The Field of Sighs and Sorrows

[Twisted Infinitum]

It was chaos. Glorious, bloody chaos. Ages ago, Rask had reveled in it for his home and his people. Now, as the watered down elves of today crashed into his forces, he did it for nothing that could be put into words. There was revenge and hatred and numerous other dark things swirling inside him, but it was something deeper that took hold. He was a Guardian Beast again; a lowly creature that guarded his holy artifact no matter what kingdoms fell outside the temple walls. Though his masters were gone, he knew the simple existence that he had been thrust into once more. Happily, he let it sweep him away.

Another elf, diminutive to his eyes, came at him from the front line of the enemy, elegant blade whistling overhead. The lizard man braced his legs and crossed the short swords in his hands. Fine elven work ground against old elven work as the attacker tried to saw his blade free of the pincer grip. He didn't even notice the third sword that rose high on Rask's tail and dove into his neck, neatly popping the seams between helm and shoulder plates.

The ancient elves presented a more dignified front than their leader, one that was but a hint of the majestic battle choreography their race had once attained. Their long swords fell, pulsing those before them off their feet, then swept upward to cleave them asunder in a steady rhythm as precise as a metronome. The zombies flooded past them, for they lacked the discipline of those that had truly learned it in life, and were slain as much as they slew. And when they fell, the ancient elven line stepped over them, churning the enemy ranks and releasing another wave of zombies to absorb the retaliations.

~

He spoke to her. She didn't care what the words were. He said her name and it had a far more familiar feel than when he spoke to his generals. The battle was muted for that sweet moment. The unicorn's ghostly hoof beats were also silent, as well as the spattering of bodies that her harpies delivered around her. I will give you this city. A gift from me, she assured him through the mental link, holding it open with nary a thought. She would have said more, revealed to him that the quiet murmurs in his dreams had been real and honest, if not for the rush of cavalry before her.

By luck or strategy, they wheeled about the main battle on a path straight for her. With slitted eyes, she glared over the decrepit rider's shoulder. The elves would not let her living portal feast in peace. How like them. Vipress quickly twisted to check on the progress and was pleased to see naught of the deposited bodies. The shadow was close now, hovering over the last few and drinking them in through the swaying folds. The soldiers from the head of the enemy force had been the easiest pickings, their attention locked forward, so the deliveries had been short and rapid. If the elves sought to stop the toll from being paid, they were likely already too late.

Xem'zund was right. It was time to move inward. Vipress commanded the unicorn to slow and wheel to the left. Gracefully, it bolted toward the main flow of the army while Vipress made a dismissive gesture toward the approaching horsemen. Like a hammer of the gods, the harpies dove in a thick cloud of feathers, wing membranes, limbs and agonized faces. They hooked low over the ground and rammed themselves, shrieking, into the formation. Claws and talons found flesh, horse and elf, and every wretched body that fell, broken, from the air was replaced by the screaming push.

Behind the front lines of the zombies, the unicorn cut like a razor. Those about to step into its path were halted by Vipress' will and hovered in midstep just long enough to let the unicorn flicker past. The shadow followed close behind, moving quickly but apparently unhurried. It never altered its speed, but seemed to fall into every gap between the running undead. They ignored it, and it ignored them as it swept over the bodies underfoot, leaving nothing but stained earth.

[Sighter Tnailog]

He was foundering, hands grabbing at his heels, Pelektar whinnying as zombified carcasses crowded around her. Ainalindil whirred with deadly grace, but there were simply too many of them...and then the second charge hit.

He could hear the thud as lances struck bodies, undead falling to the ground but continuing to writhe. Here and there, lancers with magical skills shot bolts of Turlin magic into the crowd, others tried to purify fallen enemies before they could struggle back to their feet. Findelfin had left a wide swathe of destruction in his path -- Ainalindil's enchanted blade meant that those evils it kissed could not rise again, but others were not so fortunate. He could see other elves being dragged off their mounts, desperately fending off the undead.

When last they had fought, there had really been no undead army to fight, merely an undead horde. Overwhelmed by numbers alone, they had struggled and been driven back, but it had not been difficult to destroy the foe. Now they seemed like an army...they worked in groups to take down their foes, acted in concert...and yet even Xem'zûnd could not be powerful enough to micromanage so many. He had to be pouring out his power to commanders, people who used their own strength supplemented with his to control smaller units of troops.

Slashing in a circle at the hands grabbing for him, he scanned the crowd...and saw one of them, a strange-looking elf leading a charging line, not far from him. Spurring Pelektar forward to trample over the zombies in his path, he brought down Ainalindil against the foe...

