The Field of Sighs and Sorrows

[Sighter Tnailog]

((Keep in mind that we are embarking on a very large, very hectic battle. Many people will be posting. Therefore, if you can keep your posts short, it would be helpful. Commanders, try to remember that once battle is met, strategy ceases; there will be very little time to plot grandiose schemes once in the thick of it, so concentrate on surviving, not planning attacks, and be as concise as possible. From now on, the battle is not about strategy, it's about writing; as such, please no OOC reports on troop strength. That doesn't matter anymore.))

Turning his back on the High Bard (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=8699), Findelfin turned to face the crowd below him. It was a stunning sight. The full contingent of the Elven Army, thousands of lances extended to the stars, glittering shields, stern faces. But there were also young faces, those who knew not what they were doing, whose hearts were afraid of this grim day. Findelfin found himself suddenly moved by the very mode of their diversity; young elves and old, some who had fought alongside their own fathers in the great School Wars, some whose only battles had been bedside stories of Thoracis's assault on Valinatal. Some were even men, and they were in many ways the strongest among the number, for they had risked everything, entered an alien race, and for no reason other than their ideals held them to standards far higher than their mortal brethren.

He slowly unsheathed Ainalindil, and cleared his voice. As he began to speak, he could feel Varalad's power flowing into his words, as the High Bard filled them with resonance to soar above the crowd, made them heard above the din of the battle behind them.

"Elves of Raiaera, and you men who serve with us freely. We have been a proud people." And at that, he sucked in his breath. It was time to speak.

"Too proud. For today we shall be shattered. Today the corpses of a million dead, Durklans we slaughtered in ages past on the arid sands of the Black Desert, those who died beneath our feet as Enarlin mage struggled against the forces of Atanamir Eluriand, the ones we expelled for heresy to the land of Alerar...all of this, all our blood-soaked history, comes to a crashing end."

The host was stunned; already an angry murmur began to spread, and a few braver hotheads were starting to cry out for Findelfin to give up his post before impugning Raiaera's dignity further, but Findelfin simply raised his hand and shouted louder,

"Yes! Armies of Raiaera, we fight for a nation whose past is not unsullied, we fight for a people whose names are not pure. We are as much a monster race as that we fight against. What comes to us now is punishment, punishment for all our wrongs to each other and to the world. Aurient herself said, when she cursed the Black Desert, that it would come to pass that the graves would open and the wrath of the stars would pour about our heads. So it is written in Tel Aina Parma, the book of our ancestors and the source of our hope." The crowd was now murmuring still, but less angrily; he was right, it was written.

"The day of wrath has come, armies of Raiaera! Already the sun has passed its zenith, and we will slip into the twilight." And here his voice intensified; this was his point.

"But it is also written, bold hearts, that when the World Tree that once shone in the sky came under assault from evil, it was shattered even as evil was broken, and its pieces formed the stars, creating a beauty at once less powerful than the World Tree and yet all the more subtle. And so I say to you now: we will shatter. We will be broken by the tide that sweeps us away. But we will not let evil shatter us without doing it such a blow that it can never recover. We will pay the price for our pride, but we will make them work so hard to extract it that they will never strike us again. And from the shattering of our swords will rise a new star, a new thing, a new power in the world, less bright maybe, less pure, but subtle and strong, able to withstand in ways that no walled city can, a beauty beyond all the jeweled chalices of our race." And now the army began to cheer; and, his face flush, Findelfin brandished Ainalindil. They were ready to fight.

Grabbing an enchanted arrow from the pile, Findelfin thrust it into his arm, shallowly enough not to do too much damage. Raising the bloody shaft in his hand he said, "Glorious Host, with the power of holy sounds flowing in my veins and yours, let us ride to our ruin! In so doing, let us ruin evil as well!" And lifting the Horn of Velicë Arta to his lips, he blew one long, clear, ringing blast. He held that note for nearly a minute, blowing until he felt his temple would burst from the strain.

As the blast sounded, the army roared to life. Gates swung open, banners were unfurled, and the army marched from the citadel to take the field for the final stand.

[Caden Law]

Posts will be shorter after this one.

When Caden finally woke up, (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=8819&page=3) he found himself lying in the floor of a shop somewhere. His hat was still present. He was fully clothed, though someone had taken the care to pull his goggles down and clean his face off. He could still smell the soap they'd used.

He sat up. It was a bookstore. He was still wearing his armor, and his sword was within reach. He took it and used it to stand up. Caden barely knew anything about swordsmanship, but he still strapped it onto his back so that the hilt stuck out over his left shoulder. The shop was virtually abandoned now. Whoever brought him here had taken just enough time to show a little compassion on him, then they'd left.

Least they left me in a bookstore, Caden managed to pull a smile out of nowhere. It was the same type of smile you see on men about to be executed.

His head was hurting like Hell as he pushed his way back out into the streets of Eluriand. They were crowded now, and the masses grew thicker and more martial as Caden sidled along towards the Grand Gate. Fair maidens, withered wives and fearful children gave way to sharpened blades, bloodied banners and cold, hardened eyes. Caden didn't see any of his company among the lot. Maybe the Blueravens had dissolved back into the regular forces, or maybe they were just further in.

He thought he saw a few shimmering blue helms, but dismissed it just as quickly.

To the wall, and he quietly stepped into a door that had been left open in the hurry to marshall forces. Eluriand's walls were massive things, thick enough to house networks of hallways and Gods know what you could cram inside of them. They were left bare now. Everything that could be used for combat was gone; the weapon racks were empty, the armor had been taken...

...all that remained were pens, pencils, inks and chalks. The things used to write last wills and testaments, and to put word to feelings their families would never see.

Caden looked upon these things.

If he survived long enough, he'd never once feel guilty for stealing every single one of them. He left the papers behind, of course, but you'd be amazed at what you can cram into a leftover burlap sack when it feels like the world is going to crash down on your head.

He took the stairs then, up to the empty battlements of the Grand Gate. Eluriand's defenders weren't kidding. Every able-bodied soldier was about to go to war...

Caden made it to the very center of the battlements, and that was when the gates swung open. From a literal bird's eye view, the blood-stained Wizard watched as Findelfin and the Elves and men (There go the Blueravens) went marching into the fields.

He looked out, and he saw the massing forces of Xem'zund barreling towards them with all the inevitability of a force of unnature. Spiders, ghouls, dead elves and men, and things too awful to pin names to.

Caden was no good as a soldier. He knew this. He accepted it.

So he took out his chalk, and he started writing...

[The Scourge]

He strode across the field, tendrils of mist and shadow clinging where he walked, magical burns seeming to scar the land where his feet touched. He was so happy to be here. It had been too long.

* * * * *

"Mother!"

"No child, flee the woods, to Qulamek, to Qulamek, follow the stars!" She thrust him away from her body as the house shook with the blow of a mailed fist to the door. At the second blow it gave way, and the tall, terrible warriors entered. The boy's mother heaved him through the window, and then she screamed as a sabre pierced her side and a kick caught her square in the abdomen.

He landed on the grass and ran, dodging through the ruins of burning buildings and the grasping hands of the invaders. The last he heard of his mother's voice was the scream as the elven warrior claimed her for his own.

* * * * *

"Claim the field!" His voice no longer echoed the way it had in his first statements, he no longer felt the need to torture his opponents psychologically. But he had to tell his commanders what to do.

Mentally, he stretched his feelers out to Viola. Darkstalker, I am sending your spiders and wolves in the west upwards into the Great Forest, the foolish elves will turn to fight us here. We need troops in the northern reaches to stymie elvish efforts there.

Rask, have your Ancient Elves take command posts of the undead, I am spreading my power into them to assist their control of the zombies. Help them cross the river.

He stopped walking, now just past the river. He stood in the middle of the ruined icon that the one called Blueraven had drawn. About 10,000 of his troops had crossed the river, the commander from the bridge was drawing up his cavalry to join the soldiers marching from the city. It was a foolish thing, but he knew foolishness. This was not the first time the elf Findelfin had sent troops from the city to challenge Xem'zûnd, but if the necromancer had his way, it would be the last.

With one small word, he sent out his thought to all his commanders at once, and they heard him speak, crystal clear in his mind.

"Attack."

And attack they did. Instead of milling about on the plain as an undivided mob, suddenly his troops surged forward as a concerted body, streaming for the elvish positions. He would not give them a chance to draw up one of their devastating charges; he would claim the field for his before the battle even began.

[Twisted Infinitum]

Bloodlust made Rask's lizard eyes bulge as he charged low to the ground, tail swishing so violently that it almost hit his ancient elven soldiers. Half of them had already been destroyed. It was a scene that he had avoided long ago when he fled to the numb embrace of bestial servitude, and the scene at the bridge had been only a re-enacted sliver of it. He knew, without a doubt, that if he had to view his entire race on that day they had ceased to be, he would have gone mad.

A voice broke through the violent fog. It was far less grandiose and more honest than what he had heard before. That change, not the mention of his current name, was what brought his eyes and his mind away from the battlefield. He saw the zombies shambling over the bridges with little regard for their own safety. More than a few suffered the inevitable consequences and were washed downstream silently. Then, he looked at his own soldiers, and they looked back with a cold regard that their corpses hadn't been capable of before. He would have smiled, despite the falseness of their state and dark business before them, if his face were able. Grinding to a halt, he gestured for them to spread out at the head of the disoriented masses.

~

Vipress rode sidesaddle, looking like twisted royalty with her arm about the waist of the ornamental and far more twisted rider. Her undead unicorn beat a quick and even path up the eastern side of the battlefield, barely kicking up grass. As corrupted as it was, it still retained its unnatural grace. She didn't find pleasure in such beauty, though.

She had heard the voice echoing in her mind, though it hadn't been directed toward her, and she was left with an infuriating question. Did Xem'zund think her above the generals, or had he forgotten her? Her fangs pushed harshly into her lip as she wondered. With a dark gaze, she looked to the front of the army. Rask led it, his undead siblings spread out like bannermen and their swords held to that effect. Under the sway of his men, the zombies behind were structuring their ranks into something that resembled a fighting force. "You're doing well," she said of her guardian with a hint of jealousy in her tone.

Her subordinate couldn’t outdo her, of course. So, she looked skyward to the milling fog of harpies. Her orders were simple. Kill. Whether the elves were on the field, the battlements, or within the city walls, the twisted creatures were to dive down, latch on, and tow them to the heavens before dropping them. A quick glance behind showed that the cloaked shadow, looking like a severed piece of Xem'zund's aura, was approaching at its own determined pace. As the harpies began to dive in random, disorganized bursts, she amended their orders to drop the still-living bodies in the clear span of field before her. She had something to prove before officially introducing herself to the Lord of Death.

[Viola Darkstalker]

There is a difference between insanity and sheer single-minded madness. Viola had known both throughout her life; from dipping into the tendrils of insane ranting to reveling in the psychosis of her shattered psyche. She knew both, but oh how she longed for the sweet release of madness over her mind, craved the clarity of thought when there was only one thing that needed doing. As the beyond-corrupt commander charged headlong into battle, madness was not on her mind. Madness was her mind.

Shivers of excitement flowed through her body as the voice of elder evil oozed like tar through her consciousness. Her animalistic troops were being sent to a greater cause by her master. The release of strain was negligible on her fragmented mind as Xem’zûnd effortlessly plucked the command lines of more than one thousand undead soldiers from her hands. It did not matter. The only thoughts she had now were simple.

Kill… Kill… Kill!

Nearly five-thousand zombies shambled across the earthen bridges Xem'zûnd raised from the riverbed, none lacking the presence of Viola’s mind and all managing to make it across the river they had so recently been raised from. Most had sword and shield, and the ones without gathered in the center of the writhing mass of festering flesh. They wouldn’t be unarmed for long.

