards the air, the elvish runes taking shape before him, shattering into beams of light, splintering off from each other, before coming back together to take flight to the East. Soon...

Far off in the same distance, a small dot began to grow ever larger. It grew and grew, taking shape into the air, appearing to be a horse of all animals.

His call had worked after all.

 

[Adam]

Finally they came.

Adam of Healdwicc couldn't tell if it was what he'd been expecting or not. To be honest, he'd had no real expectations. This was, in common colloquialisms, his first time down to the well. Sure, he'd swapped potshots at a few desperate bandits now and again, and after a few minutes of conflict he wasn't entirely sure if he'd hit them or not ... but this was in a league of its own. Crossbow bolts whistled over the ramparts at a rapid rate, and the young man decided it was a good idea to keep his head down as a result. The huge Nordenfliir just stood there, daring the crossbow bolts to miss.

Adam decided that he was mental.

Whenever the bolts started coming fewer, Adam popped up and fired an arrow from his longbow. It wasn't the best ranged weapon to defend a fortress with and he found it rather unwieldy, but it was what he had. Once that arrow was released, he was back down behind the ramparts so quick that he couldn't tell if he'd hit anything. With that mass of orcs down there though; the sounds of armour clinking against itself, the shuffle of thousands and thousands of orc feet, their barbaric war cries ... he was pretty damn sure he'd hit something.

And still they came. Adam knew they weren't going to stop them before they got to the walls, so he made sure his sword was loose in its scabbard. The time would come to use it, and now the young man couldn't wait. His heart was leaping out of its chest. He was ready for blood.

 

[Cuut'Thul'Lulu]

Mar'Cal had heard that a great battle could be found up here, in the mountains, but to see the fire giants army beginning their assault brought excitement to the ex-conqueror.

It had been far too long since he had been in a proper battle. He'd tasted small battles given to him by small 'lords' when he had grown too bored. He never cared for the reward, and despised the weakness from those who hired him, always content with taking over small bits of land. His success as well as his disinterest in the loot had gained him a small following however, now about thirty mercenaries followed him, knowing that at the very least he left all the gold at his feet for them to take, unlike many leaders who always took a large share first. Mar'Cal liked this group of men as they were warriors and they knew it, they didn't act like rulers yet hold no ambition, he could drink and be at ease with them, and on some occasions have a quick spar with them.

Because of his thirst for a conquerer seeing the siege before him gave him hope, maybe they were being lead by one who actually held ambition. Mar'Cal had to find out and so he ran forward so he could meet the leader, if they let him down at least he'd be able to relish in combat, and his friends could fill their pockets. He made himself known to some scouts,

"Bring me to your leader, or bring him this message 'Mar'Cal The Wanderer, and his men wish to fight for you', I must warn you however, we will taste battle yet this day, one way or another, so choose fast cause we hunger for battle, and run faster if you bring him this message because you will not allow me to go to them, and I wish to hurry to battle."

Mar'Cal dared hope again, if there was a place to look for one who desired conquest a battle seemed a good place to look. He'd need only meet their eyes at some point because when one has strong enough ambition in them, it is impossible not to be recognized by one who also held such drive once. Great warriors bring great battles, and only a great conquerer can bring great warriors together. Therefore Mar'Cal would find such a being.

 

[Gerra]

"Sparhawk," Gerra greeted the sorcerer.

Suddenly, a messenger pushed his way through the tall pike bearers who formed Gerra's bodyguard.

"Legate Dur-Gil, Lord Gerra, I bring word from rear. Human warriors approach, one called Mar' Cal wan's speak. Says he might fight for us, or might not if we do not hurry."

Gerra's brows knit together. "Dur-Gil."

She nodded, "I will double the rearguard's sentries."

"Yes. Bring this Mar'Cal to me. Unharmed. I will see what manner of man he is."

So word was sent, and blight orc legionnaires escorted Mar'Cal the Wanderer to the son of Molthal.

In the distance, the battle raged on. Orcs toppled within the shield walls, pierced by arrow or impaled by ballista, and were trampled by the mercilessly boots of their fellows. They drew near the stone and the shield walls of the bands split apart briefly, ladder-bearers sprinting out and trying to erect their ladders before arrow or stone could stop them.