And for the first time, the foe fought back. Findelfin felt the clang as his sword clashed against the strange, spike-eared foe, watched as the elf smoothly slid into another battle form and brought his sword toward Pelektar. With equal grace Findelfin moved his sword to block the enemy, then reared Pelektar back to cast a flurry of kicks in the evil commander's face. Bringing down his sword to take advantage of the split-second hesitation in the enemy, the ancient elf's face split in two as Ainalindil shattered through it like a knife through bread.

As soon as it happened, the fight seemed to go out of the zombies. Findelfin raised his sword high, and with a shout cried, "Kill the commanders! All units attack the commanders!"

[Viola Darkstalker]

There are some things an army led by a madman is especially good for. Knowing no fear, neither Viola nor her troops objected to the oncoming elven charge. In the heat of battle, true personalities shine out clearer than anything else and oh how the formerly blind general shone. There were two things that Viola knew intrinsically, even in her insanity. Pierce. She had never used a sword, dagger, or any other slashing weapon in her life. She used spikes, needles, and other instruments that penetrated defenses to strike at the enemy’s heart. Throttle. Choke the life from someone. Wire, rope, and chain; wrap around the enemy’s vital point and squeeze.

~

“She’s here! Everyone, give her no quarter! The Reaper is only mortal!”

The sun was passing its noonday peak, and slowly falling into oblivion. An army millions strong stood defiantly awaiting the arrival of the woman known only as the “Reaper”. It was a fairly famous world populated by a race that fancied themselves immortal… invincible. No assault had ever succeeded, yet today, many had their doubts. For centuries, their battle cry was “They are only mortal”, and the knowledge it carried gave the soldiers even more of a fighting spirit, but even with the general’s shout, fear rang soundly through the ranks.

Five bodies, identifiable only by chips implanted at birth, had carried her message to the masses. Not only had one being slaughtered five of their immortal troops, but she had desecrated them and mutilated them so horribly that some began to question her state of life. Three thirty-three in the afternoon came, and with it the arrival of death incarnate, sadistic smile plastered on her face. In one instant, the invincible army knew sheer, utter terror. A ten-foot length of steel reinforcing bar sprouted from the forehead of their strongest commander in a thousand years, and the image of madness was still smiling that deathly grin. They panicked. They charged.

The sun did not even have the time to fully set before one million of the strongest warring race known across the galaxy lay strewn across the crimson streets of their home world. Battered, bruised, half-dead, but still alive, the golden-eyed beast stood solemnly in the midst of the carnage. They were the strongest; they had nearly killed her. No, she was the strongest now. She would always be the strongest. Even if she did meet her better one day, her name would forever be immortal. She would forever be immortal.

~

Her zombies shifted formation as they met the charging horsemen. From a wall, they turned into a wedge, driving deep into the heart of the enemy’s line. Even as one fell, two more used the fallen comrade as a shield against sword, lance, and arrow. They were a living wall for their general; a writhing shield littered with razor-edged spines. They followed their commander’s subconscious desires as though they were direct orders. No zombie would fall without at least trying to take two living with it. When they broke through, the enemy would know true terror as they defended against an assault from the front and back. The mass of Zem’xund’s army was the anvil, and she was going to be one hell-raising hammer.

[Caden Law]

The Bladesingers sniped and chorused, and with their cover and song to guard and focus him, it didn't take Caden long. It wouldn't have been long anyway, once he had the chance to focus and reconnect to all that power. He stood in the center of his circle now, arms waving, fingers dancing, and a dome of lightning sprang up around him. It was colored to match rainbows that didn't exist, and no two bolts seemed to match up. They were a tangling spiderweb, and where the threads of power and will collided, there were showers of sparks and musical notes that somehow tuned themselves to match the Bladesinger symphony.

This is magic. This is the tenth element; the one that you can't pin down and codify, because no matter what rules you force on it, magic changes. It's the power of mind over soul over matter, tempered only by the limits of a frail human psyche that should break at every threshold, but doesn't. This is a lightshow that not only laughs at the very concept of physics, it exists almost out of pure spite for them.

Caden shaped it with his movements and his words, jumping from language to language in perfect succession. His eyes blazed like miniature suns behind his goggles, and his nose was starting to bleed again but it was only a small trickle. He had the power now, and he had no need to rush through building or containing it anymore. Now he bent it to his will.

He brought his hands forward, and the dome collapsed into them. As lightning went to war on itself, the discordant notes became louder and more focused; like an amateur's symphony relying more on volume than skill. He raised his arms, and the teeming mass turned black with a stark red outline. In complete unison, the chalk from the circle tore off of the ancient, well worked stone of Eluriand's battlements and slammed into the magic. It formed an egg white shell, then turned black as letters and glyphs wrote themselves across its surface in layer after layer.

"It's done," would've been a very rough translation from the Old Diamonic that Caden used to declare the spell's completion.

He focused now. Narrowed his eyes and brought down one hand with two fingers extended. His eyes moved, and the makeshift reticule tilted and angled accordingly. Caden plotted a course, just like most seige technicians plot the trajectories of their ballistas. Then he did two things.