In the distance, the grand city of Eluriand loomed powerfully with its beautiful walls and impressive fortifications. The capital city of the elven nations was so disgustingly beautiful… It would truly be an honor for the reaper to bring it under her bloody scythe. Still seated atop her monstrous spider, she had enough presence of mind to keep it as a mount, full rose-colored lips split her flawless face with a toothy grin that embodied nothing but the worst of all that could be called terrible. Lovely pale flesh that would soon be drenched in the blood of herself and others was a stark contrast to the decayed and decaying skin of the humans and elves in her army.

A single word echoed across the plains, carrying with it all the authority and power that Xem'zûnd’s position allowed. “Attack”

For a moment, a terrible, throbbing, climactic moment, his voice gave Viola the presence of mind to tighten up her ranks. A mob facing an army could never hope to win, after all. But as quickly as they came, the final echoes died inside her skull. As she plummeted down the liberating slope of insanity to psychosis, a rising cackle raced across the plains. It was the sound of a madman who had just been given everything they had ever wanted. It was the sound of death incarnate.

[Caden Law]

Sneaking in one more post before All Hell Breaks Loose :D
"Just once..." Etch, scribble. "In my entire life..." Scratch, scratch. "I'd really like to be..." Long line here. "The one with the advantage." Complete.

Caden stood up and, for the briefest of moments, tried to admire his handiwork against the background noise of war about to be made. Hands on his hips, Hat tilting and wobbling this way and that, and for all of a split second, he actually smiled. Taking into account that he was still covered in blood from throwing up on himself not that long ago, it was not the most encouraging sight you could hope for from the only man standing in the Grand Battlements.

At least, he was standing.

Then he was ducking out of sight and a harpy swooped back up towards the skies, trailing whatever backwards gibberish passed for undead profanity. Her voice sounded like nails on a rust-covered chalkboard, and as she flew, the wind left an almost tangible streak of brown behind her. As Caden sat back up, clutching his Hat's brim down so hard that the thing threatened to engulf his whole head, the harpy swung wide around the flagpost of one of Eluriand's more upscale buildings. She was going to come right at him. She was going to try and kill him, with great big eagle-like feet, and maybe she'd eat him with those nasty fangs...

...and Caden, in the way that Wizards will when they've been through the wringer, decided to kill her first.

He stood up and slapped his hands together. The Circle lit up like neon all around him; the runes didn't have the sheer sturdiness he'd been able to achieve near the Bridge, but that was then, and this is now.

Caden thrust a hand out; two fingers leading the way, others held in reserve. His other hand grasped at the bicep. Magic focused tight into the confines of his fingertips, and he forced it tighter still as the harpy drew closer and closer and--

The air caught fire in a thin blue trail, from Caden's fingertips to the harpy's face; all at once with little or no no visible lead-in. In short order, it ate through her skull and shot out across her spine, sundering the rest of her in the process. All that remained to hit the back of the wall a few seconds later was a thin, dead cloud of ash.

Caden spent a moment or two staring at his fingertips like a normal man would stare at the smoking barrel of a gun. Then he grinned. He grinned like only a Wizard can: Completely sane, possessed of a sharp intellect and the awful will to put it to use.

Caden turned to where the real battle was about to begin, and the grin fell away only a little slower than it had formed. An ill sense of resolution washed over him.

"Playtime's over," he mumbled in his native Salvaran. Up went his hands once again, and he began to build power...

...only to find that it was still there. All of it, ready and waiting. Even the very spell he meant to funnel it all into.

The grin came back. "Or not," he added, and began to Work the magicks again.

[Sighter Tnailog]

((From here on out, I will try for two posts a day, one from Findelfin and one from The Scourge. You may ignore posting order as you like, just avoid double-posts and try to make sure that each post you make actually responds to changes in the battle.))

Findelfin was now riding the line, Pelektar's flanks stirring beneath him as he rode. He gripped her mane tightly, suddenly realizing that of all the friends he could lose on this day, the one he would miss the most would be her. He said a silent prayer to Arddunwë, the granter of song and beauty, whose greatest artwork was the land from which all other art must spring. And his prayer was for his steed, for horses were the most precious of Arddunwë's gifts.

Most of the elves were now getting into line, the cavalry was organizing itself and the infantry spreading into formation. Archers -- the only troops of which some had been granted exemption from the Horn's call to exit the city -- He was about to give command to form battle lines when he heard a cry from behind him. Wheeling Pelektar around as quick as he can, he saw nothing but a mass of undead surging forward. And immediately he knew that Xem'zûnd truly was in personal command; normal undead captains did not act with such strategic maneuvering.

His orders were at his lips almost before he took in the scene. "Auxiliary Cavalry, wheel east, circle wide then charge with lances down into the flank of the assault, try to cut off the brunt of the attackers from the main force. Infantry, stand ground at the gate, when the main force hits you will have the Turlin arrows to protect you from the brunt of the blow. Aglarlin commanders, spread yourselves throughout the groups, I want Turlin and Dagorlin attack teams and Lissilin support healers spread throughout all posts, and put a few of your bards on support detail for Commander Law."

And now was the moment of truth. "Main cavalry, you are under my command. We charge west of the center thrust of the attack in two waves, I will lead the first charge, the second will follow once the first is five deep. Cavalry archers, ride flanking, firing arrows when you have clear shots; make every one of your enchanted arrows count. Tyreles, take command of the second charge, Hontoratari, command the auxiliaries. Move!"

He had little time. To build up the charge, he had to move faster than the undead, so he turned, lowered his lance, and with a cry spurred Pelektar forward. Before he could build up full speed, he smashed into the first line of the undead, his lance skewering two of them through their heads before he threw it to the ground, where it quivered point first and pinned the struggling monster.

With the same motion, he unsheathed Ainalindil, and used it to lop off the hand of a zombie clutching at his bootstraps. The blade flashed as it swung through the air with a terrible singing thrum; its purified blade laid the undead low with only one clean stroke.

[Feed The Machine]

The clamorous elation of patriotic, battle-high warriors did not stir up any similar response in Galyl, as he stood beside Oronra and the Cora’Lindstra with his arms crossed. A solemn countenance had long fallen on his face from the moment he’d returned from an assigned mission and received orders from his master, via General Oronra, concerning the upcoming battle against Xem’zund. The young squire was simply commanded to stay behind and not get involved in the great battle to come. He'd received these orders much earlier in the day, back when Findelfin was still evaluating candidates to be commanders. Desparately did Galyl want to confront his master on his decision, but restrained himself from doing so, knowing that Findelfin had more pressing things to deal with. "But why do I have to stay behind!?" The Obsidian Spire resident inquired that mentally over and over again. He’d trained extremely hard since enlisting in the Bladesinger sect of the Raiaeran army, and especially hard since becoming Findelfin’s personal student. Great progress had been made on his part, thus leaving him entirely baffled as to why Findelfin did not want his pupil accompanying him on the battlefield.

The Galoriand’s arms dropped with indignation as he angrily plopped himself on the ground, leaning against the parapet. “I don’t understand this! You freely send novices, men who spend their days tending to lambs and chickens, as well as has-been, out-of-shape warriors to war, yet I’m somehow not ready!?” The young soldier struck the parapet with the back of his hand. His words on the surface seemed to be directed at an absent Findelfin, but his eyes locked onto the Cora’Lindstra in accusatory fashion since he was the leader and final authority over all matters concerning Raiaera. Varalad took note of this, but did not respond belligerently as the mere child before him had. Instead, he calmly walked over to the lad, leaning over as he placed his hand upon Galyl’s shoulder as a father interacting with his son would.

“You’re a special one. Perhaps that is why Findelfin has told you to stay behind?” He paused, smiling gently before continuing. “I’m well aware of your history and how you have in you a burning desire to restore the name of your family. But you are 2,000 years to young to even consider doing that. There is still much for you to learn, so enjoy the process.”

Afterward, Varalad left the company of both Oronra and Galyl to attend to other matters involving the looming threat. The young Bladesinger trainee clenched his jaw, appearing as if wishing to say something but not being able to. “Heh, are you going to cry?” General Oronra laughed, joking around with Galyl in a way exclusive only to him.

“You know good and well what I’m going to do.”

Oronra’s laughing ceased, nodding his head in agreement. “Then you’d better make haste. The battle shall commence soon. Find Findelfin and make certain that you back him up. Out of the entire elven nation, you are the only one I know who is immune to that evil necromancer’s undead curse. Also, if your master complains about your presence on the battlefield, tell him to come see me.”

The young squire contained his joy, wishing to carry a certain level of stern professionalism. Desiring to show his gratitude however, he simply saluted his superior in true Bladesinger fashion and departed for the battlefields.

[Caden Law]

The power was there, and it was his, but it needed coaxing and that needed focus and that needed time. If Xem'zund's horde had their way, he'd get neither.

The not-so-Forgotten Necromancer's army had air superiority, and in a world where aircraft is literally nonexistent, that was as good an advantage as you could ever get. Chiefly because there was also no such thing as dedicated anti-aircraft weaponry. Harpies ruled the sky, and at least a few had noticed the fiery end of one of their sisters. They came down on Caden like the howling winds of gales from his homeland, and he didn't have the narcissistic delusions of grandeur to even pretend he was ready for them.

Lights sputtered around the battlements as Caden was driven to the edges of his Circle again and again. They came at him in staggered pairs now, with a third swooping in from time to time for the sheer fun of it. They toyed with him more than anything. In doing so, they forgot the oldest rule when it comes to Wizards -- the one that exists in some form in every book for them, by them, and about them.

Wizards are quick to anger. They're only subtle about it when they've got the time for it.

"Screw this," Caden finally spat as he reached around and, with all the skill of an inept librarian with a grudge, drew his sword. It was Elven-made, but definately with a human in mind; it had the stereotypical look of a Coronian weapon with some frilly details to make it look Raiaeran; lines etched into the blade and a few strings of Elven song writ along the hilt and crossguard. Two-handed though, which was a bonus considering that Caden hefted it more like a baseball bat than a proper weapon of war.

Down came the harpies for another go; a staggered formation of two with the third hanging back and cackling shrilly. Caden waited.

Waited.

Ducked the first, sidestepped the second. In came the third--

And he took her right arm, wing and a few toes off in one go. Admittedly, he did so while being knocked screaming back into the chest-high walls of the battlements, but it still counts as a win if you're the only one left standing. He straightened up after that, and immediately grabbed his goggles. They still had bloodstains from earlier.

Caden put them on anyway. It was wasted time, and the remaining harpies capitalized on it accordingly. He turned and found eagle's claws slamming into his chest at fifty or sixty miles per hour; the only reason the harpy failed to drag him kicking and screaming to the sky was because Caden stabbed her in the hip by pure, stupid good luck. Down they went, and the harpy crouched atop his chest in a writhing mass of pointed teeth, draconic wings and flailing, gangly limbs.

Caden used the time to assess himself, to let his life flash before his eyes, and to think about writing down a suitable will bequeathing his worldly possessions to someone who wouldn't set fire to them. It took him all of three and a half seconds before he started trying to fight back, and by then all he could do was jam the sword between himself and her teeth, even as she was raining sharp-knuckled fists into his chestplate from either side. Her claws tightened, and the metal started to buckle and--

Chunk.

There was suddenly, and terminally, something very sharp and glistening sticking out from the center of her chest. Caden became aware of a melodic voice, and of words that formed into an Elven war-prayer.

At about this time, Golaster Kenvas, Aglarlin Bard of the Bladesinger's Guild, hauled the harpy right off Caden's chest like a screaming, smouldering bale of hay. He held her aloft at seven feet on a shaft of wood and metal, then turned and shouted in his native tongue. Just one word. That's all anyone needs.

