Dreadlords Wax and Wane

[Lydia]

Vel Anir - Just outside the Elven Quarter

The crowd had swelled to nearly two hundred now. Lady Maritza truly had a way with words, likely inheriting such skills from her father. She looked the part of a leader, standing atop the makeshift wooden stage and delivering such rousing words. The crowd had also been far more well behaved than the propagandists with the republic had warned of.

Hell, the dogs with the Guard had even gone so far to bring in some of the literal children they were calling “Dreadlord Initiates,” now. Lydia had given them a once over when they’d first shown up to protect the perimeter of the elves' stolen land and they looked exactly how she’d imagined.

Weak. Tainted by the sickening new ideals of this glorious republic.

Lady Maritza began to pace back-and-forth on the stage before turning to the now silent crowd. This was it, the deathblow of her speech.

”I was disgusted at the start of all of this. House Strand had served Vel Anir and House Sirl for centuries. We sacrificed so much for our fellow man. To see the very Dreadlords we fed and clothed and protected join forces with greedy Generals was bad enough. To see them do it after our fair city suffered its worst crisis since the war with the elves? It was too much for my poor father’s heart to bear.”

“And now… now they have the gall to award prime real estate within the last free city of humanity to a bunch of knife ears.”

The crowd erupted in jeers and boos. Maritza waited until the first of the Anirian Guardsmen shuffled before raising a hand and the gathering fell quiet as the leader of this movement continued speaking.

“Countrymen, I know, I feel your anguish. This is the same rot that led Alliria to become a city of slums and narcotics. But it doesn’t even end with the elves! Now they let magical children run around freely, throwing our time honored traditions into the bonfire.”

“And we saw how that played out in Elbion. A cataclysmic event overtook the city causing destruction that they are still reeling from. We now know that it was all the result of undisciplined mages who wished to push magic far past its limits.”

“Vel Anir will be next. It will be our children who grow up with half of the city having its own Shallows. It will be our children who must endure mass destruction because some teenager with magic unleashes their dangerous abilities in Anir Square.”

“That is why we put a stop to it, right here and now! We tell the bureaucrats and elected officials that we oppose giving away parcels of humanity’s last truly free city to a bunch of sex-crazed elves! We tell them…”

“Humanity. First.”

Cheers rang out as the crowd slowly began to turn more into a mob. Guardsmen and Dreadlord initiates scrambled to secure the entrance to the Elven Quarter as Lady Maritza descended from the stage.

”Excellent speech my lady, but we need to get you away. No doubt they’ll want to arrest you, or worse, for inciting a riot,” Lydia told her mistress quickly as a hand came to press against her back.

“Or worse?” Maritza replied coyly, “all the better for the Humanity First movement. They’d make me into a martyr.”

”I’d prefer it if you remained alive. Still, you’ve done what you wished, no doubt the Guards or some overeager Initiate whelp will strike down a proud Anirian citizen,” they needed to be out of this place. And quickly before one of the Guards or Dreadlord children sought to intercept them.

 

[Dreymon]

Dreymon stood at the base of the stage. He had fought for the Old Vel Anir.. and he had lost. He had barely survived. But that was a different life for him, he was a different man.

He had lost his faith, his armor, and his belief in causes, so he found the empty solace of coin. And his skill set sans his old skills was still costly.

He wasn't sure why a Dreadlord of such power needed mercenaries, but he was thankful for the coin, it would be enough to lead him to his next cup and then some.

He had to admit, he had no express hate for the knife-ears, but her words could have moved a younger him into razing the Elvish Quarter. And those words were definitely moving many gathered. The Anirian Guard began to struggle against the mass of people and the young of the NuAcademy looked apprehensive.

He would look to the other mercenaries and they would move out before Lady Maritza, clearing the path for her. Nothing violent, yet. So far just the mindless shoving of angry mobbers who didn't even get offended as they noticed the retreating party.

Have to love the power of an effective mob mentality. As they hurried forward, an Anirian Guard would make his way to them. "Ha-." He paused as there was some recognition in his eye of the man that stood before him. It was all Dreymon needed to grab him by his coif and pull him into a headbutt, knocking the young Guard out cold.

Hopefully that would be the last of the interferences.

Lydia

 

[Theadora Cloud]

Thea fidgeted as Lady Maritza's speech unfolded. Tension was thick in the air, and only getting worse the longer she spoke. Oh, did someone like her truly have nothing better to do than cause mayhem in the city? Is this what she wants to use her wealth and power for? May the Trinity forgive her.