A giant fell from the wall, crushing those beneath him, while another stepped on the body of his brother and managed to hook the edge of the battlement with his enormous axe, using it to bear his weight as he hoisted himself bodily up onto the wall while arrows peppered him like the searing stings of angry hornets.

 

[Nelya Ironfoot]

Nelya had never met quite a Nordenfiir warrior like this one before the Siege of Belgrath. He fascinated her.

She had met other Northerners before, but certainly none as bizarre as this one. The fact that he started being a human ballista was most definitely an eye opener for the elf. He nailed the giant right in the collarbone taking the big nasty fellow down for good, crushing a good number of orcs who had the misfortune to stand behind it, and not get out of the way in time. She didn't know if he was crazy, or if all Nordenfiiri warriors were like that. She was glad he was on their side.

She watched as the Northerner grabbed his sword before heading to the gate. She returned her focus back to the front. The stench of the advancing Blight Orc army was just as revolting as the black armour they wore. Conserving her arrows for the long fight ahead, she picked up a crossbow from a fallen dwarf with a bolt lodged in his chest.

There was plenty of bolts nearby, and with the sea of orcs just ahead, one didn't need to be an expert archer to hit anything. Nelya peeked over the wall and fired in the general direction of the attackers. Nelya didn't wait to see what she hit before she went back down to reload before firing any bolt. There was just so many of them, that she was sure that her bolt had most likely found itself in some form of orc somewhere in that whole mess.

For now, all the defenders could do was to respond with arrows and ballista, but once they managed to get the ladders up, then the real gritty fighting would finally begin. She fingered the grips of her swords in her hand as she waited for the inevitable to happen. Despite the number of bolts and arrows that was fired towards them, the black sea of Blight orcs did not falter, and this was only the beginning of what was to come.

 

[Former and the Foal]

From the east, winds carried the wingspan as if it's owner's weight had no meaning at all. The blackness grew in the shape of a magnificent beast, pelt dark and mane like fiery ginger, and on its flank etched in a glowing red rune, extensive and pulsating, part depleted and partly weathered. Yet it still carried magic dark and forboding to those that could sense it.

The artifact horse before long landed in a long stride, it's gallop turning to a canter before arriving right of the summoner in a long walk and ending with a stop right beside him. Its head gazed around the locomotion, the buzzing of the camp.
Loud, annoying, and the silly human binds, magic trickery of wizards. What calls he me for now?

 

[Gash]

All around him there was fire and blood.

Through the narrow slit of his great helm's visor, he could just barely make out the warrior in front of him. Sometimes they would fall, only to be replaced by another. For now his warband's shield wall held, but every so often an arrow or precisely thrown javelin found its way throw a gap in formation and another orc went down. He could hear the screams of legionaries bleeding out in the snow all around him.

An arrow struck him in the shoulder shortly before they reached the wall, so Gash sliced off the tip with his glaive and left the haft there without a second thought. His arms still burned in exquisite agony, covered in fresh self-inflicted ritual slices from the night before. He could feel raw elemental power coursing within, trapped spirits of earth endowing him with supernatural strength.

With only one working hand he made a poor climber, so Gash had been reassigned to the rear of a small grapple team. Shielding the others as they started their climb, he wound the rope around his arm and started rappeling upwards with his feet, curling an arm's length with each step for more slack. Above him the first in his team let out a strangled cry as a spear hurled from above pierced his collarbone and he fell back and out of sight, nearly jostling the others off on the way.

To his left, Gash saw an entire ladder filled with blight orcs sent screaming back down. The rampart defenders above had managed to break the barbed clamps which secured it and overpowered the orcs bracing below. A lucky boulder hurled by one of Gerra's trebuchets rocked the wall above him, sending debris raining that dislodged another orc climbing directly above him. Flailing arms grasped desperately at his waist and legs, but he quickly shook off the warrior in annoyance who tumbled screaming to his death.

