NWO Vs. Imperial: Group One

[Christoph]

((Lasair has rights to first post until 36 hours goes by. At that point, a member of NWO may post first if they wish. Also, in the title box for each post, I'd like it if all participants identified which faction they are fighting for (NWO or Imperial) to help prevent confusion. Good luck to all participants, and have fun!

For anyone who doesn't know what group they are in: refer here. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showpost.php?p=107317&postcount=6)))

[Lasair Anubail]

She was pacing.

The hard soles on the bottom of her little black boots were beating against the cool, wooden floor of her room as she walked from one side of it to the other. Her small hands clenched and released reflexively as her golden eyes stared off at nothing before her and ye took in everything about her room. The small space was barely decorated with small things that the Fae had found and collected around the manor, things she was sure that the man named Dirks would hardly even notice missing, including a number of books and trinkets placed on the small table. There was a stone fireplace against the north wall that had no flame within it now. Her small but comfortable bed was opposite the fireplace and there was a small writing desk and chair for her. It was friendly and comfortable, but it wasn’t home. It was just another place for her to stay while she travelled the world of Althanas, but right now it was becoming a haven.

When Ter-Ter had asked her to help with this battle, this weird clan war, Lasair had declined. She didn’t know how to fight and she certainly didn’t think her skills would be of much use at all for the clan. She’d more likely get in the way than help. She didn’t know any magic other than her synthesizing and that was certainly not going to help her in this kind of situation. But eventually, their leader had persuaded the small Fae to help and even given her a commanding position. She couldn’t believe it. Part of her just wanted to shake the woman a few times and try to knock some sense into her, the other part of her was so elated she felt like dancing right here in her room. It was quite confusing and also nerve wracking. Especially the waiting part, for Imperial could do nothing right as they waited for the approaching forces of New World Order and Gol’bron to make an appearance.

Oh, what if they’re giant, monster men that eat little Fae for breakfast? Oh, what’ll I do then?

She shook her head, clearing it of such thoughts. No race ate Fae that was just nonsense.

Knowing that staying in her room wasn’t going to get anything done, Lasair grabbed her leather Never-Ending rucksack off the edge of her bed. She’d made sure to pack everything that she thought would be useful, including some of the only items she had that could be considered weapons. That also meant she packed Tristram, Avery and Godhand too since they were her protectors after all. If anything happened to her in this war, she knew they would save her, no matter what.

Slinging the traps over her shoulders, Lasair took a deep breath and then swung open the door to her room, head held high and ready to take on the armies of Haidia. She was going to give them a beating they’d never forget! Somehow...

She didn’t make it very far down the hallway before a sudden and green light encased her entire person. Confused and slightly worried, the Fae tried to out run the light, letting out a light squeak as she felt her entire body shift and move, but not move. A tingling sensation ran rampant across her skin and the strong magic nearly gave her a pounding headache. The Fae knew a teleportation spell when she practically stepped in one and was whisked away to some crazed person’s imagined playground.

Sensation came back to her suddenly and left her feeling cold.

Her feet were back on solid ground but before she could even think to move or react she felt them slip and give out beneath her. Her legs went up and for a brief moment she found herself suspended in the air before she went crashing down to the cold, wet and slippery ground. Her butt, back—cushioned by her rucksack—and head slammed into the hard ice, dazing the small woman for a moment as she looked up at the bright expanse of blue sky above her.

“Ohhh... owwie, owwie, owwie!”

Whimpering, she slowly stood up, rubbing the back of her skull and her bottom, which felt rather tender and sore at the moment. Her hands ran across her simple curves, smoothing down her rumpled and dark blue dress as she straightened herself and regained her composure. Taking a proper look around her, Lasair realized she was currently standing within the middle of a large, frozen lack surrounded on all sides by tall, beautiful mountains that reached towards the expanse of blue sky, trying to pierce it with their sharp peeks. Snow covered their grey and black rocks and the high sun created deep shadows and crevices that looked like painful scars. That wasn’t all though, not only were they now standing on a frozen body of water but they were surrounded by some kind of building!

It was massive and made from deep, grey stones that at one point in time could have been beautifully decorated and carved, only time and weather seemed to have taken its toll on the building, leaving it to crumble. It did, parts of the circular monstrosity had fallen away, and leaving gaping holes and dangerous footholds in areas that otherwise looked safe and easy to climb upon.

This must be our battlefield.

Yep and just like that, Lasair finally noticed the multitude of people here beside her. There were a few faces that she recognized from Imperial, they were all standing around in the same area she was, but no Ter-Ter. Across the way, some safe twenty feet or so from her was what she guessed to be the New World Order and The Company forces. They appeared to be getting their bearings upon their battleground just as much as she was.

Remembering that Ter-Ter had wanted Lasair to give their attackers one last chance to surrender, the small Fae took a couple of steps forward. The ice wasn’t impossible to walk upon, but it was difficult. Dheathain saw ice sometimes in the winter, but not very often and so this was going to make things a little difficult to her.

She cleared her throat. “Members of New World Order and The Company!” Her voice rang out throughout the large building and the silence of their battlefield, louder than her small frame should be allowed to shout. “Imperial gives you one last chance to surrender and end this war!”

She nodded her head as the last word left her lips, knowing that such a speech would have made Ter-Ter proud of her. Quickly recognizing two silver haired and red eyed men in the ground, Lasair raised her arm and waved at them excitedly, practically squealing.

“Ohhh! Hi, Godhand! Hi, Jame!”

Maybe if she was lucky, they’d feel like getting something to eat together after this was all over.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin didn't know any of these people.

He had followed Rayse's instructions. "Meet the group where the road to Gisela enters the forest. You will be advancing on the manor directly; we need you in the brunt of the assault both as a cool head and a strong sword. The others will be approaching through the woods to the north of the estate, and will show up shortly after the first skirmish to surprise and bewilder the enemy. Good luck."

Short, succinct. What Findelfin had seen of the man on the train to Ettermire and during their peril in the city's great library suggested that Rayse Valentino was a man of few words.

They had gathered in silence, and so far none had spoken save one who called himself Godhand and said that he was commanding the assault. Findelfin had been expecting to see Rayse among this group. Or maybe Ashiakin. But he did not expect to see five people he knew vaguely or not at all.

He kept telling himself he was in this for Raiaera. His discussions with Rayse indicated that The Company could assist tremendously in shipping weapons and other goods to the elven resisters. So he was here for one reason: to cement The Company's reputation and thus increase the flow of goods to Raiaera. And he'd also heard of shadowy forces behind Imperial's organization; forces he was not inclined to trust.

But even as the one who called himself Godhand gestured to them to move out, Findelfin was feeling a tinge of regret. He had learned not a few mornings before that Letho Ravenheart would be fighting for Imperial. His whisperers in Daer Taurë said that Captain Raelyse, who he had worked with once in the Red Forest, had vanished after the fall of Anebrilith and had signed up to protect Imperial. A Coronian hero and a Raiaeran warrior made Imperial's side somewhat more...noble. And here he was, fighting alongside a smattering of folks who appeared no better than criminals.

But there was no time to think it through. The manor wall had been getting closer for some time, and at last they reached it. The structure was low-slung, an ivy-crawled stone fortification only five feet high. Findelfin could have lifted himself over the edge, but there was no need: the gate was hanging open.

They know we're coming; why leave the gate open? It was suspicious, so he entered slowly. He nocked an arrow to his bowstring and held it loosely in one hand, pushing one open. Taking a look inside, he turned back to the rest of the group. So far, none of them had spoken.

And none of them would. A green light flashed, and Findelfin blinked.

* * * * *

It was only an instant before his eyes opened, but before they did he could feel the cold.

It was penetrating, holistic; its tendrils seemed to stretch through the leather and scale of his brigandine, through his undershirt, through his pores, seeping into him. It put down its roots in his body, roots that ran deep and began slowly sucking his life out of him. Not since he had almost died in Salvar had he felt a chill like this.

But for now he had to ignore it. There were more important things to worry about, such as where he was. Standing across from his ragtag group of fighters was another group. He recognized Letho Ravenheart and the proud sigils of the Bladesingers on the cloak of Raelyse. His face scanned the others, and with a shuddering thud his heart skipped a beat. No!

Skie dan Sabriel stood with Imperial, her hand on the hilt of a sword that had always been drawn side-by-side with his own. He wanted to sink to his knees and let the cold claim him. He heard the words of the small one echoing far beyond her size, but he understood none of them. He was fighting against Skie dan Sabriel. As that fact sank in, he came to a thought that had never occurred to him.

I have no idea who I am.

[Woshington]

Woshington knew only one of these people.

Navigating tangibility was not a distressing experience for a young man who had been born and died across the dimensional expanses of the omniverse. In fact, he was starting to enjoy it. It reminded Woshington of a soothing childhood memory; it was like every time he’d felt the tropical sun warm his shoulders without burning his dark skin. Woshington was every inch an equatorial creature. So, more than your typical Althanian, Woshington felt this abrupt coldness. A stiff pain flushed through his lungs as he took a deep breath for the first time, but he wouldn’t concede in his stance that he was suffering. Yet, in his mind, Woshington begrudgingly accepted that he would not last long in this environment. These enemies had to be swiftly put down.

Woshington’s overall form was lean and toned, intermediately tall; Woshington was clad in topical big city wares. This was a harsh divergence of man and environment. The bare black flesh of his chest was engorged with his deep breath while the rest of his torso was draped in nothing more than an open and loose-fitting shirt, extravagant in its colours and design. An image of a saintly female glowing with divine light was airbrushed onto a base of yellow with blue and green trim—she was white like snow, while Woshington was so dark that his skin carried an almost blue shimmer. His baggy shorts were equally ill-suited to the current climate. Weapons-wise, Woshington felt the weight of his lighter in the breast pocket of his shirt, his compliment of spray paint cans, which were solvent-based, sat in slots at his narrow waist in a belt designed purposely for graffiti artists, while his rudimentary crossbow was clipped onto the belt at his right hip.

Back home he’d commanded skirmishes on the city streets, and even now he felt confident enough to step towards the front of the New World Order mob. Other than this initial show of bravado, Woshington was giving little else away to his mysterious allies. He weighed them up in the same way he had his foes. The only man he was familiar with was Teric Bloodrose, whose reserved confidence he had experienced previously. Woshington was thankful for Teric’s steadying influence.

Woshington ran his right hand over the fuzzy periphery of his short and bouncy ‘fro, widening his eyes to take in his surroundings. The expansive ice sheet under his feet felt uneasy, he’d never seen ice before, let alone stood on it, and while standing still was easy enough, moving on it was a concern. Raising his head back he saw his refuge, the fundamentally classical style of a coliseum was exactly what he needed for the role he’d confirmed earlier with Bloodrose. Woshington stepped deliberately on the ice, turning a full circle while examining for corridors and pillars in the grand enclosure. The methodical portion of his personality came to dominate his audacious tendencies, the kind of troublesome tendencies innate to a trumped up street thug with intermittent leadership skills.

A disparaging grimace formed on his gaunt face as the little Fae female began to speak. An emaciated hand beat exactly nine times against an opportune drum: his bare chest swollen with its own hot air. In spite of the bony digits the broad flattened palm produced a deep thud that reverberated in the excellent acoustics of the open arena. Woshington roared, “The Company, little sista, here representing the New World Order.” his alien accent leered out of his fleshy lips and cut into the crisp air. Woshington was attempting to speak over Lasair Anubail’s final plea for mercy. His lithe body lurched forward threateningly as he preached, his typically bright eyes restricted to an accusing glare as he evaluated Anubail and friends.

Woshington sneered, “ya heard of us? Ya heard of us? Get ready for a fucking holocaust.”

