MQ: Slings and Arrows

Blood-red dawn drenched the parapet. Far to the east, just beyond the crest of land where the Dwarf Hills obscured a view of the sea, the sun had broken cover. Its light, diffused by the tendrils of mist and cloud that draped the countryside, seemed to make the very air glow a deep crimson. The mists swirled softly where brushed by a rising wind, a faint odor of decay seeming to ride on the currents. The wind would be blowing from the south, thought Findelfin. Now we'll have to smell their filth for the entire battle.

From the turret, Findelfin could see them coming. Huge decaying tree-trunks lumbered forward, their bark splintering with every motion of huge, hummus-encrusted roots, wolf corpses running ahead, baying through their decayed vocal cavities the long, slow dirge of death. And among the horde Findelfin could see the sight that made him most angry: corrupted elves. They were the defenders of Carnelost who had not died during the fighting to become zombies, but had been unable to resist the charms and evil necromantics of Xem'zûnd, their bodies consumed and reborn even before their spirits could flee their flesh. They led the columns of evil as lieutenants and commanders. Corrupted elves were peril incarnate: not only did they retain most of their critical faculties, but they also retained their souls -- and thus they could cast song magic. And even worse, their conversion granted them some small measure of Xem'zûnd's power: they could raise new undead at will.

With this thought in mind, Findelfin turned and addressed one of his officers, "How much fuel do we have for the fires?"

"Enough to maintain a full blaze for at least four days, sir, and we can keep the fires stoked at a low burn for at least a fortnight, unless we get other sources of fuel from..." the officer trailed off, but Findelfin knew what he meant to say. It had to be done: every elf that fell in the coming battle would need to be fed to the fire, and instantly. The bodies of the fallen would be the "other sources of fuel."

"Very good. When Vanwanen Bridge falls, stoke the fires to their full capacity." He did not need to extend fuel reserves for two weeks. By that time, they would be either dead or victorious. He wished it had been possible to light fires at the bridge as well, but it looked impossible; he would have to rely on Turlin mages to consecrate the fallen there and keep them from being harmed.

Another officer quickly mounted the stairs, speaking quickly as he neared Findelfin. "General, sir, the High Bard begs your council prior to battle." Findelfin nodded at the officer.

"I will speak with him, lead the way." The officer saluted and turned to walk away, with Findelfin close on his heels. With a brisk run down the stairs, the officer led Findelfin through a large crowd milling about near the front gate to a small door leading to one of the guardrooms. Most of the mob withdrew from his pathway, but some which only stared dumbly as he passed. This crowd was made up of mainly conscripts, able-bodied elves found in the city whose terms of reserve service in Tel Aglarim had passed but were still required to serve should danger press. The others, mainly an assortment of humans and other races, had been visitors, were asked to serve, and chose to honor the call. They were a ragged bunch, but Findelfin had led worse.

As he approached Oronra, the Megilindari Dagorathar said, "Come, General Findelfin. The High Bard is within, we have final bits of strategy to go over...the enemy appears about a half-hour away, we must hurry to finalize a few things before we begin."

With only a nod, Findelfin entered through the door.

((Those of you who PMed me, you are now volunteer troops in the Elvish army. Post here and we'll start in earnest.))

Out of Character:

Apologies in advance if this is too comedic and/or misrepresentative of anything. I wasn't sure which school we're talking about, so I just used Istien on account of it being the only Turlin School I could find. Also: After this post, assume everything he says to be spoken in Raiaeran, unless specified otherwise.

It was true that Caden had always wanted to see Istien University, even though he never wanted to study there. Caden both loathed and envied its Bardic magicks on account of being completely, utterly tonedeaf; he couldn't even produce a tune by humming, except maybe for a zany little number that made your ears want to bleed. He'd always wanted to visit the place though, if only to take in the sights, steal any useful tricks, maybe snag an elf maiden (or thirty-seven), and flick his nose down at the happy little Bards as he was leaving.

Today, amidst a mob of pointy-eared citizens-turning-soldiers, Caden is fast coming to the realization that This Is Not How It Will Be. Which is quite terrible really; he'd gone to all the trouble of getting here, and then this happened. A week and a half spent vomiting from seasickness, and then an unknown number of days running for his life from one forest to the next (while being chased by everything from badgers to nymphs to badgers riding nymphs. Try to scrub off that mental scar), and then this happens.

Well, Caden had the time to think, while being shoved this way and that in the slowly calming mob. At least things can't-- as per cliche, Caden's thoughts hit the neural equivelent of a trainwreck. Because things are going to get worse. For instance, someone just started singing the elvish version of You're in the army now! Said someone has a voice like an opera tenor, and the pitch keeps jumping, and other people are joining in...

Look at Caden's face right about now. Notice the crazy little smile curling its way onto his face. This is the realization that I'm probably going to die here. It's followed, after some minutes and the sudden cessation of mob singing, by ...well, it's not like I've got anything to lose.

The mob stopped singing by then, brought to order by one poke-happy lance corporal who looked like a pointy-eared slab of elfmeat. Silence ensued; almost disturbingly disciplined, but more like that of a chorus of singers than an organized squadron of soldiers. Someone coughed. Because someone has to cough. And that someone was Caden. He drew the attention of Lance Corporal Poke, who promptly lived up to his name. Like so.

"Ow." Poke, poke. "Cut it out!"

"You're not an elf," said Pokey, and in Raiaeran.

"No shit, bright-eyes!" said Caden, in what sounded like a vocal meatgrinder; words from several different languages, and none of them even remotely human.

This caused Pokey to stare. Caden glared back.

"Human?" Pokey asked, and you can't really fault the guy here. There are so many species running around Althanas that look human, and at least half of them can go nuclear at any moment with little to no warning at all.

"Human, Salvic, Wizard, yes, thank you, stop pointing that sword-thing at me," Caden said, switching to Raiaeran and keeping it that way as he smacked Pokey's sword aside -- a curvy little number with a flute built into the hilt. By then, the crowd around him had thinned out enough that this didn't get anybody stabbed or mangled. Coincidentally, it'd also gone quiet enough that people could hear him when he declared himself.

Many sidelong glances, a lot of mumbling, and some very decisive nodding later, Caden went through the door as well. Chiefly because a bunch of elves threw him inside.

Greed. Lust. Envy. Wrath. Why were the deadliest of all sins the most pleasurable? More importantly, why did- no, it was perfectly clear why he wanted her. Blood-red lips were brought up into a smile that could never have been described as anything but sinister. Why were they the most pleasurable? Because they were the ones that guaranteed you a place in hell. He wanted her because her goals were the same as his. It couldn’t have been a more perfect way to finish off the boat trip. Her place in hell had long ago been reserved.