By the time he reached the battlements they had lost many, and Gash was all too eager to return the favor. Eyes wild with bloodlust, he plunged his glaive deep into the neck joint of the first armored dwarf he saw. Enhanced with the power of the elements, his glaive arm battered its way through chainmail, and death gurgles sounded like music in his ears. Tipping his victim almost lazily back over the wall behind him, he let out a fierce roar of challenge before wading through a line of defenders.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

Nemesis...

It had been extremely lucky that he had tamed such a beast. Well, at least semi-tamed. Very rarely was a flying horse found outside of myths and stories, but the gods had been particularly favourable on Sparhawk. He knew that Nemesis would be invaluable to getting inside the fortress and finding the enemy sorcerers. No doubt they'd be supporting the Dwarves from a distance, especially since the protectors of the fortress had taken precautions and involved themselves in blood magic. He had to be very careful; he knew that with his full force, the hired sorcerers would be no match for his experience, but he wouldn't be able to keep it up for long. If the enemy were to prolong the fight, Sparhawk would have to flee, lest he will be destroyed by the sizeable group of wizards protecting the fort.

It had been more than a month since he'd seen his Steed. Ever magnificent of course, but he could tell that he'd travelled a very long way to get to Belgrath, his speed unmatched by any other form of transportation.

He pet the back of Nemesis, his back matted from rain and storm.

"Gerra, I'm going to circle the Perimeter of the Fort until i catch sight of the enemy Sorcerers. God Speed." He mounted his horse, sliding his legs on either side of Nemesis, his great size raising Sparhawk from the ground. Nemesis pushed his hind legs into the ground, pushing off with great force, galloping at fantastic speed. Slowly, it's wings began to separate from it's sides, it's wingspan huge and magnificent. And with the strength 20 horses, it's wings struck the floor, sending itself and Sparhawk far into the sky.

It'd been a while since he'd ridden Nemesis, and it took a little while to get used to again.

Just like putting on an old pair of Boots...

The wind flying past him, Nemesis and Sparhawk travelled through the air towards the Fort, orcs looking in sheer confusion at the sky as they did so. Edging their way around the Fort, Sparhawk stayed as high in the air as he could, whilst still being able to see any wizards supporting the Dwarven troops-

"What..." Looking down towards the Fort's battlements, he saw something flying towards him.

What?

 

[Adam]

The orcs kept coming, the ground shaking under their march. Adam the Bastard kept shooting, the arrows in his quiver fast running out. His mouth was dry with anticipation as they gradually drew closer, and closer, and closer. Hill giants climbed the walls with their bare hands, and now countless ladders were thrown against the ramparts. At first they were all thrown off, with countless blight orcs and hill giants falling screaming to a sudden death below ... but still they came, and came, and eventually the orcs were on the walls in force. Adam's section still held, but on both sides blight orcs were spilling over the ramparts and fighting the defenders. Fifteen metres to his left, a dwarf fell to an axe in his neck. Adam's first thought was for his sword, and the orcs that would be on his part of the wall in moments.

But then he saw it. Fate made him look up at sensed movement in the corner of his eye, and his eyes grew wide. From the enemy camp flew a horse ... with wings. What in the seven aspects of hell is that? And what manner of man or orc could ride one of those beasts? But it was a battle, and there was no time for thought, only action.

His right hand instinctively reached for his quiver. One arrow left. Adam hesitated for a second.

Fuck it.

He plucked the arrow, drew his bow and shot at the flying horseman with one swift motion.

There was no aiming, because there was no point in aiming. Adam was a decent marksman at best; he was pretty good at hitting a stationary target on the ground. A moving target? Not so good. A moving target, in the air, moving at the pace it was, at the altitude was? That was a one in one hundred shot.

Spoiler

Maho Sparhawk chose: 33

Adam of Healdwicc: 1d100 = (32) = 32

Usually, Adam would have been looking to save his own skin at this point ... but he watched the flight of the arrow, mesmerised.

Woah, that actually looks pretty good.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

"NEMESIS!" Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, the arrow came soaring towards Sparhawk in the sky.

How could someone get such a good shot?! Is this it? Have i failed?

Have i failed Gerra...?

