MQ: Spring's First Crimson Blossoms

Out of Character:

Closed to those with prior permission

The first of the spring zephyrs spawned in the mountains of the Twilight Peaks that separated Raiaera from Alerar. She was a playful and sprightly sylph with inner warmth about her that had not been felt before that year. Eagerly she swept eastwards from the impassable snowbound slopes, completely ignoring in her childish excitement at being set free upon the world the multitudes of dark masses gathering in the valleys before her.

Faster, ever faster she built up her momentum as she raced down towards sea level, breaking free of the slate grey peaks out onto the open plains. The last of the winter snows withered at her passing; she dipped down to caress the blighted earth, urging and coaxing what scant life remained within to be brave and show itself to the outside world. Against the necromantic tendrils that sought to bind and corrupt her, she adopted the guise of an invincible valkyrie, sweeping them mercilessly before her path until they retreated to the fastness of a half-finished tower of black obsidian and she could pursue them no longer. She tarried at its base, concerned as to its purpose, but then destiny called to her and soon she left it behind.

The joyous bubble of a river than had broken free of its icy restraints reached her ears, and she changed direction slightly to chart its course eastwards across the heartlands of Raiaera, at the base of a great green forest that reached for as far as her eyes could see on the northern horizon. For long stretches upon the flat lands she could make out the scurrying figures of small bands of warriors, all converging towards a single rapidly growing mass. As she approached at speed, she was soon able to make out that the single mass was in fact a disciplined congregation of smaller formations, each awaiting in readiness to cross the river at what obviously was a fording point. An unseasonable chill tickled her spine at the sheer numbers of the army below her, and once again she sought to tarry, instinctive fear warring with childish curiosity.

One figure amongst all those on the ground beneath her dominated the rest, if not in size then in the sheer presence of its spirit. Clad in black rags darker than any night, its true form disguised behind layer upon layer of concealing spells and runes of warding, every last minion moved to its will like slaves to an emperor. Abruptly it seemed to notice her presence, glancing upwards with shapeless dark orbs to pierce her with its glance…

No…!

Primeval fears of shadow and flame, far more ancient than even the eldest of the memories she harboured, ravaged her fledgling mind with greater violence than any rampaging tempest. She screamed, a wordless, soundless scream, and fled towards the distant coast. Whatever warmth she had managed to retain in her arms was lost in that one moment of pure terror; by the time she arrived at Anebrilith, she was but a suggestion of her former self, a frosty whisper barely felt amongst the forlorn banners of the besieged battlements.

***

The Forgotten One was not the only presence to take note of the harbinger of spring. Barely five minutes march into the tree line on the northern bank of the River Escaldor, an Elf had her face upturned to the murky sky, her eyes closed as she sniffed daintily at the chill. She wore a sky blue cloak over a full suit of silver-plated mythril, an intricately wrought scabbard at her waist holding her weapon of choice – a single-edged curved blade with a flute-like hollow worked into its core. It was said that she could draw her sword, incinerate a necromancer by weaving its innate magics, and then replace it into its scabbard, all within the blink of an Elven eye. And that was saying nothing of what she could do with bow, spear, or even her bare hands.

Her name was Nalith Celiniel, and by High Elven standards she was a young warrior. Her rank was High Bladesinger and Lady General of Raiaera, and she was both the only known survivor of the pre-war High Bard Council, and the ranking officer amongst what remained of their armies.

“Arwenamin.” My lady, a voice addressed her from behind. She recognised it as belonging to one of the select cadre of veteran Bladesingers who had survived the opening battles of the war and now acted as her trusted lieutenants and dedicated bodyguards. “Our scouts report that the foe has crossed the river and begin to probe the forest.”

“Good,” she spat, her regal refined features writhed in an expression of extreme disgust. Her distaste for everything non-Elven was well known, but her hatred for the undead that had ravaged her homeland and murdered her comrades was nothing short of legendary. “Let them come… today, we are ready.”

Arrayed behind her, deployed in concealment amongst the dark boughs of the evergreen conifers and oaks, was a redoubtable force of Raiaera’s finest. Rangers checked the strings on their bows, whilst Bladesingers tuned their weapons and prepared their voices for the battle ahead. Wanderers stood aloof and wary, Bards gave their blessings, and Tel Aglarim regulars girded their loins and steadied their hearts.

To her fore, the thick foliage disguised one of nature’s cunning traps… a funnel of rock and sheer cliff that guided all potential attackers from the river into the narrow mouth of a treacherous defile. It went without saying that the steel-tipped bolts of the ballistae she had brought at great trouble from her winter camp at Eluceliniel were aimed squarely down its length, ready to skewer any who marched forth through it. She had other tricks up her vlince sleeves as well, of which one in particular…

“Where is the human?” she asked harshly, and there was no need to qualify the person in question with a name. Only a handful of the younger race had survived the plagues that had heralded Xem’zund’s advance, and she could count on three fingers those who had actually made a contribution to the war effort. Godhand Stryker was the first name on both of those lists, but that didn’t necessarily mean that she had to honour him by actually making use of it.

“Chafing, my lady,” her subordinate replied with a wry wrinkle of his nose. It was not easy dealing with the powerful warrior.

“Tell him that as soon as the fighting begins, he may do as he wishes.” At the very least, he might take out one or two of the undead commanders… with any luck, who knew? Whether he survived or not was of no concern to her, but she did count her blessings that, with a great deal of patience, she had managed to convince him to accompany them on this march. A pity he is not an Elf, she thought to herself. Else he would make a good hero.

It never quite struck her that he was already a legend.

The taint of necromancy hung heavy over the forest now, eating away at the sanctifying wards like some corrosive acid. Between the acrid stench of decay and the proximity of the unholy power, the back of Nalith’s head throbbed as if it were already under attack from the sheer force of Xem’zund’s will. She knew that the spellcasters in her ranks would be fighting hard to keep the effects of the nearing miasma from paralysing her troops.

In the distance a shadow moved, then two. Undead, for no Elf would be so careless.

Nalith bared her teeth in a feral snarl, lithely ducking down to join her bodyguard. Rank upon rank of battle-hardened faces tensed as she bade them wait, whispering again,

“Let them come. This time, we are ready.”

Sitting on a rock overlooking the city of Eluriand, a fully armored woman swung her legs around in boredom, letting the heels of her shoes dig into the stone with the force of a hammer. With her purple hair up in a ponytail and the myriad array of weapons along her sheath jingling as she swayed back and forth, she glared at the magical shield surrounding the inner city in the distance. Ever since the siege, the Death Lord Elmirah had been assigned guard duty over the outer city, while fellow Death Lord Haraldur Rekajaven took guard over the inner portions. There were other necromancers involved in the siege, but some of them- the Human General Dhenu Saba, the Barbarian Thendor Wolfsbane, and... her old friend Shin'dril- sacrificed their lives for the greater will of Xem’zund. The only necromancers not assigned to defending this strategic position were the Haidian Lomixsazon and his newly-assigned seconds; the Dark Elves Finwë Telperiën and Alassë Sîrfalas, who were known for their infiltration of the High Bard Council. The beautiful Alassë and the handsome Finwë were known as Xem'zund's top scouts and spies, procuring the finest information from across the lands.

Lomix had joined Xem'zund directly, having been promoted to one of the highest positions in his army after wiping out half a dozen Bladesingers by himself. Haraldur was now Elmirah's superior, taking over the position of General from the fallen Dhenu. Looking over the plains, Elmirah could not count a single elven skeleton. All of the fallen from this great battle were used to refuel Xem'zund's army, giving him such a massive force that he was able to take out half of Raiaera. It was the last battle where the Elves tried to fight head-on. Since then, the forces of Raiaera had determined in a different strategy: ambush and sanctification. Giving Xem'zund as few new bodies as possible, they determined that the only way to bring him down was to take out as many necromancers under his command as possible. While this was a good plan, there were only so many elves left alive in this country. It was almost time for the Elves to choose a battlefield.

Running on all fours, a thick-haired wolf-man raced across the plains and stopped just short of Elmirah's high rock.

"My Lady!" he sputtered, his voice hoarse and his breath short. "There's been reports of--"

"Silence!" Elmirah interrupted with a scornful expression. "I told you to call me Co-Commander!"

The wolf-man took a few steps back, his heart racing and his pupils dilating in fear. This was a woman who would not hesitate to kill him on a whim.

"Y-yes, Co-Commander! I won't let it happen again! My deepest apologies! I--"

"Enough already! What do you want?!"

"Ah, ah, well, ah, there's a strange creature that's been dismembering our patrols!"

"Finally...!" she raised up her arms, stretching and yawning. "I'll deal with it personally."

After hearing the details of the incident and dismissing the servant, Elmirah quickly hopped off the tall rock and broke into a sprint that made the wolf-man's trek look like a turtle's. She was called the fastest Death Lord in Xem'zund's army; no expanse of land was too wide for her to traverse. Running into a lightly forested area where most of the trees were felled and many buildings were destroyed or in decay, she spotted evidence of the offender. With several of her patrol zombies lying in pieces on the ground, she lightly wrapped her fingers around the hilt of a dagger strapped to the back of her belt. Putting her back against the corner of a long building with its roof caved in, she saw a long-haired blonde man had just ripped off the head of a zombie while smiling incessantly, tossing it over his shoulder. Moss had spread over the stone structures and any signs of road were covered in twisted growth.

"You know," he began, shrugging. "A simple 'Sure, we'll take you to Xem'zund' would suffice. There's really no need to be dramatic."

Suddenly, he noticed Elmirah's presence, only because the radiant glow that was unique to targets of Homunculi shined brightly through walls. He chuckled, if only because of the memory of the grand deception he played on her. She too became aware that her cover was blown, and turned the corner and faced Homun, her hand still on the dagger, but her grip was weakening.

"Familiar..." she muttered under her breath.

Homun sighed, "Sure I am. I'm Sergeant Homun Culus, am I not? Why won't these corpses listen to me?"

"You were with.. that Dark Elf... Driz-something." She was having a hard time remembering him, because of how brief their interaction had been.

"Drizaghar? Yes, I was with him and Shin'dril."

To hear Shin'dril's name from this creature gave Elmirah a twinge of disgust. Nonetheless, she straightened herself out, but kept her guard up. She didn't trust him, but for the moment he seemed like a fellow servant of The Dark Lord. Still, there was no reason to not simply kill him right now simply for annoying her. However, one of the zombies he dismembered had gotten back up and collected its severed head, with Homun grinning and twirling his fingers about. If he was a necromancer, then he was a fellow Death Lord. Luckily for him, the cardinal rule of Death Lords was no infighting. Anyone caught breaking this rule was immediately cursed to an eternity of pain and terror. It kept the various personalities of his armies in line, but many still cursed each other in private.

Homun tilted his head and floated his dark eyes back to Elmirah's beautiful visage, "Now then, maybe you could help me. Do you know where I could find Xem'zund?"

Godhand sat in a tent some distance behind the Tel Aglarim foot soldiers, the only man on their side of the battlefield not bothering to hide his presence. He poured himself a drink from a bottle of fine elven brandy and then capped it by sucking out the smoke from a cigar, allowing it to volcano out of his mouth and letting the fumes massage his soul. He'd been acting like a fucking diva for some time now. The truth was that despite whatever noble intentions the elves had told each other he had, despite whatever divine mission had supposedly been entrusted to him by an elder Raiaeran god, he didn't give a damn about the 'fair folk'. As far as he was concerned, the elves had made their bed and now it was time for them to lie in it. Forever, if need be. Of course, nobody knew how he really felt. The grand elven high bard council, now reduced to one abrasive young lady general, had gone through considerable trouble and expense to make sure he was present and active in this, their first fully planned out face-to-face encounter with the necromancer Xem'Zund.

Godhand had sworn that he'd never go back to this accursed land. That it could burn forever for all he cared. The reasons for this were many: to start with, some ancient divine will that disrupted all but the most basic technology meant that his mainstay revolvers were all but useless within the continent, his newfound fame meant he was totally incapable of moving across the country covertly, the nearly four to one ratio of zombies to people that seemed to balloon to one hundred to one while traveling between sparse villages that dotted the landscape being so far away from each other to prevent themselves from becoming a stronghold and thus attracting the wrath of The Forgotten One, the outrageous prices that beleaguered shop keepers placed on all but the most basic of supplies that made every single excursion into zombie territory a net loss, and the stench. Dear lord, the stench. Everywhere he went he smelled nothing but the rotting corpses of zombies; there were so many of them huddled together in so many places that even where there were none the wind still carried the scent of diseased flesh all over Raiaera.

