Open Chronicles Valor

[Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr]

Cauldwin stared up at the grey clouds that painted the white hazy sky. His ears rang remorselessly, further disorienting him and deafening him to what happened around him. Apparitions of the subconscious came to him as he lay there, confirming to him either his demise or his exasperated mental damage. They wore gambeson and chain with cauldron helms, but there faces remained utterly shrouded by dark: not too unlike the void. Their ghostly distorted voices chided over him, familiar and brimming with the echo's of the past,

"Nykios's balls, he's still kicking..."

"Ha! can anything kill this son of bitch."

"Hey, his wounds seem pretty bad... might be more humane to put him out of misery..."

"Ah, shut it! 'Es come back from 'orse!"

The One of the figures reached down to offer his hand, in return Cauldwin tried reaching to grasp the specters hand with his left, bringing him back to the present. As the missing hand would grasp the downreaching hand of the specter they all blew away like ash. He turned the limb to fully examine the damage, flashing images entered his mind. Of fire, Svlindrich, tearing his own fellow watchmen limb from limb, grabbing that double crossing vampire's neck...

Filled with resolve and rage he rolled onto his left, coating his front now as well as his back in the black tar. Doubtless he would appear not unlike a wraith. The pain ripped through his body, every torn muscle, fractured bone, and hemeraging. He forced himself to crawl, to crawl forward out of the crater. As he got about half way he got to his knees and continued to crawl to the craters' edge. As he reached the edge he forced himself to his feet, shambling forward to survey the surroundings.

Around the crater were the scattered, mangled remains of the orcs that were caught in the blast. What little remained of the dwindling forces of the blight orcs clashed against the indomitable shield wall, it looked as though their forces were about break. Then the contingencies of the the orcs became evident.

The broken bodies of the orcs began to writhe and move, moving closer to Cauldwin and the wall, it wasn't just a blood magi's suicide charge, it was necromancy. The moving limbs and broken corpses of the orcs began to encircle him, so he began to shamble forward with his badly damaged body. Fully aware that he was not in the same fighting condition he had been in before he was caught in the blast.

The bisected upper half of an orc berserker attempted to grab the black painted warrior and he crushed its skull, when that didn't work he kicked its groping torso away. Then an arm grabbed onto him, then another, then another... he thrashed violently to free himself from the horde, but even with his bloodrage he couldn't fight off the horde in the broken state of his body. Just as the situation seemed it couldn't get any worse...

BOOM

BOOM​

BOOM​

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​

Three more of these mages had blown themselves up against the shield wall and the remaining vestiges of the living blight orc berserkers. Destroying the formation and killing or injuring the majority of the front line. It seems the Blight Orcs are sore loosers. If they could not destroy the stronghold with might in life, then let it be with numbers in death.

*********************************************
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Cauldwin couldn't see the extent of the carnage, not with wave of feral undead parts that now swarmed him, nor through the bloody mist. As the wave closed around him he thrashed and struck at horde, fighting with every bit of soul he had left not to have his quest for justice end here. As the light would be quashed the wave of rot he spotted something vague in the distance, something he longed to rip into. The shine of brass, of gold tint, of what he had learned to be the style of reikhearst. It was no guarantee it was Hieke, but it was enough to stir his Svalen.

A horrific demonic roar, reanimated from beneath the part of the reanimated horde. A large, dark, manged, two-headed, doglike beast emerged from the wave of rot, sending utterly mangled parts flying. It stood at least a solid two orcs high. One head, was eyeless and grinned a sadistic grin, the other mouthless and of a scornful brow staring piercingly into the direction of where he saw the glint of brass. It began to charge forwards in that direction, knocking the horde from its path and scouring those beneath with the jagged point of its front left leg.

Either to aid the defenders or to hunt one who remained on its black list, it began tearing through the undead horde.

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas​

Kiros Rahnel​

Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest​

Tarathrieal​

Dal​

Heike Eisen​

 

[Heike Eisen]

Keep your eyes forward!

Sardrun was, in his state of mind, receptive to simple commands spoken forcefully. Unburdened, even, with any thought as to why or doubt as to whether he should obey or not. And so he listened to Kiros. Stopped and kept his eyes forward, the flash of blinding light just behind him making him squint but not to avert his gaze.

There was a thwack. A split second's passing. And then the shaft of the deflected javelin smacked Sardrun in the nose as it sailed past at an oblique angle, its deadly tip free and clear of the boy by a matter of inches. Sardrun staggered backward, keeping his footing and clutching at his nose as two streams of blood ran down from his nostrils...but still he kept his eyes forward.

Until he heard the thump of Kiros falling down. The boy stopped again and looked back.

"You're...you're hurt." His tone as shaken as it had been, but the light of that which was humane--concern, worry, for his protector--glimmering underneath the shock.

Scarcely a moment's time. Kiros cried out another order, and Sardrun did not argue or dally. He turned about once more and resumed his run toward the Marines.

Only, he didn't get too far. The Blight Orcs who had leaped into the backline had been dispatched in short order, but ahead, past the formation of Marines and the adventurers who were aiding them, there was something monstrous. Something that made Sardrun slow to an awed and terrified halt just before he had reached the back of the Marines' formation.

A two-headed Beast.

* * * * *​

Gil'Tyrnin's Weapons of Light cleaved swathes through the furious mass of Blight Orcs.

Askaris's powerful arrows brought swift and violent death.

And Eren'thiel's deep-diving Lightning Strike was yet another flash, and warriors had disintegrated in whole as it faded.

All of this, combined with the grinder of the Marines' formation, combined with the additional three of their own who had been turned into Glorious Suiciders and the unleashing of necromancy that followed, at last shattered the morale of the Orcs. They had come in great numbers and would leave thoroughly decimated. Those who still lived, who could despite their injuries flee, did so. The rout was as instantaneous as it was widespread. They turned wholesale, the lot of them, and began to run back up the draw--back the way they had come. Each individual Orc had only in his mind the primal compulsion now for self-preservation, their fury abandoned, their desire for glory squelched, their fear of Menalus's wrath and of appearing weak cast aside.

Of those fleeing Orcs whose fortune it was to still draw breath, none wished to suffer the fate of their newly arisen dead comrades.

If victory for the Orcs came, none of those who lived would see it.

* * * * *​

Heike. Dal. Askaris. All three of them fought to buy that time, that space, for Eren and Gil to unleash their magic in its most devastating potency. By the sword did Heike and Dal fend off and slay the backline Orcs, by the bow and by thunderous arrows did Askaris snipe them. And their efforts--thank goodness--were rewarded! By Light and Lightning did the will of the Orcs break. Surely not a moment too soon, for three more Suiciders (a mark of desperation, and no mistake) had exploded on the front line, killing many Orcs, yes, but felling a heartwrenching number of stalwart Marines as well.

Heike, slain Orcs strewn about her feet, stood panting. Her arms, legs, chest, all burning with exhaustion. She was sweating profusely under the stifling confines of her armor, her own helm now with that familiar and intensely uncomfortable feeling as if it were gently suffocating her.

And yet there was no more than a mere fleeting moment for respite.

Heike glanced back, thinking of Sardrun now that the Orcs' rout had begun. She saw the boy, his bloodied nose--but she also saw the priest. Down, sat upon the ground and clearly injured. "Kiros!"

A horrific, demonic roar. Coming from the front, where the thick of the Orcs' fighting mass had once been. Heike looked forward again, and her mouth dropped open.

By the Reik Crown.

As the living Orcs were fleeing, the dead were rising. And amidst this new horde, trampling them even as it stomped toward the Marines, toward her, toward Sardrun, was some manner of unspeakable Beast, two-headed, gargantuan, and enwreathed by foul magic. Heike had not seen the like of it ever before, and the mere sight of it stirred her disgust and steeled her resolve that a thing so hideous ought be scoured from Arethil forever. (And she, as well, had no idea that it was Cauldwin. The last she had seen of him and his characteristic rusted armor, was a brief glimpse of him at the front. Then no more.)

The Marines, with a new command from Captain Grunni, reformed to plug any gaps in their formation and prepared--with that iconic dwarven tenacity--to receive the imminent onslaught of the Undead, and to brace against the charging Beast.

Heike thought quickly, going with her gut instinct on the snap formation of a plan. No time spared for doubt of efficacy or efficiency, for thoughts of whether it was best or not. The enemy of a good plan was the pursuit of a perfect plan, after all.

"Dal! Go! Get Eren back!" Eren, with his earlier dive into the heart of their orcish enemy, was now out there on his own, ahead of the Marines' formation, amidst the Undead, spent of a large amount of magic, and with the Beast bearing down on him. She wasn't going to assume that he didn't need any help.

"Gil! Cover them!" And then she pointed to Askaris. "You! Cover them too!"

Pride be damned, Heike knew that she--armed for combat against men and orcs, not eldritch monsters--would be among the least useful at the front. She could help against the undead, surely, but against the Beast, with her mundane longsword? Again, the pressing thought that she needed a better weapon. One not just for the here and now in this endeavor for Belgrath, but for her own quest against the Slaughtern Vampire Host and the False King. Should she survive this day, she would need to do everything to claim the Gerechter Wächter from its rest, to again have it be wielded in a time of great need.

That was the future. This was now.

Heike was, again, in the face of the Beast, putting much weight upon the shoulders of those who wielded formidable magic. Gil, of course. Eren, who was perhaps imperiled, thus her concern and plan to retrieve him.

And, as well, Kiros the priest. This was something Heike could attend to. Both him and Sardrun, in fact, for the Beast--if its malevolence bid it to--could with its enormous height step over the formation of Marines and come straight to the back line to endanger the boy.

So Heike turned from the front. Ran back and took hold of Sardrun's arm and guided him quickly along with her, running back to the collapsed Kiros. She planted the tip of her sword in the dirt, dropped down to one knee, let go of Sardrun and quickly--as gently as time would allow--patted Kiros over in search of any other wounds than the obvious one. Sardrun was staring at the blood on the priest's robes.

"How are you feeling?" Heike said to Kiros, her eyes through her helm's visor heavy with concern. "Can you stand? Can you cast? What can I do?"

She didn't have the healing touch of a cleric or paladin, but if there was anything she could do to help, she would.

Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Dal Tarathrieal Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr Kiros Rahnel

 

[Dal]

It was mid-killing stroke delivered to a frenzied orc that Dal was shook by the accumulated energies that Eren had summoned forth. As blood was cast from the decapitated orc that assaulted him so, lightning crashed down as if the battle had irritated the forces of weather so much that they gave their clamorous shout in return. The half-orc's eyes stung from the illumination, he winced from the concussive shock that struck the earth and he endured ringing in his ears that afflicted him. His foe crumpled to the ground and Dal took a step back from the arcane puncture of power he had been in proximity to.

The air stank of acrid death, of burnt ozone that meddled with the stench of slaughtered bodies that characterised any bloodied field of war. Dal sneered as he received such a sensation. Three explosions rocked the battlefield as the orcs gave up their last whimper, these events did Dal absorb without complaint or concern, they were distant and expected by now. Not like the magic that had brought about the end of the orc forces' spirit for combat that rattled Dal so.

There is nothing so uncertain, devastating and unwholesome as magic lashing out in the field of war, Dal thought. Magic users who could single handedly annihilate both the novice and master of battle, be they arranged in discipline formation or arrayed in disparate swarms, such casters of magic were to be feared. They were as terrible siege engines with appetites for uncaring ravages of arcane might. There was no sense of prevailing and triumphing rightly over a foe with such sorcerous actions Dal judged, not like physical contest, just wild violence that did bring painful ruin to those who were swept up in the mercies of those who could command magic to do their ruinous bidding.

But, Dal thought as he looked out to see the orcs turn their backs to him and flee the field, it had been enough to decide the day. The foe was fleeing from such a feature of war. The orcs had endured enough suffering from such a dispiriting attack it seemed. The elf had done it, Dal thought grimly as he collected himself at the sight revealed to him as the orcs parted and gave chase to the wind and their camps.

There was nought but scorched earth and ash which danced in the low wind of the battlefield around Eren. No bodies left to rot, no weapons left to mark a warrior's career cut short, no hint except ash that picked itself up and irritated the eye. Dal grimaced at the damage done and hoped that the god of death did not bring him low by such a means. He thought himself fortunate that he had avoided involving himself with conflicts engaging the chagrin of spellcasters during his career as a sellsword so far. He intended to keep it that way.

With the orc horde breaking before him and fleeing for what brutal lives lay ahead of them, Dal reached for a wineskin of water about his belt with his left hand, his right still gripping his poised longsword tentatively as the blade dripped blood down upon the soil. He gathered himself and breathed deep as he felt the heat of his exertion rise up in great waves to remind him of the effort he had placed into serving his function in the battle. Bodies were strewn about him that possessed great rends of flesh cut cleanly, crimson ichor stained his armour and blade, and he saw Eren in the distance, the spellcaster clearly exhausted from his efforts to win the day in such a final retort. Dal had heard many times that magic drained it's user of their energy, and knew that if he was to slay a magic user in combat that he would have to take full advantage of these moments when they had to recover from their expenditures. This would be a perfect time to do such a thing to Eren if the enemy still had strength to fight, Dal thought.

And then the full extent of what was ahead of Dal revealed itself.

In seconds that filled Dal with apprehension as he observed the new foes before him, he dropped his wineskin without a second thought, sheathed his longsword, and reached to his belt for another weapon more suitable for the task.

“Undead,” Dal breathed to himself and then saw flashes of a impending horror through his visor, and added, “and whatever the hell that is.” Something foul was afoot. Dal had only fought in one combat against the undead before this moment but it armed him with the knowledge that his longsword was not appropriate to destroy such raised dead. He drew his warhammer once again. He felt how light it was in comparison to the heft of his longsword and felt the twinge of pain in his shoulder from the blow he had received earlier that greeted him. With stinging eyes he saw the beast cause carnage amongst the ranks of the undead, and saw that it was moving with an alarming speed.