As the arrow came to meet Sparhawk, he yanked himself backwards with all his strength, hoping to make the arrow miss his vitals. The sharp edge of the Steel butchered it's way across the scarred side of Sparhawk's face, taking some flesh with it. Blood poured from Sparhawk, fiery pain striking his cheek and jaw.

Lucky bastard...

He was filled with fury. One stray arrow managed to do so much damage. The anger was swelling within him. The symbol that brandished his neck began to once again glow an unsightly red colour, his eyes a bright shade of blood.

​

He no longer felt himself. It was a similar sensation to when he burnt down the Watch-tower at the Templar outpost. However, he felt as if he had more control. He knew this feeling, and he would not drain himself so early, else he wouldn't have the strength or stamina to face the sorcerers.

He looked downwards to the man who'd shot him; a mercenary no doubt, but it was apparent that he was an inexperienced one. A good shot. With a great smile on his face, he opened his mouth, and expelled a small bundle of flames that shot forth towards the direction of the arrow that had cut him so deeply. Not enough to do any conceivable damage of course, But it would send a message...

The middle of the fort was low on soldiers, most of them having travelled closer to the gate to protect the battlements that were now being assaulted by the Gerra's forces. He slammed his leg against Nemesis' side, and he subsequently glided downwards towards the fort. He had no time to waste. Nemesis' wings began to stop moving as they got closer to the ground, retracting as soon as they'd met it, slowing to a hover as his feet touched the hard, cobble floor. Sparhawk came down from Nemesis, beckoning him to leave until called once more. Soldiers littered the surrounding area, giving Sparhawk a mix of looks; determination, fear, despair. But mostly, he saw soldiers willing to die to protect the fort.

Into the fire we go.

 

[Thren]

Metal slammed over the wall just to the side of him, the curved edge of an iron axe that hooked itself into the top of the wall. Thren's eyes bulged, head swiveling to the side as he realized just how close the massive piece of metal had come to sundering his skull.

"Fuck me." Thren said quietly as he felt a vibration against the side of the wall. He frowned, grasping one of the black metal daggers at his back and pulling it free from it's sheath.

Quickly he stood, glancing over the wall and meeting the face of a giant. The massive man's hand was wrapped around the handle of his axe, the huge metal weapon having been hooked over the top of the wall. Another curse rang from the Barbarian's lips as he watched the Giant begin to pull himself up the wall.

"Kjar!" Thren shouted to Kjaran Mak Aodha loudly. 'Cover me!"

It was a rather futile request, but if that Giant got on top of the wall it would spell trouble for the defenders. Letting out a string of Curses the Barbarian grasped his knife, and then bounded over the edge of the wall. Like a spider-monkey from the wilds he jumped, landing directly on the giants face and beginning to stab it over and over.

Blood splattered, the giant roared, his grip lost, and then suddenly the two found themselves tumbling to the ground.

 

[Former and the Foal]

The steed of Hellet was no ordinary beast, but it still feared the might of nature. It could be felt how it faltered as flames were tossed from it's sides, that much was true.

But when ridden amid battle it no longer feared the loud squabble of clashing weapons and roaring men. Unlike as ordered, the beast wanted to stay for a treat.

 

[Cuut'Thul'Lulu]

When the scout returned to escort him, Mar'Cal hurried to the orcs commander, his men followed behind at a bit more of a distance, unlike how he might of claimed his men were eager for gold more than battle and would not be rushing to their deaths.

So this army was being led by some kind of half giant? From the flames that seemed to leap from its body he would guess half fire giant. The only flames Mar'Cal cared to see though were flames of passion in his eyes. This was still an interesting turn of events though, he'd expected a orc, but this made him even more exited, he'd never known many giants to lead armies, for this one to be doing so there had to be something driving it.

Mar'Cal stood before the giant, he was not a small man, but even he was shrimped by this creature before him. Size was not what he was here for however, and so he stared into Gerra's large glowing orbs, orbs he'd never seen the like before. He scanned them looking for any hint of character he could determine from these alien eyes, he saw enough to satisfy him this entity was at the very least determined about something, and held a strength all too rare in the south. If Mar'Cal wanted to learn any more about this giant he'd have to learn through experience. His mind was made up.