It had all coalesced together into the perfect storm until just the thought of returning to that place made him dry heave. He was sure he'd never be able to scrub the stench from his body or the memories from his mind. But, as always, what he wanted mattered very little. Like some amorphous sentient jelly, the elves' homeland had cried out for Godhand the minute he'd broken away from it's foul tendrils. The people wanted, nay, DEMANDED a hero and the enigmatic mercenary being the closest thing they had, they'd reached out to drag him back to their blighted little pocket of Hell. They'd asked his return to be overseen by Nalith and she'd grudgingly sent out envoy after envoy to plead with him to return. What did he want? Money? No, there wasn't enough gold in the world to make him make that trip again. Enchanted Bladesinger weaponry? No, because when he was on a battlefield the last thing on his mind was blowing into a flute on his sword to summon a faerie. He was sure the next one had hurt Nalith to even consider. The hand of a high elven princess in marriage. He laughed before the envoy could even finish the sentence. Finally, she'd personally sent him a letter asking what it was he wanted. The lines on the paper were vicious and deep; he could see writing it alone must have been excruciating for the proud general. What was it he wanted? Power? Did he want to be the first human on the newly resurrected high bard council once Xem'Zund was banished?

He told his don about this in passing. No one had been more amused by the mercenary's sudden fame than his handler, and he expected news of the letter and it's contents would at least get a chuckle out of him. Instead, Giacomazzi's jovial face became deathly serious almost instantly. He explained to Godhand that in all the history of haughty Raiaera, a human on the highest elven authority in the land would be so completely unprecedented that even thinking about it would have been considered in itself treasonous in certain eras. Not only that, but having someone backing them in such a high position would mean that the mob could carry out all sorts of dubious activities on that continent with no fear of their assorted contraband being seized and destroyed by the elven rangers that policed the land.

No. Absolutely not, Godhand had said. Under no circumstances now and forever would he ever return to Raiaera.

He poured himself the last of the bottle of brandy, drank it all in one swig and finished off his cigar. He checked his equipment; the elves had provided him with some ridiculous getup, a stark white duplicate of his usual clothes. They claimed the cloth for his shirt and pants was fashioned from naturally occurring but extremely rare pale vlince, and the leather for his coat, boots and vest were made from the hide of a white dragon so ancient that it'd seen the continents break apart. It could not be torn and it would not stain. This would set him apart in the battlefield, they said. The rest of the soldiers could take heart in recognizing him always at the front lines. He thought he looked like a butterfly, but it was fantastic armor and it didn't restrict his mobility so he couldn't complain. He ran a hand down the side of the massive blade at his side, a fourteen foot damascus leaf sword that he'd brought all the way from Radasanth. He was ready. Whatever was out there, he could handle it.

He hoisted the sword unto his shoulder and stepped out of the tent.

“Leithio I philinn!”

The sudden shout shattered the serene silence with enough intensity to stun the zombies that had begun to filter unwittingly into the narrow defile. Those of them that were not lucky enough to be behind some form of cover found themselves almost instantaneously on the receiving end of a vicious hail of fletched wood, ranging from the slender shafts of High Elven marksmen to the six-foot bolts of the ballistae that accompanied the Raiaeran army. Branches shattered from the sheer force of the assault, impacts gouging great gashes in the loamy earth even after tearing through the resistance provided by multiple bodies of rotting flesh. The first wave of the undead advance was annihilated in mere moments.

The battle had been well and truly joined.

Corpses began to clog the crevasse, mindless waves of mutated bodies sent forth to determine the extent of the resistance repulsed time and again by Turlin-touched steel arrowheads. The Elves had enough ammunition to keep up their bombardment for days if necessary; Nalith was almost as shrewd a logistician as she was a commander, and Raiaera’s famed craftsmen had not been idle throughout the long winter. But in terms of tactical nous and sheer cunning, she knew better than to underestimate her foe. Too many had already died at his hands.

The ruthless efficiency of the one-sided slaughter was almost as horrifying as the grim hush that dominated the winter-bound forest. The sibilant whistle of the repeated synchronised volleys was the loudest sound upon the battlefield, neither Elven warcry nor undead moan resonating above the strangled tension. However, Nalith’s keen senses were focused on something beyond the acrid stench of undeath, something greater than the expanse of roiling cloud that observed the carnage from overhead.

It was the dark will of the Forgotten One himself that she concentrated upon, and it took all of her trained stern courage not to flinch when it finally pulsed like a dark heartbeat through the leylines beneath her feet. She felt, rather than saw, the mages about her shudder in reflexive pain, redoubling their efforts to protect her and the rest of her army from the arcane onslaught that threatened to run rampant amongst their ranks. Briefly she was reminded of a flimsy earthwork dam under siege by a raging flood; manfully, she wrestled the thought from her mind and refocused on the task at hand.

Outwardly, she remained calm and collected, a shining paragon of High Elven generalship amongst the closed ranks of her Bladesinger bodyguard.

“Ela sen!” she ordered at last, judging the moment to be right, and a hundred of her best warriors heard her cry and slipped into the shadows towards the flanks of the opposing horde. The lay of the land favoured their cause, and they had the advantage of both surprise and reach. Now all Nalith had to do was to dictate the confrontation to ensure that the initiative remained fully hers, and victory would be within sight.

For that, she required a figure to carve a bloody swathe through the heart of the foe. And though she would not have hesitated to take up the role herself were the circumstances any different, she currently had a better instrument at her disposal for the purpose.

The human, she smirked as she imagined the carnage he would cause amongst the necromantic lines.

The mercenary.

Homun stood overlooking the ruins of the once glorious Eluriand. Nary a day had gone by that he didn't remember what transpired here. The last of the winter winds served as a harsh reminder to the stasis of the once proud Elven capitol. Elmirah informed Homun that Tirinost was the new impromptu headquarters, but it too would fall soon enough. She hadn't actually received any sort of outside information for quite some time, so she had no idea where Xem'zund was or what he was planning.

"That's a shame," lamented Homun, once again lost as to his next step. He looked at Elmirah with a somewhat lustful gaze, his temptation to reap her abilities from assimilation still strong in his mind.

Elmirah was keen on wandering eyes, "What are you looking at, worm?" Rather than kill Homun as she very much wanted to, she walked off in frustration.

The Homunculus was definitely on the right track up until this point, however. As he approached Eluriand, the stale air of undeath was slowly being replaced by an unusual eastern breeze. He didn't know if it was simply something from the mountains that traveled all the way across the country, but something told him that the land itself was preparing for some sort of great sacrifice. His focus was uninterrupted by a shriek in Emlirah's direction. Homun made his way over to the source and discovered her dancing in joy in front of a figure completely obscured by a black hood and cloak.

The hooded figure spoke in a haggish monotone voice, "He requires half of the forces currently stationed here. Haraldur would be preferable--"

"No way!" Elmirah objected, "There is no way in hell he gets to go off to fight while I stay here! That is not happening!"

The messenger continued as if Elmirah's outburst never happened, "However, The Dark Lord made no specific order as to which one of you should come."

Elmirah jumped for joy, "That settles it! I'm out of here!"

The hooded figure acknowledged this reply and disappeared into a dark mist, prompting Elmirah to take off into Eluriand to inform Haraldur of her departure. Homun had never seen this kind of magic before. Xem'zund could summon creatures of darkness able to traverse wide expanses of land in mere hours, or even maybe minutes, to deliver messages? The Homunculus couldn't help but feel more excited over the possibilities.

In the city, there was a wrecked elven tavern where Haraldur sat drinking spirits. He was a Salvaran, so the winter months were like home. Now that it was coming to an end, he couldn't help but feel lethargic. He was a competent tactician and one of the coolest heads among The Death Lords. He had short white hair and green eyes. Wearing a black cloak above a leather vest, he sat in a chair and enjoyed his ale. The ceiling and two of the walls of the tavern were completely missing, so he had a nice view of the sky and the ruined city. It smelled of rotten wood. As soon as he spotted Elmirah he knew that it was something important. She liked to avoid him as much as possible, after all.

Stopping in front of him, she made herself very clear, "The Dark Lord wants half of the stationed forces. I'm taking the ogres."

Haraldur sipped his drink and placed the bottle on the table, "Very well." He did not question his master's orders, or her allocation of the departing army. He would be left with a much smaller army to defend this siege. He closed his eyes. "I now give you control of the mighty ogres. Treat them well."

Elmirah too closed her eyes for this, and when she opened them there was a new feeling in the back of her mind. A great rage seemed to surround her, and she felt the might of the ogres known to topple the greatest walls in the world. Without so much as a goodbye, she left to organize her forces, leaving Haraldur alone to ponder. The Death Lord looked over and spotted blossoms growing from in-between the cracks of the tavern, where the ground had not been desecrated.

"This is it," he declared. "Today will determine whether these blossoms live or die."

Godhand held up a hand to shade his eyes but it really wasn't necessary. It was his favorite kind of day; the sky was cloudy but not gray and the sunlight filtering through cast everything in a neutral light. It was the sort of day where he would have liked to stay at home or maybe visit his local coffee shop and talk politics with the hippie longhairs that didn't know enough about him to be scared. The type of day where even old guys like him got a break and some pretty young barista with dyed golden hair held up in a tight bun and laughing blue eyes might have given him a wink with his espresso. The type of day he just wanted to sit back and wait for the magic to happen.

Too bad he'd been hired to kill a whole bunch of people.

He watched impassively as each wave of zombies was quickly cut down by the arrows the elves rained upon them. The mercenary even recoiled and then smiled when the first detachment of ballistae were fired. The giant projectiles propelled the undead into the air like javelins hurled by...Well, by him. He would have been happy to just sit back and watch the whole damn day but he knew Nalith would run out of arrows long before The Forgotten One ran out of troops.

He could feel a thousand elven eyes burning a hole in the back of his head. They were waiting for him to make a move but he wasn't in charge there, and even if he was he had no idea where to begin. The enemy troops were tireless; the elven troops were not. The enemy troops were endless; the elven troops were not. The enemy troops had no fear; meanwhile each and every one of the elven troops was silently dreading the possibility that they might have to attack a zombie that had once been a loved one. The truth was that it actually was in the lady general's favor to keep firing arrows for as long as she could, to do anything to draw out the impersonal ranged combat. The second one of those fresh faced, newly-deputized rookie bladesingers had to cut down their own reanimated mother there was a heads or tails chance that he'd have a breakdown right there and be unable to continue.

He wasn't sure if the necromancer was clever enough or even knew enough about the defending forces to withhold the corpses of their loved ones until the archers were out of ammo; on the one hand it seemed almost inconceivable that one man could possess enough knowledge of his enemies to effectively coordinate a tactic like that. On the other hand, Xem'Zund was one of the few, perhaps the ONLY legitimate user of the Eternal Tap that remained human enough to desire conquest. He commanded enough magic that it was hard to tell where his abilities ended and where myth began.

It was as the mercenary ruminated on this that one of the aforementioned fresh faced recruits approached him.

"Sir, Lady Nalith has instructed me to tell you that you are now free to attack as you wish."

Godhand licked his teeth and gave a brief snort to clear his sinuses before turning to the bladesinger.

"Understood."

And with that, he rocketed towards the thickest point in the zombie bottle neck before leaping into the air several dozen feet and punctuating his landing by bringing the massive blade down on a column of undead. They burst apart almost on contact and he wasted no time by quickly pulling the blade from the ground and using his hips to pivot it around him and spinning on his heel, easily cutting himself a nice three hundred and sixty degree breathing room about ten or twelve feet in all directions.

The bladesingers still weren't done flanking their aggressors and given that the ballistae and archers were done firing for now, all of the undead troop's attention was turned inward unto the mercenary. But he limited himself to spinning his blade with both hands on the handle, causing a tornado of gore to whirl around him. Against normal enemies he'd never think of using such a boneheaded and easily evaded attack, but these were zombies. These things weren't smart enough to walk and swing a sword at the same time, let alone have the wherewithal to duck when they saw a huge damascus blade screaming towards them. Between that and the bottle neck caused by the terrain and the steady flow of new cannon fodder, he estimated that he'd cut down about a hundred zombies in the first thirty seconds alone.

But he knew this was just a warm-up. The real heavy hitters were just around the bend, and it was Xem'Zund's move.

The black-cloaked figure made no attempt whatsoever to hide from the raging free-for-all. It sat upon a palanquin at the very edge of the forest, right where arboreal shelter met alluvial floodplain. Behind it the River Escaldor froze in the icy grip of winter's chill; to its fore, it sensed, rather than saw or heard, the one-sided melee as Godhand Stryker hacked his merry way through the legions of undead carrion fodder that opposed him. It was no matter, the Forgotten One mused, not impressed. The lowest tier of his hordes were easy enough to piece back together again.

His very presence seemed to rob the vicinity of vigour, trees wilting low and bowed, and the earth growing ever more parched and weary. The skies overhead were colourless and dull, and not a single living thing - man, beast, or plant - moved within his line of sight for fear of attracting his attention. Even his attendant necromancers, as well as what few remained of his Death Lords that were both battle-capable and trustworthy enough to accompany him, remained discreetly far away. None wanted to face Xem'zund in this particular mood... for the first time since the previous autumn at the Battle of Eluriand, the Dread Liege himself was preparing to take the field.