“I'm no monster hunter, this isn't what I signed up for,” Dal muttered to himself as he mustered his courage in spite of such horrific foes. Undead he could contend with. He had discussed fighting the undead with fellow warriors and knew some strategies since his first encounter with the unliving. Break their joints, smash their bones, cripple them so that their animated bodies could not serve their dark purpose. But to slay such a beast that was causing carnage, he would leave that to others if he could help it. Dal felt the low growl of dread in his stomach and cursed that he should be forced to be on the field with such a thing.

And then a command from Heike.

"Dal! Go! Get Eren back!"

Dal offered no reply. His action affirmed the order better than any words could. He reacted without a moment's hesitation or pause; Heike's order granted him an economy of motion and direction that shirked all tarrying and doubt. Dal turned in the direction of Eren with a quick snap.

The warrior tilted his left shoulder forward and placed his hammer upon his right shoulder coiled and ready to deliver a blow. He inhaled a deep breath and exploded into a sprint. He strode with long powerful strides that offered no hint that he had endured great efforts of fighting.

He had his orders.

The blood soaked figure of armour moved with certainty and self assured confidence towards the beleaguered Eren.

Dal felt the heat rise in his armour. He heard his own breathing gain orcish grunts of exertion within his helmet as he powered on, his sabatons driving into the earth, his hammer flush against his shoulder. He deftly moved across bodies as he built up speed, taking small leaps that made the articulations of his armour give reassuring sounds that it was indeed still there.

There was no thought within Dal. Only the command drove him.

Get Eren Back.

He was conditioned for such a thing. He had made it so over years of endurance and practice. Other soldiers whored, gambled, drank and smoked. Dal trained. His life had been one of discipline when he embraced the life of a soldier, the life of a sellsword with pride. So in this desperate hour he raced forward.

Undead surged towards him. Felled orcs with grievous wounds ignored all self preservation and lurched forward as obstacles to block Dal's passage.

He did not slow. To the first who stepped forward Dal's right arm sprung out with brutal blunt force to the side of the orc's head with his warhammer like a trebuchet releasing it's payload. The strike sent the undead away to one side so that Dal could continue with his sprint.

The warhammer returned to his shoulder and Dal pressed on. He weaved pass another undead who jerked forward with a wide sweep of an axe and narrowly avoided the blow while maintaining his momentum.

Another staggered out with a low hanging broadsword and gave Dal a baleful look from dead eyes. Dal's hammer crashed down with a defiant roar upon the shambling undead that sought to impede him.

An explosion of violence was delivered that forced the undead to keel backwards in a broken shudder. Dal allowed his left hand to shove the enemy to one side as he powered on, returning the hammer to his shoulder as he did so. He gave out more grunts of exertion and saw that he was getting close.

The heat was becoming unbearable yet Dal soldiered forward to the exhausted elf. He was close to Eren now, mere feet away.

Another undead surged towards him. Again Dal's weapon was brought into play, this time sweeping up against the foe's legs. The undead careened from the force as it's right leg crumbled, allowing Dal to continue on. In life the orcs had a solid weight and mass to them. Animated as they were these things could not command their limbs with the confidence and heft of orc warriors and lost their sense of balance easily. It served Dal well in his task to bring the one who had brought such a deciding action of magic away from the force that closed in on them both.

Dal reached Eren and grabbed him at once with his left arm while still moving at the same speed, lifting him up and onto his shoulder in one powerful grunt. “Come on!” Dal growled to give further power to his efforts. He turned in a small circle at the same speed and returned back in the direction he had come from.

He didn't think about how far the front line seemed from here. He just kept moving.

Dal saw the dwarves surge and fight the undead mass and brace themselves for the impending crash of the vast monster that was tearing the undead apart.

Think about that later, Dal thought to himself and gripped Eren firmly with his left arm. The weight was nothing to Dal, he had trained with boulders to be ready for such a demand in the trials of war. The ride would be a bumpy one but Dal carried Eren true and with the same powerful footfalls that drove him on. Dal's breathing could be heard outside the armour now, savage growls coming from the half orc as he pressed on. Blood from his armour marked the elf's apparel.

Three undead surged to form a wall to block Dal's path and there was no room to maneuverer around them at his speed. Weapons drew back, dead eyes leered, and the half-orc's eyes narrowed as he gave his own response. Dal issued a roar worthy of any orc and swung his hammer from right to left in a powerful swing as he leapt up onto his foe.

He heard the awful sound of his armour being tested by the three undead that struck out. Dal crushed the first's skull with his hammerfall and collided with the central foe with his outstretched sabaton. The weight and force of which crumpled the enemy down before him. Another slash of a weapon against Dal's armour lashed out. He shoved his right shoulder forward and drove on. He heard a baleful hiss of the undead as their effort to stop him was thwarted.

Eren was jostled vigorously by the effort, but Dal kept a firm grip upon the elf with a bloodied gauntlet. He kept control of his breathing and pressed on. Through numerous undead did he swerve around, strike out and brutally bring down in his effort to get away from enemy territory. His warhammer crashed down with such ferocity that Dal thought his arm might go completely numb from the effort.

Another stood forward and was struck down. Another swung with wicked weapon and sinister intent. Another fell and was quashed by the unfailing violence that Dal brought down with defiant, desperate roars.

There was no prayer on Dal's lips. Just a gutteral roar as his arm was shocked again and again by his hammerblows.

And then, at long last, after so many obstacles and threats of death...

Dal passed the enemy line and into their own. He continued to run. His eyes went to the ground for a moment as he felt his legs burn, and then lifted them back up again to look for a place of safety for his arcane ally.

He found Heike in his eyeline from the distinctive golden armour she wore. It was unmistakable.

He arrived, heaving, a figure of blood, heat, and with vital baggage about his shoulderplate.

“There,” Dal declared hoarsely and loudly to Heike and shrugged Eren off his shoulder. As he did so, he went to one knee, his great armour shuddering as he drew breath. The half-orc planted the warhammer head down on the ground and gasped. He tore off his helmet with his left hand and let it fall to the ground, panting with laboured breathing as he did so. Steam rose from armour from the heat he had just generated and he looked to Heike and the one that they had performed all this fighting for. The dwarven figure of only seventeen years.

Dal reached for a waterskin that was no longer there. He swallowed dryly, all thoughts gone from him now. He turned his body looked out, his eyes finding the beast that moved with snarling maw and a vastness that loomed over the battlefield as it snatched, tore, rendered destruction and bounded forward.

He forced himself back onto his feet with a grunt and gripped the weapon with both hands.

“Orders,” Dal said simply.

Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Heike Eisen Tarathrieal Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr Kiros Rahnel

 

[Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest]

Gil heard Heike call for his support, though he did not show any obvious signs of exhaustion, he could feel the day now turned to night on the battlefield start to weigh on him. He could feel the heft of his armor now, what once light as linen was now heavy on his shoulders, his muscles burned as ones would after a long day of intensive training, a pain he was all too familiar with. Day after day his father would drill him, once he had dropped his sword during one such drill falling to his knees in exhaustion, his father beat him within an inch of his life. He showed up the next day blackened eyes busted lip, limping back to train more, better him then his brother or sister. He was of a High house, nobility, all traces of his lineage wiped from existence now that his city was destroyed and his people scattered. Even if he had been king if his people, he would now only be the king of ash and rubble. It would be a humbling experience for anyone. His father did teach him a few things, that he was thankful for. One of which was how to dig deep, to push past the pain how to let ones mind rise above the limitations of their body.

Gil began to rain light onto the battlefield to cover Dal, his disks of light did not come so sparingly this time, they were deliberate. As Dal smashed his way through the undead horde those that would seek to close the path behind him were met by weapon of light, spear ejected at great speed caught an undead through the skull as it threatened to attack him as he was on his way back to the front with Eren'thiel. He looked to the archer he had healed before, he could only preform that miracle three times per day, it was a powerful healing spell, most healing spells took time to cast but Paladins could lay hands on a person three times per day to heal their wounds and rejuvenate them. The selfish would use the the spell on themselves, they rejuvenate themselves to continue fighting, the battle was bigger than one person, he would need help.

With Dal back now with Eren, he had dropped him now he ran to the priest, if any could aid in turning the tide now it would be him, he allowed no time for idle chit chat. He reached down placing his hand on the shoulder of the priest as his hand touched the priest he glowed with light. As the wave washed of Kiros his wounds would be healed. Perhaps the priest could rejuvenate Eren now.

He looked Kiros dead in his eyes

"I need you to get Eren back into the fight and help me with the undead"

Gil stood up now he had grabbed the leather straps of his pauldrons unclasping them they fell heavy to the dirt with a tremendous thud. He worked at his vambracers, they too fell with a tremendous thud to the ground. Both his paldrons sank into the earth a good few inches, his vambracers doing the same.
How much weight had the Elf been carrying through out the battle? He unlatched his breast plate, it fell hard into the dirt followed by his neckguard.

He ran to the other Elf, he was quicker now he moved with astonishing speed for a man his size he arrived to the archer

He Shouted to Askaris

"Look for magic users, the should be easy enough to spot, they will be behind the horde probably standing still, it will take alot of time and concentration to raise and maintain this many dead, they will more than likely be out of range for me. I have seen what you can do with that bow, I wish to see more."

Gil cupped his hands offering himself as a tower for the Elf to see above the horde, he beckoned him to climb atop his shoulders. He was worried about the beast but he was worried more now about thinning the horde of undead and stopping their magic to stem the flow.

His Faith was not the issue now it was his magic reserves were running low at this point, though he had vast magic energy at his heed, the weapons of light going cast over and over like an endless rain of death had taken a toll on them. His faith, and another gift, a forbidden gift from his father might be is only options now if the priest could not heal Eren in time and help to eliminate the undead, he knew the death of a necromancer would not destroy their undead, it would however keep more from rising.

He waited and prayed, should he use his last ace, it may not end well. He had heard tales of Paladins trying to master this technique that was reserved only for The Grand Paladin. They had died, at best they had been incapacitated for days, some for weeks and even months only being able to use the blessing for seconds. It required absolute faith and clarity, it was not something one used in a common brawl, it was only to be used as a last ditch effort, any doubt and it was certain death for any paladin fool enough to use it.

For the boy, for his companions, he would do it if need be to fight the terrible beast.

Dal
Tarathrieal
Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr
Kiros Rahnel
Heike Eisen
Eren'thiel Xyrdithas

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

A relief that Sardrun continued in their dash for safety. The boys concern was admirable, but neither time nor situation allowed for further response. Uncertain of his own fate, it was all Kiros could do to ensure his safety; such remained strong priority.

Sardrun’s footsteps grew fainter as he hurried on past. Ushering him on was the final act he could make in endeavour to see his promise to the boy through; he was far too maimed to continue as escort. Blinded by his own incantation, the scene before his eyes was naught but featureless black. His ears were all that could perceive, and he heard no sign of any others – save for the threatening footsteps of the assailing orc on approach. It seemed he had tread too far into open ground for aid to come.

Having done all he could to save the boy, mind raced for solution that might save himself. But no such response was at hand. Spells would be too slow for intervention, and his impaired vision too severe to reliably direct them. With running a fruitless effort, he remained seated upon the ground, face towards foe as best as his senses allowed. To brandish his quarterstaff was but a bluff as he was too blind to effectively wield it. Doubtful his opponent would buy it, but that was not the motive behind the act. In expectation of demise, he would not allow himself to be slain by wounds upon an idle body.

With tight grip on his staff, he prepared himself for an end seemingly inevitable. There were worse ways to go, worse conditions upon which to do so. These allies knew him not as fugitive nor murderer, and neither did they know the regret that was Her. Only his enlistment for and action in this mission. A former relief that they knew him not for misdeeds, yet in such doomed situation it left him with some slight guilt. They could only remember him by action, knowing naught of mistake.

At least his sacrifice was in bid to preserve one innocent and deserving of it. He could only hope the others would keep Sardrun safe now.

Fearful concern was given interruption when Askaris’ loosed arrow tore through the air and into the chest of the orcish assailant with a thump, followed by the crack of bone as another made impact against his skull. There was one more thud that followed – the report of the orc’s impact onto the ground a degree louder than that of the arrows piercing his flesh and bone. After, all was silent from the once menacing threat, and the only sounds that followed were that of ongoing and unseen battle.

His change of fate was a most welcome shock. He was badly in need of healing, yet try as he might, he could not maintain his focus through the pain accompanying his recent injury. With spellcasting currently inhibited, he opted instead to push himself backwards over the ground on his arms and remaining good leg. Each motion was made with pained effort, and blood stained his robes while dirt caked beneath. Upon each pause, he gave his surroundings an attentive listen to try and gain clue of the events he remained blind to. Naught of noteworthiness was heard until Heike’s call rang out from afar.

"Kiros!"

Despair dispelled with but one word. Kiros immediately shifted to orient himself towards her, though unable to return her gaze. That he held the attention of an ally renewed him with hope for survival – particularly so given that it was Heike. But he could not even tell if she had seen him injured upon the ground, or because he was absent from Sardrun's side. With a bit of pain, he mustered enough breath to shout back at booming volume.

“Heike!” He called out in direction from which she did. Shortly following, there was an unnatural and eerie roar; in direction towards the front line and of exact location unknown. Enough to fill any with dread, Kiros felt a particular foreboding unease but could not quite put the cause to reason. Ceasing movement, he opted to remain still out of apprehensiveness at what he could not see. Heike’s distance was audibly enough to make attempt to traverse the distance pointless. All he had needed was attention from an ally, and with that gift gratefully given he remained still and waiting.

"How are you feeling?"

“Badly hurt. Of degree I cannot tell.” He gave his response, eyes seemingly gazing at a point in the sky beyond her.

"Can you stand? Can you cast? What can I do?"

“Can’t stand – nor see.” He added. Though some time had passed, his sight still scarcely functioned. Only the faint hint of silhouette of Heike’s greaves in his peripheral vision was recognizable; anything he attempted to focus on became lost in an obscuring sea of darkness. But the pain of his wounds had dulled, prompting Kiros to give mending his wounds a second attempt.

