SUMMER

Angkar: Wet season. Precipitation is common during the late afternoon and evening hours. Vegetation grows significantly during the summer, but flooding is a danger due to the monsoons that ravage the country. The rainforest sees evenly distributed rainfall throughout the season.

Ashoka: Desert: Extremely hot and dry. Violent, heavy downpours following long dryspells. Jungle: Hot and humid with frequent, violent rainstorms.

Morrim: Relatively hot and dry, but with a chance of thunderstorms from time to time. The heat may cause forest fires.

Soto: Hot and humid, tree cover is dense while ground growth is restricted. Thunderstorms see the most amount of rainfall during the season, and it can be very windy. On occasion, there are flash floods that can destroy homes and farms built on flood plains.

ANNOUNCEMENTS

March 30th, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has changed hands and is now under new management! If you have any questions, please direct them to DaringRaven! As for the rest of the announcements, including a season change, you can find them over here at the following link!

January 16, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has a new skin, all thanks to Mel! Don't forget to check out the new OTMs as well!

December 2, 2017 Winter has settled on Elenlond, bringing sleep for some and new life for others.

September 26, 2017 With the belated arrival of autumn come some interesting developments: new OTMs, a Town Crier and the release of the Elly Awards winners!

July 14, 2017 After a bit of forum clean-up, Elly Awards season has arrived! Head on over to make your nominations!

May 31, 2017 Summer has arrived and so has activity check! That's not all though – we also have some new OTMs for you and some staff changes!


WHAT IS ELENLOND?

Elenlond is an original free-form medieval fantasy RPG set on the continent of Soare and the Scattered Isles, which are located to the south in the Sea of Diverging Waters. The four chief nations of the western side of the world—Ashoka in northern Soare, Soto in western Soare, Morrim in eastern Soare, and Angkar, the largest of the Scattered Isles—continue to experience growth and prosperity since the fall of the Mianorite gods, although power struggles within the countries—or outside of them—continue to ensue.


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    Soto: The Sotoans have defeated the fey and liberated themselves from Méadaigh’s oppression! Preliminary efforts have been made at rebuilding the city of Madrid, which had been captured at the beginning of the war. However, the Sotoans are hindered from recovery famine. Méadaigh’s magic caused summer to persist in the Erth’netora Forest through the winter. Her power has been withdrawn and the plants die as if preparing for winter – even though it is now summer. The Sotoans must sustain off what food they can get, what creatures they can kill and what can be imported into the city from Morrim and Angkar.

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    Lachesism; Wyld Hunt: Act IV Scene I
    Topic Started: Mar 10 2016, 01:38 AM (1,434 Views)
    Calliope
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    Goddess of Erth'netora

    Lachesism

    The moon hung a thin cresent in the sky, hidden behind a mass of dark clouds.

    There was a smell of cold and snow.

    The scouts surrounding Madrid had been picked off with Meadaigh's arrows as she approached, mounted a black stag, three-hundred yards away.

    The Goddess was the picture of beauty, grace, and nonchalance; nothing gave away her thoughts... save for her bright eyes, which contained raw power that screamed to be released. Intricate earth-like markings on her face represented her status and heritage. She wore a blackthorn gown and crown with dark earthen armor, bewitchingly opposing her pale skin and hair, which had become as white as the snow, as it was known to do each year when winter came into the scene.

    In her pink lips played an easy smile and it was not cruel, nor creeping, nor even slightly mad; it was pleasantly happy and edging to mischievous. She yearned to have the forest swallow the city whole and be done with it, but alas, that was not the way war was done.

    Madrid was hardly fortified; it was large enough to dominate the sky as it sat, rising up against the face of a small mountain, yet it lacked any defensive walls or towers. The houses eventually petered out, and the treeline took over again. The city begged for it to be stripped of all control.

    Although there was some beauty, there was no grace to it; no pride.

    The moment Meadaigh took command of Erth'Netora, the majority of Soto's thriving economy plummeted into oblivion, for they could no longer get a hold of their resources with the way their blood was spilled when they so much as set foot within the treacherous woods; animal bone and antlers, furs, or lumber became out of reach for them overnight.

    Farms having been trampled and roads having been densely blocked over half a year before this day, it was evident the people had been holding on for dear life for far too long. By now, their stores of food must have long since been exhausted.

    Meadaigh knew the citizens and warriors of Mardid were devoted to protecting their home, but she had no doubt that, when faced with the prospect of a slow and agonizing death by starvation, most of them would elect to flee to some distant corner of Soare, where they could live out the rest of their lives in safety from the dread nymph and her impassioned army of fae.

    Even now, they griveously struggled to fight off their own; amidst the chaos of Meadaigh's war, guilds had turned against each other out of sheer desperation, as half of the guilds refused to act, and the other half simply did not know what to do. A stark contrast in comparison to the way they had answered Morrim's call. But Meadaigh would not gloat (for that would be bad form), as she was, after all, almost entirely confident that the leaders of Madrid would admit defeat and make terms of surrender after halfheartedly fighting such a pitiful campaign.

    The forest was singing a tumultuous tune under her harrowing influence. No longer could it be called the Great Summer Woods, as it had been swallowed by a cimmerian shade, drawing in ancient miscreations, whose names could no not roll off of the tongue quite so easily. The murky trees almost seemed to become depraved over time, warping and folding into themselves, and many had become a tangled, beautiful messes of rotting black limbs.

    As for Madrid, Meadaigh would send into her pestilence, and blood into her streets; and the wounded shall be judged in the midst of her by the sword upon her on every side; and they shall know her name.

    A fairy landed on Meadaigh's left pauldron and placed a tiny, gentle hand on her cheek.

    "We are ready, my Lady," she whispered into her pointed, leaf-like ears.

    "Then let us begin," she purred darkly. "Send the signal."

    The fairy rose into the sky, glinting her glowing light on and off; the signal for her army to begin creeping their way into the sleeping city.

    They entered in five groups of twenty-four (merely a quarter of their forces); three rows of four. Rangers and archers in the back, magicians in the middle, warriors in the front, an assassin or two, and a fairy on each shoulder. It was a conglomerate of colorful faces from the different fae races; wood elves, drow, banshrae, nymphs, oreads, fearie, satyrs, forlarren, goblins, gnomes, and human druids. The limited centaur forces that had been allowed to fight for Meadaigh by their Chieftain were ordered to stay behind, for now.

