MQ: Beyond the Bridge of Souls

Somewhere, a long, long time ago, and in a place far, far away...or actually rather close, nowadays; a wise man wrote in defeat. He was confined to a cell for eighty years and only saw the light of day when they finally executed him. His name was Tön're Aullum-Seu. In his prime, they called him the Blackest Warlock, the Darkest Lord, and so many other small names that have since been adopted and re-adopted by the tyrants and monsters of history that've followed in his wake. The day after his execution, Tön're's writings were gathered into a single volume of notes; a codex, more or less.

Today, people who know of it might consider Tön're's Codex to be the forerunner of any proper Evil Overlord's list. The only surviving copy of the original print exists in scroll form, locked away somewhere in one of Istien University's libraries, gathering dust through the ages...but some still read it. And those that do always make the critical mistake of ignoring the one piece of advice that Tön're himself valued above all others, because he failed to heed it himself -- which is what brought about his downfall in the first place.

Simply put, and translated straight out of Old Diamonic at that: Never give a Wizard time to prepare.

This is, quite possibly, one of the most profoundly enlightened bits of wisdom ever written down anywhere in Althanas. And Xem'zund's people, by hook or crook, didn't have the slightest clue to heed it. They took their time, or maybe they didn't, but Caden Law had one whole hour. You can do a whole lot in the span of one whole hour. That's sixty minutes. 3,600 seconds. To a Wizard, this is about the same as giving them a tactical nuclear weapon.

Caden had an hour, and he used it well. He didn't bother trying to train his men, because there's nothing they'd learn in an hour that they didn't already know to some extent. He did something altogether different.

"You. All of you. Get your striking asses over here and join us."

He bound them together with the few elves who'd been given the toilet duty of helping them out. Caden did this rather unique. He spent the first ten minutes changing the colors of every single hat, helm, and coif his men and elves wore; everything turned blue, and everything had a raven on it. Caden couldn't do proper alchemy; he wasn't changing chemical compositions to increase strengths. But he could still change colors and put pictures where there weren't any. One of the bards -- a tall, statuesque bastard of an Aglarlin, with ridiculously long golden hair and the stereotypically pointed ears -- carried a banner.

On that banner, which was made on the spot using a spear, a rough wool blanket and some spare ink, was a rough depiction of Eluriand, and at the southernmost edge was a raven.

This chap was named Golaster Kenvas. He was about as hardcore as Algarlin Bards get; fully armored, and wielding a curved sword with a flute-like instrument built into the back of its blade. This is an elf. Look at him. He's surrounded by humans. He's one of them.

They're all Blueravens. They're not a worthless pile of cannon fodder, because they've got jobs to do, and they're going about them in a very quick, somehow orderly fashion. Caden trusted the Bards -- Algarlin and Battlers alike -- with the task of carving and painting runes. Dozens of them, set in a whole dual-line behind the docks. Men were in every single building, dumping out oils and wines and all sorts of alcohol. Ignore that potbellied wannabe drunk crying over this.

Because nobody likes to see spilt booze, but they hate dying even more.

As the half-hour approached, Caden began fortifying. He was a pitifully weak Wizard on his own, but that's where wits and dirty tricks come into play -- and a heaping helping of geomancy. Slowly but surely, over the course of fifteen more minutes, Caden carved himself a proper Circle of Power into the unwilling earth. It was an intricate work; all of it in Old Diamonic runes and Salvic lorite, with sides of Raiaeran and garbled Common. There were stories there, and an applied description theory went into effect -- something sturdy and dependable that couldn't simply be destroyed by knocking out a single rune or six.

He stepped into the circle.

Five minutes later, there was a wide U-shaped trenched arcing in front of a newly uprisen, battlement-like hilltop. Dragon's teeth -- or, more accurately, thick stubby spires of rock -- shot out of the ground in a virtual fence behind the runic lines, and foxholes littered the area in short order. Wherever Caden was still too weak, the Aglarlins boosted his power further still.

By minute-fifty, lines of rope had been soaked and laid from the docks to the holes. Per his instructions, no man was without a torch. In every foxhole, and for every archer in the trench, there were jugs of oil and quivers of spare arrows -- only the ones they actually carried had been properly enchanted. The rest of the enchanted arrows were going straight to the defenders on the bridge.

As Caden told them, and as Golaster and at least half the Battlebards agreed, When in doubt, kill it with fire.

Incidentally, this tidbit of wisdom is also present in Tön're's codex. Irony makes the world go round.

There was only one gap, in the lines of runic traps and the dragon's teeth. Caden put it there intentionally. It was for his men to fight through and resupply the bridge, and to bottleneck anyone who made it through the docks. Supply-running was volunteers only, and (if only in the spirit of Murderhood) the Bards had all carved the names of the volunteers into their armor.

It was the least they could do.

Minute fifty-five, and the men were in their places, and the elves were too. Archers, 150 dedicated, were clustered and covered; 50 in the trench around Caden, 50 in side-trenches to pick off anyone trying to go around the docks and dragon's teeth, and 50 scattered in two-man fox-holes across the soon-to-be battlefield.

That left 250 men-at-arms, the vast majority of whom carried around five proper Turlin Arrows, if only because you could stab someone with the damn things after chopping their arms and legs off. There was a man-at-arms in every single foxhole, and and one for each of the side-trench archers. That left 125 multitasking; some of the men-at-arms may as well have been combat engineers, and others took up slings and rocks and waited in foxholes of their own. They were universally armed with steel swords, but a good many had secondary weapons (pitchforks, knives, personally owned swords and the like) or foreign shields; some scavenged from the docks, others carried as old heirlooms or personal items. Quality varied wildly, but every man wore the standard chainmail helm and steel breastplate of a last-minute conscript.

25 men volunteered for supply-running. They had armored quiverpacks, swords and shields. Whatever armor could be spared, they got it. Each one had an assigned honor guard of one man-at-arms.

And the remaining 7 men?

They'd shown magical ability, if only in potentia. They were also reasonably adept with swords. They were apprenticed on the spot to the bards; three to the Aglarlin, the remaining four to Battlebards. The four had just enough time (around half an hour spent with the bards, once their initial duties were over) to learn how to generate your generic, D-class fireball; a baseball sized thing that can be hurled by hand...even though at least one of them figured out how to cast it by projectile vomiting. A hangover'll do that, folks.

Likewise, the Aglarlin apprentices had just enough time to learn how to heal. Weak healing, but healing nonetheless.

The seven of them didn't exactly understand what they were doing, but nobody has to understand the exact mechanics that goes into firing a gun either. You pull a trigger and if you aim right, somebody dies. It's as simple as that.

And here we are, at 00:00:10 and counting down. Look at Caden now. Just look at him, standing atop his makeshift command post, wearing his steel chestplate and with a sword strapped across his back. He almost looks like a proper military commander right now.

09; Caden takes a breath.

08; there's distant thunder.

07; he exhales.

06; he flicks his wrist.

05; the wand exits his sleeve.

04; it's in his right hand.

03; swords are drawn.

02; bows pulled taut.

01; Caden Law smiles. It's a manic smile indeed.

00:00:00

Welcome beyond the Bridge of Souls.

Out of Character:

Sorry if I went a little overboard there :D If Sighter has any problems with this, I'll be happy to make edits. G'luck to my opponent. EDIT: Incidentally: Could a mod edit an MQ into the thread title? I forgot it x_x;

((Note to the judge: As the Game Moderator of this Featured Quest thread, I hereby give express permission to Viola Darkstalker and Caden Law to use powers beyond the normal scope of their abilities. Both are currently being buttressed by significant forces beyond themselves -- Darkstalker has Xem'zund while Law has Aglarlin mages -- and therefore their abilities with magic and their other skills will be significantly enhanced for the remainder of this thread. Any adjudication of power levels will be done by me throughout this thread via private conversations with both of them, and I ask that you keep this in mind when assigning scores.))

"Why this little sot?" Captain Tyreles' lieutenant was furious.

"He disregards our people, mistrusts our motives, and look...he's tearing holes in our earth! He was given the job of overseeing those who volunteered willingly, and he acts as if we're using them as meat shields! Nothing could be further from the truth -- we set them behind us intentionally to fill out the ranks as our own elves fell to the axe first! There's a reason we're on the front lines!"

Captain Tyreles let his lieutenant wax apoplectic for a while, and when the wild-eyed rant was over he turned his lieutenant around. From their position on the northeastern tower, he extended his sword hand to point.

"We picked him because he could whip that ragtag band into shape. Don't be too harsh on the sons of men -- their lives are shorter than ours, and any of us that survive this day still have many years left. They, on the other hand, must face the day knowing that if they survive, they may still only have brief life left them anyway. But see, he's doing better than we thought -- he's pulling together that band to do something incredible."

Tyreles watched with amusement as Caden began arguing with an elf over the confiscation of a store of wine at the docks. He could clearly see from the current preparations what the mage was considering. "Lieutenant, I want you to instruct the troops at the docks and elsewhere to collaborate fully with the intentions of Commander Blueraven. We maybe have lost our backup forces to replace what we lose on the bridge, but when the eventual breakthrough occurs we will have a fallback position sounder than any we could have prepared ourselves." Tyreles' lieutenant looked as if his eyes were about to fall out, but he did as he was told.

Tyreles turned back to the bridge, looking over it to the south. Below them, the plains stretched long -- crops had been abandoned right before harvest, and here and there the enemy was already burning the abundant yields of a long summer. Even with victory, it would be a long winter.

The forces of the necromancer were almost upon them, and Tyreles took a long look in both directions. The river was clear, no covert attempts to sneak past. The army he could see arrayed against them was massive -- tens of thousands would have been a conservative estimate. Below the line of the army's advance it seemed to be only a mass of bodies, a patchwork of decayed flesh. Here and there flew one of Xem'zûnd's banners, a wand set with bloody eyes. And his sharp elf eyes could make out every sort of evil thing imaginable: enormous ants, silvery-grey spiders, and even a few walking trees, their bark groaning with the strain of being forced to move forward against their will. And somewhere far to the back of the horde, Tyreles could see a figure swathed in smoke and mist, an unknowable figure. Xem'zûnd.

Not long now.

* * * * *

Out of Character:

Just to make sure everyone knows the lay of the land... Viola is to the south of the Bridge, Caden to the north, about a fourth of the way towards Eluriand. The bridge is defended by four towers, two on each side of the river. The towers are part of the Bridge's physical construction -- they are connected to it and form part of the same structure. From both towers on each side of the river extends a small bridge to the other, allowing troops to stand and fire -- in addition, the small bridge has a mechanism which allows the iron grating below to lock into place, granting the gate more support and structure. On the south side of the river, the only way to enter the towers is by tearing down the gate and fighting your way up or by scaling it -- the only doors to the tower are on the side behind the defense of the gate. On the northern side, the doors are behind the gate on the side closest to the city, allowing easier fall back should the bridge be taken. Each tower is five levels and can hold 75 troops -- in this case, Tyreles has assigned 60 archers to each tower. 15 infantry troops are also assigned to each tower to help distribute and insure a ready supply of arrows should the archers run out -- each archer begins with 50 arrows and must draw more from communal arrow pools on each level. On the bridge itself are 60 more archers who will shoot volleys across the bridge into the enemy, as well as 20 infantry troops that will serve to succor the gate -- for example, by chopping off any enemy hands that try to grasp it. As is normal with the elven army, a good number of the archers and swordsmen are bard-trained and may know a number of song magic spells, from Turlin purification to Aglarlin support songs. The only elves present, though, who actually have training AS bards are behind the gates helping to enchant arrows and provide logistical support for Captain Tyreles. There are no Bladesingers present. The river on both sides of the bridge is teeming with ships from the Raiaeran Navy. There are bards on these ships, and they will attempt to utterly destroy anything that tries to pass the waters around the bridge. RECAP Ground Troops 300 Archers --60 per tower --60 on bridge 80 Infantry --15 per tower --20 on bridge 14 Bards --5 Turlin Bards --4 Dagorlin Bards --3 Aglarlin Bards --2 Lissilin Bards Naval Forces 12 Galleys --4 West of Bridge --8 East of Bridge 2400 occupants (does not include sailing staff: captains, first mates, etc.) --200 per ship --25% archers --25% infantry --50% Lomelindari 10 Horse Transports --Already headed for Anebrilith --60 horses/transport --40 archers --40 infantry --60 Lomelindari

Even if her life hadn’t been a pleasant one when compared to most “normal” people, there were a few things that put Viola in a good mood. Acts of physical intercourse were one thing she enjoyed, but the ecstasy of knowing that a massacre was coming soon was much stronger when it came to sheer pleasure that lasted longer than a moment. The madness that was painted across her visage was nothing short of legendary in her own mind, and for good reason. Blood red leaves graced every branch of every tree around her; blades of red glass brushed against her ankles through the fabric of her black leggings, and she could see them! Even the residents of the red forest backed away slightly at the mad cackle that resounded through the night air.