“I believe I can cast now; but I need cover. It is not so simple to heal myself.” He replied to her inquiry. There was a time once where it was, but Itra had seen fit to burden the process with cruelty since. Thus far he had refrained from using his blessing of health upon himself for that very reason. When bestowed upon others the blessing remained painless. When used to remedy his own injuries however, the incantation wracked his body with such intense and paralyzing pain as to leave him vulnerable – a state that blindness only compounded further.

“Have no misgivings – it is painful.” He added. Better to give her warning, than surprise her by sight and sound of the effect upon him. He had Heike’s protection to rely upon now, and if she bid the opportunity was safe, he would use it to undertake the agonizing process. He felt with a hand along the blood soaked robes over the wound on his hip, and winced from the pain of finding it. Teeth were clenched in preparation for the pain he knew it would prompt.

Before he could speak the prayer however, he was stilled by a hand upon his shoulder and imbued by blessing of Gil’Tyrnin. Wounds that had pained him vanished, and his leg became usable anew; and all without the agony that She had made requisite of Her blessing. Vision returned for the first time since casting his luminant flash, albeit dim and fuzzy; the darkness night brought had aggravated the effects.

Unable to see the conviction in the elven paladin’s eyes, he nonetheless heard it through the tone of his words and returned a solemn nod. Having been oblivious to his surroundings for so long, he had been desperate for awareness and was grateful at that which Gil’Tyrnin had given.

He held no restriction on his casting himself, only on his equipment. That his robes be woven of soft linen was mandated requirement, and linen did demonstratively little against the point of a javelin. Nor could he heal himself without pain, but he could bestow his blessing of health upon others repeatedly until the point of exhaustion. At Heike's behest, he had been frugal with the expenditure of his magical power thus far, and retained plenty for the requested task.

But before rushing out in search of Erën, he would take one final brief moment to make inquiry of Heike and address the priority that remained high in his mind:

“Sardrun – I was wounded in effort to protect him.”

“Is the boy safe?”

Tarathrieal Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr Heike Eisen Dal Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

When at first he touched down, there was silence around him. Ash and dust fluttered through the air, and the cloud which had erupted up from there stifled his vision.

He heard the groans of those nearby, whom had not been directly effected but suffered from the concussive force of his attack.

He'd cut a path nearly two meters wide and several meters ahead across the ground, and ended more than a few orcs' lives. But using his Celestial Strike in such a way was better done with the aid of his brethren, like he had at Bhathairk against the Amalgamation. Calling upon so much on his own... it came at a tremendous cost.

The Strength of Nykios was spent with his attack, and he had little to draw from to summon any more magic. His physical strength too was drained, and exhaustion prevailed in him. So when it was that those who still lived had turned to flee, and others had come in their place, those of the dead, Erën - though valiant in his attempt - was ill equipped to match them.

Fervently he attacked, felling those first to come upon him. But even those he slew were slain already, and rose up to be slain again.

His sword met the steel of another, and held. His strength failed him, and his arms were pushed to the side, his sword pointed away. The weight of a dead orc's fist found his jaw.

White flashed. He stumbled back. Angrily and blindly he swung, and with a combination of luck and experienced intuition he severed the head of this foe, and a kick of his own sent the corpse falling on its back. The strength in his legs failed him, and he dropped to one knee, and leaned on the sword in his right hand, striking it down into the ground to do so.

His head spun, and his vision failed him.

And then, just then, when the dead were once again upon him and all his flesh failed him, he was taken.

What strength remained in him held desperately to the sword, but all else that was conscious in him faded to black. The occasional jostle; a quiet, distant cry of battle, but by the time Dal was successful in returning him to relative safety, he'd fallen completely unconscious. But still, his hand grasped tightly onto the sword, his spirit desperate to return to the fight.

---

Heike Eisen | Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest | Tarathrieal
Dal | Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr | Kiros Rahnel ​

 

[Tarathrieal]

Askaris nearly roared in triumph at the display of arcane and divine might, made manifest against what he increasingly realized was his first hated enemy in his long life. He worked his bow with speed that defied it's draw weight, sending fleeing orcs in tumbling masses which only further intensified the rout. Mercy was not the answer to an enemy fleeing the field, and Askaris had no mind to give them such a thing.

Then it began, and Askaris bow slowed.

Bodies contorted and popped, the sound of joints snapping unexplainable directions; the sick sound of wet flesh falling off slick bone as the hated Blight Orc rose, something new and horrible in it's entirety. Dead gas and air escaped their sick flesh in waves, creating a 'moan' like sound which made even the hardened warriors squirm in their armor.

Undead.

Askaris had never faced such horrors, he was not an adventurer and few societies tolerated the Necromancer and even fewer used them as a battlefield tool. It was the kind of thing soldiers told whispers of on long stale battlefields, of ghoul and ghost and the horrors shared in taverns by adventurers looking to impress on the common soldier the peril of their lifestyle; and maybe a free drink or two.

Askaris was slow to react to the undead, but he could adapt - it was what followed which nearly made him reconsider his planned vengeance against the Blight Orcs. A beast, taller then the mightiest of mounts burst from a wave of corpses like an explosion.

It was horrific, and far beyond anything the Dragoon had ever encountered. It seemed mindless, out of control - tearing at undead seemingly only because they were nearby it. That was not the comfort it should have been, because the front line of Dwarves were not far from it. It was only a matter of time.

Suiciding exploding orcs, undead hordes, giant beasts from story books made manifest. Askaris had to give his utmost respect to the Dwarven line as he glanced at them, standing resolute despite their terrible losses and the nightmarish realties of this battlefield - their unbreakable morale showed a level of training and discipline that meant their commander was likely one of the very best alive.

Askaris drew back, taking aim at the nearest undead when the Paladin approached him like a bolt of lightning; his supernatural ability an enviable gift.

Orders.

It had been a long time since Askaris was receiving orders and not dishing them out, but in the chaos they felt warm and comfortable in a way every soldier could understand.

"I'll find them!" Askaris said with certainty and climbed atop the taller elf to get a better vantage point. Askaris trained eyes scanned the gap of the pass, the slight incline just beyond it's borders giving a gradient like effect which would make his next action far more difficult.

There was but a single figure behind the line, an indistinct shape motioning in grand gestures and emitting a pale, disturbing light.

Ssssshhhh.

Askaris inhaled sharply, holding his bow slightly above his head as he drew the string back it leveled to his chin - a target shooting technique, it was often far too slow and elaborate for the battlefield. His muscles screamed at him as he for first time truly extended the massive Abtati bow's draw weight to it's absolute limit.

The thick shafted arrow made an audible whistle as it was sent forward by his release; and Askaris did not even bother to watch the outcome. Quickly he dropped from the Paladin's body, and dropped the bow next to the corpse of his once loyal steed.

In a flourish he drew his sabre and stalked forward toward the front lines, leaving the Paladin with only a single assurance.

"The caster is dead."

Fleeing orcs streaked past, paying no glances or mind as they trampled the stiff corpse of a cloaked figure; arrow pinning the hoods edge into it's forehead.

 

[Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr]

The skies had now begun the shift to dusk. The beast with sadistic fervor crushed and tore its way through the wave of undead, getting ever closer to the line of Dwarves and beyond, his vendetta. The undead clawed, stabbed, and beat the beast in some places to the bone, leaving a black gory silhouette against the ever darkening skies. It's horrific gurgling and guttural otherworldly growls and roars that crossed somewhere between humanoid and bear were deafening.

As it finally viewed the line of dwarves for whatever unknowable reason it stopped its charge, the green glowing eyes of the mouthless almost humanoid of the two heads studied the line of Dwarves. It was no surprise the honorless and craven mercenaries and adventures abandoned the fold in the face of overwhelming odds... but it was still overwhelming odds. It would be expected that there would be some form of breaking, some members of cowardice against the line of Dwarven defenders. But their was none.

(OOC: for those of you that don't know I like to add fitting music for events in RP, I hope you like this one.)

The fractured shield wall, buckled then pushed back even harder against the crashing wave of rot. The injured and the dying who could no longer raise their shields raised pikes and axes, impaling and cleaving what spilled over the wall. Even as they bled to death and their own dead rose against them. Every Dwarf remained stalwart, even when wounded or dying. They held the line. They fought for something noble, something worth dying horrifically and having their bodies and souls corrupted for. Their helms did not hide their faces, what the beast could read was unmistakable. Not fear, nor regret, nor sadness... unyielding fury in the face of death. Duty until the end.

Its gaze rose, in the distance it could see that familiar armor and sword, Hieke. But he could also see two he knew and respected. Kiros, the man aided in his release in the rusted realms, as well as helped him and the ogre remove the corrupted taint of the deep mountain wood... and the Warrior of light, devout, unflinching, full of fervor and fearlessness: the warrior of light he wished he could have been. It couldn't bring itself to charge after Hieke, not knowing the men who fought for this fortress. Not if it betrayed what both the beast and the man had stood for.

It spun itself around, slashing the undead wave that tried to surge through the chokepoint the Dwarves held, the humanoid head's sealed mouth tore open, spilling spittle and black acidic bile onto the horde. In the fading light revealed its jagged teeth and together with the beastial head began to devour entire parts of the horde, even as the still squirming pieces of the undead clawed and bashed the inner gums and mouth of the creature. While it stood it would buy time for the defenders, and aid in thinning out the relentless horde.

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas​

Kiros Rahnel​

Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest​

Tarathrieal​

Dal​

Heike Eisen​

 

[Heike Eisen]

Is the boy safe?

Heike nodded vigorously. Said, "Here. Here. He's right here." And then, in a manner that one would not be in error to describe as maternal, she waved Sardrun over. The dwarven boy, astonished by the display of healing magic that Gil had bestowed onto Kiros, did not at first seem to register Heike's beckoning--again that fascination, like when he had saw Kiros's shield and estimated its dimensions. But a slightly more exaggerated gesture of her hands caught the boy's eye and he came over, standing beside Heike and Kiros and looking up at them both as if by so fixating upon them that the Beast (making horrendous noise out at the front) would spare at least the three of them from its wrath.

Heike briefly took hold of Sardrun's shoulder and gave it a warm, encouraging shake, her smile hidden behind her helm. And then she stood and said wholeheartedly, "Thank you, Kiros. We'll see him home yet. We will."

This time, at least, Heike did not have to fight alone. This time, surrounded by stalwart and capable comrades the likes of Kiros, Gil, Erën, and Dal, she had a strength that went unrivalled by the unholy power of vampirism. And perhaps if the orphan Ella was somehow watching, seeing what they were all doing on behalf of the boy Sardrun, she might find it in her heart to forgive Heike for her failure, if such forgiveness was needed.

And of Dal. He had returned to the back line, carrying an unconscious Erën, and Heike was glad that her gut had been keen on that matter. A terrible fate, unjust, for a warrior like Erën to be left alone and defenseless, trampled to death by the Beast or torn asunder by the risen dead.

Dal took off his helmet, and Heike immediately felt worried for him. Ephemeral, the feeling, yet strong nonetheless. To be here, in the midst of all this, as an orc, even if by half...it was like revealing oneself to be a vampire to Templar. It took a rare breed of courage.

She saw the wisps of steam leaking out from his armor, rising from the skin of his face, his head. Saw him pat at his belt where his waterskin would have been. So while Dal took a moment to catch his breath, Heike turned and hurried to one of the pack mules (disciplined animals, to stay where they were and to not yet go fleeing). She searched promptly and procured a waterskin. Half-empty, but it would do.

She hurried back. Offered it to him. "Here, Dal. Water."

In this meantime, Gil and Askaris had worked together, Heike catching some of their teamwork (and being a touch surprised at Gil's unexpected state of undress). They'd leveraged the height of the former and the bow and phenomenal aim of the latter to fell an orcish caster, the proximate cause of the magic which had birthed the Suiciders and the subsequent raising of the dead. Two of the Marines had noticed and made comment of it, calling back to Gil and Askaris. Forge-Sergeant Ordin called out, "Now that's a right proper shot, aye!" Ummanite Clanhold called out after, "My grandpappy would be proud, ha ha!"

Heike still had it within her mind to inquire of this new adventurer--Askaris--from where had he come, and it was her hope that he would be the bringer of good news. But that time remained forthcoming.

Orders, said Dal.

And, right as soon as he said it, Captain Grunni's booming voice could be heard from the front, "Aye then, if they want to destroy each other, we'll let them!"

Heike glanced that way, over and past the Marines' formation. And...hell's fury, were her very eyes deceiving her, or had the Beast simply turned from the dwarves and had devoted itself solely to attacking the undead? Well. She wasn't about to go questioning the whim of good fortune. The Captain had it right in Heike's view: stand back, hold what ground they had, and simply defend while they let the Beast go on its rampage and not get too close. If the Beast turned its sights on them after all the undead were slain, then it would be a far easier time fighting it without scores of the risen dead also battering the Marines' ranks.

"Right," Heike said. "Dal, keep Sardrun close and watch Erën.

Sardrun, with eyes perfectly bereft of judgment or prejudice, looked up to the immense Dal. A wide gaze, hazarding a sliver of hope.

"Kiros, I hope your vision is getting better, because I want your eyes on that Beast."

Heike had asked much of Dal in retrieving Erën amidst the mass of undead, and it had taken much out of him; now it was her turn to go to the front, to fight with what vigor she had left. Dal's vigilance would free Kiros to watch the Beast, to call upon any magic which might slow or stop the horrid thing if it turned to charge at the Marines once more. Gil and the newcomer Askaris were already on their way up to the front, and Heike would soon join them.

"We're finishing these undead," she said as she turned, "and ending this fight."

And with that Heike strode through the formation of Marines and up to the front line, longsword raised, and she cleaved into the newly risen body of a Blight Orc and brought it low. The dirt would reclaim it, its respite from death brief.