With no roots, no history, no real enemies, and still to establish solid comrades in the Company, Woshington was left with one sentiment only: he was relishing the fight. Decidedly unlike his pensive elf comrade. Woshington was reckless and shallow, or he was ruthless and efficient. But still shallow. He was driven only by greed, egotism and vanity. And. And, an exaggerated tendency towards violence. To begin with, that was the depth of Woshington’s role in this epic, but as time drew out he would no doubt become a more important player.

[grim137]

Another calm before the storm...

Another period of nervous rest and uneasy quietness...

...It all came before yet another war and another chance for Xanbata Grim to not only indiscriminately kill those around him and but also to be hailed as a hero for it. Unlike so many others that he would be fighting along side, and against for that matter, this was not his first war.

Xanbata was clad in cotton pants, a silk cloak, and a cotton undershirt (in addition to his usual weapons and armor of course), all of which contained the colors of the imperial and had the imperial emblem printed on them somewhere. Being a mercenary that was relatively unknown to most of his fellow soldiers, and fighting along side guys who'd likely never served in an actual war, the psychotic yet clever vampire figured it was in his best interest if his temporary allies could tell he was on there side fairly easily.

“The fuck's this thing going to start?”

Xanbata's leather boots crunched on the hard ground outside the walls of Imperial's manor, as he paced around the court yard smoking a Salvarian cigar. The sinister swordsman was not nervous, just impatient. The vampire's dark master, Do'negh, had gone into seclusion, wrapped up in whatever studies or experiments his twisted mind had decided to focus on, it left his men, even his generals such as Xanbata with little to do. While the most of Do'negh's other minions had decided to appreciate the peace, the livelike vampire had grown restless and thus decided to pick up mercenary work once again. Given his current location, it obviously hadn't taken him long to find work.

“I swear to god, these people should be glad I don't charge by the hour,” growled the impatient blood sucker under his breath as as finished off his cigar and flicked the the remains off into the ground.

Then it happened. A flash of green, and a slightly uneasy feeling with in Xanbata's stomach, and the right before the vampire's relatively new eyes, the scenery changed. Despite numerous visits to the citadel and numerous experiences with teleportaion, the formally blind vampire had never experienced such a thing since his revival, and therefore the toll it took on his visual sense, even if his other senses recovered rather quickly, was rather unexpected.

When his vision finally did recover the sight the greeted the sadistic vampire couldn't help but make him smile. Why? Because it was just like home. Unlike so many others the monster that was Xanbata Grim had grown accustomed to, hell he actually liked, the frigid cold. For one who lived, who trained, who hunted in the arctic mountains of Salvar, fighting on the ice and in the cold were nothing new.

“Eeny, meany, minny, moe...” muttered the arrogant vampire in his head as he surveyed the opposition. He was making an important decision, which one of them should he focus on first.

That is he was until one of them spoke, and declaring that the battle would be a holocaust. For some reason this comment struck something deep with in the predator. It reminded him that he'd survived a genocide long ago, before ever dreaming that a place like Althanas could even exist. This was back when he was still Tarry Whealer and still human.

“I call dibs on the loud mouthed nigger,” said Xanbata coldly to no one in particular.

He had made his decision.

[Bloodrose]

It wasn't so much the cold of their new battleground that bothered Teric the most in those first few moments. No, from battling Northmen along the southern edges of Berevar, to lurking for days in a shallow trench under the Black Desert sun, the veteran campaigner had fought in worse conditions than this. Adapt or die. Teric remembered an old comrade saying once, and thirty-plus years in his profession had given the warrior plenty enough practice at adapting...

No, what bothered Teric the most was that Imperial seemed to know the New World Order and its allies were coming, and had prepared in fine fashion for their arrival...

...six, seven, eight. The veteran counted the defenders of Imperial standing opposite them on the frozen lake, taking careful note of distinguishing features for each. They're certainly not without enough allies. Teric thought, toying purposefully with the hilt of his new weapon. He remembered his opening discussions with the leaders of NWO, the one in which they had assured him Imperial was undermanned, and that The Company was being hired more to keep Imperial from contacting the mercenary organization than it was to assure a victory in the fight.

Given these new developments, Teric lamented silently, my job just got a little more involved.

Still, being outnumbered wasn't as terrible a situation as it could have been. The five comrades assembled at Teric's side were the heavy-hitters. They were the Stoßtruppen, Berevean slang for "shock troops", originally intended to engage Imperial and its allies in battle while the NWO and Company reserves took the flank. The numbers may have been five on eight, but with names like Godhand Striker, Dan Lagh'ratham, Jame Whitizard of Kaosi fame, and even the legendary Findelfin ap Fingolfin on his side, Teric had to wonder just in whose favor the battle was stacked.

Even Woshington, with his brash confidence and undeniable swagger, could prove to be a valuable asset in the fight ahead.

Who knows, Teric thought off-handedly, perhaps Imperial's treasury is still within reach.

Readying himself for the coming brawl, the old warrior quit thinking about the how and why of his involvement. Another thing he'd learned a long time ago: "Mercenaries aren't paid to think about whether or not a battle is winnable. Mercenaries are paid to win battles."

It was too bad for Imperial that The Company's monetary interest in the battle was contingent on a victory, because that only gave the veteran more incentive to fight...

[Raelyse]

He was no soldier. He was no shock trooper. Maybe if you stretched the meaning of the word, he could be a warrior. Whatever he was, by the end of the skirmish, by the time the last sword had been sheathed, there was only one winner. He had won because he was crafty, conniving and because simply, he was no soldier. He had won because he was Raelyse.

------

The power group Imperial had enlisted help from far and wide, desperately searching for any who would lend blades to their cause against the New World Order. Maybe they should have been more stringent with their recruiting policy because among those that would fight with them was a Myrusian, skilled with the sword but better with his brain. He cared not for his allies, nor for his enemies. His brain never worked for any other faction other than himself. He did not know about Imperial or New World Order. He did not know what they fought for or why they fought.

He only knew that the best warriors from all over were gathering, representing the two sides. Stories would be told and songs would be sung in taverns and homes all over Althanas of the battle that was waged. It was just the opportunity that he needed. It would be the moment that Althanas forgot about the rest and began what would be its long love affair with Raelyse.

As Raelyse rested in his quarters, he could not help but eye his two enchanted swords with excitement. They were metal and unthinking but somehow he could sense that they too were impatient for it to begin. He extended his open palm and used his telekinesis to summon Ilrathion, the long sword, to him. Unsheathing the blade, he glanced upon the finely crafted weapon, perfect in every way. It was eager to taste blood, he knew, but like its wielder, it would have to wait. Raelyse would not charge into battle like some sort of barbarian.

It would take all sorts of cunning to survive this war, especially since he was at a distinct disadvantage. He had no idea who his allies and who his enemies were. In the black and white sense, he was fighting with Imperial against the New World Order. Once color was infused however, it became much more complicated. His mind didn't dwell on that for very long because a green light flashed before him and in a moment, it was time.

The first thing to hit him was the cold. Then, it was the power. This area was rich with it. Alongside him stood seven others, each vibrating with their own magical energies. Each unique, but some of much more interest. Powerful individuals did not usually hide their power and Raelyse's magical talents were able to pick them up and tell him just how powerful they really were. He didn't think on that for very long however, because the faction opposite him radiated energy too. Five different sources, five different means to widen his smile and send shivers down his spine.

Raelyse knew a few individuals on both sides, knew them as former enemies or present allies but he cared not. His mind was going insane from all this power around him.

Every moment he was here was another moment that would be translated to legend and song.

[Letho]

“Amateurs. I’m dealing with goddamn amateurs.”

Perhaps it was a bit of a harsh conclusion, a prejudice born out of mere minutes spent alongside his temporary allies, but the thought was there, it seemed justified and it vexed the Corone Ranger. What else was he to make of this hodgepodge congregation that stood around him when the supposed leader of the group he was a part of stepped forward and greeted her opponents with a smile? And who in their right mind would appoint a tiny, chirpy redhead as the leader in the first place? It was ludicrous. Imperial obviously didn’t like its treasury a whole lot if this was how they decided to square off against their adversaries.

Standing in the back of this group of eight warriors – and his mind certainly used that classification lightly in this particular instance – Letho Ravenheart tapped the butt end of his spear against the ground, testing the integrity of the surface below. He liked the previous setting a whole lot more. A manor was no castle that could be held with ease against a stronger opponent, but it offered a lot more tactical options than a slab of ice and decrepit ruins of a coliseum. Its walls provided cover, stories elevated ground and every room could be turned into a miniature battlefield. Instead of that, they now had an all-out fight at their hands, turning the two groups into little less then rams charging headlong at each other. And on top of that, soil beneath their feet was exchanged by treacherous ice, making every step a lottery. On such a surface, luck was just as important as skill.

When the man with black skin and a queer hairdo called out towards them, Letho took a deep breath and let it out in an irritated sigh, feeling the chill pour into his lungs. Showmanship. It was usually proof of weakness and little else. That was why the legendary swordsman disregarded the foul-mouthed black man and turned his eyes to the rest of his comrades. There were more familiar faces on the other side of the battlefield then they were around him. In fact, out of six juxtaposed combatants, only two were unknown to the Ranger. With others he was quite well acquainted one way or the other, and they were all bad news. Godhand Striker and Dan Lagh’ratham pretty much fit the same profile; they were killers with little consideration for anything save their own personal agendas, vanquishers and destroyers. That was perhaps why it was so odd to see Findelfin ap Fingolfin, somewhat of a complete contrast, standing next to them. The elf had honor and wisdom and integrity; he shouldn’t have joined sides with such common brigands. But he had his reasons, just as Letho had his.

Seeing as the only tactic that their current leader had in mind was to sweet-talk the band on the other side and possibly destroy them with politeness, the bearded swordsman took a couple of calculated steps forward until he stood in the rough center of the group. Somebody had to take responsibility for organizing the defense. If this turned into a hectic strife, the Imperial would lose to the sheer might of the invaders. They needed to play it smart, subtle.

“Try to stay as close as possible to each other,” he began in a rough, commanding voice, his eyes constantly observing the New World Order members and their possible advance. “They’re stronger than us in a single combat, so if we disperse, they will pick us out one by one. If we fight as a unit, we might have a chance. We should try to form a sort of a triangle. I’ll take point. Whoever has skill with a sword should form up behind me. Hopefully, we’ll draw Godhand’s and Dan’s attention.”

He gestured to Logan next. Letho met the man only moments before the battle was to take place, exchanged no more than several sentences back in the manor, but that was enough time to acknowledge his telepathic abilities and their usefulness in a combat. “Logan here will convey further instructions. He’s...what you call it? A mind-reader?”

This wouldn’t hold, Letho knew. They were no platoon of soldiers that knew how to obey orders in the heat of the battle, they had no shields to fend off an advance, but it was the best chance they had. Maybe even the only chance they had. With his instructions done, the Marshal joined the spirited redhead at the front. His Cillu glass armor made a strange gritting sound as he moved and the scarlet cape with an emblazoned phoenix fluttered lightly behind him. On his back, three additional weapons rested: the Vorpal Blade, the adamantine bastard sword and the monstrous Lawmaker. His piercing eyes looked down at the lass beneath a stringent frown. “You should move to the back, miss. It would be no good if we lost our leader in the first charge.”

[Godhand]

God he hated the rich.

Godhand walked across the forest that surrounded the Dirks' estate, followed by a an impressive collection of sickos, psychos and suckers. Around him were some of the biggest names on Althanas. You had the big mean ones like Dan and Dahlios, the wiry nervous ones like Bloodrose and Lillian, the proud famous ones like Ashiakin and Findelfin, and everybody in the middle. Jay was his right hand man so obviously he rode up front with him. He kept the kid close at hand, too; the librarian. She was just the most adorable thing and he didn't want to risk her getting hurt. The swordsman didn't expect to face much resistance from these guys but it never hurt to be prepared. Everybody else paired up more or less like you'd expect; you got the mercenaries with the mercenaries and the NWO with the NWO.