The red of blood, the brown of bark, the pale flesh of her own body… everything that had been denied her for so long was once more in her grasp, and she loved it. She didn’t take the time to admire the stitch work of the strapless dress held up almost completely by her chest, nor did she pay much attention to the intricately carved silver spider that wrapped its legs around her right wrist. She had a job to do, and she was going to do it. After a few months of wearing it, the translucent purple mask that covered her golden eyes stayed right where it was, even though she no longer needed it. It just felt right to keep it over her eyes, strange as the thought was.

“Oh warriors of the all-powerful Xem’zûnd, come to me and together we shall crush all who would oppose his reign! The name of Xem’zûnd shall make all who hear it tremble in fear, and we shall be the one to strike that fear into the hearts of ALL! NOW COME TO ME!”

An unnatural volume bellowed from her lungs as the necromancy of the tower carried her words across the forest and stirred the most twisted and vile creatures to her. She knew what she had to do; it was simply a matter of time before she would be standing in blood-soaked streets surrounded by the newly reanimated corpses of those who she had defeated. The rustle of leaves caught her attention long before her sight realized that something was there. Thousands of glistening eyes were heading straight toward her, and the snarls of hundreds of wolves combined with the rattling of skeletons and the moans of zombies were like a chorus of deathly wailing retched from the bowels of the cursed forest.

Nobody said an army had to be an army of men.

Hissing and clicking drew her eyes toward the largest spider she had ever seen, and from there she nearly passed out from the inexhaustible waves of ecstasy that flowed through her body as more and more creatures emerged from the wood. Her breathing was deep and almost twice as much air flowed in and out with each breath as she suppressed her most primal of urges as best she could after falling to her hands and knees. She was surrounded on all sides by the vilest and most corrupt creatures the forest had to offer, and every last one lay prostrate before her. It was a feeling she had almost forgotten since coming to this wretched rock. The power that flowed through her, even if it did nothing to augment her body, was everything she remembered it to be. As one, her multitude roared with a sound that would have shaken any mortal listener and driven them either insane or to their graves. If it didn’t, they would have wished it had.

It was only because how wonderful the forest treated her that she left it mostly alone as she rode the largest of the spiders like a knight rode his steed. The mass of corruption and necromancy wormed through the forest like so great a black wave, and any sentient creature or plant that did not move fast enough found itself engulfed by the evil tides. At the head of the surge was Viola, the very image of madness incarnate; slightly behind her running easily on foot was the most beautiful blood diamond she could have wished for. A beast of what used to be a man with a lust for battle that was amazingly greater than even her own, the zombie soldier – no, soldier was far too light a term of him – the champion of her army would lead her hoard to victory at any cost. He simply knew nothing but death and slaughter. If he had retained any of his human emotions, she would have been further delayed in reaching the battle, but oh how she would have savored every minute of her time with him.

One-hundred scores of minds were under her direct control, their bodies living extensions of her own. She knew exactly how many creatures she had, how many skeletons, how many zombies, and exactly what she could do with every last one of them. Had her mind not been shattered so long ago, the sheer volume of information that flowed into it now would surely have done it. Seven-hundred and fifty great spiders, those large enough to weight at least two hundred pounds, were at the forefront of her swarm and lining the flanks many rows deep. Three-hundred and fifty Dur’Taigen, all reanimated by necromancy, traveled in seven packs of fifty surrounding seven groups each of sixty-five human zombies, half with bows and the rest with at least one sword. Forty-five skeleton warriors armed with spiked maces and shields in various states of disrepair made up her “honor guard”; she wouldn’t send them in right away if she didn’t have to, they were too valuable to waste on bum rushes. Three-hundred sixty fire ants that measured three feet from mandibles to stinger constituted her tank brigade; their overgrown exoskeletons would deflect most any arrow fired at them and their jaws would have no trouble snapping a fleshy arm in half. Half of them were necromantic, too, which made their master smile even more. That left forty birds of various states of life and unlife for recon purposes. It was almost too good to be true.

The cry of a red-shouldered hawk in the fresh morning air drew Viola’s eyes to the sky and she held out her arm for a perch. The avian’s talons gripped her tender forearm incredibly lightly as black eyes relayed what they had seen on their latest scout. The view from above was quite impressive, especially when she could see everything clearer than looking through a crystal. They were like little ants scurrying around frantically trying to prepare for something the likes of which they had never seen before. Besides the question of who would honestly expect a lone hawk to be an enemy’s eyes, she had specifically instructed the creature to fly out of potential bow range. Mapping distances when you had no sense of scale was impossible, but she had all the information she needed. There was only one thing that worried her, though. It was clearly a magic circle, but there was only one circle and a handful of mages throwing what looked to be fireballs at practice targets. Why weren’t there more circles? Why weren’t the mages using the circle? It was a question she didn’t have the answer to, and it was an answer she needed to know.

A battlement and sturdy earthen spires stood in the center with a nice trench around it. She didn’t need the hawk’s eyes to realize that there were archers in that thing. Holes with men jumping into them dotted the open area outside the flanking trenches, a haphazard mix of archers and soldiers. A bridge that could have doubled as a fort, and a nice number of archers waiting behind the strong gate that stood between her and the city. Ships dotted the harbor for quite a ways; she didn’t need a second hawk to know that there were plenty of archers and soldiers on those ships. It was quite the impromptu fortress, but there was only one thing wrong with it.

It was in her way.

Thunder clapped in the distance, an omen of sorts? Not likely; she never believed in omens. You took what you wanted and killed whoever was in your way. She knew what she had to do, she knew what she wanted to do, and she had all the tools she required to do both. The hawk took off from its perch of her arm and joined the ranks of its brothers. It was a good hawk, good and dead.

It felt like she was simply spreading her arms when she gave the command that initiated her plan. It wasn’t quite a rushed plan, but it only took her a few minutes of analyzing what her spies saw to come up with it. With one mind, the swarming army split into three masses of corruption. It was difficult suppressing Derris’ lust for battle, but he was far too valuable to go with her first assault. Instead, she sent what was quite possibly the strangest assortment of troops the elves had ever seen; one-hundred zombies with bows trailed behind two-hundred spiders with half of the spiders bearing blade-wielding zombies. A detachment of seventy-five ants rounded out her direct assault force, and she only wished she could see the terror on the elven faces as the creatures that slaughtered them in the forest came out of their homes to play.

She held no illusions over the fact that a majority of the warriors she was sending would die from this assault, but losses were always a part of warfare. Besides, she needed to know what the defenders had in their arsenal to deal with threats of her caliber. Yes, she was a threat again, and a big one at that. So what if she couldn’t tear down this fortress on her own? She had mindless minions to do that for her now. The dur’taigen were getting impatient, their undead minds clawing at her own for a signal of release. She would have to thin her ranks some if she wanted to have continued control over her army. Or maybe just split it into more than one place… yes, that might work.

From their various perches, all forty hawks took to the sky at once with a command that felt like little more than exhaling. She was in plain sight, her army was in plain sight, and the only thing that could have made the day even better was just about to happen.

“Kill!”

The suicide division separated from the mass of corrupted creatures like a zit filled beyond its limit with pus. The wails of her zombies as they charged the great barrier gate were like the choruses from back home; so soothing to her shattered mind. The general sat ever watchful on her corrupted steed, madness in every way painting her features. Her shoulders started heaving as she suppressed the urge to cackle to failing degrees. Yes… she would show everyone just what she was capable of.

Because the only thing worse than an army of zombies… is an army of zombies under the direct control of someone who knows what she’s doing.

Out of Character:

Good luck. Just for reference in case I wasn’t clear enough. 2000 units, one champion, and one general. This should be the final edit. Main force: _____Suicide squad: 550 Spiders ___200 Spiders 350 Dur’Taigen 0 Dur’Taigen 255 Zombies ___200 zombies --100 bows ____--100 bows --155 blades __--100 blades 45 skeletons __0 skeletons 285 ants ______75 ants 40 hawks ______0 hawks

Miles beyond Alye Duina, the marshy point where Raiaera’s great rivers met the ocean in unison, a lone ship sailed the fitful waters. It was as if the waves themselves knew what was to come, and they weakly struggled to hold the ship at bay. But, in this battle and all, those under the shadow of Xem’zund were destined to prevail.

Jade Vipress, fallen dream demon and matriarch of worlds beyond, leaned upon the railing and cast vengeful, slitted eyes at the distant shore. Amid the whipping of frantic winds and the structured clamor of undead crewmen, she shone in place of the ship’s missing figurehead. She was golden tanned skin on a toga-wrapped, buxom form. She was hungry eyes, slithering tongue, and hair that sought life as a nest of blindingly silver serpents. Her form inspired fear and lust in all it honored, and she reveled in it despite the blind inattention of the crew. She was a god that none in this world, not even her darling Xem’zund, had been company to in any previous generation.

Behind her, there was a motion that contrasted with the machinery of decaying flesh and screaming lines. It was the blackest of robes the material world could construct, and borne under it was the deepest of shadows. “The battle will begin in a short while,” said the darkness in the hood. It was the hollowest of voices, like a cavern speaking.

Vipress turned, her body twisting in habitual tempting motions. But, her eyes were narrow, and her serpents snapped fitfully. “You said we would be on time,” she accused in a lilting tone that bore horrible threats under the surface.

The shadow held amusement in some deep pit within itself, but it hardly showed in the voice. “That is why we raised the myths of the seas.” A rotting hand stretched from the cuff’s darkness and pointed down. Vipress did not need the visual aid. She could feel them as if they were her own creations. Below the weathered deck, the hold contained monsters as old as Althanas’ childhood, reborn in undeath and hundreds strong. It had taken months of travel, guided only by zombies at the sails and her vast knowledge of every powerful beast born from Mother Nature or mortal magics. She was quite possibly the only being on Althanas who had seen every single one of them in their prime. Everyone would see them now, in one place and one time; the tools with which the world had attempted to destroy itself.

Below the ship swam the target of the shadow’s words. They were far less in number, the children of the sea’s suicidal tendencies, but no less vicious after their long slumber. “They will advance through the rivers and consume fuel for our own path,” continued the shadow.

Vipress scoffed and crossed her arms under her chest. “Your path,” she said derisively, then to the doorway that led below deck, “Rask!”

A beast pushed through the throng of zombies. He was lizard to the marrow, but stood as a man with red iron armor and three short swords at the belt. His eyes were stern, dreadful beads that carried the presence of something ancient. But, he was not freshly risen, nor forcibly compelled. In fact, he was the only creature on the vessel that was truly alive.