Kiros Rahnel Dal Tarathrieal Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr

 

[Dal]

Dal's shoulders heaved as he forced himself to take deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth in a concentrated effort to reduce the heat that was pervading his senses. For all it's constraints and considerations, Dal did not curse his armour for how it performed in this discomfort. He was beyond such mewling. He was accustomed to this element of combat, although he did his best not to reach this level of built up exertion during skirmishes. One could rely on the front line to prevent some of the immediate danger when one was behind the forefront of conflict, when one was amongst so many troops as he was now.

Dal's breath came out in heavy clouds of vapour which were quickly swept aside by the low wind that carried its way through the battlefield. He felt the sweat on his brow evaporate and panted some more.

Wave after wave of heat swamped the half orc, a well known feeling that he endured with discipline as he carried out what he needed to do to alleviate his state. He could feel the sweat accumulate about the cloth underneath his armour, he could feel how his jutting brow had sweat streaming down it, he could feel the clamminess within his gloves and how his throat felt as if it were scorched. Dal knew from years of experience that this next part was a careful act of self preservation; too much rest and he would become chilled quickly and sluggish to when the fight presented itself to him again, too little rest and he would remain clouded in thought from the temperature and collapse from heat exhaustion should he exert himself further in self defence.

Such were the considerations of anyone wearing such encompassing armour such as Dal. He had been trained to be mindful of it by his teachers, and it had cost him many a coin to receive such information, instruction, and orientation by sword masters and drill instructors. Many a mission had been undertaken to secure his present fighting capacity, in both equipment, mindfulness, attitude and obedience to the manners and discipline of combat and war. He panted and shook his head as to get rid of the sweat, and reached for a simple rag which was tucked behind a glove for such a purpose.

The other purpose to it was to remove blood from a blade. Often replaced and discarded. Dal applied the cloth to his head and swept away sweat from his brows. He looked down at his helmet for a moment before looking up to Heike as she went over to the packmules.

He risked a faint smile of satisfaction that even as he made it, hoped would not be dashed.

So. Seems she does know how to command. How to care for troops she commands.

As Heike gave him water Dal gave a firm nod and then slight bow of the head as he took the waterskin from the knight. There was no need offer a polite thank you in verbal form, body language served well enough in such a conflict zone. The bow Dal had provided was of a civilised manner hailing from some polite society Dal had never found himself truly accepted by, yet beholden to behave properly within. Heike was the point of authority here and Dal instinctively gave that mark of respect as a soldier should.

She shows concern to what forces obey her, Dal thought with some sense of relief and assurance as he tilted his head back and began to drain the waterskin in short sips so as not to spill any or to shock his system with an intake of water.

Or perhaps she just gives a damn about a warrior with a thirst who's just sprinted so, Dal considered. No matter, Dal thought, as he finished the waterskin and hooked it to his belt for later. End result is the same.

He received his orders and felt his voice return to it's normal timbre and he with a replied with a simple, “Aye,” with a practised firmness that meant he had internalised the command. It did much to reassure his former comrades in the mercenary companies he had sold his blade to that he had understood the order with some faculty, instead of such grunting like some orc with crazed eyes.

Dal picked up his helmet and kept it under his arm as he looked towards Sardrun and Kiros. The half orc resisted giving into considerations about the young dwarf, about what it all meant that he was alive to tell some kind of story. Now wasn't the time to think about how many lives had been spent to preserve this one individual. Such things came later in the cool of the aftermath, when tobacco was punched into pipes and food filled the stomachs of those who were left to tell a tale. And even then, such considerations were quietly thought, and only rarely voiced by those who had such solidarity in combat.

He looked to Kiros and gave a low hum as he appraised this one. He hadn't witnessed any of the magic Kiros had performed, but he knew from the robes that this one had some prowess to him. And Heike gave some encouraging words towards him, so it must mean that he could hold his weight in the chaos, Dal thought. He gave a nod in solidarity and went to Eren.

This one clearly has expended a great deal of energy, Dal knew. He shook his head and replaced his helmet. As if he was giving a child precious seconds in bed he looked over Eren to see if he moved or was about to spring into life. Dal gave a low growl of discontent to himself and crouched down beside Eren.

“If you're in there still, wake up. There's more fighting still. Come on. It's not over. Things to do still. Undead to kill,” Dal said simply and bluntly, his voice matter of fact, his tone plain and non-accusatory. The elf had already done plenty to win this battle...but Dal knew it was better to press such magic users into providing more magic than to let them rest on their laurels. Safer for everyone, Dal concluded.

Dal got up from his crouched position and reached behind his back for his crossbow. He swung it around and loaded a bolt into it with a swiftness that was only possible from taking due time to cool himself. He breathed a cool satisfying breath out and readied the weapon, his eyes looking for any target that might break through. The undead might be mindless, but they served a purpose, Dal ruminated, they might rip through to attack Sardrun.

That beast might rip through to attack Sardrun, Dal thought grimly.

He turned his head to Eren, crossbow in hand, pointed in the general direction of the hound in the distance, and barked at Eren.

“There's a beast out there, and if it's so inclined it'll tear right on over here. You need to be awake if that happens. So rouse yourself, warrior! Just a little more is all that's asked. Heike has charged into the thick of this fight, and I'm...I'm stuck here with you, acting as your ward, until you-get-up. So come on! Before the battle is all done and we can sleep as we please! Get. Up!”

Dal turned to his attention to aiming his crossbow and squaring his feet into the ground. He watched as the beast tore apart undead with great snaps of it's jaws, how it pounded the earth and leapt upon the foe.

By the God of Murder, Dal thought to himself, Heike is getting closer to that fucking thing. And I'm stuck here with the mission critical person and an assortment of casters.

“COME ON,” Dal roared in frustration, his eyes on the beast, his gauntlets gripping the crossbow, blood still dripping down his armour in great streaks, scenes of the carnage between the dwarves and undead greeting him with sickening clarity. He rolled his shoulders a few times to keep the warmth about his person and felt the awful resistance of sweat in his clothes below the armour. The banner upon his back fluttered in the breeze, the dwarven symbol upon it assuring any that despite his tone, he still fought on their collective side.

Kiros Rahnel Heike Eisen Tarathrieal Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr

 

[Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest]

Gil nodded to the other Elf, he looked down to the man's steed. The body of his trusty companion laid still and motionless, any thoughts of trying to heal the creature gone. He felt for the man, he had lost his own mount not to long ago, though a new one could be acquired, it would never be the same. He seemed relieved at the elves reassurance that the Necromancer had been dealt with. The white robe he wore under his armor drenched with sweat, it was a stark contrast to the black and gold armor the Paladin wore. In the end he was still a member of the congregation. Under his heavy armor he wore the robes if a Priest.

Though he tried to fight it, he could feel the fatigue set in, he had dropped some precious weight to help conserve what stamina he had left, his movements were became more deliberate now that the task of healing the priest and dealing with the necromancer were done for now he had other concerns.

He turned now to face the beast and the front, without the necromancer the undead did not have a clear understanding of tactics, they were wild and feral, he had hoped the dwarves who had lost so many, who at this point must be truly exhausted could hold the line, though he tried to hide it for the sake of the rest of the group, he too was exhausted. Unlike the undead they faced now, he needed rest, he needed nourishment. His mouth felt as if someone had filled it with cotton, so dry now, he was losing water through his sweat. He moved now with decisive blows each strike he tried to use as little effort as possible, luckily for his this weapons of light bore no weight. The heavy sword that was on his back at the beginning of the battle felt like a sheet of parchment, now the sword which lay in its sheath atop his breastplate would have felt like a boulder to his burning arms. He held in his left hand a shield of light to protect his now exposed upper body, in his right hand a warhammer of light. He knew that bone and joints needed to be smashed, the skull was the easiest way to ensure the undead stayed dead. Three of the undead that had gotten past under the casters control came for him, he tucked his shield and cast one back and over his shoulder his right hand following smashing the skull of the first which made him knock into the second casting him to the dirt, the hammer followed landing on his skull, its contents splattered in a circle around the head of the hammer. The one he had forced behind him had brought axe to the back of his knee knocking him down. Gil rolled to his back, the fiend began to swing wildly now at the downed Elf, Gil blocked the blows with the shield the axe melted and the shaft caught fire as before, this time however the orc did not run. The feral undead now ablaze smashed its burning fists against the shield. Another undead, and another came, each set ablaze by the other. Was this it?

Gil who had been a savior now lay on his back at the front surrounded by blazing ghouls. NO! This was not how he would go, he summoned another shield now for his right hand to envelop his body now. Though their bones and flesh melted and burned against the shields now. More and more undead surrounded him a mass in which burned bright. Through the legs of the burning undead Gil could be seen quiet alive but struggling to keep his barrier up.

Dal
Tarathrieal
Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr
Kiros Rahnel
Heike Eisen
Eren'thiel Xyrdithas

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

"Here. Here. He's right here."

At the reply from Heike, his furrowed brow relaxed and his worried expression melted into relief. In an instant he turned to the gestured direction, face lighting anew as he saw the blurry figure contrast the fuzzy background the battleground had become. Upon another motion of her arm, the figure began to shift and grow, moving towards the them both; of size and gait that could be naught but Sardrun. Watchful eyes followed the boy as he made approach. Though impaired vision obscured the expression Sardrun wore, Kiros looked down with a bright smile worn plain on his lips. An uncharacteristic one at that – it was the first such open expression of joy he had made since he had set out with them.

“You’re safe!” He blurted out after a brief moment’s pause, the verbalization of relief as much for his ears as theirs. Hearing of the outcome aloud again was relief anew, even from his own lips instead of Heike’s. By the gods, when he made that promise to the boy he meant it, and there was no sight that could bring more elation than that of him safe at their side.

"Thank you, Kiros. We'll see him home yet. We will."

“That we doubtless shall.” He answered with a solemn nod in affirmation of conviction shared between them.

Dal, with Erën in tow, took his attention next, and Kiros returned his nod with one of his own. His orcish lineage was plain on his features, now unobscured by his doffed helm. Kiros held no judgment, thought he was under no delusion that others might not; the half-orc’s first act of selfless bravery was no doubt signing up for the heroic mission. Aware of the slights and attitudes others might hold, Kiros shared them not. By now, so estranged from his former homeland, he had fought alongside many of varying creed and origin. Further, it would be rather hypocritical for him to be judgmental, given his unspoken status as Kaliti fugitive. There was little doubt that Dal must have lived a life more honorable than he had.

There yet remained one missing from the group. Kiros knew not who this addition to their ranks was; only the heavy arrows that so impaled the javelin-wielding orc hinted at the presence of an archer. Though he had given the direction of the projectile’s arrival visual search, he could find no sign of him earlier amidst the distant, blurry landscape. But proximity had bid enough clarity to recognize that this newcomer accompanying Dal must be none other than he. Though without knowledge of the reasons he had for arrival, Kiros held utmost gratitude for his savior. But time was too short to give it mention, and he merely gave the elven bowman a nod before attention was stolen by a roar of the distant beast, to which Grunni gave remark.

"Aye then, if they want to destroy each other, we'll let them!"

It was the first that he learned of the beast's beyond the chilling noises it made. Given the turn of events described, he found himself in hearty agreement with the dwarven captain. If these orcs had been so foolish as to summon forth a beast they couldn’t control, all the better that the miscalculation becomes their undoing. Whether they would have to face the beast down themselves would remain to be seen, but it would preferable to do once all remaining enemy had been slain.

To that end, he followed Gil'Tyrnin's beseeching of aid. Dal had saved him the effort of seeking Erën out, though he was in condition beyond aid. He could see clearly that the elf’s state had not been borne of wound or physical exertion, but of arcane exhaustion. While the particular nuances varied from mage to mage upon their system of magic, the outcome in regard to casting was the same. It was a state Kiros had become all too familiar with himself, having incurred many a migraine from his own overuse of magic. When he had been bid to render aid, he’d reasoned Erën he was in need of healing. Doubtless Gil’Tyrnin believed the same – a rational conclusion to a felled warrior. Now that the elf was before them both, the true nature of his ailment was clear to them.

But not to Dal.

“If you're in there still, wake up. There's more fighting still. Come on. It's not over. Things to do still. Undead to kill,” He heard Dal speak, doubting Erën could hear too.

Simple healing would not be effective. The urge to give it attempt remained, though he’d not bother to sate it. It would be irrational to squander precious magic to confirm what common sense deduced - not when further battle remained. Rather than expend energy, Kiros waved his staff back and forth over Erën. As always, the results were hazy and inconclusive; but that the enchantment of arcane detection She bequeathed seemed unusually faint, giving implication that his assessment was true. Dal meanwhile, was perceived making his own attempt to help:

“There's a beast out there, and if it's so inclined it'll tear right on over here. You need to be awake if that happens. So rouse yourself, warrior! Just a little more is all that's asked. Heike has charged into the thick of this fight, and I'm...I'm stuck here with you, acting as your ward, until you-get-up. So come on! Before the battle is all done and we can sleep as we please! Get. Up!” Spoke Dal.

Help, in this case, consisted of admonishing a man of magic for inability to shake off his fatigue. Kiros couldn’t help but find the warrior’s words irksome. There were numerous times where he had heard it from others who mistook his arcane fatigue for laziness or unwillingness – and always upon the most tense of moments. He remembered well the trying times experienced tending to the aftermath of disaster in Elbion and Dornoch.

Of devastated parents hounding him to save their children, long deceased and beyond aid.

Of healers so light on resources as to require triage, and desperate citizens for whom the attempt at order was naught but an obstacle.

Of endless onslaught of individuals each asking for just one more incantation, as if such exhaustion could be overcome through willpower alone.

Sentiments that seemed all the same, from the desperate Dal.

“COME ON,” Dal continued.

At this, Kiros could restrain himself no longer. An infuriated step took him face-to-face with the mountain of a half-orc. Though tall enough to look him in the eyes without a tilt of his head, the advantage of size and muscle Dal had rendered the robe-clad priest far from intimidating. Whether from lack of awareness or lack of care, Kiros remained undeterred.

“He clearly cannot, stubborn lout!!” He growled out the words.