Rank upon rank of grim necromantic construct awaited his command, a dour and fearless fighting force that did not complain at two straight days of hard march, at the lack of rations or the incessant chill. They ranged from the brainless masses of walking corpses that acted as a buffer against any approaching foe, to the elite skeletal warriors that formed the core of the army, to his personal bodyguards resurrected from the bodies of fallen heroes. And that was saying nothing of the more esoteric units at his disposal, from dire bloodthirsty wolves to stone-faced gargoyles, massive cadaverous giants to vicious flesh-rending scarabs. Factoring into the equation the vast array of arcane powers that Xem'zund and his lieutenants boasted in their arsenal, it was not difficult to see how the undead forces had swept across more than half of the High Elven nation in little more than a season.

The winter had bought the Raiaerans time to regroup, but the Forgotten One could sense upon the delicate whisper of wind the fragility of his foe's strength. Should they be shattered here, it would not be long before the rest of the nation fell. The Thaynes would be pleased.

"My Lord."

The tentative approach was made by the Death Lord in command of the vanguard, daring to interrupt his master's thoughts. No doubt the black-armoured figure was concerned about the mounting losses he was incurring in the face of the savage Elven onslaught, spearheaded by the hulking brute of a human who had decimated so many of his fellow commanders.

Your orders remain unchanged, Xem'zund returned, his powerful voice resonating from somewhere in the depths of his robes. Pitiless hollow orbs turned to stare at the hapless necromancer from where living eyes had once been, and the Forgotten One allowed just a hint of sorcery to crackle through the air between them to remind his underling of his place. The Death Lord nodded once in helpless acquiescence, before allowing himself to be dismissed to the front - quite literally, in fact, teleported away in a burst of dark power.

Soon Godhand will find the going not so easy, the Dread Liege mused, allowing the battle to play itself out like a game of chess in his mind. The white knight was carving its way through the black pawns with little mercy, but the dark mastermind's focus was squarely on the white queen. The Elves who move to support him will fight with skill and endeavour, but they will not be able to keep up. Godhand will butcher his way through pawn and knight, rook and bishop, until he reaches me... and by then he will be alone and his allies upon the brink of decimation. Then I will teach, first him, then Nalith, the meaning of despair... and the Elves will flee once again, whatever will for resistance they have mustered utterly crushed.

The chessmaster allowed himself a smile, embracing the forthcoming confrontation with eager anticipation from deep within the recesses of his robes.

And there is no reason why I should play by the rules... the Forgotten One laughed silently, remembering the assortment of pieces and ploys he held in reserve. Let the petty Elves concentrate upon the board before them. He would remind Nalith that there were more ways to win a battle than by pure tactical finesse.

Languidly luxuriating in the carnage unfolding to his fore, Xem'zund watched... and waited.

Homun Culus now found himself on the back of an undead horse. Beneath the saddle part of its ribcage could be seen, and various portions of flesh were missing. Several meters to his right he could see Elmirah on a similar creature, which was trotting along at a brisk pace. The speed at which they were moving at concerned him. In the distance, the very clouds seemed to resonate to the thundering battle that was taking place. They were still very far from the action, but at this rate it would take far too long to reach the fight. He took care not to be too obvious about his mental stalking of his fellow Death Lord, but the idea of such a fast woman traveling at such a slow pace was irritating him. It wasn't that she was too slow or would get too tired or anything, but that she had to maintain the pace of the entire army. If she went too far ahead, she would lose control of her minions, which seemed to have a large portion of former Eluriand elven defenders. If they ever got close to the elven armies, even the most hardened bladesingers would recoil in horror over having to fight their former brethren.

Homun had no such limitations, and yet here he was going as slow as they did. Not only that, but he heard that all of the elven forces were between them and Xem'zund, which added yet another obstacle to his plan. He wasn't at all interested in wasting his strength on lesser prey. What could he do, though? Going too far ahead on his own would put him at the mercy of the elven army, who would never be fooled by him as long as those bladesingers were there.

There was one option, but it carried a high risk. Assimilating the speed of the fastest Death Lord, he could reach Xem'zund in no time on his own. However, Elmirah refused to be anywhere near him, much less touch him. Maybe he could provoke her into hitting him? She seemed to have quite a temper, after all. It wouldn't take much prodding before... oh right, the cardinal rule of infighting. Well, he wasn't really a Death Lord. In this case, honesty was his best course of action.

"You know..." Homun smiled insidiously. "Shin'dril didn't put up a fight at all." Elmirah's face was immediately centered on the creature. What did he just say? He continued, "When I killed him and took over his body, that is. For a Death Lord, he was really weak. I guess his only use was that of a necromancer."

Elmirah's horse stopped, and so did the entire army. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

"Do you have a death wish, worm?!" she yelled. "I don't have time for your games."

As a resolute follower of Xem'zund, who ordered her to come to the battle immediately, it would be hard to budge her into doing anything else.

"You think I'm lying?" Homun wondered, rubbing his chin. "Then I suppose some proof is in order."

Pressing his hand to his face, his body contorted and his clothes changed to that of a cloak and hood over his head. Pulling the hood back, Shin'dril's aged face was visible.

Elmirah was not impressed, yet it still made her more angry, "You think I've never seen an illusion before?! This is your last warning: Leave here before I rip off your limbs one by one!"

"I'm not done yet," said Homun in Shin'dril's old, stoic voice. "Laying siege to Eluriand was fun, wasn't it? I never knew how exhilarating it was to command legions of dolls to fight for you. And don't worry..."

And for the coup de grace, Homun looked into Elmirah's eyes and said, "I can't die yet. Not when I'm so close to immortality."

The army's movement stopped completely, down to every last zombie. It was as if Elmirah's control over them was gone. Before Homun could say anything else, he felt a powerful blow to his head and was sent flying off the horse and into the ground. Returning to his original form, he rolled over to his back and lifted up his hands in excitement, expecting his transformation to take place any moment now, but nothing happened. She just kicked him, did she not? Why was he not assimilating her. Wait... Homun did recall that last hit. He was sitting there, and he saw Elmirah almost flying towards him, and the kick came... and missed by nearly a foot. Then he felt an enormous forceful blow to his face that nearly cracked his jaw. Her kicks are so fast that she doesn't even need to hit her targets directly?

This was bad.

He felt another blow to his hips, his barely able to take the force of the attack, and within moments he was barraged by Elmirah's fury, his body doubling back in pain and broken bones. Before him was no longer a creature of this world. It was a force of pure fury, unbridled rage that managed to defy the control that even Xem'zund held over it. It was starting to look like Homun would be ripped apart without ever being touched until she took her hand, pressed into through Homun's chest and into his body, grabbed his heart, and ripped it out. Homun stumbled backwards, his eyes shaking and blood pouring out of his chest and mouth, his legs trembling and barely able to keep him up.

"YOU ARE FINISHED!" she yelled, her eyes turning red and demonic as she squeezed the bloody heart between her fingers. Yet, it would not stop beating.

Homun's exasperated expression turned to one of dark joy. Blood stopped flowing out of his chest and a thin layer of skin covered the wound. He looked at Elmirah with a crazed expression, his newfound power flowing through his body. In her carelessness and lust for blood, she had attempted to kill him, but a Homunculus' life was not hers to take. Elmirah was surprised, but still furious. She dropped the heart and began anew to tear Homun apart, but this time he could fight back. He dodged the attacks and returned with a few of his own, but they did not connect. He was still slower than her.

"How?" he wondered. "I assimilated you! Your abilities should be my own!"

"Fool!" she grit her teeth. "I should've known you were one of those creatures! All true Death Lords are blessed by The Dark Lord himself! His blessing makes us greater, powerful, and I have one of the most powerful blessings of all! Even if you did steal my powers, you will never have his blessing!"

Homun's new memory had finally been assimilated and so he knew this to be true, but he still had a great deal of speed. Holding his right arm out, he ran forward and stretched it out towards her. Pulling out one of the knives from her waist straps, she ducked into the arm and cut it in half. The arm however, still had a moment of life and leaped at her from behind. She noticed this however, and turned around to blow it into cinders with a fireball. Behind her, Homun was still running, and she was preparing to do the same to him, but his plan here was not to fight. It was to run.

While he was running, the flesh around his legs coiled into a spring-like shape, and he could see that he was running towards Xem'zund's location. He could already coil his legs and release them, condensing his weight and reshaping his body so that he would fly into the air and cross great distances, but with Elmirah's memory he knew exactly where The Dark Lord was, and with her speed he could get a running start and a powerful launch. As she was about to blow him away with a powerful fireball, he erupted from the ground, flying into the air at speeds that nearly made his skin peel off. Elmirah screamed and ordered the entire army to throw everything they had at Homun, but he was out of sight in seconds. She swore vengeance upon the creature even if it was the last thing she did.

Flying through the air, Homun had angled himself perfectly and used Xem'zund's dark influence upon the lands to guide him. This was his chance to gain the greatest power of all. He would not squander it.

He'd done a pretty good job of stifling the advance of the undead. The canyon was only about a hundred feet across from wall to wall so when he really hustled he could manage to block off almost half of it by himself. He couldn't imagine what was going through The Dark One's mind when he'd decided to clash with the elves here, in this place. The canyon hemming the zombies in resulted in their numbers meaning nothing to the elves who had dug in and were prepared for a long and drawn out battle. He supposed exhaustion and lack of supplies were their only real enemy; the bladesingers could damn near handle the small trickle of undead on their own, but neither they nor Godhand's energy was limitless. That's when it dawned on the mercenary: the necromancer wasn't looking for outright military victory. He was just going to keep pushing footsoldiers down the elven defender's throats until they were too tired and hungry to defend themselves. It wasn't like he didn't have the numbers to achieve such a goal.

It was as he came to grips with this that it all got deathly quiet. Suddenly, the hordes of the undead parted like a sea of rotten flesh and the stark white of pristine, reanimated skeletons came into view. They were much, much faster than their flesh-bound cousins. But they still couldn't handle a direct blow from Godhand's ridiculous weapon; it was so large that it could function as a cudgel as well as a sword. He smiled and dug in, waiting for the skeletons to get within range before attempting to knock them all down like ivory bowling pins with one massive blow from his blade.

But he couldn't.

Some force was keeping his leaf sword firmly rooted to the ground, and no amount of tugging was loosing it. The mercenary turned around to see no less than a dozen zombies clinging to the blade of his weapon, their weight keeping the weapon down even as they pulled at it with all the strength their rotting muscles could muster. Godhand turned away from the advancing skeletons to give it a few more desperate tugs, but when he suddenly felt one of the bone constructs ready to drive a sword into his unprotected back, he spun on his heel blindly and fired a chin-high kick into the air. He got lucky; his instinct had done him good and he managed to catch one of the creatures right in the head, it's skull instantly disintegrating after the mercenary's blind strike.

He saw the rest of the constructs quickly approaching him, and so digging his heels into the ground and wrapping both hands around the handle of his weapon, he grunted and reared back, lifting the sword zombies and all. Turning on his heel, he gave a final swing and the skeletons collapsed into dust as the blade collided with them each and shattered any bone they came into contact with.

On the back end of the swing however, he was tired. He tried popping his hips to keep the blade aloft but it was no good; he let the top half of the blade sink into the ground as he tried to regain his breath.

But suddenly from both sides of the canyon cliffs some sort of screaming hell-creatures descended, all noise and fury. They looked humanoid but were covered in fur and had fangs; they weren't large enough to be lycanthropes but Godhand couldn't imagine what else they could possibly be. They looked like some sort of hybrid between hyena and man. More than that, they were even faster and more agile than the skeletons. Before he could pull the massive leaf sword out of the ground they were already upon him, snarling and snapping at his jugular. Godhand held both arms up in the air to protect his face and could feel the force of their jaws as they snapped at his forearms and shoulders. Their teeth weren't sharp enough to pierce the dragon hide of his suit but the mercenary knew it was only a matter of time before they found someplace uncovered.

"JESUS CHRIST, WHAT ARE THESE GODDAMN ANIMALS!?"

“The skies! The skies darken!”

The first sign that the Elves had of Xem’zund’s next ploy was when what little light they fought by turned to darkness. The low-lying clouds swarmed with a thousand beating shadows: gargoyles, harpies, fellbats, and other assorted wing horrors that obscured the heavens from view. A few intrepid Death Lords rode through the night upon personal steeds, and it was their presence that was felt next as they began to rain spells down through the canopy of naked branches upon the formations of Elves below. The Raiaeran Bards were quick to shift their focus to protecting their comrades from above, but still a few stray spells slipped through their wards and wrought havoc amongst their targets.

“Archers!” Nalith ordered, her stentorian voice cutting through the panic and quelling it quicker than water dowsed fire. Half-a-thousand disciplined bows heeded the call, and a moment later an equal number of arrows whistled as a wave of steel-tipped cyper into the heavens. Some fell short or over-shot their targets, or ricocheted harmlessly from rock-sturdy hide. Others lodged deeply into vulnerable eyes and wing joints, or pierced soft skin with brutal finality, sending their victims tumbling into the tree-tops.

“Eagles!” was the Bladesinger General’s next cry, and two dozen noble birds responded with powerful beats of their great wings, taking to the skies in counterattack. Though their numbers were few, they were fierce warriors all, and they each knew well the role they had to play… to ward off the aerial assault for long enough that their Elven allies could decide victory on the ground. Their onslaught shook the skies as the two tides met in violent tumult, and not a few of the airborne necromancers were the first to join their arrow-struck minions in plummeting to the ground.