The Dreadlords sent her to assist the Anirian Guard with security, and by the look of things, they'd soon need it. Hopefully, her magic would be of some assistance. She stiffened when the crowd started to grow more agitated. She bit her lip and glanced each way, realizing the mob would soon make their way toward the entrance to the Elven Quarter.

All the while the instigator fled the scene, she frowned and tightened her grip on her staff. So, blatant, how could the mob not see they were being used? She joined the guards in positioning herself between the Elven Quarter and the mob.

Lydia Dreymon

 

[Lydia]

Attempting to Exit the Rally

“You worry too much,” Maritza replied, “we hired more than enough blades to ensure my safety.”

Lydia couldn’t help but smile at her lady’s reply before stabbing back with her own barb, ”those boys don’t know the half of it, having to deal with you is far worse than any number of Guardsmen the republic could throw at us.” It wasn’t true, of course not, but teasing the noblewoman had become a favorite hobby of Lydia’s.

Commotion interrupted any chance at further quips between the two women.

Just up ahead one of the hired mercs, a man by the name of Dreymon, appeared to be accosted by one of the guards. A swift headbutt ensured it was short lived and the guard fell to the ground cold. There was hope, as fleeting as it could be, that it would be the end of it. However, seeing one of their own fall like that gave many of the Guardsmen a sudden sense of courage.

Batons and clubs were raised, a few blades drawn. The Guard was prepared to stop their escape.

”Maritza,” Lydia grasped the other woman’s hand as tightly as she could, ”just keep walking.” It was a trick they’d used in the past. By making physical contact her magic could extend to any object, including living beings, and alter their density. The noblewoman and her Dreadlord protector began moving through the bodies of hired mercenaries and Anirian Guards alike as chaos emerged.

Several guardsmen pushed forward to arrest Dreymon though the other hired hands were quick to form a perimeter around their comrade. Say what you wanted about mercenaries, they were smart enough to know that if you allowed one to go down they might as well all go down.

"Stop," Maritza insisted, "we can't be seen fleeing."

And against her better judgement, Lydia complied and the two women found themselves positioned right beside the rest of the sellswords.

Dreymon

---

The Threshold of the Elven Quarter

Guardsmen and Dreadlord Initiates alike struggled to contain the mass of flesh before them.

Bottles of cheap booze, rotting fruit, and any stone one could find off the streets were all thrown in the general direction of those guarding the path towards the elven part of the city. Anirian citizens, all humans, cried out racist slurs or political chants as more and more of them tried to push past the defenders.

“Traitor!” a man with a gut and an unkempt beard shouted directly in Thea’s face. He raised a club and continued shouting. “Stop protectin’ them knife ears! Yer meant to be on our side!”
The bearded man, who reeked of stale beer, raised his club high as he prepared to strike at Thea and the others who blocked his path.

Theadora Cloud

 

[Dreymon]

Dreymon would slow a bit as clubs and batons were raised. Nothing wrong with a good round of fisticuffs. Luckily for Dreymon, those that stood with him also weren't afraid to get a little messy.

As several of the Guard pulled their blades, the old Mercs eyes would narrow. "Now then.. why did ya have to go and do that.." he would pull his blade free from its scabbard and it was about the only piece of gear on his person that looked profound. "Kill only who you need to, and no more, lads. No fatalities is preferable."

"Let's show this rabble what happens when they go toe to toe with the Guard." A haughty Sergeant would laugh to his men as he hefted his blade and advanced slowly, allowing his men to rush the Sell-swords.

Thankfully for the Guard, Dreymon had his steel gauntlets today. That would mean the difference between life and death for many of them. As the Guard rushed them, he would sidestep a baton swing, before driving his left gauntlet into the mans gut and knocking the wind from him. As he doubled over that same gauntlet would grip him by his harness and lift him heavenward before slamming him down into the ground. A hardened leather boot would be the gift for the mans skull as he stirred.

He would advance into the next guard, flicking his blade around in hand to catch it by the blade before ducking low beneath a swing. As he passed, he would swing the cross guard out, hooking the Guards boot and pulling his leg out from beneath him. The man cursed as head collided with stone floor and Dreymon would bring the pommel back to bash it in the mans helm turning out his lights.

To his surprise, the women had decided to stand with the sell-swords. That would easily boost their morale. If they were going to stay, the least he could do was make a pathway.