“What do you want from me?” She asked, honey oozing from her mouth. An iris was perched atop her right ear, petals black as the night sky that graced the world. A quiet series of clicks and slight hisses was her only response, but it was not the sounds she was listening to. Somewhere on the ferry taking her to the continent of Raiaera was a creature that had sensed the evil flowing through her thicker than the blood in her veins. It was that creature that she spoke with now; even if she couldn’t catch a glimpse of it yet due to irritating circumstances, she probably wouldn’t notice it even if she could see. Necromancers were fun like that. Especially when her conversationalist partner spoke directly to her mind.

Your heart is black, more twisted than many could comprehend, and so delicious. I’m sure you have an imagination… what do you think I want from you? The voice sounded in her head like tar flowing down a river. To anyone else, the voice would have surely driven them insane, but to one who flirted with sanity from one moment to another, that was nothing to worry about.

“You want me to do something for you.” A fruit that was ever so succulent, so sweet that it would kill you in an instant. She must have looked a little strange staring out toward the horizon and talking to herself, but few paid her much heed. After all, she was just a babbling blind beggar. Nothing at all to worry about. Beggars always talked to themselves.

You have great potential; I do not feel you need be reminded of that fact. You will be great one day, but I can make that day come much sooner. Gravel pouring down a chute would have been easier to listen to than his voice. Unfortunately, her reaction was not quite what the necromancer’s slave was expecting. The creature keeping close watch on her could not have known her past from before she came to this world. She laughed a deep-throated laugh that only drove the few people who thought they could deal with her talking to nothing if they just ignored it. They weren’t expecting something that had gone past the farthest reaches of sanity.

“One day?” She said between heaves. “Great potential?” She barely said as she recovered her composure and stood stoically facing the night skyline. This wasn’t something she could let just anyone hear. “I’ve already been great. How about this, I’ll stop playing dumb and we get down to the serious business. Flattery will get you nowhere with me. What you don’t know about me is this: I am not on this wretched ball because I want to be, and the potential you say I have has already been realized once before. Go to Adwa, There, or Théodo; visit the Ceon or Eared galaxies. On the handful of worlds that still exist, ask one question- mention one word. Viola. They tremble at the very mention of my name, and for good reason. Alone, I destroyed everything they had. EVERYTHING! The disaster that sent me here, however, also robbed me of all but the smallest fraction of my strength.”

Murder was written all over her face as she remembered what she had been. Entire worlds forbade parents from naming their children after her. The slightest or quietest mention of her or trace of her presence sent galaxies into panics. That was what had been stolen from her.

Well then… I suppose my proposition will be simple if you were everything you claim. I can say I’ve never heard of any of those places, but I feel that you are not one to boast with nothing to back yourself up with. I need generals for my army. I want you to be one. Gravel mixed with tar flowing over a pool of lava, venting its fumes into her lungs. She stumbled for a moment before catching herself on the sturdy railing. The stumble was from the absurdity of the proposal. But to think about it, it would be quite the honor and it would certainly engrave her face and name into the lives of the denizens of this world. There was only one thing missing.

“What’s in it for me?” It was time to discuss business. If she was going to put her life on the line for a necromancer that wished to take over a continent, she was going to have just compensation. It was only fair.

A taste of your former glory, perhaps? No, I can tell you are one who prefers a more… tangible reward. Simply offering gold would be an insult, but what if I gave you something better… yes, that would do nicely. Your eyes see nothing but darkness, do they not? What would you say if I could give you your sight back? What would you say if I could give you something to strike fear into the hearts of those that oppose you, both now and when you eventually leave my service? What would you say? He wasn’t desperate. He was bargaining, taking her most coveted chips and turning them into his most prized tools. There wasn’t much she could say.

“I would say you have yourself a general.”

And so, the deal was struck. All that was left was finding her way to his front lines.

Romis shivered slightly in the cool breeze. Around him many elves and even a few humans milled about anxiously. Some of the younger men seemed excited, almost eager to begin. Others were more apprehensive. Romis was neither. He had been a soldier for many years and had seen much in his long life. He had learned to control his emotions a long time ago. Above the heads of those around him he saw an elf that looked to be an officer of one kind or another go through a door. Romis made his way confidently through the crowd directly for it, assuming that the door led to the command post.

These people have no idea what they’re getting into. I’ve fought undead before, they are no easy enemy to defeat.

The thought was sad as he moved through the crowd. Most of those around him were local people unaccustomed to how a battle worked. However, he could not fault them for wanting to defend their home. He just hoped enough of them would survive to make the victory a little less bittersweet. Sighing, Romis pressed on toward his destination. It was his hope that the commanding officers of this army would welcome any help they could get. As the Captain Commander of Moriah’s military forces (even if he was currently presumed dead), he had a lot of experience and knowledge to offer.

Normally, the Romis would not have been in Raiaera, however in his continual search for Princess Jasmine, his travels often took him to the most unlikely places. He’d followed a rumor about a young woman with long black hair to Raiaera. As it happened, the rumor was false. Dejected, Romis had been planning to leave and return possibly to Corone when this Xem'zûnd arrived. Despite his desire to find Jasmine and take her home to reclaim her throne, he could not bring himself to abandon these people. He couldn’t help it. It was in his nature to help when and how he could. He could not just simply walk away.

Nearing the door, Romis ran across a young-looking soldier. Romis stopped him.

“Excuse me, I am Captain Commander Romis Heartsblood. Who is in charge here and where do I find him?”

“That would be General Findelfin ap Fingolfin. He’s just gone in to talk with the High Bard, sir. I don’t believe it’s an open meeting sir.”

“Very good, carry on soldier.”

Assuming that the soldier would do as bidden, Romis strode up to the door and knocked loudly on it.

“General Findelfin ap Fingolfin, Captain Commander Romis Heartsblood reporting for duty, sir!”

Three months prior

In the cold, clinging afternoon fog, a small boat broke the muddy water’s surface. The lone oarsman, hunched upon the middle seat, pushed mightily with only insubstantial results. Particles of ice clung to the oars on each airborne pass, but there was not enough in the water to account for the slow speed. The oarsman and his two passengers hunkered down in their heavy coats, their hooded forms still and patient despite the unearthly chill. It seemed to increase, degree by degree, with every moment that they moved farther from their main ship, now only a brown smudge within the mist.

“Where are we going?” asked the smaller of the two motionless forms. Her voice was distinctly feminine, every word baring a sharp edge of temptation. There was not a hint of shiver, annoyance, or even embarrassment at asking the question so late in the expedition.