“M’lady!” a young runner hailed, his tunic torn and covered in mud and sweat. He had to wait for his gasped breaths to ease before he could speak the rest of his message, and all the while Nalith’s cold blue eyes bore into his youthful face like frosty mythril daggers.

“Apolo…”

“Save your breath,” she cut him off tersely, her curt tone brought on by the knowledge that the battle hung in the balance before her eyes. The soldiers who had moved up in support of the human berserker were now encountering stiff resistance from more powerful foes than the puppet fodder that clogged the defile. Though she had succeeded in engaging the backbone of Xem’zund’s army without wearing her warriors down in numbers, she knew that much still had to be done if Elven skill and valour were to carry the day. The air shuddered under the cries of war and the twang of heavy arrows; each shot from her ballistae carved great swathes in the tightly packed undead ranks, but there was no respite in the relentless pressure upon the Elven lines. Soon she knew that she would have to redirect her fire upon the more dangerous of foes in Xem’zund’s horde – the skeletal giants that could crush entire regiments beneath their fists, and the brutal beasts that were the Dread Liege’s shock troops – in order to divert them from her troops. That would then leave them open to the crush of dead bodies that would push them back step by bloody step. The High Elven general grit her teeth in grim concern, the burden of her command – and the wavering hopes of the entire realm – a heavy weight upon her shoulders.

Something… something is missing. Xem’zund was no mere adversary, but the most cunning foe ever to plague Raiaera. He would not be content with merely grinding away from the fore… not when he had the opportunity to crush the entirety of his foes in a single blow.

She could only hope that her contingency plans could withstand the pressure.

“M’lady, the human Godhand Stryker is cut off and besiege on all sides. We cannot reach him any longer, not without sacrificing the advantage of our lines. The Rangers on our flanks report that they cannot hold for much longer and will fall back before they are overrun…” The runner was aware that Nalith was only paying him partial attention while the rest of her mind concentrated on the greater strategic picture, and that his babbled message was only barely registering within her head. Still he pressed on, wanting to be relieved from her presence as soon as possible. “Commander Sarimel requests that…”

“Tell him that he must hold the line as long as he can, and only retreat to his initial positions after he has beaten back two enemy waves.” Nalith’s voice was firm and brooked no argument, decimating the younger Elf’s response even before it had formed in his eyes. The sanctity of the forest would prevent Xem’zund from immediately reinforcing his lines with the newly dead, and she still had a number of traps in store should the Necromancer choose to press home his advantage. “We will make a battle of this yet. The human, however, must survive on his own if he wishes to breathe free Raiaeran air once again.”

“M’lady!” the runner began in belated protest, but Nalith simply waved him away with a dismissive flick of her hand. Long years of training and obedience gave him the strength to swallow his stifled objections, before he turned smartly on his heels and set off at another brisk run towards the frontlines.

Nalith had already forgotten all about him by the time he’d disappeared into the distance, staring fixedly into the melee with her lips pursed in concern. The silvery bark of the streamside tree trunks were stained with splatters of Elven blood, each brave life taking down a dozen of the horrors it faced before succumbing in defence of the homeland. Despite the overwhelming difference in numbers and momentum, they still stood a fighting chance… and it was this very hope, after long months of bleak desolation, that frightened her so. The dead branches overhead were silent witnesses to the merciless battles in the skies and on the ground, and to the turmoil in Nalith’s mind as she desperately wondered…

What am I missing?

“What devious plan does Xem’zund have in store for us now?”

Homun spread his arms like a bird, gliding through the skin as his thin frame allowed. Frost had become to form on his body, and his sight began to blur. He was far above the clouds, looking down upon the pitiful world and all its creatures. The clouds flashed below him as it seems he flew over the elven encampment, their radiant aura illuminating and coloring the clouds with their might. However, it didn't take him long until he reached a strange part of the sky: one entirely filled by Xem'zund's dark creatures. They didn't seem to mind him at first, perhaps because he was channeling the scent of Death Lord Elmirah.

He could feel that he was getting close to the one he sought. A wash of adrenaline passed over him, his excitement reaching his peak. Is this what it was like to feel true power? Omniscience never seemed closer to his grasp than now. As he passed by the flying beasts of terror, he noticed that they rapidly descended downwards, as if hailing a new attack from the sky upon the elven forces.

There were some slower ones as well. Large, bulbous bat-like creatures that seemed to have only one purpose: To explode in a poisonous bile and cover the sanctified elven encampment in plague. Even if the lands were sanctified, the elves themselves were not.

Once he decided he was directly above The Dark Lord, Homun flattened his body some more and compressed his weight, floating in the air like a feather for a few moments. He only had one chance to get this right. Interestingly, there was a spell in Elmirah's arsenal that was quite fortuitous. She had the ability to create artificial beams of sunlight. Homun thought about all the things he had done up until this point; his body had been a conduit for all sorts of transformations... but what of magic itself? Was his very being so magically malleable that he could take the form of spells? There was only one way to find out.

His body reverted to its normal stature, weight, and shape, and he started falling. His assimilation with Elmirah was also drawing to a close as well. As he fell head-first, he pressed his palms into his shoulders and concentrated. To become light itself. To pass through the sky with its clouds, its wind, its very air. He would become light. He would become the sun!

His body disappeared, and the clouds parted slightly above The Dark Lord to let a ray of sunlight through, almost indiscernible from any normal light. Xem'zund stood at the edge of the forest, the ground beneath him churning like quicksand yet not sucking him in. There was something going on below the very dirt, something that the elven forces could not expect.

As soon as Elmirah attacks, I shall reach deep below the sanctified lands, down to the very pillars of Althanas, and pull it right out from under them, he declared. Indeed, such a shift would cause immediate earthquakes that would rock the entire elven army. After all, Xem'zund commanded the very elements themselves. Anything that the ground touched was his plaything. In addition to the new threat from the sky, and the coming through of the deadly Elmirah from the rear, this would be the one-two punch that would obliterate the elves in the most gruesome manner.

However, things were not going to go exactly as planned. Homun's melding with sunlight diffused right as he was several feet above Xem'zund, since his assimilation with Elmirah abruptly ended. His speed was preserved, and while Xem'zund was a fast sorcerer who could be in many places at once, he was not faster than the speed of light. So, he deflected The Homunculus above him with his hand, and the force of the action created an enormous explosion of soil and trees. Several plumes of dust were kicked up, and Xem'zund found himself standing on a small piece of untouched ground amid a crater of rock and broken trees. While slightly curious, The Dark Lord kept his composure.

The sun would go black before I could be felled by mere force!

Something wasn't right. The dust started clearing, the dirt pooling between the cracks in the ground. For the first time in years, The Dark Lord felt a chill run down his spine. The area was now clear, and at the edge of the crater a man was... stretching. He had short brown hair, blue eyes, and he was wearing a simple tunic and cotton pants. There was a sheath wrapped around his side.

"Is that so?" said a familiar voice. "Explains why it's so dark out."

Xem'zund's figure was still. His eyes were locked his place and his mind was reeling from the contradiction. This man was dead! His own body was proof of that. There was no way, through necromancy or any sort of spiritual revival, could this possibly occur. Yet, there he was. The one who nearly killed him for good.

Devon von Sabriel, The Slayer of Stars.

With each second that passed it seemed like another of the filthy creatures jumped unto the growing pile on Godhand. The stench of sweat and rot was nearly choking as long strands of drool seemed to descend all around him from the snapping jaws of the lycanthropes. Even though he'd been shielding himself adequately one or two stray fangs had still managed to carve bloody grooves into his face. He knew not to wait for back-up; when you were getting beat down by a horde of enemies, betting everything on reinforcements is usually what got you killed. Instead he hurled his body into the nearest wall of the canyon, the jaws of the monsters on his left slackening and finally detaching as the mercenary battered them against the stone. He repeated the process on his other side until the only hyena-beast left was stubbornly clinging to his right forearm. Godhand swung it wildly, it's wiry body bouncing off the stone and ground, but it still wouldn't let go no matter how much punishment it was put through. Desperate and out of patience, the swordsman finally pulled the creature toward him and bit it in it's face.

Immediately the beast whimpered and detached from his arm, running back up the canyon walls and disappearing over the top. He scowled and spit, trying to get the taste of rotten blood out of his mouth. Godhand nearly didn't see the massive column of bone until it was too late. He dove out of the way and an enormous plume of debris filled the air, and when it cleared...Well, he didn't know how he possibly could have missed him. A hulking giant composed of bone; Godhand was tempted to assume it was the skeleton of a titan but a closer look at it showed that he was actually composed of many smaller bones fused together. It's origin was clear; Xem'Zund had sacrificed countless of his lesser minions to construct a massive siege golem. It was so large that if it raised it's arms it probably could have managed to climb out of the canyon. It was almost anatomically correct; several of the ribs were missing and the skull seemed only half done, but overall the mercenary knew that the necromancer had gone through the trouble to make sure none of the omitted features compromised it's structural integrity.

The massive blade it carried was also hewn from bone, albeit sharpened so that it was nearly an edged club. There was really no reason for that, however. Sharp or not, a single hit from such a ridiculously large weapon would destroy him or anybody else instantly. The beast reared back and delivered another massive cleave with his blade, but the mercenary threw himself to the side and avoided it again. He burst out of his position and right up to the creature's leg, drawing his Muramasa and delivering slash after slash as he ran up the vertical incline of bone. The adamantine blade easily sliced through the ossein, but the creature was so large and the columns of bone composing it so thick that the entire length of the blade from hilt to tip still didn't manage to completely bisect any part of it. With none of it's structural integrity compromised and obviously incapable of feeling pain, the abomination threw Godhand off and delivered a wide swipe with it's bone blade that nearly reached from one side of the canyon to the other.

Godhand ducked but the wave of air that attack released alone nearly sent him flying. He didn't know what to do; he could plug away like a lumberjack with his Muramasa but the amount of time it'd take to cut the abomination down was so long it'd be totally unacceptable with all the chaos going on and without him working on stemming the tide of flesh pouring in from the canyon, the advance force of bladesingers watching his rear would be overwhelmed in no time. Just as everything seemed hopeless though, a solitary ray of sunlight poured in through the near wall of flesh blocking the sky. The glint it caused caught his eye as it was reflected off his damascus leaf sword, a tremendous blade eminently suited to face such a monster. Godhand smiled and before the giant could attack again, he wrapped his hands around the handle, popped his hips and hurled the weapon into the air. It spun wildly and caused a small gale before sinking into the colossus' spine and nearly cleaving through. It's integrity compromised, it's back slowly but surely splintered and the top half of it's body fell back and crushed an advancing wave of zombies.

No more games. It was time to cut through to the heart.

“Now!”

Nalith knew not what had happened in the centre of the undead horde. She knew not why their collective will seemed to suddenly waver, or why the Elven spirits seemed to soar as one. All she knew – and it was more of an instinctive sensing than a literal comprehending – was that there would be no better time than to play the biggest card she had left in her deck. Intuition born of years of tactical experience and honed to a fine point by the criticality of the current battlefield whispered in her mind, giving her the strength to commit herself and those under her command to the path of no return.

The High Elven Bards heeded her call and immediately threw their weight into the battle, shifting their focus from defending their comrades to challenging Xem’zund’s necromancers for arcane supremacy over the field. Their numbers were few but their skills, as survivors of the fierce skirmishes that had engulfed the realm the previous autumn, were consummate. Although they could not hope to dent the ranks of the undead with even the most powerful of offensive spells they could bring to bear, Nalith had prepared for this particular eventuality in the only way she could.

In ages long past, when the Elves of Raiaera had first come up against the might of the Forgotten Ones, they had only barely defeated their demigod-like foes after long centuries of struggle. The last of the confrontations had been the infamous Leaguer of Caradin, so called after the location of the fortress in Salvar in which the battle had occurred; the climactic conflict had concluded when the High Bard of the time had sacrificed his life and spirit to a mighty ritual to bind the Forgotten Ones. The spell itself could never be replicated… but the essentials of its workings could.

Tendrils of wispily translucent energy reached out at the legs of the undead from the muddy earth, latching on to lifeless limbs and leeching the necromantic energy that bound them to the material plane. Nalith smiled in grim satisfaction as her warriors seized the opportunity without hesitation, instantly sweeping to the counteroffensive amongst the immobilised zombies and wights.

But that was only half of the spell… the part that substituted Xem’zund’s own powerful magical reserves in lieu of the raw mana of the Eternal Tap that had saved the Elves at the Leaguer.

At the base of the gorge not so far from where Nalith stood, a single Wanderer sat with his legs intricately folded beneath him, grim features contorted in pain as he struggled to control the power flowing to his command. Five circular rings of elaborate runes surrounded him on all sides, glowing in bright blue resonance with the swell of magic that infused them. As she watched, the light seeped into the spellcaster at its core, permeating him with a holy aura that dazzled all that set eyes upon him.