Next would come the first Guard to draw steel and his blade would skirt along Dreymon's gambeson, leaving a fine cut through the trusty wear. The mercenary scowled. "Your blood will be paying for that one, boy." As the Guards blade came back around one of Dreymon's steel gauntlets would reach out to catch the blade and tilt it straight up, before tugging it towards him and throwing his body into the Guard to stagger him. Ripping the sword free from the mans hands, a boot would come down to stomp the Guards knee and with a yelp, he collapsed to the ground. The last thing he saw before he took the worlds second best assisted power nap, was the pommel of his blade striking him in the side of the head.

As the third Guard tipped to the side and collapsed, Dreymon would discard the sword on top of him, as if both were nothing. His true target was the Sergeant, who was now taking several of the Guard to cover a hasty withdrawal.

Lydia

 

[Elias]

Away from the center of conflict, where palpable tension was reaching an inevitable climax, Elias watched on from a belltower with another at his side. The Elven Quarter's circumference was just out of sight, but the fringes of the agitated mob were visible from the vantage point.

"Speech is over," he said with a hand cupped over his left eye, his palm alit with golden splendor, "Looks like the Lady and her retinue are making a hasty exit."

Elias contemplatively grumbled, "None too soon, it would seem," and lowered his hand. He blinked, adjusting to the temporary blurriness in his eye. "Conflict is inevitable."

Then, turning to his companion, Elias announced: "I'm going to head the Lady off."

 

[Ventress]

Ventress had a habit of rejecting many of the tasks assigned to her by the military. She was a First Level Dreadlord. She did not deign to assent to orders which she found to be beneath her talent. The Majors and Commanders could bemoan her rejections all they wished, call her insubordinate, write their reprimands, but they did not dare to "punish" her. They could not, for the lacked the true power necessary to do so. And furthermore, she walked a fine line between "difficult to work with" and ostensible faith to the Guard.

But there were tasks which garnered her attention and captured it well. The expedition into Vel Tenebria, for there being a loose end down in those depths which needed to be expunged for House Sirl. The securing of the marriage between Franz Sirl and Camina Luana in Vel Hochlind, despite the military's tardiness and logistical errors.

And now, in Vel Anir itself, seeing to the security of Lady Maritza of House Strand. Had it been anyone else, anyone of minor House not pledged to Sirl, Ventress would have been more than happy to watch the situation escalate into a violent revolt. Let the knife-ears embarrass the Republic and get themselves killed in the process.

But Lady Maritza was a friend of House Sirl's.

And, moreover, an actual Sirl was present. Not just any Sirl either. Elias Sirl from the Academy. He whom she had taken under her wing in mentorship after House Sirl's interest in Edric waned. She had been exquisitely delighted in being given permission to do so. As Isbrand had mentored her, so would she with Elias Sirl. He was the inheritor of House Sirl's rare and vaunted bloodline magic, and Ventress had been determined to see him harness it to the fullest.

Then the Rebellion happened, and everything was ruined. In its wake, Ventress wished to flay the traitors Zana and Talus alive for more than just the murder of Archon Isbrand.

But here she was now. Circumstances were such that the rare opportunity had been afforded to her. And she stood in the belltower beside one of the last remaining men whose veins coursed with Sirl blood. The Republic could burn, the Guard could burn; to Elias, to his Sirl birthright, she owed her true loyalty.

"Then we will go," she said, turning sharply on a heel toward the stairs. "You are correct in your assessment, My Lord Elias. Conflict is inevitable. I advise caution. And mercilessness."

Ventress would see the entirety of the Elven Quarter drenched in blood before she allowed filthy hands—elven or human—to harm him.

Elias

 

[Elias]

"Yes, ma'am," Elias stiffly replied as he turned in a much broader fashion than his mentor to follow her down the antiquated wooden steps. They hardly made a sound under the First but whined and threatened to snap under the weighty footfalls of the Lordling. And as the pair exited the belltower, Elias ducked under the old doorway into a small sunlit square, nearly one hundred and twenty paces from the commotion. Even farther from Lady Maritza and her entourage.

"Clear skies," he noted as he fell in stride to Ventress' right, "I saw they made northbound before things got blurry."

It was only thanks to her garish attire that Elias saw the First in his periphery.