First, he screamed. It bears mention that Caden Law, the Wizard better known to others as Blueraven, does not look very masculine. But this was a scream of ages and war, and it easily overshadowed the songs of the Bladesingers.

Secondly, he brought his other hand down, back, and then forward. He punched the reticule, and there it goes!

Watch it now, screaming down from the battlements and breaking into a wild spiral as it passes over the front lines and quickly descends into the thick of Xem'zund's horde. Undead vanish without so much as an unearthly scream, and magic gouges an awful ditch of glass in its wake; equal parts frozen and molten, and all of it smoking and steaming hellaciously. Corpsedust swirled about it like a comet's tail.

Caden's spell didn't cut through the enemy forces so much as it gouged into them like a metaphysical pickaxe, and its target was none other than the Necromancer himself.

Caden watched this, and so did the Bladesingers. There came the unspoken declaration that this was his only shot; he couldn't do that nameless war-crime again without dipping into magic territories that he was only familiar with from an academic standpoint. For reference, this is the same kind of familiarity most people have with things like arson and mass murder. He was drained. He was tapped out.

The Wizard called Blueraven was not especially religious. Back home, he'd always been one step short of outright heresy. He wasn't superstitious either...

...but he still crossed his fingers, and mumbled a quiet little prayer in his native Salvic. In a situation like this, nobody could blame him.

[Feed The Machine]

War cries escaped Galyl’s mouth while he brandished his blade savagely against the unholy fiends in the midst of the hectic struggle. Several hours had already passed, and the young warrior’s once forest green cloak had already been died a deep crimson. He’d never before been in the middle of so much chaos, nor been in a situation where he truly had to watch his own back at all times, careful to not let an enemy strike him. The line between life and death was extremely thin, so much so that at one moment he found himself among small ally units, defending them, and then the very next moment alone and surrounded by enemies with the dead bodies of those comrades by his feet. He would’ve easily fallen as some of the allies of Raiaera did had he not improved his reactionary instincts. At moments where Galyl instinctively dodged and countered an oncoming sword slash or axe cut, he thought back to his first training session with Findelfin.

“The sword will only move where his body wills it to move, so watch his movements and your defense will be sound."

Such sound advice was the sole reason the Galoriand boy treaded that thin line on the side of life, at least for now.

The grunts, groans, shrieks, and shrills of both the warriors of Raiaera as well as the slaves of Xem’zund echoed strongly through the mid-afternoon sky in almost a rhythmic way. Findelfin was still nowhere in sight, yet at times he thought he heard his voice resound during the few times the battle cries quieted while swords clashed. He wasn’t entirely sure, but as he continued to slay his way through the undead crowds, he heard commanders of the Raiaeran army giving their troops the same orders.

“Men, kill the commanders! Findelfin said to kill the commanders!” Galoriand took another hard look around for his master, yet could not see him. “He has to be around here somewhere! Word couldn’t have traveled that from him!”

Galyl pressed on in the sea of torn, mutilated, and magically charred corpses. As enemies continued to advance, he retaliated without hesitation, further drenching and staining his cloak with blood. However, amidst these hordes, he saw a single man being enclosed by three of the decayed, diseased undead trees that Xem’zund had resurrected. Similar to what Galyl had experienced, this man also had fallen companions scattered around his feet.

“Do you think you’re going to kill me like you did these novices? I’ve already been born into a dead existence!” The warrior laughed in excitement, running up the trunk of one of the evil trees and slashing it completely in half with one strike.

“I know that voice!” The young Bladesinger dashed toward the lone warrior, hopping over a pile of dead bodies that were in a natural ditch. “H….Hiomir!!!”

The man quickly turned around, clearly surprised that anyone on this battlefield would know his name. However his face filled with astonishment upon laying eyes on him. “Galyl!? Is that you!?” Hiomir screamed, cutting through another one of the enemy trees. The last remaining one let out an ungodly roar. Soon after, thick roots shot out of the ground like geysers toward Hiomir. He lunged forward to cut through them as he did the trunks of the previous undead trees, but as he did that, a stray root sprung behind him from the ground. With great speed Galyl lunged toward it, splitting it in two to cover Hiomir’s six. Seamlessly, Hiomir flipped in the air and sliced the final tree down the middle, moving aside as the two massive pieces of wood fell to the ground.

“What the hell are you doing on this battlefield Galyl!?” The two had their backs pressed to one another staying alert for more enemies.

