Completed The Siege of Belgrath

[Cuut'Thul'Lulu]

"Oh, You have got to be SH..."

Mar'Cal looked back at his captive just in time to see the fire beginning to climb at his face. He instinctively looked away the best he could. For half a second the flames and heat had their way with him, but then his faithful cloak countered the heat with a just as powerful cold, after that half a second Mar'Cal's temperature returned to what it had been moments before, but the heat had done its damage. His one eye no longer seemed to send any messages and he could feel a breeze on his now exposed scalp, his skin crying out from the pain.

The ground around the pair was frozen to a solid in an instant, the fire had been aimed, the response from Mar'Cal's cloak had been a wave. Mar'Cal found even his body which was used to being exposed to freezing temperatures could feel the chill that had come as a counter to something that hot. Mar'Cal gave himself a small shake to remove the ice that now stuck to his skin, frozen there from the cold that followed.

The man who was bringing manacles had fallen both from the fright of what he had seen, as well as the ice that now covered the ground. He shook violently, from fear of the cold? it was not clear.

Finally Mar'Cal looked at Nimedae again, from the look in his eyes it was clear he was done playing around. He drew his axe hand back, and... *BAM!* It made contact with her face, Mar'Cal drew it back again, she had hard skin. A second time his fist went down, this time with all his force. *CRACK* He didn't notice how some of those cracks had not come from her. And Mar'CAl would continue until she stopped moving.

One of his men called out to him though, "Mar'Cal..." the fear in the voice was enough to wake him. He stopped, looked at her, and got up off of her, and limped away, his legs not allowing fast movement. He put the man who fell back on his feet, and continued to limp of, "I'm done here, you guys finish this. I... just... WHY?" Then Mar'CAl saw the dwarves and the fire, "Ah, so that's it. We should probably... help with that." But Mar'Cal passed out before he could take another step. Four of Mar'Cal's men carried him off to find the medical tents, Three stayed to arrest the Komodo, and the other twenty six went to try and help either stop the dwarves, or the fire.

 

[Adam]

It was over as quickly as it began. In a split second, young Adam was hoisted into the air and eviscerated by the huge, angry being in front of him. All he could manage in the exchange was one lame punch; with no energy behind it and nothing anchoring him to the ground, his blow bounced off of his assailant's face like a hailstone bouncing off of a tin roof. And then his own knife plunged into his stomach, and the pain ROARED AT HIM, occupying the entirety of his mind. All the men had said that he'd go into shock, that he wouldn't feel a thing ... but he did. Oh gods but he did. The searing pain flooded through his being and he roared, before being flung to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

He didn't even feel himself hit the ground. All he saw was black.

Warcamp - Surgeon's Tents

Adam of Healdwicc lay on a stretcher amongst a sea of wounded blight orcs, unattended and slowly bleeding his life away. His clothes were saturated with his own blood, his breathing slow and shallow. He wasn't likely to come to for some time ... and if he was left in his current state, he wasn't likely to make it to nightfall.

 

[Thren]

Someone had opened the gates, orcs were pouring in.

Thren was still atop the walls, his fingers tight around his dagger, blood splashed across his armor and skin. He frowned as he watched the courtyard below. They were coming through the gatehouse, streaming over the walls. Their numbers were quickly catching up to the defenders.

A curse echoed from his lips.

The Siruk took three steps forward before an Orc came crashing into his side. The massive pale creature struck at him with an axe, bare black metal slicing forward only to be caught at the last second. His dagger stabbed forward, slicing through the creatures throat and sending him falling to the ground.

"KJAR!" Thren screamed to Kjaran Mak Aodha, hoping to snap the man out of his blood rage, or at least directing it to the proper path. "THE GATEHOUSE!"

He pointed towards the closed and locked door down below, breaking into a sprint and bounding down the stone stairs on the back of the fortress wall.

 

[Gerra]

Gore spattered the stones as besieged and besieger used every weapon at their disposal - sword and teeth and grasping hands alike did work that day. An orc, hamstrung, rolled upon the ground with a burly dwarf, and they sought to throttle each other.

Amidst them all, a madman clove orcs like overripe gourds, face coated in scarlet he raged and screamed as bone and flesh broke beneath his crushing blows.

Upon this scene came the First Cohort, their first rank a wall of shields, with pikeheads jutting past the shields from the rear ranks, the thorns of a bramble hedge. These were the chosen of the legion, not a one of them under six foot, and each a killer. Their armor of plate and chain, though ill fitting, was thick. Wicked eyes gleamed out from beneath iron helms. The first rank drew long stabbing daggers from their belts, shields held firmly in the left hand so that they overlapped.