    The lower levels of the city were not hard to capture; the peasants had taken the full brunt of Madrid's suffering and were vastly incapacitated with squalor and disease, as if the higher castes cared little for the weight that their poor and homeless citizens carried on their thin, weak shoulders. They could not and would not fight back. What could they do if they wanted to fight? Grab their torch and pitchforlks? She thought not. Even as they slept, she had the fairies spell them into a deep sleep and had vines crawling over their unconscious forms, binding them in place.

    The buildings changed to better housing and empty shops, all windows shuttered still, as dawn had not yet come. The lanes were narrow and murky, and filth clotted the streets. The stench filled the nymph with loathing. Even pigs wouldn't wallow in their own dirt. As they walked past, blackthorn vines began to grow destructively throughout, barracading doors. The middle-caste might have stood a chance, but with the loss of agriculture and trade, their strife could be considered akin to the poorest citizen. She wondered just now many of Madrid's soldiers she was ultimately imprisoning inside of their own homes and smiled at the thought.

    Meadaigh led them through the warren of buildings towards the steep, upper part of the city, toward the Guildhalls. They kept their route indirect so as to avoid encountering guards in the streets. Sometimes, they had to knock down barricades that had been set up throughout the war; to control the citizens, or to keep what little order was left as the Madrideans turned to desperate measures. She could only guess as to the reasons why, but the list was not a very long one. Yet, she could feel the chaotic energy that latched onto every surface. The party could not keep from running into guards, however. Four guards stepped out of an alley in front of the two column of druids and warriors.

    "Greetings!" Cheered Maeve on her shoulder.

    Their eyes widened, and their mouths fell open in shock. whilst three of them hesitated, the fourth was ready to shout the alarm. Two arrows lodged themselves in between two pairs of eyes. The third arrow landed in one's heart, killing him instantly, and the fourth in the last man's shoulder. Three men and one woman collapsed bonelessly to the ground.

    "WE'RE UNDER ATTACK! WE'RE UNDER--" A drow ran over to the man and cut his throat.

    "No manners, whatsoever!" Maeve chirped as she hovered over the corpses.

    Meadaigh's eyes darkened and deepened, like the void of a vast universe.

    The first blood was spilled, and the siege had only just begun.

    "Pull them off to the side," Meadaigh ordered, "Where they shan't be seen."

    "Do you think they heard?" Asked the Faerie Queen excitedly.

    "We shall find out, soon enough."

    It mattered not if they heard. Whether the alarms were raised. Whether they could scramble to piece some type together of force against them at the very last moment.

    When the bodies were moved, they marched forth, their leather boots crunching the thin layer of snow over the cobbled streets.

    With keen ears, she picked up on the sounds of other guards being cut down across the city at the swing of a sword, the slash of a dagger, and the chant of a spell. There was more opposition from several brave citizens who were early to rise; a couple of mages, several rogues, among others. No mercy was shown to those who tried to fight or run. Meadaigh ordered her troops to replace the slain Madridean guards with her own to patrol the streets.

    Finally, they passed the central square where the famous fountain where the Statue of the Gods were, beautifully coming together into an intricate saturnalia. Their destination was settled just beyond.

    Rays of light streaked over the horizon across the city, hazily gilding the Guildhalls at the very top of the mountain. Off in the distance, a cock crowed.

    "Thou wast perfect in thy ways from the day that thou wast created, till iniquity was found in thee. Therefore, I will cast thee as profane out of the mountain of the Gods: and I will destroy thee."

    Meadaigh let out a laugh, merrily and deeply; the sound like the wind through the leafs or the running river.

    It was the dawn of a new age.

    Spoiler: click to toggle
    Edited by Calliope, Oct 5 2016, 12:54 PM.
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    Malin Nohr
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    For nature...?

    The tympanic shudder of roughshod hooves plowing the dusty earth and flourishing grasses alike had filled Malin's ears for days. He was a dark shape atop a withering horse- the beast fleeing not in obedience, but a frightful terror- distinguished only by the scars of his jet-black, leathern cuirass and the eerie basket-hilt of skeletal bone protruding from Sanglamore's crude sheathe of rotten skin.

    He rode like an omen, a stranger cloaked in shade itself and embraced by Madrid's silent night, mayhaps the last it would ever know by that name. Soto was so different from the lands of Morrim... he'd never imagined the two to be remotely similar, either, but its bounty and wilderness was daunting in a way he found somewhat nauseating: it was all just so happy and vulnerable, the land of a people who had sullied his own with defeat in wars long gone-by, and the sight of Madrid's foolishly lofty peaks earned a rare groan of distaste from the pallid-skinned foreigner.

    Meadaigh's call naturally allured the adversaries of humanity- vampires being no exception, nor Malin himself, though he was not here to make himself the bane of men: he had come to sate his ancient grudge against Soto, the land of plenty and those who'd toppled the proud Morriman empire- as well as Malin's short-lived Barony. He felt no more a fellowship with his blood-letting brethren as he rode past them than a hyena might for its fellow scavenger, concerned with just a single prospect: blood.

    As he merged into the vanguard of the tainted dryad's forces, he leapt from his frenzied steed; losing its prior steadiness, the frightened steed was soon to flee immediately from whence it had come, its once glazed eyes regaining a glint of awareness as it was released from Malin's purpose. He spared it only a cursory glance as it ran- right back the way it had come, though sure to lose its way before long. Malin's own journey was a long night and a slew of corpses from completion.

    The forces of the woods themselves came, adept to the hunts of night and aided by the creeping of the land's thorny talons conjured in the form of terrible vines, the sight of which Malin found rather pleasing. He took a vengeful pleasure in the sight of woodland fae and their folk besetting the city of men in a conquest of their own - he would relish taking anything away from Soto, particularly if it were made difficult to reclaim; Malin swiftly inferred the task of his would-be comrades as they assailed guardsmen, swiftly darting up a cobblestone path of dirtied streets for the peak of a small sentry tower. The forces of Meadaigh faded and quieted well behind him, as he advanced to his own task alone.

    All that stood between Malin and the wooden tower, soon lit by the glow of torches as Sotoan warriors roused to alertness by the call of their slain peers outside, was a plain door: not even a gate of stone nor steel blocked his passage. His eyes narrowed with a cautious scrutiny upon the thing: it seemed too good to be true, too easy to trust. In a long life of war and predation as both man and fiend his very instincts turned wary at the sight of it. But sure enough...