The rowing man responded without any signs of strain or harsh breathing. In fact, he wasn’t breathing, and neither was she. “He’ll know.” He indicated the large, muscular body in the front seat.

“I don’t-“ the man began in a raspy, guttural voice that must have been born deep in the throat. His breath caught, allowing the clouds in his cowl to dissipate. The boat nudged up against earth, and the fog faded just enough to see the firm yet barren state of the land. “Jade, these are the Red Fields.” To the as-of-yet unspoken question, he said harshly, “I just know.”

Jade Vipress pulled that question back from the tip of her tongue and substituted another. “Why is it called that?”

“It used to be green grasslands, then we turned it red in our war against the demons. I don’t know why now there’s… nothing,” the broad man said calmly as he stood and lowered his hood. His purely reptilian head rotated across the scene, taking in with cold eyes what little there was to see. He gripped the boat’s edge with an equally reptilian hand and stepped out, using his tail for balance. “I didn’t realize until now just how long I’ve been asleep.” His people were gone, those most ancient of elves. Not even in him did their bloodline continue. In that distant age, those who were too weak or undisciplined to aid in the war subjected themselves to the mages and became Guardian Beasts. They did so out of honor and love for their homeland. He had done so to quench a broken heart. He turned with wondering, beady eyes to the oarsman. “Why is it bare earth, and flooded?”

“It wasn’t time’s passage,” the hooded man said in the slow speech of one who contained too much knowledge. His voice wheezed shrilly, as if coming out more openings than just his mouth. “Very long ago, and all at the same time, this land was victim to volcanic eruptions, floods, hurricanes, and the movement of a glacier; maybe even a change in time itself. Only now is the ice receding. That is, according to our Lord Necromancer.”

The lizard-man seemed unsurprised. He just nodded knowingly, ”They succeeded in the Undoing.”

“And undid themselves too,” added the woman in smug amusement. The lizard-man looked at her sternly, and she met him eye for eye from inside her furred hood.

“Rask,” interrupted the oarsman, “We have other myths to raise. You cannot take long in this side trip.”

Rask nodded, the scales of his head already glistening from collected moisture. “What are we here to find? Artifacts from the temples?” he asked, looking about as if to find millennium old buildings in the blinding fog.

“Looted or destroyed, like everything in this age. There are, however, buried treasures.” With a hand that was more bone than flesh, the oarsman hefted a shovel and threw it onto the shore. It stood on its blade, deep in what appeared to be solid rock. Only a cataclysm on par with the Undoing could have produced such unnatural terrain.

Rask’s claws gripped the shovel solidly. “Then, one last fight alongside my brethren,” he mused to himself. If his face were capable of it, he might have smiled.

((TI, what's your current AIM? PM it to me before you post again so we can discuss some things))

Findelfin had just greeted the High Bard and was sitting down when the door flew open and a man was shoved inside by a brusque elven commander. Arching one eyebrow, Findelfin said, "Who is this man and why is he here?"

The commander saluted, and responded quickly, "My Lord Dagorathar, we have a number of men outside who were asked to render their services and who accepted, but they speak an assortment of languages and tongues. When Captain Tyreles was interviewing them, this fellow here spoke fluent Raiaeran along with an assortment of other dialects and manners. Captain Tyreles felt we could use an interpreter within the command structure."

Findelfin could see the sense in that; he was about to say so when the Councilor of Dagorlin, Nalith Celiniel, stepped forward and said, "A human in the command structure? General, you have seen that rabble out there, half the human recruits don't know which part of a bow and arrow is the arrow, and the other half would rather be looting the city! Better to send them all away with the refugees than to fight for us here, even less serve as commanders!"

Findelfin held up a hand, and said, "When last we fought Xem'zûnd, it was a man who saved us -- Devon Starslayer. He also led the troops at Valinatal and turned back Thoracis Rakarth's advances. His daughter later assisted us in ridding this very city of the first wave of undead. I will not deny his people the chance to defend us from this threat today."

Turning to Caden, he spoke, "Now, sir, tell us your name, and I will confer upon you a rank on the urging of Captain Tyreles."

But before he could say a word, there came a banging on the door, and a voice crying out.

Findelfin rolled his eyes, turning to Nalith. "More humans? Hopefully I have not misplaced my faith in them, for it seems every one of them wants a command." Gesturing towards the doorwarden, he said, "Send him in. But make sure he knows we need to hurry this along...we have a strategy to plan and very little time in which to do it."

With great and forced dignity -- the sort you'd expect of a properly schooled Wizard of Salvar -- Caden stood up and underwent a rather stark transformation. It didn't have any fancy lights, nor was there dramatic music in the background, and the camera angle wasn't even that good.

He just dusted himself off, inspected his clothes to make sure El Poke hadn't damaged them, and then calmly removed his glasses. They found their way up into his hat somehow, and up went the goggles. Normally, he just wore them like a gaudy necklace. Now he pulled them on and took a deep, relaxing breath...

...and when he exhaled, the temperature in the room had dropped by a good fifteen degrees in about two seconds -- and it was coldest around the good lady Nalith, upon whom he fixed a look that was colder still. There are a lot of people who can give you the kind of look that he was giving Nalith, but only a token few who can pull it off looking like Caden did.

"And you wonder why people think you pointy-eared sods are a bunch of conceited leeches," he said, and for all the generalization that went into the statement, it was patently clear that every single word was being thrown like a solid brick at Nalith. Caden wasn't a Bard, but he knew magic, and he knew how to make an impression with it.

Which is probably the only reason he's not being skewered to death from five angles right now.

Another breath, and the temperature shot back to normal almost as quickly as it'd dropped in the first place. He looked to Findelfin, and then he smiled the officially trademarked Smile of the Haplessly Doomed.

"Just call me Blueraven. I'd rather not give my actual name in the presence of a wretched little gnome like her," he jerked a thumb at Nalith, and then went back to ignoring the Elf's existence. Which was quite easy. "I'm a Salvic Wizard. I don't ask for command or rank; just give me a job and let me do it."

And that was that. Caden spoke Raiaeran flawlessly, lacking only in that he had no accent. When he was done, he delivered a faux salute to Findelfin, something copied secondhand from the raw recruits outside. It lacked discipline, but that's to be expected with any Wizard; schooled or not.

"Conceited maybe; leeches, I think not." Nalith's voice cut the air, her face colder than the chill in the room. "But conceit comes from skill...skill which you lack."

She raised one arm in the air as Caden's magic faded, and snapped once. Instantaneously tendrils of fire swept from the very air around the upstart mage, thin but hot, wrapping only a foot from his body in a complete encircling of flames. Findelfin stood a good distance from the display, and he almost sweated at the blast, so he knew it was sure to be toasting the poor Salvic wizard. Findelfin would have moved to stop her, but he had been somewhat disappointed with the young man's outburst; Nalith was perhaps overly critical, but she was still a Councilor of Raiaera and deserved respect.