"NOW!"

There was a flash of gold, then the harpy petrified to stone in a matter of seconds. She crumbled to dust and even that quickly faded away as if blown out of existence by the wind. In her place was the Blueraven Company's makeshift banner; a hard wool blanket depicting the city of Eluriand with a blue Raven spreading its wings at the Southern Gate.

Kenvas stood with it for just a moment, with a kind of nonexistent sunlight just sparkling off of his armor and another bard -- shorter and patently female, but black-haired and altogether violent looking -- standing rather dramatically in his shadow. Caden stared at this for a moment.

"Are you alright?" Kenvas asked, in proper Common.

"I wish I could sparkle like that and still look manly," was Caden's answer in bastardized Akashiman. "It's just so shiny and--"

"We can understand you, you know," said the woman.

"You can?"

"We can," Kenvas added.

"Oh. Right then." The last harpy started in. "You can just let me die now."

A Turlin arrow shot from somewhere behind Kenvas. It tagged the harpy in her temple and whatever magicks went into it were enough to reduce her to a rain of pure white dust. "No can do, Blueraven," added Leister Covanna, standing a full half a foot shorter than Kenvas and wielding a bow large enough to make up for the difference.

In between being embarrassed enough to want to die and deciding he still had some pyrotechnics to carry out, Caden finally noticed that the female of the trio wasn't one of the 407. He said as much, if only for the change in subject.

"Redwyn Alvanas, Lisselin Bladesin-eyes up, human."

"...huh. Oh. Right! Sorry about that." Not really. Caden stood up and sheathed his sword, then looked to Kenvas and took a guess. "Findelfin sent you to babysit me, yes?"

"Something like that," Kenvas agreed, because he was the only one who could actually deal with Caden's sarcastic nature. "I didn't exactly have time to...to...ah..."

"Get the gang back together?" Caden asked.

"Yes. That."

Caden looked at Redwyn again, then at the other two or three bards that were coming out onto the battlements. All carried bows that looked like flutes and harps turned into weapons of war. Half were female. Every single one of them looked the very pinnacle of Beautiful Elven Warrior-Woman Stereotype, right down to one wearing skimpy armor and another having a high ponytail.

Caden nodded sagely. "Good choices."

"Not to interrupt or anything," Redwyn spoke up, and quickly took up a spare bow from of the other bards. She already had a quiver, Caden belatedly noticed. All of them did. "But I believe you're supposed to be valuable enough to warrant this sort of bodyguard mission. So start living up to the hype, Wizard."

Ow, my pride, Caden might have muttered, if his pride hadn't already been kicked around by one Elven woman today. He turned back to the matter at hand. Awkwardly sheathed his sword again, because he wasn't likely to kill anyone with it anyway (except, probably, himself).

"Keep me covered, Blueravens."

Redwyn and a few of the other bards muttered something about not being part of the Company. Kenvas and Leister just nodded and took point, and Leister in particular took up a bow.

The banner thrust forward. As a choir they sang, as archers they fired, and as a Wizard, Caden went back to Work...

[The Scourge]

He held out one gloved hand to rest on the pillars raised by the enemy wizard only a few hours before. Though the signs had been destroyed, Xem'zûnd could still feel the magic pulsing through the area, identify what sigils had been drawn and what runes used to work its power. It was powerful stuff, but crude...so crude...compared to what he had known and what he still knew.

* * * * *

A hard wooden switch slapped at his hands, and he withdrew them quickly. Rubbing them ruefully, he glanced with venom at his master, whose words rung in the empty room.

"Child, concentrate!" The man lifted his hands, singing a few notes as sparks began to fly between his palms, turning slowly into pure bolts of lightning that he manipulated as if juggling apples.

"See? Our holy song magic can do much, but you must concentrate! Try again!"

The boy frowned, resentful of the robe-clad monk leading his lessons. He had been learning so much more from the visitor to their monastery, and did not see the point in these exercises. But raising his hand again, he tried once more. But his voice cracked and an errant bolt of lightning from his fist brought another rap on his knuckles.

In that rap, something snapped. He lashed out with his new power, his different power, and for a moment the monk's eyes bulged as he clutched at his heart. Then a note left his lips and the boy felt what little power he had suddenly leave him.

"Never..." he gasped, "never...use...that power again. The Eternal Tap is terrible, boy, terrible. The Magic of the Holy Song cannot match its greatness, but in subtlety and wisdom it will guide you far better...the Tap, the Tap is dangerous! Promise me you'll never use it again.

The boy looked at the ground, and grudgingly spat his promise towards the stones. But he knew that somewhere deep inside him he had a more important promise to keep. A promise he had made his mother one day, long ago, as he wept under the sacred tree of his birth.

* * * * *

Bringing the mist and the air around him once more, he reigned himself together. It seemed that the elves had managed to bypass his main charge, and were already sending riders to the east to try to flank and separate the host. The shadows around him grew to engulf the hill; it would be clear to all where he stood, even if he himself was not visible behind the curtain. And then he reached out to speak directly to one of his greatest servants.

"Vipress, dear. Bring your pet closer to the battlefield. When the silly general thinks he's winning, I want to show him how wrong he is."

[Twisted Infinitum]

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

[Sighter Tnailog]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Viola Darkstalker]

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

~

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

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

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

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

~

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

[Caden Law]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Feed The Machine]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[The Scourge]

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

The boy went, and so did the Cantor.

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he landed on the hilltop and strode down the other side. As he walked, the magic keeping him shielded dissipated, his head cleared, his strength returned. And he smiled to himself as it did, for on the other side of the hill he had found the key he needed; the key that would deliver him the gates of Eluriand. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?p=91226#post91226)

[Caden Law]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was death in those eyes.

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

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

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

"Do it again."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Run," he ordered.

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

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

...then stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it stopped.

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

[Sighter Tnailog]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Twisted Infinitum]

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We need to break through as far as-"

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

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

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

[Feed The Machine]

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

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

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

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

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

[Caden Law]

In the formless, insubstantial land of Mental Turmoil, Caden was considerably less fortunate than those around him. Instead of flashbacks, hallucinations and psuedodemonic possession, he just blacked out for a good minute or two and opened his eyes to a crisp, clouding sky and a moment or two of near total numbness and deafness that felt like novacaine and sounded like underwater drumbeats.

The moment passed, and the world came back into focus; tinted yellow and red to match the colors of his bloodstained goggle lenses. He sat up and immediately took stock of everything: He had all the limbs the Sway gave him, none of his insides were spilling out, and his Hat still rested snug atop his head with the light weight of the Grimmoire inside it. All things considered, this was a comfort.

But then you get to all those other things and the considerations about them, and it wasn't a very big comfort at all. He still wore his chestplate, deformed as it was with an impression of Warson's gauntlet spanning the width of his chest from side to side and stomach to collar. He still clutched his sword in one hand, but that only seemed to be because his fingers had gone unresponsive -- and they stayed that way for a few seconds too long for Caden's comfort. His clothes had seen better days, but that's what alchemy and spare thread are for.

He used the sword as a prop to stand up not long after that, and then he took stock of everything else in much the same way he'd examined himself.

The short of it: Everything had gone to Hell in a handbasket.

The long of it: Everything had gone to Hell in a handbasket, but it was a very finely made wicker picnic basket filled with sandwhiches and whoever was holding it had conveniently forgotten something in the house. The undead were everywhere, moving with a little less intensity and cohesiveness than before, but the Elves and the Men were rallying in turn and pushing them back. Everywhere came song and scream, and more than a few severed limbs that often seperated the two of them. Swords and arrows blurred by, and a ghoul leapt right over his head into a Turlin blade. The wielder spun around and something very much like a spider tackled and gored it down through the shoulders, even as the blade thrust up into its gut.

The elf petrified and the spider did the same, and Caden watched it rather stupidly since the fight played itself out too quickly for him to do anything about it. He heard a song like tenors gone to war, and then a horn blaring like the screams of eagles. He turned, took a blind swing, and had the ridiculous good luck to cleave off an ancient Elf's face; bone and leathered skin crumpled at the tip of his sword, then simply tore away.

Caden stared, blearily, into the gaping maw of what used to be brain and sinus cavities, as well as a mangled upper jaw and a relatively complete lower one.

It's about this time that his adrenal glands decided to come back from their coffee break and kick him in the fight or flight mechanism. Much to Caden's credit as an ambassador of humanity to All Things Good And Right, he decided on the former. With a less-than-epic scream and a lunge forward that put his foot straight into the dead elf's chest, knocking it over. He motioned blindly, sensing magic and letting his fingers do the rest with a puppeteer's tug: the other, much more recently dead Elf's Turlin sword went spinning up into his left hand so forcefully that it almost wrenched his arm, shoulder and back all in rapid succession.

Caden stopped the sword high.

Then he brought it back down.

The magic of Wizard and Turlin slammed into the ancient elf's body, and reduced it to a spray of purple ash and dust after a quick flash of gold and a harp's cry. Caden straightened back up, and again took stock of the situation: He had a sword in each hand, his wand was lying in ruin back at the bridge, and his Company was all, probably, dead.

He could sense a familiar presence though. A presence whose Name he knew almost intimately after today's back-and-forth: "I know you're there, Little Reaper," Caden said again, and though his Voice lacked the depths of power he'd spoken with on the Bridge, there was a challenge in it. He looked for her, and there was an awful, terse little smile on his face as he did it.

Do not meddle in the affairs of Wizards, a wise man once said, For they are subtle and quick to anger.

Caden wasn't subtle, but he sure as hell was angry.

[Viola Darkstalker]

The undead under the control of the pleasantly insane general fought with the fury and fervor of wild animals, though with little more skill. An arm fell off? That’s why you had two. Skewered by a lance? Make is so they can’t use it any more. Like a rusted blade, the wedge of undead cut their way through the elven charge, taking at least one elf down for every zombie killed. In the center of it all, the violet-haired general grinned maniacally and forced her swarm through the ranks.

A sudden and unexplained sensation of loss slithered across the surface of her mind; the magic that allowed her to see did not falter despite the loss of Xem'zûnd’s will sustaining it. She felt sluggish, though, and her army reflected the loss as well. It wasn’t as large a change as some of the divisions, but it was still noticeable. If anything, the power they were receiving from Xem'zûnd was all that was keeping them from delving into the same madness that Viola reveled in. With the flow stemmed by her master’s weakened state, the crazed woman’s forces grew more ruthless as they took more of her personality in each order. Her forces wouldn’t falter. She was having too much fun to let a pathetic setback like this even think about stopping her.

The wicked smile that seemed so naturally out of place on her face was wiped off almost completely, however, by one word. Well, it wasn’t really one word but rather one man who spoke with a voice that reverberated in her mind. She knew his voice; he was the bastard who wanted to stop her from crossing the pathetic little bridge. She had crossed anyway, but the fact that he was calling out to her could not be denied. She was going to kill him, and he would die a terrible death. But first… the writhing mass of undead flesh that was her army wheeled around as they broke through the charge. Both hammer and anvil were softer without Xem'zûnd to temper them, but it would still be a strike to remember.

The general, however, was not with her army. Perched atop her eight-legged mount, the crazed woman was licking her lips and racing toward the source of the defiant voice. Not much ran though her mind other than the all-consuming need to kill things. She was fine with that line of thinking, even comfortable with the freedom it afforded her. After all, what good was a conscience when it stopped you from doing what felt so right? Maybe this man would be handsome. She could stave off her violent desires for ones infinitely more pleasurable if he was attractive enough.