“I could very well ask you the same thing! When did you leave the Obsidian Spire?” Galyl raised his blade to the sword of an aggressive corrupted elf. Hiomir then spun around the two locked in blades and lopped off the head of the attacker.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Back to back formation was again resumed. “A lot of strange things have been happening in the Red Forest for several months now. The monsters were more stirred up than usual. I didn’t like the feeling I was getting so I fled to Carnelost. But much to my surprise, Xem’zund overtook it with a horde of his zombies! I couldn’t just sit back and watch Raiaera fall! I’m a warrior, and I taught you how to be one! I see that you’ve learned well.”

[The Scourge]

His eyes were not on the walltops. Instead, they were fixed on Findelfin, a general who had nearly destroyed his last attempt to take over the city. It was another who finished that job, but Xem'zûnd had paid him back in his own way.

But since his eyes were not on the walltops, he felt the magic too late. Only when it was about to strike did he know it was coming, and he turned in a jiffy, held out one hand to block. A sudden swarm of steam and darkness swirled in front of him, but he could see the light shining through it, coming closer, breaking the shield...shattering his protection......filling his vision........

* * * * *

His bathed his hands in the basin, the water reddening as he scrubbed them clean. Scarlet flowers bloomed on the porcelain as he shook himself dry of the impure liquid. Reaching for a towel, he rubbed off what remained; when he tossed it to the floor, the lingering imprint of his right palm stood as a faint pink design on blank cloth. He then pulled a pair of black gloves on, slowly, relishing the feeling of clean skin against smooth leather.

"Cantor Zundalon, it's Abbot Xem! What happened? He's lying in a pool of blo--what..."

The novice rushing through the door came to a cold standstill, taking in the dotted stains on the Cantor's leather, the slick stain of red trailing across the tile, the bloody bowl and the cast-off towel. His eyes widened as he saw the face of the man..."You...Abbot Xem? But this is Zundalon's room...and the Abbot is in the hallway..." The novice's face paled as he backed away; he couldn't explain it, but he knew something was wrong.

The Cantor held out his hand and the boy ceased moving, every muscle in his body suddenly frozen. With one swift motion, he brought his hand down and the boy fell in a head, red lines flashing across his face and body, a gush of blood hitting the floor. And with a jerking motion, he raised his hand again. The boy rose to stare lifelessly at his new master.

"No, I am still Zundalon, only now I look like Abbot Xem...the poor man heard what I had done, and tried to execute me himself. Sadly for him, he succeeded. Now, young one, I give you enough of your power back to tell the others what I say. I take no name but that given me by convention. I rule the dead. Lord Aesphestos has taught me much, and now I go to reclaim what was once ours, what was Durklan land and soil, Durklan rivers, Durklan forests. For the profaning of the Thayne's library, I will get my vengeance. You people here may sing your songs, but I shall save us all from dying in these mountain hideaways. Go. And when you have told them this, you may die. Never again shall I control the life of one with Durklan blood."

The boy went, and so did the Cantor.

* * * * *

The memory flashed at him as he saw the blow coming for him. He thought it was the end, that he would perish, and do what he always did when he perished. He would rise instantly with all the powers of those who had killed him in years past within him, with a face and a likeness of the one who killed him most recently, and all their powers would be his to command. An ingenious spell that Lord Aesphestos had devised for him, but convenient...and painful.

But the shield held, and he did not die. But he felt the vapors swirling, his body weakened, his powers shifting. It was no good to be seen yet without the trappings of smoke and shade around him; it would reveal his hand at a time when it could not be revealed.

As he quavered on the hilltop, his armies seemed to pause, sensing that they were no longer with a leader. Eyes turned towards his hill, as the mist shrank and the shadows receded, as the nondescript phantasm seemed to burn away in the sunlight, and the hearts of his commanders quailed. They could not see him as a man, not until he was ready.

As the power leached from him, he looked to the east and saw a hill, just beyond the battle site. There could he go to regain his strength, his army was too large to be dispatched while they knew he lived, and he could shed his wounded power safely there and regather it once more around itself.

With one final burst of strength, he gathered his cloak of mingled light and dark, and shot like an arrow over the battlefield, streamers of smoke trailing behind him like garlands of fire. As he flew from the battlefield, he exerted his last will to speak to his commanders.

"I survive, I live, I fight. Continue the battle...for I shall return."

And then he landed on the hilltop and strode down the other side. As he walked, the magic keeping him shielded dissipated, his head cleared, his strength returned. And he smiled to himself as it did, for on the other side of the hill he had found the key he needed; the key that would deliver him the gates of Eluriand.

[Caden Law]

Caden watched. He almost chewed through the skin of his lower lip, and his hands clenched tightly enough to draw miniscule bits of blood at either palm, but he made himself watch anyway. The whole world slowed down for a few seconds, and somebody upstairs must've hit the mute button because everything sounded muffled, as if underwater.

There was an explosion. There was an explosion, then there was the implosion; the weight of fundamental forces on a tangent, brought to bear through the talented if unskilled focus of a Wizard.