The New World Order wasn't like a lot of powergroups. I mean whenever there was a clan that wanted to take over the world they usually had a core group of about five members that knew what was really going on, and then a public propaganda machine that put a nice face on that. Those didn't get very far; internal struggles usually killed them off. No honor among thieves. The NWO was different due to the fact that instead of hiding their megalomaniacal aspirations, they actually laid it all out for everyone to see. They weren't two-faced like most and this was so refreshing that most people actually started rooting for them, even though technically they were "the bad guys".

Furthermore, they'd made it very clear who their first target was. For a couple of slum guys like Godhand and Dan, and a second-generation hero like James Whitizard, their biggest adversaries were the Rich and Famous. While everbody else was getting murdered out in the real world for pennies on the dollar, these guys were sipping fine cognac and fucking fourteen year old virgins next to a fireplace. And that, I think, was the handle. The reason Radasanth hadn't turned the troops on the New World Order was because, to the public anyway, they were right. The ruffians were doing what every regular person yearned to do but didn't have the power to. They were robbing the rich and giving to themselves.

Just a cursory glance at the Dirks' Estate made it clear why they were first up against the wall. The lawn was immaculately tended and several miles long; every couple of yards there was an ornate fountain on either side. Fat little angels held cloths to their privates while water poured out of their mouths. Seeing that kind of bullshit made Godhand want to club a baby seal but for now he had to keep focus on the task at hand. No guards were blocking the way, which was weird, but the swordsman knew that even if they'd gotten a battalion of Corone Rangers to protect the manor, it wouldn't have been enough. Not with guys like Dan and Seth on punch duty. He was no slouch himself, either.

Just as he was about to tell the group to split up, however, he was suddenly blinded by a bright green flash and then came that awful here-we-go feeling where everything in your stomach jumps to your throat and you have to reach out to find something to hold you up. Lucky for him James was still around so he didn't vomit upon the beautiful lawn of what's this?

The scenery had changed. It probably had something to do with that green flash and he couldn't really be sure but it looked like they'd been transported to Salvar. It was a frozen lake with some sort of...Structure off to one side. He couldn't say what it was with the white mist darkening anything in the distance. What he could make out, however, were his enemies. That was some trap. They'd managed to whisk him and half of his boys away to a battleground they'd no doubt decided upon earlier while the rest of them ambushed the bewildered remains of their forces. Not only that but they'd managed to hornswoggle a couple of names over to their side, too. He spotted Letho right away, Skie a bit later. Godhand wasn't going to waste any time; he stepped forward but immediately withdrew his boot with a hiss when the ice cracked under his sole.

They'd really stacked that deck.

[Arsène]

It was a bottle of rye whiskey as brown as syrup and just as easy to shoot. Its repulsive flavor caused every muscle in Arsène to contract as it slid down into his stomach. He had taken it from an unlocked draw deep within the winding halls of Imperial's manor as an unexpected additional "payment" for his mercenary services. And much like the gold that had deepened his pockets and purchased him a sword, liquor was a necessity for the upcoming battle in Imperial's name. Even a man with nothing left to live for held on to some shred of self-preservation; it was the tiny pair of hands that reached out at him and kept him from ending his own life. With alcohol, he hoped to dull those hands so they would not be so quick to save him.

He sighed and put the bottle in his coat pocket, if only to keep his vision from blurring. He stood just outside the manor door on the steps, right near his wizened horse. Everything he owned was on his beast; his violin, his spare clothing, even his new sword were attached to whatever spare storage he could find. It was a quiet night, but the man knew it would not last. Within the hour, Imperial had reported to its soldiers and mercenaries that its enemies would strike from the shadows in the full force they mustered, a host of big names and famous killers who thirsted for blood and wealth. It was a bitter irony that Arsène and the other mercenaries fought for the same reasons as their enemies; greed. It was the driving force in all men whose souls had long forgotten the warmth of a woman's touch.

The noble stared at his horse and the gray shimmers of moonlight that flickered in its mane. A once proud beast was wrinkled with age as if in cruel jest by time herself. He could hear the horse panting beneath the weight of his gear, he could see the strain in the beast's black eyes. "You will not survive this battle," he whispered softly to the animal in monotone. "And with any luck, neither will I."

The strange bewitchment happened too quickly. Arsène did not notice the members of New World Order's army slip into the yard, nor did he notice the green light.

He had closed his eyes for only a moment to think of better days, when the sun fell upon his brow and a smile had always graced his lips. The smell of her hair trumped any buzz liquor promised, the touch of her soft hands drew him in deeper into the fantasy. There were flowers everywhere, carpeting the ground in a sea of red and yellow. Her lively tanned form lay on them, as if nature was her bed and she its nymph.

Arsène was so immersed in this world that he did not even notice the frigid climate, until his eyes slowly parted and dashed his dreams on the jagged frozen mountaintops that surrounded him.

The man was not surprised. This was Imperial's idea; to divide and conquer the enemy by splitting their superior numbers into two groups, transporting one to the citadel, and keeping one at the manor. It was a simple and seductive trap that probably took a good many of the enemy off guard. Arsène himself believed that a full frontal charge while their opponents were still dazed was the best course of action. However, it soon seemed apparent his allies were just as dazed and confused as the enemy.

Pleasantries and insults were thrown back and forth with the biting wit of a toothless old coot; Arsène felt sickened to his core. Perhaps the whiskey just wasn't agreeing with him, but the idea of such childishness during battle seemed inexcusable. From a young age, he was given a noble's education in war and art, and while he excelled in the latter, he always remembered key lessons from the former.

A thundering and commanding voice shook the ice, and at once the noble knew who it belonged to. Letho Ravenheart - the man who, only days before, punched him straight in the jaw for suggesting they kill the elf lord that stood in the ranks of their enemy. Arsène was resentful to say the least, and jumped on the opportunity to berate the man.

"Your plan would work," he began with a snide, jeering laugh, "if we all weighed but a feather. You forget we stand not on solid earth, but ice. I'm not willing to go down in the annals of history as a laughingstock for plunging to my death before the battle even begins!" Despite the belligerent tone, there was still an empty, emotionless quality to his voice.

He cleared his throat and gestured for Softstep to follow behind him as he moved a bit further from the group.

"Instead, it would be smarter to trick our enemies, and have them follow a decoy to an area we weaken." He nearly mumbled the last part, keeping it under his breath as best he could so the enemy could not overhear. In truth, he really didn't care if they did or not, but appearances were everything when one held the attention of a small platoon.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Existential crises were a luxury he could ill afford, so he quickly suppressed the question. He had committed to this course and would follow it. Looking up again at the crowd assembled opposite him, his eyes fell on Skie's. He spoke to her so only she could hear.

"I have reasons for this, reasons that cannot be explained. I am sorry."

Imperial was already gathering, clearly trying to decide how to proceed. Findelfin found this insulting; it was clear that they had somehow corrupted the Monks of the Citadel to do Imperial's bidding under the guise of "saving lives." But apparently the price they'd paid to whichever Seneschal was on Imperial's payroll wasn't enough to get them advance knowledge of the battlefield. Findelfin had no intention of letting them plan their assault. He drew his bow, nocked an arrow to the string, and took his sights.

They were in a rough huddle on the other side of the ice. He was a good shot, but probably not good enough to take out the small one who seemed the leader. Letho made a tempting target, but Findelfin had no desire to introduce bad blood between him and the Marshal; this war would do enough of that without adding to it. He eyed the one across the way that Letho had called "the mind-reader," and was about to take the shot when the movement of the huddle took the target out of a clear line of sight. The others were sitting ducks, but he hesitated; they were all too close to Skie. He was a fair shot with his bow, but not fair enough to risk the life of Skie dan Sabriel.

Silently cursing his luck, pitted against friends in a battle that seemed increasingly unnecessary, he shifted his weight to one foot. There was the faintest of cracking sounds, and Findelfin quickly gyrated from the weak point in the frozen lake. But then an idea broke into his mind like sunrise across a darkling plain. He saw a spot, not ten handspans away from the feet of Imperial's forces, a spot that might serve his purposes. And he knew a song that would do just the trick.

He called across the ice to Letho Ravenheart. "Aurient take your strategy, Marshal."

And with that he grabbed another arrow, adding it to the first, to produce two arrows he now aimed at two separate spots in the ice. Beginning to sing, he took a few steps backwards, making sure that he was constantly moving away should the Marshal charge. The notes of the Fire Ring Requiem were designed to create flames around the body of the caster, but now he altered the song and the focal point of his concentration. Within seconds, the mythril bodkins at his arrowtips began to glow and a thin tendril of smoke rose up from the fire-harded wood into which the metal heads were set.

Before the wood could catch fire and ruin the spell, he released the bowstring. Both arrows flew with lightning speed directly to their targets, embedding deep into them with a shuddering sound.

But it was not the sickening sound of flesh rent asunder, nor even the dull thud of arrows stuck in an opponent's leather cuirass. The sound was a shattering clap that hung in the cold air and announced that the battle was met. Findelfin's aim had been true; the arrows had plunged deep into the ground just before the ground where Imperial's forces stood. Quickly nocking another arrow to string, he kept singing, his focal point still on the two metal stubs now embedded under the ice.

They glowed hot under the force of the magic song. A crack was already spreading from the entry-point, steam rising from where the blazing mythril met hard ice and melted it instantly. If Imperial did not move, they would soon find their planning session turned into an icy plunge.

[Logan]

Politics.

The whole damned world of Althanas thrived on it. In fact, it was the very essence of the world. Continents seethed on it’s very aroma, while armies both large and small feasted on it’s flavor. And it was the one damn thing that the psion hated the most about this place. No matter how hard he tried, he always seemed to be screwed in the end by the political arm of some godforsaken asshole. That was how it was, and Logan had submitted himself to such. But then somehow, some way, he ran across Dirks outside the confines of battle and everything changed.

Politics.

Logan and Dirks had spent a few hours debating the finer points of the topic. The two had marked differences of opinion on the very topic, yet somehow they also had found common ground within it’s confines. Lining the entirety of the two veterans’ past, they began to relive fond memories of their wars and battles. Battles that had taken place everywhere from Salvar to Raieara, and wars that had been waged among clans and nations. They had seen it all, and lived it all. And yet, it never grew tiresome a task. For the two of them, fighting was not just a necessary evil. It was just plain necessary.

War.

In the midst of their conversation the two veterans realized they had a common goal, a common enemy. For so long Logan had fought the corruption and seediness of the Althanas governments and clans, yet now as he heard Dirks speak of it and it’s uses, he began to see a worth in it. The very thing that had kept the two enemies for the entirety of their time within the shores of the Althanas continents was now the one thing that bound them as friends. For some, the friendship spelled trouble and a very untimely demise. For those who counted the two as allies or friends, it was the second coming. For many, it was simply about damn time.

War.

Max Dirks had mentioned a rising clan who sought to remove a friend’s army from their headquarters, or at least cause a pretty damn big disturbance to it. Logan shook his head in disgust. He knew all too well of the greedy bastards who led the rival clan. Stories of their deeds and feats had not fallen upon his deaf ears. Max gave the psion a letter he’d received from Dirk Xalstad which spoke of the rival clan, it’s intentions, and the request for support and help. Turning to face Dirks, Logan reached out his hand and Dirks responded by gripping the psion’s with his own. No words more were exchanged, but that simple act was enough for the two men to know all they needed to know.

Fucking War.

It was the reason Logan found himself standing a few feet from the famed Letho Ravenheart while the leaders of Imperial explained their plans. The two had never been acquainted, but the psion had heard so many stories of Letho’s past adventures that he really felt as if he knew the man already. They exchanged only a few words before the sound of thunder erupted around them. The color of green filled the psion’s vision and then the next moment, biting cold nipped at his body. Through the powers of the monks, Logan and some others had been transported to this frigid environment.