A man with two swords, something across his eyes, and a rather impeccably pointed hat stood defiantly looking straight at her. Her hawk spies had shown her this man before. He wasn’t ugly, but he was nowhere near handsome enough to stay from killing. She bared her teeth at him and her mount leapt high into the air, leaving her to flip off its thorax and land gracefully on the ground. The spider wasn’t trying to crush Caden; it leapt much too far to do anything of that sort. It was simply going to stop anyone from interfering with Viola.

As soon as she landed, the mad reaper took off at a sprint straight at the armed and armored wizard. The pitiful creature’s breastplate was battered quite nicely, but it would still deflect attacks from her spikes. But… none of his other limbs were so protected. She was still a ways away, but that didn’t matter; she was within striking distance already. Her right hand crossed her chest as though she was going to throw something, even though she was clearly unarmed. Only a slight wavering in the air around her fingers gave a clue that something wasn’t right, like an isolated patch of heat surrounding her hand.

She was still twenty feet away and closing rapidly when she made a motion like throwing something. Some time between starting the throw and finishing the throw, a spike one-foot long and blacker than the darkest night appeared out of that warped space, flying toward the wizard’s right knee. Or… at least that was where she was aiming. It was a small target, after all, and she was running, so her first attack ended up flying wide and a little high. As link after link of the black chain that linked the spike to her body shambled out of the warped space near her right shoulder, her left hand shot forward like an open-palm strike. It probably shouldn’t have been a surprise when a second black spike-and-chain shot out like a javelin for his left shoulder. This one was more accurate; he would actually have to move for it to miss.

[Caden Law]

...and move he did. Caden was not a professional soldier -- and to tell the truth, he was a fairly poor fighter and a downright godawful swordsman. But he was a Wizard, and it can never be overstated that he was always thinking. He'd held his nerve against Nalith Celiniel, focused his magicks and he would've fought to the death against that woman for nothing but his ego.

Viola Darkstalker was going to get the same treatment in spades.

The spider flew overhead and he tried (failed) to ignore it, but he still focused on the woman herself. First spike and he sidestepped by inches, and it would've missed him anyway. Second spike and Caden showed no such reserve; he leapt right into the damn thing and sent it clanging off of his chestplate and over his shoulder, like a soccer player with nerd rage. His feet hit the ground, and Caden drew his swords up as one.

He gave to her this: He was overeager and probably quite unskilled.

He took from her this, and in these exact words: Weapons summoner, nowhere near as blind as the medusa rag makes her look, probably into bondage and torture.

...because, ladies, men are always considering what you're like in bed. Even if you are trying to murder them in cold blood in the middle of a warzone.

She juked to her left, and Caden went on the offensive: The Turlin sword swept up, its inherent magicks trying to sing...except that its current owner was rather tonedeaf, didn't have pointy ears, and was doing magic too crude to carry a tune. This was all about brutal pragmatism, nothing more and nothing less. Such is the way of Geomancy.

Up came the spikes, erupting from the dying grass and the bloody, hard-packed dirt like broken bones; each one a dozen feet long in under a second, and each one ending terminally in a sharpened point. A normal woman would've died six times before the first one finished going through her ribcage. The Reaper simply leapt at them and performed acrobatics like Caden had only seen in the nightmares that left him feeling inadequate compared to Althanas' endless martial artists: She kicked the points off of each spike, and as they continued rising with each one taller than the last, the Reaper handsprung from one to the next. Between them, she backflipped while moving forwards, and at the last...

She went right over him.

Caden did not take that lying down though: Up came the steel sword of his right hand, and there were chains barring the way and she was doing a handstand over him for just a split second, the only thing blocking her face from sharpened steel being a chain that seemed to come from nowhere during her acrobatics.

And then she rolled right down. Down the length of Caden's arm, down his back, down the backs of his legs and all the way to a crouch on the ground. He was faster to react than you might give him credit for; a swing of the Turlin sword came down and up for her backside, but he couldn't tell if it hit or not. The Reaper leapt away, and all he could do was to backpedal towards the spikes.

Distance, Caden thought, somewhere in between the fanboyish, misplaced id of I could see up her dress! and the more pragmatic superego of Natural tumbler, able to summon spikes and chains at a minimum...maybe more...acting as a command-hub for multiple undead. Take her out, they might scatter, but keep the hell away from her or you'll die screaming.

The clouds were starting to thicken overhead. Maybe it would rain soon.

[Viola Darkstalker]

If nothing else, this wasn’t going to be a boring fight. Despite the fact that her opponent lacked advanced sword techniques, she was also fresh from more than a year of doing nothing but recovering in a hospital after being struck blind. Now she was blind no longer, thanks to the glorious man named Xem'zûnd, and learning a new way of throwing her weapons. They were both disadvantaged.

A dull pain in her right foot told her that the stones she broke were rather solid, but the pain brought a sense of rationality to her mad mind that was infuriating and necessary at the same time. Any mongrel could kill a wild beast that didn’t think. The thin line that now ran down from her right shoulder blade to her hip had a slight crimson tint to it; she had only just escaped the wizard’s second slash after managing to put her chain in the way of his first counter. If his slash had been much higher, she would have lost her dress completely, not that he would mind. But he was the one, all right; the lines of magic that flowed from his core into the earth were the same flavor as the ones that rained from the sky and whirled around barely hours ago.

Tumbling forward from her narrow escape, she forced her will around her body and the chains flew back into the phenomenon that now surrounded her almost completely. Sightless eyes were unaffected by the distortion, and the magic that allowed her to see put her old eyes to shame already. Oh how he would scream when she was done with him. The mage was backpedaling, keeping some semblance of distance in mind as Viola prepared for another charge. Her gaze turned motionlessly from the ground to the wall of spikes and back to his battered armor.

She ran again, that terrible grin smeared across her face the whole time. Each step that brought her closer to her prey was a step closer to pure bliss. Before she was even in range to throw her spikes, she leapt toward one of the pillars, running two athletic steps along its surface before springing off and increasing her jump yet again. Three spikes blossomed from her right hand, one after another, flying toward the pathetic wizard, all intending to hit and skewer him.

Of course, since it was practically the exact same attack that she had just launched, the wizard was far less surprised than he could have been. The trio of penetrating devices flew fairly true to their course, and Caden simply sidestepped out of the way. Or, to be more precise: he sidestepped, spun out of the way, raised his left hand that still held the Turlin-enchanted sword, and focused. It was a quick focus, but it was enough to force his will on the bit of space just behind the inch-thick spikes. The gravity in that small area inverted quickly and suddenly, sending the implements of death back approximately where he figured the Reaper was going to land one moment later.

Viola slowly flipped as she soared from the earthen spire and in her left hand a fourth spike appeared. The chain disappeared into her forearm like an anchor line into the sea, and even as she spotted her landing she dreaded it at the same time. Not only had the blue-clad wizard avoided her yet again, but he had somehow managed to give her a return present. It was almost funny until the chains that she had thrown vanished into her body one link at a time as fast as the spikes from the retaliation approached her. When she landed after her acrobatic feat, her left arm swung around and the chain that ran between the end of the spike and her arm got longer. A lot longer. She had landed within eight feet of the wizard BlueRaven, and before he had the time to fully regain his composure, black links struck his chest plate solid with all the force of steel and momentum.

Viola’s smile grew even more twisted. The little wizard was pathetic after all.

[Caden Law]

Rare are the times when the Wizard called Blueraven found himself out of filler options; all the dirty little tricks you used to buy yourself time and set someone else up for something brilliant and/or brutal. Admittedly, he had the something-brilliant part down, but it was getting there that was probably going to kill him.

And to be honest, Caden looked every bit as maddened and pathetic as the Reaper thought. It didn't take a genius to figure out why. In the span of one day, he had been repeatedly humiliated, bled internally, and he had channeled powers far above and beyond his proper limitations...and that was before being knocked through a wall and left to drop at least forty feet.

...and strangely enough, none of that seemed to matter now.

It began to rain on the field of sighs and sorrows, and Caden lost himself in the moment as the first drops started pinging off his swords and chestplate. The Reaper was coming for him. That was the only thing that mattered.

Stay calm, he thought to himself as he slapped back up against the side of one of his own spikes. Tall, thick things that they were, it was about the same as being backed up against a wall. Analyze. She was a skilled weapons summoner, Caden figured, and an adept hand-to-hand combatant. He'd never beat her in a contest of blades.

So he tried anyway.

The Reaper slid to an elegant stop in front of him, then started forward in a blur of pale skin, black cloth, violent hair and bad intentions. Caden met her in kind with a lunge; right sword pulled back, left swung forward. The Reaper twisted into him at halfway; almost like a dance partner in a Salsa. Her arms spread out, a leg slipped back, and just like that she upended him in a flip onto his backside. Caden rolled upright and took the sole of a boot to his plated back -- and after all the damage his ribs had taken lately, it still hurt like hell.

"You know," the Reaper said, and Caden was dully aware of the sound from one of her chains whirling in the rain. "You're actually kinda cute when you're this pathetic," and he could just hear that blank, lustful smile on her face. "We could always put this little grudge on hold for a few hours, you know..."

Open-ended and oh-so-exploitable. On any other day, in any other place, and for any other reason. Caden was not above the temptation. He was just too far beneath it.

"Sorry," he said in between slow, wheezing breaths that sounded too deep to be even remotely healthy. "But I don't think you'd last that long."

Five miles away, you could probably hear ravens crowing a racket like laughter.

All too close, however, the Reaper merely slumped a bit as Caden stood himself back up and turned around. "Such a shame," she sighed, and it only belatedly hit Caden that she was mocking him -- hit him in much the same way she did. With chains. Heavy metal chains, looped and smashing into his chest like bullwhips on steroids; such that Caden's breath abruptly blew out and he bent forward with a gagging cough.

To his credit, Caden managed to straighten himself up by the time she caught him with her next attack; a rather elegant running dropkick that bowled him right over in a flailing mass of pointed objects and gangly limbs. Luck alone, and maybe something distantly related to the underwired nightdress thing, caused Caden to not only avoid chopping off his own arms, but it also had a much-delayed effect.

To get the full justice of this, wait for about ten seconds. Give Caden time enough to stand, and the Reaper time enough to recover her chains into whatever pocket darkness she stores them in. Now, watch closely -- because Caden sure as hell is.

It started with a miniscule snip and then degenerated into a long, ever-widening crevice of bared flesh, ultimately coming to an end with the Reaper's short dress simply falling off. In his frenzy, Caden cut the thing clean from top to bottom, from her collar down. How he did this without actually piercing skin, even Caden did not know.

But he stared at the results, and he gawked accordingly, and no man within sixty yards could blame him.

"Oh? I thought you weren't interested in me?" the Reaper asked with a voice dripping honey and sin. "Are you sure you don't want to change your mind?"

Caden kept gawking rather stupidly, and finally replied, "I'm thinking about it."

"Well, that's just too bad..."

And whatever she had to say after that, Caden lost it. She charged forward in the midst of her next words, and he took another blind swing -- but he was backpedaling as he did it. The Reaper ducked right by him, effortless and graceful and all sorts of things a nude woman in thigh-high boots and a blindfold shouldn't be in a warzone. He tried to turn around. He really, honestly tried.

...then he felt a very hot, angry jolt through his right shoulder and finally went down in an inglorious sprawl. Caden didn't even scream so much as he faceplanted into wetting dirt and grass, biting down so hard his lower jaw went numb. When the initial shock of it passed, he could hear a silky laughter behind him. It goaded him to struggle up on one arm and flop to a seated position, facing her.

There was, give or take about an inch, a foot of solid black steel jammed clear through his right shoulder. It missed the chestplate by precious inches, and the blue of his coatsleeve was quickly turning a very dark, ugly red. His arm wouldn't move. Its sword dropped to the ground. His eyes were starting to tear up behind his goggles, and his breathing was interspersed with what could only be described as determined whimpering.