The First Spear called out the rhythm of battle.

"STEP."

"OOAH."

As one, they moved forward with that guttural shout, shields braced, pikes ready to thrust.

"STEP."

"OOAH."

The great feat of Menalus was not in teaching orcs to mine or to smith or to build great fortification. No, it was in restraining their insatiable appetite for blood. In teaching them to wait for the kill and to move as a pack. This was how the Ash King had mastered the Blightlands, bending every tribe to his heel.

So too might it bend these dwarven halls.

An enormous bear rounded the corner, but the First Cohort held firm, keeping the rhythm of their step. Such a beast might have broken the shield wall, absent the pikes, but as it stood those iron-tipped shafts of ash would pierce it well if it threw itself upon the line.

At the rear of the cohort, support beams of thick wood were placed upright in the mouth of the gatehouse, propped up to prevent the fall of the portcullis.

Gerra himself took his place in the first rank of the cohort, the very last shield on the far left flank.

* * *

SIEGE CAMP

The tent flap whipped open and an old crone of an orc entered. Her skin was withered and her hair fell in braids interspersed with bone and feathers. Upon her neck hung some many fetishes. She looked about the groaning bodies with the eyes of a crow, until they fell at last upon Adam.

There came a soft bleat and a little lamb followed her into the tent.

She came up beside him with a rattle of bone and a black-toothed smile.

"So, so, so, you are the one. The one he wants."

The crone began to pull things from pouches at her waist - strange smelling powders and an unguent, all of which she poured into the rent in the helpless man's belly, where thick strands of white showed amidst the pumping scarlet.

Amidst strange mutterings in Blighttongue, she picked up the gentle lamb and with a swift and sudden motion slit its throat.

Blood poured from the dying animal and fell upon Adam where he lay, thick and hot.

She held it above him, like a wineskin that needed emptying, and began to chant in her foreign tongue, this one older even than the Blight.

The skin around Adam's belly began to bubble and writhe, with no small amount of agony, as the blood-soaked flesh reknit before his eyes.

 

[Nimedae]

So. Cold.

The fire had done some, but not as much as she had wanted. The bastard was protected by some magical ice spell or something as the flame should have killed him, but the ice had exploded everywhere. In fact, she was lucky some of the fire had caught on her clothes because otherwise, she would probably have frozen to death even from that small amount of ice (small by comparison to the northern reaches). That burning of her own clothing kept her from freezing solid. As did the presence of his hand striking her face.

Those blows to the head would have hurt worse if she didn't have scales for protection. He still managed to break the jawbone on the left side. It hurt like hell, and she fell back pretending to be unconscious but really just trying to recuperate a little strength to at least try to make a break for it. She was not letting them capture her. Death was better than capture. Especially so since these didn't seem to know much of her species. They would treat her worse the more they found out.

The man, Mar'Cal The Wanderer, climbed off of her after a moment and said some things. Most of the people surrounding them began to move away, but three were coming closer so she waited, biding her time. The further away the others got the better it would be for her. It was painful to wait, though. The cold was seeping in from the ice that was near her and it was slowing her blood down, making it harder for her to pump it. It was necessary pain.

They got close enough to begin reaching down. Instead, her tail lashed out, sweeping two of them off their feet and she rolled towards the third, clawing at him with her feet while she reached to grab her shield once again. The pain of moving made her cry out but it was decidedly muffled since she couldn't open her mouth. More of an anguished gurgle. Still, the surprise the enemy faced was enough. It allowed her to stand again.

This, in turn, allowed her to start moving away from the cold, eventually breaking into a painfully labored run away from the enemy. Any that got in her way she would deal with, but it would seem clear her goal was escaping the enemy since her work was done, not finding more to kill.

 

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

Thren's voice sounded far off and distant. Like he was hearing it through the water. Kjaran realised his hands were bloody. So was the pommel of his sword, and the orc skull he'd smashed apart with it. He heard the words but they didn't register. They might as well have been in Elvish for all the effect they had.

Not even the sight of a large bear barrelling past could shake him. But the rage was cooling, wary now of the serried ranks advancing on the gate. Linked shields and jutting pikes, he'd impale himself going for it. The berserk screamed in futile rage. One of the orcs loomed even above the officers, a towering figure of fire and flame.

Snarling, Kjaran picked up a still twitching orc and flung it at the phalanx. He backpedalled to stay out of reach of the pikes, eyes peeled for an opening. The linked shields and pikes kept him hemmed in, like a cage.

 

[Thren]

"Ah fuck." Thren said as he took the steps down to the courtyard, his fingers tightening on his daggers as he saw the Orc Horde streaming through the gates.