Findelfin could see that Nalith intended to perform the rest of the spell. He had seen it before -- she would slowly move the flames closer and closer, until they touched the body for a split second, then remove them. It was one of her more favored tricks. Raising a hand, though, he cut her off. "Nalith, please." The tendrils vanished immediately and Nalith shrank back satisfied.

Fixing the mage with a stare, he searched for a moment. He could not do it, he had not trained enough. "Varalad, the lad's name please."

The High Bard smiled, and said, "I believe Mistress Celiniel knows..."

Without reservation, she said, "His name is Caden Law, and he guards his name and his thoughts with a great deal of carelessness." She was obviously satisfied.

Findelfin returned his gaze to the youth -- old enough for his people, a mewling infant to even a young elf like Findelfin. "Caden Law, we do not have the time for you to try to show your superiority in conjurer's tricks. The youngest bard in Istien University could have done what you did just now, and have done so with more humility and much better form.

"Furthermore, look at my ears." He raised up a hand and moved it across smooth, pointless ears. "I don't know where you humans got the idea that elvish ears are sharp as daggers, but remove it from your mind. We find it insulting and inaccurate. Mistress Celiniel can tend to distrust humanity, it's true, but she is still a Councilor of Dagorlin and a name to be feared, I would counsel you to show her respect.

"Now, your skills at languages are clearly useful. Captain Tyreles's lieutenants will escort you to the Vanwanen Bridge, where a large contingent of Elven regulars await to defend the bridge against the undead. The men outside have been formed into two companies -- those who speak Raiaeran and those who do not. You are to lead those who do not, translate the commands of all Elvish soldiers above the rank of a Lance Commander -- Captain Tyreles's lieutenant will teach you how to recognize rank as you go -- and assume the duties of commanding your division of human soldiers when need presses. The Bridge is not an easy assignment -- it will be dangerous and you will probably need to retreat at some point from it. But serve well and capably, and you will be granted the respect you clearly desire. May Galatiriel Protect You, Caden Law...Blueraven."

Findelfin turned to another man who had been escorted in. From his body language, he was clearly done with Caden Law, and he needed to deal with this man.

"State your name, purpose, and why you seek audience with the Council of War."

An abrupt lecture and a dismissal, but there are things of note. Slow down, hit the rewind, and let's watch this again, shall we?

Starting with the flames. Watch them flicker in; spectacular, flashy, and all around impressive. Caden certainly watched them, and he was doing so with intent and a mind that snapped out in thirty directions at once -- maybe more, maybe less, but you get the idea. An attentive eye would notice a few things though.

One is that he is not sweating. The flames are getting closer and his temperature is dropping faster and faster with every single inch they move, and Caden is not sweating. There's a rough equilibrium between magicks, and it's obviously one-sided, and Caden is obviously not going to win in a match of power-on-power, but that's okay -- because he's still thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking some more, and there it is! Look at his left hand, and see the little flicker of light as something starts to slip out of his sleeve.

It's an altogether innocent looking scalpel, if only by virtue of the situation. Its tip pricks into his finger, and maybe this isn't intentional or maybe he's got something planned, but his expression is only just starting to show nerve and he's still not sweating.

Then the fires are gone and Caden lets out a breath he didn't even know he was holding. Suddenly deprived of magic to push against, there's a wave of cold as temperatures shift; the only telltale sign that Caden has lost control of the magic he was using for a delaying action. He looks towards Nalith, and there is no respect in his eyes.

In fact, there's something in between murder and Crimes Against Life, which fall into a category of acts literally made unspeakable because there isn't language to describe them. The look shifts in an instant, and Caden -- who never was all that good at shielding his mind -- is still able to sense the presence of another sifting through his thoughts. He's even able to track it back to the source. Right as Nalith gives Caden's name, the Wizard speaks an old saying in proper Old Diamonic.

"I see. I see very clearly now."

This is the only thing he says to any of them before being given his orders. How they interpret it; that's their problem. He nods to Findelfin, without once looking away from Nalith, and acknowledges him with a surprisingly easy voice.

"Consider it done. Sir. Use whatever Name you'd like," and here, right here, you might actually notice a bit of righteous anger in his voice. Extremely subdued, very hard to spot, but it's still there, and it's a far more personal thing than the respect they think Caden wants.

A Wizard's Names are not things he gives lightly.

Again, he salutes. With that, he's guided out of the room and off to fight war for people he very clearly does not like.

Romis stood respectfully at the back of the small room, waiting while another man was given his instructions. He’d not ever taken the time to learn Raiaeran, so he did not bother to attempt to use it. Once summoned, he walked briskly forward and stopped at a respectful distance from the commanders of this operation. He inclined his head to the Councilors and then saluted.

“Good morning, my name is Romis Heartsblood. I am the Captain Commander of Moriah, a distant nation, the rank is equal to yours, General. However, it is of little importance here in Raiaera. Why I am here in Raiaera is not important, so please do not ask me. What is important is that I have experience with war, something a good many of your recruits out there lack. Do not think me disrespectful, I am only speaking the truth. I am here to help and offer only my experience as a soldier and officer.”

Romis fell silent then awaiting General Fingolfin’s remarks. He had no wish to flaunt his rank boastfully. For him it was a tool, though not one that would necessarily do him any good here. He would accept whatever the General asked of him, even if it was to do nothing else but join the rest of the soldiers. His shoulders itched at the silence in the room and he shrugged them uncomfortably. He hadn’t flown in quite some time and his wings were starting to ache with the inactivity.

While he waited, he observed his commanding officers. The Councilor seemed to disapprove of him, but that did not bother him in the slightest. After 450 years, what anyone thought of him meant very little. Providing the gods were with him and allowed him a life suitable for a dragon, he would outlive most people that insulted him or disapproved of him. On the other hand, the General did not seem to be as quick to make judgements, something that Romis found a good quality in any military officer.

The small ferry pulled into the harbor to rising tensions and guards running here and there, checking citizenship papers and conscripting most everyone able to hold a sword, or bow if they were elven, and generally being annoying. They were like flies buzzing around the violet-haired woman’s head that she could never swat no matter how often she swatted at them. Annoying flies that carried rather potent venoms if provoked. It was too bad she couldn’t just eradicate them here and now; they certainly deserved everything that would be coming to them. No matter where her command took her, the blood lust of the Reaper of Cities would finally be sated once again. It had been too long. It had been far too long.