When it was over, there was hardly any smoke at all for a few seconds; just thin clouds of steam and fog, boiling and freezing off of a massive ball of glass, chalk, and a hardened substance that used to be skin, bone and armor. It was glossy and black like polished obsidian. It cracked, and then there was smoke. It exploded again, repelled by stronger magicks, and then Caden's heart started sinking. It was in his stomach by the time he knew the spell had truly failed.

It was in his knees by the time the smoke cleared enough to see the Necromancer's silhouette.

...and his heart went out somewhere in the soles of his feet not long after that, for reasons not entirely disconnected.

It started with one of the bards sudden, terminal silence. That alone was enough to jolt Caden back to the world around him. He looked to his right with just enough speed to see blood in the air as the bard went down, his head falling in another direction with lips slowly wrenching out of whatever syllable he'd been holding. His last Turlin arrow clattered to the ground with his bow, and Caden's eyes followed the trail of blood well enough to see the spinning blur of the sword that took him out.

Just like that, the glamour of the Elves broke, and so too did the magic of the Bladesingers.

"TAKE THAT ONE DOWN!" Kenvas suddenly bellowed, and he didn't sound quite as unshakeable as before. Caden took the risk of looking over the edge of the battlements...

...and what he saw wasn't a man. It couldn't have been. It was a thing that maybe, some ages back, was man-like. It was so muscular and long-armed as to be deformed, wearing a ripped cape and dated Coronian armor. Its body was a tapestry of Raiaeran weaponry, and its hands bore a massive, blocky warhammer and a glaive to match.

The Elves on the ground were trying to stop him. Really, they were. And he responded by smashing them away with less dignity than rag dolls. The hammer tore limbs off through sheer blunt force, sending the owners flying like an afterthought. The glaive thrust and slashed and lariated Man and Elf alike, trailing Xem'zund's blood-soaked banner in its wake. When it finally stopped, no less than six Elves slammed into it from all sides. Their swords thrust straight through ancient plate, lodging inches deep into the meat below.

It looked up. Caden met its eyes through sheer bad luck. He almost vomited right then and there.

"STRIKE IT DOWN!" Kenvas ordered, swinging his fluted sword high and instrumenting a song through it. The effect was such that Caden staggered away from the edge and fell to his knees, feeling a cold inside that was nothing like the natural colds of Salvar. There was nothing glamourous to it; no assurance that warmth existed somewhere else, no hope that you might see that warmth.

There was death in those eyes.

He was barely aware of what happened next. Redwyn shouted something over the war beats of her bow and Kenvas' sword. "It's not working!" and she sounded panicked. For the first time, Caden heard an Elf sound panicked.

"Here it comes!" Kenvas declared, and Caden heard screaming from over the edge. "Blueraven! Get up and do your magicks!"

"It didn't work," he answered immediately, then stood. "My spell didn't work."

"Do it again."

"I can't," he admitted, then motioned around. "I don't have a circle anymore..."

Kenvas stared at him. His expression was wholly unreadable, and the look didn't suit him. Whatever pep talks or curses he might've sang or spat, he didn't get the chance.

The thing that once called itself Derris Warson smashed into the battlements of Eluriand like a cannonball from hell, with screaming Elves still hanging onto their swords and trying desperately to channel Turlin magicks into its body. There were arrows sticking out at every angle, and those weren't working either.

"Damn," was all Kenvas had time to say before joining the battle. The banners of Blueraven and Xem'zund clashed and snapped in four, with the Necromancer's emblem raining down into the streets and Blueraven's being sundered to the ground on the other side of the wall.

Warson cast aside the banner and struck first. Kenvas was good, but he wasn't good enough. The hammer thrust into his chest like a battering ram and snapped the clamps holding his plate in place -- and that was before the impact threw him all the way to the door of a nearby watchtower.

Leister drew his swords and rushed forward. The other bards threw down their bows and took up their blades as well, he was just quicker. Derris turned to him, Leister struck, and the warhammer sliced neatly in three. Then there were four razors sticking out the back of Leister's head, and he died screaming without a tune.

Warson tore free and cast the bard's body over the nearest wall. The footsoldiers still clinging to their swords were suddenly weapons; another bard slipped forward and went for an elegant uppercut, and the body of her own cousin slammed into her like a baseball bat at a hundred miles per hour. They went over the wall on the city side, a broken mass of tonedeafened screaming and pain. Another two soldiers became projectile weapons, and Redwyn and another bard dodged them with equal parts grace and horror; the soldiers hit a door to the watchtower behind them and kept going. Their broken corpses left trails of blood and gore the whole way down the stairs.

"Rally!" Redwyn shouted, and Warson lunged and--

A stone shot up from the floor and nailed the soulless monster in its chin. A normal man would've been killed in an instant by that, but Warson's head merely snapped back and the creature stopped -- more from surprise than any concept of pain. The stone flipped back down and shattered on Warson's head, but this head no real effect either.