Through this newest haze of tears, pain, and cold certainty, Caden focused in on the Reaper. He clutched his remaining sword tightly, and tried to use it as a prop to stand. When that failed, he went down to one and then both knees, held aloft only by the Turlin saber. He smiled.

It was a very fatalistic expression.

"Your Name suits you," he decided. "Little Reaper."

[Twisted Infinitum]

The rain ran from the deformed wings of harpies, over the swells of sword-torn air, and down the agitated face of Jade Vipress. Though her vessel didn't contain the chemicals that induced shock, the full effect of Xem'zund's retreat took its time creeping up on her. Where are you? she sent, though the channel was gone. The campaign was failing, the efforts of his underlings be damned. The zombies still surged forward, a finite tide that would not stop until they all fell in the bloody quagmire yet to grow from death and rain. The harpies, too, seemed doomed, though they were taking a more survivalistic approach as the bulk of them tried to keep out of the archers' range. Unfortunately, the rain soaked their bodies that shouldn't have been able to fly anyway, weighing them closer to the machine of flying Turlin teeth. And these mortals thought themselves so different from the remorseless undead.

Vipress was surrounded now with only a wall of ancient elves and zombie buffers to protect her and the cloaked shadow from foolishly righteous warriors. The pressure was increasing, literally, with each heave of the enemy, and then fell away as the wall pushed back with saturated air and barely sentient meat shields. Rask had acquired three more of his brethren, who now all worked in tune with his bladework to make the small unit a heavy-breathed, seething organism amid the fray. The delay between each crushing press and relieving exhale was increasing, though, as Rask's second wind, perhaps his third, wound down. His body worked feverishly with the heavy blade, at times riding the momentum like a shimmering, rain-slick streamer.

What seemed an agonizing amount of time later, Vipress pulled her eyes from the east to see Rask stepping over a few scattered mortal bodies. Their blood pooled richly around them, vital and more valuable than gemstones. "There!" she shouted over the deathly screams and infernal songs, "Take them!"

It was not the same shadow that she found behind her, though. The lowest folds of the cloak dragged along the ground as if the presence underneath bore a great weight, and the cowl seemed mishapen, almost as if it were deflating. "... only his Lord's shadow..." came the broken response from the wavering shape. It still crept forward in the void behind Rask and his brothers, though without the grace it once had, and the bodies underfoot disappeared into the contained mist as usual. The foul thing had travelled the world. But, with its master weakened and enemies crushing all around, its isolated existence was stretched to the breaking point. The small amount of mist that hung about the cowl seemed to be drifting toward the east, homesick.

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin did not know what strange voice spoke as if from the air, but it was the second time he heard it. He glanced at Galyl, knowing that the boy heard it too. What secrets were behind that boy's eyes, what mysteries known only to Galoriand brethren? Only time would tell.

Dismounting, Findelfin took the boy by the shoulders, turning him around. The boy was only a few inches shorter than Findelfin, but it was enough of a difference that Findelfin felt it appropriate to look down in his eyes.

"Galyl, the battle is not over. Something is delaying Xem'zûnd, but until I see his head affixed to the battlements I refuse to believe something as trifling as simple magic took down the great Necromancer. Listen now to me...everything I have taught you since we left Anebrilith together and came here for the short time before this battle. Consider it lost. My training was for battles against one opponent, where you can watch carefully, move swiftly, without worry of sideswipes from unseen foes. But now you must be alert; watch all sides, be liberal with your sword, strike down enemies on all sides. Taking time to observe your opponent will get you killed, you must let your watchfulness finally become like second nature."

Turning the boy to watch the battle, Findelfin said, "Galyl, I have taught you something of the art of horseback riding; how to wield a lance, how to hold on during a gallop and find footing in the midst of a raging river; a battle is no different than a river. Seek the smoothest course and trust your horse to find the sure footing.

"I want you to mount Pelektar. In a moment I will order the charge of this infantry, see?" he pointed to where the Vipress was fighting with a cluster of ancient elves, their lines shaking and falling back. There were still many, many enemies, but at long last the elves appeared to have the mastery of the formations. "That is where we strike. I will charge with the infantry on foot, I want you to follow on Pelektar. Fight as you must fight; let your lance carry the weight of the forward charge, then discard it. Use your sword from then on, sweeping first at the hands that grasp your feet and then taking advantage of your height to lob off the heads and arms of your enemies."

He paused, and continued, "But promise me, Galyl. If this battle turns sour, should Xem'zûnd return or our enemies take the field...should I die...take Pelektar, and flee north. There are safe abodes under the trees of Daer Taurë, and there you can join the resistance. I do not want you to stop fighting; I want you to stay alive for the fight."

Findelfin did not wait for an answer; he knew already, from the look in the boy's eyes, what it would be. Findelfin turned to speak to the Bladesingers General, "Well, Tari. It appears the north and west charges are holding their ground, what say you?"

General Oronra nodded, "It appears so, Findelfin. The center falters, but as enemies fall back from the lines they shall swell the center and possibly burst out to surround the lines; it is time for the charge."

Findelfin nodded, then unsheathed Ainalindil once more. The blade glittered with vicious light, the self-luminescent blade glowing brightly in the dusk that faded even faster as the dark clouds rolled in. The golden inscription that ran up the side of the blade glittered in the dying light:
http://www.althanas.com/world/attachment.php?attachmentid=1750&d=1197870926

As the first raindrops fell, Findelfin shouted, "Aluserna, Megilindari ar Tel Aglarim! Aluserna a Dacilea! Aluserna ten Raiaera!"

As thunder split the sky and lightning crackled to earth, the swords of the Noble Order of the Bladesingers of Anebrilith were unsheathed, their smooth, slender metal mirroring on the pyrotechnics above. The host surged forward, and battle was met.

Translations: In elvish, the inscription read, "Sina sa Ainalindil, tel Calim tanya'ristea imya kula, tel Lina tanya'fallanea ilye harwea." English is "This is Ainalindil, the Light that cuts through evil, the Song that heals all wounds."

Findelfin's dialogue: "Forward, Bladesingers and The Glorious Host! Forward to Victory! Forward for Raiaera!"

[Feed The Machine]

The Galoriand grew unsettled while listening to his master. For the first time he felt Findelfin emanate uncertainty. When people spoke of the legend, they spoke of his unwavering confidence and how no challenge was too grand for him to handle. But with the threat of Xem’zund, and the realistic possibility that he could overthrow the current powers leading Raiaera and establish his own tyrannical rule, the boy thought that perhaps uncertainty was a healthy thing if one were to stay alive and attempt to avert that fate.

Still, he didn’t like this feeling of uncertainty. “We have to win. We just have to!” The young Bladesinger said, while mounting Pelektar.

The horse was comfortable with the young rider, having had the soldier ride atop him before. Galyl rubbed the steed’s head, remembering when he’d tackled him down to the ground in order to establish dominance and respect, the only two things that Pelektar submitted to. “We have to make it out of here alive, and see to it that master Findelfin stays safe,” The Galoriand whispered in the horse’s ear, stirring him up like a battle-ready foot soldier.

Pelektar anxiously trotted in place, awaiting the command to charge, as did Galyl. Then, with the blade of Ainalindil casting its brilliance in unison with the crashing thunder and radiant lightning, the troops charged forward. Galyl took hold of his lance and urged his steed onward.

The weapons of Raiaera’s stampeding warriors met the grotesque flesh of the uncoordinated undead. Galoriand had run several of the ancient elves through with his lance, before discarding it as his master had previously commanded. Immediately pulling forth his blade from out of his body, the boy deflected oncoming blows and countered by severing heads from enemy bodies. Pelektar was battle hardened and experienced, and knew to keep moving rather than stay in a single place. The high vantage point that Galyl had was indeed advantageous, but he would’ve rather had Findelfin on the steed so that he could back his master up on foot.

The eyes of the Red Forest native saw the Vipress in the distance being protected by her many troops. “She must be the second in command! If only I could---”

“Get close to her?” The voice of the machine had suddenly returned. “SLAVE, now you’re thinking!! She has power! I want that power!! Take her out! TAKE HER OUT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!”

The machine’s powerful bellow boomed so loud that some of Galyl’s surrounding enemies and allies were blown backward. To them, they believed that they were hit with unseen magic since their ears weren’t sharp enough to hear the high frequency sound. As for the machine’s slave however, the shriek caused his ears to bleed and his vision to blur. An intense headache followed, making it difficult for him to stay balance atop Pelektar. “What’s happening to me?”

Galyl shook his head repeatedly to try to regain his senses but it was to no avail. But then, the sound of the static conquered his hearing becoming the only thing that he could hear. Instantly, his eyes turned from being white and organic, to black, cold, and mechanical. Both of his irises glowed neon red, illuminating a portion of his face underneath the stormy darkened sky. The static sound dissipated, his headache faded, and his vision returned.

“I…I…can see…everything….” Quickly, the Galoriand shot a root out of his body to snag one of the enemy lances. Dispatching two more of the oaken tendrils, the three roots now spun the lance deftly like an airship propeller, dicing nearby enemies like chopped onions. With his sword, he proceeded in lopping heads when necessary, but the spinning lance took care of opposing forces for the most part.

“The target is Vipress! Let’s fight our way to her, Pelektar!!!!”

[Viola Darkstalker]

“Well, it’s good to hear that someone appreciates my little nickname.”

Honey laced with venom oozed through her words; a poison that you longed to taste for the sheer bliss you knew hid in the moments before death. And oh what pleasure Viola’s blissfully naked body had aroused in even the strongest-willed men. The sensuous curves that her dress hinted at were even more succulent to behold. Her left hand held onto the chain that was her makeshift leash while her right held the pivot of a rapidly whirling spike.

“You see, ever since I came to this rotten rock, nobody has even heard of me. I’ve been called a bit egotistical by a few men, but I wouldn’t call it an ego. I mean, when a dozen worlds changed their word for purple away from my name and a dozen more no longer exist, I feel that I am entitled to a bit of egocentrism.”

There was no slack in the chain as she walked ever closer, stopping only when the tip of her whirling spike was within inches of Caden’s face. All it would take to end his pathetic life was a single motion of the wrist. His face would be impaled so beautifully by her penetrating weapon. Her thighs shivered at the thought and an ever-maddening smile crept slowly across her face. Her army was forgotten; all that mattered was that she was finally getting the revenge she had been denied for so long. Nearly two years without killing a single soul was more than she could take… she was afraid that waiting any longer could possibly start her thinking about getting soft. Oh, how good it felt to finally be free once more.

Her right wrist flicked, and the black spike drove itself into the wet ground about a foot in front of Caden, sending mud and rain spraying at his face from the impact. A quick upward jerk on her left-hand chain sent fresh waves of pain through her little pet’s shoulder. His goggles were covered in grime, sweat, and tears, but the sudden and only slightly unexpected burst of pain still managed to make him close his eyes for an instant. When he opened them again, she was no longer standing in front of him. Since the chain was now leading over his shoulder, it was obvious where she was.

“This armor is such a pain, you know,” Her voice was breathy and low, and coming from just behind his right ear. A bit of pressure on his back plate only hinted at what she was doing, but her right hand exploring his lower torso did far more than hint. “I mean, you wouldn’t even know if I was doing something like this.”

With the last word, she pulled her body closer, squeezing her luscious breasts tighter against his armor and licking the back of his right ear. Her left hand was still free to give the “leash” a good yank in case he thought he could pull something funny, but he never did. However much pleasure he was (or wasn’t) getting out of her being so close, she was still getting incredible sensations that she was long overdue to experience again. Her firm stomach and hips were pressed tight against his lower back, pushing the armor closer to his body.