Vipress stepped toward him as zombies moved out of her path, their commanded motions not slowing their work in the slightest. “Find a lung. We will travel a great distance,” she said coolly, if not kindly. The lizard-man nodded and moved back toward the door. “Bring your brothers,” she said to his back, and his pace increased by a hair.

“Then, you shall lead them,” decreed the cloaked shadow, “You must gather one thousand bodies. Their bellies will serve that purpose.”

Vipress swayed over to the rail once more, unresponsive. Rask appeared behind her shortly thereafter with a large sac made from oiled and layered hide, the type used to protect valuables from water damage during transport. “I don’t need that much air if I breathe slowly,” he answered her questioning gaze as she looked at it. Behind him, a different breed of zombie emerged from the hold. They were undead with dignity. It was evident in the way they held their long noses high, projecting their great spikes of ears behind from identical tails of long hair, and it thrived despite the aged discoloration of their steel plate and greatswords. They were elves, a long dead possibility that had strayed from the infinite and met their end before Althanas had taken the time to reflect upon itself. The obvious question was why. They were muscled and tall, imposing and calm, exaggerated in all their identifying marks. Why had such extravagantly perfect creatures ceased to be? That question would not be answered today, though. Rather, what mark would they have left upon the world if they had continued? And they would leave it in blood.

“Send a small number north into the Elleduin to claim the bridge there,” the shadow added.

Vipress responded with a bemused smile that showed a flicker of her forked tongue. “Let’s be off,” she said to Rask. In one fluid motion, he swept her up in one rippling, scaled arm and dove overboard with the ballooning air bladder held aloft. The ancient elves followed, mindless yet gallant, in wave upon wave. It took a respectable amount of time for them to empty from the hold, then from the ship, and the deck seemed solemnly bare when they had all disappeared.

Only shadows in the water remained, close enough to the surface for glimpses of great serpentine bodies in a thick mass like brushstrokes. The smaller bodies were barely discernable spots, clinging to scales and under fins with rigor mortis tight hands. Then, nothing, as they sped toward Raiaera’s heart.

Out of Character:

Advance team: Two generals 11 sea serpents --6 young, 4’ wide, 20’ long --4 adolescent, 7’ wide, 40’ long --1 adult, 12’ wide, 50’ long 100 ancient elves (with old steel plate mail and enchanted steel greatswords – charged air burst) The rest of the army will be revealed later.

There was fear in the eyes of the elves on the bridge, but there was something else too. They knew their escape route. They knew their chances for survival were good, even if a few of them fell. And they knew that they would kill thousands of undead. The bridge was designed to hold against the many with only a few defenders, and on this day its garrison was at full capacity.

The mass of the undead surged forward, the stench of flesh overwhelming, but the elves in the towers and the bridge held firm against it. Before the impure archers were within range, superior elven bows from the towers began to sing at a low thrum, like an assortment of zithers and lutes, glowing white shafts zipping from the archways to claim the enemy archers. The elves shot true; they were not tired yet.

From the backmost tower, one could hear the yell of Captain Tyreles over the sounds of the twanging arrows. "Hold fire!" The zombie archers ranks sufficiently thinned, the ants and spiders were now advancing quickly, their insectile and arachnid legs carrying them so swiftly across the plain that only elvish eyes could track their passage. "Fire upon them only at point-blank range!"

And soon they were there, spidery forms climbing the towers, ants swarming at the bridge, jaws snapping as they attempted to lift the gate. The metal groaned -- even small ants could lift objects many times their size, and these ants were much, much bigger. "Fire!" A volley came from the elves on the bridge, arrow shafts shooting straight forward into the faces of the ants attacking the gate. The first wave fell to the shafts, but their brethren just crawled over their bodies to resume the gate. More volleys continued, but the tide seemed unending.

The spiders were proving more difficult. They were swarming the towers, their bodies blocking arrow holes as they attempted to cover the vertical slits with their webs. Suddenly one of them burst into flames as a bard on a ship nearby completed a song-spell. It's crackling body plummeted to earth, the ground shuddering as the flaming and writhing corpse plowed through a few more of its kind on the way down. Soon the dry, withered skin of the zombies was going up in smoke, and spreading fast.

But the smoke proved to be a peril, for the wind was blowing north. The elves on the bridge and in the towers had to turn aside to shield themselves from the black torrent, and while they were preoccupied one of the silvery-gray spiders reached the pinnacle of the tower. With a fearsomely powerful leap, it propelled itself down onto the bridge, crushing two elves as it fell and quickly stabbing a third with its razor-sharp twin fangs. Immediately an elven swordswoman stepped forward, plunging the curved blade of her weapon into the spider's skull, but another spider soon reached the pinnacle and did the same.

Tyreles saw what was happening, and shouted again over the screams of the wounded elves and the cries of fear now rising up on the bridge, "Archers, fire! Bards, summon a wind, drive away the smoke!" Lofting his own bow, he nocked an arrow to the string and took aim at another spider as it mounted the crest of the tower. With the aim that only an elf with centuries of practice can achieve, Tyreles released his arrow. It sunk deep into the eye of the spider, its Turlin-enchanted shaft glowing, and the beast fell back to the ground with another shuddering thud.

Battle was met. Vanwanen Bridge would not fall so easily.

Reach, he tried. Still, and he tried. Crush, and he did.

Caden had constructed a circle of power, oh yes. And it was a damn fine example of work; you could tell an amateur had made it, but it was still a ridiculously well-studied, talented, thorough amateur who could probably give most of the professionals a fine run for their money. He constructed a circle, tapped into the leylines and the inherent magic of Elflands, and now he was going to use them.

He reached out, slowly; his hand was little more than a parable for his spirit and mind. His eyes were shut, but he Saw very clearly what he wanted to do. Magic in its purest form is nothing but intentions shaped by intellect and forged through will, and Caden had a terrible will, a sharp intellect, and precise intentions. His hand drew to a close at a glacial pace, and suddenly...

The smoke stopped. Already effected by Turlin magicks, it halted as Caden added his own to it. He inhaled, and the smoke -- all of it -- ripped from every single fire on, in and around the bridge. All at once, without more than a second's warning, and suddenly it lifted. Caden ripped the smoke out of the fire like some men ripped out the still beating hearts of their enemies, and he took the heat of the fire with it. They still burned, oh yes, but now it was a kind of hollow flame. A Tamed Flame.

As a maestro guiding a symphony, Caden waved his arms, and he visualized, and his efforts weren't perfect but they didn't need to be either. He pushed the smoke back out, forming it into thirty or forty mile poison winds and blistering, oven-like heat. He pushed it all the way out into the Necromantic Horde, and though he couldn't see any of them, he didn't have to.

Caden knew where the other side of the bridge ended. He took a neat little guess and put the winds just a little further than that. Then he made a tornado out of it, and he pushed it further towards the forests, and...

Caden lost control. And the tornado exploded like a flameless fireball in every direction. Whether it actually did damage or not? That was irrelevent. The sudden break was enough to shock him right out of what amounted to a spellcaster's chant, and all he could do was cough up a sooty black snot in the process. The archers clustered around him looked on in worry, but Caden shrugged.

"Don't waste your sympathies. Keep your bows drawn. And for Sway's sake, get the runners ready!" he shouted, wiping bits of black snot from his mouth and nose. Don't try that again...not yet.

With his ego more bruised than his body, Caden fought off a shudder and started to trace in the air. Sparks flew from his Wandtip, and the songs of the Bards lit through the fallback zone. War was at hand, and no Wizard could afford to be without a spell readied for the enemy...

They were such useful pawns, her army. It was just a pity that the bridge had been built so well; anything less and her giant ants would have done away with the southern gate rather quickly. Sure her side was taking almost countless losses, but she was starting to see their strategy. Yes, once again she could finally see, and what benefits this sight had. Every arrow glowed with a brilliant white light to her eyes; strong enchantments against the undead no doubt. But that was what made her so giddy now. If their arrows were enchanted, that meant they had a supply of arrows. If they had a supply of arrows, then their arrows could run out. She didn’t know how many arrows they had, but she knew that it was only a matter of time.

Her mount stirred. Something was wrong. The smoke from the burning undead corpses, thick and diseased with the plague of undeath and decaying flesh, lifted all at once. Her new eyes traced the magic to beyond the other side of the bridge, and quite possibly to the enemy’s commander. He was such a fool, but she did not have time to think about anything but what was going on right in front of her. A sudden heat descended beyond the bridge, and even worse was the fact that it swirled itself into a tornado. It was clearly magical, but that was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the fact that tornadoes were deadly.

One command sent her forces scattering away from the tornado and into whatever shelter they could find, but mostly they just ran away from the incredibly hot wind. When the cyclone “exploded”, the violet-haired general’s eyes narrowed. She had her maximum range. Sure it took half of her skeletons and a dozen wolves to figure it out, but that was a sacrifice she was willing to make. It took less than a minute for her army to regroup, and already she was sending her next wave. There was no holding back this time. Well, maybe a little. She still needed guards, after all.

The mass of corruption seethed again as a maniac smile lit Viola’s twisted face. It split into two pieces again: all of her remaining zombies shambled toward the gate as fast as their rotten feet could carry them, and in the middle of them all was one that only just stood out from the others. Most notably because none of the other zombies were willing to get in his way or close enough to him as to be within arm’s reach. The first one to come close enough, an archer by resurrected trade, found himself unwillingly arcing toward the southern side of the northern gate. It didn’t even have the time to do any damage to anything but possibly morale before it was nothing but a rotten splat on the wall.

At this, the seductress general could not suppress her laughter. So this was what her champion could do? It was even better than she had imagined. Through her heaving laughs, a strong command flowed through her army. A battalion of three-hundred spiders and three-hundred dur’taigen seethed like a great mass of teeth and legs as they traveled west, rambling as though they were retreating from the battle. They weren’t retreating, though. They were strategically advancing, and their strategy would ensure victory for Xem’zund. West, because there weren’t as many ships to spare to the west side of the bridge. West, because the eight galleys on the east side would be useless since they couldn’t cross the bridge. It would be quite the trek before the spiders were to start building a bridge of webbing across the river, but Viola had seen the fireball that came from one of the ships. She was going to take no chances with her army drowning or burning without taking at least two elves with them before they went.

Her mindless troops moved with an unnatural speed to carry out her orders, and as her numbers slowly thinned, a bit of pressure was released from her mind. Nobody had told her how taxing commanding a whole regiment was, not that she would have listened to them in the first place. She was having too much fun to care.

“Sending such lovely lambs to the slaughter… slaughtering such dreadful cockroaches. Could this perfect day get any better?” She spoke to no one on particular, talking just to hear the sound of her voice. It was something she did when she was tremendously excited, and here she was having the best day of her life in a year and a half. The only thing that could have made it better was reinforcements, as much as she hated the thought of someone saving her, but only a moron would knowingly decline an offer of help that came from a like mind. She licked her lips, baring meticulously-cleaned white teeth as she did so. It was a smile that could not have looked more insane on someone who should have looked so beautiful.

Out of Character:

Main force ____Suicide squad ___Flanking 250 Spiders ___0 Spiders _____300 Spiders 038 Dur’Taigen 0 Dur’Taigen___300 Dur’Taigen 000 Zombies ___255 zombies --000 bows ____--099 bows --000 blades __--155 blades 00 skeletons __23 skeletons 260 ants ______25 ants 40 hawks ______0 hawks _______________Derris

From the east, the barest of swells traveled upriver. It bore shadows that could have been tricks of the light if not for the speed at which they traveled. Only the most aware might have noticed them before they made their presence known suddenly and violently. In an explosion of froth, four frilled serpentine heads lunged at the Eluriand side of the first ship. Their jaws cranked back loudly, a sound very fitting to their time-worn bodies, and they planted full sets of ripping teeth into the hull. They were young by sea serpent standards, but they could still easily swallow a man, and that size was used to full advantage as their bodies writhed in the water in an attempt to overturn the boat.