    The door flung open, a trio of hastily armed men in chainmail, carrying still-sheathed armaments there and staring wide-eyed at the stranger looming over their doorstep. Their eyes wandered Malin's armor- certainly mercenary attire, a black-dyed cuirass of steel-studded leather scarred by blades and arrow barbs- though they shared in a mistrust of sorts, as sellswords were sorely out of place in Sotoan cities.

    The slow, casual swoop of a single ivory-nailed hand would strip Malin's hood, baring an unmoving visage of steely calm and a keen but umber-hued gaze of smoldering eyes unto the men. The vampire's wispy mane of bone-white hair was also loosed, possessed of an unnatural weight and texture that effortlessly resisted the rolling breezes of the hilltop city. One guard spoke up, puzzled by the display: "Are you-" He uttered, words trailing off into a bloody gurgle.

    Swiftly, Malin had plunged the curled talon of cruelly sharp metal that was Sanglamore into the taut apple of the soldier's throat; an audible *rip* downward left little to be imagined for the poor man's fate as he fell into a visceral puddle of sanguine colors, his abrupt culling and deathly fall soon followed by the hiss of steel pulled from scabbards, sheathes and shelves within the barracks; the dead guard's shredded and split links of chainmail chimed against the stony floor, all the while. Each metallic cry was abruptly answered- with more pained groans and sharp, dying yelps of mortality.

    First to swing Malin's way was a single, pronged mace- well suited to bashing in the platemail of heavy-armed knights and tough contenders- though, with a sharp-glinted arc of Sanglamore's tainted blade and the metallic bite of its edge, it'd only lightly thud against Malin's chest: a disembodied hand clinging with rigor-mortis to the armament, separated from the rest of the soldier it had once belonged to.

    Even after the bloody display, Malin's visage remained serene and still, whilst he plunged through the doorway and into the bewildered, frenzied and terrified guardsmen: he knew them so well in mere seconds, knew who was experienced and whom was new to the task of bloodshed, hewing his blade through each opponent with feverish desire and sudden malevolence. It was worth suffering some blows in the terrible, fleshy banquet as so to take entire lives in his reckless but skillful swings; he was eager to hear their dying throes- few things said so much about a man than that last utterance of frustration, despair and disbelief, stripped of words to become merely bestial but well-understood syllables of a primal utterance.

    But soon, after the short-lived shrieks of splitting metal and the wet plops of fleshy clods to the floor, there were no more rallying bellows or furious curses loosed the vampire's way. Only disquiet weeping and feverish stutters- as well as ripping, gnashing and tears, as in an unspeakable display the predator set upon his fallen quarry. There was a need for blood to mend the gashes the brave men of Madrid had given their lives to carve into him, after all, which Malin indulged in lavishly: one, two, three and soon he lost count, the number of lives he consumed in a haze of blood-euphoria from their dying vestiges.

    He was sure some of the forest-kin might've stopped him, were they there. But they weren't, for the moment, and so he had his prize- Sotoan blood, so much of it too, yet so much more to take. A terrible shape neither black-clad nor bone-white emerged from the doorway of the sentry's barracks to be faced with a handful of fear-addled peasants. Common folk- some townspeople, one better-clothed man of a mercantile look- stood before the tower, having come to seek shelter within surely behind steely shields and the very sword-arms Malin had spent the past score of minutes hacking off their former owners.

    They looked at Malin mostly with disbelief- and he, with a monstrous glee and wide-eyed excitement, to them. His thoughts were somewhat clouded now with addictive, bloody delight and gushes of killing intent; these folk were in the open, some carrying sticks and crude tools carried as feeble weapons. He could just say they were militia... not mere civilians. None of them would be alive to say any differently, if he had his way about it!

    Leaping forward as a shape that quickly but fleetingly became inhuman, Malin fell on the first of the bunch and cleaved a portly individual; his maw was soon open, gorging on fresh blood pilfered from the carcass-to-be like juice from a squeezed fruit, the morbid display certainly enough to send the previously stunned villagers fleeing. But they wouldn't have it easy- they were running for their lives, which Malin wanted very much. He soon abandoned his unfinished but no less doomed prey to leap after them, picking off another peasant and dragging them from his free hand, Sanglamore's morbid form brandished in the other as he chased them into the soon battle-laden streets, where guardsmen and more villagers fought against the woodland folk assaulting the city.

    It looked to be a long, lovely night of scarlet revelry, for the Morriman vampire.
    Edited by Malin Nohr, Mar 12 2016, 04:18 PM.
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    Barrin
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    There was a cry for warning that was suddenly squelched. Barrin had heard it but paid no mind; the machinations of an assassin were best ignored. But the chaos grew until he could ignore the clashing a street over no longer. The commotion was not what he first thought as but She knew more, the intention of the aggressors were painted with hate. A sensation of excitement gnawed at Barrin's heart, the illusion of an inferno erupted in flickers but then draped around him.

    <hOw lOng HaS iT BeEn?
    > It flickered in and out of existence, gathering fuel. She longed for this moment so and for once encouraged him. <fInD tHe dEath yOu sEeK.> Barrin no longer stood idle and began to move. As She fed, he grew eager. From the alleyway, he saw an unknown force fill the street. With purpose they felled the guards, sparring no hesitation for the injured despite begging or fleeing. He truly could not say how many of them there were or what their aim was.

    It didn't matter to Barrin. Whether it was a coup or a political move or invasion, the force in the street was unfortunate enough to give Barrin an excuse to be violent. The polearm he held was placed proper with hand, held with jitters not unlike a musician's first performance. He rushed upon the street, boot crunching against snow.

    What fell from his lips was not a war cry but a howl of delight. The forest was filled with dangers but even the city had predators. The first strike against an exposed neck was an unkind reminder that they were the frontline, doomed to die for a cause. Barrin hoped the blood in the water would attract the sharks he truly sought.
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    Aniketos
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    Unter friedlichen Umständen fällt der kriegerische Mensch über sich selber her.

    "Master Hesperés, wake up! A messenger came!"

    Aniketos had just seen him disappear around the corner of the house. "I have him," he whispered, "I almost have him." He had his sword, Eiletheia, in his hand, ready to strike. He ran around the courner and caught just a glimpse of him – a flash of bronze skin, a tinkling of ornaments, a hint of those bright eyes. But he just as Aniketos saw him, he darted up the old oak tree and was lost in the branches.