Within a matter of moments, words had been exchanged and Letho had taken his rightful place as the Imperial army’s commander. No one else had the experience or the leadership qualities of Letho. As Logan’s name was mentioned, he nodded his approval and acceptance of his role to the man he’d met only moments before. The psion turned to look out over the area before him. A band of warriors and veterans stood a short ways away, and the only thing that stood between them and Logan’s allies was a lake frozen over with ice.

Crack. Crack. Crunch. The sound of the ice cracking and crunching under the weight of all present made the psion wary. How truly ironic it was for Logan to feel chills crawling up his spine over being just one misstep from certain death and very much fearing it. No, it wasn’t the death he feared. He knew that was but a moment in time. It was the fear of coming up short and disappointing those he had just met. He simply could not, and would not, let them down.

The psion unsheathed both swords and looked ahead at the group before him. He smiled. He had a plan, but he wouldn’t be able to hatch it until the time was right. The psion eyed Letho for a moment before communicating telepathically, ”We need to get them engaged in individual battles and distracted quickly. Confusion will be our strongest weapon. They can’t communicate like we can, and I’ll be damned if that’s not our best bet.” Quickly Logan took his position near Letho. The veteran was pretty gifted in the art of swordfighting, and there was no way in hell he wanted to be anywhere other than where the action was.

It was time. It was finally fucking time.

Crack. Logan spotted fire a short ways away. He squinted a bit and saw the one from where it originated. Another fireball hit the ice a ways away. What in the bloody hell does he think he's -- the psion stopped himself midthought. Logan closed his eyes and concentrated hard.

"God DAMNIT! Get your asses moving boys, and ladies. The mother fucker's trying to sink our positions," the psion sent the telepathic shout outwards at everyone within the vicinity, which would've been most everyone within the ranks of Imperial and even a few of the NWO bastards, too. The psion reopened his eyes and to his horror a couple more shots hit the ice around those he was with. They had to think fast.

Logan made a sprint to his right and then dove to the ice. He slammed both his swords into the ice blade first. The ice cracked beneath him, but his swords held. He pulled himself off the sinking ice and moved his way further out well outside the range, or what Logan thought was the range, of the arrows. The psion hoped the others had received his remarks in time, but due to his current concern for his own safety, he hadn't taken the time to check.

Bunny approved by Max Dirks.

[Lasair Anubail]

Lasair looked up, way up at the man who had been addressing her. He was rather handsome looking in a rather rough and gruff kind of way, the way most Draconians seemed to look. She didn’t really know him per say but she was rather certain he was the man named Letho Ravenheart, a rather well known hero in the land of Corone and one that Imperial had enlisted to help them. She was just glad that when the monk’s teleportation spell had transported them here, he had come with her instead of staying at the manor. She was going to need all the help she could get in order to win this battle, especially with Godhand and Jame on the other side of it. Oh, she really did not want to talk to fight those two, it would just be awful to see them get hurt and not be able to do anything about it. But this was a clan war and they were fighting for the other side! She had defended what she believed in, no matter what. Besides, they could always go out and get something to eat, maybe a few drinks afterwards and talk the whole thing over. She was rather certain they’d both understand. It wasn’t them she was fighting after all, but their clan...right?

Raising one of her hands, the tiny Fae saluted the tall man named Letho, making a mental note to ask him if she could make a plushie of him before this was over. “Yes, sir!” But she didn’t plan on moving into the back of the ranks just yet. After all, they needed a battle strategy and she saw some serious faults in the one that he was proposing.

Before she could open her mouth to respond to him though, another man came up to them and rather blatantly shot down Letho’s plan, which was not what she had planned. There was finesse to such a thing that the other man just clearly did not possess, or maybe he didn’t care to. Either way, he did note a few problems that Lasair too had seen and proposed his own plan. She was not certain if such a thing would work though, Godhand and Jame were not silly enough to blindly follow some kind of decoy...

“Letho, while I applaud your attempt at battle strategy, I’m afraid in this kind of setting a triangular defensive manoeuvre just isn’t going to work. The ground is too slippery for it to hold up, none of our men have shields and they’re not trained soldiers like you from Corone. If just one of them falters and falls than it would greatly weaken the triangle. Not to mention Godhand’s strength could just barrage it until it falls apart at the seams and Jame’s dragon form would rip it to pieces.”

It was time to get serious and get down to business before the other members of NWO could start formulating their own plan.

“I do agree with umm... whoever you are, Mr. Human, in that we need to use our surroundings to our advantage, perhaps even the ruins of the coliseum that we are currently standing in. Using a decoy to lure a large section of the group away is an interesting idea, but I’m not sure if Godhand and Jame would fall for something like that. I do have a few exploding items that may help weaken the integrity of the lake, but it would be extremely dangerous for whomever is using them, since they too may get pulled into the water.”

The top of her rucksack suddenly began to move a bit, before the small cloth made head of Tristram emerged from within, followed by an extremely cute and cuddly version of the man currently leading this assault; Godhand. Both of them climbed up and onto her opposite shoulders, looking at the humans around her and their surroundings and finally at the group across the way. Tristram was her best friend and a Draconian, so he had these cute little dark blue wings adorning his back and a small spear clutched in his hands. His eyes were currently summing up Letho and the weapon he held within his hands.

“You even know how to use that thing?” The little Draconian plushie said, sneering up at Letho.

“Hey! It’s that loud mouthed version of me!” Godhand said as he moved to leap from her shoulder and onto the slippery ice below.

Reacting quickly, Lasair reached out and grabbed the plushie before he even hit the ground, grasping him in her small hand as tight as she could. Which was basically like saying, he wasn’t going anywhere no matter how hard he struggled.

“C’mon! Let me go, I’ll rip him to pieces.”

She smiled, “Remember what happened last time you tried to do that?”

“Yeah, your ass sat on me!”

“Exactly, now help me come up with a battle strategy.”

He grumbled, “I heard what Letho and dark and mysterious over here said, why not just use yourself as bait? You know Godhand would come running to save you if you were in some kind of trouble.”

“Uhh...I don’t think that applies to this kind of situation, Godhand.” Lasair said to him as she shook her hand a bit, which in turn shook his head around and made him yell at her a few times to stop it.

“All right! Then just round them all up and break the ice around them, I dunno. I usually like running in head first and fucking shit up, so I’m pretty sure he’s thinking of doing the same.”

She released her tight hold on him and placed him back on her shoulder, which he seemed more than content to just sit upon. Her thoughts were quickly interrupted by the plunging of two arrows deep into the ice near to them. Confused, she looked towards the elven man who had fired them, his voice carrying across the cold wind in a lovely song that seemed to have no purpose to her. But elves were rather strange creatures. The telepathic message that went ringing through her mind quickly told her what was going on.

“Poopies!” She quickly went to move away from the now steaming ice. “I want to split our forces into two teams that will push the NWO and The Company forces back against the wall of the Coliseum. At that point in time, I will have snuck around behind the enemy and will release what few items I have on the surroundings, hopefully breaking the lake apart from underneath them. Sounds good, yes? Letho, you should lead one of the teams and pick who you want with you, and also the leader of the other team as I am not very good at gauging battle prowess.”

Once the words had left her mouth, she began moving quickly away from the scene of the cracking ice. The sound resounded throughout the mountains as it split and rent and then began to sink and shift. Her small and light form allowed her to easily travel across the expanse without very much worry, not to mention those glittering wings on her back weren’t just for show.

[Slayer of the Rot]

Dan Lagh'ratham started the war out by roaring obscenities to the sky, the mountains, the coliseum, and the defenders. It was all he could do to restrain himself from stomping around and smashing the rimy ice underfoot. They had been moments from the manor, so close to the bloodbath, to the destruction that could have been wrought by the New World Order's collective hands. Then, there had come that brilliant flash of green light, which he was still blinking out of his eyes, as well as discolored dark dots. The Saraelian sucked in a deep frigid breath, and exhaled an enormous white plume into the icy air.

He was still not the picture of tranquility. His lips were stretched down across his sharp teeth in a severe scowl, and his hands still shook, the knuckles white. Nevertheless, the fury had been fairly quenched. Breathing hard, he glanced around the place where they had been transported, much to his ire. Tall, crumbling stone walls surrounded them, like the eroded bones of a beast that curled into itself upon its death. Above, a gray sky with just a hint of blue rolled lazily along under the chilly wind, off into the jagged expanse of a mountain range he couldn't manage to recognize. Grimacing, he pressed a toe against the slick surface of the battlefield, and he felt it give way just slightly with a tiny crack. Mumbling a curse under his breath, he continued to stare at that minuscule crack as he produced a pack of cigarettes from thin air and lit one as it settled on his lips. Hot, acrid smoke poured into his lungs as he continued to ignore the squabbling of the attackers and defenders.

'It'd take nothing at all.' The thought brought a malicious smile to his lips and he plucked the cigarette from his mouth. Looking back at Imperial's forces made the smile falter though; the rage he'd first been in the thrall of threatened to return.

'Disappointing.'

"Trash!" He finally voiced his concerns and spat on the lake. "We're stuck with the fucking trash! They can't even be trusted to be there to protect that piece of shit manor. What a god damn waste of my fucking time," he finished, his shout diminished to a voice meant only for himself. Sighing, he took another drag off his cigarette and began to walk carefully forward a few feet, drawing close to the Imperials.

"You know, we'd offer you the option of surrender too but this isn't a fucking war. This is a slaughter, and looking at you faggots, I think everyone else wasted their time coming here. Shit, the strongest amongst you is Letho Ravenheart, world's greatest hero, and I've already killed him!" He grinned at the man himself, and nodded at him. "How's them ribs, marshal? Those holes in your chest? Bet the scars sting in this cold."

Grinning crookedly with the cigarette in his mouth, Dan raised both of his hands up as Findelfin's white hot glowing arrows soared overhead.

"Rain blood."

It was like watching a starved shark smelling blood for the first time in weeks. As though something had been cut free, the Saraelian tore forward in a violent burst of energy, streaking through the air without touching the untrustworthy ground of the battlefield once. He arrived at the Imperial's flank as Findelfin's second arrows came down, The Irredeemable held in hand. A dozen rapidly spinning chakram had appeared around him as well, and they launched forward into the crowd of defenders.

At the same moment, Dan aimed his mythril sword at the growing cracks the elf's arrows were making. He plunged the great sword into the breaking ice and pushed, using the weapon as a lever. It creaked, and then gave way with an incredible crack, and Dan upended the broken platform with a triumphant cry.

"Burn, freeze, drown, bleed! Just die, trash!"

[Summary:
Dan sends one dozen chakram into the Defenders ranks.
Dan accelerates Findelfin's attempt to sink the Imperials by busting the ice and flipping it over.
Note: I'll do this from now on to reduce confusion.]

[Skie and Avery]

Her eyes and mind had been on Godhand at first. How could they not have been? He'd been her mother's lover, and someone the succubus had trusted. It was hard to tell if Natamrael had ever really loved anyone but herself and her children. Findelfin. The visage of the man came creeping into Skie's thoughts at once. Her mother's last words to her had been about the elf, and as if it were a cue for the most heartrending play she could imagine, his voice invaded her thoughts. Her eyes found him after a moment of struggle. Reasons?

She felt like shit. There were times she'd wondered about Imperial's wants, and if it really was the budding flower of justice that she'd believed when she joined. They'd been taken over in Joshua Cronen's absence by a vampire. Skie'd been angry at first; why hadn't this been taken up with any of the members? As she'd been readying her things to leave and take to more lone waters, there'd come the call of war. As much as she disagreed with a blood-sucking villainess leading their ranks, she would not, could not, leave them at the brunt of the attack. When Letho Ravenheart had joined them, she'd thought her judgment sound. How could so much good stand amongst anything evil? But still...she stood against Findelfin.

