((Keep in mind that we are embarking on a very large, very hectic battle. Many people will be posting. Therefore, if you can keep your posts short, it would be helpful. Commanders, try to remember that once battle is met, strategy ceases; there will be very little time to plot grandiose schemes once in the thick of it, so concentrate on surviving, not planning attacks, and be as concise as possible. From now on, the battle is not about strategy, it's about writing; as such, please no OOC reports on troop strength. That doesn't matter anymore.))
Turning his back on the High Bard, Findelfin turned to face the crowd below him. It was a stunning sight. The full contingent of the Elven Army, thousands of lances extended to the stars, glittering shields, stern faces. But there were also young faces, those who knew not what they were doing, whose hearts were afraid of this grim day. Findelfin found himself suddenly moved by the very mode of their diversity; young elves and old, some who had fought alongside their own fathers in the great School Wars, some whose only battles had been bedside stories of Thoracis's assault on Valinatal. Some were even men, and they were in many ways the strongest among the number, for they had risked everything, entered an alien race, and for no reason other than their ideals held them to standards far higher than their mortal brethren.
He slowly unsheathed Ainalindil, and cleared his voice. As he began to speak, he could feel Varalad's power flowing into his words, as the High Bard filled them with resonance to soar above the crowd, made them heard above the din of the battle behind them.
"Elves of Raiaera, and you men who serve with us freely. We have been a proud people." And at that, he sucked in his breath. It was time to speak.
"Too proud. For today we shall be shattered. Today the corpses of a million dead, Durklans we slaughtered in ages past on the arid sands of the Black Desert, those who died beneath our feet as Enarlin mage struggled against the forces of Atanamir Eluriand, the ones we expelled for heresy to the land of Alerar...all of this, all our blood-soaked history, comes to a crashing end."
The host was stunned; already an angry murmur began to spread, and a few braver hotheads were starting to cry out for Findelfin to give up his post before impugning Raiaera's dignity further, but Findelfin simply raised his hand and shouted louder,
"Yes! Armies of Raiaera, we fight for a nation whose past is not unsullied, we fight for a people whose names are not pure. We are as much a monster race as that we fight against. What comes to us now is punishment, punishment for all our wrongs to each other and to the world. Aurient herself said, when she cursed the Black Desert, that it would come to pass that the graves would open and the wrath of the stars would pour about our heads. So it is written in Tel Aina Parma, the book of our ancestors and the source of our hope." The crowd was now murmuring still, but less angrily; he was right, it was written.
"The day of wrath has come, armies of Raiaera! Already the sun has passed its zenith, and we will slip into the twilight." And here his voice intensified; this was his point.
"But it is also written, bold hearts, that when the World Tree that once shone in the sky came under assault from evil, it was shattered even as evil was broken, and its pieces formed the stars, creating a beauty at once less powerful than the World Tree and yet all the more subtle. And so I say to you now: we will shatter. We will be broken by the tide that sweeps us away. But we will not let evil shatter us without doing it such a blow that it can never recover. We will pay the price for our pride, but we will make them work so hard to extract it that they will never strike us again. And from the shattering of our swords will rise a new star, a new thing, a new power in the world, less bright maybe, less pure, but subtle and strong, able to withstand in ways that no walled city can, a beauty beyond all the jeweled chalices of our race." And now the army began to cheer; and, his face flush, Findelfin brandished Ainalindil. They were ready to fight.
Grabbing an enchanted arrow from the pile, Findelfin thrust it into his arm, shallowly enough not to do too much damage. Raising the bloody shaft in his hand he said, "Glorious Host, with the power of holy sounds flowing in my veins and yours, let us ride to our ruin! In so doing, let us ruin evil as well!" And lifting the Horn of Velicë Arta to his lips, he blew one long, clear, ringing blast. He held that note for nearly a minute, blowing until he felt his temple would burst from the strain.
As the blast sounded, the army roared to life. Gates swung open, banners were unfurled, and the army marched from the citadel to take the field for the final stand.
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