Slightly downriver, two larger serpents thrust their grimy bodies onto the southern bank. The dead that clung to them like lamprey, their bodies impossible to miss in faded red armor, spilled onto the grass. The serpents retreated sluggishly, their muscles not designed for the dry world, and the zombies stood up in their deep prints with more dignity and haughtiness than zombies should have been allowed. Even from the bridge, it would be clear that these were elves, somewhat. Their long ears seemed almost as disproportionate as the great swords on their backs, and the toned bulk of their frames would have made most humans jealous. Their skin, in contrast to most of the undead, was in remarkable condition. The only signs that they showed of age were more reminiscent of frostbite than decay.

In synchronized movements that they could not have attained in life, the ancient elves drew their swords and marched forward in a single line of thirty five. Ripples of air already spun about the length of their blades as they turned their cold eyes upon the first ship, already rocking, and arrayed themselves alongside it. They didn’t flinch as the mother burst skyward behind them.

Her huge girth, heavy with bodies and barnacles, crashed onto the north bank and shook the ground so forcefully that her passengers were sent sprawling. Among this new set of thirty elves, there was a figure skinned in scales under the red armor. With his tail whipping and his legs braced, he landed upright and skidded to a halt. Vipress pushed from his arms immediately. Her body and robes appeared grainy, and there seemed to be a halo of torn midnight around her. It quickly disappeared, though, and her beautiful, reptile-tinged form solidified.

Immediately, she sought one person. He was here, but across the river and the mass of a forest-borne army. That foreboding mist, that imposing, hungry presence. She knew him so well, but this was her first time to truly see him. Xem’zund, wielder of the dead. She knew, simply from looking at the horrible masses and the malice that radiated from him, that her efforts had strengthened him. He would not remember, though. All those long days that he lay in captive slumber, she had been there, just on the edge of his dreams. His strength of will had been so magnificent that she didn’t dare to make herself known, but her power had filled him constantly through bloody desires and visions of crushing, sweeping victory. That he showed himself within his ranks must have been due to her coaching, and she desired him ever more intensely for it.

“Be ready,” Rask breathed as he drew three short blades with his hands and tail. He crouched in front of her, his arms wide and his tail sword perched like a scorpion’s stinger. The elves formed ranks of ten before him and drew their blades into identical battle stances. The hum of power filled the air, and the dusty spirals dancing about the steel reflected in his proud eyes.

On the other bank, he saw the earlier group bear their swords high and arc them powerfully down. Grass and dust rode upon the invisible wave of air that punched forward, skimmed the water, and struck the side of the rocking ship while the young serpents on the other side dislodged themselves in one mighty heave. Their brethren waited under the surface, impatient to devour whatever life fell into their realm.

Out of Character:

Two generals on the north bank 65 ancient elves --30 on the north bank --35 on the south 7 serpents --4 young --2 adolescent --1 adult 35 elves, 2 young, and 2 adolescents have travelled up the Elleduin.

Tyreles was pleased with what he saw. They had been charged to hold the bridge against the attack and fall back carefully in order to minimize casualties. He had expected to call the retreat order at some point during the first wave, but his troops had fought marvelously. They continued to rain death upon the horde outside their gates. A good elven archer could fire away anywhere from fifteen to twenty arrows in the space of a minute when hard-pressed, and at least 5 a minute if given time to aim. Right now they had been erring on the latter side -- the first conflict had broken against the devastating accuracy of the elven bowmen. He estimated that the elves in the towers and on the bridge had, in the short clash, exhausted about half of their personal supply of arrows and would have replenished themselves from the common stashes at each level of the tower. It was time to restock.

"Re-equip the forward towers!" Immediately the mages along the rear walls began to move, carrying crates of glowing white arrows forward. "Exhaust supplies at the rear, load up the front with everything we have!" That would be nearly 300 more arrows at the disposal of every forward archer, in addition to the 50 currently in their hands -- it would, at least, provide another ten minutes of protection at the forward position before fallback began. Looking down from his perch, he espied a captain on horseback. "Ride to the city, and have them bring out 100 more crates of the Turlin arrows, and inform the mages to redouble their enchantments! The strategy may work and we will hold them here longer than expected!" The horseman rode off to do Tyreles' bidding.

Turning back, he could see the second wave approaching. They were more this time, but it appeared that the spiders and ants were not as eager to attack the forward positions as they were before. They held back, and it was merely zombies this time. Some of them did seem smarter than others -- as if under direct control of another -- but some did not. They worried him -- the zombies could not take down the gate themselves without significant loss of their numbers, but there were so many. The spiders and the ants were more pressing -- they were the ones with the jaws needed to tear down the towers and the limbs that could cross the river. The zombies would just draw fire, but they had to be dealt with. It pained Tyreles to do what he knew the enemy wanted, but he had no choice. "Fire at the drones! Save arrows -- make sure each shot counts!" Shafts flew from the towers at regular intervals, more often than not tearing through undead flesh with vicious brutality.

Although the tornados wrought by young Commander Law -- he had to remember to recommend the lad for a medal -- had torn through much of the smoke, there was a lingering sense of it on the battlefield. Through the haze he could barely make out a large force of spiders and ants moving west towards the river. He guessed their purpose, and called down to his signaller -- the ships were by now too far away to reach with his voice alone, so he relied on a flag system to relay messages to the decks of the ships. "Watch the west-moving troops, they may try to force a crossing."

He could see the captains of the vessels respond to the frantic waving of the flags in a variety of patterns, and could hear the faint strains of elvish music reach his ears. He turned away to watch the battle again when suddenly a distinctly non-elvish sound rent his ears. Tearing his eyes to the east, he saw a few flickering fireballs shooting in random directions...and worse. On the north side of the bank stood elves that looked far different from his normal people -- their ears extending like poleaxes into the air and their bodies seemed...different. They were launching some sort of strange attack at the ships, which were rocking perilously in the water. In the water roiled some monstrous beast he had thought could only live in legend, a giant snake that reared its head to the sky and began snapping oars in two and dragging elves from the decks.

With a terrible cracking sound, one of the ships sank below the water, the suddenly turbulent waves cresting over its passengers as they desperately strove to reach whichever land was closest. Taking no time, Tyreles bellowed to the signaller, "The eastern ships must sail immediately for Anebrilith -- leave us only two! Send one western ship up the river to Valinatal, have the other bards concentrate all firepower they can muster on those dark beasts!" To no one in particular, he shouted, "And kill whatever those...those strange elves...just kill them quickly before they compromise our retreat! Tell Commander Law his time has come and we need the defense!"

Tyreles scowled, and took up his sword. His bow would not reach far enough, but it was not time to give up yet.

Out of Character:

Ground Troops 295 Archers --60 per tower --55 on bridge 78 Infantry --15 per tower --18 on bridge 14 Bards --5 Turlin Bards --4 Dagorlin Bards --3 Aglarlin Bards --2 Lissilin Bards Naval Forces 11 Galleys --4 West of Bridge ----All Intact --7 East of Bridge ----5 Intact ----2 Compromised approx. 2200+? occupants (does not include sailing staff: captains, first mates, etc.) --? amount swimming to north shore 10 Horse Transports --Now in Alye'Duina

To hear accurately spoken Old Diamonic is to hear a tongue that dances madly backwards between the gutters of your nightmares and the elysium fields of your dreams. To hear it spoken with authority and power is to hear the essence of a man's will superimposed onto reality with such force that he bends it to his liking.

Caden Law stood at the center of a whirling dirvish of lights and magic, and he wrote in thin air with the wand in one hand, and shaped everything else with the other. An Elven battlebard -- not a true Turlin master, not like those brave bastards on the Bridge -- stood nearby, and had the good sense to sing something. It was improvised music at best; roughly equivelent to Raiaeran freestyling, but it had a point to it.

Focus.

Whisps of magic orbited him like comets and planets having an insane demolition dirby around the sun. Some erupted from the ground, leaving dead grass in their wake, and others literally popped into existence from the great nothing that awaits us all, and others still were simply there with a kind of terrible permanence. Intent shaped them, gave them purpose, gave them meaning, gave them substance.

"Captain Tyreles beckons!" an Elf shouted without warning, and it took every ounce of the other bard's music to keep Caden in control. The Circle of Power is an old trick, but it's as much of a double-edged sword as the one sheathed on his back. "Monsters!" declared the Elf, and it was one of his own bardic aids.

His name was Leister Covanna, a twin-sword wielding veteran who should have known better than to try and interrupt a Wizard, but who didn't care anyway. "They're in the damn river!"

"To the North or the South?" the other bard's apprentice asked. His name was Book Kingsley, and he barely knew how to throw a fireball, but he did know that neither his newly christened mentor, nor Caden, were in any shape to ask the question themselves.

Fittingly enough, Leister was not the one to answer. That distinction went to the Algarlin, Kenvas: "They're already here!" he screamed, and promptly thrust the improvised Company Standard right at the Dead Elves.

...and they were very dead indeed.

"BLOW THE DOCKS!" he screamed again, and a few archers -- just a token few, because that's all it ever takes -- let fly with plain old Flaming Arrows...

...arrows that soared up into the air, blazing hot red...

...and came back down like falling stars through open windows in the dockside houses. Every single one of which promptly exploded with enough fire, force, and light to put a Hollywood blockbuster to shame. Wines, rums, generic alcohol, alchemic components, and good old lamp oil all ignited in rapid succession, setting off rune after explosive rune along the docks.

Put bluntly: The whole Northern bank of the river, for all intents and purposes, became a fire-riddled re-death trap that could cremate a zombie bull elephant to an ashen ruin even without holy arrows smiting the way. The fires wouldn't maintain that intensity for more than half an hour at best, and even that was a million-to-one longshot, but they didn't need to win the battle. They just had to thin the enemy ranks enough for the next bit to work.

"SECOND BARRAGE! GET 'EM BEFORE THEY GET PAST THE DRAGON'S TEETH!" Kenvas ordered. "TURLIN ARROWS THIS TIME!" and here, he was just that little bit slow. And that's okay.

Because Caden's layout had been intricate to the point of insanity: Arrows came in on the undead elves from every forward angle, 250 and spare change, and most of them were Turlin but there was enough fire in that barrage to make a funeral pyre for twenty. The dragon's teeth setup would, hopefully, slow the Dead Elves down -- bottleneck them and make them easy targets, or slow them down as they moved through or around the toothline.

"SHOW YOUR INITIATIVE!" Another bard demanded, and any corpse unfortunate enough to land within striking distance of a foxhole was met with a rock to the eyes at sixty miles per hour, followed in short order by a Turlin arrow to the body.

The whole time his army worked though, Caden himself had other matters to tend to. His mouth continued Working, and the Old Diamonic flowed, and now...

...now, you see why true Thermal Magic is something that should give Ice and Fire Elementals trouble sleeping at night. Caden split his mind, split his will, split his discipline; he broke from one spell and shifted to another, but only just. His magic normally worked through the fingertips -- dirty tricks notwithstanding -- and he was moving his left pinky a certain way...

A circle in the air with it, made at angles that looked (and were) quite painful. Then slowly etched runes superimposed one after the other. He was sweating. He was straining. He was going far, far beyond his limits, and sooner or later it was going to catch up. It'd be messy too.

But for now, the river began to freeze. Indiscriminate at first, and perhaps an attentive enough eye would be able to guess his general location using the outline of his spellcasting range, but Caden knew better than to freeze everything. There were Elves in the river. He disliked them, despised them, and wanted them to feel as violated as Celiniel had left him -- but Caden didn't want them dead.

That'd just be defeating the whole point.