Then, as if an unseen trigger had been depressed, he released the power in the direction of the undead army. The length of the gorge was instantaneously transformed into the barrel of a makeshift Alerian firearm, drowned in a destructive deluge of purifying energy. The piles of arrow-riddled corpses that blocked the entrance disintegrated in a fraction of a second, fodder to the sanctifying flame.

The light exploded out onto the field of battle like a flood, bowling over even the heaviest-armoured of Elves by sheer explosive force alone. Those undead that were caught in its path were far less lucky; some were incinerated outright by the searing fire, while others who had not been caught in the direct path of the holy spell were left with horribly debilitating wounds and were quickly dispatched by the Elves who once again leapt to take advantage of the weakness of their foes. The torso of a skeletal giant came crashing to the ground, burying a number of its lesser comrades in a cloud of splattering mud, nothing left of its lower body to support it. Xem’zund’s necromancers reeled in shock, and their minions reflected their disorganised command structure in a myriad of confused reactions.

The spell petered out long before reaching the river, its effects exhausted by the vastness of the undead horde. But it had succeeded in carving a great swathe in the ranks of necromantic minions, vastly relieving the pressure on the Elven forces.

And throughout it all, there was no intervention from the Forgotten One himself, whether to nullify the effects of the spell or to re-establish order amongst his ranks. Nalith smiled to herself in triumph; she knew not what exactly had happened, but she had succeeded. The undead were on the back foot now, and their numbers had been reduced sufficiently that the superior skill and morale of the Elves could yet carry the day.

Turning away from the withered husk of a corpse that was all that was left of the Wanderer who had sacrificed himself for the greater good of her people, she drew her sword and proclaimed to the bleak wintry skies…

“Forward, guardians of Raiaera! Today we drive the wretched undead invaders from our lands!”

A thousand Elves heeded her battlecry and followed her into the conflict, her bright silver armour a guiding beacon of hope and victory amongst the barren mud. The frosty air was pierced by the screeches of eagles and the hum of arrows as the defenders took the fight to their necromantic foes.

And Godhand Stryker suddenly found his path to glory clear.

His mind was a blur, his memories fuzzy, and his will was unclear. Born into a myriad of confusion, Devon could only rely on his instincts as he pulled out his legendary longsword from his sheath, feeling the handle with some familiarity. The blade was shining, and in its reflection he saw himself.

Xem'zund was not amused, Starslayer or not, I have no time for the likes of you. The Great Necromancer focused on the darkness within him and the ground beneath him started to crack.

With only a moment to react, Devon jumped out of the way of an emerging tree branch that ripped forth from the ground, climbing several meters into the sky and sprouting smaller branches to form a dead-looking tree. The sudden rush made The Starslayer remember his battle with Xem'zund, and so he ran around the tree and attempted to retaliate with a swift strike to The Dark Lord's heart. However, Xem'zund anticipated the reaction and formed a wall of dead oak between them, but Devon cut through them with such speed and precision that for the first time since their last fight, he had to dodge a direct attack. Devon struck at thin air, and Xem'zund was on top of a great tree trunk that burst from the earth sideways, growing northward and carrying The Dark Lord off into safety in the process.

... Xem'zund was lost in thought. Even though The Great Necromancer's reflexes were augmented beyond compare, the warrior was still fast enough to throw in a subsequent attack that barely scratched him, cutting through his mask which fell to the ground in two pieces. Fighting a specter from his past and controlling his vast army was making it impossible to keep up his illusion. As the mask fell, Devon caught a glimpse of what was under it.

"You're... me?" Devon wondered, his shock evident in his expression.

He might as well have been looking into the mirror, for Devon and Xem'zund shared the same face. The Dark Lord's features were slightly more wrinkled, carrying an angry scowl on his face that would never have been seen on Devon, and his eyes a deep glowing red. Yet, the rest of the features were a match.

"I remember now. We were fighting, and I killed you, but..." Devon looked into the sky. There was something missing. The flapping of wings, the gentle nuzzle of her beak... Sabriel. He could not feel his link with his bird, who he was linked to for life. He smiled. "That's how it is, I'm dead. Sabriel, how I wish I could see you one last time."

Xem'zund remained eerily silent, but he had no time to deal with Devon. Unfortunately, none of his servants were around to take his place. His dark aura spread throughout the lands, affecting everything it touched, but he could also concentrate it; focus it on one area; one target. He put his hands out in front of him and the very air around him become darker.

Devon spun his sword around once and grasped it firmly with both hands, "I am but a memory, but even that won't keep me from finishing the job. Xem'zund! For all the people you've hurt, you are beyond forgiveness!"

Suddenly, Devon was engulfed in a black wind that looked like it devoured his entire body. The gust raged through the forest behind him, turning vibrant trees into decaying husks and spreading a blight throughout the lands. As the wind passed, Devon was left standing unscathed. Like before, he was immune to Xem'zund's darkness.

At this point, Xem'zund risked losing some control over his forces to fight Devon, but there was no other way. He dropped some of his control and put more pressure on his necromancers to maintain order and conjured up a deadly arsenal of spells.

It suddenly dawned on Devon how Xem'zund survived their last encounter, "So, you took my body to avoid death. I'm living on borrowed time, so you have nothing to take. If I kill you here and now, there is no coming back. En guard!"

Xem'zund reached for his own sheath, and pulled out a sword whose blade was entirely jet black. Devon charged forward and their blades met, creating a fierce shockwave that rippled through the air, causing the very ground beneath them to tremble. Devon immediately backed off, knowing that staying in one place too long would make him vulnerable. Then again, the same was true for Xem'zund. As The Starslayer backed off, he started rising off the ground on top of a large tree trunk that bent backwards and spawned many lesser trees in its path.

Devon jumped on top of one of the moving trees and raced across it, slashing all of the twigs and branches that attempted to piece him along the way. He jumped into the air and came down hard upon Xem'zund, who sent out spikes from the trunk he was in to pierce Devon in mid-air. The Starslayer spun around to dodge the attack and landed his blade on Xem'zund's own, pushing downwards as The Dark Lord sunk into his dead tree transport. They were both far above the ground now, and the forestry continued growing around them like vines, creating a tapestry of woodwork. Xem'zund pushed Devon back and struck the tree beneath him with his sword, channeling his dark power into it.

Devon looked around as he jumped from branch to branch, and it was becoming apparent that this entire network of trees was a huge tomb just for him. He spotted a bunch of trees that seemed to form a platform and jumped on it, and as he did several ghouls burst form the wood all around him, surrounding him and forcing him to chop them to pieces. As he did however, they simply used the surrounding wood to regenerate themselves. Not only that, but the sky and all the openings in the maze were being closed up. It seems that this time, he was not being underestimated. Xem'zund was giving it all he had to seal Devon up and suffocate him, or possibly crush him. The Great Necromancer was trying to avoid a direct fight.

Before he knew it, Devon was trapped behind several walls of dead wood and stone, surrounded by malformed, ghoulish monsters and nowhere near Xem'zund. His last sources of light were being sealed up from above. The Dark Lord was, after all, an army all by himself. Unlike the other Forgotten Ones, he relied on his necromancy the most, preferring to fight from a distance whenever possible. The Starslayer knew that he had to put himself at risk in order to do any damage. However, unlike before, he knew that he was already dead, so risking his life to take Xem'zund's was perfectly acceptable for him. He decided to put it all into this one shot.

Holding his sword out and spinning around, he decapitated most of the ghouls in his immediate area, then he jumped and slashed at one of the deadwood walls, causing them to not only split asunder, but tear up entirely and fall to pieces. He continued cutting through the woodwork, until finally he came into Xem'zund's little psuedochamber. The Dark Lord was surrounded by spikes pointing at Devon, ready to pierce through him if he attempted anything.

"Know this: If I should fall, there will be another to take up my sword. The people of this land want peace, and you can never defy the will of the people!"

For all that I've loved and lost...

Devon made a mad dash for Xem'zund, whose traps all activated at once. In the next moment, the tip of Devon's sword had just barely fallen short of The Dark Lord's chest, but his own body had been pierced by nearly a dozen spikes. He was being held up by the spikes, which stretched from branch to branch. Blood poured out of Devon's wounds, and he lost his grip on the sword, which fell to the wooden floor below.

Let luck befall...

A momentous occasion- to see the defeated face of my greatest adversary. In the end, you were only human.

...And love consume!

Devon the man was human indeed, but this Devon was not a man... he was a Homunculus. Xem'zund was so absorbed in the fight that he forgot he wasn't actually fighting the real Starslayer. Devon's body started shaking and suddenly his eyes turned completely black, his irises becoming a bright yellow. From his body burst forth several of Devon's longswords, all piercing through Xem'zund. It was at that moment that The Dark Lord realized what he was fighting.

Homunculus! To prevent another assimilation, he used his most powerful telekinetic blast to send Homun flying, breaking all of the spiked branches, plowing through walls and exiting out of the wooden fortress. He kept flying for miles, finally landing in the frozen river, cracking through the glass and being swept away by the icy waters.

Xem'zund was left breathing heavily, willing the swords out of his body which then turned to dust one by one. Only Devon's first replica sword was remaining. The Great Necromancer was severely wounded, but he was not going to die from just this. However, his plans...

* * * *

Elmirah couldn't wait any longer. The elves were already beginning their counterattack, so the only time to strike was now! She willed the ogres into their places, all of them in sequence taking out their large, rectangular shields and holding it in front of them, side to side, forming a solid wall that stretched across their entire formation. With her spellcasters tossing fireballs and creating a thick fog for cover, the ogres charged with the rest of Elmirah's forces following close behind.

Out of Character:

In the interest of moving this along, my role in this thread is pretty much done. You two can finish up on your own, otherwise PM me.

The path was clear. Nearly all enemies between him and the necromancer besides his personal guard had been scoured from the earth by an angry white light; he had no doubt that it was Nalith's doing. Xem'Zund, and the end of this war, was within his grasp. Godhand walked across the now deserted battlefield with a purpose in his stride when one of the death lords that had survived the miracle massacre got in his way. The mercenary's body shot into a blur before freezing with an outstretched fist and the first member of the dread one's guard flying into the air. Another one approached and once again Godhand's movements were so quick that to the naked eye it seemed like a sudden snapshot of him crouching and punching the thrall in the stomach before he continued walking. His blows and counters were so casual and his movement so steady that an observer might believe that his attacks were a trick of the light, if not for the collapsed rag-doll like forms of his assailants. Finally, another bodyguard approached and raises his right arm to strike. There was no mistaking the mercenary's offense that time, however, as he briskly hooked his arm on the death lord's opposite shoulder before quickly and savagely pulling his back down on his knee. The thrall's spine shattered and he was no longer a threat to anyone.

Finally, he reached Xem'Zund. There was a moment where neither said anything, instead choosing to size the other up. Godhand could tell he was wounded, but he knew not to get overconfident. It took a nation of millions to hold the necromancer back. The mercenary could feel the power flowing through the Forgotten one; it pulsed around him like some sort of dark artery. His sheath protected him from any sort of outright magical smiting, but he doubted that was where Xem'Zund's powers ended.

Finally, Godhand burst towards the fallen one and threw a blindingly fast hook, but the necromancer was even quicker and managed to avoid it. Suddenly the entire battle looked like some sort of stop motion animation, where their movements were so quick that they weren't visible until both sides collided. They clashed, recoiled, then clashed again. Godhand threw two more punches, each one easily avoided by the dread one, before leaping up and attempting to blast him in the head with a bicycle kick. The Necromancer caught the heel of the mercenary's boot before it could collide with his skull, leaving his attacker prone before swinging his entire body downwards and cleaving his remaining leg with his forearm. The blow briskly knocked him off his feet but before he could hit the ground Xem'Zund spun again and pushed both hands against the swordsman's chest, blasting him away at enormous speed to crash into a tree who's trunk collapsed unto the mercenary, seemingly pinning him.

The battlefield was deathly quiet for a moment, and what few elven attackers had made it that far had the quick, horrible feeling that the battle was over and their hero was dead. But suddenly there was a rumbling and the massive trunk shook before the mercenary rose, hoisting the oak unto his shoulder. He pointed a finger at Xem'Zund before rearing back and firing the tree at the necromancer like a lance. It traveled through the air at enormous speed, but before it could make contact the Forgotten one lunged forward with both hands outstretched. Enormous columns of green flame erupted from his palms, reducing the projectile to ash. Nevertheless, it was moving at such a speed that the ash rushed around the necromancer, blinding him. And before he could sweep the fog of war away with a wave of his hand and exertion of his magical power, the mercenary rushed in and savagely lanced him in the head with a bicycle kick, sending him sprawling.

Godhand drew his blade while the fallen one was still stunned by the attack. It would have destroyed a stout man a thousand times over but it had just barely dazed the necromancer enough to knock him down; Godhand reared back and prepared to plunge his Muramasa into the beast's black heart.

It was over.

The sickly, dreary, overcast sky, rolling indifferently along on a sluggish wind, matched all too well the cold, granite colored eyes that watched the killing below with utter disappointment.