“Do you think he is having a nap because he is sleepy!? Do you think weaving of spell to be akin to swing of blade? DO YOU EVEN THINK!?” He further barked out, eyes glaring into Dal’s with both hands grasping the collar of his mail with his staff tucked within an elbow. No sooner was he consumed by anger than realization struck him, and after a huff and awkward silence Kiros stepped back with lips silent and gaze downward.

It was not the time for such bickering. His point had been made, albeit in manner hostile and crude. Neither healing nor shouting could carry any benefit to Erën. Fretful pacing would bring no aid either, though that did not stop Kiros from doing so. He knew Dal not to be daft; merely not knowledgeable about arcane matters. Should the warrior feel slighted, they could sort that later. Futile words from either of them would bring no fortune upon their situation. Only planned action could.

“Please just maintain watch over him. He is but fallen ally – more than you need him, he is reliant upon you.” He uttered next, eyes upon the ground with anger evaporated from his voice. He still could not see clearly, though his eyes needn’t work flawlessly to spot the massive shape upon the battlefield, tearing through what undead remained. As with Grunni, he hoped the beast would rid the battle of those who remained.

“I’ll keep vantage point. I retain the energies to expend.” Kiros added, his tone far softer in contrast to those former words of anger.

“Should you see me cast, see to Sardrun’s protection. I’ll see that this abomination holds not the ability to charge upon us.” He added, stalwart in his resolve.

Heike Eisen Dal Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest Tarathrieal Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

“If you're in there still, wake up..."
​

---

Erën was not without a few scrapes and bruises, but Kiros was correct. It was not healing he required. He'd called upon a vast portion of his might to produce such an attack, and the sudden drain had exhausted him tremendously. Had he been left on that field alone to be surrounded by the ravaging dead, there is no doubt that then, he would have perished. But fate had, once more, decided to end him not. Not this day, or at least not yet. But as it was, Erën was little more than a liability. A liability left in the care of Dal.

The irony of it would - when he woke - not be lost upon Erën. Once again, one with the blood of those hated would stand by his side and in the defence of he. And this time, Erën was even at this one's mercy...

“COME ON...”
​

---

Spoiler: A familiar dream...

He woke. Eyes open.

He found himself standing, alone, in the midst of nothing but dark. Below him, gray and crusted ground. Dead. Branches of black reached overhead, and around him.

And distantly, he heard the sound of running water.

Hurried footsteps.

"Father... father where are you!?"

He looked, but he could not see, for the dark shrouded all.

"Father! Father please help me!"

Elliasandre...

Quiet, lonely crying in the night.

---

He woke. Eyes open.

The sounds of battle surrounded him, the cries and shouts of both friend and foe. All was hazy, and his vision turned and whirled.

To his knees, and then staggered step to his feet. Sword in hand. Hunched shoulders rolled up, and he straightened his back some. But still, exhaustion weighed on him, and though he was once again upright his ability to fight was still withdrawn. His body would recover quickly, but the well of his magic would not with such haste. And still, he needed time. And through his rousing he had heard, in bits and pieces, Kiros' advocation for him and Dal's desperate desire to rush to the front, and likely, to Heike's aid.

Stern eyes slowly lifted to look to Dal, and through the cloud of his weariness a resolve could be seen in them.

And he uttered one word, marred with rasp and breath, but abundent in its surety...

"Go."
​

---

Heike Eisen | Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest | Tarathrieal
Dal | Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr | Kiros Rahnel ​

 

[Tarathrieal]

Empty.

Askaris didn't think anymore; he didn't gauge tactics or try to get a view of the battlefield.

He simply slotted into the line of Dwarves like an ally and fought; swinging his sabre like it was little more then a machete at animated corpses, the sight of a massive beast as his ally accepted as a norm. Each swing strained his muscles, but the fine blade made easy work of slack flesh - only rarely did it get stuck, and a swift tug remedied that.

Like any good member of a line he worked as a unit with the Dwarves, covering gaps and sliding in and out of position as needed. Sometimes he was at the left, other times at the right - wherever his blade was needed, he belonged. The shouted orders of the Dwarven commander became gospel, and his time at the Annukat Mercenaries Academy working as an infantry cadet came to the forefront of his mind.

The decorated cavalry officer stood shoulder to hip with the best the Dwarves had to offer, and none were surprised when he measured up.

Let the others worry about the boy, let the others rouse the casters - let the others be adventurers.

Askaris was a soldier, and his goal was singular.

Defeat the enemy.

 

[Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr]

(OOC: I think I'll pass up my turn to post this time around as I don't think Cauldwin will have anything new with his actions.)

 

[Heike Eisen]

Exhaustion was setting in. Even amongst the stout dwarven Marines, tenacious folk made even more so by their rigorous martial and physical training, this heavy cloud of fatigue descended. Steady changes of rank, signaled by whistles from the Forge-Sergeant from the battle's commencement all the way till now, alleviated this to a degree, but the prolonged and pitched combat ground down each and every one of them in time.

Heike felt this exhaustion as well. What freshness she had upon rejoining the fight at the front was quickly chiseled away until she, like the company of surviving Marines, panted with great heaving thrusts of her chest and her arms struggled ever more fiercely to move as she bid them. Her strikes became weaker, slower, her parries and her dodges only just sparing her and, where they did not, her armor and body beneath had to weather the blows of the undead.

A slash into a Risen Blight Orc--it was already missing an arm, and Heike's longsword cut into its remaining arm and stopped halfway. She had to yank the blade out toward herself to free it. The pommel bounced into and off of her breastplate and Heike, utilizing all of that momentum she could, thrust her blade forward and skewered the Risen through the chest and drove it to the ground. She pulled her sword loose and planted it like a stake down through the undead's skull.

Another Risen, shambling into the slain one's place, swung the huge cudgel it held with a fiendish grip. Heike scarcely had time. All she could do was swing her shoulder and bear the blow on her pauldron.

The sheer force of it outright dislocated her left shoulder with a sharp pop and knocked her backward. She yelped in pain and stumbled, her left arm now useless and limp at her side, her right still gripping her longsword. She stumbled, stumbled.

Until she bumped into someone and was thus prevented from falling outright onto the ground. She glanced back. Up, as it were.

"Dal! Not a moment too soon." Relief, elation, in his presence. Perhaps this meant some good news concerning Erën and Sardrun.

And it was at that moment that Captain Grunni, seeing the Beast continue its rampage and the amount of undead fighting it rather than his Marines, made a call. A call to start putting distance between themselves and the Beast. The thing was busy fighting the undead--hell, let it do so. All the Marines and adventurers had to do was start backing up, slaying whatever undead went for them until there remained only undead that closer to and more interested in attacking the Beast. Then they could disengage and start making ground toward the Ixchel North Portal Stone. All that mattered was getting Sardrun home. He was the mission.

"ARRAGOTH!" Captain Grunni bellowed. "REAR STEP, MARCH!"

In perfect unison, continuing the fight against the undead battering their front line, the formation of Marines took a step back. The Forge-Sergeant called out the commands for each step, and the Marines all replied with beleaguered shouts of "AYE!" and took their step and awaited the next command. Slow going, but it kept their defenses heightened and kept the formation from falling apart.

What Captain Grunni had not noticed (or perhaps did, and made his call with the weight of it in mind, or even outright thought him dead) was Gil'Tyrnin. Out on the ground, surrounded by burning undead, holding on only just barely so by the cover of his shield.

"Gods be damned, that's Gil out there!" Heike said, seeing what flashes of him she could through the ring of Risen Orcs savaging his shield. She clenched her teeth, glancing to the Marines and then back out to Gil. Everyone was in awful fighting shape, herself included, but they couldn't just leave him. They got Erën back, and by the grace of all that was good they were going to get Gil back too.

No one was to be left behind. No one.

"Dal, we're going. You! Elf!" She did not know Askaris's name, but called to him and briefly pointed her sword to be perfectly clear. "To our side!"

And then a booming shout over her shoulder, a call of her own made. "KIROS! WATCH OVER US!"

Heike pursed her lips, the gesture hidden behind her helm. Sweat not solely from exertion and exhaustion rolling down her forehead and into her eyes. Stay true. Stay true. And if it should come, die in a manner in which your fellow knights would aspire to.

Oh gods, they were doing this.

And she pressed her fear, now that it had had its moment, down into the bottom of her heart, smothered it utterly with the steel of her resolve until it was but a tiny pinprick of pain in her chest--there, but rendered insignificant.

As the Marines continued their cadenced backward stepping, Heike strode forward into the thick of it, fighting only with the awkward yet determined slashes of her two-handed sword wielded with one hand alone.

"GIL! HOLD ON! WE'RE COMING FOR YOU!"

It was up to her, Dal, Askaris, and with the watchful aid of Kiros perhaps, to retrieve him and get him back behind the retreating dwarven line.

Dal Tarathrieal Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Kiros Rahnel Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr

 

[Dal]

If Dal had heard Kiros' admonishment, he gave no sign of it. It was as if he was protected from the insults by the tempered steel that encompassed him; the words seemed to glance off him like so many attacks before. His helmet protected him from the judgement of others. Now it protected his private reaction to the reproof. A flaring of the nose, a firming of the jaw, a piercing anger behind the eyes that sparked up like kindling and that gave life to a more substantial flame. Despite the lack of outward reaction towards Kiros' words, Dal brooded over them as he kept his crossbow levied in the direction of the beast. He allowed the emotional response to play out within himself. He had that luxury for now.

Do I even think, Dal repeated in his mind with a single rotation of his jaw. I think plenty. I think of death's approach from the countless foes that rises to meet us. I think of that damned beast that may turn upon us. I think of Heike's efforts out there without me. I act accordingly to the onus to win. To win with the right lives being preserved. I'm here to win this day by whatever means are required. And if that requires that I shout at magic users for allowing themselves to become liabilities in the field, so be it. I'm a fucking professional. And that means you don't become a liability for your comrades with your planned actions. Swimming out to save the battle and then floundering at the critical moment you succeed with your fucking plan. Reckless! Better to be a stubborn lout than dead in the water.

And with that thought, Eren raised his own voice, as if replying to Dal's own rumination.

“Go.”

Dal turned his head back with a snap to to look at Eren upon hearing the word. He saw that the elf was upon his feet. Immediately Dal lowered his crossbow, relaxed his shooting posture, and returned the weapon to his back in a practised motion that had a little bit too much force behind it. The crossbow smacked hard against his armoured back and tightly gripped it as if shocked into obedience by the force of the swing.

The warrior reached for his longsword and ripped it out of the scabbard with a satisfied grunt and looked over at Kiros as he did so. The steel of the weapon gleamed. Dal proceeded to speak to Kiros with a chilling calmness that belied the lurking anger within him, but one could hear the slow controlled restraint behind each word spoken as he the weapon was held poised in the air, dangerous and wicked, poised and ready. It was ambiguous as to if Dal was merely holding the weapon ready in the air as he readied himself to go back to the front, or if he was brandishing the weapon as an accompaniment to his retort to Kiros.

He spoke.

“My words served him, my thoughts serve me, the call to violence – serves.”

And with that, Dal turned and adopted a slow jog as he strived to enter the combat once again, following Heike in her path of combat. What words Dal had provided would serve his ego for now. His longsword was positioned behind him, trailing by his waist in a long tail posture so that he might move effectively and bring his weapon up to tear through the foes that would waylay him.

I'm not beholden to stay my tongue due to my need to get paid, Dal thought as he passed the dwarves in the backline. Not today. Those given words are enough to defend myself for now. I am not some oaf that can be reprimanded so without retort. Not after I rescued Eren in the first place.

He passed dwarf after dwarf, and Dal knew that his banner kept him safe from their weapons as did concealing his face. Despite every action he had committed against his own kind this day, Dal knew that his appearance would still cause a dwarf to heft a weapon in his direction. He bore them no spite for such a disposition. It was the nature of things. It was enough that we serve a common purpose of violence Dal thought.

Kiros on the other hand considered. What was his end? To coddle magic user's as they indulged in vulnerability? While they took up time and resources to protect all while better causes needed to be addressed? And to criticise the very one who risked himself to bring him to safety? While I think only of the safety of the one far more worthy of my protection? Fie.

Dal sequestered his thoughts as battle drew closer. The sellsword felt envigored by his own acrimony. Knowing this was no place or place for ruminations on the animosity between allies on the field, his thoughts turned to deeds of impending violence to those who would bring the threat of death to their number.

The warrior had been offered reprieve by his absence on the front line, he felt the second wind carry him forward and he resolved not to waste this energy. Grim determination gripped him. Visions of what he would have to do to win the day against those beyond their first death. Dal knew it was a different prospect to killing the Blight orc that roared, screamed and with all the passion of life wanted you dead in barbarous attacks as opposed to the undead ahead of him. Theirs was a slower, more compelled attack. Dal prepared for another involvement with this breed of foe. This time it would not be a hammerblow that would carve his path, but his longsword, the weapon that he had mastered and relied upon in countless field combats and engagements.

As he drew closer to the front line, as bodies collided with one another, as the sound of violence greeted him with ever louder welcomes, a terrible thought crept upon him like a stalking predator.

What about the beast?

I'll deal with that with Heike when the time comes, Dal quickly thought as he entered the beginnings of the front line and foes drew within striking distance.

Dal performed his function with aplomb as he strode forward. The undead were brought curtly down by the half-orc's controlled cuts as he ripped upwards, onwards, from side to side and through. The cuts had a swiftness and assuredness that were a credit to Dal's training and resolve, driven by powerful muscle and determination to end the fights as quickly as they presented themselves.

Undead were driven into obsolescent features of the battleground. Limbs hacked away. Heads removed. Legs crippled and severed. More bodied to litter the ground to mark their passing.

It didn't take Dal long to fix his eyes upon golden armour as he advanced through the battle. He moved up and witnessed Heike receive a blow and growled as he saw it. Dal resisted a roar of defiance towards the foe that struck her so. This enemy isn't afraid and it would not be goaded. Such a thing would be a waste, Dal thought.

He made an advancing step behind Heike to receive her fall and lifted her back up from falling to the ground completely with a powerful heft of his left hand.