Behind them he saw the heavy wooden beams propped up high against the mechanism of the portcullis, the great metal mass being held in place. His lips thinned, his head tilting back as he let out a quick stream of curses. Taking a step back he found himself nearly knocked over by a dwarf rushing to meet the oncoming orcs.

He caught the mans arm. "Do you have mages, firebombs, tar? Anything?"

The man stopped for a second, frowning, then motioned towards a storehouse.

"Maybe in there, human but it wo-"

Thren didn't listen to the rest of the man's words, letting his arm go and rushing through the courtyard. Behind him he glimpsed the orcs marching forward, to the side he saw that a few Dwarves were already beginning to fall back to the tunnel. They knew that this was not the last fight, just the beginning.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Arnor's body formed back, as he faced the shield wall. He had a singular thought process-

Oh hell no!

He walked past the defenders that were gathering to face the advancing orc horde, and at least slipped his pants back on. His boots came on quickly. Turns out- not that Arnor would have known, but turning into his Svalen form didn't rip his clothes, contrary to popular belief.

But, he stood barechested, standing up as the dwarves ran to meet the shield-bearing Orcs. Disciplined orcs. Arnor really had seen everything at that point. Arnor looked around, then looked up to the battlements. A pot lay unused, unturned. A dead dwarf lay slumped over the mechanism to release the pitch below. The pot was enormous- and heavy. And would require great strength to move it. Arnor ran past the defenders, and up to the battlements. The heavy pot, cast in dwarven iron, would be impossible to throw, even to a man of Arnor's brutal, cruel strength.

But perhaps he could pour it. Arnor realized the comedy that might've occurred to the orcs in a twisted way- a bear rounding the corner, eyeing the shield wall, then turning into a stark-naked man and running back behind the defenders. He spread his legs apart, grunting as he began to lift the heavy pot. It was...

Really fucking heavy. No way he could throw it. It would require a great amount of time to move it down the stairs (designed for creepy little dwarf feet, another hazard), but he imagined creating a pitch-barrier with fire would at least buy them some time to fall back to the other defenses of the city. The orcs may have pushed inward, but he felt that they could go no further with the amount of men they had.

The pitch pot boiled slightly, and Arnor realized that he was shirtless, covered in blood, and carrying a pot of boiling pitch to throw at a bunch of orcs feet. This- this moment he could write to Maude about.

 

[Former and the Foal]

The horse tumbled across the floor, picking up scratches and open wounds on a rough landing which any horse lover would have cringed at. Yet the legendary beast stood up as if nothing had happened to it, it's coat still sleek and seemingly without a blemish even though a while ago...

The horse began to kick violently as a pair came nearby to restrain and tie to a post. But Nemesis would have none of it. One of them backed away while another got a devastating blow to his head, the skin splitting apart and leaving the grunt with no trace of life.

In a lengthy gallop, the horse was in the air again, flying after the impending army with their particularly dangerous toothpicks.

 

[Adam]

Adam of Healdwicc awoke in agony, still grasping for the fell being who had viciously disemboweled him. That desire was fleeting, however. The pain of the blood magic, the feeling of his intestines rapidly regrowing and his skin bringing itself together was yet another overload of his senses. His hands closed around the sides of his stretcher as he writhed and rolled. Two orcs held him down as he convulsed and roared, his struggles futile and delirious. And though it was a relatively quick process, it didn't go so quick for Adam. Every second seemed like a minute, so unrelenting was the pain. And then it was over. Just like that.

Panting, Adam looked around the tent, quickly comprehending his situation. The old orc woman standing over him, clearly a shaman by the looks of her. He was healed. The others, blight orcs from the actual legion, had not been given such special treatment. It was clear that the thing that had torn his guts out with his own knife wasn't finished with him. Whether he wanted him to suffer or wanted to use him ... that was something that Adam couldn't figure out by himself. He was sure he'd get the answer in time.

Adam sat up tentatively.

"Hmmm, no. No, no, no. He wants you. You will need rest." The old crone stared pointedly at the stretcher and tried to guide him back down.

"No, thanks." Adam wouldn't rest during the best part of the battle. He couldn't. This whole episode, triggered by him taking a potshot at a flying fire mage, had scuppered all of his plans. It wasn't too late to save them.

"Thanks for the, uh, blood magic." The young man got up, still shirtless, and strode out of the tent into chaos. Orcs stampeded to the rear, grabbing pikes and shields as they went. A retreat? No, they wouldn't grab their weapons for a retreat.