The beast which the chilly, annoyed gaze belonged to was hidden by old magics bought with filthy lucre, the light bent around him, masking him from even elven eye. It hung, dozens upon dozens of feet above the canyon, wrapped in unnatural, leathery vermillion wings, billowing smoke from a predator's scowl as a cigarette smoldered between its lips. It watched as its master, the Black, the Forgotten One, Xem'zund, batted away a rather common looking man armed with nothing but a sword - and had a shocking amount of trouble with him, exhuming dead, rotting limbs of wood from the ground, weaving chilling, massive constructs.

It sneered as the deluge of glowing, holy magic tore through the canyon, washing over the doldiers and undead in a hungry flood. Fingers of the brilliant white light slashed upwards, seeking him out, as though sensing its twisted, cruel thoughts. The power exhausted however, and the brilliance faded before it could ever touch it - not that it would have ever caused any harm. Ashes of scorched, dead flesh rose in the air, flickering all around it like some strange snow, scattered and swirling on the wind, and it watched it pass, smirking - refuse, memories of failures, trash. The elven soldiers stood, cheering, relieved and weary, raising their swords and spears and bows in early, foolish triumph - save for one young man, who cried out at the stinging burn of a discarded cigarette but that had struck him in the eye.

"Bingo," a seemingly disembodied voice said in a mocking, happy growl, and laughed as their champion, the man with the steel bristle hair, crooked nose, and peircing, determined stare began to close in on the Necromancer, swatting Death Lords out of his path as though they were irksome flies. The man and the god clashed, and the beast felt a pull on its heart; a throb of the evil mark carved there months ago. With an annoyed snarl, it unfurled its wings and appeared above the canyon in all of his monstrous glory. The winged man dropped like a stone to the canyon floor, appearing there amidst emerald and black necromantic flames and splintered, torched wood, as though summoned, watching Godhand lunge upon Xem'zund for the final blows.

A finger traced the narrow, knotty crevice of scar tissue slicing through his eye, down to his jaw, bisected by a vertical line of cleaner, pinker tissue, running over his nose and to his left ear. It was his namesake, the Death Lord, Kross, and it was a badge of killing honor that he displayed proudly. He opened his mouth, a string of silvery saliva clinging between two razor sharp teeth, and with an inhale, the dying, flickering fires that the Black had spewed forth to counter the mercenary's makeshift, massive spear rushed towards his lips, vanishing into his gullet. Kross grinned appreciatively, feeling the magic pulse into his body, its taste - oily, metallic, with a stinging, bitter cold - coating his tongue, which flickered out to lick his lips.

The red wings on his back folded in upon themselves, then shrank, and shrivelled, altogether vanishing from sight as though sucked into a vacuum. Now it was easy to see that he wore no armor, a strange thing for a champion of the necromancer, garbed only in a close collared black coat, the Eye stitched onto the chest in blood red embroidery. He spat, onto the shattered skull of one of the other Lords, one who had gotten in the path of of the mercenary - and raised an arm, magnetic energy rippled and pulsing around his fingertips. His hand snapped close with a fist, and that ball of energy burst forward, ripping a wide furrow into the caynon floor, aimed to not only turn aside Godhand's final blow, but throw him on his ass as well.

It wasn't over.

It was never over.

Where have you been, Kross? Xem'Zund climbed to his feet after a moment, watching his Death Lord stroll over with a casual, unhurried gait, producing a blue bladed kodachi from nothing. A harsh snap, like that of an arc of electricity, broke the stunned silence that had suddenly fell into the canyon, and the small blade grew, lengthening and thickening, until the Death Lord held a nodachi in hand, longer than he was tall.

"Eh." Kross shrugged, pausing beside his master, slinging the large, curved prevalida blade over his shoulders. "I was taking a smoke break." Again, he spat, and turned his attention to Godhand.

"Hiya asshole. Long time no see, eh? Kinda figured you'd get out of that Tower I left you queers in. Oh, thanks for killing the Necrosition, by the way! Now I'm top dick around this shit hole."

Nalith paused suddenly in the midst of her charge, and as one her bodyguard stopped alongside her, creating a single silver wedge in the midst of a glittering tide of advancing Elven bodies. She held her head high, scanning the dwindling melee in the skies above in search of a clue as to why something seemed so terribly, dangerously out of place. Every sense she possessed was poised like a hunting hawk ready to swoop upon its kill, and it was not long before she realised the exact incongruity in her surroundings. The ground was shaking, and not to their fore.

But to their rear.

The cries of warning reached her ears mere moments before the explosions. Far-flung fireballs heralded the coming of a second undead army, matched by the thundering stampede of heavily armoured treads. Trees snapped like twigs and gorges were bridged as if they didn’t exist by the sheer number of bodies swarming in the direction of the Elven defenders. Spells, shafts, and even a stray ballista shot bounced harmlessly from the wall of shields that formed the vanguard of the necromantic tide.

“My lady…” one of her younger lieutenants whispered fearfully, clearly taken aback. Nalith, however, brushed past him without a single moment of hesitation.

“Order Commander Sarimel to take charge of the attack. He is to push forward and take the head of the Forgotten One by any means possible. Tell him to obliterate the ground itself and the human along with it if necessary. We will buy him the time he needs.”

“But… my lady…”

The young lieutenant wanted to protest about how Nalith herself was the only Elf present who could hope to even hurt Xem’zund. But the Lady General ignored him completely, signalling to the Bards to disrupt the advance of the great shield-wielding ogres and to her bodyguard to fan out to protect the ballistae. To the last Elf, they were prepared to sell their lives in defence of their homeland… that decision had been made a long time ago, and their resolve tested a thousand times over. It would be a great death should they in any way contribute to the fall of the Forgotten One. Experienced veterans all, they obeyed her without questioning, but even the faces of the skilled Bladesingers seemed grim and desolate in the face of the onrushing tidal wave.

Nalith spared one last look behind her as the wearied Raiaeran army threw itself forward one last time. Bladesingers danced and Bards sung; the bowstrings of the Rangers hummed in unison, and the magics of the Wanderers beat out a staccato refrain as they tore into the undead forces. Through these gaps streamed the Tel’Aglarim regulars, paying dearly in blood for every inch of ground they gained towards their ultimate goal… the demi-god necromancer himself, the one who was singularly responsible for all of the misery and the despair that had blighted the land of Raiaera for the past year.

The Lady General sent them a brief prayer – for luck in battle, and for a glorious death. And then she too turned towards her doom, and prepared to meet her destiny.

***

On Nalith’s command, the forest erupted in a furious flurry of arcane exchanges. The sheer intensity of the abrupt assault saw the Bards prevail for a few precious seconds, and suddenly the ground beneath the feet of the advancing ogres caved in and swallowed them whole. Some managed to extricate themselves to continue their charge; others remained motionless and their corpses were used as makeshift bridges by the undead horde that followed. While they were preoccupied, however, the Elves took full advantage, and a veritable flight of arrows and bolts came screaming into the new army.

But it was not enough. It was never enough.

Soon the distance between the opposing forces had closed to within spitting distance, and Nalith could make out individual leers upon the monstrosities that opposed her. Outnumbered a hundred to one, the tired trees around her torn to shreds by the powerful magics unleashed by both sides, she screamed a defiant warcry to the solemn skies and led her warriors once more into battle.

She knew full well that it was one from which none of them were likely to return.

He was there. He had him. All it would have taken was plunging his blade down less than a foot and the war would have been over and he could have gone home and left that murderhole shitpile of a country behind forever.

But some SWINE had robbed him! A wave of energy had knocked him a good hundred feet from where he was standing. And he knew then that there was no way he would be able to corner Xem'Zund like that again. Already he knew the necromancer was restoring himself, his flesh mending and his power regenerating. His chance to end the war then and there with one blow had come and gone.

And it was with that thought buzzing angrily around his head that he hoisted himself back up unto his feet, his right eye twitching and he nearly foaming at the mouth. They'd have to mount another offensive and that would take at least three months. Three more months in Hell. Another Christmas in the foxhole.

But as Godhand lifted his head to stare at the face of his new nemesis, ready and willing to tear off both his arms and beat him to death with them, his features softened. He recognized him. And then, he laughed. A good, clean, belly laugh as he pressed one hand to his forehead and pointed at him with the other.

"Oh ho ho ho my cup RUNNETH OVER!"

It was Kross, the turncoat that had left him and a group of elven students to die in the obsidian spire. All his birthdays had come at once.

"You should have kept on running, fella’! There’s a million ways I could torture you but time is a factor; looks like you’re just going to have to fucking die.”

Kross's grin widened, like a butcher who had found a new, fat hog under his cleaver.

"Oh! You fucking tease. I can't count how many children I've slaughtered in this war; they die far too easily. It gets boring after a while, watching the light fade from their eyes - which tasted delicious, by the way. Fuck the war. Truth be told, I've only felt the need to kill one man - you. Everything else before this has been like a whore refusing to take her hands off her tits."

"Well, I guess we're both getting our happy ending."

The two smiled at each other and calmly began walking through the battlefield to close the gap between them. A stray bladesinger lunged at Kross but he mercilessly stabbed him through the gut with his blade, never taking his eyes off Godhand. Godhand for his part was attacked by several lesser death lords, but he cut them all down and never broke gaze with Xem’Zund’s top general either. They each were rushed by more enemies but all it made them do was increase their tempo, from a purposeful walk to a driven stride to an all out dash as they neared the other, slicing through opponents all the while until finally they both reached the peak of their speed, halted right before colliding with each other, drew back their blades and clashed.

The sound and impact was not unlike a sonic boom as each man was thrown backwards from the kinetic explosion caused by the force of the blow. Neither Godhand’s unbreakable Muramasa nor Kross’ magnificent nodachi buckled under the other’s attack, and the result of the meeting of the unstoppable force and the immovable object, or in this case the unstoppable force and the unstoppable force, was a shockwave that knocked back not only the originators of the attack but anyone else within range of them.

Undeterred, they approached each other again, not even bothering to avoid telegraphing their moves. They swung their swords against each other again and again, each time a sound like thunder echoing through the battlefield and knocking them a step or two back. He could feel his teeth shaking and bones rattling with each hit.

It was not a difficult task to compare the din of the battle between just the two men to the feuding of titans. Their blades moved with inhuman power and speed, cutting the wind itself as again and again, the metal met in deafening blows. The ears of the soldiers who stood close hummed dully as their hearing sang its swan song, slowly dying out. An elf, too near, cried out in shock as he was torn from the ground and sucked in towards the two men by the fury of their blade-wind, neatly cut in two by either Godhand or Kross - by this time, whoever had killed that nameless troop was a moot point.

Wounds opened upon Kross's body in places he'd never even seen the muramasa flashed. One opened upon his cheek and spilled hot salty blood down his face and into his mouth - just an inch from scoring out his eye. Three cuts split a vlince sleeve and splashed more blood from his left arm. A nick stung at the side of his neck, and if the mercenary had leaned just a few inches forward, the Saraelian would have once again found himself nearly decapitated.

Yet, he was laughing.

Not the deep, booming, good humored laugh of a happy man. Neither was it the reeling, gasping, and desperate laughing of a releived man, but throaty, high, much too energetic and grating. It wasn't unlike one you would hear pounce out of the padded rooms of a locked cell in an asylum. A wide, maniac grin stretched the death lord's dusky cheeks, distorting the scars of his name.

Both men suddenly stopped, the high speed, breakneck pace snapping to a halt as though someone had frozen them in time. Kross held his nodachi arched over his back, his toothy jaw cracked open in excitement, ready to bring his sword down in a world ending cleave. And Godhand, ever scowling, his face focused and nothing but business, sweeping his muramasa from the left, for a mighty dissecting blow to seperate the Death Lord at the waist. Then, before the blustering, hurricane force winds they'd created could manage to begin to lose their strength, the two men exploded forward, bringing their swords together once more in a tremendously massive crack, throwing one another across the canyon.

Kross saw it as he fell; one of the violet robed, hooded spectres of the Forgotten One, an Archivist, sweep his hands high above his head, the fingers glowing with nauseating green and black light. He sailed towards the glorified flesh battery as it thrust its spindly hands in front of itself, aiming directly at Godhand - and launched a roaring ball of flame at the man, a misshapen sphere of necromantic fire that would rot and burn flesh just as well as it would corrode the soul. Growling, the Saraelian kicked at the air with his considerable strength, twisting and throwing himself directly in the path of the spell. Bloodlessly, his cheeks slid away from his teeth, like the tide falling away from the shoreline, and he stretched open his jaws, wider and wider, his maw yawning open, larger than any mortal man could manage. The act was not unlike watching a python unhinge its own jaw to swallow up an unfortunate beast that had found its way into its coils. The air hissed as Kross sucked in an enormous breath...

And drew in the fireball, the color of a fading bruise, purples and muddy, puss yellow, into his mouth. The flames licked at his lips before vanishing entirely down the black hole of his throat, and he landed awkwardly on his neck with a grunt upon the canyon floor. He was up though, without a moment to recover, weaving his fingers into his scalp and yankling his head to the left, straightening his neck, reaching towards the archivist with his other hand. "You peice of shit," he snarled, malice dripping from each word like poison from the fang of a milking viper. "Who in the fuck asked you to get involved? I step on garbage, not ask it for help."