    Aniketos, lying in bed and dreaming of chasing Kaahn, frowned and said, "Come down!"

    Ione was shining a candle in his face and shaking his shoulder, saying, "Master Hesperés, you have to get up," but she just didn't understand that he had gone to his mother's house to hunt down Kaahn, and he was so close right now! Kaahn was just up that tree – with some magic, he could get him in his reach. Aniketos cast shadowy ropes from his fingertips, throwing them straight up into the branches. He didn't catch Kaahn with them as he had intended, but by a strange invention of his dream, he discovered a way to "fling" himself into the branches.

    Thus propelled himself into the tree, and found himself with his belly laid along a long rough bough. He stood and found that he could walk along the webbed branches like they were a floor. Somewhere in the dappled light he thought he saw a moving figure –

    But Ione was shaking his shoulder trying to tell him something. In the dream he became aware that he was asleep; he felt the true position of his body, warm and pressed against the bed, heavy and still as a stone. He struggled through the reality of his dream, but found that his arms kept floating up to match their position in waking life: folded, with his hands held up before him, as if in prayer.

    "No," he said, "Go away. I almost have him." He leaned into his dream, shrugged away Ione, shrugged away the sounds of Shrista waking up beside him, asking questions.

    There were torches up here in the tree. The way the light played off the branches made him feel like he had climbed up into a nest of convoluted shadows. But as he advanced, Eiletheia flasthing violet in his hand, he found that this space was more like a room, a forested room. He peered around, trying to catch movement in the shadows, then saw it: Kaahn slithering up towards him.

    The demon realised he had been seen. He leapt, danced forward, his eyes shining like two gold coins in the dark. Aniketos felt again that he was asleep: he was paralyzed! Shrista's voice called to him from afar: "Aniketos! Aniketos! Wake up!" Kaahn's claws wrapped around his throat, they pricked his skin like hot needles–!

    Aniketos woke up with a spasm. "What?" he snapped, flailing in bed and then staring wildly at Shrista's candle-lit face, then Ione's.

    "A messenger came," said Ione, "Well...a magic thing. It said there's an emergency Council meeting in Madrid, and that you must go at once."

    "Emergency? What emergency?"

    "It said...it said something about an army coming to take Madrid."

    Aniketos struggled upright, blankets sliding off his body, baring his chest. His heart pounded painfully against his rib, he felt dizzy and dry from having been wakened in the middle of his dream. "I must go at once."

    Bold as a sleepwalker, he stepped out of bed before Ione could be dismissed. She scurried nervously away from him, set the candle down beside the bed and made her escape. As the door to the bedroom slid closed, Aniketos caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror at the end of the room: his naked silhouette standing against dim candlelight. He still felt-dreamlike, and hesitated, entranced by the reflection of Shrista rising out of bed, the reflection of the shape of his legs, his shoulders, his arms, of the light stretching dim, flickering fingers along his sides.

    Blearily, he turned away and went to his dresser to begin looking for clothes, still feeling cloudy and slightly sick. Pulling on pants, he said to Shrista, "I don't think you should come. It's not safe. Anything could happen."

    "Mal'ai..."*
    He knew the word: Idiot. Aniketos pulled on pants, looked up at Shrista. Her pale eyes glowed with a cold defiance. "If you think I am going to sit here idly, waiting like some milk-skinned surface wench, you are a clod."

    But didn't she understand? Already he could how this might end up: Shrista, her stomach torn open, her throat foutaining blood, her face destroyed, her body crushed, burnt, beaten, lifeless. Visions, they were like visions, premonitions; they felt inevitable to him.

    Shrista slithered from the sheets and crossed the length of the room in long, loping strides. Aniketos watched her shadow begin to dress, but still he saw in his mind her body trampled by the movement of the battle, her limbs twisted against the cobblestones, her bones protruding, the death in her eyes–

    "Where I am from, we fight." She flowed liquid as shadow to his side, took his face in her hands. "And you need me. I am strong...and I will not let you walk into something you might not return from. I will not."

    To see her face in real life centred him somehow. Yes, yes, he remembered what she looked like in battle: that face lit up with flashes of magic, her lip curled, teeth showing fiercely, hair flying – yes that was his Shrista.

    "But what about–?" He didn't say it, but his hand rubbed against her belly, as if he would be able to tell, by feeling, whether a life was in it or not. "Are you sure?"

    "Nothing is sure." She watched him beneath her snowy lashes, a frown wrinkling her forehead. "Except that if you fall without me, I'll never forgive you. I don't want to walk beneath this sun without you...and..." Her hand settled atop his on her stomach, a wry smile pulling at her lips. "Who wants to try to describe the magnitude of you to someone who's never met you?" She stared him in the eye for a moment, her smile fading. "This is my home too, now, and if you leave me here, I will follow you anyway. You were nearly lost once...not again."

    Aniketos looked upon her tenderly, smiling still. "Who was I to think I could dissuade you from doing exactly what you want?" His forehead bumped up against hers, his hand slipped behind her neck and they stood like that for a moment, then kissed for a while.

    After a few moments, the direness of what was going on pressed at his mind. He broke away from her slowly, saying softly, "We should go." He strode over to the nightstand, where he had placed Eiletheia, hilt towards the bed. Taking her up, he pushed her into her scabbard – he kept her loosened at night – and belted her at his side.

    Ever since he had been tempted into Mordos' house, locked in and attacked by his monsters, he had taken to keeping Eiletheia close at hand. She had been transformed by Kaahn's dream magic: her blade seemed to be of purple of amethyst, but still rang and cut like steel and, seeing no need for a new one, and honestly quite liking the colour and aesthetic of thing, he had kept her. Being armed made him comfortable. He had not been armed at Mordos' house, and he had nearly died for it.

    Well, in any case, he took Shrista – his Shrista and his armour and his bow and his Eiletheia, to the circle he had painted on the floor of his office. He sat down next to Shrista in the circle, his armour bundled up, Eiletheia and Iokheira laid across his lap. Holding Shrista's hand, he thought and thought, thought his way to his office in the Guildhall of Madrid, where the light from the streetlamps fell through the window, illuminating his desk, the inkwell, casting a long shadow with his feather quill – and just like that they fell together into the compressing space between here and there.