"Cenric Sirl could hold the bloody Sight from sunup to sundown..." Elias' mellow timbre trailed as he mused aloud, and he made no effort to hide the astonishment in his tone. It was once scribed that Ennoa Sirl boasted mastery over all aspects of his magic; his descendants would only possess strong affinities for fragments of that tremendous power. The ability to see all that the sun shines upon, summon and shape unquenchable celestial flames, rain down starfire from the sky—and if you were Elias Sirl, to infuse oneself with a bounty of strength and mental acuity.

As they made their way behind the increasingly aggressive mob, Elias stopped to watch for several seconds. All manners of numerous profanities muddled together into a deafening roar. Elias ' gut churned as the mass forced itself against the line of soldiers, the only barrier between them and the Elven Quarter.

Turning his lithic mask of a face forward, the young man resolved himself to endeavor where his efforts would have meaning, and he continued onward, his long and powerful warrior's gait pulling him ahead of Ventress.

 

[Lydia]

The Guards at the threshold into the elven quarter were suppressing the rioters. Not much of a shock, the Anirian Guard had always been well disciplined and clever. They focused most of their efforts on securing the perimeter of the assaulted quarter.

Which was a lucky break for Lydia and Lady Maritza. Fewer forces for them to cut their way through now that her charge insisted on standing with the hired mercenaries.

Within seconds of their stand chaos emerged and members of the Guard began to rush the group as they attempted to flee. The hired blades were handling themselves quite well, easily fending off the Anirians assault whilst they formed a defensive perimeter around their Sergeant who had let out a statement which managed to age horribly.

One of the mercenaries in particular fought with his steel gauntleted fists and had already taken down three of the assailants. The Guard was being driven back almost as swiftly as they had begun their attack.

This was good. Lydia had worried about the task of keeping her master safe while also dealing with attackers but apparently the bureaucrats and stewards of House Strand had done a phenomenal job at picking out the various men and women they had employed for this task.

"To me," she called as the Guard continued their shuffle backwards, "we will drive these dogs to the edge of the city."

In reality they'd simply back them off into some corner before fleeing themselves. Getting Martiza Strand out of here was priority number one. Bloodying up a few of the Guard was just the cherry on top.

 

[Ventress]

Ventress walked down the old steps of the belltower, her hands as ever tucked into the small of her back as she did. Always did she hold herself in a professional manner, and today was no exception. In the presence and service of a noble of Sirl, this after nearly a year spent away from any semblance thereof, all of Ventress's particulars would be amplified. Her bearing would be as sharp as ever.

Out onto the square, daylight showering the young Lord—and all the more beneficial was it for his magic.

Cenric Sirl could hold the bloody Sight from sunup to sundown...

"With time, my Lord Elias," she said. "Time and relentless honing of your gift, you will surpass your predecessors."

If he would so allow it, Ventress would see to it. An irony, of sorts. Ventress would erase the hopes and dreams of scores of elves and Anirian citizens, even Guardsmen, if they dared lay a finger on Elias, but the training she would inflict upon him with his own consent would be far worse than anything this rabble could do. Yet she learned from the best, from the Archon who stood as the single greatest bastion against the Rebellion and by his might alone nearly turned the battle. Ventress knew what was effective, and what was not.

Yet, as untidy as her situation was now, even if Elias did consent to be mentored once again, Ventress could foresee vengeful Majors and Commanders complicating the matter. An attempt to punish her for her loyalty to House Sirl.

They would be corrected of the notion that they had any power to punish her.

Ventress eyed the unruly mob which the Guard held back from the Elven Quarter. The weakness of the Republic wept openly like a wound. Under the rule of the Houses, this disorderliness would not have been permitted. Finally, then, the Guard made a move on the mob.

Behind Elias now, Ventress said as she walked, "We must confer with Lady Maritza, my Lord."

Elias Lydia

 

[Dreymon]

Dreymon was always at peace in the battlefield, it was his home. The size of the field didn't even matter, only that there were those that stood opposite of him.

Advancing now and at the urging of their patron, he would begin with slow measured steps before a quick half-step kicked him into a charge. The first guard would yelp as he backpedaled, swinging his club towards Dreymon's jaw. An arm would raise to absorb the blow, a welt could already be felt forming there.

Still holding his sword by the blade Dreymon would thrust with pommel, catching the guard just below the windpipe and staggering his breath. The left gauntlet would then drift back before launching forward to deliver a punishing blow, then a quick second one to follow.