The ice cracked, and it broke clean in the fleeing ships' paths, and it seemed to crackle and break for the movements of the remaining ships as well -- but only barely. Maneuverability and speed were going to drop for everyone in the river, but at least the Elves had ships to stay in. At least the ice wasn't actively trying to crush them to bits, like what was happening with anything not in a boat. At least they didn't have to worry about it practically eating them as long as they stayed in their ships.

Look closely now, into those tinted goggles. Look at the tears of blood, born from the stress and the strain, trapped beneath their seal.

You can't keep this up, said the whispers of Doubt.

Sooner or later, it'll kill you, said the utterances of Certainty.

I don't care, said the roar of Pride.

Blueraven Company's Bards sang in the heat of battle. It was a great day to make sure somebody else stayed dead for their country.

Out of Character:

All things considered: If anyone's got Issues with this, I'll see what I can do to placate ya, s'long as it's within reason. o_o

She knew it was a suicide run, but it still pained her to see so many good soldiers fall so quickly. The reanimated corpses fell with solitary arrows piercing their heads or torsos, but still Viola smiled. They had to be running low on arrows. It had been frantic, but by sheer force of will the violet-clad general had managed to pull her champion back before he committed himself to the suicide run and wasted his strength. He was the main reason behind her throbbing headache right now. He couldn’t attack her directly, but he could dedicate as much of his rotted will as possible to disobeying her orders. It wouldn’t matter for much longer, though. The division of giant spiders and dur’taigen had started making their bridge.

The docks on the far side of the river exploded in fiery blazes, and the twisted general released a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. There was more than one reason she had sent her forces far down the bank to ford the river. Even though the spiders did not typically work together, under Viola’s watchful will they coordinated their webbing into a slick, streamlined process. Two dozen spiders leapt most of the way across the river, webbing anchored firmly to the starting bank. Once they reached the far shore, they trimmed their webs, anchored them, and one dozen walked back across the silken strands, weaving another row of silk. The process continued rapidly after that with more and more spiders crossing and weaving back and forth.

A great “pulse” of magic beat in the skies across the bridge, visible like the noonday sun to Viola’s necromantically enchanted eyes. It was all the warning she had to realize something big was about to happen. Her mind flashed back to the circle she had seen in her initial scout; it seemed to match the general origin of the now-spreading ice floes. Hurried mental commands to her fording party got them to stall the bridge for just a moment as the water solidified. A single ship was moving westward now toward her force, but it was traveling much too slow to reach them in time. The bridge of webbing could hold two spiders across at a time, and half of them were already across. The spiders walked with their bodies held high above their legs as a single file of dur’taigen tore across the webbing underneath each spider line. Their orders were to leave the web bridge, not as an escape, but as a hindrance to the ship headed their way. It wouldn’t do too much, but even slightly tiring a bard would be a help.

Her main problem now was waiting for her troops to get fully into position. The reaper of cities was terribly impatient when it came to delays in her conquests. Ten hawks screeched from somewhere behind her, and with the effort akin to blinking, the command to take flight was transferred from her mind to their will. A flurry of feathers later, half a score of black hawks took to the skies at a height where even an elf would have trouble shooting them down. Casually they flew; gliding along the currents until a pair suddenly and unexpectedly arced higher than the rest. A rapid flip at the pinnacle of their climb sent them plummeting to the ground at speeds faster than they could reach in life. Lifeless black eyes were trained on the wizard in the center of the circle.

Make the wizard feel my pain! Show him a life of eternal darkness!

Her orders were clear and concise, and they left no room for deviance. Beaks longed for the whites of the man’s eyes; talons lusted for the tender flesh of his neck and arms. While he may not have been quite as powerful a figurehead as the woman commanding the mass of troops across the bridge, he was still a figurehead. Generals wielded power greater than simple commands; they were the lifeblood of their troops. A direct assault of the mage who could easily have been a general for the power he wielded would be a strike against more than his flesh. She would strike the very heart of her adversaries.

Out of Character:

Main force: 250 Spiders 38 Dur’Taigen 260 ants 30 hawks Derris Flanking: 300 Spiders 300 Dur’Taigen

The river frothed ever more crimson, and it was only that sight that tore Vipress' gaze from Xem'zund. The elves threw their song fire, lighting the spray beautifully before punching in. She couldn't help but laugh. To think that they fought the legends of the seas with fire. The elves of this era were not stupid, only panicked. Soon, they would all know that feeling.

"Enemy ahead!" Rask shouted gutturally as he led her in the wake of their ancient elf platoon. The warning was only for her. His brethren had already heard his thoughts and were lifting their swords high. Combined fire struck the leftmost of them, punching his grey body as far back as their disembarkment point, where he simply lay and smoldered. The others kept rank and file, and they were afforded a brief break in the fire as the four young serpents and two older ones set themselves upon the next ship that passed over them.

Vipress ignored his command. Instead, she watched the ships attempting a retreat. "You will stay to see this, your kingdom falling!" she shouted at them as she thrust one hand into the air. Ahead of the most easterly ship, the crested head of the mother serpent burst skyward. Her gills billowed, drinking in air for a howl that hadn't been heard in generations; a cry from the world's infancy.

A spattering of fire arrows fell during the cry, and the ancient elves tensed before realizing that they would not even be hit. They stepped into their march once more, and then the dock buildings exploded around them. Two bodies fell into the hungry storm of serpent teeth as the entire formation was compressed from the other side. Instinctively, their swords fell, blasting fire and wreckage away from their position in one burning puff of air.

"More arrows," Rask bit off angrily as he saw the glow of enchantments under the cloud of smoke that hung overhead. His men were disarrayed and drained. He remembered, unwillingly, that he had never been a commander among his kind. So, he turned with unspoken questions to the fallen god who seemed to know everything.

Vipress gave him an ecstatic smile of bloodlust, her eyes radiating as much power as the close of the mother's cry. With a sweeping gesture, she caused one of the larger serpents to lunge from the froth and arc over the land right before the vulnerable elves. It roared, an explosive yet airy sound that soon turned to a death cry as the flaming and enchanted arrows tore into its side. It was motionless and devastated when it hit the ground, its great head smashing into one of the burning buildings with a burst of steam as if it were wet tinder. The elves behind it braced with its forceful landing, and their swords were already perched high and hungry for the air currents.

Unbeknownst to either commander, a marvelous event occurred. The river chilled with arctic intensity and became an ice flow. The frothing came to an abrupt halt as the young serpents found themselves nearly immobile. Their mother, her great bulk still wavering high over the surface, saw the sudden change and threw herself upon it with pure abandon. Fire punched her underside, but was quenched as she lay upon the ice flows and any ships that were unfortunate enough to have retreated that far.

A great wave rose all around her, sluggish and solid with broken ice. It crested high above the decks of the nearest ships, as smooth as desert dunes for that moment. Then, the ancient elves on the southern shore reacted with their standing orders. They let their recharged blades fall, and the air behind the wave became as focused as a hammer blow. While their numbers had been thinned in the elven counterattack, their combined magic was enough to drive the wave's crest over the bows of the closest ships. As if the river were grasping with clawed hands, it crashed down on the ships that had been fleeing across it.

Out of Character:

Forces in water: 4 young serpents, immobilized 1 adolescent, immobilized 1 mother, going all tsunami on your ass Southern bank: 30 ancient elves (uncharged), 5 died Northern bank: Two commanders 27 ancient elves (charging), 3 died (All behind a slowly burning adolescent serpent)

Through the hazy smoke of burning buildings, Tyreles's face had lost all blood. He knew better than anyone what was in the docks closest to the bridge, the docks that buttressed the bridge and were tied to its foundation. The fire had thankfully spared the closest docks, but it was spreading...and if it spread too fare he knew what would happen. In those docks had been set down the powder stores that had been captured when Thoracis Rakarth attacked Valinatal. They had been put there to cripple the bridge in the event of a retreat and slow the enemy advance. But if the fires reached them now....

"GET OFF THE BRIDGE!"

His bellow was filled with all the primal energy of a commander whose sole concern was now for the lives of his troops. He flung down his bow and drew his sword, a hulking montrosity made for swinging with both hands or flailing wildly from the back of a frothing charger, and gestured towards the stairwell.

"All of you, now, retreat procedure! Mount the horses below, have half our remaining archers change their equipment -- they are lancers now. Mount the other half, we'll need cavalry archers to hold off the enemy. Signallers, relay the message to the forward towers -- when they abandon the front of the bridge, have them open the front gate. Bar the northern gate with everything we have, and meet me in the fields!"

He followed his elves out of the tower as they swung into high gear, gathering what Turlin-imbued arrows were left as they went. When out on the plain, they gathered up the arrows into crates and strapped them into carts, which soon were lumbering at a brisk pace towards Eluriand. The remainder were left with about 50 arrows per archer, now mounted on horseback. The forward towers had followed orders, and now the bridge was empty, zombies already starting to flood forward to bang against the now heavily-barricaded northern gate.

From astride his charger, he could see how it needed to work. Caden's makeshift fortress would have to stand as the crucial place to make a stand, while a cavalry charge from area to the northwest of the fortress would have to suffice. But there was still the issue of the ships...

"Send the signals...tell the commanders to concentrate every power at their disposal on those monsters! They appear to be undead...try using Turlin magic, it should easily penetrate their defenses. Make the water around them boil, and rain lightning upon the face of the waters! Cavalry, ride, keep away from the docks!"

He hoisted his sword, and the cavalry wheeled where he rode. He had a small force, but it was not enough...he hoped Findelfin was watching. A sally from the city might turn the tide.

Out of Character:

Ground Troops 223 Lancers 150 Cavalry Archers --7500 arrows left 14 Bards --5 Turlin Bards --4 Dagorlin Bards --3 Aglarlin Bards (Assigned to Caden, both for support and for their own protection) --2 Lissilin Bards (Assigned to Caden, both for support and for their own protection) Naval Forces 11 Galleys --4 West of Bridge ----All Intact, now safely headed for Valinatal --5 East of Bridge ----3 Intact (1 has slipped by and is headed for Anebrilith with nearly full complement of reinforcements) (1 destroyed since last round) ----2 Compromised approx. 1800+? occupants (does not include sailing staff: captains, first mates, etc.) --? amount swimming to north shore -- those swimming south will not survive

Now ends the balancing act, Caden thought as blood splattered across his chestplate and evaporated away, and feathers burnt an ashen path to the ground around him. The birds tried -- oh, you'd have to give those little bastards credit because they certainly tried to make good on their mistress' orders.

The problem with that is a simple one: They were suicide diving into something like a magical blender. What surrounded Caden now was not a true barrier spell, but it might as well have been one. Pulses of light and energy, will and force all converged around him in a dome-shaped whirlwind, and the birds that hit this psuedobarrier ended up without even having enough dignity to be called fried chicken.

So, for now, he ignored them. He didn't care if he killed one bird or all of them; they were irrelevent.

Focus, he thought again, and did just that. Incidentally, this is the part where Wizard becomes a fanciful, polite way of screaming oh holy shit! Watch closely now...

...because Caden certainly was. He lacked the kind of specific enchantments afforded to the enemy commander, but when you're so far past knee-deep in magic that you're literally breathing the stuff, it does funny things to the senses. He could hear Tyreles shouting, and his own Bards singing, and his men screaming everything from war cries to calls for help. He could see as he had never seen in years, and as he would probably never live to see again. He saw the leylines, he saw the magicks leaving the Bards' mouths, saw the pitch black filth reanimating Xem'Zund's army...

...and he saw it.

Saw the strings of dominion, binding so many of the enemy soldiers to a commander. Saw one particular rope that looked so fat it just screamed, cut me loose. Caden ignored it. Focused on the strings -- harder. Followed them with his eyes, and with the tip of his wand. Ignored how many of them were -- even how they were connected to those damned hawks, and ants, and--

"I see you," Caden said, in a singsong voice that may as well have been Bardic in its own right considering how many of the men closest to him burst into fits of laughter.