    Aniketos only felt that for a moment, however. He slipped into a dream again, found himself sitting not in the in-between-space but in some unfamiliar street at night.. Kaahn was near, he knew it, he had to go find him. Eiletheia was in his lap; he took her up, he stood, then he knew– Kaahn was behind him. He swung around, sword slicing at the air–

    –and sprawled into his office in Madrid, confused.



    “I suggest taking my warning regardless of who I am affiliated with," said Jendrith coldly. He had been sent from Argos in place of Ni'ab, and he had just told them what Argos' "scouts" had seen: an army of deep forest creatures marching towards Madrid. Jendrith conjectured that these must be the ones who had been attacking towns and supply lines, that finally they had built up enough strength to make an assault on Madrid. Aniketos glowered at him. He had protested for a moment upon seeing him, for he could hardly stand the sight of anyone from Argos in the Council chambers, but, as Councillor Terenas had pointed out, Jendrith had willfully come to Rhia with the information that an army was marching on Madrid. If it hadn't been for his information, they probably wouldn't have even had a fighting chance.

    The relay of information had been a slow process; Jendrith had a tone of voice that sounded to Aniketos like he just didn’t care one way or the other about this news. Jendrith’s hood was down, revealing his elven features, his hair the colour of river ice and eyes that were like light blue glass, a bored expression showing in the way his eyelids drooped.

    Aniketos was the first to speak, "Yes, your warning has been very useful." His voice was cold. "Now you may leave."

    "I may leave, but I won't. If Argos is to offer its services, which we are, then at the very least we should be allowed in on your plans for defence. Don't dismiss us because of your personal feelings for the deceased," a small smile touched Jendrith's lips; his smile was just like Neriasis'.

    Aniketos leapt out of his chair, sending it clattering to the floor. The spark of anger he'd carried in his chest had erupted into a great blaze which filled him to his very fingertips. "Who do you think you are? Argos is a criminal organisation, and Soto will not accept help from such scum, even as she balances on the razor's edge! To fall into the arms of criminals is to fall all the same; if evil is what carries us through this time, then Soto is corrupted and no longer worth her old name!"

    He stared around at his fellow Councillors, who were shocked into silence, looking between him and Jendrith wide-eyed. Jendrith merely continued to smirk. A small voice in Aniketos' head told him he was making a fool of himself, but no, no, he was right, he was right. He had lost too much to Argos, it was unforgivable; he would not lose his country too.

    It was Rhia who broke the silence.

    The Councillor slammed her fist down on the table and rose, her chair also clattering to the floor, her face flushed with a righteous fury. She screamed at him: “I want this day to be noted as the day Aniketos Hesperés turned his back upon his countrymen and allowed an opposed force to extend its malevolent hand to our cities all because he simply couldn’t heed a mere warning of the jaws closing in around our throats!” She wanted every word to be a knife driven into his skull. “I dislike Argos but I am not about to allow my country to fall due to whatever personal distastes I have for the organisation. You are, in part, a leader of this state, and you need to act like one!” Rhia balled her fist as to not impulsively draw her weapon. “You have a responsibility to keep your people safe, Aniketos! As it stands there are enough who shirk that duty. How much more do you plan on embarrassing us?”

    Aniketos' nostrils flared, a red flush showing in cheeks. His world was tilted askew, his vision a pulsating tunnel. He felt angry, he felt sick, he felt his heart floating on a tide of boiling blood. She's right, she's right, insisted the small, reasonable voice in his head. We need all the help we can get. The thought of swallowing his rage made more rage pour into his throat, but swallow it he did. He said nothing. He picked up his chair and sat down. With difficulty, he had mastered himself.

    The discussion went on.

    The first order of business: Councillor Barillus was not there. Her seat had remained empty, the messenger who has been sent to inform her of the meeting could not find her in her house, and the servants didn't know (or wouldn't say) where she was. A decision was quickly reached to send for the guildmaster of the Ameliorate Ordos to act in her place for the time being until she showed up – or until an election could be had.

    The guildmaster, Ocaia Gyna, showed up out of breath, her broad cheeks flushed, while they were discussing how to respond to the oncoming army. She sat down, the Council-members inclined heads towards her, and Councillor Vaal, formerly of The Kraken's Rage, went on saying: "They must have a thousand or more, and how many can we muster? Surely two thousand, what Auberon's Destiny, the City Guard–"

    "Once it would have been so," said Aniketos, sitting back in his chair with his chin in the hollow of this thumb. "But recent circumstances have trimmed down our numbers, as it turns out. The events in the woods...well, they're either protecting villages or merchant caravans, or dead from doing so." He had sent a shadow shape as messenger to the Auberon's Destiny headquarters to get the numbers before the meeting. "We have 450 fighters left," he said, his eyes half-lidded, his lips crooked in a dry smirk. "I had expected a thousand."

    Similar reports came in from all the guilds. Councillor Omeros said that the Mystic Occult could summon up 180 mages at best, and a messenger was sent to retrieve numbers on the Madridean City Guard – a measly 120, from their former 200. Argos could offer 80, according to Jendrith, and Councillor Zenais offered up 50 or so fighters from the Revenger's Blade, though, being independent bounty hunters, they would mostly work on their own. Scraping at the bottom of the barrel, other guilds offered up their hired guards, petty mages and whatever else – estimated to be 30 fighters in total. And the final number? 930 people to defend Madrid, and, by Ocaia Gyna's estimate, 50 healers of varying skill to tend the wounded, who would need a dozen fighters to guard them.

    "Madrid will fall," said Aniketos. He smirked. He sat at ease in his beauty, in a his mess of bronze curls, but his eyes burned. "Or, she likely will. It wouldn't hurt us to evacuate the city, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't fight back. They – whoever they are – can try to trample us, but we will be as thorns under their feet. While they nurse their wounds, when we're fed with reinforcements from Reine – maybe then we can have the city back, if it should fall. We should try to find out more about this enemy's strength of course – but I feel it. I feel it. Madrid will fall."

    They took his word for it, he thought. They were solemn. They spoke of what to do with the refugees – perhaps they would have to be escorted to Reine – of guarding them with some of their fighters. Between fifty and a hundred would do it, depending on the size of the group. They spoke of calling for volunteers: Auberon's Destiny kept a number of crossbows ready for this exact purpose, because it took nothing to train someone to use one. They spoke of how to convince people to leave the city, and Councillor Camaia of The Anointed helpfully reminded them of an old verse in Rodaimus' Prophecies:

    "The forest will rise and the trees will brood,
    They will rise and find Soto in walls of wood."