Her heart was breaking when Dan made his move. Circles of steel spun around him, the light catching and flying back. She'd had to squint against the brightness of them when he'd made his move. She'd been moving fast, trying to reach the edge of the ice when Findelfin attacked, but then the metal was sent into the ranks of her people. Skie snarled, her face hardening against her grief and confusion as she pulled the longsword. She'd batted at one of the chakrum, wincing as her sword jarred and vibarated. The clash of metal on metal was frightning, even as the ring was sent flying wide. What she hadn't seen was another one flying, seeking a target as surely as a rogue hungry fiend.

It whirred past her, biting into her arm at the side, just above the elbow. With her cry, she was sent down, her knee striking against the ice. She was so near to the bank, but it didn't matter anymore. When she'd gone down, the ice had begun to creak and groan under her weight, and Dan's force just added more to it. There was only enough time for her blood to spatter the ice, sinking in red against the ghostly white. The ice turned and she was colder than she'd ever been in her life.

She kicked against the bank under her feet, not so far under that she might drown, but the current was threatening to take that little advantage away from her. She gripped her fathers sword close to her body, kicked furiously towards the edge where a plateau of earth made a stone shelf before the deeper water started. If she could pull herself onto it, she could slosh to the bank. Freezing cold, she didn't curse the monster who'd stepped up to spill her blood and send her into the river.

She cursed her mother, for having brought her so close to the elf that she was sure she must kill now.

[Raelyse]

While combatants on both sides struggled to deal with their new found surroundings, Raelyse embraced it. The slippery and fragile surface that the others found so awkward was comfortable to the Myrusian. Every step he took, he felt the ice underneath melt slightly, allowing his foot to sink in, before hardening, ensuring that there was no chance of him slipping or the ice breaking underneath him. Raelyse's steps however, weren't towards the New World Order or their allies, his feet were taking him along the ranks of Imperial's forces. As his allies spoke, amongst themselves, trying to form an impromptu strategy, he paced around, staying on the periphery and listening, but not contributing just yet.

Raelyse wasn't ready to put himself in the spotlight just yet, lest he be pinpointed as a threat by the other group. As more of his potential allies and enemies did just that, he shifted into the background, something that he wasn’t used to. He consoled himself with the fact that these would be the first to taste the ground that he trod upon.

His concentration was snapped when a Raiaearn song rang through the air, heralding the end of the oral sparring and petty insults. Of all those present, he knew only Findelfin on the opposite side capable of such magic, so he knew that he needed to be prepared for something formidable. Raelyse sang his own song, though softly so only those nearby would be able to hear, the Ode to the Hermit. Before the first of Findelfin's arrows flew towards them, a translucent barrier had formed around Raelyse, protecting him... for now. The elf's projectiles fell dreadfully short though, never coming close to striking the magical shield.

“Clever,” the Myrusian muttered when he realized the elf’s plan. There were multiple ways that Raelyse could remove Findelfin's threat, but that would mean that he would reveal his powers and lose the chance to see how his allies dealt with it.

He didn't get nearly as much thinking time as a giant from the New World Order's side leaped into the air, landing at Imperial's flank. Before they had a chance to react, projectiles flew forward, cutting into their ranks. Two of the chakram struck Raelyse's barrier, clattering harmlessly on the ground just in front of him. The Myrusian gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to strike back.

“Maybe a little one,” the prince said mischievously, that sadistic grin flashed across his handsome face. Pushing both of his hands forward, he pointed outstretched fingers at the beast of a man who was busy lifting the ice shelf. Lightning bolts shot forward from each of his fingers, each perfectly aimed at the giant frame. Without even seeing whether he had struck his target or missed, he moved off in the confusion so friend or foe would not know where the attack had come from.

As he retreated, he took care to make sure he did so with the majority of his new allies, staying with the group, using their bodies as human shields, for now. A splashing sound alerted him that the ice had finally cracked and the cold water had tasted flesh for the first time. His head turned and he spied a female figure, struggling to avoid falling completely into icy depths. Raelyse thought for a moment, then gave her body a slight telekinetic push, not enough to throw her back onto comparatively dry land, but enough to help her climb up. He had nothing to gain if one of the bodies that could potentially take an arrow instead of him fell.

His attention now turned back to the battle, the Myrusian made sure not to make any attacks, for now. He surveyed the battle, keeping in check his urges to release magic and hungry blades both into the fray.

Raelyse would not fall this day.


(OOC: I won't be able to post until about Friday, so I've withdrawn Raelyse from the direct action for now. I will deal with whatever attacks when I return.)

[Letho]

As much as Letho hated to admit it – and being a proud mad that he was, he hated admitting an error more than taking a punch in the face – Letho was wrong about his proposed tactics. He had spent too much time with his Rangers, too many hours training them to fall in formation, to cover each other, to act as an army should. In this particular situation, that was impossible. This wasn’t Corone, it wasn’t a war and they weren’t soldiers. This was a street fight taken to a peculiar location that made promises of chaos and hectic hostility. In such an environment all tactics seemed null and void. However, the redhead that he had disregarded as a mere nuisance came up with a doable plan. After consulting with a couple of her talking dolls (a lunacy in and of itself, Letho thought), she gave voice to what was brewing inside her head. And it seemed she analyzed the situation far better than the Marshal. He would’ve smiled at this unexpected outcome, maybe even compliment the assessment, but there were some people on the other side that disallowed pleasantries.

Fiindelfin was the first to act. Visibly irked – something that Letho thought elves didn’t get – he released a pair of arrows that missed their target miserably. Or so the swordsman thought. His mind was changed seconds afterwards when the seemingly solid ice beneath his feet started to grunt and crack like a beast awoken from a thousand years worth of slumber. Dan Lagh’ratham was quick to follow suit. A spray of projectiles was launched at the Imperial forces by the beastly man, allowing him to make unhindered advance towards the gradually widening crack in the ice.

Holding his spear in his left, Letho used his right hand to smack the shaft and send it into a spinning motion. This makeshift propeller easily ricocheted the three chakrams that were threatening him and the puppet master at his side. But the antics bought him little time. Everybody was on the move, scurrying this way and that in order to get away from the patch in the frozen lake that Dan was trying to overturn. Steadying his spear, he turned to those that were still within hearing distance.

“Logan, you take little lady and another down the right flank!” The surface upon which they were standing on was in motion, Dan and the inhuman strength in his muscles making it more and more slanted by the second. There were precious seconds left before they were all confined to an icy tomb. “You!” he pointed towards the suave man he decked days ago. “Take the rest down the right! I’ll try to keep them occupied in the middle!”

With that said, Letho broke off in a sprint as well, only unlike his allies he was moving straight towards the New World Order members. It was a slippery, almost clumsy run, his boots making tiny missteps here and there with every stride. By the time he reached the border of this ice pontoon, Dan already had it slanted enough for Letho’s feet to start slipping backwards as well. It forced the Marshal to improvise and use his spear as a pole, stabbing its tip into the ice and using the flexibility of the shaft to vault over the jagged edge and the monster that was lifting it up. The acrobatic move landed Letho right between Dan and the rest of his comrades, straight into the center of the storm. The faces that he had watched over a safe distance up until now were suddenly within the reach of his spear, and he swung his weapon in a wide horizontal arc to keep them at bay for a moment.

“Tyrants and usurpers!” he spat at them, spreading his legs and bending his knees ever so slightly in order to solidify himself on the spot he had landed. The lance was held coolly in his left, its tip passing over each and every face that stared back at him, almost like a pressure gauge passing over the etched numerals. “Your terror ends here!”

The fingers of Letho’s right tightened into a fist, and even as they did, a subsonic boom spread around him. It sent an invisible wave in a single concentric ripple that uplifted the frost that covered the ice, and once this harmless tsunami dissipated, it left behind a changed man. With aura made of pearly white flames fluttering around him, and with his brown eyes iced over by the same color, and with his muscles expanding beyond their normal capacity, Letho Ravenheart was a sight that sent lesser men cowering in fear. There was a bit of showmanship in his presentation, perhaps, but its solitary purpose was to attract attention, to keep those around him occupied. To make him an effective decoy.

In order to do that, however, Letho had to do more than offer some razzle-dazzle. He had to attack, keep them on their toes, keep their eyes and their focus on him. With strength enough to rival the titans and speed that made his spear move in a blur of wood and twinkle of metal, he made another sweeping, swooshing motion at head-height before he sent a thrust at the chest of the NWO leader. If he was lucky, Godhand Striker would end up on the far end of his spear.

[Logan]

The psion stood, his swords covered with the slush of ice and water, and steadied himself on the shifting ice beneath. He focused on controlling his breathing, knowing full well that there was no good in letting himself become unfocused. As he focused his eyes caught glimpse of a beast soaring through the air, preceeded by a couple of objects flying rather hastily towards him. Allowing the objects to get within a few yards of him, Logan focused and sent out a Mind Push. The strength of the push was enough that both projectiles were repelled and sent sliding onto the cold surface below. A smile permeated the lips of the psion.

At least the battle wouldn’t be overly quickly or won easily. Logan had come to despise quick, easy battles. They were nearly pointless, if not for the fact that he usually found solace in the deaths of his opponents. The psion’s smile faded quickly though as he heard the cracking of the ice beneath his allies. The beast that had sent the projectiles into the midst of the Imperial forces was trying to overturn the ice shelf beneath them. SHIT, the psion internally shouted so no one else could hear him, Why in the bloody hell do these bastards have to always be so damn gungho about these damn clan wars? Why can't they just lighten up and enjoy a good fucking drink every now and again and just let shit settle? The psion was not overly amused at the predicament his allies found themselves in. Then Logan heard Letho's command and the questions turned to focusing on obeying his orders.

He spun towards the little lady that Letho had spoken of. ”Ma’am, against everything within me, we need to get to the right of those bastards over there,” the psion telepathically communicated with her. ”And if any of you others have the balls to join me and the lady, hurry your ass up and move it! We’ve got a battle to win,” he sent the second statement out to all the forces close enough to hear the telepathic shout. Let's just hope the other half is faring far better than us, the telepath bemused to himself. He didn’t have time to wait on the others. He had to act now or God forbid what doom would befall the troops of Imperial. The psion took off towards the right of the small band of bastards that opposed them.

After a few paces of running full speed, Logan leapt into the air, his trenchcoat flapping in the wind. His right sword came arcing downward from the right to the left at one member of the opposing force who was occupying the territory on the right side of the NWO brood. The psion prepared his left sword for the counterattack that would inevitably come from the one whom he didn't recognize, nor from what he could tell did he know. He hoped the little lady had followed suit and not fallen out of rank, but he really had no time to waste worrying. The battle at hand was really the only thing he now focused on.

[Woshington]

Woshington seemed to be having a fundamentally different experience to a number of his colleagues in war. He was void of a consuming personal narrative; he didn’t have time for introverted emotion and self-analysis. Woshington’s mind was prone to grappling with his two facets: the efficiency required to fuel success and the pugnacious audacity of a graffiti artist, that charismatic vigour of a beachside gangster with narcotics to peddle. The lithe black man may well struggle for focus, but once found, it was all he needed. When on his peak, Woshington could weave his flamboyance into a determined functionality. A real attention whore. Woshington, however, was going to take the back door.

He’d taken his overview of the coliseum and imprinted it to his mind’s eye, so he was cock-sure of himself. Simply, that was because the plan he’d laid down for the Dirks establishment was even better suited for this example of decaying classical archetcture. Maybe Woshington was the only one here with a real plan and a real role, preordained in the bowls of a building with a powerful individual. An individual so powerful that such a meeting was inevitably by proxy.

Findelfin ap Fingolfin began his production, the Epic Cracking of the Ice. While the famous elf drew back on his bow a natural smile, wide and toothy, overcame Woshington’s face. Jubilant, he had discovered his opportunity to desert the centre of the battlefield and begin his very own production with an impetus. It was time to turn tail and make a run for it.