"TO ARMS! TO ARMS! DWARVES IN THE REAR! DWARVES IN THE REAR!" Interesting, thought the young man. It was a perfect diversion for Adam to slip away and do what he'd come to do. He'd track down Gerra later. For now, he had other plans. Truth be told he hadn't stuck around for the coin he'd been offered, or for the thrill of the fight, or to kill orcs. He had stuck around to exploit opportunities in the chaos of battle.

He'd come for the loot.

Picking up an ugly orcish short sword, he made his way back towards the fort. The walls and gate had fallen, which was perfect. No one would notice him picking his way through the fort's armory, they'd be too preoccupied with the fight in the tunnels. And it wasn't like the young man was going to loot any orcs. None of their gear was flattering in the slightest.

He picked his way through the corpses of fallen orcs, men and dwarves, making his way into the fort and heading towards the armory, which looked like it had been hit with a trebuchet-thrown projectile and was in serious disarray.

 

[Gerra]

The serried ranks of blight orcs gained ground, pushing past the mouth of the gatehouse and into the courtyard. The bear, which had looked set to charge them, abruptly morphed into the shape of a naked man, who fled before them. Gerra frowned as he watched the warrior leap up the narrow stairs to the battlements, taking them two at a time.

A shifter. And he looked to be seizing a pot of pitch.

Another man hurled the body of an orc at the ranks and arms behind shields strained as they took the weight, then pushed it off and to the ground.

In four huge strides, the half-giant broke ranks. Another coming up from behind him to fill the gap in the far left of the shield wall.

With huge strides, Gerra crossed the length of his force. Crossbow bolts clicked and skittered across the flagstones around him, two bounded off his shield with the grim bell note of metal on metal. Gerra ascended the battlements, seizing a spear from a fallen dwarf as he went up the stairs and hurling it toward Arnor Skuldsson, who even now hefted a pot of pitch.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

"SHIT!"

Arnor brought the pot of pitch upwards, and, while the throw was good, it did was not able to pierce the heavy metal pot in his hands. It dented it and sent him flying backwards- and dropping the pot of pitch. It crashed down the stairs, but bounced off- and crushed an orc fresh off of his kill of an orc.

Arnor scrambled to his feet, flexing his powerful muscles. Glyphs and tattoos pocked his skin, marking him as a Nordenfiir. If Gerra had any more knowledge, many of the marks came from the region of Faarin. He wiped the blood off his hands, onto his bare chest. Shirtless and unarmed, Arnor walked down to Gerra, gathering a handaxe and the buckler he discarded earlier. He clamored the axe against the shield, and waited for the beast at the top of the stairs.

He tightened the straps of the buckler, flexing his fingers. He reached up and touched the braid of red in his hair, before turning to face the brutish Orc before him.

"You will fail here."

Arnor rolled the axe- and with an underhanded throw- went to throw it directly at the Orc's face. He was not concerned with weapons- for there were many lying at their feet for him to use. The axe went fast, intent on at least making the orc question whether or not it was a good idea to come here.

Or kill him, either one worked.

 

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

The orcs could smell victory and it spurred them onward. The young bulls had bled to take the walls, their resolve wavering. Their dead lay piled at the base of the wall and scattered across the fort. Committing the first cohort had been a gamble but it had paid off. Now the old tuskers marched through the gate, the scarred ones setting the example for their juniors.


Arash Muktar was a fifteen year veteran. He’d campaigned the length of the Spine and survived incursions to Ixchel and even raids on the far north. Belgrath wasn’t his first siege but he’d never grown to like them. Marching in the second rank, he felt safe with his brothers and sisters surrounding him. The darkness of the gateway gave way to light as they spilled out into the courtyard. Wild yells sounded as defenders flung themselves at the linked shields. The ranks faltered as they tried to spread out, adjusting to the wider space of the courtyard. Arash swore while the first rank getting caught in a confused melee. He was jostled and shoved while orcs tried to barge their way into the fight. Arash snarled and pressed forward. He grunted as something hit him from behind. He took another step forward but he was barely able to keep his balance. His vision was darkening. He dropped his sword and touched the bolt in his neck before keeling over.


Snorri gawped. He’d shot into the press of orcs storming through the gate but this was the first one he’d seen go down. He fumbled to get another bolt into his crossbow. There were still defenders on the walls but the orcs working hard to scour them. It wasn’t hard for him to aim. All he had to do was point and shoot into the packed mass below. It didn’t seem to matter how many times he cranked the crossbow, more of them just kept coming.


Cries sounded and he panicked as he saw more marauders surging along. The axeman to his left was battered off the wall. His killer sprang forward, her eyes on Snorri’. The dwarf forced the bolt in and swung his crossbow up. Burning pain surged through him. He coughed up some blood and looked down to see a blade buried in his belly. The human smirked and twisted the blade.


