Completed The Siege of Belgrath

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

The wall itself seemed to shudder as a massive axe struck it. It had hooked over the battlement. Thren had narrowly avoided being bisected by the huge weapon. A nervous laugh escaped Kjaran. It died as a hand large enough to crush his skull clutched at the stone. He had a momentary glimpse of a large snarling face before Thren dived over the rampart, stabbing wildly at the hill giant.

"Thren!" He made a grab for the mercenary but the man was gone. A mighty roar from the wounded giant and then the two of them were tumbling from the wall. Kjaran watched, absolutely gobsmacked. A bolt ricocheting off the stone brought him back to himself. Another head popped over over the battlement, this one thankfully orc sized. Kjaran screamed and hacked down. Blood spurted from the orc's wrist. The creature stared glumly at what had been its hand before the blade took it in the throat.

He was about to shove the ladder off when sense prevailed. He could make out the giant's bulk and a smaller one that he hoped was Thren. "THE LADDER!" He cupped his hands and bellowed down. "GO FOR THE LADDER!". Further conversation was cut short by another leering head.

The orc had ditched his helmet to get better vision. Even still, his headbutt still made Kjaran see stars. Orcs had skulls like iron. The mercenary had enough sense to grab the orc before he punched his dagger into his throat. He twisted once and yanked back, letting the corpse drop from the wall.

 

[Cuut'Thul'Lulu]

"I thank you for this chance." With that Mar'Cal took off in a sprint. This was odd, why would anyone attack in such a way, what did they hope for. Then there was this test, testing him obviously made sense, he was a stranger who just showed up claiming to help, with no proof of his worth, but a place at his side for what seemed to be pest control something seemed off to Mar'Cal.

As he drew near he saw it was a female with horns. She seemed to at the very least be skilled with the sword, but something made him doubt she was a warrior, was this act personal? Mar'Cal's axe arrived just in time to save one of the rear guard by intercepting her blade. He looked at her questioningly, who was she, why was she here?

"I am Mar'Cal I was told that if I slew you I would be able to stand by this armies would be conquerors side. Why would he offer me such a thing to off you? Who are you and why do you attack their siege engines in such a futile attempt? Surely you knew someone would come to slay you, you don't appear to be a warrior so why do you seek death here and now? What do you hope to gain?"

Mar'Cal's interruption gave those in the crew time to flee. He took a defensive stance, he was in a battle and no matter what she looked like he would give her the respect due for being in battle. He also wished to know more before he attacked. Something was not quite right in this situation.

 

[Adam]

It was a hell of a shot. Adam waited, wanting the satisfaction of a rider falling from the winged horse and plummeting into the orc hordes below. But it was two seconds after the arrow had appeared to strike home, and -

What. A spout of flame erupted from the rider, shooting towards Adam at a rapid velocity. Alarm rang in his mind, and the icy grip of fear crept into his gut. He dove to the side, seeking cover from a stone outcropping. They didn't have flame mages in Healdwicc. Sure, there was the King's Mage, but he just interpreted signs from the gods and read his scrolls. This was something else. Adam the Bastard wasn't in Siaxeny anymore. A horrible smell engulfed Adam's nostrils, and there was a faint sensation of heat on his head. Oh. Oh no. His hair was on fire.

"MOTHER-' he screamed, 'FUCKER!" as he patted furiously at his head until the fire was out. Furious, he stood up and petulantly launched his longbow at an orc who had just climbed onto the ramparts, knocking him off the wall into the assaulting orcs below. He freed his sword from his scabbard, and it was on. The first orc came, over-committing and swinging its hammer at him from the overhead. Adam sidestepped neatly, hooked its right right leg with an axe and pulled back, throwing the orc onto it's back. He buried his sword between the join of its helm and breastplate, killing it instantly. He'd trained plenty for a fight like this, and first time jitters were nowhere to be found. He'd managed to avoid the brunt of that flame attack, and so it had just really pissed him off. He was a scared animal now, but his instincts had always been fight, not flight.

An orc barrelled into his side, tackling him to the ground with force, and his weapons flew out of his hand. From there, it was an animalistic struggle. The helmless orc tried to bite out his throat, so Adam shoved a thumb into its right eye and squeezed, roaring with bloodlust. The orc flinched back, and that was all Adam needed. He fished his knife out of his boot and with an overhand grip, stabbed the orc repeatedly in the neck, screaming as he did so. Blood splattered all over his face and chest; it was as if the battle was anointing him.

So far, the only damage he'd sustained was burnt hair and a broken rib or two, from the force of a heavily armoured two hundred and fifty pound plus orc smashing him into the ground. That made moving the dead orc difficult, but after a while Adam managed to ease himself out from under it. He got up to survey the scene. Chaos. Orcs, dwarves and men struggled with each other on the ramparts, weapons mostly forgotten. There wasn't much space to employ pikes and glaives up here. He looked down near the gate. That was a different story. Dwarven soldiers stood around a solitary enemy. Their posture was submissive. His was dominant, surrounded by charred bodies and a crimson glow. Near him stood a winged horse.

Hey. That's that arsehole who singed me. Usually, Adam would be too afraid of mages to do anything. But his blood was up, and he'd thrown caution to the wind a long time ago. Self-preservation was no longer on his mind. Winning was what he thought about now. That, and getting even with the man who'd made him yelp like a little girl.

From his position on the rampart, Adam began to run. He weaved through the struggling attackers and defenders, ran down the first flight of open stairs near the gatehouse, and then launched himself towards Maho Sparhawk.

He attacked from the rear and above, as much of a blindspot as he could possibly generate. In his left hand he carried his knife, in his right he carried nothing but a balled fist. The attack was basically a flying tackle. If he managed to bear the fire mage to the ground, his natural reaction would be to repeatedly punch him in the back of the head until he was senseless. If he missed, he'd likely crack his head on the pavement and die. Not the smartest move Adam of Healdwicc had ever made.

But he wasn't exactly thinking.

 

[Thren]

Well the Giant was dead, but there was an immediate flaw to his plan.

Thren now found himself standing on the wrong side of the wall. It almost seemed to take the orcs surrounding him a second to understand what was actually happening. The Giant had crushed half a dozen of the orc's brethren in his fall, and those that had barely survived took a moment to ponder their survival.

It was all the Barbarian needed.

He heard Kjaran Mak Aodha screaming at him, the voice of the mercenary bursting out even among the battlefield. Thren turned, grabbing the hilt of his dagger and wrenching it free as he suddenly burst into a spring.