A different kind of pain shot through Caden’s body, and a loving voice mocked him as he tried his best to move away. “Don’t move, dear. I may accidentally go too deep and kill you before I’m ready.” To the left of his spine at the base of his neck, the honed tip of her spike etched a feminine “V” into his skin. On the opposite side, a “D” in the same flowery script appeared in red. Once she was done, she gave a sharp yank on the spike embedded in his shoulder and leapt over him, still flaunting just how pathetic he really was. She moved toward his best attempt to kill her, the wall of rocks, and yanked as hard as she could on the chain. There was quite a bit of resistance as the slick steel slid out of his shoulder and back to its owner’s hand.

“Any last words, toy?”

[Caden Law]

It's a trite thing to say, but still truthful: Caden blacked out. He was aware of his own screaming, his own bleeding, and a load of physical sensations that ran the gamut from raindrops to lightheadedness to pleasure to pain and every possible combination or variance therein. Eventually it just blurred together and the Wizard became something akin to a barely responsive rag doll; enough to hold interest, but not enough to do anything else.

Something started to carve into his skin, and the whole world just went cold. Caden was aware, distantly, of something wet cooling its way down the sides of his neck. It is here, and now, that he experienced the very same thing as so many others: He went deep, and he left this time and place for somewhere and somewhen else.

A field of ice, so cold as to cry despair when pride failed and humility was absent. Stones stood nearby, and there was a small gathering of tribal folk gathered around. In the stones stood a single man, who happened to be in two places at once. He was tall, imposingly bald, and wearing the white-and-blue robes of a sanctioned Wizard of the Church, marked uniquely with a grey streak down the back. His Hat was left aside, his Grimmoire hung from loops of chain on his belt. He raised a wand of pure White Liviol, and so did his image, and the young Blueraven could only tell them apart by their eyes.

They had the same color, the same presence, the same depth...but one was somehow sharper. This was the one who spoke, and his voice was as deep as it was nasal and somehow Right; ineffably proud and humble in a breath, and as sage as any other.

"Watch closely at what is about to happen," ordered the Wizard, Greyspine, "Only through strict mental discipline will I be able to endure this test, and someday, so will you. A Wizard's mind is his best weapon, and it must never sit idle -- not for one second. To stop thinking is to die."

The Wizards Greyspine began to circle one another, and...

Whatever happened next, Caden did not get to re-experience it as others did. The Reaper didn't grant him the luxury of time as she tore the spike from his shoulder. He went down screaming as his body reminded his mind that they were still connected to each other. The blood loss left him so lightheaded that he could hardly control the spasms running through his arms and legs, but...

"Never stop thinking."

A lifetime removed from the ice fields of the Salvic North, Caden did not forget the lesson. His mind turned to iron turned to steel, and somewhere through the hazing clouds of mental and physical and even spiritual pain, the young man found a focal point. A needle-sized hole through which to look through, and on the other side...

Sit up, he commanded himself, and somehow managed to push and pull up from the muddy ground. The rain was coming down in sheets by the time he managed to heave himself into a seated position on his knees. His right arm was completely limp, and it took precious seconds for the water to soak through his Hat's rim and start washing the mud from his face. When it was gone, there was just one thing to do.

"Any last words, toy?" she asked.

Caden smiled. After everything she'd put him through, and after everything he'd put himself through, and after all the gods-awful things that had happened today, Caden smiled.

"Yeah," he said with a voice that should've sounded weaker, but for the sheer force of ego behind it. "Just...three."

The medusa blindfold shifted slightly, the dampness making it possible to see her brow quirking up beneath it.

"You fucked up," Caden declared in his native Salvic, just before planting the Turlin sword into the bloody ground before him. Through pure force of will, he tore the magic from the sword and used it to fuel his own. To ignore the insane mechanics of it; he pushed his will into the ground, using his blood, Elven steel and Raiaera's unusual number of leylines as conduits for what he did next.

Spikes shot out of the ground, forming what looked almost like picket fence; ten feet high and two feet thick, with just enough space inside for a person to stand freely -- but not enough room to gain the momentum for acrobatics, or even to build strength for breaking out. Next came the roof; more spikes erupted from the first set, forming what looked like a classic mausoleum rooftop. He was slower about this part, much more deliberate.

There were holes in it. Blueraven was just cruel enough to put gaps that were big enough to see through, and maybe if she climbed far enough and fast enough, the Reaper would be able to get an arm or a leg out. She'd certainly still be getting rained on, and she'd absolutely see the skies above her.

The ground of Raiaera was malleable. So many generations of the Elves and their vassal Men refusing to tamper with it had left it unused to Geomancy. There was no resistance from the land as he shaped it. Perhaps it was just too scared of him.

When it was all over, Caden simply looked at his handywork, and his smile faded out.

"Quote Blueraven Forevermore, bitch."

He entombed her in this, the Stone Maiden Mausoleum, and from the walls came the fury of the earth; rock spires on all sides.

[Maia]

((This takes place immediately after "The Kristel Letter" and is a continuation of the events there.))

Strong arms carried the girl as the images blurred past her eyes. Everything was warm, and almost felt fuzzy. She wasn't able to get a clear picture of anything, not even Jame's face when it was so close to her own. She remembered the explosion, coming from one of Xem'Zund's siege weapons, destroying a nearby building and tossing the girl like a rag doll to the side. She knew in her mind that she must have broken at least a couple bones and cut herself badly. There wasn't much pain though, but Maia almost felt drunk. Drunk, sleepy, and being carried though a besieged city.

She snuggled into the coat Jame had put over her body, dimly aware her old clothes were more tatters then a shirt. A questing hand found enough of a skirt to cover everything easily enough at least. Her eyes began to clear quickly enough, and ears that heard only buzzing began to differentiate between ragged breaths and the battle was was nearby the walls. She groaned, pleased that her voice was actually at the volume she wanted. She wiggled her toes, feeling the tough leather of her shoes.

"Put me down, I think I can walk well enough," her slurred voice asked of Jame. She stumbled as her feet first touched the ground, and Jame's much stronger arms steadied her. She clutched onto her bag, all too aware of the enormous value of what was contained within the accessory. A few more steps and she was able to walk confidentially enough to go on her own. Her steps started weakly enough, stumbling ever few and shuffling. By the time they had reached the city gates, she was walking far more confidently and able to run.

The scene she saw was devastating. Most of the city's gate was in ruins. There were several gaps in the wall, large enough for people to travel though. These same gaps shined with a strange light, the hallmark of Turlin magic. A large number of elves doing their best to keep a barrier. She saw several unread turn to dust as they tried to cross the shimmering gaps in the formally impenetrable wall. Beyond the wall was hell. Much of the undead forces were pressing in, but they were harried by the elven defenders. Not much attention was paid to the wall itself, aside from the stray undead that tried to press the attack.

"You ready?" her voice was scared, and the girl found herself humming an Aglarlin song as she clutched her bag to her ample chest. The white coat was buttoned up, giving the illusion of dignity. She felt anxious and scared to be this close to the front lines, even if she knew how to take care of the zombies. All the knowledge in the world could not save anyone when they were outnumbered by fifty and surrounded. Maia felt more like hiding underneath a blanket then trying to escape the doomed city.

[Call me J]

As Jame set Maia down, he was dumbfounded. He had been involved in the battle at Carnelost, but this war was more all consuming. Eluriand had been much stronger than Carnleost, it was less than a few hours ago that Jame had arrived in the city looking for safety. Now, it seemed almost inevitable that Eluriand would fall.

With a heavy sigh, Jame wondered if there was something he could do. Xem’zund’s forces may have been strong, but Tel Aglarim was one of the most powerful armies in the world. With every battle, Xem’zund would only be growing stronger. Jame wondered if the elves couldn’t hold him off here, would there be anyone out there who’d be able to stop Xem’zund.

If Carnelost had taught him anything, Jame knew that he couldn’t make his battle strategies based on hope. The only strategy that was still relevant was to keep moving and try not to die.

He thought back of what he had been told by the high bard of Aglarlin. Even though part of him wanted to stay and fight until the bitter end, he was going to have to leave soon if he wanted to survive. “Stay near me Maia,” Jame said. He unsheathed his short sword and moved off into battle.

The smell of the war was terrifying. The smell of acrid blood was everywhere, though it was uncertain how much of that was the undead and how much was those that had been recently among the living. Jame knew it didn’t matter much. If Carnelost was any indication, then Xem’zund would have been able to win by attrition.

“The war I need to fight isn’t here...” Jame reminded himself. He couldn’t let himself get caught up in what was happening here. He had to make it out alive, and make sure that Maia escaped too.

He had reached what was left of Tel Aglarim’s forces. All pretenses of strategy had been eliminated in favor of quick melee combat. Before Jame could say anything to Maia, a corrupted elf ran straight for him. Thanks to his Aglarilin enhancements, it wasn’t hard to kill the undead. It just took a quick horizontal slice to chop the corrupted elf in half. His weapon glistened with the dark corrupted blood.

Jame’s eyes opened wide. He was shocked at how successful he’d been. With a wide smile, he looked at Maia, figuring that she would be impressed.

It may have been difficult for him to escape had it not been for his enhancements, but thanks to the Aglarlin headmistress, Jame knew he would survive. “I’ve always wondered what it was like to be powerful,” he thought with a smile. He had finally understood why war could seem exciting.

I am carrying over some benefits here that happened in the Kristel Letter, so Jame’s actions in this thread will resemble powergaming.

[Caden Law]

Adrenaline fades. Pain does not. War stops for nothing but men in dark rooms making abhorrent deals and the token assassination in the field.

And so the battle raged on, and Caden sat back on his haunches and just bled there. One of his arms had gone into a kind of anti-numb; so painful that his senses simply had a traffic wreck trying to register it. In the way that Wizards are taught, he partitioned his mind here and there. Part of him screamed in pained silence. The rest of him just sat and bled, wheezed and observed.

A Bladesinger pirouetted by, slinging her Turlin saber into the head of one of her own dead ancestors. Not far from that, a man with a pitch fork heaved a writhing zombie over his head and went down from a dozen arrows lodging into his back. Another Elf swept through the field on horseback, wielding a melon hammer that reduced its victims to tainted dust, and another still wielded a shield like a gong to parry a necromantic bolt from some unseen source. A man hacked and slashed his way through the horrors, his weapons changing by the foe as he lost one and tore another free from anything he could get his hands on.

This is war.

And all Caden could think to say of it was, "That'll do."

He stood up. Left the violated Turlin sword where he stabbed it into the earth, then picked up the grime-riddled sword he'd been given as a conscript. He sheathed it, awkward and clumsy and with one arm to use. After that, Caden staggered downhill, and made a beeline for wherever he could spot a competent looking (and suitably unswamped) healer. He moved at a ginger, drunken pace, and stopped only once.

This was followed by a rather agonized scream. Out came the scalpel beforehand, and then came the cleansing, flameless burn that cauterized his shoulder wound straight through. Caden collapsed after that, spent a good bit of time twitching, and then scraped himself back up and kept moving. In the end, it was all he could do.

Keep moving. Heal up. Live to fight another day. Discretion is, as ever, the best part of Valor.

[Call me J]

Jame was getting caught up in his own hubris as the fighting continued. He knew he wasn’t the world’s greatest warrior in normal times, but now, with the blood coursing through his body amplified with the force of the school of Aglarlin, he was able to bend delyn at will. It seemed as though enemies couldn’t touch him, and he sliced through the chaos like a god among men, a warrior somehow able to hover in the din and madness untouched, high and above the petty concerns of the mortals and their ignoble strife of war.

While the din of the battle wasn’t getting to Jame, the hubris was. He had already lost any sense of where Maia was, and instead was just cutting a swathe through the undead. He had been running for so long and far that day, from Carnelost to Eluriand and now through this, that with everything crumbling, he enjoyed having his moment where he could stand bravely above everyone else and say with pride that he was getting his.