"Dal! Not a moment too soon."

“Seems so,” Dal rumbled as he stepped around Heike swiftly as to engage the enemy in her stead. Dal delivered a riposte in her name, and the living dead with the cudgel was suddenly brought down low by Dal's assault, his sword swinging sure and true.

As Dal watched the undead crumple into the ground he heard the captain issue his command. Good, Dal thought, we're getting out of here. The commander of this fight knows that we cannot hold the ground forever against such a foe. That's not the objective here.

Dal looked to Heike to see if she was making an effort to withdraw and noticed her injury, on how she held her weapon with one hand. Not good, he thought. I'll have to carve them up for the both of us. He received her words.

"Gods be damned, that's Gil out there!"

Dal grimaced within his helmet and looked out in the distance where Gil remained. Not another one, he thought, exasperated at the turn of events. Am I expected to rescue another caster? The God of Murder give me strength.

"Dal, we're going. You! Elf!" She pointed her weapon at another comrade. "To our side!"

Good, Dal thought and relished the prospect of fighting alongside Heike. This time I'm not alone in my task to prevent those who rely on magic being brought down low by their own efforts. This will play out differently from the last time he determined with a grim smile as he readied his longsword on his right shoulder.

“I cut through, you follow. Together then,” Dal declared to his comrades so that he might be heard in the din of combat. His spirit was now committed fight, his temper raised to the meet the occasion and his nerve ready for the next surge of effort.

My feet must be light and my sword strokes strong and ending, Dal resolved.

He stepped forward into the task ahead of them. "Let us begin," Dal breathed.

Dal widened his stance and knew that a great deal of movement would be required if he was to cover the ground and clear an advance to the beleaguered elf. He knew that elves could bring about destruction with such swiftness and elegance that challenged the eye to see. His own efforts would be far more shuddering in brutality in contrast to such an elven born display. He made wide steps with his feet as he brought his weapon down against the undead who stood in their way in punishing blows. The dwarven rune upon his blade did nothing to assist his cutting, yet Dal's strength did much to emulate the effect of such a thing against the fetid flesh.

Dal moved with calm ease around the slow undead, his own movements taking a sort of efficiency that until now hadn't been demonstrated. He acted as a diligent instrument, turning, shifting, flowing, moving from target to target in a continual advancing movement that allowed him to strike at the rear of his foes. As he weaved his blade cut against vulnerable knees, to the back of necks, to spines, to the exposed armpits of those who lifted their weapons high to bring him down low. He allowed the undead to move against him and drove them to the ground with his weapon and might so that a path was driven for those following him.

His blade bit and disabled foes as it was wrenched from each enemy with a twist of Dal's body. He used his powerful mass to barge into foes and send them flying with his well placed mechanical advantage. Techniques used against armoured foes who would charge against him were employed to send the unarmoured and witless dead careening as they lurched towards him. He snapped his boot against the back of an undead's knee and hoped that Heike would end the foe as he moved on to the next target that waylaid their passage. It was as if he was dancing around his opponents, toying with them, laying them low with a frightening ease.

We will get to you, Dal thought as he stepped forward to another foe. He ran his blade across the belly of the risen orc and disembowelled it with a sideways stroke that was followed by a stroke downwards to the creature's head. Dal's movements were a thing of momentum, there was no hesitation from each cut delivered as he turned and ended foe after foe that stepped forward to waylay them. It was as if this was all some terrible weapon drill to the half-orc. As an opponent was felled or disabled, he moved onto the next without pause, each footstep a step closer to rescuing the solitary elf.

Dal could smell the burning flesh that Gil seared now. We're getting close, Dal thought with satisfaction as he fought on. He could feel the blood pound in his temple as he exerted himself with each stroke of his sword and unarmed effort in the melee. He could feel his arms become hot from exertion, how heat was once against building within him. Yet this time was different than before. Before he had sprinted deep into the enemy line. This time, this was an act of controlled carnage with the longsword, each foe felled was one less barrier to their objective.

Let me bring true death to the unliving, Dal prayed, let me kill and kill again!

It was but a short distance ahead of them now and Dal's effort parted those who would waylay them. The warrior was in his element, his weapon served him in his efforts to be the one to part the mass of undead who blocked their passage.

So it was that Dal carved a path ahead of Heike and Askaris to give them access to Gil.

He let Heike and Askaris surge forward to communicate to Gil that assistance was at hand. Dal instead worked around the flanks of Gil as to provide relief, providing a crescent of conflict as relief, his blade making wide motions to rend flesh, to beat back the foe and to quash the malefactors.

“I'll act as rear guard to your withdrawal!” Dal shouted as he moved around Gil. He would move backwards as the others took flight, engaging foes as his companions gathered themselves and would hopefully remove themselves from the depths of the conflict. He didn't think he'd be able to sprint away, and nor did he think that Gil would be able to perform such an action. Elves were fast, but casters were slow to move after their efforts, Dal knew.

Do I even think, Dal thought as he rammed his blade into the face of a animated corpse. I do think of killing, and serve you better for it, mage. The rebuke matched the spite that Dal brought to the enemy, it did power his efforts and made him ignore the fatigue building within him

Give me strength in this final act to commit enough death to afford them the space to egress.

Give me strength so I may do the same for myself.

Tarathrieal Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Kiros Rahnel Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr Heike Eisen

 

[Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest]

As the fire burned around him he held his shield strong. It was getting hot, he imagines this is what the poultry must feel like before a great feast, his muscles could only but hold him shields in place, to let one go to summon a weapon it would not end well. The air began to grow thin around him, his already dehydrated body oozing out the last precious drops of sweat. Each breath, hot, searing, he could only do his best to keep the shields up, his reserves were almost on empty, and with the physical exhaustion of a day of fighting his stamina would offer no help in continuing the aid of his shields.

Gil imagined that this is what the other Paladins must have felt when the demon horde razed his city. How they fought, proud warriors of the light, ultimate weapons against the void. Yet like him, they too were overwhelmed. Enemy's surrounding them, his father, though he had his reservations about him, was the best of them.

He heard his allies call to him. What could they do? The undead kept piling upon him burning, adding to his funeral pyre. If this was the end, then he would meet it on his terms. His Father's last gift, the prayer for the blessing reserved only for The Grand Paladin. As he felt the rest of his reserves run out his shields cracked and their light dimmed.

Gil closed his eyes

"All Father, pour your light into me so that I may vanquish my foes. I open my spark to you, so that you may take me into your light. All Father hear my prayer and use my body as a conduit for your might and for your glory. For if you are with me, who can be against me"

There was nothing, nothing had happened. The undead continued to pile on to the pyre burning bright now.

"All Father take me home" Gil prayed.

As he said these words he let the shields that protected him fall. He had given himself fully to his God , Sol'Nityr. That was the catalyst, complete and utter devotion.

A pillar of light came down upon where Gil was lying. The dead that had been on top of his were gone, vaporized, not even the dust from their bodies was found. As the light faded a being of pure light stood, it was easily a foot taller than the beast which ravaged the undead. From its back there were tendrils of light that cascaded along its back like that of a cloak. The tendrils rose and spread out like wings and the being hovered now. In its right hand it bore a great sword of light, in its left hand it bore a great spear. A familiar scene unfolded, disks of light began to appear and from them weapons of light were ejected raining destruction on the horde of the undead. It took its great sword and swung it into the horde cutting great swaths into the battle field. Gil was nowhere to be found.

The being looked down to Dal and Heike it kneeled down and touched them both, they would feel the fatigue of battle lift from them as if the day had just started, light washed over them. It then pointing its great spear back to the dwarves as if telling them to retreat. It turned its attention back to the battle stepping forward to where the beast was, as it moved it cut its way through the undead, stepping on those fool enough to get close, crushing those beneath it.

As the being neared the beast its sword came down to the left of it sweeping away undead, more disks appeared weapons of light rained down around the beast, oddly not a single one touched the beast. An undead climbing on to the beasts back was shot off by a spear from one of the disks. This was a replaying theme the weapons hit undead after undead but never harming the beast. As it cleared the undead from around the beast. It turned now to the Dwarven line. It walked now towards them with a deliberateness about it. As it made its way back to the line it pointed its spear at the undead and a beam of light shot out of the tip. The being moved it across the battlefield erasing the undead infront of the Dwarven formation. The being made his way to the Dwarven line and walked over the shield wall towards Kiros and Eren. As it arrived the being began to shrink, and there was Gil, he stood only for a brief moment his eyes were glazed over and he collapsed now infront of them face first into the ground. He was out like a light, the faint heaving of his chest could be seen. He was alive!

Dal Tarathrieal Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr Kiros Rahnel Heike Eisen

 

[Kiros Rahnel]

The statement heard had stirred his soul and brought forth such words of vitriol; the nerve the words struck prompted them forth with neither restraint nor filter. It was not until he had heard his own fulminating retort that he discerned the hostility it contained, but by that time they had left his lips and become uttered sentiment. As true as it was in content, and as honest as it was in expression, the unduly insulting tone was far beyond what he intended to convey.

If venting his anger in such a way carried any benefit, it was that it brought clarity to his mind. He seemed correct enough in assumption that Dal carried no wisdom regarding matters arcane. He was not a mage, but a warrior. Doubtless that he knew naught of the rules of magic, and doubtless that the pressure of battle had triggered great frustration from the half-orc warrior. Irksome frustration at that; there was little doubt felt that he would have been among those making the same sentiment at Dornoch.

As if incantation was as simple as uttered chants and hand gestures. The mundane could only ever see results that took seconds to resolve, ever blind to the price a mage must pay to do so. If only wielding magic were so simple; then he might not have to suffer Her to allow him the use of it.

Erën then awakened and uttered a lone word that was his entire response; Kiros’ attention remained on the battle and the beast that threatened them and the boy. Sardrun’s safety was but his greatest present care, although fretting about that served a tertiary purpose in keeping his attention off Dal and the recent admonishment given. The restrained yet seething look in his eyes when Kiros had spoken was enough to imply the words had struck beneath armour and skin. Only when he heard the warrior did his glance turn over.

“My words served him, my thoughts serve me, the call to violence – serves.” Spoke Dal.

A response that supported Kiros’ assumption, spoken in a tone matching his incensed expression. Were that not enough, he further held his weapon aloft and brandished it as he spoke. Despite what regret was held from the transgression made, apology would not suit. Such a display could surely only be seen as weakness by him, and could well encourage him to make good on his gestured threat.

Such a mistake it seemed, to expect better from an orc.

Dal set off into battle upon making his remark, and all better that he did. The front line was a place where his violent nature would find use, and that he moved away from the boy but a relief. By now, Kiros' blurred vision had eased to the point where he could see clearly, for the most part. What his eyes saw matched the report Grunni had given: besides the two-headed beast, he only saw undead remaining to contend with. Of the two threats, the former remained at the height of his concern; the latter could be dealt with greater ease. He was wielder of holy magic after all, and his simple staff a holy weapon. Unlife rendered the orcs more vulnerable then they had been, and Kiros had even managed to kill one in life – if only through that orc’s own overly-aggressive folly.

Annuakat had taught him how to counter jumpers.

In the back lines, there were few; though the body of the felled javelinier remained concerning. One had mentioned the necromancer had been slain, which implied there safety if only one was present to begin with. While hopeful of the fact, Kiros was far from trusting of it. He elected to bring Sardrun to a place of safety farther away; unlike his former hurried pace, he chose to tread at a steady walk. Were any enemy to accost him this time, he held the means to face them down in combat himself.

As fate would have it, such a situation was soon presented by a reanimated orc with an axe in hand, shambling hastily towards him and the boy. Only half of its other arm remained. Kiros choked up on his staff while ushering Sardrun behind him, and faced down the orc with staff wielded as polearm. Once his foe had closed distance he swung Heirahit with ferocity; the unliving orc had the wherewithal to block the strike with his axe-wielding arm, which sparked with luminance as wood hit flesh and bone. The strike caused the risen orc to recoil back, stunned yet still standing. Another such flash would erupt from it’s skull once split by the downward stroke of his staff that followed. Beyond that, no further motion came from his felled foe. Once he checked on the safety of the boy, he continued in his steady and careful pace towards more secure ground.

Only a handful more steps were taken before the call from Captain Grunni could be heard:

"REAR STEP, MARCH!"

The withdrawal had begun, and in an ironic twist, signalled victory was at hand. Their purpose was to escort, not to fight. Common wisdom it was that getting the boy to safety was highest priority. With the front line now slowly making movement towards his position, Kiros held fast where he was and waited with Sardrun.

Until a call from Heike bid his attention once more.

"KIROS! WATCH OVER US!"

As distant as she was, he could see clearly that she was in terrible state. Her motion exhausted, telling of injury. And yet upon calling out she moved away, into the fray and further from his healing. He knew not why, but also knew her to be of sound strategic mind. Whatever her reasoning was, there was little doubt that it must be solid.

Sardrun, however, could not be simply abandoned.

“GUARD THE BOY!” Kiros called out to the closest dwarves to his position. Without discussion, or little else than a brief series of nods, three of the Marines departed towards them while the remainder re-positioned themselves to accommodate for the thinned ranks. Only when they had completed their approach did Kiros turn to depart towards Heike, the sight of her now lost to the swarm of undead. There was only a short distance gained before a burst of light seen ahead gave him a shocked pause.

The once uncountable horde of risen orcs had been obliterated in an instant, with a being of light greater in scale than even the two-headed beast itself in the clearing made. Another powerful entity had made it’s entry into battle, and unlike the beast this one appeared holy. In its grand display, the entity of shining light appeared divine – yet he doubted it. He had already met three gods, and the tall glowing warrior just didn’t seem to fit; yet he wasn’t truly sure why he had such a hunch.

There was no mistake though – it was impressive.

The light made approach, shifting anew as it did. By the time it had arrived, the transformation was complete; none other than Gil’Tyrnin was there before them in its stead. Not a god after all. Kiros reflected. It appeared his hunch was right.

Such splendour it was, the blessing of a compassionate deity of light. He bitterly chewed over why She would never protect him like that.