A second passed, and then suddenly the Blight Orcs finally seemed to realize what was going on. They howled and roared, suddenly hacking and slashing their blades at him. He felt a few bounce against his platemail, he batted away others, and still some cut shallow canyons into his flesh.

He roared, his dagger slicing across the throat of one Orc as he grabbed onto the edge of a latter. His foot wrenched up and kicked an armored figure in the face, his hands pulling him up and another Orc down.

Thren scrambled as quickly as he could, painfully aware of the blood seeping from his wounds.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

God i'm tired.

We're not done yet.

He was fatigued. The last 10 minutes had been a blur. He lost his senses and wit fighting the Sorcerer from before. When his senses began to come back to him, he was covered head-to-toe in blood, corpses of Dwarven soldiers covering the immediate vicinity. They were all charred...

Their bodies were covered in a black film, head-to-toe in burn marks and grievous injuries. They looked as if they'd been cooked in their armour. The sight was ghastly, and made Sparhawk a little sick. He raised his hands from his side; they were charred. Under his finger-nails lingered drying blood, scorch marks imprinted themselves upon his features. I was only meant to kill a few wizards... what did i do?

The Mark on his neck no longer glowed, and his eyes went back to their Dark-Brown shade. It's time to go home... He thought to himself. Time to walk back to Neme-

Ugh...

My... Ah....my back. My- why does my back hurt...?

Looking behind him, a tall mercenary was perched on his back, a long knife he wielded dug it's way into Sparhawk's back, hitting bone. He knew if he used any more magic, he wouldn't be able to wield his power for months, in similar fashion to what happened at the Templar outpost. Wait-

The mercenary who shot me? That- That Bastard...

He needed to get out of their quickly, a few of the surviving Dwarven soldiers were looking towards him, seeing his weakness and vulnerability. He used the one trump card he had left:

"NEMESIS!!!" He screamed. His horse looked towards him, ready to gallop, and that he did, at a fantastic pace. He used the little magic he had left to press both Sparhawk and the mercenary together. He didn't want him falling off...

Finally at full speed, Nemesis quickly passed Sparhawk, he grabbed onto Nemesis's harness, throwing his leg (and Adam's) over his back. Once again, Nemesis's wings smashed towards the floor, sending the two hurdling into the air. He was losing a lot of blood, that much was certain, as he could feel it trickling down his back, and soaking into his clothes. Many of the Dwarf archers and Artillery shot at him whilst in the air, only one cutting the side of his right knee. Come on Sparhawk, nothing major... nothing major.

He could see Gerra in the distance. If he could make it there, he'd be alright. Gerra would take care of this.

"DOWN!" Nemesis listened, and descended, eventually hitting the ground a little harder than expecting, and tumbling beside Gerra and Telemachus, and the other Commanding officers in the Siege. They both fell to the ground with a mighty thud, the injuries both of them had sustained only worsening. On the floor, out of energy, he spoke to the party.

"I have... I have done as you instructed- i think... I've brought... I've... i...." His eyelids becoming heavier and heavier, he passed out on the floor, covered in blood, injuries, scorch marks, and ripped clothes.

God it's been a long day.

 

[Adam]

Adam was surprised to say the least. He'd hit the fire mage with considerable force, but he just wouldn't go down. Instead, the young man found himself perched on the other man's back. His knife, which he'd meant to use after he'd knocked the mage senseless, was buried in the mage's upper back. A momentary hesitation, induced by just how different this situation was from what he'd expected, followed. And then the fire mage called his horse, and Adam the Bastard was spurred into action once again.

He pulled the knife free and stabbed down at the mage's neck ... but at that second, they were bumped by the horse and he missed, instead driving down into the other man's shoulder. He stabbed again, hitting the same place. That was the last thing he did for some time. The horse rose into the air at a rapid rate, and so the young sellsword clung on to the man he'd just been stabbing the life out of before. Now if the fire mage died, he'd probably die too. Falling from a flying horse into a pile of orcs? Not a great way to go.

Soon they crashed to the ground; Adam had the wind driven out of him by the impact and lay on his back, gasping desperately for air. He could feel his broken rib screaming at him in pain, and was now all to aware of the drying blood, orc and human, drying on his face and piece-meal armour ensemble. A wave of exhaustion hit him, the adrenaline dump all too prevalent. But it seemed there was still business to attend to.

Before him, his foe had passed out face first on the ground, Adam's knife still sticking out of his shoulder. Beyond him were a collection of imposing figures, orc and otherwise. A few elves, and a giant-thing with hair that looked like it could burst into flame. An imposing figure indeed. And his enemy. Not for the first time, Adam felt a distinct feeling of fear in his gut.

Shit. I'm screwed.

He pulled himself to his feet, collecting his knife from the fire mage's shoulder and wiping on his pants. He turned to face the fire giant-thing. The best he could offer him, exhausted as he was, was a shrug.

 

[Nimedae]

Orc blood was disgusting. Almost as much as the blood of humans but she actually preferred orcs to humans. With orcs you at least knew what you were dealing with. That was vastly different from what one dealt with from a human. Humans could change their mind on things at the drop of a hat and weren't straightforward in what they were after. They used people for jobs they didn't want to do, and then didn't care when they died.

Thus, when Mar'Cal The Wanderer stayed her blade, she felt a sense of hatred flush through her veins. This man didn't appear to be a true human. He was- different. Stronger, perhaps deadlier, but mostly he smelled different. Still, whatever he was, he was close enough to a human that she didn't like him for that reason alone. Add in that he was stopping her from killing the people attacking her friends and she hated him even more.

"You cannot judge by appearances," she said, disengaging her blade and stepping back. "This one has fought in many battles and enjoys danger."

There was no need to say anything further. Her reasons for fighting needn't be explained, and to be honest, the longer they spoke the more damage would be done to the city. Death would come when it was meant to. Hiding from it was a cowardly way to live. She had heard tales of those who had found ways to cheat death, but she didn't see how one could find enjoyment in that. To live forever would surely be even lonelier than she felt most days.

She brought her shield up in front of her, adorning her unarmored arm, though that was deceptive as her whole body was technically armored. Her blade came to rest on the top of it, facing towards the man that had stopped her from slaying. She hadn't killed many, just a small handful, but even that would help. For now, they would get a pass. At least until she had dealt with this human-like being that had come to stop her.