Warson looked over its shoulder. Caden met it in the eyes again, arms outstretched and knees shaking, but he did not blink this time.

"Run," he ordered.

"No," Redwyn answered, and just like that she signed her death warrant.

She lunged forward, and Warson disarmed her with a backhand that shattered her blade against his gauntlet. Undeterred, she stepped through and plucked twin Turlin swords from its chest and back, flipping them overhanded as she spun around. The other bard started singing...

...then stopped.

Suddenly and violently and all over the wall of the nearest watchhouse. There was a sword sticking out of his throat. Without stopping for a moment, Warson ducked down and the blades that should have beheaded him slit the air and left a golden trail in their wake. The undead leapt up with an animalistic roar, and came back down with both sets of claws to match. Caden tried to work his magicks -- he really, really tried.

He just wasn't powerful enough, and Redwyn wasn't quick enough either. A barrier spell flared over her, and Warson smashed right through it like it wasn't even there. His claws didn't slice down through the Lisselin, so much as they ripped her to pieces in a splatter of gore. Her only distinction at all was that she didn't have the time or the vocal chords to die screaming.

"Fuck," Caden would've said in a thousand different languages at once, but settled on Coronian. "You bastar--" He ducked. Claws and a fist the size of a watermelon tore through the air above him, and then he was on his back and he was rolling and Warson's boot broke the stone where he'd been laid out.

Caden scrambled away and turned with a flourish, and magic burst around him like a tracer shaped on intentions: In this case, it took the form of a watery splash of energy, like cresting waves.

Warson burst right through it. Caden ducked by him, turned and fired a lightning bolt into the undead's back. Electricity coursed through a quarter ton of iron and steel, and Warson shrugged that off too.

Caden ducked away again, waved his arms up and brought fire this time...

And then the wall beneath his feet exploded as Warson tore a chunk off the battlements and threw it at him. Caden faltered back and almost went over. He drew his sword faster this time, because Fear can do all kinds of things that Skill only dreams about. He began to channel magic into it, and the steel responded with a bitter note like a tuning fork gone wrong.

"Begone!" he shouted, then swept forward with all the grace of an inept amateur and all the speed of a wild animal.

Except that his rookie blasphemy's worth of an exorcism was wholly reliant on physical force and metal to work, and Warson was stronger and wearing armor as well. The sword clanged off of his metal gauntlet, and it was all Caden could do to avoid sharing Leister's fate. Warson's fat thumb still came within an inch of breaking his nose.

Caden ducked under the undead's arm, spun around and took another swing.

Somewhere between that and the ground, Derris nailed him with a forearm. Not only did it hurl Caden back into the wall, it broke the wall, and then sent him flying straight out into the air with a massive trench smashed into his chestplate. The Wizard screamed, and the last thing he saw of his former station was Golaster Kenvas charging back into the fray, his sword held high and his song blaring loudly.

Then it stopped.

The earth welcomed its fallen champion, with the sombre reminder that Caden had never been anyone's hero in the first place.

[Sighter Tnailog]

((Galyl, I bunnied you a good bit in this thread; if any of it is bad, just let me know, I had to get some stuff done strategy and story-wise, but wanted to catch up with you by this thread.))

The bolt flew past them with all the fury of the sun in the Black Desert at high noon; not only over them, but through them. Had Findelfin's troops made their charge fifty yards west of their current position, Blueraven's would have slipped through them, and they would have perished just as quickly as the undead.

But as it stood, Findelfin merely watched in something approaching awe as the magical assault struck the monstrously swollen figure of Xem'zund that stood on the far hill, the form that seemed to have no shape except what thought ascribed to it, alternatingly a tree, then a mountain, then a terrible man, but always wreathed in a smoke and haze that guarded its true features. That hellish figure seemed to cry out as the blast struck it full on.

For a moment the undead drew back; they were frightened. His troops redoubled their efforts, and along the line a few of the ancient elves fell, still ruthless, but yet somehow diminished rudderless without Xem'zund's power flowing into them. The dark form of Xem'zund suddenly flew into the air from the jagged cairn, zooming away with bewildering speed to rest behind the crest of an eastern hill. The fight did not seem to return to his troops, however, and Findelfin used the advantage to wheel Pelektar and observe the battle from a better vantage point than in it.

As he was spurring his way out of the quagmire, he saw a face he recognized, and his temper flared hot. Rushing forward, his hand reached down and he hauled Galyl Galoriand up, slinging the boy across the back of his saddle. "I should have known I'd find you here, come, if you must fight, at least fight from here where I can protect you! Away!" Findelfin didn't even heed the protests of an elvish warrior who seemed to be talking to Galyl, he simply spurred Pelektar onwards and carried them out of the fray.