"I am Mar'Cal, The Wanderer, Seeker of Conquerors. I wish to fight for you, and by fighting beside you, so I might get to learn about you. I will offer myself, and those who follow me into battle as your tools in return, though they have different motivations than me, I believe that they will require promise of gain for fighting."

Mar'Cal hoped that if this was to be his end, at the very least his brothers in battle, however short their bond of time together had been, would be able to find more battle in their futures. Mar'Cal's allies stood back hoping themselves that they were not going to die for following this mad man.

 

[Nimedae]

They had tried to recruit her.

In their march to take Belgrath, they had attempted to purchase her services and those of many others. Sell-swords were easy enough to buy if the coin was good. Normally one would never say no. She had. The city they marched for was the home of the dwarves in the Spine. This was the same Spine that held the Mountain of Glass, the place her people had briefly called home at the time she was born. The Spine was still the only place she had ever once called home, though nowadays home was wherever the spirits directed, and rarely the same place twice. Belgrath had once been one of those places, when she was much younger and barely able to function on her own.

The dwarves were her friends. Alone, abandoned, they had taught things that were not easy to teach. They had created laughter in a child that had known nothing but sadness from birth. In essence, they were the closest thing to family that she had ever had. So, of course, she'd said no, even though the price was more than anyone else was likely to ever offer. Fighting the dwarves was not something she was keen on doing. Fighting for them was another matter altogether.

Carefully she had followed the horde of blight orcs as they made their way towards the dwarven city. Their first target would have to be one of the fortresses that guarded the way. Given the direction they marched in, that was likely to mean Lor Holdram. It would be heavily defended, despite the depleted numbers of dwarves living in the city. So many had moved out to other places, and she'd seen many of the ones that she had once known while on her journeys. Those days had been the most enjoyable to her. There were few of them that were, but those few were precious beyond any stone.

Distance had been the key to not being spotted. They had a rear guard, of course. Not even orcs were stupid enough not to. These were the ones she followed, not the main army. Where the rear guard moved to is where she moved to, always remaining at a distance sufficient enough to make it difficult for her to see them, knowing that the opposite was true as well. It was best to go undetected. Not that they would pay too much mind to a solitary Komodi following along behind them. Undoubtedly, given that she carried a lute, they'd think she was after a story that she could tell for money in the taverns. Sure she bore weapons and armor, but she was also alone.

They made camp, eventually, and she remained far enough back that she could watch them. She had to keep moving to keep her body warmth up, which made it hard to keep a direct eye on everything going on. There was also the fact that they were felling logs for kindling and their war machines. She had to stay clear of them, as well. It would have been a good idea to attack them in the dark and cause confusion, but she couldn't see the entirety of the camp well enough to think that she wouldn't be caught. Besides, under the warmth of the risen sun she would better be able to function.

When they had ceased to harvest wood and gathered to attack, she found a hollowed out tree and wrapped her lute in her cloak to place it inside. It would be safer there than on her back, where it was sure to be destroyed.

They began the assault largely with their siege weapons. She couldn't tell what it was that they were launching, but it was landing inside of the walls and not striking them so she doubted it was boulders. That led to the curious question of how they thought they were going to get inside. Were they going to climb the walls? They'd never make it. The dwarves and others inside would just push the ladders over and siege towers were easy enough to catch on fire.

When the flying horse came into view she knew they had magick with them. It was easy to guess they were going to use it in order to find a way to gain entry. There was no way of knowing directly how, but that didn't matter much. She couldn't do anything to warn the dwarves, and undoubtedly they were already aware of the fact that they had spellcasters among them. Likely the ones inside had discerned their presence. She wasn't much use all alone, but she could be a small thorn in the enemies side. Any she killed would make it easier for the dwarves to fend off.