Merek let out a victory whoop. The crossbowmen scattered on the walls were just beardlings, easy meat in close combat. She was one of hundreds, the rogue freebooters and sellswords who’d flocked to Molthal’s banner. Gerra had used them as wall fodder, they’d died in droves but more had kept coming. A dwarven hold would be the sacking of a lifetime, worth more than a dragon’s hoard. She stooped to pat the dwarf’s sides, feeling for any money pouches or jewellery. Nothing. She stood up and spat in disgust. Miserly stunties.


More attackers were still coming up the walls so she pressed on, she wanted fresh pickings. The dwarves were falling back step by step, making them pay for every inch of ground. She clashed blades with a dwarf on the stairs. He stood there like a rock, holding it open for his friends to flee. Merek sidestepped and brought her sword up to parry his counterattack. Her mouth dropped to see it shatter. The dwarf smiled before swinging his axe.


Helfdane grunted and put his foot on the marauder’s corpse, yanking his axe free. She’d killed his cousin’s girl and two more besides that on the walls, and him too far away to do anything about it. He swung his axe again and cut down another screaming foeman. Horn blasts sounded, calling the retreat. The walls were lost. He took the steps two at a time, roaring for others to run. His lungs burned, facing into his third century and here he was moving about like he was fifty. He’d left it late, it seemed to be only roaring manlings and orcs about him in his part of the fort. A handful of dwarves ran.


Less than a hundred yards to the tunnel. It’d be close but he’d make it. Kathrin tripped on his right, crying out in pain. He didn’t even hesitate, he went to help her up. “Always was too slow” she coughed, leaning on her axe. “I was never a runner myself” Helfdane said, forcing a smile. The two stood and died together.


Kjaran bled from a dozen places but still he fought. His muscles burned, his joints ached, but still he fought, more like a wild beast than a man. Those he didn’t kill outright were demolished by a flurry of blows. His foes scarce had the chance to feel the first before they were slain by the last. He piled the dead at his feet but still they came.


Arrows and bolts still flew from the higher bastions but the orcs would not be denied. It was almost impossible to step through the courtyard without hitting off a corpse. Small knots of defenders fought and died back to back, buying time for others to retreat. A standard bearer planted the banner of Molthal on the walls, a cry going up from the rest of the army outside.

 

[Thren]

Thren had smashed his way into the small warehouse, glancing down at the box in front of him with a small smile touching his lips. "Much better than last time."

Reaching down the Barbarian grabbed hold of two odd glass orbs, each one of them holding an odd green substance within. Thren didn't know much about the Dwarves, but he knew that they were leaps and bounds ahead of...well pretty much anyone else when it came to the miracles they called "science".

He recognized these things for what they were, though how it was made or how it worked was something completely beyond him. Still, it would help him with his plan at the very least.

Dwarven Fire. Dragon's Breath. Spark.

Whatever the hell they wanted to call it, Thren knew it would be useful. Handling the orbs carefully Thren pulled himself to his feet, juggling the two spheres in one palm as he grabbed a torch at the corner of the room and ducked out of the broken doorway. As he moved back into the courtyard he encountered utter chaos.

The Orcs were streaming over in record numbers now, most of the defenders were pulling back, and everything had seemingly gone to hell. "MAK!"

He called out to his friend.

"KJARAN!" The Mispronunciation would be hard to miss. "GET OVER HERE. HERE!"

Thren began to wildly wave the torch as he ran towards a group of retreating dwarven defenders.

 

[Gerra]

Sneering through the Y-shaped opening of his barbute helm, Gerra angled his shield up and took the thrown axe upon the crude metal surface. Sparks sprayed as the axe hit the slanted shield and skittered off over the battlements.

Then he advanced on the shirtless man, the blood pounding faster and faster through his veins as his heart beat with the thrill of battle.

Here might a smith find the most fickle metal of all, for when testing the mettle of man it might bend with ease, or - too unyielding - shatter beneath a mighty blow. Only the crucible of battle would show worth.

Hammer gripped firmly in his right hand, Gerra rolled his wrist, relishing the feel of its weight.

Eyes like embers looked Arnor Skuldsson up and down, and the cruel cunning behind those eyes thought they had his measure.

In two swift steps he crossed the distance between them, even as the man sought to retrieve another weapon, and with terrible, numbing violence he brought his hammer down toward the man's shoulder the way he might flatten a slab of hot iron upon an anvil, but with more fury, and no intent to preserve the iron's shape. A blow that might stove in a helm or bruise and numb a shield-bearing arm.

A blow that would test the mettle of Skuldsson Snakeslayer, hero of Knottington.