Wheeling at the edge, where the infantry formation was doing battle with strange birds and the archers were doing their best to hit the air-borne beasts without striking down their comrades, he said to Galyl, "Look, Galyl. The undead falter; something happened to their leader, and no matter his orders as he fled the fight has gone out of them."

Letting Galyl down, he said, "Lad, I can't keep you from this battle. Stick with this group of infantry, they'll keep you safe, and do what they tell you. But to wield a sword against Raiaera's enemies is important now."

Shouting up the battlements to Varalad, who watched the battle with his small council, Findelfin cried, "High Bard! It is time for you and one of each of the school representatives to head back to the city, and prepare for the final blows. It looks as if we may get the chance to strike! Tell the Bladesingers General to empty the city of every Megilindar it holds, we have a chance to finish this now, and the Turlin Bladesingers are especially important." Varalad nodded and left.

It was fairly calm here. The harpies had begun to realize that the elvish bowman were too good, and had left to assault the charge Findelfin had left in Tyreles' hands. That charge had done its duty, but even with the faltering undead it appeared they could use some help; the front lines of the elvish charge that Findelfin had led appeared from his position near the city to have done what it needed to do, it was time to move in infantry.

"Infantry! Quick march, ram their bulkheads at the weakest points! Vanguard, move west and then circle into them just north of the bridge, auxiliaries charge the middle...reserve, we're committed, march east with me, we'll strike when a weakness appears in the formations. March"

He wheeled his horse to pace slowly with the marching army as the infantry divisions, suddenly flush with Bladesingers from the city under the command of the Bladesingers General, began to move out. Pelektar paced forward, keeping time with the marching soldiers; his own eyes watched the battle intently, waiting to order the infantry into the fray as soon as a good-sized hole appeared in the undead line. They were falling back all over now, but there were still so many of them. And they could still fight like madmen.

((Now, Xem'zund supporters: you are all a bit demoralized by the assault on your leader, so play accordingly.))

[Twisted Infinitum]

The hot blast overhead and the subsequent unhinging of the army were lost upon Rask, for he had found a brother underfoot. The ancient elf's head was cleaved open, its brain grey and moist as Mother Nature returned to bring about the frostbitten body's thaw. He snarled deep in his throat, brewing the sound louder and thicker until it burst from him as a rattling battle cry. He would have shouted, "For the glory of...", but he had no names. His country's, his brothers', his own birth name were all lost to time and failing memory. But, if he had known, he would have shouted it until every pretty elven head rang and bled from tiny ears. His people would not be beaten like the frail, fleeting masses they commanded.

Rask sheathed the swords in his hands and gripped his brother's fallen blade. It felt awkward, heavy and unbalanced in relation to his hunched frame. But, he was the only one who could make them remember. So, he stood still and narrow-eyed, looking inward. Zombies staggered past him, keeping the enemy at bay, though he would not have known.

It was not a lesson or ritual that had shown his people how to cut with the air. It was a philosophy, and it was buried somewhere in the fog of his memory. Air began life, he remembered, it allowed life to exist and held it in place. Then, life began will, the power to change the world that air bound together. Will spawned desires and dreams, pushing the boundaries of life until more was created, not by chance, but my design. And so, air spread to contain it, because the truly evolved knew that their boundaries were only a skin of air. His kind, above all, knew that everything around them, especially their own matter and aura, were fluid, moldable, and utterly under their control.

Rask exhaled, not from his mouth but through his weapon as he heaved it in a wide, horizontal arc. The living that had just broken through before him were pushed back on an invisible wave that sent them into the chests of those behind. The lizard man tried so hard to smile, but could only bare teeth menacingly as he looked for his standing brothers. Only one was in view, a spired head amid the throng. Even from that distance, though, Rask could see that the gifted authority was gone. The zombies milled frantically about, leaving the ancient elf closed in yet completely alone.

"Fall back!" he rasped, calling vocally and mentally through their ancestral ties instead of their faltering power structure. Two elves lunged upon him from the group he had pushed back, and one quickly died as Rask's new sword was drawn through his gut in the wake of a sidestep. The other elf took the opening, lunging forward with his sword tip extended. Rask let the momentum of his sword carry it farther from the threat, and he used his free hand to grab the nearest zombie by its neck and embed it on the elf's weapon. The attacker staggered long enough for the long sword to be brought around and sever the necks of both undead and living. "Let the inferior ones take the brunt!" he ordered as he retreated farther into the undead horde.

~

Of all the loyal eyes that watched Xem'zund's aura break, Vipress' were the calmest, though not by much. She knew that he could not die, though she did not know the mechanism. It had been an overriding theme in every dream of his, that immortal pride and security that she found so endearing. What bothered her, after the instinctual knot in her non-existent stomach at seeing him retreat in tatters, was fear for the campaign. She had put so much into shaping it, shaping him. If it was all for naught, she couldn’t do it again, not while still trapped in this stinking pit of a world. Hurry! she sent to him, compassionate and demanding in equal parts.