However, there were those among the undead who saw it differently. Jame had morphed into something impossible to kill, but he was not impossible to teleport. A beam from somewhere, either from a member of Tel Aglarim concerned for his welfare or one of Xem’zund’s hoarde, hit the half dragon straight in the middle of the chest. Before he realized what was happening, Jame was watching his entire body disintegrate around him. He stuttered a few syllables, but couldn’t manage to even complete a single word before the entire world around him was black.

A few seconds later, he fell down to the ground, the hard cold ground of Salvar (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?t=11100).

[Sighter Tnailog]

Findelfin's face seemed to glow of its own light. A thin layer of water now covered his features, and the liquid caught and cast back the shimmering light of Ainalindil in a hundred separate places. If the undead could feel fear, they would know terror in their hearts as his fearsome face bore down on them, contorted in the rage of battle and the hatred of the undead.

With a vicious twist, Findelfin brought the blade down on the skull of an ancient elf, wrenched it free with a jerk, and then slammed the end into the enemy's groin. With a smooth change in motion, the blade came from its victim and wheeled with a single arc of Findelfin's wrist to snap with ease through the necks of two adjacent zombies. Pulling back for a second and aiming along the blade, Findelfin sent two blasts of white sparks flying into the crowd, tearing into one ancient elf and searing three zombies in a row before the light sizzled out.

Tari Oronra fought the same way behind him, and a hundred Bladesingers all down the line fought as if their lives were at stake, and they were. And still, though they penetrated the enemy hard, threatened their foes with collapse, and drove with purifying force to the heart of their foe, they were faltering. There were simply too many of these zombies for the elves to handle.

Suddenly, a horn rang out from the west. Findelfin looked up, and his heart leaped within him. Arrayed on the battlefield to the west was a host of elves, their mail glittering through the rain, the moonlight that shone weakly through the cloud-layer catching their bare swords and the Raiaeran sigils that shone on their steel helms.

And all Findelfin's hopes rose to the sky, and he cried aloud, "Tula i Giliath! Laitë Atanatari i Eldalië i Giliath, ortanalye daciliea!"

And the host began to advance, and Findelfin struck out again with his sword, alive with happiness, the hosts of Xem'zûnd now caught between the net, the armies from Valinatal arriving unlooked-for, from victory over their enemies, to save the defenders of Eluriand from grim fate.

And then the banners were raised above the hosts, and Findelfin stopped where he stood. Flying above the hosts of Raiaera was the bloody-eyed wand of Xem'zûnd, the standard of the necromancer. And with a feeling inside himself like the slamming of a door, Findelfin could now see plain what his hope and pride had blinded him to a moment earlier.

The advancing host was the army of Raiaera, no doubt. But it was dead; no life shone in its eyes, it advanced with the insistent, lifeless gait of corrupted elves, its arms held firmly in the icy vise of death's last embrace.

He turned to set his sights on Tari Oronra, but he could tell that the Bladesinger's General had already seen their ruin. His friend opened his mouth to shout some word to Findelfin, but before he could breathe a word an ancient elf came from behind him and cut off his head. Findelfin advanced a few steps, and with military efficiency obtained vengeance for the Bladesinger's General.

Standing there, straddling the corpse of Tari Oronra, trying to keep the hot tears of desperation and grief from mingling with the rains from heaven, Findelfin felt the cold weight of despair settle in his soul. With a shout to his squire, who was astride Pelektar, he said, "Galyl, ride north! What hope we have lies there! Ride! Ride!"

Gripped by a fell mood, he turned to rush into the crowd, carving a niche for himself, Ainalindil singing a true holy song. The blade thrummed along smooth pathways, butchered anything that dared come within its radius.

And then a force gripped his sword arm, and before he could speak or cry out he felt his muscles harden and his limbs fall slack, the world around him suddenly slow and dull, as if everyone moved at such a slow rate that their motions were barely perceptible. An urgent whisper was in his ear, the voice that of none other than the High Bard, Varalad Del Tirin,

[i]"Findelfin ap Fingolfin, you cannot fall here in the fey frame of mind that grips all warriors fated for death. Pull yourself together! All refugees now stream north for Daer Taurë or westward for Anebrilith; forces muster in the woods, places and fastnesses long prepared await their commander. The time of our Bardic Realm draws to an end, but we were ready; much of what is and will be has been written already in Tel Aina Parma, and that book now marches north with the remnant of our people to rest in a new sanctum far from the hands of the ravages of N'jal. Read it, Findelfin, read it well, and keep its memories and tales alive; they are all that can save our people now.

"Findelfin, I am sending you north, along with your new friend, Commander Blueraven, and a young woman who has something of importance. The High Bard Council will be making a final stand alone and unaided at Velicë Arta. You must go from where you are being sent and find your way plain to help your people away from this field, this field where all has fallen apart. This is the last you will ever hear my voice, for I go to perish in the halls built by our people, but perish in such a battle as to go down in song. Obey, Findelfin, by the will of the High Bard Council, which now speaks with the authority of all of us. Now go!"[/u]

The whisper faded, and before time could return to normal Findelfin could see nothing but white. Light surrounded him, and he left the Field of Sighs and Sorrows.

((Alright, everyone...post your conclusions when you can. Galyl is hastening northwards on Pelektar; Caden Law and Maia will be taken with Findelfin by the same spell. Violet and Twisted, take the field; now is your chance to completely rout whatever elvish resistance remains. Some will escape, but many more shall fall. Go ahead and post conclusions, and we'll pick up where we left off come Chapter 2.))

Spoil Request: As much gold as you can legitimately offer.

[Twisted Infinitum]

Vipress ashamedly felt herself becoming disoriented by the tidal swell of the battle. Her unit was a leaf upon the rain-dimpled river, pushed forward by the zombie charge, then violently thrown back by the elven retaliation. She could no longer tell if they were gaining ground in all the movement, but the bodies around her armored, blustering wall were laying in thicker and thicker piles as if she had found the center of it all. The place where both sides rushed to die and gained nothing for it but that death itself.

"Eat!" she shouted over the airy, howling slashes of her guardians as she gripped the shadow's shoulders and glared, through a curtain of water-heavy silver serpents, up into the cowl. Whatever life remain in that darkness was turning to dust and drifting away, flying like smoke toward the east on a breeze that transcended even the influence of the ancient elves.

She suddenly felt Rask's tail brush the back of her robes, and cast her feverish eyes over her shoulder. The balance had swelled immensely in the elves' favor on this last press, driving Rask and his brothers back until they were shoulder to shoulder around her and the shadow. Blind to the field beyond them, she could still hear the battle cries approaching. They sounded even closer than the rain, and they barely faltered against the tearing of the air.

Wordlessly, she glowered up at the clouds. Xem'zund, she tried to send once more, though instead of a plea, it was an inferno of anger and betrayal. I will not let your weakness destroy my plans! Or my vessel. As if the cold grip of mortality were bearing down on her, she fell to her knees and pulled the increasingly ethereal shadow down with her. And she delved into it. The sounds of battle quieted around her as she frantically pushed her mind into the dark, hollow shell.

Far away, but startlingly clear through her inattention, she heard the horn. She felt relief swell around her, but she already knew the truth. What had arrived wasn't reinforcements for the living. It was the undead thunderclap that would override their ambition and hope, and then their bodies. She laughed as she knelt in the rain and mud with the shadow of Xem'zund in her arms, and she delved deeper with calm, surgical precision.

It is because of me that you exist, she thought with such authority that the dark form stopped shivering. You are as much my shadow as his.

Something in the shadow's core pushed feebly, resisting. Only his...

You are mine! And to prove it, I will give the name and meaning that Xem'zund could not, because he believes you nothing more than his shadow.

The shadow's wisping form shook again, but not apart. Its fleeing dust seemed to settle like a dune coming to rest, and it listened intently.

You are Mori'annon, the Dark Doorway. You are my gatekeeper. The darkness became solid once more, thick and oppressing and clearly only masquerading in the form of a man. His influence is gone. Show them the power that I command!

The shadow melted in her arms, billowing out between the feet of her battered honor guard like a miasma rising from the Underworld. It devoured every lifeless body under its swirling mass, wiping them from existence so completely that the wet ground trembled against the sudden vacuum of space. Then, it flowed back toward Vipress' island in the storm, collecting into a hurricane eye just a few strides to the fore of Rask, who stood as still and bewildered as the rest who stared at the hungry mist around their feet.

Howling, it rose into a thin funnel that drank the nearest elves up in the current, rendering them from life to death to fuel in an instant. Both armies were forced to shrink away as it seemed to grow upward to the clouds. Then, it broke. It split like a lightning-struck tree to reveal an even deeper darkness at its core. From there, the greater beasts came.

Manticores, with the bodies of hulking lions and the mandibles, pincers, and stinger tipped tails of scorpions, burst outward and smashed into the elves. Every set of twisted jaws found a mark - a flailing, screaming mark - as did their claws and pincers and stingers. Bolstered by undeath and deadly from every angle, they tore outward in a wave a half dozen deep and horrifyingly wide.

The dissected twister that had delivered them shrank in their wake, apparently deflating. Rapidly, it became nothing more than a dome of obsidian clouds, sitting upon the bloody earth and just taller than the ancient elves.

"What-" Rask began with both has jaw and his sword slack.

A very pleased Vipress ran a hand along his arm as she sauntered past, and she only gave him a smile before she turned to look directly at the dome. As if all the force had left it, the spinning cloud halted and the darkness dissipated in tatters, laying bare the kneeling shadow and a single remaining beast next to it. "Your favorite," Mori'annon said in a rolling, emotive, yet oddly asexual voice, and then it stood to look at her with eyes fresh in its cowl, slitted spots of light like distorted stars.

"Thank you," Vipress said with queenly grace as she ran her fingers through the feathers on the large cockatrice's back. It hitched its wings and twisted its head to the side, pointing directly at her the rotting skull where the crimson crest slumped in tatters and only a single eye socket housed anything. In that one eye, Vipress saw her reflection upon the thick overpowering greyness, like a mountain peak in a marble, that could petrify any creature yet left her unharmed.

"Let it lead," she said as she walked forward alongside the shadow and motioned for Rask and his brothers to follow. The cockatrice strutted ahead of her, its head lolling back and forth to find the survivors of the manticore eruption, and it wasn't long before Vipress walked through a rain-soaked garden of elven statues, frozen in silent screams.

Spoil Request:

Wind Blade (proper name unknown)
A bastard sword that can manipulate the air into a wide wave of moderate force, or a heavy punch of focused air directly before it. Its magic can be used repeatedly, but is very draining after a short time.

Rask's skill with it is below average due to his body size and shape.

[Caden Law]

As luck would have it, Caden did find a competent and relatively unswamped healer. Not exactly the best he could've found, but certainly the most convenient since he found her within the safety of Eluriand's walls, on the side of a street near the main gates. She was an apprentice Bladesinger, very much a rookie in most regards, wearing a decidedly red apron that used to be white over a maiden's battledress. She worked her magic with a pair of rune-covered drumsticks, literally tapping away the injuries from Caden's body.

"Who did this to you?" she asked in her native tongue, presumably because she was too young or distracted to try Common.

"I don't know her real name," Caden answered in Raiaeran, without the benefits of anesthesia. "Initials are probably V. D., for whatever that's worth," he added as a sardonic afterthought, and the healer only took a momentary glance at the letter-shaped scabs along either side of his neck. Someone had gone to great effort, gouging those in.