Advancing, on him, eyes remained vigilant of his axe. It was a powerful weapon, and if he caught her blade right he could rip it away. Dangerous. The slow advance turned into a lunge as she quickly jumped forward at him without shifting the blade or shield. It wouldn't likely do much to him, but she wanted to try and hit him back a bit. More of a gauge of abilities than anything.

 

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

Kjaran couldn't make out what was happening in the melee. One second there was an orc climbing, the next Thren had yanked him off and started scrambling up. The others screamed in rage and surged forward, one hopping onto the ladder after him.

The more immediate problem was the orc already on it, stuck on the ladder between him and Thren. He was still climbing upward, blissfully unaware of the human scrambling below him. Kjaran snarled and waved his sword in a futile gesture. "Come on ya bastard!" he roared down in the native tongue of the Blight. The mercenary stooped to pick up a fallen gauntlet and lobbed it down. It missed the orc but hit Thren.

"Oh bollocks" He had the grace to admit he'd made a mistake. It didn't stop him from launching another improvised missile at the orc.

 

[Cuut'Thul'Lulu]

"You have answered me nothing. Not even actually claiming to be a warrior just saying 'I might be' like a youth who is ashamed to just be who they are, you are either a warrior or not, and appearances are meant to be judged that is their point, and either way you are staring at your death. Do you really want your last words to be claiming to enjoy almost dying all the time? So stop playing around and answer the questions I gave to you. Look I can tell we are both in a hurry, I want to go and relish in battle against proper warriors, and you... well you haven't told me, and I would be much more willing to kill you already if you would be so kind as letting me know the answers to my questions, or at the very least, why? maybe."

Seeing her lunge suddenly Mar'Cal quickly thrusted the point on his axe into her shield halting her advance, mid leap, he kept his eyes on her blade though, he had range on his side, but he still had to watch for quick jabs.

"Come on, I have given my name, and told you why I have come, share with me as well, if only as a sign of respect as your opponent. Do you really wish for one of our deaths to cause nothing but misery. If you can not confess to one in battle who can you ever confess to? One of us will take the others secrets to their grave after all. HAHA."

Mar'Cal was playing with her, not in a malicious way, but with genuine interest, like a husband who asked about his wife's day, but received no answer, and now toys with her, testing, probing to see why she might be upset. Mar'Cal let his axe fall part way through his grasp so he now held it near its head, and swung the metal handle at Nimedae's feet to trip her up.

"You know I'm going to persist until I get answers, right? I mean if we can't even have respect in battle than what will we have? Just a bunch of dead bodies, and no one wants that. I know it may be hard for you to understand, but its always nice when your death can mean something. So you aren't just a dead body, but someone who died for something. Where I come from we don't remember our families, we remember those we slew, and I have so many to remember, so do me a favour, make yourself memorable." Mar'Cal let out a deep sigh, "I don't understand why you southerners are so tight lipped, and afraid to just being honest, to just tell someone what is going on? Is air really that valuable down here? So come on now, be straight with me, what is up?"

 

[Nelya Ironfoot]

Nelya was ready when the ladders found purchase on the walls, and the orcs began climbing up them with as much haste as their big armoured forms could allow. She pulled out her twin blades and thrusted at the first orc that appeared at the top of the ladder. Piercing it in the gaps of its armour between the chest and shoulder, she sliced its head off with her other blade, it’s screaming expression now permanently frozen on its decapitated head.

Despite their fallen comrade, more orcs came up the ladders with wanton rage, and the elf had the same amount of rage to keep as many orcs as she could off the walls or better still, dead, as they should be. Amidst the fighting, her attention was suddenly drawn to two of of the mercenary on her left. One of them called the another to cover him, and he went face to face with one of the ugly brutish giants who was having away at the wall. For several brief moments, it didn’t seem like the other mercenary, this Kjar had heard him. Nelya instantly knew what he was trying to do, and tried to assist him in anyway she could, since his friend was not able to. As she began to ran towards him, an orc came barrelling towards her, which meant that she had to first deal with the immediate threat right in front of her.

By the time she had eliminated the untimely interruption, she was already too late. Or so she thought so. The mercenary had already leapt off the walls and onto the giant’s head, stabbing the big ugly brute until it was a goner. She lost sight of both giant and man for a brief moment, and the next thing she knew, both of them were gone. By now, the one known as Kjar had realised what had happened. He shouted and he lunged out for the other, Thren, but the man was gone. Glancing over the walls, Nelya saw that Thren was safe, at least for the moment, but that was quickly changing as the orcs below realised who was in their midst. If he was too live, something had to be done and fast.

Kjar shouted for his friend to climb up the orc’s ladders, but the man below had plenty to deal with at this very moment. She thought to even the odds for him a little. Sprinting to a spot on the wall with a good vantage point, she unslung her bow and nocked an arrow, aiming at one of the orcs charging towards Thren while he was fighting valiantly with another. The arrows flew accurately, striking down a charging orc just as he reached the mercenary. Another arrow was nocked, before it too flew and sought its target in the exposed neck of another orc. As he started to climb, orcs were attempting to pull him down. She sent yet another plummeting down, struck with an arrow embedded in it. Nelya was trying to buy him as much time as he needed so that the man could climb back up to relative safety.

 

[Nimedae]

He liked to talk. Not just liked, though, it seemed to be something he lived for. Strange for a warrior to be so interested in conversation. In her experience, the best warriors didn't question commands, unless they were idiotic, they just obeyed them. The very fact that he was more interested in conversing with her than killing her was a testament to his lack of duty in this battle. There was no true allegiance held between him and whoever was in charge of the orc legion. This test wasn't going to bode well for him in the eyes of its commander. Not that she particularly cared, but it was kind of annoying.

Advance halted, she swayed from one side to the next. The drop of the axe head to meet his hand was warning enough. A weapon of such caliber was not used with the hand so close to the blade, so another intention was evident. It wouldn't catch her off guard. If anything, it showed he was not in this battle for the same reasons as her. When the haft of his axe swept out her, she merely leaned back, stiffening her tail against the ground, and lifted her legs to allow the weapon to glide cleanly beneath her before falling cleanly back to clawed feet, tail rising once again. A clever trick on his part, to try and put her at a disadvantage towards his weapon. Had she not been Komodi, it likely would have worked.

"You babble like a child thirsty for knowledge rather than act like a warrior thirsty for battle," she said.