Then, she willed the unicorn to leave her. It kicked off, jumping over the undead heads and leaving her hovering in the air. Its hooves came to rest on the shoulders of the nearest living elves, breaking them like long grass, and its horn speared body after body, only to throw them aside, still screaming. But, it was only one beast against a city. The once beautiful coat turned ever more crimson as it broke deeper into the enemy ranks, its rider-shaped growth flapping like a banner of what it intended for the mortals when had dared to drive it into its first death. In that swirling sea of sharp mortal steel and sharper mortal determination, it found its second death.

"We don't have time," Vipress hissed as she came to rest alongside the cloaked shadow.

The empty voice spoke without the slightest hint of concern, "The greater beasts will not settle for a toll paid only in old flesh." Below the cloak's hem, those undead bodies still lay untouched and useless.

The living were pushing them back too far. Vipress could see it clearly as the line of the battlefield drew ever closer to her position, and god as she was, this body was not made for the front lines. "Fools," she spat, and her serpentine hair hissed. The fresh dead lay under the feet of the advancing elves, unseen and mocking. She needed a cudgel to bash open the doors of that buffet.

It approached in the form of three red armored backs. The middle was hunched and twisted as it worked a sword slightly too heavy for its musculature, and the other two stood tall and composed, shifting gracefully side to side as the press of enraged zombies dictated. "Rask!", Vipress shouted.

The middle figure braced the sword at his side in a storm of blood and dust, then cleaved that storm outward to dent the advancing line. "What?" he finally responded, turning belligerently.

"We need to break through as far as-"

"Impossible!" the lizard snapped, and heaved out another pacifying burst of air that made his shoulders slump with exhaustion.

Vipress strode forward and planted a hand on the back of the lizard's skull. I will tell you what's impossible, she said directly into his mind. With it, she included the familiar exploratory pulse that, throughout their travels together, had been revealing his lost memories, piece by piece, and been keeping his cognitive self from falling into bestial madness. There were no new revelations this time, though, only the assurance that he could not truly exist for long without her.

"Very well," he grumbled submissively as he jerked his head away and took a step toward the enemy. He knew who his master was.

[Feed The Machine]

Galyl walked beside his master, breathing heavily with his sword clutched tightly. He was still in shock as to what had happened, since he'd never been handled in such a forceful manner before. It wasn't so much embarrassment, but the fact that Findelfin could've been an enemy. Had the young warrior not gotten a glimpse of the legendary elf's golden locks at the time of apprehension, his wooden blade would've most assuredly sunk its sharpened edge into the fair toned flesh of his master. The rashness and immaturity in the Obsidian Spire native wanted to foolishly reprimand Findelfin, strongly inquiring as to why he'd done such a thing. But the rational, logical side of his mind knew the reason, and understood that at this crucial time in the history of Raiaera, now would be an inappropriate time to discuss such matters.

As the infantry squad awaited Findelfin’s orders to act, Galyl pondered over Hiomir. At the time, the fellow Galoriand had seemed to be trying to say something as his former student was whisked away, but Galyl couldn’t hear him over the roaring voices of the warring parties. Concerned as he was, the squire was confident enough that his previous teacher would make it out of the war alive. “Hiomir’s much too strong to die against these opponents. Especially since Xem’zund’s forces have lost a great deal of morale.”

The time was nearing. Every muscle in the Galoriand’s body tensed up due to a mixture of fear, anxiety, and excitement. The look on his master’s face was a concerned one, but a confident one as well. “Master, your plan is going to work, isn’t it?” Galyl did not take his attention off of the battlefield since he did not want Findelfin to see the uncertainty in his eyes. However, all emotions that the Bladesinger experienced were conquered by an intense fear that washed over his body. He remained still and focused, making it appear to anyone who was looking at him that nothing in particular had changed. But the strange static noise and eerie voice that invaded his eardrums during his first visit to the Bladesinger’s Guild had returned.

“This is a glorious display of carnage and death, isn’t it slave!? Ah, I feel the presence of my creator!!!” Galyl said nothing as the machine that he was enslaved to spoke. “I crave power, boy….you….you must give me more power! Slay your enemies and give their power to me……DO NOT DISOBEY ME!”

The terror of the machine’s voice was getting easier to deal with, but it still instilled initial fear in him when he heard it. Once the sound of the machine and the static noise that accompanied it dissipated, Galyl wiped the sweat from his forehead. He knew Findelfin had also heard the voice, since he was present the first time that the machine had spoken to his disciple. The Galoriand though, didn’t attempt to brush it off of hide what had just occurred. Instead, he continued to remain silent, awaiting his master’s command to strike.