She waited for the army to push forward and then drew her blade. Her left arm bore her shield. The target of choice was the rear guard for one of the nearest siege machines. Running as quickly as she could, she crossed the open field, not making a sound, charging towards them with the intent of cutting a few down before they spotted her. They would eventually spot her and raise the alarm, and she was sure she'd have to deal with a bunch of trouble, but if she could split a few of them off, she'd be able to dwindle their number a tiny bit. One person killing a handful could make a difference in battle.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

He'd landed.

His horse, Nemesis - despite his wishes - stayed with him. He wasn't sure whether that was out of loyalty, spite, or blood-lust, but he was happy to have him by his side all the same. Around him were scattered dwarves soldiers, more concerned with the Orc force beating down their gate than with Sparhawk. He decided it might be appropriate to make an example.

The best kind of example...

"Dwarves of Belgrath, i am Sparhawk, chosen by the Fire-Lord Imamu. Are there those among you who would dare challenge my might!" He bellowed at the top of his lungs.

At least 30 of the opposing force turned to look at him, all a fair distance off, apart from one Pike-man, standing what must have been three metres in front of him. He looked scared. Terrified even. Yet, despite knowing his chances of winning were close to none, he stood with his weapon all the same. Whilst the others were apprehensive, filled with self-doubt and fear, here he stood. Honourable. Wouldn't help him survive, but still honourable.

A small part of Sparhawk took a back; should he let him live? He didn't neccesserely do anything wrong. However, he chose to be the soldier who apposed him, and the dark part of Sparhawk's mind wandered to Imamu, and his dark desires bloomed forth.

"Brave. Yes; brave. But foolish..." A sickly smile was drawn across his face, ear-to-ear. He deserves to burn.

Drawing his body backwards, he suddenly jolted forwards, his hands and arms stretching outwards to the pikeman. And from his hands expelled a concentrated inferno; not too taxing, but it'd do the job. The soldier let out a terrible screech out of fear for his life, but it was short lived. As the flames reached the soldier, they spread across his entire body, his armour offering him no protection from the flames spreading under his plate-mail. The screams were satisfying. His throat was being ripped apart by his desperate and terrified attempts to beg for help. Nothing could help him now.

Slowly the screams began to soften, and came less often, and eventually all that was left was the silent, charred and still burning remains of the soldier that once stood before him. His armour was blackened by the smoke, his eyes dark spaces, devoid of any life. Within them however, still retained the same desperation and fear they held as he was burned into oblivion.

"Afdar!!!" Someone shrieked. From behind one of the pillars, a mage stood, a look of pure hatred written across his
face.

He quickly made his approach to Sparhawk, staff raised in the air. He howled into the air. The howl of someone who'd just lost a dear friend.

"You- you! I'll... I'll... I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU!!!" The Sorcerer wailed. He ran at Sparhawk, staff pointed in his direction. The mage began muttering words under his breath. Runes... Sparhawk thought. He braced himself for what was about to come. Suddenly, the Mage shouted a word unknown to Sparhawk, and a great flame burst from it's tip, blasting it's way towards Sparhawk at great pace. The other dwarves were shouting as well, in support for the wizard, all hoping that the Warlock who'd just killed their friend would be brough to justice for what he'd done.

In Sparhawk's eyes reflected the great torrent of flame that was coming towards him. He could feel it's grand warmth from all that distance away, the crackle it made in the air like a bonfire in the night. He had to act fast to redirect the attack, else he would be the one left charred.

His pupils widened, his air stood on end, and his eyes glowed stronger. He started moving his arms in a circular motion, a wafer thin red barrier forming in front of him. As the great ball of fire reached him, he focused his arcane energy, and stopped the attack in mid-air. He could feel it's immense heat on his face, the embers spitted at Sparhawk, leaving small burn patches on his face. I can't hold it for much longer...

He let out a great scream, pushing his hands forwards toward the opposing Sorcerer, the ball of flame slowly moving away from him, and back to his opponent. The inferno was caught between the two of them, both struggling to keep one-another from sending the ball flying into them. A red aura formed around Sparhawk's body, an unworldly glow surrounded him. His eyes became void of humanity. In his most desperate moment, Sparhawk was gone...