Click… tap… click… click… tap…

As the people from the ferry meandered down the unloading plank, a small bubble completely devoid of people formed around one woman. This peculiarity invariably drew attention of the worst sort, but she wasn’t worried. It was only natural that people avoided the blind. The rattle of plate mail and the ring of steel boots against the hard paving stones failed to set her on edge; she knew exactly why a few soldiers had come to her. All she needed was… “Aah!”

It never failed. It also never failed to hurt. When squeezing sympathy from those who would normally avoid it like the plague, all she had to do was fall down like she had been tripped or misplaced a foot. It was the misplaced foot this time, placed perfectly to catch her toes on the latest paving stone her walking staff found for her. The myriad of rings that lined the top section of the black staff sang their chorus as her hands abandoned the worthless weapon and flailed toward the unseen ground below. Sheer panic couldn’t have been faked better by an actor. Though her eyes were hidden behind the violet mask that covered from her eyebrows to the bridge of her nose, she extended her farce to her golden pupils just in case someone had a way of seeing beyond those things. It had happened before.

A strong hand on each arm halted her descent and for a moment the blind general was genuinely worried. Not quite panicked, but worried. Could they sense her pact with Xem'zûnd? What were they going to do to her? How could she kill them and get away with it? All of her questions were answered in a soft voice coming from the man on her right. He spoke tradespeak, thankfully, and expressed genuine worry as though he had no idea that her fall was a distraction.

“Are you all right, maam? You should- oh, I guess you couldn’t tell that stone was there, could you.” Fine, fine, just let go already. She wasn’t a baby; she could stand on her own. At least he hadn’t asked… “Where are you headed? We don’t get many people traveling by the ferries this late.” Every muscle in her body went limp. It was protocol, after all, to ask where travelers were headed. What could she say? She had only come to this place because she felt an impossibly strong sensation of evil all the way from Corone. If she didn’t give an answer, she’d probably have to play the fainting card, too.

“Eluriand.” What? Where had that come from? “I heard there was someone who could help me with my eyes in Eluriand. This was the first ferry from Corone I could find passage on.” Well, at least the explanation of why she was headed there was her own. Rigidity returned to her arms and legs after she finished speaking and, after the guards retrieved her staff from the ground, the two spoke some well-wishes and let her be on her way. After all, what could a blind traveler do to help them? She had already proven useless by being unable to even catch herself as she fell.

You’re welcome. The unbidden voice assaulted her mind once more. Used to the being’s intrusions, her step never faltered even as she walked through a cloud of poison ash. The voice was stronger now, possibly because he had more control than she first though on this land. And you have your final destination as well. Creatures like us need more than just words as proof, as I am certain you understand, so I will show you your next step. You’ll see what I’m talking about. The gas drifted away from her mind as the necromancer’s voice left, and with it came a terrible sensation. Flames consuming her eyes wouldn’t have hurt this much, but the pain was almost what the blind woman expected. It was certainly more than she wanted. However, necromancy was the magic of the dead, and restoring something always meant taking from something else… or a few somethings.

She blinked.

What had been scenery blacker than pitch under a new moon was now a harbor village dotted with small details. It was like someone had taken a piece of chalk and drawn the outlines of everything onto her mind. Certain paving stones “glowed” more than everything else, and it was only natural that the violet-clad woman followed them. Every step closer to her destination brought her miniscule increases in the detail, but even the smallest increase was enough of a pull to guarantee her loyalty to the path laid out so clearly before her. It was almost a disappointment when she saw her rendezvous location. It had taken her quite a long time to follow the meandering trail through main roads and alleys alike, but she never encountered another sentry the whole time. It was strange, but very welcomed. What disappointed her was not the location, nor was it the physical appearance of the building. Places that blended in to the rest of the city were always the best places to hide, but what did disappoint her was the fact that she wasn’t alone as she walked through the main door and into a large… void.

Teleportation magic, illusion magic, wards to keep certain do-gooders away… not to mention wards to suppress the magical signatures of the other wards and more wards to dampen the other suppressing wards on top of self-destructive fields that would collapse the whole array if anything unbidden tried to force its way in. Each one had a distinct “color” to it in her eyes, though she couldn’t quite tell when she learned what each color meant. What she did know was the sort of ecstasy that she was experiencing as she floated through the netherspace between the ends of the portal. When the strange transportation placed her at the base of the most massive black tower she had ever seen, and she had seen quite a few massive black towers in her conquering days, her jaw almost dropped.

“I’m here, Xem’zûnd.” She could have made the coldest Salvar wastes feel like a sauna with her words. “And I’m ready to raze everything that stands in my way. Just give the word.”

“Go.”

Through the semi-transparent mask, golden eyes danced with darkness deeper than the blackest night. Viola Darkstalker, Reaper of Cities, was back.

Findelfin coolly considered the obvious foreign-born commander, a questioning look in his face. There was something strange in him that Findelfin couldn't quite place -- it wasn't in the way he looked, he appeared purely human. Findelfin wasn't nearly as adept as Varalad or Nalith at sensing and sounding out a person. Varalad had the uncanny ability to simply know a soul and understand them without ever needing to resort to special tricks, and Nalith was renowned for being able to probe and invade an unsuspecting mind. But the difference in the air seemed palpable, as if the very soul of the man in front of him now was different.

"Moriah? I'm not familiar with the country, but there are many lands and peoples I do not know." Findelfin could tell by his carriage, however, that he knew something of battle. "I will have to rely on your knowledge of command, however, and there is a special mission I would have you do."

Turning to look at the map, Findelfin said, "Nalith, Varalad, may I elaborate our strategy?" Varalad nodded immediately, while Nalith hesitated only a moment before indicating her assent.

"Come closer and watch. See here," he pointed at a star on the map. "That is Eluriand. Nearly a mile north of us is Daer Taure, the great northern forest. We plan to retreat there if the city appears lost, but currently we do not anticipate having to fully retreat. Our preparations for this assault are better than last time...we are defending the bridge here, for instance." He gestured towards a marking on the map clearly labeled Vanwanen Bridge.

"I have sent a number of troops south to guard the bridge, along with a bevy of Turlin mages to help enchant arrows and the like...a single arrow does nothing to a zombie, but enchanted with Turlin it can banish it never to rise again. We are relying on those who hold the bridge to thin their ranks, but not to last for long. When the bridge falls, they will fall back to the walls, where we will make our stand."

Now he pointed towards the east, to an plain bracketed by two rivers. "However, our scouts report that small teams of fast-moving, resolute zombies have already forded the Escaldor, probably at a thin point in the forest where a few can cross. They do not appear headed for Eluriand, but instead for the bridges on the river Elleduin, here..." he tapped the map quickly on a river running from the Lake of Gold.