    "Well," said Councillor Camaia, "some might say that that second verse refers to them – the enemy – invading our city, but we can insist that it means that we must leave Madrid behind and bring Soto to the forest itself. That will be enough to convince people, at least most of them."

    But what if you're wrong? thought Aniketos, What if it is about the forest taking Madrid? Then it would be the end of the world as he knew it. It was a horrible thought. He felt his stomach sink beautifully, his skin tingle with pleasant goosebumps.

    With the day coming on an the various orders sent through various messengers to various recipients, the Council adjourned and most of the Councillors went to get what rest they could. Councillor Mirahim Vaal offered Aniketos a bed in her house, and so he and Shrista followed her home through the dawning streets, passing by people just beginning their day, not yet aware of what was going to happen: families going to the temples to pray, men carting their wares to the market squares, women laughing together, couples walking together hand-in-hand.

    Outside Mirahim's house, Aniketos paused outside and told the others to go in. He closed his eyes, tapped into his magic and summoned shadows into his hands. They rose up, taking on the forms of birds as they flapped around him. He felt the link with them in his mind, thus saw himself standing in the pale morning light, his face white, tired and determined. Go into the forest, he said, Find what you can, come back and show me. They rose up against the blueing sky and flapped away, to later plunge into the trees and travel as the dappled shadows of the leaves. Aniketos cut off his mental connection with them; it was time to sleep.

    He went in, to the bedroom where the light was blocked out by heavy curtains and where Shrista already slept. He stripped and laid down; as soon as he did, exhaustion poured through his limbs. Melting into the bed, he drifted into half-sleep and walked through the visions of that strange land: he saw his mother balancing on a fine wire and he saw the trees marching into the city to plunge their roots into Madridean streets.



    A messenger came at 10 AM for Councillor Vaal and Councillor Hesperés, bearing news that the Zauber family had offered their mansion to the refugees. It was near Madrid, but near the river as well, and magically protected, making it the perfect refuge for the city's exiles. The messenger went to Mirahim's room first, and she sent him to Aniketos' room, being engaged in her toilette.

    Guards from Auberon's Destiny were set outside his door. One went in to wake him, but the sleeping man protested, murmuring "Leave me alone," and "Not now, I almost have him." When provoked further, he leapt up, snarling, "There you are!" He snatched up his sword and slashed at the guard, whose life was only saved by his armour.

    The messenger outside heard the clattering and shouting of a fight, and then the guard stumbled out of the room, closely followed by Councillor Hesperés himself, wielding his strange sword. His eyes were wide open, but he saw not this world, rather some other; his face was the face of madness.

    He continued to lay into the guard until he ran away, and the other grabbed him by the waist. Then Shrista came out, calling his name, and Councillor Hesperés abruptly woke, confused to be naked and clasped in metal-clad arms, his sword in his hands. He stared about wildly, asked "What?"

    The nervous messenger hurriedly repeated her message and ran away, her tongue free to repeat this strange tale to any listening ear.



    Aniketos spent the day with General Matlios and other high-ups from Auberon's Destiny, making plans for various contingencies. He drew on an experience from before he even became guildmaster: once, he had practiced city defence tactics in the ruins of Solibar, deep in the Erth'netora forest. He planned to send the crossbowmen, mages, et cetera, onto the roofs of buildings, while those on the ground adopted phalanx tactics. As they had the bounty hunters from Revenger's Blade at their disposal, he and Matlios agreed to use them to guard the buildings that the crossbowmen were on to keep anything from sneaking up.

    When Aniketos went out doors after hours in that cramped and smoky room, the day had gotten colder, and the air stung his nostrils, promising snow. He walked about the city for a while, looking for Shrista, often passing against the current of people leaving. They carried everything they could on their backs, or on their barrows, carts, horses and mules. He saw the sick carried on stretchers, the young and elderly perched on rattling carts amongst boxes and bedsheets. He saw the expressions of those who stayed behind: a sullen young woman busying herself with making dinner, whose face he saw through a window, an ancient man sitting on a doorstep waving a bottle and drunkenly heckling passersby, a prancing young girl who seemed to feed off the energy humming in the air. Worst of all, he saw a woman clutching at the legs of her family, rasping that they had to take her, she would get better, she didn't want to be left here to face death.

    Aniketos intervened, took the woman away to the high road, where the most people were passing by, and found her a cart. "Make space," he commanded the family, his voice radiating authority. "You know who I am; I order you as Councillor." As he turned away, he caught a glimpse of white hair: Shrista was standing to the side of the road, shrewdly watching the people pass by, clearly watching for any fights that she might have to break up.

    They met, they embraced, they kissed. Aniketos felt the first warmth of the day; all this time he had been haunted by dread. It was only when the clouds came through that he felt any vague optimism: they had an army of 1,400 what with the volunteers that had turned up, and many more volunteers to carry messages, wounded and bodies. Surely that would be enough, he would think, but then he would remember what he had seen through the shadow shapes. The enemy was of a thousand or more and made up of all sorts of creatures. The air around them was blanketed with magic. The sight of such things would shake all but their seasoned soldiers, of which there were comparatively few, especially in the depths of night. Most frightening of all was that woman, that pale woman atride a stag, reeking with power–

    "...must watch over the citizens, and you need every capable fighter you can get- Are you even listening to me?" Fingers snapped in front of his face, brow crinkling with concern. Aniketos jumped a little, but came back to earth smiling at her. Something about her sassiness made his heart swell with love. "You look lost. Are you alright?"

    "Oh, I just can't help but be worried about everything." He reached a hand out, placed it on her waist as she shifted her weight onto one foot, hip jutting, hand resting idly on the whip she hadn't worn in forever. He could feel her skin; she was wearing the armour he'd given her years ago; the Hesperés crest sat on her chest. They smiled at each other.

    "I'm going with them," She said, and her hand flicked out, taking the turgid flow of people in one lazy sweep. "They will be safe in my care."

    A veil of anxiety lifted from Aniketos' mind. "Good," he said, "I'm glad. I know it's a little ridiculous, given what I'm doing...but I want you to be safe."