She advanced on him with his blade still mishandled, thrusting her shield at it to try and keep it pinned at bay while stabbing forward with her blade towards his shoulder. Since he had no true commitment to the battle, she felt no reason to kill him. Like her, he seemed more like a sell-sword than anything. Undoubtedly his allegiance was based solely on the promise of getting paid, and little to do with any form of animosity towards the dwarves. While she hated him for what he was, and that he had chosen the wrong side to support, those were not reason enough, for her, to kill him outright.

In fact, what seemed better was the opportunity to leave him gravely wounded and let him suffer a slow, painful death than a swift one. As a sell-sword, she wasn't bound by an honor code that would require her to finish off a wounded enemy. Humans deserved to suffer anyway, even ones that weren't fully human. And no, she was not going to give Mar'Cal The Wanderer the satisfaction of knowing her name or her purpose for fighting. She didn't care for the long-winded approach to battle or his stalling tactics. He would not keep her from killing as many of the attackers as she possibly could before dying. Whatever she had to do to help the dwarves win this battle she would.

 

[Cuut'Thul'Lulu]

"Your right I thirst for battle not to execute children. Glory is found in doing what is hard, not easy. I really wished you'd see reason, dying is easy living is harder. *sigh* I merely hoped to respect you, but I see that to push any further now would only be an insult."

Mar'Cal decided to believe she was just a young from the city, it would answer most, but why the giant though her a worthy test. He had met many younglings who wished to fight for their settlement, they all thought they could end the war with a strike from their sword. They didn't know any better, If he could take her alive he would, the young could adapt, but thing rarely go how they should.

Mar'Cal with one hand still on his axe met the shield, his axe would do little good against a thrust from her this close, he gave enough push against the shield to keep as much room as he could between him and her, forcing her to have to reach to hit him. Watching the blade as she seemed to prepare for a thrust, he quickly turned his body to the side as he saw her release it, just too slow to avoid getting a gash on his arm. with his free arm he reached out, to grab her sword arm, to give her a yank to pull her unbalanced. If she wouldn't fall back he would make her fall forward.

The moment the pressure her shield gave he'd fix his grip on the axe with his hand. Once she was on the ground it would be easier to subdue her without having to resort to lethal means. He would have to finish this battle soon either way he did not wish to let down the would be conqueror. Something was off in this situation and he wanted answers, but he could not afford to let that get in his way. Still her answers might be useful to the conqueror. She had to be part of some secret plot right? Because there was no way what she was doing here would help the dwarfs in a meaningful way. That had to be why he was sent by the giant, cause the giant already saw that.

 

[Gerra]

In stunned disbelief, Gerra watched as Sparhawk's winged steed skidded to a halt before his retinue, its riders falling to earth in a tangle of bloodied limbs. Maho croaked disjointed words, then collapsed. Behind Sparhawk, a man rose and with a wrench, retrieved his knife from the warlock's body.

No, hardly a man. A strapling of not more than twenty summers, feature stained by soot and scarlet, yes, but fresh faced and fearful. Yet for all that, he held his dagger as if he would defy them all.

The bodyguards hedged him in with a thicket of pikes at his sides and rear. Before him, Gerra stared, brows knitting further and further together as the depth of his wrath deepened.

Two orcs stepped forward and scooped Sparhawk's body up, carrying him off to the shaman's tent. Gerra watched them go, his worry for a friend mixed with fury that his prized warlock would be removed from play so early in the battle.

And by who?

"A boy," he muttered, fingers curling, fists shaking. Louder, "A boy?"

The son of Menalus exploded forward in a rattling of maille and seized Adam by the front of his shirt with one hand, hoisting the man into the air with ease, while the other ripped the dagger away.

Gerra held the knife up before his eyes and stared at the blood which still wet its length, wondering at its viscous sheen. Embers in his eyes kindled then to roaring flames and without preamble, he plunged the dagger into the boy's belly. He drug it, hitting resistance and wrenching until the blade twisted and the hilt snapped off in his hand.

Then he flung the youth aside, like so much discarded meat.

"Take him to the surgeons," he rumbled to Dur-Gil, voice deep, but tremulous. "I am not finished with him."

He stalked away, the ranks of his cohort forming up to either side.

"And the sorcerer. If he dies?" Dur-Gil called after him.

Gerra halted, shoulders quivering, and he did not turn back to face her.

"See that he does not."

The half-giant then donned his helm and took his hammer in hand and without fanfare led his cohort at a double march toward the fort.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Gerra, as he would ride, would be, as natural it would be in a siege, to be riding behind an orc, several meters ahead of him. The orc was charging, towards the gate. The dwarves at the gate were firing from the loopholes and barricades, but there was an oddity, at the top of the battlements. Amidst the rain of arrows, stood a Nordenfiir, screaming in joyous violence, as he screamed at the orcs to try and kill him. Reaching down towards the Ballista's stock as it fired next to him, he threw one of the bolts- and impaled the Orc directly in front of Gerra. It was an impressive throw to the say the least- the velocity and speed at which he threw it, and the accuracy at the distance he was at- impaled not only the orc, but went through him- and impaled him into the trampled, soft Earth below his feet.

Arnor looked to the sky, holding his arms out at his side, screaming at the orcs to come and kill him. He laughed as their arrows fly by him, one of them finding purchase in his shield. He turned, as a ladder came near the gate, an advance party before they would try their luck with battering down the gate itself. Arnor laughed, twirling his sword in his hands. The first orc was set upon by the dwarves, impaled with spears and shoved off the battlement. The next one, was met by Arnor directly. He bashed the orc in the face with his shield. His helmet protected his head, but not his face. Arnor could actually hear the bones and cartilage in his face cracking and fracturing.

The orc was sent spinning off of the battlement, and Arnor used his shield to shatter the locking piece that held it onto the battlements. He stood on the battlement, and kicked it over. He locked eyes with the orc that he sent plummeting to his death- and smiled. Arrows rained around him, and yet- he stood on the battlement, screaming. He was tempting fate, defying the odds and cursing their Gods, while praising his own. He felt himself blessed.

He jumped down and went back to the gate, and picked up one of the ballista bolts. It was heavy- for normal men. But the Nordenfiir- were not normal men. They were bred for war, and for work. It made them strong, made them powerful. And particularly... savage. And Arnor embodied the best, and worst traits. Savagery and violence. He walked- he did not run, holding the bolt in his hands. He walked to the top of the gate once more, and cocked his head. There was an Orc who was...a cut above. He was on a horse, which set him apart from the rank and file infantry around him.