"A woman did that?" she asked, and sounded a little unsurprised when she did it. By now, most of Caden's missing shoulder-meat and bone had been repaired. Still bled like crazy as part of the process, though. That he wasn't screaming insane from the pain was either a very good or a very bad sign.

"Yes," said Caden, "If you could call it that. Oh, don't get me wrong. She was gorgeous. Beautiful like a pit viper. Probably one of the best looking Human women I've ever seen," Caden made it a point to capitalize that Human part, seeing as how an Elf woman was tending his wounds, "Took her time trying to maim me to death, but that's where she messed up. Kept trying to come onto me too, pity she was the enem-owowowow."

Note the lack of an apology. Elf Women - 2, Caden Law - 0.

"More importantly," Caden said as the shoulder wound was finally repaired, "What's with the horn?"

"A Western horn, Wizard. Hope still lingers," she answered, with the experience of a lifelong musician and the inexperienced optimism of a lifelong national guardswoman.

Then came the cries for retreat. Caden stood uneasily, propping himself up on the broken remnants of a spear. He turned to the healer, who remained stone silent. He started to speak, and there were any number of things he was going to say. Near the top of the list was What's your name, by the way? and near the bottom was Get out while you still can, followed dead-last by I'm going to help hold them off as long as I can.

Caden never got the chance to do any of this. If he lived long enough, he'd feel guilty about that; the shame of survivors and of men who missed their chances to become heroes so that they could instead become legends. He felt the magic coming of course. It started with a golden light at the soles of his boots, then shot up from there. The broken spear fell from his hand and the last thing he had to say was--

"Oh for the love of hay valley son of Christian."

Then he felt something like a football tackle from the fabric of reality, and vanished in a flash of gold and decidedly tonedeaf racket that sounded like the laughter of crows on a battlefield. Gone in a flash and out with a bang, and he never did get the healer's name.

Spoils Requested
Arcane Magic: His time in a land so densely magical has left Caden with an unexpected affinity for proper Arcane Magic. His skill with it is roughly equivelent to (and feeds into and off of) his other affinities for magic.
Arcane Spell: Blueraven's Siege Arcana -- Essentially a hybrid of Gravity, Thermal and Arcane magicks, using rune-enhanced Geomancy to pull reserve energy from nearby leylines. While Caden is the creator of this spell, his theory and understanding are so poor that he is unable to use it without extensive time and energy spent preparing. The build-up process is also physically damaging to him, and the untested nature of the spell is such that it could backfire or fail at any time. The spell itself functions like a long-range gravity bomb with added heat, cold and arcane properties. The unexplored nature of it means that its upper and lower limits are not yet established.
I don't mind if y'all tell me No on the Siege Arcana. Considering the power behind it, the full version is presumably off-limits unless I get approval from a Staff-member in advance or until Caden hits a high enough level. (5? 6? Higher?)

Steel Conscript Sword: A Raiaeran sword given to conscripts, made in the cruciform style of Corone to accomodate the stereotypical humans it was meant for. Covered in Raiaeran glyphs, but otherwise unextraordinary. Worn in a scabbard strapped to his back. Average quality. His skill with it is Poor due to a lack of training.

Steel Conscript Breastplate: A piece of Raiaeran armor covering the chest and back, worn over Caden's normal clothes and curved around the shoulders and stomach to allow for maximum flexibility. Unextraordinary in all regards, its overall quality has gone to Poor due to heavy battle damages.

[Feed The Machine]

The chaos enveloping the battlefield was becoming overwhelming. The horned Bladesinger hacked and slashed at an endless sea of enemies, from unnaturally risen elven soldier to decayed and withered trees. Both of his weapons were coated with entrails of the rotten flesh, producing a stench that would’ve gagged any normal man. But Galyl was a soldier on a mission, possessed with a strong spirit to survive. With each grunt came a swipe of his sword, and with each roar came a twirl of his lance. His eyes scanned every aspect of his surroundings to a degree that shouldn’t have been possible. There were many foes, but they seemed to move slower they were before. Had everyone grown tired? The warrior’s rational mind knew that to not be true. Therefore, the only logical explanation for this was his eyes.

Galyl still hadn’t figured it all out yet, and there was a high chance that he never would as long as hordes of these unholy fiends crawled to the surface of Raiaeran soil and opposed Eluriand forces. But he simply had to keep fighting. Unfortunately, fatigue started setting in, and the boy found that he was amidst a semi-circle of corrupted mutants, all licking their lips at the strong, fresh, and living body that in their eyes would soon be a corpse that they feasted upon. His breathing intensified and his heart thumped harder. Sweat dripped from his pores and ran down every inch of his body, so much so that it was loosening the tight grip that the Obsidian Spire native had on his sword. The Galoriand squeezed his blade harder in unison with the clenching of his jaw.

“You all are a disgrace! How can once valiant warriors of Raiaera possibly serve her sworn enemy, even after death!?” The harsh inquiry was more of a statement, for Galyl knew their minds had long turned to mush. However, he believed in the power and protection that Aurient provided and believed that even after an elf’s life expired, they would still be guarded and granted a peaceful, eternal slumber. What he saw before him was anything but that.

The fiends inched closer as they planned on encapsulating him in a ring of their undead bodies. Pelektar sputtered, trotting heavily in small radius. It was clear that the horse was feeling the pulls of death, upon being within this near futile situation. The Galoriand saw this, but refused to let the steed’s behavior influence his own. In fact, pulled the reigns and slapped the horse on the side of his neck.

“Get it together Pelektar! It’s not over yet! We can still win!!” Yet that strong notion quickly became a distant hope with the arrival of countless zombies adorned in Tel Aglarim armor. They dressed any open part of the battlefield and even hoodwinked some of Raiaera’s allies into believing that they were additional aid, having not recognized the banner of the necromaner that the new undead held up. Galyl though, never fell for the ruse since his eyes, along with making everything appear that it was moving slower, also granted him the ability to see detailed faces over 1,500 feet away. So even if they hadn’t arrogantly hoisted the banners, their soulless, lifeless eyes would’ve given them away.

The young Bladesinger shifted his focus back onto the enemies around him. “There isn’t going to be any fancy way out of this Pelektar,” Extending his roots, Galyl commenced spinning the lance again. “We’re just going to have to cut out way through this!!”

The steed agreed, and the charge through the horde was on. But the resounding voice of his master stopped him dead in his tracks. A smile crossed Galyl’s face to know that Findelfin was still alive. Yet what joy had resurface was hurled back into despair when he witnessed the severed head of General Tari Oronra being carried by elated servants of the necromancer Xem’zund. There were no words that could’ve described how the Galoriand felt. It was beyond shocked, beyond horrified, beyond angered. An amalgamation of the three would be a closer depiction of the soldier’s feelings, but even then that wouldn’t have been enough.

Ride north were Findelfin’s commands, but revenge tempted Galyl into being disobedient. Why flee birds after a gunshot when a respected mentor had been killed right before your eyes? Why scurry away like insects hearing the booming sound of a human footstep when foul and unholy hands had desecrated a beloved friend?

Why?

Why!?

Why!?!

WHY!?!?

Galyl was looking for every excuse to disobey, but to do so would mean to endanger his own life, and dishonor his superior. The claymore and spinning lance fused with the fury of a grief stricken soldier propelled the Galoriand through the herd of groaning and moaning zombies that’d surrounded him. Fleeing north would lead to Daer Taure, a place well known for its own fair share of dangers. However, a command was a command. Findelfin wouldn’t have opted to send his disciple to such a place if there wasn’t a good reason for it. Besides, there was nothing at this point that was going to deter or stop Galyl. Raiaera needed her children to survive and bring victory to the land, and the young elven soldier was going to make certain that he contributed to that goal.


Spoils Requested:
Eyes of the Machine: Due to being the Machine's slave, having received new life after being devoured by it, Galyl is able to transform his eyes, emulating that of the Machine's. As of right now his eyes have the ability to see with clear detail, anything that is within 500 yards. In additional to this, the eyes also have the ability to see the inner workings of anything organic or mechanical and understand them. This in turn allows Galyl to develop proficiency in things at a much greater speed than he would be able to if he didn’t have the eyes. The longer he observes someone or something, the more he understands and the quicker he can develop proficiency at whatever it is that he’s trying to develop proficiency for.

[Viola Darkstalker]

If there was one fault in the Reaper’s character, it was the fact that she preferred to toy with her victims just a little too much before killing them. It had cost her dearly two years ago, and now something eerily similar was happening. His last words were three, and even if she couldn’t understand their immediate meaning, the tone was one she had heard many times before.

She should have known that playing with a toy that fought back would end up killing her.

Again.

Earthen spires erupted from the rain-soaked ground to form an effective prison complete with roof. Emptying the entire mass of black metal from its hiding place, Viola decided to experiment. She wasn’t afraid of death, not in the slightest, but there was just something disheartening about knowing that you weren’t going to get to kill someone again because you played with them too much.

Pressing her delectable flesh against the earthen columns, the nude reaper’s smile never left her pretty face. Shivers of lust resonated throughout her body as her mind reached out to the mind of the Blue Raven. She wanted to caress him; she wanted to pierce his pathetic heart with her dark nails and drink deeply of his blood. She wanted to drag him down to Hell with her.

But mostly, she just wanted to kill something.

The walls of her prison exploded in a flowering maze of stone that left no possibility of her survival through mundane means, but Viola was the farthest thing from ordinary a human could possibly be without actually transcending to a higher plane. The terrestrial lances pierced her body from every angle, but the only sounds that escaped her lips were soft moans of pleasure. Some of the spikes dead-ended into her body without actually piercing the skin while others leaked blood like a river.

The world grew hazy through the rain. The wretched sun faded behind encroaching clouds. One final sigh left her lips as her soul was wrenched from her body. She was long overdue for her stay in Hell… and she couldn’t wait to take over.

_____________
Spoils requested:

Enchantment of Sight: (lets her see while blind... other benefits to be worked out with ROG)

[Skie and Avery]

Quest Judging
No commentary, as this is long overdue for judging. Any questions should be directed to my AIM: RestitutionSpork or my MSN: songs4drowning@hotmail.com

The Field of Sighs and Sorrows

STORY

Continuity ~ 6/10.
Setting ~ 5/10.
Pacing ~ 8/10.

CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 6/10.
Action ~ 9/10.
Persona ~ 7/10.

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 6.5/10.
Mechanics ~ 7/10.
Clarity ~ 7/10.

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 6.5/10.

TOTAL ~ 68/100.

Rewards

Caden Law gains 1446 EXP and 748 GP
Sighter Tnailog gains 4430 EXP and 812 GP
Viola Darkstalker gains 1054 EXP and 408 GP
Twisted Infinitum gains 2718 EXP and 340 GP
Feed the Machines gains 934 EXP and 340 GP
The Scourge gains 6116 EXP and 204 GP
Call Me J gains 2284 EXP and 136 GP
Maia gains 1288 EXP and 68 GP

Other Rewards
Twisted Infinitum gains Wind Blade as explained in spoils request. At your next character upgrade, link to this thread and make sure to list the gained skill. Whether it is kept as is or not is up to a ROG mod, of course.

Caden Law gains a steel sword and breastplate, as well as a small boost to his Arcane proficiency. I do not grant Siege Arcana. At your next level upgrade, however, feel free to request it as an upgrade for the final judgment of a ROG mod.

Feed the Machines gains Eyes of the Machine, which gives clear sight up to 500 yards. I do not grant the "x-ray" vision. Feel free to include that in your next character upgrade as an upgrade to the Eyes of the Machine for final judgment of a ROG mod. Also, make sure you list Eyes of the Machine on said upgrade, liking back to this thread.

[Witchblade]

EXP and GP added!

Caden Law reaches level 1!
Sighter reaches level 8!
Twisted Infinitum reaches level 4!