 

[Nelya Ironfoot]

Nelya had been busy fighting on the walls when the one called Kjaran had shouted about the orcs rushing in through the gatehouse. She was occupied herself, fighting her own battles on the battlements, with no clear escape route to even head anywhere else. Things only became worst, when she felt the wall shudder and vibrate once more as she saw a giant hand the top of the walls unimpeded, with most of the defenders either too busy in their own battles, or dead on the floor.

She wasn't entirely prepared for what came next. A huge club came swinging onto the battlements, sweeping clean of anyone that stood in its way as it swung from end to end. It didn't seem to care who or what it hit in the process, and orcs, dwarfs and other defenders alike were flung from the walls backwards as they fell to their deaths or near deaths if they were lucky enough to hit some form of shelter in their way down. Nelya was one of those hit, and one moment she was fighting an orc with her blades, the next, she was sent flying through the air, her world spinning as she fell, before she struck something hard that knocked the wind out of her before she ended up on the ground.

Blood spurted from her lips as her cheeks brushed the cold stone floor field with dust and other debris. This had been her first siege, and looking like how things were turning out, this might very well be her last. She continued to watch through blurred vision as the fighting continued around her, with orcs and other defenders still valiantly fighting for themselves and more as life slowly began to drift away from her. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. It was not as she'd imagined.

This was her first major battle, and she was supposed to come out of it victorious and with stories to tell of how she helped save Belgrath from the invading army of blight orcs. Consciousness soon left her, and all there was, was darkness.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

It came down like an avalanche, crashing onto the buckler. His arm vibrated under the Earthquake of Gerra, feeling it across his chest as it brought him down. He cried out in somewhat of pain, but mostly out of surprise. The hammer failed to crack the buckler, but it nearly brought Arnor to his knees. Arnor saw his opening- and screamed a terrifying scream, the scream of a man in bloodlust.

Arnor's body contorted, the buckler's leather snapping off of his arm as fur took it's place of skin. Arnor reveled in his bloodlust- it seemed to awaken the parts of his soul that gave his Svalen power. And he was, in a rage.

Which made the prospect that the Half-Giant was now facing- fighting an enraged, angry bear- all the more terrifying. Arnor stood on his hind legs, roaring as he did as a man- but somehow, more terrifying.

Mostly due to the fact that he was now a fairly large bear.

 

[Birtingr Hrutr]

The first round of firebolts went off without much of an issue, but it seemed the orcs had left behind plenty of elite guard. Great, a rear guard. That complicated things for Birtingr and his clansmen. To make things worse they set up a pike line and shield wall. Instead of reloading his crossbow he pulled out his horn and blew into it. The signal was for them to scatter and not engage the death before them.

Most of the ram riders began to split up and move to either side of the defensive line at Birtingr's command. A couple of hot heads didn't listen and continued to charge forward as they shot off another fire bolt into the enemy line. No matter the effect of the bolts, they would find the ends of pikes impaling them through gaps in their armor. They went down in front of the orcs with blood flowing everywhere.

Birtingr cursed at the pair's folly. But their idiocy might give him a unique opportunity. He pulled Byx around and began to reload his crossbow again with another firebolt. Staying outside of the pike range, he aimed at the quiver of his fallen clansman and launched. The firebolt stuck the quiver and exploded into a small cloud of flame. It took a moment then caught the quiver on fire. He retreated thankful it worked and now just needed some space for what was to follow.

The firebolts in the quiver caught fire and all went off at once. Birtingr felt little bits of debris ping off his armor as he hadn't gotten that far before it went off. Byx got startled but was quickly back to normal. The ram just didn't expect a big explosion to go off.

As this was going on the ram riders all continued to launch firebolts into the camp. They aimed not at soldiers but at tents and supplies and anything else flammable. Already though it seemed the orcs were moving to stop their tactics by putting fires out. It was not going to such an easy mission for them.

Telemachus Maho Sparhawk

 

[Kjaran Mak Aodha]

Kjaran ran. He lurched sideways, his wounded leg almost giving way from under him. He caught onto an orc for balance, his other hand stabbing upwards with a dagger. He'd lost his sword somewhere in the melee but the tunnel vision was fading. Pain was filtering through the adrenaline. He pushed the orc out of the way and willed his legs to move.

He half skipped, half ran towards the tunnel. At least half a dozen tore after him in pursuit but panic lent him wings. He'd never been a sprinter, not even in his youth, but he ran like it was his last race. He could see Thren waving the torch at him frantically. A huffing and puffing Kjaran made it to the tunnel a few seconds ahead of the orcs.