"Do you not know Death when you see it?"
​

A voice blustered from Sparhawk, yet his mouth didn't move, stuck in an emotionless, cold stare. The ball of flames quickly made it's way to the enemy sorcerer. The struggle visibly coming to an end, the Mage looked around him for any sort of support. All he saw however, were the fearful faces of Dwarf soldiers, who knew it was far too late for him.

"No!!! You-you can't! YOU CAN'T! NO!!! NOO!!!" Eventually, it became all too much for the sorcerer, and the strength of their combined fires was a flame he simply couldn't quench. He was engulfed by the giant combustion, consuming him totally, every cell in his being was incinerated by the sheer ferocity and heat of the flame. All he left was a scorch mark on the ground, a shadow of who he was. Nothing.

There Sparhawk stood, shadowed in a great crimson glow, looking around himself at the terrified Dwarf soldiers. One ran, likely to get reinforcements. Luckily, he had Nemesis if anything went wrong. But he was ready to fight. And as the remaining soldiers looked upon his work, Sparhawk looked back.

Let's kill all of the Dwarf Scum.

 

[Telemachus]

The siege was well underway. From the crest of a hill within the borders of Gerra's siege camp, Telemachus observed proceedings on the wall. He used a spyglass, holding it delicately to his eye. His staff was in his other hand. The First among Conjurers looked rather regal and dignified in this light. It was only natural. Victory over Astyanax had a way of improving his mood and poise.

A giant clamored up the wall, only to meet the business end of a ballistae bolt and go tumbling off the ramparts. Telemachus grimaced as several Blight Orcs - probably more - were crushed under the hulk. A grim omen. But Telemachus saw what he needed to see: the fighting on the walls was reaching its height. The defenders would be most focused there.

"Hey, who's that?"

Telemachus lowered the spyglass to see who was next to him. A young adept, comely features. She was holding a cheap spyglass of her own. "Should you not be attending the ritual?"

"There's a woman, running across..."

"The ritual," he repeated.

"Ah," she lowered the spyglass and bowed reverently. "The Wind Stalkers are ready, Master."

As if Telemachus had the time or the capacity to attend to every floozy running across a battleground. Let the spearmen by the siege engines handle her if she was a problem. It was likely just some straggling mercenary too scared to join the initial assault. The gates were about to fly open, and Telemachus would have the distraction he needed to rip what he wanted out of those Dwarven halls.

"Very well. Return to the circle."

She hesitated, cleared her throat. "The other adepts say I should inform you that Master Astyanax has not been seen since this morning."

He was likely conspiring some other way to steal Telemachus' prize. It was too early in the game for him to have slithered back into the filth he came from. Telemachus stifled a sigh. There was no point worrying over it. "I see. Thank you," he replied, and collapsed the spyglass. The adept bowed again and departed.

Telemachus raised his staff and began to conduct the energy stored within his staff. It was not a flashy display and not one likely to attract any attention from the walls - unless for some reason the occupants were scouring the camp with spyglasses of their own while Blight Orcs were running amok.

A gust of wind shot past him. Then another. Three more, but Telemachus outstretched his hand and caught the sixth one, even as another shot by. "No, not you." The air shimmered in front of his hand as he brought it closer. "I have another task for you."

Telemachus whispered his demands to the Wind Stalker, and then released it. It too flew for Lor Holdram, but veered away from the gatehouse in search of something else.

 

[Gerra]

Gerra lifted one hairless brow at the barbarian Mar'Cal, but could only appraise him for a handful of seconds before yet another runner drew his attention.

"A madwoman, Lord, at the siege engines," the runner pointed.

Peering through the early morning light, Gerra spotted a lone figure laying violently into the crew of a siege engine. He grunted. "Mar'Cal, I am who you seek, but I know not your worth. A place at my side is earned. See that warrior, fighting alone against odds?" He pointed to the figure of Nimedae, busily slaughtering the trebuchet workers. "Kill that one and you will have a place by my side, and your warriors will take a share of the spoils when we gain the city. Go, and show me your worth."

At the walls, orcs continued to scale ladders, gaining small footholds here and there, but the wheeled ram lay seemingly discarded fifty yards from the gate, bodies of blight orcs littering the ground around it.