Featureless, blocky fingers of stone ripped out of thje canyon floor with an audible crack, and a breath after, a rough palm and wrist reached up, curling around the robed servant. The stone hand reared back and hurled the archivist towards Kross as he beckoned it to do so, and he grinned happily as the servant's throat slapped into his waiting palm. Without a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the archivists left hand, and shoved it into his mouth, blood spurting through his unnatural, bared teeth, bones crunching. The robed one threw back his head and howled as the death lord's teeth snapped again and again, feeding the arm into his mouth without pause, and when he reached the shoulder, he grabbed the other limb, and devoured that, too.

Kross smacked his lips and made grunting, appreciative sounds as he ate the man, easily slicing flesh into ribbons with his dagger like teeth. His mouth stretched further open as he tore loose thick chunks from the torso, then rammed the skull in, crunching it and splashing mushy flecks of pink-gray pulp over his chin and chest. After what seemed like a horrifying eternity to any person who had been brave enough to watch the feeding the entire way through, Kross tossed aside the feet, still dressed in its shoes, and dabbed at his gruesome, bared, blood smeared teeth with a scrap of the archivist's purple robe, and belched. His cheeks and lips slid back across his face, greasy with human fat.

"Ah, not bad. Good snack. Could have used some ketchup." Grinning his cannibal's grin, Kross set his eyes upon Godhand - and they were very different from moments before. They had been flat, gray, and cold, expressing as much emotion as the blade of a knife, but now they glowed, a dull crimson, seeming to pulse with power. The magics that had dwelled in the archivist, stored there to be drained by Xem'zund, at whatever moment he saw fit, had been consumed right along with the skin and blood of the man whose only earthly remains still wore its shoes. Again, he belched, grimaced, and spat out a fingernail, then flicked it aside and began to walk forward, tightening his grip once more upon his nodachi.

The canyon floor thrummed and shuddered at each touch of his feet, but one brave, tired, and hardy elven bladesinger paid it no mind as he led a small collection fifteen of his brothers and sisters against the death lord, hoping to flank him from the side. Kross spun on them, his fiery eyes scorching. A flutesword sang in the air, and flames fell upon him like a blanket. A gongshield pounded, quaking the earth around his legs, throwing him off balance...

So he broke the earth around them.

With a furious bellow, the ground buckled, then cratered and shattered. Stone ground as blocks of earth burst up from the miniature faultline radiating from Kross's feet. He pulled upon the soil beneath them and took it. The ground yawned open and a sinkhole swallowed the bladesingers up, down to the stones which churned with the saraelian's fury, and ground them all into elven hamburger. "Worms! Back into the dirt!" He was so busy admiring his handiwork, peering over the edge of the stinkhole and drinking in deep whiffs of the scent of blood that he almost didn't notice Godhand bumrushing him from the side, swooping in for the killing blow. With a grunt, he just managed to bring his sword up to block the deadly adamantine, falling to a knee, unbalanaced.

Finish this, Kross. It grows wearisome, Xem'zunds voice boomed in his mind, echoing through his savage mind. The Saraelian growled, and spat, shaking his head angrily. "Fuck that. This is too good. Better than my first peice of ass. But, I guess we can make it more interesting!" The ruddy embers that had become Kross's eyes suddenly hushed and faded - then came back, the entire things bursting with vibrant green light. It started with the hand that held his nodachi in a death grip; the flesh began to darken with a tiny creaky sound, shifting from a healthy, light brown to a lead colored gray. The strange sight spread to his face, and slowly, Kross stood off his knee, pressing against the mercenary, grinning again. The coat which marked him as a death lord vanished, revealing thick, powerful plates of muscle, and moments later, dozens of thick fissures broke open his gray hide, pulsing from within with a strong, living green light. His thick black hair was pushed back against his scalp as wide horns of obsidian stone ruptured from his temples, curling around his head like a ram's. He hopped backwards as the nodachi vanished into nothing, and without a blade to hold it back, Godhand's muramasa slashed down, its tip scraping across the strange flesh, and failing to split it open. Kross raised one hand; a claw now, the fingers tipped with wickedly curved talons on obsidian stone, and from the ground rose a smooth jade spear.

"I'm sure you remember this, you crusty old bastard." The Saraelian Demon lunged, thrusting the spear forward, directly at Godhand's heart.

All around him, Elves were falling. Unlike their undead foes, they were shackled with the burdens of life… the exhaustion of their frail bodies, and the lapses that beset their tired concentration. The heavy metallic taint of blood hung in the necrotic air, and the necromancer lord breathed deeply of its delightful stench. From the ruins of this battlefield he would be able to raise an army greater than ever before, enough to at least sweep the haughty Raiaerans from his lands forever more.

The din extended from the banks of the river to the depths of the forest, the sounds of clashing metal and desperate cries, falling bodies and walking wounded. What had once been fought as a disciplined and orderly encounter had now degenerated into something resembling a mass melee, individual Elves fighting by themselves against the overwhelming hordes that threatened to sweep them away. Nalith’s attempts at tactics and strategy now simply seemed petty and useless; for all her skill and graft, Xem’zund’s own schemes had triumphed. Elmirah had taken her time, but her appearance on the battlefield had been decisive.

Idly the Forgotten One returned his attention to the clash of titans that was playing itself out before him, the cocky human Godhand Striker against his own lieutenant, the demon Kross. Homunculus’s earlier betrayal had not necessarily surprised him – treachery was one of the many risks he had taken into account when assembling his Death Lords – but the manner of it still rankled.

Devon Starslayer…

There was something else in the air as well, something that augured heavily upon his mind. It was as if some dark foreboding will pressed in upon his own, warning him of something…

Kross. I leave this mess to you. Report to me when you finish.

There were clouds to the west. Clouds over Narenhad.

Clouds of shadow and dust.

***

One by one they fell, lives of shining light that had entrusted themselves to her care. It was as if the nightmare of Eluriand was playing itself out again before her eyes, feverish convulsions that tore her compatriots, friends, and family from her life.

No matter how hard she sung, no matter how hard she fought, Nalith knew that she could not protect everything. She’d resigned herself to that fact long ago, and had hardened herself to the sacrifices she’d had to make to ensure the greater good. The burden of loss was one that she bore arrogantly, but the pain was real nonetheless, and it was times like these that she would disguise it by throwing herself headlong into the flames of war.

This time, however, she knew she was destined to lose. There were too many of her foe, and not enough of her friends, and every ruse she had employed had only served to delay the inevitable. The only path left was to die in such a song that the ages themselves would sing of their glory.

The trumpets in the distance were a fitting counterpart to the whisper of her blade.

To his surprise, there was no snarled retort, or dry, sarcastic insult; Godhand Striker reacted like the aging, experienced battlehorse he was. The mercenary took a swift step back, stones crunching under boot heel, and with a stroke nearly faster than Kross's eyes could follow, he severed the stone spear in its middle. The death lord had to stop himself from marveling at the exact precision and cleanliness of the cut; the muramasa had passed straight through the rock as though it had been passed through a mountain stream. The spearhead arced into the air, spinning end over end, but neither man made the mistake of looking up to watch its flight.

Mundane, sandy brown stones lifted off the canyon floor and slapped together in a horizontal line with several sharp clicks, then flowed together, erasing the seams that seperated each individual one, before turning a familiar jade green. Kross ignored the sharp whistling coming from overhead as he merged the transmuted rocks into his damaged weapon, baring his teeth as he poured his will into the stone, wicked, hooked blades sprouting from the sides of the spear. He lunged, raising his foot to punish the earth wiith a titanic stomp and throw the mercenary off guard, when, shockingly, Godhand reached a hand out and caught the broken spearhead wiithout a single hint of effort. The silver haired man launched himself forward, stabbing the point of the green blade towards the death lord's eyes.

A strangled obscenity wrenched itself from Kross's throat, and he opened his floodgates, pouring raw, elemental power into the weapon seeking to blind him. A muted yellow light flashed in its core, and as though he could feel the sudden violent pulse that began to crack it, Godhand hurled the spearhead over the death lord's shoulder. Several dozen feet away, it detonated like a fragmentation grenade, splashing razor sharp splinters around it. The noise was distracting enough for Kross to hesitate for a breath, giving Godhand more than enough time to fluidly change his stab turned throw into a hammer punch. Kross grunted, the force of it rocking him, nearly forcing him to his knees. The canyon itself shuddered, as though someone had dropped a boulder into it.

There was no time to bat at one another with useless threats and demeaning insults, no time for grandiose, flashy, crowd pleasing shows of talent. There was barely time to breath. The sadistic glee that had painted a distended, cruel smile on his face was gone. So was the laughter that could only come from a blood hungry sociopath with meth in his lungs, and hate in his heart. It was not that he wasn't enjoying himself; no, far from it. His eyes had the hunger and focus of a wolf scenting fresh hot blood, steaming through the trees, leafless for the moment, sleeping for the warm, silently grasping at the sky with bony fingers.

Now, Kross was trying to kill Godhand Striker.

The mercenary wound back wiith his sword, and all the incentive the death lord needed to retreat was the thought of the flawless cut through his weapon. Lifting a clawed hand, Kross unleashed a mild, hurriedly prepared blast of energy into Godhand, stumbling the man for barely a second, but giving him time enough to hurl himself away wiith a powerful backwards leap. Baring his monstrous teeth, he cocked his arm back, the energy surging and flickering, and then he fired his spear like a javelin, borne on natural magnetic energy. Godhand, seeming to anticipate the action, was already dodging to the left, throwing himself through the air and rolling as he landed. Kross hissed furiously, but it was too late; the spear had already hit the ground, with an ear shattering explosion that sent massive cracks up the neighboring canyon wall and threw a cloud of dust and broken rock into the air.

He hung in the air for a second, not even batting his eyes towards the elven archers who aimed arrows upon him. They sliced through the air, and then bounced off of his hide harmlessly. Grinding his teeth, Kross released a cry of eminent, vicious, wild rage and threw himself to the ground like a comet. Incredibly, Godhand sheathed his muramasa with a sneer, braced himself, dug his feet in - and met the bellowing death lord with a sound that witnesses would describe as the voice of a god, the two locking together. Grunting, the mercenary tossed Kross over his hip and onto the ground, raising a fist with the strength to split helms. Kross growled loudly and whipped a leg up into the side of Godhand's neck with inhuman agility, and scrambled to his feet.

Without hesitation, the two came at each other again, like wild animals in contest over a juicy peice of the kill. It looked so much like a mirror image of the earlier close quarter fight with Xem'zund that it was eerie; neither mercenary nor death lord's strikes could be seen before they collided with enough force behind them to reduce lesser men to gruesome tooth speckled pulp. The fists of the two brutalized one another for nearly three minutes, neither refusing to give ground to the other, the interior of the canyon sounding as though it was being shelled by heavy artillery cannons.

Suddenly, they burst apart, a vicious string of vile expletives spewing from Kross's mouth. He held his left arm closely to his chest, and it bent downward, at an awkward angle. The glassy black horn on his right temple had been shattered, leaving a jagged stump jutting out of the dark gray skin. Godhand was smirking smugly, despite the bleeding trenches that had been ripped across his chest and right arm, and the wound that had nearly cleaved bone just a hair beneath his left eye. Grimacing, Kross raised his uninjured arm and tensed the hand into a trembling claw. The ground around the mercenary trembled for a moment, making small stones jitter and shake on the canyon floor. Then, in the blink of an eye, a dozen long arms of stone pulled themselves up from the dirt and darted towards Godhand, their intent clear; to rend, crush, catch and dismember.

But they never had a chance. The mercenary's hand shot to the hilt of his sword, and with turn executed at break neck speed, he drew the muramasa, and severed the hands at their wrists

Kross came from above.

Silent as an assassin on the highest paying mark of his career, the death lord dropped down from the sky, softening his landing with a controlled magnetic sheath around his body. Fearsome as a feeding lion, Kross leaped forward, opening his jaws wide, wider, even wider than humanly possible, his tongue, long and pointed, covered in slick spittle. And swift as a master of war, Godhand Striker thrust his muramasa through the death lord Kross's stomach.

The blade hadn't had the leverage it needed earlier when it had brushed the demon hide, but now, it had all the strength and momentum of a titan behind it, driving it in deep. However, the cold peice of unbreakable metal slicing into his guts didn't stop the death lord. He pushed forward, sinking the sword in deeper, locked his hand around the wrist of Godhand's sword-arm, and pitched his head downward, locking his jaws into the mercenary's shoulder, tasting sweat-salted flesh and tangy, sweet blood, even as the lights began to fade from his otherworldly eyes, and the pulsing cracks in his skin began to close.

The dagger like teeth slid out of the meat, and the face that met Godhand's eyes was a very familiar one. Gone were the intersecting, gruesome scars, as well as the healthy, tanned skin. As though the horned, green eyes demon had been a chrysalis of wasting, instead of rebirth, the man that stood, pinned on the legendary sword, looked older, twenty years older than the sneering Kross. Dark circles hovered beneath gray eyes like drops of ink on sickly, pale flesh. Thin, nearly colorless lips pulled back to reveal the same predatory grin.