The spray paint cans (white, green, gold, red, blue and yellow) rattled audibly at Woshington’s flanks as he took to nimbly bounding across the ice. He was careful to cushion his modest weight with bent knees and the full range of his elastic feet—he had counteracted the limitations of an icy plain. Or so he thought. Traction was slipping away as his gaudy footwear gently struck with the ice. Despite being a student of the dance-like martial art, bónfim, he’d struggled to compensate with his above average agility. His lean limbs flailed without his typical grace, as a moment was required for him to adjust to the dynamics of the slippery surface. Once Woshington had re-synched he was allowing the glide of the ice to work for him, like a kid in a playground pushing the limits of how far his sneakers could carry him on a frozen puddle. His destination was the sanctuary of the surrounding coliseum.

The rim of the arena towered over a hundred feet high, thrusting into the sky. Woshington felt oppressed by its overshadowing apex as he approached. Leading up to the very summit was a variety of eerily empty seating, from those reserved for the nobles near the base level of the sub-zero lake up to the nose bleed seats which were encircled in a further elevated back wall. The space beneath the seating was utilised efficiently; a selection of holding cells were linked by a maze of hallways, each connected by once elegant archways that had fallen into disrepair.

The angle taken in flight was intended to obscure his departure from the increasingly intermingled Imperial and New World Order forces, but his rangy appearance was hardly undetectable. Woshington could only hope that his foes and allies alike would believe he his threat was minimal, or that he was fleeing the battlefield. After all, he was an unknown in a field of so-called legends. “Do not follow me, muthafuckas.” again and again, he insisted it in his mind. “Do not. Do not.”

While the ice breakers plot was being advanced by the dramatic introduction of Dan Lagh'ratham’s influence, Woshington simply continued to flee the scene. As he did, however, he gradually felt the climate drain his tropical body of its verve. He had to conquer the final five yards of ice otherwise he would have collapsed face down, embarrassingly underdressed for the occasion.

Woshington glanced back over his shoulder to observe Letho's heroics and smiled, “who is that?”

[Bloodrose]

"...trying...sink...positions..."

The fragmented bits of speech, spoken as if the voice was buried deep in his own head, snapped Teric's attention to the dissolving left flank of Imperial's forces. Telepath. His experience informed him almost immediately, drowning out the last bits of the psionic warning to leave him alone with only his own voice once more. Clever bastards. The veteran had to admit grudgingly, his feet carefully propelling him across the ice to the right side of his own forces. Seems someone on their side of the battle is going to be calling the shots out to everyone else.

While ice wasn't a foreign terrain to the soles of Teric's boots, the warrior still took his careful time moving to the right. Ice was the sort of terrain that demanded your constant respect, for the instant you ignored the placement of your feet and distribution of your weight, the ice would kick the feet out from beneath you and punish without mercy. And that was just normal, solid ice; to speak nothing of the possibility of falling through the unstable surface and perishing in the freezing waters lurking beneath...

Findelfin had proven in the opening salvo of the battle just why he was such a legendary general. Two simple arrows and some interesting song magic was all it took to place the entirety of Imperial's forces in dire jeopardy, forcing the defenders to scatter like a murder of crows as they fled the collapsing ice. And there goes the monster. Teric thought grimly, watching in admiration the sheer, terrifying power with which Dan Lagh'ratham struck the center of the opposition and heightened their risk of being trapped beneath the ice.

Yet, of course, the opening salvo couldn't just go unanswered by the relative titans on the opposing side. As Dan did to Imperial, so did the juggernaut Letho Ravenheart do to NWO and its Company allies. In a sprint and a leap the Marshall was in the brunt of the fight, wielding his spear with all the experience and finesse of a true fighter. To far removed at this point from the center of the brawl, Teric was more interested in the fact that the hefty Ravenheart didn't go crashing through the ice than he was in the showy display of strength the man was putting on...

The Marshal wasn't the only Imperial making his way into the fray, however, as Teric noticed once he turned back to the fracas Dan and the collapsing ice were creating on the other side. Those lucky enough to have escaped the cold trap were making their way forward, no longer content to let NWO and its allies assail them unrequited.

A silver haired young man in a fluttering coat came charging forward, almost recklessly, with his allies lagging in tow. Across the ice the man sprinted, showing a pronounced if not ridiculous level of agility to propel himself so expertly across the slippery surface beneath everyone's feet. This one is rash. Teric thought expectantly, readying the white virgin blade in his hand. The light played off the Mythril in a dazzle of rainbow colors, shimmering and gleaning as the old veteran whipped the wonderfully lightweight blade through the air. In his left hand the warrior gripped his Plynt dirk in a reverse grip, the blade tip just visible on the underside of the buckler strapped securely to the appendage.

Mr. Rash leapt into the air, both advantaging and disadvantaging himself at the same time. To gain the height and momentum advantage the man had robbed himself of all ability to alter his course of flight. Up came the Mythril blade in a glittering arc, and back down in came in a vicious slash.

"Waaagh!" Teric unleashed a guttural battle cry as twin, crossed blades of air rushed out from his sword to intercept the hapless Imperial lunging through the open space between them. Normally the veteran might have waited to use such a technique later on the fight, relying first on his sword skills, but this was no normal battle. This was war, and in war a man seeks to dispatch his opponents as quickly and efficiently as possible...

Unleashed a Slash attack to intercept Logan as he flies through the air.

[Lasair Anubail]

((Bunnying approved.))


Lasair heard the words of the telepath echo throughout her skull as if they spoken by the clearest voice around her. No outside sound interfered with them and no amount of ambient noise distorted what he was trying to tell her. It was as clear as crystal and she was going to listen to it, because right now it seemed like the best thing to do in this situation. After all, people were running around all over the area. Some beast of a man was currently attacking the main forces of Imperial all by himself and Letho had run off to the centre of the NWO forces to do the exact same thing to them. In fact, if her golden eyes didn’t deceive her she was rather certain he was attacking Godhand and every instinct within her body fought against her to go over there and help Godhand instead of helping her own clan!

Oh, this was bad; this was very, very bad.

Hearing more ice shift and crack and feeling the very vibrations of it run up through her black boots, the Fae turned her head around as locks of blood red hair were tussled by the freezing wind. The man named Logan was already beginning to run across the ice. His feet were sure even on the slippery substance. Knowing that her best course of action would be to follow through with her plan and attack the NWO forces from behind, Lasair drew in a deep fortifying breath and began chasing after Logan.

Her light weight did nothing to the ice. Though she could still hear the sounds of it distantly breaking and cracking under the pressure of other people, her fast steps were barely noticed upon its surface. Trying to keep up with Logan was nearly impossible and when she ran too fast, her feet tried to slip out from beneath her and her arms did a quick and crazy dance around her body to keep it upright. Luckily, the flutter of her wings, shifting and moving faster than the eye of any human could follow actually kept her bottom from making contact with the ground a second time today. The back of her dress was still wet and uncomfortable from the first time and she swore there was a lump somewhere on her head. She just didn’t feel like searching for it in order to find out.

As she watched Logan leapt into the air, Lasair saw another much older human brandish two weapons at her ally and attempt to cut him down from his vulnerable position. But she wasn’t going to let it happen, now was she? No, ma’am. She was going to go right over there and tell him exactly what she thought of his under handed tactics and maybe give him a swift kick to the shin, just to show him that she meant business.

That was what she wanted to do anyway.

Sadly, when she pushed herself faster so she could reach him before he could hurt Logan, her plan quickly died before it could even be implemented. Her first problem was the fact that the man’s attack happened while she was still feet away from him and unable to stop him, and the second was the fact that her feet slipped, her body lost its balance and she was sent skidding, right towards the man. The only warning he would quite possibly receive would be a bit of a high pitched—albeit cute—squeal right before she slammed into him. Her small, barely one-hundred pound frame collided with his and elicited a light grunt from the old human as she knocked him right off his feet, her own soon to follow. She landed on top of his chest, having felt her world spin haphazardly out of control twice in one day, three times if she were to count the teleportation.

Shaking her head, the small Fae placed her hands on the man’s chest, feeling the warm metal of his chainmail as she pushed off of him, trying to take as much of her weight as possible from his person.

“Ohh, that so did not work out how I’d wanted it to.”

Both of her plushies had been knocked from her shoulders in the collision. Tristram was currently hovering above her current position with his spear branded and ready to impale the human beneath her should he make any sudden moves. Godhand, on the other hand, was a few feet away muttering and grumbling to himself as he slowly got to his feet. Turning her head sharply, Lasair’s eyes searched the area for Logan as she tried to see if he were hurt or not.

[Slayer of the Rot]

A peal of terrible, mad laughter tore from the lips of the Saraelian as the Imperials struggled to abandon ship, and it grew in volume as one of the women toppled into the icy waters of the lake. The thick slab of ice cracked with such monstrously loud sounds that they managed to drown out his own amusement from his ears. Freezing water splashed across the breast of his suit and his face, but it failed to distract him from the carnage he was inflicting.

A flash of light and he was stumbling backwards, numb throughout his entire body.

His nerveless legs collapsed under him and he threw his hands out, forcing himself to stay up right through sheer force of will. Somewhere in the clutch of the coliseum a beast was roaring, and it wasn't for a few moments later that he realized the horrible noise was coming from his own stretched jaws as his tongue hung out over his teeth. Spittle oozed onto the ice and steamed. His back arched, and he hacked and coughed harshly, struggling to drive the cottony taste of shock out of his throat and mouth. Launching himself to his feet, he flung a concussive blast blindly off into the distance; a section of the stone wall close by shattered in a spray of broken stone and dust.

'One 'a tha fuckers...hit me with...lightning,' he struggled as coherency returned. Wildly, his twin's face flashed before his mind's eye and he whipped his head back and forth, seeking out Derium, but finally reasoned returned. The Saraelian grunted and shook his arms out at his side. The errant chunks of ice and cold water dropped off his suit with no resistance.

"Pitiful!" He roared, his arrogance returning in an instant. Launching into the air, Dan hung over the lake and reached out to the sword he had dropped. It appeared in his hand, and he turned his eyes down to the battle to assess the situation.

The Imperials had scattered; the woman he'd sent into the water was struggling to the shore. Letho was emitting iridescent white flames, and had his icy white eyes turned on the New World Order and The Company. Two unknown and unimportant people were moving behind Letho towards the Saraelian's comrades, and a well dressed silver haired man was rushing off for cover. He seemed perfectly content to watch the action unfold, and Dan scowled at him.

"Coward," he muttered, and then looked back to the thick of the action. Letho was moving with incredible, unearthly speed, power that he had not brought to bear on the ziggurat. Dan frowned as he realized he was going straight for Godhand. Out of the corner of his eye, the Saraelian saw the leader of The Company attack the other silver haired man with a glimmering mythril blade, and immediately, he began to move, cutting through the air as the space around his unoccupied right hand began to ripple with power.

"Good show!" He shouted out to the elder man, sneering as he drew closer to the powered form of the Corone marshal. With a fling of his arm, he launched a concussive blast of magnetic force at the man's feet, and the ice shattered in a huge explosion of water and frost. Continuing on, he descended beside Teric Bloodrose, grinning at the tiny red haired woman.

"Hey, mignonette, you keep this shit up, getting in everyone's way, you're gonna die out here. Don't you know that beasts walk this ice?" A revolver of black iron appeared in his hand opposite of the Irredeemable, and he raised it at the silver haired man Teric had attacked, and fired it twice.

"See? All the trash is going to be taken out."

[Summary:
Hit by Raelyse's lightning
Launched a concussive blast in Letho's path, intending on dropping him into the water
Fired two shots at Logan]

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin tried his best to strafe, still keeping up his song. He wanted to encircle the defenders, and more than anything, he wanted to catch the mind-reader. For all their seeming disorganization, one could tell there was some sort of logic in their movements. They would be about to break up and flee when suddenly a few would move together, falling back to safer ground or moving forward in concerted attack. They were moving as if they had someone giving orders; and Findelfin heard nothing, so he knew that someone had the gift of speaking unseen.