"We do not know where they are heading, but they are moving quickly. From things I saw in the Red Forest recently, I would assume they are headed to Trenycë, but I cannot say for sure. Horses would overtake them...or flight, but we are not from Alerar and have no airships. So horses it must be. I will send with you as many lancers I can spare, along with a handful of mages under your command. Attack the zombies and destroy them -- and if you cannot, destroy the bridges on Elleduin. It may impede the refugees as they flee to Anebrilith, but it will save us time...I fear to imagine what may happen if this small force reaches Trenycë, for the city is only sparsely defended. But if you weaken the group, perhaps the defenders will be able to handle the rest."

He fixed Romis with a stare, and said, "I am sending you without any humans, and with three Lissilin healers. If you are bitten by one of these undead, you must tell the bard immediately. If your three Lissilin bards perish, then promise me you will return immediately...there is something different about these zombies. We don't know what it is yet, but we do know that their bite is more perilous to humans than it is to elves. Can you do this mission?"

Out went the Wizard, like yesterday's trash with an attitude problem, and Tyreles went with him. Whatever talk they had, it was mostly one-sided. Caden walked, the Elf rode. They arrived, and the sight that greeted Caden...

...well.

I'm going to die here, he concluded, and felt the icy calm and dignity of a man who knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he's right. Caden knew rogues, brigands, and the definition of ragtag like the back of his hand. He'd served with adventuring companies so seedy that you couldn't tell which guys were chaotic good and which guys were just freaking evil.

The band in front of him was a 407-strong pile of conscripted meat shields, and they all knew it. From a thirteen year old boy holding a bow as big as he was to a miserable old man leaning on a pitch fork with one hand and clutching a sword in the other, and every single scrawny, barrel chested, morbidly obese, one-eyed, two-eyed, toothless, plack-riddled, porcelain-mouthed git and saint between them. They were dressed well enough to show that they came from every possible walk of life; a proper mercenary actually wearing full armor, a sword enthusiast bearing twin akashiman katana, somebody's butler, now wearing his razor-rimmed bowler hat over a chainmail hood, and even a guy who must've weighed 400 pounds -- that last one looked like he could've passed for an ape in another life.

One by one, they looked to Caden, and Caden looked to them. Words were exchanged, in Raiaeran, between he and Tyreles. Words of support on one side, and something distinctly bitter on the other. Tyreles left him, shouting a few words about Bards of the Algarin variety, and a few battlers too.

So it was just 408 men, between the docks and the bridge and the city. 408. More than 300, a helluva lot less than a million, and no ages of freedom to pledge lives to. Eventually, someone had to speak. Someone did speak. A man, with a ragged looking beard and the body of a farmer, who could've been any of the others in the crowd.

"Why the hell should we die for the elves?" He shouted, in defiant common. Mutters and shouts followed, and there was a general consensus of agreements, even as a few elvish bards arrived from the Bridge. Caden looked at them, and then looked to the crowd, and then raised his hand.

No silence. Just noise.

He aimed his palm down, and grabbed at something that wasn't there. His fingers met a metaphysic resistance, and depressions began to form in the dirt road all around him; five, each no bigger than a pot hole. Then he hauled his hand up--

And was suddenly standing atop a rather small, steep hill that could've passed as a proper speaking platform with a little fancying.

"SHUT THE HELLS UP!"

A show of power, and a scream that sounded louder than his vocal cords should've managed. That got 'em quiet. Abruptly, Caden jabbed a finger towards the very bards sent to help him. In Raiaeran, he screamed, but to human ears...it would've sounded like he was cussing them out in their own language.

"IGNORE EVERY SINGLE WORD I AM ABOUT TO SAY!"

Cheering.

"I SAID SHUT UP!"

Silence.

"LOOK AT ME."

And they did.

Caden cleared his throat. Twice. It's about here and now, maybe, that most movies have someone going gut check time, let's do it! Except that Althanas hasn't got any cinemas and Caden doesn't look half as good as Brad Pitt.

"The elves," he began, twisting his voice in the way that Wizards can; it dripped with a kind of palpable authority that mere natural glamour couldn't match. "Are not worth dying for. They're nothing more than a bunch of bigots; the self-proclaimed fair folk! As if they could know an ounce of fairness at all!" A brief bout of cheering. "Strike the elves! Hells with them!" He shouted, and there was more cheering.

Right about now, the bards started to exchange smiles with each other. The kind that's roughly equivelent to a restaurant manager; completely vacant, equally doomed, and screaming with subtext along the lines of You're shitting me. This is also when Caden changed the subject. Nevermind the fact that the bards were all getting ready to carry out a pre-emptive massacre; just forget that part, thank you.

"We're not here to defend the elves. Because obviously, they don't need us! No, gentlemen. How many of you have families?" Hands up. Just a few. "How many of you have homes?" Fewer still. "How many of you have something to prove?" Plenty that time. "And how many of you just have a guilty conscience?" And that was everyone. Caden would've smiled, if he weren't a Wizard.

"That is what we're fighting for, you striking thugs. Because we've all got our own reasons, and the wellfare of the elves doesn't mean a damn thing about them. We are not going to throw our lives away. We will not be their fodder. We will be a shield lined with razors, and we will break the sword of Xem'zund, but we will not die doing it.

"We're going to live, boys."

He started down from his hilltop, and it probably clicked with the bards what he was trying to do. He was giving these men a point. He was giving them what their elvish commanders could not, for all their biases and self-righteousness.

Caden was giving them a fighting spirit. It wasn't quite the same as giving them hope, but it'd shed a hell of a lot more of the enemy's blood.

He reached the crowd, and damn near vanished into it. The bards could only see him for his Hat; pointy and blue, it towered well above the heads of any of his men. Then they heard him speaking, just like the men did.

"And we're going to rub their striking faces in it."

Three cheers, dozens of raised swords, and let's get this bloody show on the road...

Out of Character:

Continued here!

((Sorry for the delay..i was out of town for the weekend >.<))

Romis studied the map carefully as he listened to the General's instructions. They were simple enough in theory, but of the many types of battles he'd fought, he'd not fought against the undead. This would be a new experience, but one he was sure he could handle.

"I can do this mission, but I have a few questions. First, do you have a map showing where all the bridges are that I can take with me? Second, should we have to resort to destroying the bridges, should we continue on to Trenycë and beef up their defenses? Third, I make no promises that I cannot guarantee I can keep. What I will promise is that we will do the best that we are able and should we lose all our healers, we will endeavor to return here as quickly as possible."

Horses, hmm? I haven't ridden a horse in years and there's no way I can fly that far quickly. Guess I'll just have to hope I remember everything.