"You fucking cunt!" Dan Lagh'ratham cocked his head back, and spat on Godhand's chest. "You fucking stabbed me!" The mercenary looked bewildered for a split second, before he pulled back and punched Dan across the face, pulling the sword free - though not without a sizeable spurt of blood.

The fuck are you doing here?" Godhand demanded, ready to cut the death lord - because, after all, that was still what he was - in two if he came at him again. But Dan only laughed, the psychotic, cracked sound finding its way back in again.

"Hey, I was bored, you know? Plus, Xem'zund promised to find my daughter if I ate or knocked off a couple assholes giving him trouble.

"You're a god damned, brainless idiot." Godhand scowled, relaxing a little. "How the hell did you change appearance? Some kind of voodoo black magic hocus pocus bullshit?"

"It's...ah, fuck it, I'll explain it later."

Finish him, Kross! The voice sliced into his mind like a finely honed razor blade from untold miles away, and Dan winced, clutching the side of his head that had sported the broken horn.

"Not so damn loud! Why don't you fuck off, man? I ain't had a smoke break in I don't know how long. And Union Charter states - "

Fine. I will. Dan opened his mouth to say something else, but stopped when he felt the air in the canyon grow ice cold. His jaws shut with a snap, and his eyes were drawn to a point in space between him and Godhand, where a tiny pinprick of swirling, dark violet had burst out of nothing. He didn't even have a moment to curse before he leaped forward and shoved Godhand back with his good arm, and tried to jump away.

It happened in an instant; the tiny ball suddenly swelled with massive power as a necromantic flare tore itself open in the air, catching his arm from the elbow down inside. What felt like a million frosty daggers shredded skin, muscle and bone as the spell continued to grow larger, threatening to envelope him; and then it imploded in a humongous scarlet firebal, pulling him off his feet and hurling him across the canyon, where he smashed for a second into the ground, the breath leaving his lungs. He bounced two more times, high into the air, before again hitting the dirt, tumbling several dozen feet before coming to a rest.

He laid there for a minute, struggling to breath, hearing nothing but a sharp stinging as blood poured from his ears. Finally, he sat up painfully, looking at the stump where his forearm should be. It stunk of decay, and as he watched for a few breaths, blackened flesh crumbled away and fell onto his lap.

"Fuck me," he groaned, in a voice he couldn't hear, and then squinted into the distance, where he could see Godhand rising, untouched by the necromancer's assault. "I knew I shouldn't have trusted that son of a bitch." Carefully, he climbed to his feet, a little unbalanced, and then paused for a minute, wobbling unsteadily. Three amber stones on the back of his injured hand flashed a bright gold, and without a sound, puff of smoke, or blinding glare of ethereal light, the Ether Band took Dan Lagh'ratham far from Raiaera.

Out of Character:

All bunnying perpetrated on Godhand was preapproved by himself. All I ask of this thread for spoils is that the lock on Dan's Saraelian abilities is removed. Let's just say Xem'zund destroyed the seal once and for all. I'd think that would be well within a demigod's capabilities. Thanks for letting me guest spot here.

The thundering charge of silver-clad knights swept like a tide across the battlefield, driving through the undead lines without reservation or hesitation. Torn asunder by spear and sword, or hammered into the ground beneath mighty hooves, it was not long before the complexion of the battle changed completely. Flags that had once wavered beneath Xem’zund’s pressure now stood tall and proud once more; the eagles in the sky were joined by the bright ithilmar armour of proud Sky Knights as they drove the necromantic forces from the heavens.

In the midst of the devastated trees, a small knot of Elven resistance silently relaxed as the fighting inexorably was driven elsewhere. From amongst their number stepped the blooded, exhausted form of Nalith Celiniel, her fine blade chipped and worn, her silver armour tattered and dented.

She nearly drooped to the ground once more, but the exhausted cheers of those Elves that had survived the bloodbath did just enough to keep her going. Thrusting her sword to the skies to convince those around her of their victory, her exhausted mind already began to turn towards their next move.

The war was not over yet.

***

In the aftermath of the battle, a single figure strode amongst the fields of death, his tunic stained with the blood of his undead foes and the dust of the three days of hard travel that he had endured from outside the siege lines of Eluriand. Every step he took was accompanied by either flame or tears; the former he controlled with careful skill to purify the taint of the Necromancer’s dead from the field, while the latter was saved for the innumerable faces of the High Elves who had fallen that day by the banks of the River Escaldor. His dark irises swam with emotion behind the oversized spectacles he wore: regret that he had not been able to sway the outcome of the battle in their favour, distress at the thought of those who had fallen so valiantly in defence of their homeland, loathing at the pathetically weak self who had been unable even to try to save them.

Your sacrifice will not be in vain… Ingwe Helyanwe vowed to the blood-stained skies, clenching his fists so tightly that his nails drew blood from the chapped skin of his palm. He had walked many battlefields before, some almost quite as grim as this one, but he could never steel himself fully against the overwhelming tides of despair that he always felt. He wondered if that was a good thing, proof that he had not yet devolved into the very monsters that he fought.

He wondered how much longer it would take before he did.

The young man forced his feet to begin walking again, taking slow deliberate steps through the mountains of strewn corpses. He was not alone in his bleak duty; a jagged line of Bladesingers, Wanderers, Bards, and Seers mimicked his actions from the river plain on his right to the forest on his left. The process was a deliberate and repetitive one, and numerous small pyres burnt like dying fireflies in their wake, tracking their forlorn progress through the twilit battleground.

As nominal figurehead of the Legion of Light, he knew that technically his responsibilities lay elsewhere, such as in the makeshift command post in the safest part of the forest where even now Nalith Celiniel met with High Prince Turgon Elanesse of Tor Elythis. But the implicit assumption, understood by all present without the need for it to be expressed verbally, was that the Lady General would not necessarily take kindly to the presence of a human within her command structure. Hence, as soon as the skirmishes had died down and the last of the Forgotten One’s forces had fled beyond the reach of the pursuing Elythisian cavalry, Ingwe had pulled a quick disappearing act into the rank and file of the army.

It was he who had convinced Prince Turgon, along with the rest of the commanders within the Legion, that they should spare their swiftest units in an attempt to reach the main body of the Raiaeran resistance, despite the lack of solid intelligence and the fact that there was no guarantee that they would be able to arrive in time. Similarly, it was he who had discerned the movement of Xem’zund’s armies as they surrounded Nalith’s beleaguered Elves, and who had swiftly ordered the redeployment that had, in the end, rescued Nalith’s bodyguard from the tide of undead warriors that threatened to swamp them from the field. The price they had paid was the chance to pin the Necromancer himself between the anvil of Nalith’s main force and the hammer of the Elythisian Silverwind, but for now both Prince Turgon and himself had agreed that it was more important to preserve the flower of Raiaeran defiance than to confront Xem’zund in open battle. The time for the final confrontation was soon, but not now… and though the numbers of undead warriors were endless, surely even the Forgotten One was beginning the feel the pressure in terms of the number of skilled lieutenants he was losing to the headhunting tactics employed by both the Legion and the Elves. Sooner or later…

Dare we hope we have a chance?

As he bent double over the next pile of corpses, a sudden whisper of wind danced in his hair, sending a swift chill racing down his spine. Instinctively Ingwe straightened tall and turned his gaze to the burning sky, trying to catch the fleeting zephyr over his shoulder as it escaped into the approaching night. But by the time his gentle gaze had settled upon the path it had traced overhead, it had long since disappeared from his sight. It left behind only the faint hint of words unsaid, of strands of fate starting to unravel beyond his control.

The young man stood still for a moment, squinting into the distance as if trying to catch something that had long since gone. Then, slowly and reluctantly, he turned back to the task at hand.

The night ahead was still long and dark.

Quest Judging

Moderated Quest: Spring's First Crimson Blossoms

STORY ~ 19/30

Continuity ~ 7.5/10 This began wonderfully, as did most sections. I knew what led up to the battle, both for the individual characters and tactically, and what each side stood to gain from it. However, there were several things that brought this down throughout the thread.

First, Godhand's use of Earthly concepts, such as espressos and Jesus Christ. These things don't exist on Althanas, the former being a result of the technology of Earth, the latter a result of the culture. In the past, I would have told myself that Godhand might be from Earth. But I know he was born and raised in Radasanth.

Second, I was much less familiar with Homunculus' story before this thread, and he left incredibly abruptly and cartoonishly.

Third, Slayer, you came out of nowhere. That could not be helped, and in fact it was interesting. However, what was revealed in your final post, that you were working for Xem'zund because he promised to help you find your daughter, there is no other mention of this reason, or of the daughter. I'm incredibly confused. I'm sure I wouldn't be if I had read more of your threads, but I shouldn't be expected to do so to understand what's going on in a particular one.

In the end, it all got tied together in the final post, which brought it back up a little, but nowhere near where it was at the beginning.

Finally, bonus points for tying in Devon dan Sabriel, the Starslayer, and the last person to kill Xem'zund, as well as the little lesser known details about the character.

Setting ~ 6/10 Actually wonderfully done. In the first post, this was beautiful, with the personification of the zephyr, the delicate imagery, and the way it set the stage. As the story progressed, the canyon was referred to less and less, and more and more as what seemed like a reminder that it was in one, and not just on a flat plain. This was a little odd-feeling, and hurt the score. Remember to not just mention the setting here and there, but to keep it up throughout, using every little detail to the fullest.

Pacing ~ 5.5/10 Started really smoothly, as with everything else. However, once Homunculus dropped out, and Slayer joined, it got a wonky. The thread shifted from being about a battle of armies to being about a battle between two powerhouses with grudges against each other, with the battle of armies as a backdrop. And then it suddenly, in the last post, got tied awkwardly back in with the battle of armies. This affected Continuity and Action, as well.

CHARACTER ~ 18/30

Dialogue ~ 5/10 Not a lot of it, really, except toward the end, where it was...I'm not sure how to put this. It was uncharacteristic for Xem'zund, from whom I had gotten a certain feel from in Homunculus' posts as well as Hyperion's. It was clichéd for Kross/Dan, and just felt overblown. And for Godhand it was either there or it wasn't. In the beginning, the lack of dialogue actually fit, with the bits of elven commands punctuating the action rather well.

Action ~ 5/10 I loved the large-scale parts, between the tactical plans, the descriptions of the various forces in each army mobilizing, and the overall effect that each step in the battle had. However, the close-in portions were, again overblown, especially regarding the fights between Devon/Homun and Xem, Xem and Godhand, and Godhand and Kross. They ended up boiling down to descriptions of the tactic in anime where the artist will show the clashing of two characters, immediately followed by the arc to the next clash, et cetera, et cetera. That kind of works in anime and other visual media, but even then not well. It does not work well at all in a text-based medium. Always keep in mind that you are writing not for a movie or TV show, but for a written work, and how that medium affects the things that you can and cannot effectively do within the story.

Persona ~ 8/10 Far and away, this is the category that took the fewest hits. In fact it came away almost unscathed compared to the initial impressions I got. You all know your characters and show it. Great work.

WRITING STYLE ~ 16/30

Technique ~ 6/10 As has been said above, the thread began beautifully, and it maintained quality writing almost through the first ten posts. I did not look at post dates, but I get the feeling that it was then that Homunculus began to feel a time crunch and that he might have dropped out of the quest because he felt he was holding it back. Godhand suffered from this as well, but to a lesser extent. Finally, beware the filler. If an event does not add to the story, either now or later, do not include it. The Archivist attacking and being devoured, for example, did little for the overall story, except to add several paragraphs on an already overlong post.

Mechanics ~ 6/10 In the beginning, there were only a few nitpicks of words that got misspelled into other words, which a spellcheck will not pick up. However, it got worse as it went, and by post eleven I was having to piece together sentences. Then it picked back up, but as soon as Slayer joined, the spelling errors came back. Slayer, it is very clear that you don't use a spellcheck, and that you may have a sticky i key. I could literally see your fingers flying across the keyboard as you wrote the posts, hitting unintended extra letters on the way to the h key. The enthusiasm is a good thing, don't get me wrong, but when you write at such a feverish pace, remember to toss it through a spellcheck at the very least.

Clarity ~ 4/10 Overall, I understood what was happening, but in the midst of a few posts I got lost in the action and the breakneck speed of it. These problems with Clarity can be addressed by addressing the problems in the contributing categories, as well as Mechanics.

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 8/10 I enjoyed the hell out of this thread, despite all I've said. It was a good read, and an interesting story. And as I said in Continuity, mad bonus points for including Devon.

TOTAL ~ 61

Flames of Hyperion gains 3154 EXP and 488 GP
Godhand gains 3572 EXP and 366 GP
Homunculus gains 1817 EXP and 305 GP
Slayer of the Rot gains 2216 EXP and 183 GP

Slayer of the Rot gains the Saraelian abilities back.

If you have any questions about the judgment or how you can improve, PM me or send me a message on AIM, screen name SuperSonicMatt1.

Exp and GP added!

Godhand hits level 12!