Well, Findelfin did not have that gift. He'd worked for it, studying long and hard in the Schools of Magic to gain the arts of concentration and focus required for basic song magic. And with that study had come another gift. And so he concentrated once more.

"Godhand Striker, we need to locate and take out that silver-haired one. He's using some sort of telepathy to guide their motions. Do not let on that I am doing the same!"

That last bit may have been futile, he thought to himself. If the mind-reader was any good, then he would know that he was not the only one with the skill in this fight. All the more reason to take him out before he could tell his brethren.

But the concentration took something away from him, and he knew he had to stop. He had trained on how to keep his mind focused on several things at once, but he was still best when working with one thing at a time. The effort of keeping the metal under the ice hot even while talking to Striker and singing at the same time was not easy. But as Dan's theatrics on the ice began to take root, Findelfin saw no reason to continue singing. His assault had done its work.

As Letho crashed into the battlefield, sending out a small shockwave as he landed, Findelfin knew that playing nice was no longer an option. Letho was simply too strong to leave for others; the only way to take him out would be concerted and deadly firepower. Taking careful sight with his bow, he released an arrow. Almost before it had left his fingers another arrow was on his string and then gone again. One was aimed in the direction of the soft area behind the Marshal's knee that was left uncovered by his glass pauldrons, the other at the scale covering underneath his arms. The Marshal's armor looked tough, but mythril-tipped arrows might just puncture it even if they did fly slightly off course.

Even as the second arrow left the string all thought of watching to see if his attacks had found purchase on flesh left his mind. At the corner of his eye he had seen it, and all his will focused on where the lake was breaking apart.

Skie dan Sabriel was drowning. And it was his fault.

Some current in the lake had caught her and she struggled feebly at the brink of the ice, clutching at whatever she could find, her hair streaming wet behind her. Findelfin's body was cold, colder even then the air around him, and in a moment he had dropped his bow and his quiver on the ice, ignoring them as they fell. He forgot that he was fighting a war. He forgot his companions-in-arms. He even forgot that Skie dan Sabriel was, technically, his enemy.

He broke into a run, propelling himself across the cold surface with all the speed he could muster. Luckily his path took him for a second across drier spaces, where warmth and pressure had yet to begin melting the surface into a slippery trap. He was getting near to the moment.

Then he was upon it; the very area of treacherous cracks that he had himself created. The ice became slick and he went slower, choosing his steps carefully. Yet his heartbeats came no slower, and his cries frosted on the air as he shouted, "No! No!"

Suddenly, his boot slipped, and he crashed to the ice. It groaned audibly, and he got back to his feet and danced away even as it broke away from his feet. He was still quite a distance from Skie, and already he was starting to fall. He went forward more carefully, paying no attention to anything else but Skie's form struggling to survive.

Findelfin ap Fingolfin had gone insane, and anybody watching could see it.

Summary: I shot two arrows at Letho and am now trying to save Skie dan Sabriel. I am not there yet; someone is welcome to try to thwart my efforts, since you probably don't know what Findelfin is trying to do and will interpret it as an attack.

[Woshington]

Woshington’s getaway stood in stark contrast to the bombastic image portrayed from the depths of his lungs at the battle’s birth. Said commencement, to Woshington at least, seemed disconnected from the here and now. He knew that "there was always time to cash that cheque."

The relentless cold was biting into the ghetto superstar’s shallow layer of flesh and his temples were paining with the piercing chill he surged into. His pulsating cardiac muscle kept the machine burning; the heat generated by his continuous motion was a lifeline he was clinging to industriously.

His grip on life tightened as he ducked safely inside the first archway of the grand structure. With a low ceiling bearing down his six foot frame was forced to duck, and his trademark hairdo dusted down the crumbling stonework. Suddenly, Woshington was confronted with a choice of left or right, and he sprang recklessly to his favoured option. Confronted repeatedly with the choice of right or left, he never failed to sway decisively. This continued his sentiment of “Don’t fucking follow me.” He wanted to get lost. Enough binaries were executed for him to have effectively disappeared into the guts of the coliseum. With step one accomplished, his focus switched to step two: positioning.

Need to make sure I get the right muthafuckas… or at least more of them.

The coliseum was a behemoth of ageing construction and positioning himself was going to be a time consuming task. Woshington finally took a moment to pause, a daunting flight of stairs drew out before him. Sprinting up the stone steps ascending almost endlessly in front of him would, he knew, continue to repel the wintry environment. He set off, bridging two steps in each leap.

Towering erections, these boastful expressions of a sovereign, were invariably adorned with an ornate royal box. This coliseum was no different. Arriving under its ostentatious columns unscathed would complete step two.

Time was slipping away from the rapidly moving black man, and he could feel it. That desire to unleash at least one offensive drove his ascension.

[Godhand]

The snap of Findelfin's bowstring had been like a gunshot at a horse race; as soon it sounded, it set everybody into motion. Even with Godhand's hyper accelerated senses, it was difficult to keep up. Dan was ten kinds of tough guy; didn't even bother to say hello or goodbye before literally flying into the thick of their enemies. He had...Enthusiasm, I guess is the word? In any case he did say a couple of filthy fucking words as he sailed above the ice. Godhand would have to talk to him later about, you know, reigning it in in a situation like this. Nobody wanted to hear his horrible fantasies regarding what he'd do to their enemies, especially not when they were balancing on ice that might as well have been as thin as a damn eyelid. He could actually feel it buckling under his weight.

The mercenary didn't have much time to worry about it though, as soon he heard a braying and neighing that was quite familiar to him. It was that prissy noble, Letho. Godhand hated posturing more than he hated the rich, and as previously mentioned, he hated the rich. He'd had a couple of "adventures" with him. That's what the Savion prince would have called them, anyway. To Godhand it was just glorified wet work. Letho might have intimidated lesser men, but not him. They'd actually already fought once and back then he'd defeated the nobleman, so there really wasn't anything to be afraid of. On the other hand, back then they were fighting with their bare hands. Things were a bit different now, Godhand noted as he eyed the Savion's spear warily.

And then came the glow. Things had gotten real messy the last time he'd seen Letho do that. But he too boasted something new, something he didn't have during their last encounter. With but a thought he activated the Lion's Rage amulet hanging around his neck, and suddenly he felt white hot justice burning under his temples. It felt like his his brain was boiling inside his skull; sweat actually started forming on his brow despite their frigid surroundings. Godhand was strong; he was ready. He felt like strangling a tiger with his bare hands. As soon as Letho inched his way over across the unstable lake, he'd be ready for him.

But what's this!? While the mercenary was trying desperately to keep himself above the water line, carefully shifting his weight from one foot to the other when he felt the ice give just a little too much, Letho was free to move with impunity! He stomped around like a drunken mastodon! Goddamn those monks! He'd kill 'em!

No time to worry about them, though. Godhand would have to survive before even thinking about exacting revenge. He steadied himself, the frozen ground hissing and cracking as he dug his heel into it. The Savion noble was even faster than he remembered and was making his way towards Godhand at an impressive speed. Although, to tell you the truth, he didn't really expect Letho to make a serious attack. For all his posturing, the man did have a sense of honor and he definitely owed the mercenary. Hell, he'd probably just-

What the fuck!? Letho had tried to spear him like a damn fish! If Godhand hadn't been quick enough, he'd be flailing on the end of the prince's weapon like the catch of the day. But he had been quick enough; quick enough to catch the shaft of the weapon before Letho managed to drive it into his chest. The mercenary was furious, and there was a sound like a gunshot when he tightened his grip and a long crack formed across the wood. What the fuck was wrong with him!? He'd saved his wife!

"What the fuck is wrong with you!? I saved your wife!"

Just as Godhand was about to reach into his coat and stab Letho in the face with a combat knife in retaliation, however, there was something like a shout in his head. The swordsman had always been magically "dumb"; that is to say, he had absolutely no talent at wielding it and conversely was deeply desensitized to it. Therefore, Findelfin's thoughts had to force their way into Godhand's head. By the time they got through, all he could make out was "-motions. Do not let on that I am doing the same". He wanted to slap the elf for distracting him with something like that, but the message had been sent almost simultaneous to a blast from Dan. It missed Letho, who Godhand hoped was it's intended target, by a good two feet but the repercussions were still profound. It leveled a good bit of the frozen lake and cracks in the ice bolted in every direction. It was worst the closer you got the hole and you couldn't get much closer to it than where he was standing. Godhand plunged into the freezing water instantly, and he cursed his luck as he felt one of Findelfin's arrows graze his shoulder. The temperature made it feel like someone was wringing out his lungs like you would a drenched towel, but he still had the presence of mind to realize that he'd hung on to the Corone Ranger's spear.

He pulled.

[Xalstad]

Dirk Xalstad, better known by his alias, Jackal, was no stranger to war. During his lifetime he had seen more fighting than the majority of those on the lake, but unlike those famous warriors locked in battle—Letho Ravenheart, Skie dan Sabriel, and Logan McCloud—Jackal preferred to work on the sidelines. He was clever and tactical: a general, not a soldier. Without him, Imperial might have already fallen.

Fighting is only one element of war. Imperial’s informants warned Jackal of the NWO’s plans and their alliance days before the battle began, giving him ample time to apply the contingency plans he had created while the clan was in infancy. Did the NWO, the Company, and its allies really think the acts of some of the most recognizable people on Althanas would go unnoticed? Flexing their muscles would only take them so far and Jackal was determined to see them fail, not for their purposes, but for their arrogance.

To protect their treasury, Jackal, Melancor, and Tera had formulated a plot to keep the NWO and the Company away from the Dirks Estate. While NWO’s ultimate goal was uncertain, it was clear that the Company’s interest was on the vast wealth Imperial had collected. Step one of Imperial’s plan had almost worked as planned. The idea was to separate the enemy forces by “transporting” the Company members to the lake to attack their morale. When one can’t see the prize, the incentive to claim it is often lost. However, there appeared to be members of both enemy groups spread out below.

Jackal presently stood at edge of the coliseum, safely overseeing the battle. Imperial was not fairing well in its waking moments. The mercenaries, Letho Ravenheart and Logan McCloud had taken charge of the battle from Lesair Anubail, Imperial’s commander, and both were being teamed up on for their boldness. As expected, NWO came on strong, throwing their arsenal at Imperial from the onset, but even the best tire. The battle would also be very emotionally taxing. Because the battle involved ideologies, Dirks and Jackal were able to recruit acquaintances of the alliance and other notables as mercenaries. Step two involved pitting companions against one another to potentially end the battle early. Emotional tension tends to breed suspension.

In the end, Jackal preferred this type of war. Being tactical in war saved lives, though Jackal doubted that it was compassion that formed his preferences. He was driven by a desire to win, and to do so flawlessly. Imperial was getting handled, but the ploy had worked. It was time to recall his troops and allow his plan to unfold. “You’ve done well, my friends,” Jackal said, gently patting a nearby monk on the back, “but I’m afraid I must go and lead my troops."

Without waiting for a response, Jackal stepped forward. “Imperial!” he yelled, “Retreat to the Coliseum. Ravenheart! Give them cover.”

[Logan]

Logan's sure-footing had ensured he'd get the most out of his leap towards the stranger he'd attacked. His eyes caught a glimpse of a flash of light from the one he was attacking, but as quickly as it came it was gone. Then, almost as fast as it was gone, it was back and visible once more. The light grew brighter and the duration was vastly extended.