His eyes narrowed. He read the Name on the knot at the center of it all, visible only through a heavy haze of the magic that surrounded it. He began to speak...

...and his voice carried. It carried, and it was overpowering; like a battle-axe made of sound-waves and spite, punctuated with ego and the kind of casual contempt you can only give when wearing a Wizard's Hat.

"I SEE YOU, LITTLE REAPER!" Caden Law bellowed with a Voice of authority and determination. It was followed by a kind of awful laughter, and maybe it'd hurt her mentally, maybe it'd just give her pause, or maybe the rage of it would drive her to new heights -- just as Celiniel's violation had done to him.

Caden was past caring about that now. He spoke again, commands given to magic itself in Old Diamonic. His body moved with his words, and his Wand was the conduit...

"Grind your teeth," he told the land, flicking the wand into a circle and then straight up. As if on cue, the Dragon's Teeth barriers sharpened and slit from left to right, back and forth, pulverizing and shredding whatever was caught in them -- including most, if not all, if that pesky adolescent serpent. The wand wobbled.

"Surge to the Ruin," he told the river, and the ice stopped mattering as a pocket tidal wave surged the Elven ships down its length with more speed than they ever could've managed on their own. The wand cracked.

He gave no incantation for the spell to follow; merely gathered magic from the Circle and channeled it. Lightning blue danced into every color of the rainbow along the length of his Wand. He thrust it for the largest target (or mass of targets) he could find. Once it struck, the lightning enveloped and exploded.

Unfortunately, so did Caden's Wand. Light spiderwebbed through the cracks along its length, and then everything from the base to the tip of the wand's business end exploded. All he was left with was a handle, which promptly crumbled to dust in his grasp.

Caden didn't stop to curse his luck. He didn't have the time for that. When you live in Salvar's more desolate regions, as he had, and when you spend your life rushing from one maelstrom to the next, as he had, you learn to improvise. Suddenly and violently and all over the place. He flicked his left wrist--

Out came the scalpel.

Caden would make do. He was starting to bleed from the nose, and his body was beginning to ache all over, but he'd do.

Out of Character:

[s]If Viola has any problems with the Namereading bit, gimme a yell and I'll edit it. It'd help if she had some kind of magical alias or something.[/s] Viola had no problems with it, but I edited the Name to reflect an alias she gave via PM. And to ward off any accusations of Powerplay: Caden's going downhill pretty soon. Ish. He just plans on taking a couple o' your arms and legs with him :) For the sake of avoiding Insane Post Lengths, I'll refrain from going into great detail about Caden's Crew. D: Suffice to say: Arrows are shot with no specific targets, and swords are drawn and readied. And since everyone else is doing it... Blueraven Company 50 Archers entrenched in a U-around Caden (~45 Turlin Arrows, with lit jugs of oil and spare quivers totaling 150 normal (soon-to-be-flaming) arrows each. 50 Archers entrenched in rows of 25 to the sides of the U (~40 Turlin Arrows, with lit jugs of oil and spare quivers totaling 150 normal (etc-flaming) arrows each) 1 Man-at-Arms for entrenched with each of the above Archers, totaling 100 (5 Turlin Arrows each). 50 Archers foxholed around the battlefield in teams of 2 (~40 Turlin Arrows, with lit jugs of oil and spare quivers totaling 50 normal (flaming) arrows each) 25 Men-at-Arms foxholed with the 50 Archers (5 Turlin Arrows each) 68 Men-at-Arms scattered about (5 Turlin Arrows each); most with secondary weapons and armor, but nothing stand-out 25 Men-at-Arms previously dedicated to supply running, now redistributing arrows (~100 Turlin Arrows each, heavier armor and shields -- but no bows). Each is accompanied by a fellow Man-at-Arms with a shield and mixed armor. 3 Aglarlin Bards (Kenvas: Flutesword, Spear, full armor, others ordinary Aglarlin) near Caden, accompanied by 3 Human Apprentices (Lesser Healing; otherwise standard Men-at-Arms) 4 Battle Bards* (Leister Covanna: Twin Swords, full armor) scattered about, accompanied by 4 Human Apprentices (Lesser Fire; otherwise standard Men-at-Arms) * No idea what School the Battle Bards fall under. Reinforcements from Findelfin 3 Aglarlin Bards coming off the Bridge 2 Lissilin Bards coming off the Bridge ...so much for avoiding insane post lengths! Sorry 'bout that! D:

So all the pretty lights surrounding the wizard were for more than just show. She had seen the two hawks dive, seen them fly headlong into the maelstrom of magic. She watched as they were torn to less than shreds by the swirling forces of the arcane might encompassing him. It had been a good idea, but sometimes ideas just don’t turn out how you like them. That’s what many people called “life”.

Enchanted eyes gazed across the grassy expanse, fixated on the mass of magic across the bridge. Her hawk spies still circling the skies reported a strange and sudden withdrawal of all the bridge’s guards. Now was the perfect time to strike. They had left no curious surprises in their wake, so there was no point in wasting time standing around. Derris was getting more impatient, too. Oh well, that just meant that he was going to be all the more destructive when things turned to hells.

Then there was a voice. It was a strange voice that she hadn’t heard before, but it apparently knew her, and knew of her. The demented smile that she wore without shame split her face as she roared in maniac laughter. Oh how wonderful it was to be known! Finally, someone on this light-blasted rock knew her! It was the perfect culmination to an already exuberant day. The volume as it raced through her skull was nothing short of tremendous, but to a shattered mind it was nothing. She had ravaged cities with more force than his shout had assaulted her mind with.

“Hold nothing back! Rend them all!”

A great buildup of magical energy was all the warning the sinister general had before a great streak tore through the sky toward her flanking force. She didn’t have time to scatter them completely, but it didn’t have a full effect either. Thirty-four spiders and nineteen dur’taigen were fried instantly, and the greater half of the remaining forces were blown away from the epicenter indiscriminately. The flying bodies knocked into those that were unaffected by the bolt, delaying the whole procession by a bit of time as rotted brains worked their hardest to get back up. It was a fairly large setback, but it was also an important one for the defending army.

Frustration tore at Viola’s mind as she rode at the tail end of her pack. She didn’t need a setback now! Derris was, of course, the first one to the gate, brute strength straining against the reinforced and locked metal until the giant ants joined in the war against the barrier. Horrid creaking and the cracking of concrete alike littered the air as precious seconds ticked away. The only part of her army near the gate was the part necessary to tear it down; there was no point in cramming all of her forces around something so immobile just to wait.

Whatever the undead creatures of Viola’s army felt before the lightning strike was unclear, but every fiber of their being screamed murder to the one whom caused the skies to turn against them. Dur’taigen and spiders alike traveled in erratic paths and groups ranging from two to five as they streaked across the fields that lay between their destination. They would stop at nothing to destroy everything in their master’s path, be it Viola or Xem’zund at their head.

Out of Character:

Main force: 250 Spiders 38 Dur’Taigen 260 ants 38 hawks Derris Flanking: 266 Spiders – 133 injured 281 Dur’Taigen - 141 injured

As she watched the river, Vipress let out a hiss that seemed to awaken all the fire-lit, serpentine fury in her once beautiful face. The mother serpent's wave had crashed a single ship into driftwood, but the others remained tauntingly. Worse, they were now being borne down the river on their own magical wave, a structured, stamina-filled pulse the broke the ice into chunks. The younger serpents writhed about in their renewed freedom, only to have the full might of Turlin magic cast toward their telltale splashes. The unnatural iceflows, as well as two of the serpents, were nearly boiled from existence.

Farther downriver, the mother heaved herself into action again. She tore through the steaming water with mouth gaping and her scaled back bucking against the hulls. River clutter was consumed before her, devoured without a single bite; chunks of ice, frantic swimmers, and even the bodies of her young. The serpents that still lived on in undeath pushed ahead of her and set themselves to ravaging any ships that remained.

"Use the body as a barricade!" Rask growled, speaking audibly only for the fact that his nerves would fray at any moment. "Push it-" The ancient elves tensed to send their magic forward, but froze right as their leader did. The earth below the burning serpent body suddenly became sharp, serrated teeth that ground back and forth. With horrible efficiency, the body was shredded and scattered to the point that it wouldn't be recognizable as organic matter, let alone the necromantic flesh of a mighty beast.

In the emptiness that remained before them, the scattered arrows of their enemy flashed through the air again. The blades finally fell, churning the air and sending the wayward shots even farther astray. "Retreat!" the lizard-man ordered as he spun and grabbed Vipress' shoulder. She turned, snakes snapping and fingers clawing, to face him as if assaulted. "Jade," he snarled warningly.

Her rage, high from the serpents' near defeat, faltered as an old reflex kicked in. Annoyance, born from a title far too personal for her liking. As her mind came back to her, she remembered the situation on the land, and she recognized the lizard-man, her adopted guardian, as the only one allowed to refer to her as such. With wounded dignity, she allowed him to pull her back along the docks.

They found a relatively safe location sligtly downriver. The riverbank lay next to their feet, and the dock buildings burned uncomfortably, but not dangerously, close. Smoke still billowed overhead, blocking out the natural blood red light of the battle as well as the archers' vision.

With a surprisingly calm demeanor and authority to put her guardian's to shame, Vipress looked back toward the sounds of battle. "We still need to feed the serpents," she said to her brood as the north shore undead elves arrived. They retained their righteously straight poses, but some of the glacier-wrought fire was gone from their eyes. In a mental tangent that was quickly cut short, she wondered if Rask had noticed the change.

"They could advance along the bank and help the main army break through," Rask offered, apparently relieved to not be at the helm.

Vipress nodded and made a short gesture for them to do so. The elves nodded, their ears pointing oddly into the air, and marched toward the northern end of the bridge at full stride. "Throw everything that breathes into the river," she said after them as they faded into the smokey haze.

Then, she turned to the opposite bank. Thirty of Rask's elves remained there, almost invisible to the fleeing ships that had been concentrating on the serpents. They had apparently repeated their orders numerous times, for the ground before them was racked bare and their shoulders hunched with strain. She didn't know how many they had managed to push from the decks of the ships. If there were any, they were likely already in the mother's gut. With a thought, she overrode Rask's link to them and sent every single armored, frostbitten body toward the bridge. Even from that distance, their fleetfooted stomping was nearly audible.

"We meet at the bridge," she said confidently, biding Rask to lead her there. Despite her apparant calm, the bloodlust burned. This kingdom would still fall, if only as a stepping stone to her eventual prize, the distant man encased in his own smoldering darkness.

Out of Character:

Forces in water: 2 young serpents 1 adolescent 1 mother Southern bank: 30 ancient elves, heading to the southern gate to cross the bridge Northern bank: Two commanders 27 ancient elves, heading to the northern gate to break it down and/or defend those breaking it down

He had given his commands to the fleet captains. Now it was up to them to pilot their ships through the maelstrom of terror that was the surface of the river. They had predicted many strange things in this assault, but sea serpents and strange-looking elves were not among them.

But it was time. Wheeling his cavalry to the strike force, he scanned for where the most important enemy was. Although the strange newcomers with the pointy ears were few in number and a tempting target, it was more important that the charge strike a hefty blow against the spiders and dur'taigen crossing from the makeshift silk bridge. Rallying his troops with a wave of his sword, he cried, "Lances level! Archers pincer and retreat! Forward!"