He launched the bolt- hoping to at least remove him from his literal high horse. Arnor leaned over the battlements, slapping his shield on the strong stonework, his face lightly covered in blood. He had no helmet, and wore only chainmail and leather. Along with the fact that he was six and a half feet tall in a fortress made for dwarves. He stood out, to say the least. And he was beckoning them to come for him, to try and kill him.

Arnor was stark raving mad with rage. Insane with bloodlust.

 

[Nimedae]

The blade struck, though not in the manner intended. Any wound was a victory, however, and there was little chance for thinking anything different as the man reached to grab her exposed arm. As much as she wanted to stop him from doing so, there was no feasible way of doing that. All that could be done was watch the grabbed arm yanked forward, sending her into a tumble that would ultimately end in her falling to the ground. The only advantage that she had in that situation was her tail, which shifted to pull her into a fall that didn't expose her back to him given the circumstances. One strike from the axe on her exposed back probably wouldn't kill her, but it would hurt.

She landed with a thud and a grunt. It didn't exactly feel good, but at least she was alive. Plus the move had opened up other avenues for doing damage. With no way to reach him with the sword that didn't expose her to the axe the man wielded. While the man seemed fixated on age, she was no stranger to battle, and she'd fought against tough odds before. Perhaps not as tough as these, with her waging battle alone at the back lines, but tough battles where death seemed certain nonetheless. There did appear to be an advantage in her favor here, however.

That advantage was that, since she was no longer on her feet, those feet became accessible as weapons. While her hands were very similar to that of humans, four fingers and two thumbs, her feet were more reminiscent of her own species aside from the webbed toes. For that reason, she couldn't wear boots because her toes tended to eat through them in a very short amount of time. Besides, her feet were excellently protected from danger, just as the rest of her body was, so there wasn't really a reason to cover them. Her skin was not as sensitive as that of most species. Boots wouldn't really do anything but be a fashion statement for her.

So it was, that despite being exposed, she kicked her feet out at his legs, attempting to rend what armor he might be wearing there with the claws that made up her toes. Mar'Cal The Wanderer would learn that she was not simple opponent eventually. It might take a few wounds to do it, but he would, and then maybe he would shut up and dance rather than babble on like a child. Losing this fight wasn't in the cards for her, and she had an ace in the hole that clearly this man didn't seem to know about. Or, perhaps, he was thinking she couldn't do it because of her differences from the rest of her species. Either way, an advantage.

If she was to go down, she'd take him with her.

 

[Thren]

He was sure death was on it's way, positive that any moment he would feel a hand wrap around his leg and tear him down off of the ladder.

Yet it didn't happen.

Seconds passed, and each one that ticked away saw the Barbarian climb another wrung. He was focused, fingers tightening, body practically jumping up the metallic construct. It was only when he neared the top that he noticed the flight of an arrow passed his head, the shaft floating near him only to strike an orc directly below.

He caught sight of Nelya Ironfoot as she raised herself over the battlements and loosed another arrow. The Barbarian thanked whatever dwarven god was watching over him during this battle.

Then he quickly ascended the rest of the ladder.

With a loud thud and an angry clank of metallic plate-mail Thren landed once again on the right side of the wall. Near the moment he did the Barbarian whirled around and kicked, slamming his foot into the metal ladder and sending it hurtling from the wall and back into the enemy armor.

Below he heard the crunch and scream of several orcs.

 

[Telemachus]

SIEGE CAMP
SMALL HILL

Having performed his magic, Telemachus returned to observing the course of the battle through his spyglass. He watched in embittered disappointment as Maho Sparhawk was trounced by footman and forced to flee. Many of those who signed pacts with the Stellar Divinities quickly began to succumb to a disease known as Baleful Overconfidence. The Sparhawk had clearly been no exception.

Those blasted elementals had better pull through if Sparhawk was down. Telemachus did not want any defeat here today to be on his head... Which he suspected would be separated from his body in short order in such an event.

He lost sight of Sparhawk after he crash-landed in front of the command tent Gerra occupied. Movement caught the corner of his eye again. Telemachus lowered the spyglass only to find the adept from earlier, observing the battle alongside him. Again.

"What are you...?"

"The ritual's done and the Wind Stalkers are out. Thought I'd come watch," she said. She did not lower her spyglass. "Are we winning?"

Telemachus peered once more through his spyglass, just in time to view Thren send a ladder hurtling from the wall and crashing into the teeming mass of Blight Orcs below. Telemachus felt something catch in his throat, and he cleared it with a stifled cough.

"No."

---​

LOR HOLDRAM
GATEHOUSE

Cael paced about the gatehouse like a dog in heat, longsword in one hand and shield in the other. This sucked. This battle sucked. His posting sucked. Everything sucked. The gatehouse? Watching the gatehouse? There were hundreds - thousands? - of Blight Orcs taking the piss outside and they had stuck him and Galmar in the gatehouse?

"We should be out there, Galmar," he said to his Dwarven compatriot.

Galmar had a halberd, which he leaned on for support. He remained rooted in one spot by the winch.

"We ought t' be where the Commander stations us," he cautioned, "And the Commander stationed us right here, he did."

Bollocks to the commander. This was work for those mercenaries. What good were a bunch of humans on the wall? They weren't Dwarves. They didn't have ties to the land. Cael reckoned he could have fought with the strength of a hundred humans. Or maybe two of whatever the fuck that Northern one was supposed to be.

"We can't just sit here! The commander was wrong. Dead wrong. We've got to go out and join the fighting," Cael said again. "Come on, is this what you want to say you were doing during the great battle of Lor Holdram?"

Galmar shivered.

"What, are you fucking scared, quaking in your boots?"

"Fuck off, I'm not," Galmar spat. "It's just a draft."

"A draft? What draft is in here? We're locked up tighter than your sister's-"

"You leave my sister well out of this, you..." Galmar trailed as he felt another breeze drift by him, and shivered again. "What the is that?"

"Probably just the piss running down your leg, I reckon"

Galmar opened his mouth to retort, but it was then that the Wind Stalkers fell upon him. They tore at the area of him most exposed: his face. Large gashes suddenly opened up along his cheeks and eyes; his full beard neatly bisected and his throat opened up behind it. He hardly had time to scream.

By comparison, Cael had all the time in the world. He screamed and carried on, attempted to back out of the room. For good measure he started swinging his sword wildly, hoping to ward off whatever it was coming after him. There was a point where he felt his blade slow down as it cut through the air. Something shimmered and burst, a cool gust of wind hit his face.