    They embraced, they kissed, they talked for a while as Madrid steamed past.

    When Aniketos and Shrista parted, he felt as if his heart was stretching out towards her, pining before she was even fully gone. He forced himself not to look back for a long while, instead staring at his feet as he mounted the hill. There came a point where he couldn't help himself any more, and he looked back. He saw Shrista's white head bobbing along in the stream of departing Madrideans. He watched her, and then lost sight of her.

    Aniketos stood there for a while, feeling the cold filter through his limbs. And what if this is the thing that parts us forever? he thought with a pang. He gave up on trying to find her in the crowd again, and his eyes wandered up, stared out into the expanse of forest outside the city. He been so busy that he hadn't even thought to look at it, though this was where the enemy was coming from.

    But now he saw that the forest had changed. Straight trunks – he had thought they were straight – had become convoluted, branches had become winding and spiralling. The shadows in there seemed deeper, so deep they sucked his mind in. As his eyes became unfocused to take in the whole of the forest, the trees began to sway and gyrate like Ashokan dancers, twining their limbs.

    His pulse elevated. Has it always been this way? he wondered. He looked to the trees that lined the street – mere fingerlings of trees compared to those thick-trunked monstrosities in the Erthn'etora. They stood straight, they rattled their sticks in the drifting twilight air. They, Aniketos deduced, were as of yet unaffected.

    Then he looked to his feet and saw, with a lurch of horror, the grass that grew up between the bricks. Has that always been there too? he asked, Did she bring it, or has the forest been seeping in all along? But no, now that he thought of it, it had always been that way: the plants eked out a living between the bricks, along the sides of walkways, and up the sides of buildings. Many different kinds, now that he looked for it, which had gone unpicked by the human hand, unfrozen by this so-far mild winter, which would flower come spring, living a life in total disregard to the bustle of human life all around them.



    Night fell, the air grew cold. Madrid, the most silent it had been in centuries, gloamed. The Madridean army, gathered around the Guildhall at the top of the Capitol Hill, could taste the impending snow on the air.

    They waited, gathered in groups, perched on chairs dragged out from the Guildhall. They spoke in low voices, they ate a little food, their wet eyes glistened in the firefly-lights of the hilltop circle. Nobody had the bravado of warriors before a battle on the frontier; no, this was so much bigger than that, so much more serious, because their home was under attack.

    Aniketos knew – knew because he felt it in himself – that each individual felt, rather than thought, the chance that they might die tonight. Aniketos, sitting near the steps of the Guildhall on the chair pulled from his office, bore witness to the people of his army: a red-bearded man chewing meditatively on a piece of bread, a weasel-faced elf man with long hair, a wide-faced woman with her cheek in her hand, Lannelise sitting to his left looking at the sky and Xanthus sitting to his right, staring at his hands. He knew they all felt how the rope of their lives might be cut off tonight. He also felt, pre-emptively, the frayed end of his own rope. He felt Shrista, who he intended to marry, who might now be pregnant with the seed of their combined lives. He felt his mother, how he might die with her hating him still; he felt the friends who he'd meant to spend time with. He felt the smallest things, like his cats, his servants, the paperwork on his desk– all would be loose threads in his rope...

    ...and his shadow shapes slid through the forest, following the progress of the army; his shadow shapes perched on the roofs of buildings, watching. He saw flashes of what they saw whenever he closed his eyes, and often he closed his eyes, for he was so tired and though he was so uncomfortable in his armour, it was hard not to drift off. But he was sure he would know when it was time, and if it was only for a moment...and when he closed his eyes, when his mind sank away, all he saw was the trees, the trees...

    Aniketos fell asleep, but through his shadow shapes he was conscious. He flitted through the forest, he watched over Madrid, both at once, until they melded into one and became like the ruins of Solibar. Aniketos' mind was confused and distorted; it wandered straight into the past. So he was twenty again, and it was that summer again, and again he marvelled at Solibar's destroyed majesty; he felt its ghosts in his heart. He marvelled when they fought mock battles and had to stand between the trees that ate into the ramparts, when they had to root the bushes out of the streets so they'd have clear enough ground to fight on.

    Aniketos at age twenty, marvelled, child-like, at a dove's nest he saw perched in a tree, a tree that grew right out of the doorway of some rotted-out old building. His nearness frighted away the parents – they flew away on whirring wings, so he watched the hairy, ugly chicks for a while. Then woodpecker landed in the nest, and before he could even guess what would happen, it began to peck, peck at those little chicks. Aniketos was frozen, transfixed; he caught a glimpse of the red hole in the first chick's head. Then it stumbled, fell out of its nest with a last flutter of its wings, while the woodpecker worked at the other one. Before it even died and fell, the woodpecker flew away and was gone.

    Aniketos at age twenty went and crouched by those bodies. Their heads were hollow, brains picked out and eaten. Aniketos, so young, trembled and went cold. Was there no justice in nature? Is this, he thought, looking around at the sun falling placidly on the ruins of Solibar, what it all comes to? Cities fall and are eaten up by time; what was once the greatest city in Soare fell under nature's law of lawlessness

    He had been convinced that day that he would never forget what he had seen: how the parents came back and landed in their empty nest, then discovered their young lying motionless on the ground. They cooed and cooed, they seemed confused. He was so sure he'd never forget it; it haunted him all day. But he had forgotten until now, had not remembered even when he'd been in the position of that father dove, impotently looking upon his son, his creation, lying motionless in Shrista's arms.

    "The forest is coming." Alarm bells rang in his head. The enemy was on the edge of the city. "The forest is coming."

    Aniketos leapt up, strapped Eilehteia to his side and his bow and quiver to his back, crying, "Form up! Form up! They're here!"



    The army boiled through the city, split up, and flowed through the streets surrounding the Temple Square. Aniketos had divined the enemy's intention to approach the Capitol Hill by the main road. The road led through Madrid's temple district and Aniketos decided to pen them in there in the interest of killing as many as possible.

    Contingents of footsoldiers marched into place, blocking up the side streets and the thoroughfare up to the Capitol. The contingent meant to block the way out hung back in a nearby market square. This group, under the command of General Matlios, would wait for the enemy to enter the square before moving into place. Another contingent was stationed by the Guildhall, by the field hospital, ready to come in assistance to any group that needed it. Communications between the Councillor and the other contingents were managed by members of the Mystic Occult, who had conjured up every sort of familiar and magical servant they could think of. These creations – from crouching homunculi to glittering white clouds, from little red imps to butterflies gifted with speech, flitted and flickered near Councillor Aniketos and the other group heads, waiting to be called upon.