Collapsing, Dreymon would bound over him, his boot catching the guard in the chin and causing him to still. With the ring broken, the mercs would begin to take advantage of that and now, nobody stood between Dreymon and the Sergeant.

In a show of mock courage, the commanding Guard would surge forward hoping to inspire his men, his sword poised and ready to strike. To show his intent, Dreymon would flip the sword around in his hand, catching it by the hilt. His blade would lift to deflect the Guards, before skirting back to deflect against the follow-up.

Based on the form alone, Dreymon could tell that this Sergeant was a product of the new Republic. They were soft, untested, and unwilling to die for their beliefs. Now, it was Dreymon's offensive, and so he would begin to press the attack with a series of cuts, each one aimed at a different area of the body. His opponent was quickly put on the defensive, his focus geared towards survival.

A lucky boot from the Sergeant would shove Dreymon back a yard or two, allowing him to spin and flip his sword into a reverse grip. During his rotation, his blade would collide with the Guards with enough force to knock it wide and away before he drove it back towards the Sergeant.

Surprise shone on the Sergeants face and he dropped his sword to the stone road. To the casual observer, it would look as if Dreymon had just run him through. But the Guard knew different. He could feel his cuirass get looser as the blade cut the fastenings and even felt the impact of where one of the cross guards impacted the chest plate. "Not bad for rabble, eh?" Dreymon would say cheerily. The Sergeant then dropped to his knees in preparation for the end and Dreymon would pull his blade free before turning to leave.

As he turned, the Sergeant would start to reach for a dagger before Dreymon turned on a heel and drove the flat of the blade into the mans cheek, knocking him unconscious.

Their route was starting to look especially clear.

Lydia

 

[Elias]

"Must we?" while keeping his gaze set ahead, Elias posed, "What've I to gain from that?"

He took a moment to think and continued before Ventress could answer.

"I'd be disobeying orders, you know. Then I'd have to crawl out of the hole I dug myself, considering I haven't much backing from my own family. Adding on the fact that they've been reduced to a pitiful state, what help would they be? Lady Strand pulling this... maneuver doesn't offer any benefits for my family either, does it?"

Elias strode with a conqueror's gait. No space within him housed even a mote of self-doubt, and he exuded confidence equal to his resplendent grace. And once set on an action, it took great effort to urge Elias off his path.

Not that he intended to act with his family's interests in mind. No, that was far from the truth. Instead, Elias' actions were decided and taken for his benefit. And perhaps the tiniest motivation to spite the woman flanking him.

"Rather, I would apprehend the Lady myself."

 

[Roul]

“As would I,” said a voice within a helm.

Toren followed them, several paces back, clad head to toe in his oft-burnished plate armor of which he was so proud - “Cortosi steel from my mother’s side, don’t you know?” - idly adjusting a strap on his bracer as he kept pace with Ventress and Elias.

Ever since the revolution things had gone downhill. All this infighting, when the real enemy was out there. Beyond Vel Anir. Growing stronger.

Toren wore his swords, but neither the long nor the arming sword were drawn. Likely he wouldn’t need to at all. Not with what he could do with his mind alone.

 

[Lydia]

Brawls in the street were chaotic, especially when you couldn’t simply gore one of your assailants. Luckily for Maritza and her entourage the bulk of the guards were preoccupied. And those who did impede their path were handled simply enough.

In between incapacitating a bold guardsman who charged the pair and planting a fist into the gut of another she paid special attention to one of the mercs in particular.

”You did well,” she said to Dreymon only after they had cleared the last of the guards. ”You showed restraint, that’s good.”

Maritza Strand issued a smile and a nod. She was never much interested in security, leaving those details to Lydia whilst she assessed, “the big picture.”

Dreymon truly had done a fine job though. Lydia was already making a mental note to approach the man about being placed on retainer when they returned back to the estate. ”Many would’ve lost themselves after the Sergeant drew that dagger. You remembered orders, no death.”

A breeze blew a lock of white hair as the mass of humanity began to fade away. The group would make their way to a few carriages awaiting them several blocks from the speech. Once aboard they’d be back at the Strand Manor before sunset.

Unless, of course, someone stopped them.

 

[Dreymon]

Two of the mercs had died during the fighting, several more were injured, none would be left behind. Drey may have abandoned the gods, but he would not abandon man.

A voice would call out to him and so the grizzled warrior would turn to face the source, bowing his head at her praise. "Thank you m'lady. They're only fools following rules from lesser people.. not a cause for death." He would sheath his blade as they crossed all the way to the carriages.