Strange, but he didn't exactly have time to meditate on it.

Cael lost track of how much space he had and found himself backed into the locked door to the gatehouse. He raised his shield. Whatever it was came around it in a gust of wind, and soon enough Cael's throat was opened up just like Galmar's. Cael slumped slowly to the ground, resigned, confused, and dead.

The Wind Stalkers hovered over their prey for a moment. Their orders prevented them from relishing the kills. They dispersed throughout the room, several of them hiding in corners and among rafters in case reinforcements came. The doors to the gatehouse were still locked and reinforced. Someone would have to find a key, or try to break them down.

More than enough time for Blight Orcs to flood this place. One Wind Stalker began operating the winch.

---

In a terrible symphony of groaning of metal, the gates of Lor Holdram began to stir. Slowly, surely, they began to part.

The way had opened for the Blight Orcs.

Nelya Ironfoot | Kjaran Mak Aodha | Arnor Skuldsson​

 

[Gerra]

As the gate groaned open, the bodies that lay piled thick around the discarded ram suddenly stirred - at least a dozen or more rose from among the arrow-fletched corpses. For too long had they lain in wait beneath the rising sun, feigning death, biding time whilst flights hissed overhead.

Now, they surged forth with malignant bellows in Blighttongue, sprinting through the open gates and falling upon startled defenders like ravenous wolves upon shepherdless sheep.

The First Cohort, marching double time, now quickened their pace as Gerra saw the opened gates and gave the order to charge. The cold, mountain air stung his lungs as his legs pumped.

Atop the walls, Gerra made out a figure who cast a javelin fierce and far. A berserker in the front rank went down, the javelin ripping through his bare chest and pinning him to the ground.

Orcs surging around him in ranks, Gerra paused to wrench the javelin free of the corpse. He tossed it up, reversed his grip for a throw, took two steps, and hurled the javelin back at the defender atop the walls with enough force to spear a boar.

Then he took up his hammer once more and followed the cohort into the gates.

The first rank formed up in a shield wall, while the rear ranks lowered their long pikes over the shoulders of the first row, ready to push back the defenders.

Gerra stood in the midst of the jostling and entered the shadow of the gatehouse.

 

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

There wasn't time to celebrate Thren being back on the wall. Or that they'd sent the ladder tumbling back to the ground. He'd patted the elf on the shoulder in thanks but then a torturous screech of metal sounded. The gates were open. His jaw hung open in shock. Kjaran was only dimly aware of his body breaking into a run for the gatehouse. "TO THE GATE!"

The first orcs were already streaming through while behind them came the rhythmic tramp of disciplined ranks marching in unison. A few defenders were running to try and shut them but the fleet footed advance party were in amongst them, yelping bestial howls and hacking down anything in their path.

Kjaran gripped his sword with two hands and let out a war cry. The first orc was still happily butchering a dwarf when Kjaran caved in his skull. The second was more alert but mistimed his attack. A moment later it was staring at a bleeding stump of a wrist with an expression of acute puzzlement. Kjaran kicked the orc aside and went for the third. Then he saw a fourth and a fifth coming forward and he knew he was going to die.

Something switched in him. One moment he was straining with the orc, pitting his strength against the beast. The next the orc was reeling backwards, blood coming from its throat. Kjaran spat something out, his teeth red. He charged forward, roaring at the other two.

All he could see was red. He'd lost his helmet somewhere, he didn't know how. The other orcs scattered back as if a tiger was loose. He hewed about him with both hands, shieldless and helmless, screaming in a forgotten tongue. One braver than the rest tried to grapple with him. The frothing berserk smashed the orc's skull apart, striking it off the stone wall again and again.

He let the corpse drop and screamed at the sky.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Arnor turned his head when he heard the scream of one Kjaran, as he came to know him- to rally defenders to the gates. He screamed, rallying dwarves and mercenaries to the gates- when he saw a blur come from below. Not an arrow, no, wider- and he barely had time to move his head, when the ballista bolt came screeching back. Arnor, if he had not his head turned, would have a ballista gone straight through his skull. The ballista tore through the side of his head and his cheek, flying back and clamoring into the wall. Arnor collapsed to his knees as Dwarves and their creepy little feet moved about him. They didn't have time to treat him. Blood pooled, dripping from the vicious wound he received at the hands of the enemy.

Arnor should've worn a helmet. But then again, a million different things could have occurred- he had tempted fate too many times today. And it answered in kind.

But he was yet to be killed.

He felt it, growing. From inside his blood, like a fire. A rageful, all-consuming fire in his soul. He looked up, screaming as he ran to the gate. He barged past the smaller dwarves, his long legs taking him to the gate faster than their, again, creepy little legs. He screamed, and dropped his shield and his sword as he ran. He shoved dwarves out of the way, before reaching to his vest. He threw the weighted, leather and chainmail vest on the ground- along with his shirt.

Soon enough, Arnor Skuldsson was naked, while the Blight Orcs were running at him. It only took a few moments, as he fell to the ground, screaming. His body morphed, sickening cracks as his body contorted and grew in size, compacted muscle expanding, dark, vile magics being expelled from his body. The Norden were not known for their peace, their arts, or their sciences- they were known as the savage brutes with the dark within. He was a fine example of a Nordenfiir- and the Blight Orcs, would find out what that really meant.

Soon enough, the bear- greater in size than a grizzly, stood on it's hind legs and roared a mighty, terrifying roar. The blight orcs ahead of him stood back, only for a moment. He took advantage of it, and swiped an orc across the face with his mighty claw, tearing the face and throat of the orc with a blood-splattering killshot. He placed himself at the forefront of the defenders, roaring.
He liked the way this felt.

Bears were pretty majestic, after all.

 

[Cuut'Thul'Lulu]

As Mar'Cal side stepped into yanking on her arm, his eyes noticed that his men had finally arrived, they began forming a circle around the fight, aware that Mar'Cal would not appreciate any help.

The lizard turned her body during the fall so she was not on her back, but Mar'Cal would take advantage all the same. Suddenly however two clawed feet leapt at him like a sabre-cat in pounce. Was every part of this woman a weapon? With a sabre-cat normally he'd have seen it coming, and had time to prepare for its pounce, but not here not his close to himself. He had two choices: jump back, or jump forward, and he only had half a second to chose.