"Do you have any suggestions or any other orders for me?"

Findelfin turned to Varalad. "Cora'Lindstra, do we have stores of maps here?"

Varalad's head swayed. "We have our large battle chart in this room, and to my knowledge it is our only cartographic piece. And it is of no size to bear with you. But come," he gestured to Romis, "and I shall direct your eyes to where you are headed."

Letting a single bony finger rest on the map, Varalad traced a small circle around a spot near the center. "This is Eluriand." He traced southwards a bit to the river. "This is the Escaldor River. Even now our troops prepare to do battle at the Vanwanen Bridge to try to forestall the hosts of Xem'zûnd at minimal cost to our defenders before they reach the city. Your target is here."

His finger traced eastward across the map, trailing across areas marked as farmland, following the green line showing where the Great Forest's edges were. He reached a point roughly due south of Tilgonar, where the map showed a solitary river winding downwards.

"There are a number of bridges across the Elleduin, which flows from the Laurë Linae southward, west of the Black Forest, until plunging into the depths of the Red Forest south of that accursed place. But the bridges that concern you are here." He tapped hard on the map, emphasizing a point just south of Tilgonar where the river curved slightly before tacking eastward again.

"These undead you seek -- we call them Plaguebearers because their bite bears a disease which rapidly deteriorates the bodies of men, making them ideal fodder for Xem'zûnd's armies. We have already seen this happen once, and if Trenycë falls, it could swell the undead ranks by enough men to threaten the Forest of Timbrethinil and Winyaurient."

Varalad trailed his finger down the river Elleduin. "There are more bridges along the river, one west of Moranfauglir and one west of Amon Lungan. Their destruction is desirable as well, for it slows the progress of the army to Anebrilith should we fall here, and perhaps gives our defenders time to take stands in pitched battles along the river. But the most pressing need is the northern bridge."

Findelfin nodded his assent, "Thank you, Cora'Lindstra." Turning back to Romis, he said, "Thank you for accepting your mission. I will send with you twelve of the Bladesingers Guild. They are strong troops, subtle and trained. Treat them with a commander's kindness. They will help you against the undead. There will be three Bladesingers for each school -- the Turlin and Dagorlin bards may prove your greatest asset, do not abuse their counsel in time of need. And if Lissilin falls, return as fast you can -- or at least do not engage your foe. The Bladesingers should also be able to help you should you need direction in the wilderness."

He nodded to a Raiaeran regular on the side, briefly giving him directions on who to appoint to Romis's retinue, then turned and began speaking rapidly to Varalad and Nalith in fast-paced, conversational Raiaeran. It was clear that he had given his assignment, and now his attention was turned to other things. The soldier Findelfin had spoken to, clad in the standard-issue equipment of Tel Aglarim, gestured to Romis. "Come on, Commander Heartsblood. I'll show you to your troops."

Romis saluted smartly, though he wasn’t sure if General Fingolfin noticed it or not. The General had not answered his question of whether Romis and his troops should fall back to Trenycë if it was possible. It irritated him to have questions he asked ignored, but since he had not been told ‘no’, Romis made a mental note to cross the bridges before destroying them. He would fall back to Trenycë and fortify the defenders there as best as he could.

Still seething inwardly, Romis followed the elf that had been dispatched to help him. He would have to depend on this fellow, and any others that spoke Common, to make his orders clear. Hopefully, all the soldiers being sent with him would speak enough Common to forestall the need for an interpreter.

Nearing the Raiaeran soldiers, Romis halted as his escort began speaking rapidly in his native tongue. From the way he spoke, Romis assumed the elf was announcing the General’s orders and calling out the names of those that were to go with Romis. In short order, a small platoon had gathered before Romis. He led them a short distance away, then turned to face them, speaking in a loud, clear voice.

“I am Captain Commander Romis Heartsblood. You may refer to me as Captain Commander, or given the circumstances, Captain or Commander Heartsblood. Our mission is simple enough, keep the Plaguebearers from crossing the Elleduin and reaching Trenycë. If necessary, we will destroy the bridges. Let’s move.”

Turning on his heel, Romis strode with a confidence that he did not entirely feel to the east gate and across the fields. If he remembered the map correctly, the most important bridge was almost directly inline with the east gate, or was at least near enough that he would be able to find it quickly.

Gods, preserve and protect these elves under my command. Bring us home safe.

Half an hour later, Findelfin stood on the parapet, gazing south.

It was horrendous, but in a way, it was beautiful. The bridge stood beleaguered, attacked by the most amazing creatures, things that no elf had seen issue forth from the depths of Lindequalmë in centuries of memory. The beauty lay in the defenders. Findelfin knew in his heart that they were overmatched. If nothing else, those giant trees would tear Eluriand's outer walls stone from stone. But still they stood strong, lobbing arrow after arrow. But they would run out soon -- the lion's share had been reserved for the defenders of the wall, for they would need them more when the bridge broke and the tide swept out across the plains of Raiaera.

He knew all that was happening. What Turlin bards could be spared had been dispatched all across the Great Forest. The most insidious nature of Xem'zûnd was that he could bend any matter to his will, provided it had been living. So they were sanctifying what dead trees they found, fanning across the vast area trying to render holy whatever they came across. If Eluriand fell, these sacred groves of commingled dead and living matter would be the bases from which any resistance to the Necromancer would come from. To the South, Tyreles was commanded to retreat when he had to, and the ships on the sea were to sail with all due speed to Anebrilith to reinforce that city from the attack. Valinatal would hold out against the undead headed its way, if the numbers reported by the scouts were accurate, but if Eluriand fell, it would prove ill for the fortress-city.

It was a geopolitical puzzle, Eluriand. It was well protected from attack from Salvar by a forest, a number of well-defended cities, and a deep, wide river. Anebrilith was an eastern bastion against attackers from that direction, and Valinatal's position on the hills where Niadath Pass emptied the dregs of Alerar onto Raiaeran soil was primely positioned for defending that quarter. Yet between Eluriand and the Spire -- indeed, between Raiaera and her own worst enemy -- lay only a single stone bridge. It was a good one, but it could not hold that flood. Carnelost had proven as much.

His hand gripped the parapet so hard that his knuckles turned white, and he swore. It was no way to go, trapped in the most beautiful city in the world as it became the globe's most cultured prison. No, it was no good. He wracked his brain for a better solution, but he had none.

And then a thought struck him like one of those newfangled contraptions now shuffling between Ettermire and Knife's Edge. His villa! He had given no thought to it, nor what lay inside. Two keys, similar in size, dissimilar in adornment. One was his to bear, a simple iron key wrought well and with plain lettering on both sides. The other was to be given to one he chose. He swore again. He had not even considered that they were there.