And suddenly the ground was vibrating beneath him, the sides of his mount flecked with froth as the hooves of a hundred Raiaeran horses thundered in a single charge. He gripped tight to his reins, holding his sword at ready while the forward line lowered their lances. With the terrible sounds of shattering chitin, animal growls and pained whimpers, the front line smashed headlong into the beasts. Dur'taigens snarled and snapped, spiders leaped forward to crush horses and riders alike even as their arachnid brethren fell skewered on the point of the lances. And then he was in the midst of them, sword slashing. He caught one Dur'taigen full in the face, splitting it snout down the middle and slicing cleanly through the forward half of its skull. Ignoring the blood spatters, he called aloud above the din, "Lancers out! Archers, volley when clear!"

He wheeled his horse through the carnage, extricating himself and his troops before they pushed too deeply into the attackers to escape. As the lancers left, horse archers screamed to their positions, shooting at least two volleys of their Turlin-enchanted arrows into the crowd of beasts before wheeling away to the retreat, still firing behind their backs at the pursuing horde. "How many lost?" cried Tyreles over the roar of hooves and the howls of the shape-shifting wolves.

"Not many, sir, but Lieutenant Agarlion fell during the charge...but sir! Look to the docks!"

And indeed he did, for he had to watch what he already heard. A dull thud of explosions was filling the air, and before he even saw the first firespout he knew that the flames had finally reached the powder stores. He watched as first one, then another, then another of the docks shattered. And finally the main stores were breached...and with one awesome, shuddering blast, the docks on both sides of the bridge exploded. The entire metal grate that held the two halves of the bridge together burst from the stone shower, flying in one piece of metal to smash into one of the stone pillars Caden had constructed, shattering the standing stone into three enormous pieces. The two towers on each side of the bridge seemed to hang in air for one imperceptible moment, before crumbling at their base and falling towards the bridge. One after another, they crashed into the slender projection of rock, which broke asunder. The whole northern half of the bridge crumbled at once, casting every undead minion upon it into the chop of the churning river below.

For a moment, Tyreles could scarcely believe what he was seeing. He had expected the explosion; expected the towers to crumble. But he had not expected the bridge to collapse. It was a godsend, a boon -- now the only way across that the undead had was the makeshift bridge of silk, which could be burned away with only a few more charges. Raiaera was saved!

But before Tyreles could turn to rally his troops, he heard something that curdled him to the bones. The voice spoke from across the river, spoke directly to him, spoke directly to the center of who he was. It was the voice of evil...

"Enough."

From beyond the bridge of souls he watched the battle. It was amusing, really, this little captain with his arrows, the little mage with his blue standard and his swarthy company of degenerates. And his lieutenants, the one called Darkstalker and the leader of the great serpents, were doing a fine job without him. But their power next to his...they were trifling. And as the bridge went up in flames, he grew tired of the preliminaries. And he said so.

The darkness swirled around his form, then raised itself up as if it was the shroud of mists itself that was speaking.

"Enough."

Beneath his cloak of shadows, he raised one hand and gestured at the river. Immediately it began bubbling as the years of organic dust bubbled up from the bottom, slowly moving to harden into twelve separate bridges of hard-packed dirt and debris. As the bridges formed, he waved his arm and extended his soul deep into the earth, crying out as he enlivened the matter beneath and sucked years of death out of the soil. The ground to the south suddenly churned as if a boiling sea as hands and feet pulled themselves free, the lives of eons of elvish toil ripped from their graves in one foul moment. And the zombies he already had seemed prescient enough to greet them in glee, waving their weapons and their arms in glee -- but even that was the result of his own thought and his own direction.

He continued to speak, broadcasting his words to all souls nearby -- even those as far away as the very inner sanctums of the Grand Palace of Velicë Arta would hear the voice of the Necromancer.

"See? I control what was once life. Even the dirt, the cast-off matter of long-dead fish and seaweed, even it obeys my will. Now, let the power of life-beyond-life sweep over you, burn you, rape you. The Destruction of the Elves will be my doing...see my power and despair."

It may have been much, but it was worth it. The mist seemed to congeal on one point, and for a moment he let his form be seen, his dark armor and his death-mask concealing all else. And then it was back again, and it pushed forward suddenly at the front of the main column of the undead, a column that had previously held back from the assault -- a column now flush with the dead of the southern plains and the ruin of Carnelost.

Now the battle had truly begun.

Out of Character:

Xem'zûnd is attacking with a force in excess of 30,000, approximately split in the following fashion: 25,000 zombies, approx. 1/2 newly raised with full battle weaponry and most functions intact, 1/4 skeletal with mixed weaponry, and 1/4 weaponless, long-dead drones 1000 corrupted commanders, each with the ability to raise new undead from the bodies of the fallen 200 Undead Trees 2000 Undead Giant Ants 2000 Undead Giant Spiders 4000 Undead Dur'Taigen Xem'zûnd is relying on numbers -- huge numbers -- and is capable of counterattacking in a variety of ways. He also has access to wraiths -- terrifying ghost-like spirits of great malice -- but only during the nighttime, so for now he won't use them. Consider the current time for this thread to be around 3 PM.

As one man scattered across 412 bodies, the Blueravens stopped. They all heard the Voice, from first man to last, and every single one of them registered it in the same way: A deep baritone voice, reverberating and echoing, hollow and vile and hatefully magnificent. It spoke out of tune, lacking the rhythm you'd associate with any kind of living voice.

It was thought. It was intent. If it was not evil incarnate, then it was the closest any of them would ever be to facing it.

It fell to the thirteen Bards and their apprentices. As one, they looked to Caden, and Caden looked right over them. With eyes unclouded by fear -- perhaps because of egomania, perhaps because of courage, or maybe out of resolute numbness -- the Wizard Named Blueraven stared across the battlefield. Through the bridges, through the hordes, through all the magic and more.

He gazed at Xem'zund, and made his decision. It was unspoken, but a glance to a bard and then a nod back, and that was all.

"COVERED WITHDRAW!" Kenvas bellowed, whipping his sword high and channeling magic and song through it. It was a mournful instrumental, but it was an orderly one. The other Aglarlin Bards joined him, even the ones tasked with leaving the bridge and joining Blueraven Company. The battlebards were less keen on leaving, but they knew a lost cause when they saw one. This one wasn't quite there yet, but it wouldn't be long.

One by one, the men began to leave their foxholes. Archers provided cover, battlebards and men-at-arms rushed from hole to hole to quicken and protect the retreat. The Teeth kept grinding and anyone standing between the two sets was going to be smashed and shot to bits by the retreating forces of Findelfin on one side and the still mostly entrenched Blueraven Company on the other.

Caden stood his ground. As the men in the foxholes withdrew, he sealed each hole up, denying it from the enemy. It was a minimal effort.

"Think we should burn the forest?" he asked and the only Bard near him, a Dagorlin named Alfrash Olastin, looked at him like he was insane.

Incidentally: "You're completely insane, Blueraven."

He almost smiled. Almost. "He can use trees, can't he?"

"We don't scorch Mother Earth!"

"You don't dig holes in it either. I'm not you." Caden stopped short when a sword was raised beneath his chin. Most of the Company was too busy to even notice it. "Point. Don't come whining at me when they're picking bodies out of branches then."

The sword was drawn away, but the bard did not leave. He stuck close. He didn't trust Caden to not raze the forests anyway.

Which is just as well, because Caden would have razed them the moment Olastin was out of striking distance.

"Alright then. Kenvas," he called, and the banner-bearing Aglarlin looked right at him. "Organize a defense around me. Get a runner to Findelfin and tell him to hurry the Hells up. I'm about to do something very, very stupid. Chances are, we'll all regret it. Either way..."

If he were braver, Caden would've likely said something along the lines of, Put a Turlin Arrow in my corpse if this kills me.

At least one archer who overheard the conversation was ready to do just that anyway.

Caden turned back to the battle. One last time, he started building power. He reached deep, far down the leylines...

And then he pulled. From the air, from the earth, from the sun. Grass shrivelled up and crumbled all across his makeshift domain, and trees shifted seasons so that leaves withered and broke from their branches. Around Caden himself, the individual wisps of magic were no longer visible. It was just one great big mass of light, touching every possible color and few that weren't. It smelled like blue, it sounded like feathers, it tasted like music.

Across the surface, letters and glyphs formed; fast, bloody and precise, as if they were being written with a scalpel. Whatever Caden had planned, it was going to be messy...

Out of Character:

The Blueravens are making an orderly withdrawl; front first with the rear providing cover-fire, specifically aiming to knock out anyone blocking Findelfin's retreat from the bridge, then targeting anyone around the dragon's teeth setup or in the runic minefield beyond it. Blueraven Company 50 Archers entrenched in a U-around Caden (~35 Turlin Arrows, with lit jugs of oil and spare quivers totaling 150 normal (soon-to-be-flaming) arrows each. 50 Archers entrenched in rows of 25 to the sides of the U (~35 Turlin Arrows, with lit jugs of oil and spare quivers totaling 150 normal (etc-flaming) arrows each) 1 Man-at-Arms for entrenched with each of the above Archers, totaling 100 (5 Turlin Arrows each). 50 Archers withdrawing around the battlefield in teams of 2 (~35 Turlin Arrows, with lit jugs of oil and spare quivers totaling 50 normal (flaming) arrows each) 25 Men-at-Arms withdrawing with the 50 Archers (5 Turlin Arrows each) 68 Men-at-Arms aiding the withdrawl (5 Turlin Arrows each); most with secondary weapons and armor, but nothing stand-out 25 Men-at-Arms previously dedicated to supply running, now redistributing arrows and coordinating withdrawl efforts (~100 Turlin Arrows each, heavier armor and shields -- but no bows). Each is accompanied by a fellow Man-at-Arms with a shield and mixed armor. 7 Aglarlin Bards (Kenvas: Flutesword, Spear, full armor, others ordinary Aglarlin) helping withdrawl efforts, accompanied by 3 Human Apprentices (Lesser Healing; otherwise standard Men-at-Arms) 4 Dagorlin Bards (Alfrash Olastin: Standard Dagorlin; Leister: Twin Swords, full armor) helping withdrawl efforts, accompanied by 4 Human Apprentices (Lesser Fire; otherwise standard Men-at-Arms) 2 Lisselin Bards (ordinary Lisselin) helping withdrawl efforts

When something explodes, people give near-universal reactions. Screams of panic wrack some people while others simply shrug the concussive blast off as though it was an everyday occurrence. This day, great fireworks bloomed in the sky as the volatile powder stores did what they did best and the flames licked lustfully at everything. Viola scowled. Sure she had been rather surprised when the bridge blew up like it had been hit with a ballistic missile, she didn’t think civilizations like this were capable of such wanton acts of destruction yet, but after her first small yelp of surprise, she said nothing and did nothing but scowl. No silk bridge would hold under that fire and the only other bridge she could bring her troops to was too far away for her tastes.

As much as the vile thought disgusted her, her conquest was at a standstill. Two years ago she would have laid waste to the entire bridge single-handedly with hardly a second thought to it. The archers in the tower would have known utter terror as volley after volley met nothing but air; the men on the bridge would have trembled in abject horror as the gate folded like putty under the force of her will! Then… they all would have died. The reason she did not flinch at the explosion was a simple one when you took the time to think about it. She had survived assaults from explosions hundreds and thousands of times larger than that one; why should she be scared when she was hardly in range of the shrapnel, let alone the main blast?

She could sense the situation her flanking force was going through dealing with the riders, even if she could do nothing directly to help. They were up against well-trained cavaliers under stringent supervision and command… there wasn’t much they could do but fight like they always had: hamstring the horses and overwhelm the fallen rider. They took their share of casualties, but they still managed to take some down with them. The remnants of the fallen could hardly be recognized as such, and they were only the ones to fall last. Nothing but a few bones here and there marked the majority of the elven dead.