"Perhaps had I thought the man a threat, I would have killed him." Drey confessed. "But no, death is a release, and sometimes shame is more unbearable." He would say with a grin. Would he have killed the man? Likely not.

Reaching the carriages, he would open the door for Lydia and Lady Strand. Their dead would be loaded in the rear carriage and finally the mercenaries would load up. Once both women were aboard, Drey would shut the door and climb up to sit beside the driver. "Lets move out." He would bark, bending down to grab a crossbow and loading it. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it.

Lydia

 

[Ventress]

Lord Elias's words gave Ventress a slight pause, a stutter in her brisk steps. Such was it that she, in uncharacteristic fashion, let her hands fall from the small of her back and swing at her sides as she walked—an effort to catch up.

The presence of Toren Urahil was bad enough. It was expected for the filthy animals of House Pirian, Weiroon, and Virak to ally with the traitors during the Rebellion, but for House Luana, Banick, and yes, House Urahil to do so as well? Only House Sirl persevered to the bitter end, and it seemed to Ventress that the great alliance of Houses was no more, erstwhile "friends" having left House Sirl as the sole defender of the old way. She contemplated many a night whether it was shrewdness or cowardice which had brought the capitulation of Luana and Banick and Urahil.

But now this from Lord Elias? Ventress held an awareness of the struggles within the remnants of House Sirl: hearsay of whether or not Elspeth was alive or dead, besmirching of Franz for being effectively an honorary Luana so smitten was he with his new bride, and on it went, all of it dismaying. Lord Elias and his decision here was no different.

And yet, he was the closest Sirl to her proximity. With the disarray of the House, with her lamentably distanced position within the military, there was no defined structure with which to offer her service.

So, despite her dismay at all of Sirl's turmoil, the best she could in this moment do was follow Lord Elias. Perhaps it would be considered "choosing sides" at some later date. But the blood of Sirl coursed through his veins, and more impressively, the sun magic of Sirl hummed within that very blood. Let none say that Ventress regarded lightly the virtue of loyalty.

"Very well." A slight tinge of stress, masked nearly in whole, upon her voice. Yet she couldn't stop herself from slipping into referring to herself in the plural, a tell of that stress. "If that is your wish, Lord Elias, then we would see it done."

There would be more than a reprimand for this. Generals of the Guard would be involved, other First Level Dreadlords. Ventress disobeying orders in this exact manner, during the course of duty, was what her detractors within the military were waiting for.

She and Lord Elias and Toren Urahil had caught sight of Lady Maritza and her escort departing the premises. They followed. And they approached as the Lady herself was loaded into one of a line of carriages.

Ventress did not need to shout or to run up closer to deliver her command.

Instead, there was a flash of golden light in front of the lead carriage. A Projection of Ventress stood there, her hand raised prohibitively, and the Projection issued the simple command, "Halt."

Elias Toren Urahil Dreymon Lydia

 

[Elias]

As Toren caught up, Elias spared the man a glance. Curtly nodded.

An invisible weight lifted off of Elias' shoulders. All his conviction and pride meant naught should Ventress stand in his way. A clash between them would favor the experienced. For all of his potential, Elias yet lacked the sheer might to overcome that hurdle.

"Good," he flatly responded to the First.

Then falling back a few paces, Elias came in step with Toren, "Fucked off for a while, eh?" and knocked his breastplate with his knuckles, "We'll have to catch up after this, mate."

Elias would pass Ventress as she cast her projection before the convoy. His dark irises became flecked with strands of shimmering golden light. As if to emphasize the First's order, the young scion of House Sirl raised his hand to the sky and willed his dread flame into shape. Roaring fire balled in his grasp and exploded forth, forming into a great flowing banner, which he slammed down into the cobbled road.

A fraction of the same empowering heat that blessed Elias began to fill Ventress and Toren behind him.

"I, Elias Sirl, command thee, surrender!"

The banner whipped and violently surged with an abundance of fire, which sent a harmless sweltering gust toward the mercenaries.

 

[Roul]

Toren snorted at Elias’ display. Always so flashy. It would get him in trouble one day.

The Bull Knight preferred more direct methods.

Raising a hand, the plate armored Dreadlord reached out with his mind. He applied his will upon the axles of the carriages, which groaned in protest as they bent out of shape, ruining the vehicles.

“They won’t be going far,” he smirked beneath his helm, sliding the bascinet visor shut.