The rainbow of colors blinded Logan for a split second, the direct result of the blade acting as a prism for the sunlight from above. He knew it was a coming attack and was pretty sure it was a blade being swung in his direction though it was hard to tell by the light. Perhaps it was the sudden rush of cold, biting wind that caused Logan to alter the arc of his blade, swinging it back upwards to meet the other blade directly in front of him.

The two prevalida blades met with the ear-piercing sound of grinding metal. The blades of air from his opponent sliced into them fiercly, but were easily dispatched away. And that's exactly why I use only Prevalida, the psion thought to himself amusedly. Prevalida had become widely known for its innate ability to withstand magic and be virtually immune to it. His blades were not only his best weapon, but they were also his best defense at times. As the air blades were dismissed without much concern, but Logan suddenly had a much greater problem.

His sheer angle and velocity had not been accounted for in regards to the unsteady surface at which he was now hurling towards with a severe lack of control. Thinking quickly and decisively, the psion rolled to his right to try and allow his side to take the brunt of the impact that seemed to doom him. He hadn't noticed the sudden appearance of the beast that had broken apart massive quantities of the ice shelf Imperial stood upon, but the sound of shots was enough to catch his attention.

His roll to his side had allowed him to avoid the first shot, if not by the grace of God. The second shot, however, ripped through his jacket, and due to his roll, sliced along his left leg in a horizontal line. ”FFFFUUUUUU--," the psion sent out the shout telepathically without even realizing it. It was more reaction at that point, as he turned just slightly from the velocity of the bullet and the sheer pain.

Crack…Crack…SPLASH… The sounds of Logan plunging through the ice into the watery depths below was sickening. Those who were in battle upon its thin and unsure surface were sure to feel shivers as he sank to the depths below. Logan had nearly doomed himself from the start, and that would come as no surprise to most who knew him.

If there was one thing the veteran was known far and wide for doing, it was being brash and reckless. He rarely attacked with much thought into the outcome. Usually, the psion allowed his emotions to take control, and thus, he found himself in such precarious positions as the one he had suddenly been thrust headlong into. The sheer pain from the wound the bullet inflicted was only enhanced by the sharp pains his right side endured while crashing through the ice and into the water. It caused him to take a small, quick breath in. Unfortunately for Logan trying to breathe underwater usually yielded unsatisfactory results.

The seering loss of airspace in his lungs to the invading water made him realize the situation was dire and desperate. Logan swallowed the water he’d sucked in and allowed his nostrils to breathe out just slightly. He was going to run out of breath rather quickly if he didn’t do something fast. Closing his eyes, the veteran focused his thoughts and himself on one thing – survival.

He hadn’t heard the words Dirk had shouted. He was too focused, and the sound was muted by the water and ice above. Opening his eyes to figure out where he was he realized he’d sunk down a few more feet than he’d thought. He could barely make out the figures above him standing on the unsteady ice. They were slowly fading into darkness.

Logan had to concentrate. He had to.

[Letho]

Cold?

Cold didn’t even begin to describe it.

The water around him wasn’t water at all. It was alive. It stabbed at the Marshal with shards of jagged ice that tore through nerves and flesh and bone. Letho felt like he was trapped in one of those torturing coffins which perforated him with spikes once it was closed, only somebody kept closing and opening the door. It never stopped. It struck against his chest again and again like a boxer on a punching spree, trying to beat that little portion of life that he still had. It was a peculiar type of pain as well. It didn’t irritate him, didn’t make him wrathful. It was trying to make him surrender, give up, let go to the cold touch. It promised him that if he did that, the agony would be over. Nothing pained you once you were a stiff.

Perhaps the sinking Marshal would’ve even considered tossing in the towel if it wasn’t for the wrath that kept burning within him. Godhand Striker was the reason for it. No surprise there. The unscrupulous mercenary always had a way of irritating Letho and this time he had done it by pulling his foe under with him just like he had probably pulled so many under in his life. Only this time his victim was sinking faster than him. With all the equipment weighing him down, Letho was falling through the water like a boulder, still holding on onto his spear. Godhand was probably somewhere above him, trying to swim in this sea of frozen snakes that kept biting, but the plunging swordsman couldn’t see him. Couldn’t see a damn thing. Every time he tried to open his eyes, it felt like someone is trying to gouge them out with a rusty, cold spoon.

Letho put his muscles in motion despite their insistence not to do so, but trying to swim in icy waters was like trying to swim in quicksand; every stroke just got you deeper. Luckily for the Corone Ranger, his feet struck the muddy bottom after mere seconds of this futile struggle. There was hope to found in that mud. The lake was obviously shallow here, meaning some kind of dry land was close. Letho’s mind tried to ascertain where that land stood compared to his current position, but the icy pain was piercing his forehead like nails, preventing clear thinking. The fact that the air from his lungs craved to get out only added to the chaos in his head.

Luckily, his feet kept their wits. They tested the soft soil below, feeling the angle of the slope before they started climbing it. The water around him was like a gale, trying to push him back, impeding him movement, but the sheer might of his muscles prevailed. It brought Letho underneath the slab of ice that separated the frozen coffin and airy freedom. He shouldered upwards against the thick plate, once, twice, thrice without making as much as a crack. It was only then that he realized that the whole icy experience quenched his Righteous Might. He called it up again, enlightening the lake from below with his aura before he launched himself through the ice with an almost bestial growl.

His feet landed on solid ground, but immediately the swordsman was on his knees, breathing out puffs of air as white as if he had a cigar in his mouth. His limbs were cramped, his gauntleted fists balled into fists so tightly that they probably bled beneath the metal. He lost his spear somewhere between being on the bottom of the lake and bulleting through its surface, but he didn’t care. His body was still being tormented by the icy pitchforks – albeit not as viciously as down below – but he didn’t care. He was out and that was all that mattered.

But apparently, he wasn’t the only one. Godhand Striker resurfaced as well, all pale and twice as ugly as normal. The pair wound up on a small stone platform that might’ve been a part of the coliseum’s auditorium once judging by the stone steps that kept rising upwards before they were abruptly bitten off by the tooth of time. They stood at what was probably one a loge used for those with deeper pockets, but all the marvel was gone from the edifice. There was only frost and cracks and treacherous gray stone that threatened to crumble if enough force was applied.

That didn’t stop the combatants, though. Their breaths weren’t normalized, their muscles still half-dead like their brains, but once eye-contact was established between the flaming browns and the cool crimsons, they went at it again. They were both sluggish and cold, their clothes and their armor clutching them in a frosty grasp, but they went at it again like deer locking antlers over a doe. Letho brought down a powerful pile driver from above with his right, aiming to beat Godhand to the ground with it, but the mercenary was too deft, still too fast. He not only evaded the strike, but trapped Letho’s wrist and pulled him down on his fist that thundered against the torso of the Marshal. If it weren’t for the armor and the taut muscle, it would’ve been a strike that forced the contents of the stomach out. As it was, however, it failed to seriously shake Letho who countered with a headbutt that connected with Godhand’s forehead and sent them both reeling backwards a couple of steps. The temporary pause finally allowed the Marshal to respond to the words spoken earlier.

“My wife has nothing to do with this plundering run of yours, Godhand. One good deed doesn’t excuse ten vile ones. I have to put a stop to it.”

[Raelyse]

Now, it was really starting to get messy. And Raelyse could not be more excited. Cries of battle, shrieks of pain, the sound of ice breaking underfoot, the splashing of icy water... it was all music to his ears. Everyone was fighting tooth and nail and he could hold it in no longer. The sides were relatively evenly matched, at least for now. It was time for his grand entrance, it was about time for the arrival of the one who would turn the tides. He had helped here and there, thrown his bolts of lightning, but he had not really made himself prominent. With the type of tricks at his disposal, that would not stay a problem for very long.

Raelyse had scurried away like a timid mouse as soon as his allies had charged forward, consoling himself by comparing himself more to a fox, a cunning creature that would strike when the time was right. Now that weapons were drawn and the conflict really begun, he prematurely decided that the time had come. He could not resist, to be honest. Never one to fall victim to bloodlust, he nevertheless could not help but feel tempted to join. One look at his sword cane, resting gently in his right hand, firmly pressed onto the icy surface was all he could stand. The fine blade had been confined within its sheath for too long and it hungered to be unleashed, just as Raelyse hungered for prominence.

Telepathic thoughts had been bouncing in his head for the past few minutes but he paid them no heed. He marched to the beat of only one drum: the one of his heart. And it was high time that the rest heard and followed it as well.

“Behold!” Raelyse bellowed, his voice loud and clear. He threw back his coat revealing the striking clothing he wore beneath it, despite the occasion. Also noticeable was the magnificent blade Lhustaril, sheathed and secured to his belt. All those factors were nothing, compared to what he was about to show them.

His left hand came across, grabbing onto the handle of Ilrathion, his sword cane, and in one swift motion, pulling the enchanted sword free of its scabbard, bathing it in the air that it craved so badly. Instantly, its enchantment presented itself to the two warring factions. Raelyse turned the blade horizontally and thrust it above his head, to present the effect more dramatically. His sword shone as bright as a twin sun, instantly catching the attention of any who spied it, even out of the corner of their eye. That was not all the however, for he tilted his blade slightly at various angles, allowing the light from his shining weapons to reflect at random angles, throwing blinding rays of light into eyes scattered all over the battle field.

Being immune to Ilrathion’s effects, Raelyse constantly moved around so that as many people as possible would be exposed to the blinding light but also to ensure that random projectiles would not hit him.

The Myrusian tried to turn his movements towards the coliseum, knowing that was where his forces were headed.

[Summary: Raelyse unleashes Ilrathion, bathing the whole battlefield in light, temporarily blinding random people.]

[Arsène]

The battle had quickly devolved into sheer madness as both sides began to throw their chaotic attacks haphazardly across the field of ice and into whatever flesh and armor happened to be nearby. Arsène himself had made a mad dash for his horse in the ensuing chaos, as strange throwing weapons whipped by his head and kicked up his hair. He was far enough to the right to not be in direct danger of the ice, and it was all the reason he needed to leap blindly on his steeds back and command the animal away from combat.

It all seemed like a blur since taunts were first thrown and plans were first laid. In an instant monstrous men had leapt forth in the wake of stinging arrows glamored by white hot sorceries. As steed and rider alike felt the sting of cold breath penetrate their lungs, they could only look back in sheer bewilderment at the battle that had become nothing more than anarchy. Screams of telepathic messages surged through the noble's head, causing him to stare wildly around to find the source of such witchery; all the while he kicked at his steeds side to go further and further towards the coliseum. He didn't need Imperial's tactician to explain when to fall back. Any first year officer could tell the battle was going poorly. Had Arsène not eyed Findelfin racing towards the gaping would he himself had gashed in the lake, the man might have continued his retreat.

But the elf and he had unfinished business. It was the elf's presence at the meeting days ago that caused Arsène to rush over and demand his head. And it was that comment that cause Letho's fist to go slamming into Arsène's head.

The noble took his beast by its mane and whispered firmly into it's ear, "head to the center." With aged and unsure footing, it began a slow trot doubling back to the center where Findelfin dashed to fallen form of one of Imperial's soldiers who bobbed and gasped in the frigid waters. Arsène kept his head and body low to avoid the chance of projectile attack. The man was no skilled rider and only managed to stay on by sheer trust of his steed. If anything happened to upset the animal further, he doubted he'd be able to stabilize the beast's wailing cries or flailing motions.

As unnatural light seemed to appear from the very air itself, Arsène neared the icy hole that was Imperial's center flank, just in time to see Findelfin arrive at the opposite side of the gaping maw. He stopped and steadied his beast, cautioning it on the danger of their situation with a few rushed words and rubs on its neck.

Arsène doubles back to the center, stopping just outside the breaking ice, opposite of Findelfin and Skie, and a pretty easy target considering he's on a horse.

[Bloodrose]

Bunny approved by Lasair

Had he not been so focused on the man leaping through the air at him, Teric might have noticed the red-headed blur that cam