He chose the later, and payed the price. The claws ripped through his bare skin, tearing through his fur boots with ease, He let out a pained yell that ended with a growl. His lower legs were pretty torn, but he going to end this here and now. He grabbed her sword hand, and thrust his axe into the ground beside the shield forcing that hand down by the axes shaft. He let his body fall onto her thighs to hold her legs down, he'd felt those clawed feet and did not with to repeat that again.

Felling she was secure he then brought his face close to hers, and told her, "It is over!" He then turned to one of his men, "Manacles, now!"

With Mar'Cal so close Nimedae would be able to feel the unnatural cold that hung around him, making the air mist as it began to freeze, and a chill where his hand held her wrist.

 

[Nimedae]

He felt atop her, attempting to pin her arms, but she'd done her damage. Walking would not be an easy task for him any longer. Of course, this left her at a disadvantage, of course, but there were still more tricks to be had. When he had questioned if every part of her was a weapon, he was half right. And there was still more weapon to be had. For starters, there was the other appendage he'd failed to leash: her tail. She could use it, but it would just smack him around and likely he could hold on long enough to keep her pinned. Besides, it wouldn't do anything against the cold that Mar'Cal The Wanderer was inflicting upon her.

Fire would, though.

It was dangerous, the two being so close, and it would undoubtedly hurt her some as well, but he was going to bear the pain of it the most. In feigned pain, she opened her mouth as if to try out, but the glands within worked, and in a mere moment a plume of burning liquid flew forth, lit to flame by the small flap hidden within. Fire spewed from her mouth on the man only a mere foot or two from her face. How he would avoid that she didn't know, but it would, hopefully, at least buy her enough time to get away. Elsewise she would have to use her tail.

Though his axe really only pinned her shield. In so doing, she was able to slide her arm free, which freed it up. Anyone coming in to bring manacles upon her wasn't going to find this fight quite finished, and if anything, their leader was going to be feeling the pain from it for some time, most certainly. A small price to pay for her stopping one of the orc siege machines from continuing on to do damage to the dwarven fortress protecting the entrance to the city. There would certainly be no tales told or songs sung about what she did, but that hadn't been the reason for doing it, anyway.

The man had cornered an adversary more dangerous than he had likely faced before. This one fought not for self-preservation, but for the preservation of others at the risk of the self. The most difficult foe to face was the one that would go to any length to protect someone, even killing themselves. Some of the flames would fall upon her, but she would endure because she had to. This man would not take her. If she had to flee, she would. The forest would be a good place to lead them. She would have the advantage there with her keen senses.

She just had to hope the flames would burn him enough.

 

[Birtingr Hrutr]

Dwarves were not known for being the swiftest or most flexible of races both literally and metaphorically. They liked to think of themselves as being like the stone they instinctively surrounded themselves with. It was why they dug deep into the mountains and built buildings on the surface out of mostly what they dug out of the mountain. Gems and gold and silver was all valuable to them because it came from stone as well. It was a racial obsession. But the Ramkin were a little different. Where the other clans liked to hold themselves up inside of their holds and were slow to mobilize they were as swift on their feet as the rams they named themselves after. So it did not take the clan long to get their mounts and warriors readied for battle and set out towards battle.

After a long night and trying not to push their mounts too hard before the fight, the Ramkin found themselves in the peaks above the blight orc camp just shy of dawn. They did their best to remain quiet as they got a base camp set up, even forsaking campfires, and it seemed to pay off as the enemy didn't notice them. It was not as if they were close enough to engage each other with anything more than siege weapons though. A detail the clan chief decided to take advantage of. They had brought some of their equipment with them for a siege of their own in case the enemy had managed to get inside the city for a counter siege. They couldn't bring more than a pair of trebuchets and four ballista with them though and still get there as quickly as they had. But it was enough for the clan chief as he watched the blight orcs mobilizing down the mountainside.

"Prepare defensive fortifications and get that equipment up and ready now!" The clan chief ordered trying to keep his voice loud enough his warriors could hear him but quiet enough his enemy might not with their own hustle and bustle going on below. "Birtingr, Gunther, Turtig, and Wulfingr. Get your rams all ready. As soon as those orcs launch their attack on the wall hit their camp. Kill if you can but burn everything. See how they like the Spine without food and supplies."

Birtingr gave his confirmation then got his warriors readied. He was in his fine dwarven steel from head to toe. Fine mail haurbak with plates had the clan ramhead etched into it. A ram's head helmet was on his head and his ram's head warhammer was in hand. His men were fitted out similarly but with their own favorite weapons. Byx and the other rams were all covered in armor as well with small spikes on their head plates. Being headbutted could already kill you but now it would just make sure you bled or suffered more if you didn't.

"Get yer firebolts readied for yer crossbows!" Birtingr called out as he got his own into his saddle quiver. "We are lighting up everything and don't want anyone dismounting to do it! We stay mobile and we stay quick!"

Birtingr got a confirmation and everything was finished up. Dawn was already upon them by that point so they likely didn't have much longer. No doubt the blight orcs were ready to go. They waited what felt like an eternity for the orcs to begin their assault. Many wanted to go as soon as it began, but he and the other cavalry leaders knew it wasn't time just yet. They needed them to be in the thick of things. Chaos would force bad choices on the enemy and they needed to capitalize on the best time for it. So they continued to wait.

The orcs had hit the wall and begun to ram the gate. Now was their time. Birtingr made the silent signal and off they all charged forward down the mountain side on their rams towards the enemy camp. It was something notice possible with horses or any other mount accept their rams. As they approached, Birtingr took out his horn and blew. Three more battlecries followed and firebolts began to fly into the enemy's camp. Their assault on the backline had begun.

As the battle horns sounded from near the blight orc camp, massive stones covered in pine sap were set on fire and lobbed into the blight orcs' forces at the wall. Two were and then a minute later two more went flying. The Ramkin base camp had gotten their trebuchets up quickly. Instead of taking their time to pick a specific target however they just sent their stones flying towards the general middle mass of whatever was in range to hit.

Gerra

 

[Telemachus]

SIEGE CAMP
COMMAND TENT

Astyanax lingered around Gerra's command tent throughout the morning. As a point of pride he would not be participating in whatever stupid ritual Telemachus came up with. Let the adepts handle that sort of busy-work. He was quite inconspicuous in his observances, and came to stand off to the side with a couple of idle Centurions - part of the rear guard.

