MQ: Spring's First Crimson Blossoms

[Abomination]

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.

[Godhand]

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.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“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.

[Abomination]

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.

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.

[Godhand]

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.

[Slayer of the Rot]

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."

[Flames of Hyperion]

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.

[Godhand]

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.

[Slayer of the Rot]

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.

[Flames of Hyperion]

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.