But it would have to wait. He could see from his vantage point that the bridge had fallen -- it was stupendous to watch the fireworks unfold below him, where he could not help it. Tyreles was leading a good command, and from what he could make out through the smoke the young hothead seemed to be making good on his promises. Findelfin braced himself....he too knew that when the fire reached those docks, there would be a light show that none would forget for some time.

Suddenly at his arm was Nalith. She whispered softly, "Findelfin, I fear this is the end."

He turned to her and regarded her coolly. He had fought alongside her in the Gisela, and she was both an apt commander and a reliable friend. If she feared the end, then he had no reason to hope for it. "You may indeed by right. The last time seemed like a joke...as if the Necromancer was just toying with us. Or perhaps it was for real, in which case Devon's heroism only forestalled the end."

They were both silent as they watched the armies wheel and clash, strange undead elves on the riverbank doing thing with their bodies Findelfin would have thought impossible. But he was not thinking about anything now. He was thinking about Devon, and Wyn. Of those noble three, he was the only one still standing. Or at least he assumed; Devon had disappeared and had not been seen again, so death was the safest assumption. If he died here, it would at least be fitting, for him to die last of those three companions -- the soulless warrior first, the human swordsman second, and the elf last, the fall of the immemorial race.

Nalith suddenly stirred. "General, let me lead a contingent of bards to help them, warrior-bards, none of these just-out-of-university weaklings. It won't stall them for long, but it might give Tyreles time to escape...and that young lad, reckless or not, seems capable. Please, let me ride to battle, to serve the Battle Sound that I serve."

Findelfin needed no time to think. It made sense. A sudden sally would give greater morale to the troops fighting by the river and perhaps lure the Necromancer into making a move he would regret. "Go. Gather up those troops that are already yours to command and sweep from the city...and sound the trumps as you leave, let the world know that Eluriand does not wait for the end, but marches gladly forth--"

His words were cut off by the crashing sound of a million thunderbolts. He whipped his eyes southward as the gunpowder stores below the bridge erupted in a shower of pyrotechnic might, the whole structure collapsing into the river. His mouth dropped open for a moment; he knew the blast would be powerful, but he had no idea how powerful. As soon as he recovered, his hands whipped into a pre-arranged sign to prepare a sally...with the bridge out of commission, a quick march from the city would be all Tyreles needed. They could establish control of the south beachheads and repel any invasion from Xem'zûnd, and they might even be able to coordinate the sort of counterattacks they'd wanted the whole time.

But before he could even begin, he heard...him. The voice was monstrous, resounding in his head as if spoken directly to him; on Nalith's face he could see the terror and know she heard it too. And beyond Yanta Vanwanen he could see the host rising, clawing its way from the dirt, like ants churning a wounded anthill. He almost gave the call to retreat, to stay within the city, to sit it out, but then a fickle mood struck him.

Turning to Nalith, he said, "Fetch Varalad del Tirin. And tell him to bring the Horn." She looked puzzled for a moment, then suddenly knew what he meant. And she left immediately, a smile on her face.

Turning back to look at the approaching horde, he spoke to a nearby commander. "Light the signal fires, let all the hosts know to prepare to march. Have them lined up in the square. And tell them to begin their prayers to Aurient. Even Galatiriel lacks the strength for what we will do. Instruct every soldier, every citizen in the city to stab their left arm with one of the Turlin-enchanted arrows. The protection should last for at least a few hours, and keep our beloved dead from rising to fight us again."

Turning back, he steeled his nerves. If Xem'zûnd wanted to fight, he would face Findelfin ap Fingolfin in battle.

* * * * *

Only a few minutes later -- Varalad had been close by -- the two were facing one another.

"You got in trouble this way once before, Findelfin." The High Bard of Raiaera stood on the parapet, his grey-white hair catching the sun in just such a way as if it almost had color again. It was nearly high noon, that time of day when plans put in motion begin to come together...or fall apart. In his hands he held a stunning horn, made of what could only have been the single claw of a dragon, with mother-of-pearl decorations set on a thin mythril mesh.

Findelfin knew what Varalad meant. He had held that horn to his lips only once before, in violation of all Raiaeran law, in order to summon all the defenders of Eluriand to the task of saving the city. But his bravery...and willingness to flout the law on pain of death...had rescued the city from total devastation, and so it had been forgiven. "But now, Master, we are all in trouble. Blowing that horn is the only way to get out of it."

Varalad hesitated for a moment, then said, "You may be right. But promise me one thing before I hand this to you and entrust this country to your hands."

Findelfin raised an eyebrow, and said, "What is it, Varalad?"

Varalad sighed, and said, "Promise me that, if the battle looks to be lost, you will not hesitate to sound the retreat. I am only allowing this sortie to prevent our retreat from being cut off, to keep us from being trapped here in this city so as to die slowly, with no method of getting as many as possible to the safe shores of Anebrilith or the secret bases of Daer Taurë."

Findelfin shook his head, "I will not get entangled in a final charge. You know the rules for the Horn. To sound it once is to empty the city of all its shock troops. To sound it twice is to empty the city of all its inhabitants, to fly where they will...and three blasts is for the army to retreat. I will follow them wisely and well."

Varalad pressed the horn forward into Findelfin's hands, and said, "Then take it, Dagorathar."

Since this thread was meant to introduce other threads, this affected the score of this thread a bit, though I have judged it keeping in mind that it is a prelude to other threads. However, many of the points lost were still because of the nature of the thread, though I was more understanding than I would have been had this not continued in other places.

Total= 60

STORY

Continuity ~ 5. For a thread that was supposed to introduce me to characters, this continuity score was very disappointing. I only got the basest understanding as motivation.
Setting ~ 7. Good job getting a lot of the Raiaeran cultural stuff in here, especially Finny but also Caden Law.
Pacing ~ 4. Even for its purpose, this plodded a bit.

CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 7
Action ~5 I found Findelfin at times to be a bit condescending for the hero of this injucture, especially since you seem to play him as the epitome of all goodness, but I felt this brusqueness could have been explained, at least in part, by the surroundings.
Persona ~ 6 This was another area where I found this thread a bit disappointing.

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 6
Mechanics ~ 8
Clarity ~ 7 Caden, make sure you think through your thoughts before you write them down. It seemed you had a few errors because of this.

Wild card~ 5

EXP and GP
Findelfin receives 1885 EXP and 180 GP
Caden Law receives706 EXP and 240 GP
Heartsblood receives 706 EXP and 240 GP
Viola Darkstalker receives 500 EXP and 120 GP
Twisted Infinitum receives 940 EXP and 60 GP

EXP/GP added!