They watched together as Maho Sparhawk crashed into the camp. Gerra dealt his justice to the young man that had wounded Sparhawk and then threw both men to the shamans. Gerra himself departed not too long after, as the gates of Lor Holdram opened and the prince was keen to lead that charge personally. Astyanax was slightly disappointed his colleague's gambit had paid off, but sometimes things just worked the way they did.

With everyone of import now out of earshot, the gossip could begin.

"What foolishness," the one captain said, a rather handsome looking Komodi. His skin was a pallid maroon, his face framed with scars. Very rugged. "Throwing himself into danger like that, no weapons or armor."

The second one, a portly human of impressive height, shook his head. "Bah, wizards. Give some pasty shut-in some magic and suddenly they think they can take on the world."

"I'm not keen on heading out there either," said the Komodi. "Seems like we're in for it even with those gates open. Glad I got the rearguard."

"Oh yes," said the fat chap. "I agree. It's much safer here. Much, much safer."

War horns suddenly sounded from the mountain. All three men looked in the direction of the noise and took well in the sight of the Dwarves, led by Birtingr Hrutr , riding in on their oversized rams. Dwarves. On rams. It would have been hilarious, if not for the fact that they were clearly not approaching at their current velocity for a polite chat.

Astyanax clapped the fat captain on the shoulder as he went away. "Now, really, what did you expect after a line like that?"

---​

SIEGE CAMP
SMALL HILL

The sound of war horns did not go unnoticed by Telemachus, whose head snapped like a polybolos being aimed. Impossible. They were flanked? How were they being flanked? Telemachus could not stand to look at their attackers through the spyglass, but he saw their small shapes as they rode down the slopes. Unbelievable. Unexpected. Unanticipated. Unfortunate.

"Fuck," said the adept behind him.

Telemachus spiritually echoed her sentiment, but his sense of poise prevented him from expressing it in as crude a form - or at all. As First among Conjurers, he was expected to behave with slightly more decorum. In this case, that meant immediately formulating a plan of response. "Do you know the Arrow Ward?"

The adept took a moment to respond, processing both the question and the oncoming horde. "I- yes. We are not permitted to leave without mastery of it."

Crossbow bolts showered the camp, but Telemachus and the adept were out of range. She gulped audibly. These were no ordinary bolts, but tipped in something combustible. Fires began to erupt. Of course. Dwarven ingenuity had finally shown somewhere on the battlefield.

"Cast it. Find who can be spared and take them to contain the fires," Telemachus ordered. "Avoid confrontation."

"Right, of course," she muttered, and warded herself.

Telemachus did the same. It was not a particularly complex spell or powerful spell. It would offer some degree of protection, but it would do them all better to avoid testing its limits. Telemachus, unfortunately, would have no choice. Sparhawk was somewhere in this camp and Telemachus would have need of him in containing this outbreak.

"Go now," were the final words of wisdom from Telemachus before he took off at a brisk pace.

---​

SIEGE CAMP
SURGEON'S TENT

By the time Astyanax got to the surgeon's tent, the first volley of fire bolts. Small bushfires were scattered around, but the surgeon's tent hadn't caught. Yet. That didn't mean it was unscathed. Bolts peppered the ground. Except for a few lingering surgeons and shamans, the tent and its wounded had been abandoned. Legate Dur-Gil had the Blight Orcs and the mercenaries forming ranks.

Pike square? It might have been a pike square. They could keep the Dwarves at bay and exchange fire with them, though what she planned to do about those trebuchets was anyone's guess. Astyanax had seen a flaming boulder crush a stretch of Blight Orc housing. He wasn't sure if anyone was in there, but it looked like it would soon be a problem.

"Hey, hey," Astyanax swatted away the hand of a dying Blight Orc begging for water as he made his way to a cluster of shamans. "Where is the Prince's pet human? The one with the winged horse. He's not dead yet, is he?"

A Blight Orc Shaman (he must have been a shaman - or otherwise free to flaunt uniform code with an assortment of bone-based accessories) turned to face Astyanax. "Out from here, necromancer."

Ah, but Astyanax could see the patient now. That was Maho Sparhawk, in the flesh, groaning like a pig as the Blight Orcs worked their primitive magics. So he wasn't dead, which meant Astyanax could not animate him as a Wight. Fine. Time for the backup plan.

Normally Astyanax would have been terribly pleased to let Amateur Hour proceed as normal, but this was way too important. The guy who could shoot fire and ride a winged horse would come in handy in these trying times. Astyanax threatened the shaman and his cohorts with the business end of Black Lysis. They had seen his demonstration, and this made them back off long enough to tend to Sparhawk. A sickly green light coated his hands and he set to work, channeling energy into the wound.

The flesh warped as Astyanax willed it, the infection retreated as he ordered. The shamans and surgeons did not interfere now that they could see the Sidereal Elf's intentions.

"Wake up, wake up, wake up..."

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

Well, it was fun whilst it lasted. I met Gerra. Myles. Telemachus. In the last few months of my life, i think i've done justice. Too bad i couldn't help Gerra anymore. Too bad everything i've done up until now has meant nothing. All my work. My study. Squandered. I've brought shame. Isn't something i control anymore, fate will decide what happens to those i've worked with. My comrades...

My friends.

Maho, you're not finished. Your work is not done.

Wake up.
​

That can't be right... i couldn't have lived with the injuries i'd sustained... those shamans can't fix the blood i'd lost. And all the experiences Sorcerers are fighting the opposing force. I guess i'm just delusional. It's just like dreaming. A long, tireless dream. I'll just sink into nothingness now... into nothingness...

"Wake up, wake up, wake up..."

Up.
​

"AHHH!!!" Sparhawk screamed. From the depths of the void, he felt a voice to call to him, and from that voice, he felt an immense energy being poured back into him, like a plant desperate for water. He felt his limbs fill with life, and along with that, his soul.

His chest lifted from the table, his head leaning over his legs. His eyes flashed that familiar shade of red, before going back to their usual hue. He was hyperventilating, in disbelief and shock at his condition. It was as if he'd never fought... the cuts and bruises that once dominated his body seemed to have subsided, the incredible pain seemed to have been extruded from his body. His robe had been ripped from his chest to expose his injuries, or lack-there-of. For the moment, he cared not for his tattered robe, but for the matter at hand. An elf stood over him, a grimace on his face. He noticed the smell of smoke, and a light that invaded the tent: Fire.

"What happened? Where is Gerra? Where is Telemachus?!" He bombarded the Elf with questions. He had no idea what was going on, only that he sat recovered in the Surgeon's tent. He needed to help. Now.