 

[Thren]

"Mak!" Thren shouted at the man as he saw him run by, most of the dwarves having filed out through the edge of the tunnels now. The retreat was surprisingly orderly, not what he would have thought to seen down here within the depths.

Then again the Dwarves had always been a disciplined people.

"Grab this." He told the man as he caught his shoulder, holding the two orbs in his arm as though it were a babe. The Barbarian gestured wildly to the two spheres. "Uncork them and spread the liquid on the ground in front of the tunnel. I'll get more."

He glanced at the orcs who were steadily coming towards them, held at bay only by some of the remaining defenders. "Don't get killed."

Shoving the fire-spheres into Mak's hand Thren turned and went to grab more, knowing they'd need all they could get to seal off the tunnel. Then, as soon as he had them in hand The Barbarian did as he'd told Mak, creating a line of dwarven fire at the entrance of the tunnel.

All the while he dodged broken hafted crossbow bolts, his hound, Larik, protecting him from any wayward Orcs.

 

[Gerra]

Before his eyes, the half-naked man's flesh bubbled and boiled, like the babbling water of some hot spring. Muscles bulged and fur sprouted, bristling. In moments, all trace of the man was gone, replaced by the visage of a bear, rearing and roaring.

Gerra took a step back in shock, eyes widening, then his hairless brows drew together like the collision of two jutting craigs. He struck again, hammer whipping through the air toward one of the bear's forepaws.

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Cuut'Thul'Lulu]

Vallen, the second in charge of Mar'Cal's mercenaries realized the situation had grown dire with the dwarves still burning the tents. He would not be able to get Mar'Cal to the medical tents through the fire, and if something didn't happen soon there might be no medical tent to bring him to. Vallen pulled out a small green vile, Mar'Cal had told him to give it to him if he ever needed to wake Mar'Cal up. If there would ever be a time it was now. He ordered the other men to put Mar'Cal down, and then poured the liquid down Mar'Cal's throat. At first nothing seemed to happen, then Mar'Cal's breathing grew more ragged, and his chest began to move less and less. Soon Mar'Cal began to turn blue.

"Bolics it was just some poison so he could die off. Probably just another one of his weird rituals from his religion."

But, then he began to turn green, and his heart beat began pumping at an unnatural volume. His skin began to shift in weird ways with each beat, and a small protrusion seemed to grow out of his forehead. With a sudden deep breath Mar'Cal sat up, gasping as well as jerking awkwardly as his chest rhythmically contracted. He looked around, his eyes bulging slightly more on beat with his chest.

"I'm pass out for one moment, and you let everything go to hell, can't even bring me to a proper healer!"

Mar'Cal tried walk, but stumbled and had to be caught by his men again. Mar'Cal with a look of frustration then pulled a small vial from his belt, and dripped the liquid within onto the open wounds of his legs. His legs within a few moments began to rot, the skin peeling off, and blood oozing. Vallen realized that Mar'Cal was treating himself with poison, and the vial he'd given Mar'Cal before had been full of a snake venom from his home land in Amol-Kalit, from a snake called a cobra.

Mar'Cal's legs began to regenerate as fast as they rotted, while Vallen experienced his revelation. Mar'Cal then pushed the other men away as he lurched forward on his own, not fast by any means, but standing on his own feet again, if horribly deformed into what looked like clawed appendages. In fact Mar'Cal looked more like a demon that haunted mens dreams than a man himself. The protrusion on his forehead now a long ugly horn, his skin a sickly yellow-green that no man's skin should be coloured.

Mar'Cal payed no mind to his mens gapping maws behind him, instead focusing on the dwarven riders ahead. He pulled a throwing axe out, and threw it with an unsettling snap coming from his arm. It hit true though and the dwarf fell to the ground while his steed ran off. Mar'Cal threw another, but the dwarves were waring for more now so his second met nothing but dirt. Finally he threw his last one with a beastial might, it not only hit, but with such force it caused the dwarf to fly off his mount causing another rider to trip up trying to avoid his companion.

"Bring me more to throw!" Mar'Cal growled at his men, "The tent poles if you must, just keep them coming, these dwarves need to be driven off before there is nothing left to drive them away from!"

 

[Telemachus]

SIEGE CAMP
PIKE SQUARE

An explosion ruptured somewhere along their North line and Dur-Gil grit her teeth. Damn the Dwarves and their Fire Bolts. Such displays might have routed the savage tribal Orcs of other regions, but in this case reserve pikemen merely moved forward and filled the gap. Some of them had to kick the charred remains of their peers out of the way in order to do so: a momentary inconvenience.

Much like this little raid itself.

A Centurion made his way over to her, somewhere in the center of the defensive formation. "The crossbowmen are in formation and awaiting orders, Legate."