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Tarathrieal Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr Heike Eisen Dal Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest

 

[Eren'thiel Xyrdithas]

Erën was not so surprised at the powers Gil'Tyrnin displayed. Though he'd never seen something of that likeness, he'd heard tales of such manifestations. There were many a demon capable of similar things, so to him it stood to reason that warriors of holy light would develope an effective counter-measure. Or perhaps, it was vice versa - a topic of interest to some no doubt. But not he, not right now at least. For now instead his interest was only in understanding where they stood in the aftermath of the avatar's appearance.

Swaths of undead had been decimated, leaving them greatly reduced and in his estimation, destined for demise in only a short time. The dwarven line had been granted a brief relief from the thrashing dead, no doubt time enough to strengthen their retreating formation. There were fewer of them now, but not an ounce of weakness was seen in them, carrying on without a moment's despair. No tears for the fallen. Not now. Now was the time for blood, and nothing else.

Admirable.

He stood straighter now, his body quickly gathering strength. He cast a look down, and then back up to where the few had broken rank and charged forth to the paladin's aid. All for naught, it seemed, and now despite the magnificence of light that had taken place, there was still much danger.

He rolled his wrist, spinning his sword round, and started forward.

He would see that they made it back. Just as they had seen for him.

---

Heike Eisen | Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest | Tarathrieal
Dal | Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr | Kiros Rahnel ​

 

[Tarathrieal]

Askaris had joined the duo of Heike and Dal as commanded, letting the larger half-orc lead the dance into the mouth of madness. In truth it wasn't difficult work, the undead were rudderless without a caster to guide them and the mercenary had been given energy by Gil's divine touch. Fresh and ready the waves of mindless, soulless hordes fell at the trios blades - but the going was slow.

Far too slow, the things which battered at Gil and his divine might were going to overwhelm him before the trio could make it. Askaris considered abandoning the duo, alone he was faster and with less fatigue he wagered he could weave between the undead and get to Gil. It was not an easy decision, as either choice likely left someone dead.

Leave Dal and Heike and their exhaustion and wounds would likely slow them, stranded in the middle of a horde and doomed. Leave Gil and he assuredly died; Askaris owed Gil above all and perhaps it was a bit of Elven prejudice that almost made that choice for him.

In an explosion of light and energy that choice was not needed; what followed was barely comprehensible. Askaris rarely faced mages and the like on the battlefield, their strategic value was immense but their relative rarity and Askaris role as a crusher of revolts, the genocide of tribes and the general 'mop up' operations meant few of his opponents had the resources to mount meaningful magical offense.

So it was unsurprising that Askaris found the display which Gil sent forth alarming. Were it not for years of combat under his belt he may have broke and fled, the vision alone disturbing even if it was manifested from his ally. The thoughts of his well trained Dragoons being easily decimated by a single entity, the realization is lifetime of forging his skills on the battlefield meaningless in the face of such divine terror.

Askaris wanted to break - but his sheer grit and pride prevented it. He simply turned his eyes away from the entity and fought. He paid it no mind as it graced Heike and Dal, he paid it no mind as it slaughtered untold number of undead.

Askaris simply filed in alongside Dal and Heike, fighting back toward the line of the Dwarves.

The soul searching would come later - though Askaris knew it now in his heart.

It was going to be his last battlefield.

 

[Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr]

The beast continued to thrash at the horde, even as the last of its skin was torn from its body, and the horde began to rip into its inner flesh. It seemed at this rate the undead would be repelled. Then a sudden the light from above scorched the beasts exposed muscles to the bone all across its left side, leaving white scorching burns on the black gory tendons and sinew. It roared a hideous roar of agony, Cauldwin felt a pain he hadn't felt since his death... as the beast turned its head to see the being that had neigh struck him down, he saw the a burning vissage of a warrior, not unlike the many depictions Nykios, though made from some form solar power rather than celestial.

The beast hit the ground hard, its damaged parts no longer being able to support the weight of its body, the eyeless beastial head went limp. Cauldwin in this state felt more damned then ever in his existence, for in his eyes, not only had the visage of a god a swore himself to in life struck him down. Seemingly out of spite or distain (in his eyes of course), but had revived one of the treacherous swine who had him put to death with flame: Dame Hieke.

So many anguished thoughts flooded his mind. Why? Why now? Why him? Why not so many other abominations of the night? He only ever fought in the name of law and order, he had fought unflinchingly against horrors' from times long past, he gave his life to that ideal. Perhaps it was due to his undeath? Then why was a vampire more worthy of salvation, they towed the line between diseased and undead... they also harm the innocent to feed. Was it his vassalage to the Warfather? He served out of an alignment to law and order, never once had he forsaken his loyalty to the celestials and their ways. The humanoid head of the beast's expression turned to that of mourning. He was truly banished from the glorious light.

When he hit the ground the undead swarmed over him, striking and tearing into its flesh, and halting the momentum of his slaughter. All intervention comes at a cost, he had given his to those who would likely see him destroyed on battle end. That was duty, to fight against chaos regardless of the cost. The beast used what strength it had left to bite at the swarm, and with its beastial hand claw and swipe weakly at the horde that approached.

It seemed this was the end, the real end this time. Ironic, killed by the hand of Nykios, scorched, surrounded by the mutilated dead, and Dame Hieke would have a distant hand in it. All any would speak of his actions, was of how monstrous, 'a butcher.' The beast now kept its mouth shut as not to allow the undead to tear up its insides, using its functioning limb to protect the throats of both of it heads. Then the whispers of the Warfather came to him, very audible now, as his spark began to ebb away...

(OOC: Note: the Warfather's whispers: characters with sensitivity or attunement to spectral forces will be able to hear these whispers with ease, those with a powerful connection to the light or equivalent forces will likely feel an oppressive force wash over them unless they have some means to counter powerful magical or phycological forces. Those with powerful connections to dark forces will be able to hear the Warfather's words as barely audible whispers. Oh and Kiros... if you want Itra to have something to react to...)

"LAWBRINGER! THIS IS NOT WHERE YOUR DUTIES TO END! RISE! RISE LIKE YOU HAVE SO MANY TIMES BEFORE!"

The beast muttered solemly, not audible over the sounds of battle unless one was right next to the beast, "Appoligies, Warfather. I can't. My legs are destroyed.

"USE YOUR RAGE LAWBRINGER! DRAW FROM IT AND RISE."

"My rage is spent. I have little left to give. Tell the others I fell valiently. Gruuh- not like a half cooked dog..."

"I AM NOT SOME FECKLESS HYPOCITE LIKE THIS 'ALLFATHER'! I AM NOT FICKLE LIKE ITRA! AND UNLIKE NYKIOUS OR THESE CELESTIALS, I DON'T SO CALICELY THOW THOSE LOYAL TO ME AWAY LIKE A CHILD DOES UNWANTED SCRAPS! CLING TO LIFE, MY SON! AID WILL COME!"

"I will try, Warfather."

Then there was silence. Cauldwin clung to what remained of his existence like so many that were mortal or fate had no intent of sparing. The body however large, is ultimately weak against the forces of the world, but the spirit is strong, and it clings to life like only a mortal can...

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas​

Kiros Rahnel​

Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest​

Tarathrieal​

Dal​

Heike Eisen​

 

[Heike Eisen]

A wide slash, and Heike stumbled, carried along by the momentum of her blade. She recovered.

Dal brought a Risen Orc down with a kick to the inside of its knee and he passed and Heike slashed her sword in the other direction. The Risen's head came tumbling off from its shoulders, its body toppling opposite, and again Heike stumbled, almost into Askaris this time. She grit her teeth and found her footing and again righted herself.

In her mind she was seventeen years old again, facing a crossroads that would determine the rest of her life. She was a squire, going through the trials of initiation into the Golden Blade, from which it was entirely possible to fail and be barred from subsequent entry. She was on a run, weighed down with a forty-pound pack, and she was falling out of formation with the rest of the squires. Her skin was wet and cold from the rain but her chest and her lungs were on fire, blazing with the sulfuric fumes of exhaustion, acidic weakness trembling in her legs and threatening to collapse her knees at any moment. Both of her knight-superiors were beside her, shouting at her on horseback, let's go, Hei-KUH, hurry up, Hei-KUH, your fellow knights are up there, Hei-KUH, the battle's going to be over by the time we get there, Hei-KUH, and so on. And it was here that she truly, desperately, wanted to quit. To give up on her childhood dream of becoming a Knight of the Golden Blade and quit. Her body had suffered tremendously over the past few weeks, enduring the rigorous physical trials of initiation and somehow, barely, scraping by, but here in this miles long run in the pouring rain with that damned pack whose straps were digging trenches into her shoulders did the utter temptation to simply quit seem the sweetest thing in all the world.

But she didn't. She didn't quit. She ran and ran and kept going until she thought honestly that she might die and ran some more. She caught up with the formation of her fellow squires and crossed that godsforsaken finish line as the Lord Commander himself watched the lot of them. She trailed off to the side of the path then and vomited so forcefully and incessantly that her vision crackled with spots from a lack of air. Greenish bile had spewed from both her mouth and nose and ropes of saliva swayed from her lips, curls of stringy mucus dangled from her nostrils, and altogether it was a most unflattering sight.

But she didn't quit.

Not then. And not here.

Heike kept up the fight--one-armed, utterly drained, broiling inside of her armor. And an unspoken thanks went out to her knight-superiors--Herr Dieter Roth and Herr Elias Schulze--for not quitting on her that day long ago. They pushed her so that today, this day, she could push herself.

They--she and Dal and Askaris--got close to Gil. Dal shouted that he would be their rear guard as she and Askaris got Gil out. Heike, with little other choice given the abject scarcity of time, was prepared to toss her sword aside and give everything she had left to help Askaris carry the big Gil'Tyrnin out from where he lay and back behind the formation.

Yet something...miraculous...intervened.

* * * * *​

Among the Marines as they bore witness to the Avatar of Sol'Nityr, near all of them awed:

"Never...have I..." said Forge-Sergeant Ordin Stonebreaker.

"Ancestors be good, and watch over me," said Brigg Hammerzun, making a small symbolic gesture with his hand.

Ummanite Clanhold flatly spoke a foul word in Dwarvish, then in Common said, "Elves...and their tricks...eh...?"

Shed of the undead assailing their front line, and after the Avatar had stepped over the formation and to the back rank and became Gil again, Captain Grunni (shaking off his own awe) took command once more and called, "ABOUT! FACE!"

The surviving Marines of the formation swiftly spun on their heels and faced opposite. They went into a steady forward march, starting their withdrawal from the site of the battle, further down the cliff-flanked draw and toward the lowlands beyond.

* * * * *​

Heike had been similarly awed. Magic of this scale, this immensity, she had not seen the like of in all her life. The undead had been felled in a brilliant display, the Beast was even reeling, and it was all Heike could think that her apparent sole saving grace from being annihilated in the same manner as those undead was that she happened to be on the Avatar's side. Mere tenuous happenstance was all that spared her from being scorched from the very face of Arethil as they had been. Such power, amassed to a terrifying concentration, was what all Reikhurstans rightly feared.

The Avatar had kneeled down and touched her. Both her and Dal. And it was here that Heike would know not why, and that even the thought of why would be lost amidst her momentary awe. Her Incorruptibility was a double-edged sword, and here it had prevented the Avatar's boon of relief from taking effect. Just as it was on the day of that run when she was seventeen years old, her body would continue to ache with fatigue--and she quivered from the onset of heat exhaustion.

The undead all around her and Dal and Askaris were devastated. The Beast was down, what remained of the undead solely focused on it (and the whispers of the Warfather were unheard by Heike's ears). The Avatar had walked over the Marines' formation and had begun to shrink down.

"Let's..." Heike let out a breath. Swallowed. Cleared her throat and regained her composure from the heights of awe and said more firmly to Dal and Askaris now, "Let's get back."

And she hustled back. Erën needed no direction to turn back, for it was clear that the fight was done. As Heike made her way through the formation (which had just then made its About Face) she saw Sardrun in the company of three Marines--good, Kiros had seen to the boy's well-being during their charge to rescue Gil.

Speaking of.

Once at the back line, and right where the Avatar had shrunk down, there he lay. Gil'Tyrnin, the paladin, of flesh and blood again and no longer possessed of that singularly radiant light.

Heike, with her limp left arm and right arm occupied with holding her sword, looked to Kiros, Dal, Erën, and said in prompting to any who would so do it, "We need to carry him."

There was so much. So much to be done in the wake of the battle and the denouement of the day--not the least of which was getting her arm popped back into her shoulder. But those many things would come later. There was walking ahead of them, and plenty of it, to leave the site of the battle far behind them and to gain more ground from their pursuers.

What she could do, as she walked, was come up beside Askaris--the unknown elven adventurer who had come among their ranks in the midst of the battle--as she had been meaning to do and to ask him, "You've come at a worthy time, friend. I am Herr Heike Eisen, Knight-Valiant of Reikhurst. May you share with us your name? Pray tell that you have come from Belgrath, and that you bear good news."

After a fight like that, her ears--and many others, surely--were aching to hear.

* * * * *​

The surviving adventurers and pack animals walk ahead of the formation of Marines, and altogether they are heading for the lowlands at the end of the cliff-flanked draw.

Dal Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Tarathrieal Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest Kiros Rahnel

 

[Dal]

As the light scorched the undead around Gil, Dal's immediate thought was that Gil, the one he had fought so hard and vigorously to reach with his comrades, had been obliterated by an act of enemy magic. A mage perhaps, who somehow still lurked behind undead lines, had dashed their purpose as a vicious mockery of their concern. Such a thought made sense to Dal. It served his idea of the battlefield and his place within it. The one he had fought to reach had been cut down by magic before they could rescue him - this made sense. That was the nature of things. The nature of magic on the battlefield. It could sweep aside anyone at any time Dal knew. It was a remorseless thing, a phenomenon without pity or concern for those who could not command it. This situation could not have been helped or anticipated, Dal thought as he took a step back from the ensuing conflagration of light.