It was nothing but a sensation that caused the dark general to look over her right shoulder, but oh what a sensation it was. All of the most terrible things she could describe wouldn’t have done the sight justice, and that was just her first impression. A planet-hopper herself, Viola had seen many armies of various sizes. Normally she was on the receiving end of their wrath and couldn’t get a full feel of just how large an army was, but when she saw the writhing mass of undead approaching, an orgasmic shiver unlike anything she had experienced recently flowed down her spine strong enough to curl her toes and arch her back. It was like a second wind had come over her with the swarm of reinforcements from the depths of the pit, and oh what sorts of ecstasy it gave her.

That terrible, hells-forsaken voice grinding through her mind… the utter vileness that rolled from the mouth of her master to the souls of all… just listening to him speak was enough to bring her back to her days of glory. Truly this was the man destined to rule this world until she regained the power necessary to bring annihilation to it as well. Serving under someone like this was something she could oh-so-easily get used to. It was only right, after all, that the pathetic elves and their singing would be forced to bow to so great a man as Xem’zund.

Even her enchanted eyes could not fully comprehend the magic that flowed from her master to the riverbeds, but the end result was far more satisfying than understanding necromancy was at the time. A dozen bridges, each larger than the one she had fought to break through, rose from the ground to grant mass access to the waiting “fortress” on the other side. It may have been an act of benevolence or it may have been a simple re-supply, but a division even larger than the one she had been granted originally made its way to Viola’s force. She didn’t bother trying to count the new arrivals; she knew intimately how many puppet she had at her beck and call, and she loved it.

Her shoulders heaved. Her chest moved erratically. Her head whipped back. Whatever semblance of sanity she had been desperately holding onto to take the bridge evaporated as a sound that could only be described as madness incarnate issued forth from the center of the writhing army. It was amazing that she was even able to stay mounted on her great spider, but as the mass of over five-thousand warriors surged forth, the primal roars and deafening cackles of insanity traveled with the heart of the pack.

There was no logical thought. There was no strategy. There was only one command, one that fed the rage and fueled the insanity of the one giving it in an endless cycle of madness.

Kill!


The mass of zombies crossed the bridges and swung around to take the roundabout way of attacking, which incidentally put them tearing their way across the ground to cut through the escaping line and prevent any more flesh from getting away. They had various weapons, various pieces of armor, and one mind… one command. With shrieks that would have made a banshee howl, Viola charged into the fray on her steed looking beyond a wild animal. Her dress was immaculate; she hadn’t been fighting. Her hair was wind-swept; her steed was fast. Her face was wild; eyes lusting for death and mouth voicing her terrible cry. Her muscles ached for the thrill of battle and the agony of pain. A quartet of black spikes with black chains, each darker than pitch as though the light itself refused to touch them, flew from ripples in the air around her body. They flew straight and fast, each honed tip howling for the flesh of the living. The mad reaper was on the rampage, and she loved it!

Out of Character:

4500 Newly-risen zombies 487 Spiders 276 Dur’Taigen 260 ants 38 hawks Enraged Derris Beyond-insane Viola

To Vipress, the explosion didn't even register. She had been winding her way through the smoke, Rask before her and his frostbitten knights beyond, their swords rippling toward the gate or after the fleeing mortals. Then, the world vibrated so much that her matter began to diffuse even before the shrapnel struck. It tore through her, leaving ragged holes that spewed great plumes of starlit dust from the exit wounds. She knew pain then, the true sense of pain that separated this material world from her own. It was a fire that burned from every wound, filling her fragile form until her entire essence felt as if it were falling backward into unnatural decay.

She might have lost her immortal self to the cruel material forces, had the voice not reached her. Immediately, she knew it like a long awaited kiss. Xem'zund was everywhere. But, more importantly, within her. He had grown so strong. She felt the ground tremble under the push of his forces and his own power. It was as close to perfection as any one on this miserable rock could attain, and she felt, for the first time, what affect it had on the mortals. Though she was not the target, she felt the weight levied upon them, the binding agreement between will, time, and fate that they would all be destroyed. It was fear, and it was haste. If she did not act soon, the tide would wash over her and render her nothing. Or, worse, just another subordinate in his army. She had to use her own power now, despite the lack of payment the shadow had demanded.

As awed as a newborn, Vipress opened her eyes. She saw the wreckage of the elven bridge and the newly crafted replacements. Rask stood where the old bridge had ended, howling over the bodies of his brethren. They burned and crackled while their swords lay dormant, and the ancient elves from the other bank filed over the bridge to take their place emotionlessly.

The river swelled with an incoherent mess of rubble and bodies that had once been upon the bridge while the dark serpent shapes churned beneath, fighting the river's strengthened current because it could not froth over the earthen bridges. The living within the river had already been consumed, but Vipress saw the traces of life that animated the undead. Insufficient but priceless. She pushed her cloudy, rematerializing form to the bank between two bridges and sent a command into the water. Forcefully, the savage frothing began anew. Stone, earth, or undead, her serpents consumed it all. Then, each other, until all that remained was the lone mother as swollen as a creation god. Her form towered upward, heavy and broken and screaming until she arched her neck forward to spill the contents of her stomach upon the scarred ground. Wretching sickly, she collapsed upon the decaying pile.

~

The ship's sails went limp, its crew lapsing into stillness. At the bow, the cloaked shadow stood with cowl directed at the capital. "The other side has paid its toll. Now, so shall we." The zombies waited uncaringly.

The shadow's arms lifted its rotting hands up, only to let them fall from the sleeves like litter. Then, the cloak openned. Within it was nothing but the blackest pitch, a color beyond night or darkness. It was death, and it spread as hungrily as death does. If hearts still beat among them, they would only have done so thrice before the ship was encased, the rigging and hull torn, the zombies' bodies consumed completely. Alone, the shadow and his cargo remained, only to disappear from the frantic waves.

~

The flesh, the rubble, and the serpent's head atop it all burst into flame instantaneously. A putrid, black fire that billowed forth a heavy cloud of smoke. From that tight, rolling mass, the salvaged creatures of legend emerged. First came the harpies. Not the tempting figures of bar room boasting, though, nor the mocking gatekeepers of campfire tales. These harpies were the wretched kind, wasted bodies of men stretched and crushed into the skins of vultures and bats. They were hideous and disproportionate, yet they flew with an uneven grace unmatched by living beings. A whole storm of them, over a thousand strong, swelled from the organic bonfire to blot the sky and cast the land into a shifting haze of pre-dusk red.

When the tide finally slowed, another beast emerged from the fire and turned the most child-like of myths into nightmares. It was a unicorn, white coat souled with decay and elegant horn twisted with rot. Its eyes burned and dripped angry, bloody tears. The anger, mostly likely, was for the figure on its back, the remains of the man that had bridled it into mortality and then ridden it unto death. The man did not celebrate, though, for he was a nothing more than a legless growth from the beast's spine, his skin-smooth head bowed and broken arms holding the reins as if posed. Even in death, man could not beat the unicorn.

Suddenly, the fire sputtered and died. The smoke shrank also, part of it condensing into a cloak that enshrouded what remained. Fair elven hands, miraculously untouched by the flame, hovered from the ashes and embedded themselves in the sleeves. The shadow moved forward, flexing and appraising its new hands, and stopped before Vipress' misty, pitted form. "You did not pay in full. The rest are trapped within, waiting," it said, the words dangerous, the tone uncaring.

Vipress smiled despite the pain of her body coming back together. The unicorn cantered to her side and stopped, as calm and docile as if it had finally found a proper master. "Then you'll have to collect them," she said teasily as she pointed to the fleeing mortals. Without waiting for an answer, she climbed astride the unicorn, held tight to its decorative rider, and rode after the ancient elves and their enraged leader.

Out of Character:

1200 harpies - Frail, quick monsters that like to pick people up and drop them from deadly heights. 30 ancient elves - Led by Rask and charging near the front of the undead army. They will disrupt their enemies with wind blasts before attacking. 1 undead unicorn - carrying Vipress a short distance behind 1 cloaked shadow - moving along farther behind

Tyreles could only watch in horror. Through the thick flames and columns of smoke that now obscured the southern reaches of the battlefield and the river, he could not help but see the small dark shapes on the opposite side suddenly grow, forms with weapons materializing as mere shades beyond a frame of crimson. But Tyreles knew that once they passed that border, they would be much more than mere shades.

And they were already crossing. Waves of them streamed across land bridges, placed so as to avoid the flames and rubble of the docks. Ships burned, the water churned...the serpents that had attacked the ships seemed to have become one enormous monster which flopped into the ruin of the docks and burned like a torch. But he had not time to take in the scenery...hundreds of zombies were already on the north shore. And the spiders and wolf shape-shifters were still bearing quickly. He made his decision.

"Back to the walls! Into the gates...send a rider to Commander Law to abandon his position, ride for the safety of the city. We will sally forth again only if the Dagorathar commands it, and then we wi--"

Every elf knew that when the Horn of Velicë was blown, it was the signal for the city to empty itself. It called the hosts to battle, it let every citizen know that the last stand was nigh. On pain of death, it could not be blown unless authorized by the High Bard himself. And Tyreles suddenly found his voice cut off by a sudden sound from the city. He looked north in wonder, speechless, awestruck.

The Horn of Velicë Arta was blowing.

Power seeped through him like nothing he'd ever felt. It was a high, a rush, a screaming thrill that Caden never wanted to let go of. He built it, focused it, channeled and created a Work -- a spell he'd probably only ever be able to use once in his life.

Assuming he even lived that long.

The dark hordes were coming, and now was the time. Now, now he'd show them all...

...if that damned Horn didn't ring.

"Retreat!" Kenvas ordered, and Caden knew better than to argue. As Wizards will, he wanted to live just that little while longer. Courage is forever the lesser half of Discretion.

Focus it...bind it...crush it down, he thought, and did just that. Inch by inch by square meter, the light didn't fade so much as it concentrated and took a shape; an outline of a man wearing a rather pointy hat. At its zenith, it was so bright as to be painful to look at...

...then it blinked out.

Just like that.

Caden doubled over and vomited blood all over himself. In between the heaves, he still had the presence of mind to tuck his scalpel back into his sleeve. Much to his own dismay, it fell to Leister to haul him up to his feet, and a pair of footsoldiers helped to half-carry, half-drag the bloodied, metaphysically bruised Wizard from his Circle of Power.

"Be sure," he managed to say, and his eyes were a glazed mess beneath red-tinted goggles. "Deny them...its use..."

And that was an order some of the men were all too happy to carry out. A few stayed behind, scraping runes out of the dirt and willfully erasing magic's record from the land itself. They died screaming and in glory, with Turlin arrows lodged in their bodies as they fell.

The world went black as they carried him all the way back to Eluriand. A lesser man would've been left behind, but Caden did them well and the Blueravens took care of their own -- one way or another.

Caden remembered their names. All 407 of them, plus five. He would never forget.

Quest Judging
MQ: Beyond the Bridge of Souls

Again, no comments as this was long overdue. Please direct all comments, questions and complaints to the aim RestitutionSpork or MSN songs4drowning@hotmail.com

STORY

Continuity ~ 6/10.
Setting ~ 7/10.
Pacing ~ 9/10.

CHARACTER

Dialogue ~ 7/10.
Action ~ 9/10.
Persona ~ 8/10.

WRITING STYLE

Technique ~ 6/10.
Mechanics ~ 7/10.
Clarity ~ 9/10.

MISCELLANEOUS

Wild Card ~ 7/10.

TOTAL ~ 75/100.

Rewards

Sighter Tnailog gains 5012 EXP and 450 GP
Caden Law gains 1193 EXP and 450 GP
Twisted Infinitum gains 3076 EXP and 375 GP
Viola Darkstalker gains 1061 EXP and 375 GP
The Scourge gains 3845 EXP and 75 GP

EXP and GP added!