A few Dwarves and their mounts had already gotten themselves killed attempting to ride down or jump over the pike wall. Not every Dwarf would be so foolish. The rest were scattering this way and that. The Wargs were too lightly armored to make chasing them worthwhile, so Dur-Gil would opt for a more conservative strategy.

"Fire at will."

The Centurion relayed her orders. A war horn sounded a very specific song, and the Blight Orc crossbowmen unleashed volley after volley. While one group fired, another reloaded, and so it was that the torrent of crossbow bolts never truly ended. The rams had come in close. Too close. And now they would be constantly harried so long as they were in range.

A more sympathetic Legate might have shown some small regret for the mercenaries and camp followers caught outside the pike square.

Dur-Gil had not been chosen for sympathy.

SIEGE CAMP
SURGEON'S TENT

Sparhawk screamed - not unlike a girl, Astyanax noted - and curled up on the table. This was not the least flattering resuscitation he had been present for, but it ranked up there somewhere. Top thirty, easy. Once he was done dry-heaving, the Sparhawk started belting questions at him.

"You could have put a 'thanks' somewhere in there," Astyanax replied.

Why was every resurrection like this? Never an expression of gratitude always a "who did you kill to do this? Oh gods, what have you done to me? I am a monster! Astra, Astra, forgive me."

His black tooth throbbed for a moment and Astyanax rubbed at it with his thumb. "Questions. Okay. Sure. Dwarven cavalry have come down the mountain. They're in the camp, shooting at us. Prince Gerra is on the wall. As for Telemachus, well, I'm sure he was caught out in the open when the Dwarves arrived. I regret to inform you that he is, in all likelihood-"

Movement attracted Astyanax's attention to the tent flap, which had been flung open. The austere silhouette of a Sidereal Elf that thought much too highly of himself dominated the door frame.

"-right here, because of course he is," Astyanax touched his heart and bowed congenially, "Another happy reunion. My work here is done."

In the time it took Telemachus to cross the tent, Astyanax cast some sort of spell on himself and vanished from sight. Telemachus regarded the space the necromancer had once occupied with a sneer of imperial proportions. He could only guess at what horrid magic had to be employed to get Sparhawk operational once again, but it likely would have made his stomach churn.

"Master Sparhawk," Telemachus began, as if calling on a student during a lecture. "I trust you are ready to rejoin the fray."

The scattered edge of a crossbow volley punctured the front of the surgeon's tent - well away from them, but too close for comfort all the same.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

It was hard to move an arm, but a telegraphed move by a half giant towards a hand was easy. Paw, rather. Gerra should have hit him in the face.

He responded by sending both of his claws to Gerra's chest in a swipe. He liked this fight. No talking. Made it easy, simple even.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

They're in the camp, shooting at us.

They're in the camp, shooting at us.

They're in the camp, shooting at us.

The words echoed through Sparhawk's subconscious. Gerra hadn't ancticipated a rear-guard, let alone a rear army. The different factors of the situation bulldozed over his mind, filling him with fear and self-doubt. How were they ever going to fight a force that large? Gerra had left a substantial amount of soldiers behind, but the raining of crossbow bolts made an effective attack difficult. He had to think on his feet, what to do next...

Just then, as he was thinking of his plan of action, Telemachus walked in, pushing past the tattered remains of the Surgical Tent's entrance. It was comforting to see such a familiar face, despite it being brought on by such a dire situation.

"Master Sparhawk," Telemachus began, as if calling on a student during a lecture. "I trust you are ready to rejoin the fray."

That's right. They had a battle to win.

As he sat up, his legs hanging off the edge of the bed, he again admired the handy-work of the Necromancer; his sinews had pinned themselves back together, skin morphing back into shape, the blood lost returned to his veins. He was ready to go back, as Telemachus put it, into the fray.

An crossbow-bolt punctured the tent, pinning itself in the ground not far from them. Sparhawk knew they had to act now, else the camp would be taken, and if the camp were taken, even Gerra may not be able to deal with a strong force on both sides of the Siege.

He ripped some of the cloth that shawl the bed, and threw the material about himself, the white flax coveting his chest and shoulder. It'd have to do until he could get a new robe fashioned.

"I am, Master Telemachus." He hurryingly made his way outside of the tent, to survey the damage done to the camp.

This was worse than he thought. The dwarves had been raining crossbow bolts onto the entire encampment, the flame tips setting them alight, the smoke from which raised high into the air, blanketing the sky in a somber blackness that shadowed the camp. There was no point putting out the fires, as they would simply be relit by the volley of bolts that crashed down above them.

"Telemachus! If we don't hold these forces back the siege will fail! Have you any ideas?"