He narrowed his eyes to prevent his vision from being robbed from him by such an blinding display.

Dal saw the undead being destroyed alongside Gil's own frame - obliterated into nothingness. An instant death, Dal thought. Better than most receive. Dal was about to turn away and to his comrades, to direct them out of the fight, but then, from the punishing rays, a figure rose up from that intense light, looming and growing, powerful and self-assured.

No, Dal realised as he felt betrayed by his own previous assessment, this was something else entirely.

Something holy.

And as that word revealed itself to him, much as Gil had been transformed by his own faith, Dal's beliefs transfigured him also. It transfigured him as he bore witness to the new form rise and strike out with acts of divine violence that Gil was now all too capable and willing of administering. Dal had faith in steel, in weapons, in training, in discipline, in soldiers, in all manner of violence that brought death in mundane ways. The god of death and murder was present in every swing of a sword, every strained breath, every effort to stay alive and to undo one's foes. There was no personal relationship with words spoken and gifts bestowed between Dal and the aspect of his faith. He had his own quiet respect and reverence towards the god, it was more akin to a respect to a force of nature, as a sailor might pray for a strong wind to carry him home or a farmer might pray for a rain for his crops, so Dal prayed in his moments of struggle, success and failure.

Gil transformation was the antithesis of Dal's distant and dispassionate god.

While other warriors witnessed what unfolded with a sense of reverence, awe and respect, Dal was gripped by an assault of shifting violent emotions as the paladin rose up in his new resplendent form and dealt a final death to their undead foes.

The half orc's sword shook within his hands, his muscles tightened and beneath his helmet his face contorted and twisted into the mask of disgust and rage. Dal felt at once scorned, betrayed, and mocked. As weapons of light seared their common enemies, Dal's thoughts were to the perceived callousness of his comrade, of Gil's disregard to the efforts that the rescue party that Heike, Askaris and himself had undertaken.

The fact that the side he had been fighting on had been granted a literal miracle and was turning the tide absolutely in their favour did not strike Dal. Instead his thoughts snapped and lashed out like some wounded beast against it's tormentors, impetulant, indignant, and full of spite.

Why did I bother to risk myself so when this one could rescue himself with such titanic forces? Why should I concern myself with the fate of elves, the fate of magic users and the fate of the holy when they mock the efforts of the common soldier with such displays of vigour? Common soldiers who risk their lives to reach them in their moment of apparent need, only to be turned into witnesses to their own pursuit of glory! And the glory of their damned deities. Was this some sort of private joke of an egoistical one elf army? Does he take some pleasure in having me witness his own self engineered salvation and divine prowess just at the point we would reached him to save him? Does this serve his deity's sense of humour just to see us strive for naught in contrast to such overwhelming power?

Dal had seen enough to understand his place in the world at this moment, on this battlefield. Their shared enemies were being ravaged, obliterated and cast aside into the wind. The great beast that tore asunder the undead had been laid low in turn, the great howl of pain from being exposed to the light that Gil commanded filled Dal with a grim satisfaction. At least I will not have to face the jaws of such a creature, Dal thought to himself as he collected himself and refused to be a witness to this anymore. There was nothing more for him to do in comparison to such a display of might.

Dal let out a disgusted and long drawn out, “bah,” which he loudly snarled out over languid seconds as he ripped himself away from the sight of the avatar of light raining down destruction. As he did so he felt all sense of fatigue robbed from him. It was as if he had started the day anew. And this too did frustrate the half-orc as he comprehended and felt the boon from a servant of the divine affect him so, as if it compounded his issue with Gil into further acrimony.

You would rob me of my hard earned labour? You would have me victorious without the sensation that a battle has been done today? While leaving me without a foe to strike? You act in spite of me, light thing, faith thing. And, so, my only thought is that I hate you for it, in the final moments of this battle, I hate this light you bear. Even if it does offer us a more total victory than one we might have attained...you mock a soldier with such acts! Let me live and die by my own merits, let me endure what I have faced with a glad heart for it was my choice to bear it, leave me be of your act of charity. I know not of what you ask in return, spirit!

Heike's words snatched him back to an increasingly quietening battlefield. "Let's..." She paused Dal noticed. I'm alone with being unmoved by this power play then, Dal thought, I am alone in my feeling. "Let's get back," Heike said.

“An unsatisfying end to a day's combat,” Dal said, disgruntled, ravaged by hatred, disappointment and disgust, his voice revealing the inner turmoil that he was faced with. He shook his head and then realised how he must have sounded and attempted to assume his usual professional demeanour. Not whatever this was, Dal thought, this revulsion.

“Nevermind my...misgivings,” Dal added, recovering some composure in his voice as the three of them withdrew. “The day is carried. That's all that matters. The day is carried.”

He didn't want to sound like a raving lunatic to the others. They wouldn't understand he was sure. Dal didn't understand it entirely himself. That would take time. The day was indeed carried by Gil's efforts. Yet they twisted within him for now.

Dal moved alongside Heike and Askaris through the dwarven lines. Such was easy for Dal now, being relieved of his fatigued muscles, from the ache in his arms that swinging a sword so assuredly in combat brought, from the burning in his legs from the running to rescue Eren. Dal considered asking Heike something, but she turned and saw a figure that Dal locked his jaw at the sight.

Gil'Tyrnin.

“We need to carry him,” Dal heard Heike say.

Damn these casters. They expend themselves completely, and then expect others to carry their burdens. They mock us with their powers and then they expect us to pick up their shattered bodies. Dal let the thoughts consume him again for a few seconds, and then cast them aside in favour of having solidarity with Heike's wishes.

If she wanted him lifted out of here, so be it.

Dal obeyed and reached down to lift the elf. With a grunt and a bending of the knees to accommodate the weight of the elf, Dal slung Gil over his shoulders. Considerable baggage to most other people, Dal carried Gil on his shoulders as if he was some loyal beast of burden to the military effort. Brute strength was something that Dal commanded well.

I'll earn a decent rest by bearing this divine one for the journey, Dal thought. A different kind of boulder to train myself under. May the blood upon my armour mark him then. But the moment he does wake, he's back on his feet. He's not injured. Just spent with his own efforts.

Dal considered his own turbulent emotions. Was this a product of being part orc, to reject such a sight of divinity? No. No, that wasn't it, Dal reasoned. This was a matter of professional courtesy and concern for one's fellow soldiers. One didn't throw themselves recklessly into the fray, causing concern for everyone else, and then spit in the face of those who did dive in after you by turning the battle all on their own. Dal was gripped by the word 'sportsmanship' for a brief, convinced moment, but cast it aside. He chuckled darkly to himself as he considered that he almost fell for the notion.

This was a battle, and battles are fought for victory. Not for honour, not for pride, not for glory. A warrior lives and dies to bring victory to the greater host and their cause. And their cause was served. The boy had been rescued. But, if this was a mercenary force, Dal would have refused to serve in it further. The dwarves had performed superbly, as a cohesive one. But the additional forces that rallied together? The casters struck out on their own, they did not act with teamwork, and such a thing was a danger to the greater whole. To those who might act out of concern for them.

He had his own reasons for fighting the countless orc. Of assisting the Golden Blade's efforts. He sought his own edification, to affirm that he did not have alliances to his orc heritage. And that he was damned good at fighting. That future contracts might be secured through the merit of this victory. Dal smiled to himself as he considered how to phrase the story. He wondered if the dwarves would sing of it. Battles that were told through song seem so appealling, Dal thought to himself. And did much to offer a mercenary greater pay.

Dal lugged the elf on his shoulders and looked at the host of dwarves that marched alongside them. They had been victorious. This much was abundantly true. Yet, Dal felt his sense of victory robbed from him. He would normally ache, he would feel the exhaustion wash over him and make him remember each blow delivered in turn. But there was nothing. Nothing except a hollow affirmation that he had done such a thing. That and his bloodied armour.

Dal continued to brood and carry his burdens silently as he awaited the right moment to drop Gil on his feet and be rid of the elf. The more distance between us the better, Dal thought, and if he wants thanking, or a donation to his church, I don't think I could stomach it. Who knew what these casters thought. Theirs was a different world. A different world with different rules.

The rest of us, Dal thought, just get to die at such critical moments, at such decisions to endanger themselves. Those who live by the sword, die by it.

But what else was there, Dal thought and smiled at the prospect.

Nothing. Nothing except another day to avoid one's own death and to dole it out to one deserving of it. One who he had been paid to kill. One who strived to kill him. There was nothing else except that struggle. That mundane effort to stay alive and keep one's enemies from living. No magic, just steel. No rewarded faith, except to live again, and to kill again.

The God of Death is more present and dominating than such a display of Gil's faith, Dal thought to himself and smiled broadly at his thoughts, a wicked smile that was cruel and self satisfied. He is spent by his faith's expression. I am edified and strengthened by mine. Death is certain and ever present. Death can be carried in a thousand ways from a thousand sources. I command steel and nerve and muscle. What is a light show in comparison to the dominion that the God of Murder does command?

Dal chuckled darkly at his own musings. He almost pitied Gil in his exhaustion. Gil was used up, spent by his god to turn a battle, exhausted and left to the elements, used as one might use an arrow against a foe, to be forgotten and left lodged within a corpse after notched and fired.

He began to speak, slowly, thoughtfully, as if he was delivering his own private sermon to the exhausted Gil.

“Thank you for reminding me of the disregard that your god has for his instruments after he is done with them,” Dal drawled to Gil and shifted the weight of the elf on his shoulders. “Are you so chilled by the absence of such a power? So drained of energy? You would not survive alone. Each step I take with you on my back is affirming my own humble faith. And guards me against your potential fate. You would not survive alone. One day you will expend yourself. You'll overreach. Over estimate the power you channel. And you will be alone - especially if the reckless way you acted today is your common mark of behaviour. You best be careful, light lover. You gamble with your own life by swimming in powerful currents. Be careful not to be carried away at the moment you seek reprieve from the crashing waves you summon, from the focus of powerful spirits and things that call themselves gods as they turn their attention elsewhere. As their absence chills and drains you as you are. Death is certain and numerous in its expression.”

Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Tarathrieal Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest Kiros Rahnel Heike Eisen

 

[Gil'Tyrnin Solcrest]

It was dark now, Gil stood alone. Beneath him he could see a raging black hole swallowing light, it was massive and bright. He could see the bands of light that surrounded it as it ripped everything it touched apart. He felt heavy as if a great force was on him pulling him towards the thing. It felt alive, sentient. He could feel the hate, the malice of the thing. He recognized the light ripped apart by the thing and it filled him with dread, they were sparks of living things. They were consumed obliterated and torn asunder, it was the Void. The very Void created by Sol'Nityr's children, the false gods, the dark gods, the pretenders. He felt himself being pulled towards it.

He heard a familiar voice, but he could not place it.

Thank you for reminding me of the disregard that your god has for his instruments after he is done with them,” Dal drawled to Gil and shifted the weight of the elf on his shoulders. “Are you so chilled by the absence of such a power? So drained of energy? You would not survive alone. Each step I take with you on my back is affirming my own humble faith. And guards me against your potential fate. You would not survive alone. One day you will expend yourself. You'll overreach. Over estimate the power you channel. And you will be alone - especially if the reckless way you acted today is your common mark of behaviour. You best be careful, light lover. You gamble with your own life by swimming in powerful currents. Be careful not to be carried away at the moment you seek reprieve from the crashing waves you summon, from the focus of powerful spirits and things that call themselves gods as they turn their attention elsewhere. As their absence chills and drains you as you are. Death is certain and numerous in its expression.”

Gil was pulled closer and closer to the Void. He felt so heavy now, so tired. It was cold, frigid, freezing. He felt his body shudder and shake. He was pulled closer.

Another voice was heard one Gil had never heard before.

"There is some truth in what the child says my son"

The darkness vanished the Void gone, Gil stood alone now surrounded by white, infront of him a blazing light. Gil put his hand out infront of him out stretched to shield his eyes, so bright. The blinding light distracted the rest of his senses. As he stood there he realized that he was warm, his body felt light.

"You were reckless, you put those you wished to protect in danger. However I have not abandoned you"

It hit him all at once like an avalanche, his knees weakened, he knelt down and bowed his head. The voice, it was The All Father.

"You were not ready for the blessing, it took your father years to master, he did not use it in battle until he was ready"

"Then why let me use it at all" Gil replied "Why not let the horde bury me and rip my spark from my body"

"A simple thank you would have sufficed child" Sol'Nityr's voice boomed "Does a father just sit back and allow his child to break, to be ripped asunder?"

Gil shook now afraid, in life he was fearless, zealous but here before his God he was insignificant. As his voice boomed, fear gripped him. He felt like a speck of dust in the wind.

"No my lord, please forgive me" Gil replied.

"A father does also not hold the spiteful ramblings of a his children against them" Sol'Nityr replied.

"Will this always be the case when I use the blessing?" Gil asked

"No, child" Sol'Nityr replied "However, it will take many years of dedication, discipline and faith to perfect the blessing"

"So many have tried before me and failed, even Grand Paladins have died in attempt to use the blessing" Gil said "Why me?"

"Does your house not bare my name, are you not a Solcrest?" Sol'Nityr replied his voice seeming to loose patience. "Do you question the weapons I provide? Do you question the shield I give? Do you question the healing touch I have bestowed upon you? Do you question the strength and speed I give?"

"No, my lord I do not question your blessings" Gil replied, he felt ashamed as if he were a child being scolded by their father.

"Then do not question it now" Sol'Nityr said rather sternly. "Have faith in Me child as you always have and you will master this blessing and receive many more."

"I will be better my lord" Gil replied

"Once this is done, you must find the sword of your house, it will aid you" Sol'Nityr said "The sword I gifted to your family"

"But it was in...." Gil started

"I know where it is child, but it is your task to find it now" Sol'Nityr boomed once more"Now go!"

It was dark now again once more.

Dal Heike Eisen Cauldwin Talson Valfnyr Eren'thiel Xyrdithas Tarathrieal Kiros Rahnel