    Crossbowmen, archers, slingers, mages and anyone who could even throw roof tiles and stones marched up through the empty buildings and poured out onto the roofs. The enemy streamed into the square, and they began to fire. The warriors in the streets lowered their spears and each soldier pressed their shield onto the back of the soldier in front of them.

    Aniketos, several ranks deep, waited beside Lannelise, Xanthus, and several other champions who Aniketos didn't really know.* Aniketos glanced at Lannelise to his left, Xanthus to his right; they were all young, and he was twenty years old still, his mind still transported back to those days in Solibar, though now, illogically, he was in some sort of dream, it felt like, though in some sense the dream was real. He had to defend Madrid from the trees; he had to defend it from Solibar's fate. Volleys of arrows, of stones and tiles and magic whistled to and from the roofs, cries of pain filled the air. Aniketos saw a body fall from a roof and into that forest of grotesque faces. The next moment, war cries rose up from the opposing ranks, drowning out the howls of the dying, and the phalanx before him began to press their shields into each other's backs, bracing for impact.

    Aniketos' body pumped heat like a furnace, he was tense and sweating under his armour, Eiletheia was in his hands, he was ready. His eyes were wide and, as nobody had had time to notice or do anything about it, those eyes looked upon the ruins of Solibar, and not the city of Madrid. His face was the face of madness.

    *I have formulated a theory of Elenlondian tactics, which is that, given that certain people have an insane amount of powers, they are likely to engage in champion battles. People like Tekun and Sophia are perfect examples. If one side has a Tekun and sends them flying into your ranks, you're going to be screwed unless you send out a Sophia to duke it out with him. As such, the Sotoan ranks are prepared to open and close to admit the passage of champions to and fro.
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    Laraiya
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    It was dawn, but only just. Cool morning air blew and the sun's rays sneaked over the horizon. It would have been a nice morning, if the sun was rising on any other day. However, on this day, there was naught but bloodshed ahead. For her part, Laraiya did not think it was a nice morning. It felt like the worst morning she had ever had the displeasure of waking up on. As the wind blew again, she shivered, even though she was surrounded by people. There were soldiers, fighters, and warriors, men and women, bearing various weapons and looking grim. Larai felt small next to them, even though she wasn't physically short. They were powerful, tough, and ready for battle; Larai was weak, scared, and felt sick to her stomach at what was going to happen. How did she get herself into this mess, anyway...?

    Yesterday was a day like any other day. Laraiya had awoken in her small home, gotten dressed, and ate breakfast, but the sun hadn't been up long when it all went awry. As she was clearing her food from the table, she could hear shouting and noises from outside. She sighed; since this war started, there were hardly any peaceful days anymore. Still, if they were making this much racket, it must be important. Poking her head out of the window, she caught the word "evacuation". Shocked and surprised, she watched as people began leaving their homes, with sacks on their back and bundles in their arms. Shaking her head sadly, she turned away to pack her own things. Fortunately her travelling gear was mostly already in her bag, so she slung it over her shoulder and pushed the front door open, grabbing her walking stick before she stepped outside. She might be walking for a while, she reasoned.

    As she filed along with others, Larai saw some soldiers off to the side talking amongst themselves. Suddenly, she felt tired of doing nothing in this war, tired of standing by when she could be helping. She stepped out of line and made her way to the men. "Excuse me..." she said, and one of them turned his attention to her. "Are you here to volunteer? We need everyone we can get." That remark was presumably because she didn't look very intimidating. The thought that they only wanted those who could fight came to her, and she grew worried momentarily. "I'd love to help, but I'm not much of a fighter," she said, clutching her staff. She hoped he didn't mistake it for a weapon. "If you can't fight, you can help the healers, they're looking for volunteers too," the man replied, and jerked his thumb in the direction of another group of people. She smiled and nodded; healing was definitely something she could help with. Feeling relieved, she hurried to them.

    She quickly discovered that the group she was directed to were representatives from the healers. The healers themselves were busy preparing the medic station for what they knew would be a large influx of patients. As she approached, a man stepped up and frowned. "If you need a healer, you'll have to wait. They are very busy at the moment and cannot help anyone save for emergencies." "Ah, no, I don't need healing," she stated quickly, shaking her head. "I just want to help, the soldier over there said I could maybe volunteer to help the healers?" Larai was thinking that she would be needed in the medic station, working with the healers to help keep people alive...and away from the fighting itself. So when the man smiled and spoke again, she was in for a surprise. "Oh, great! Yes, the healers are in desperate need of people to ferry wounded from the battle to the hospital. Can you help us with that?" "...S-sure, I can, of course...." she said, hardly knowing what she was saying. Carrying wounded out of the battle? Being near or in the front lines? The thought made her weak at the knees, but she couldn't back down now. She wanted to help, and if this was the only way, then she had no choice. Surely it would all work out...

    And that was that. She found herself alongside the healing representatives all through the day, also helping to recruit volunteers, although it seemed they only were able to find a scant few. In the evening they camped along with the soldiers, and Laraiya kept to herself, quietly making a few more healing potions. There was little talk, and everyone stayed awake, listening and waiting. The hours crawled by, and some ate a little. Larai could only sit and wait helplessly. Suddenly, the call came to form up and march. She and a few of the other medical volunteers spread out amongst the warriors, not in the front line, but much too close for Laraiya's liking. They got into position quickly, and stood silently in the cold darkness before morning. As the day dawned, she squeezed her walking stick. She still had her bag of potions and ingredients, and she meant to try to help any wounded on the battlefield before taking them away to the healers. But she had precious little to defend herself with, just a thick oaken stick, and this wouldn't hold up against a serious fighter. Despite this, she was resolved to do what she could to help. Madrid had only been her home for a year, but it was still her home. She had to help defend it in any way she could.

    As the fighting began, Larai grit her teeth. She could hear the screams and shouts, the grunts and groans. She considered getting closer, to try to help those already fighting, but it was much too dangerous just now to force her way into the front line. Her turn would come soon enough. Bracing herself, she waited, fidgeting, staring at the light growing on the back of the warrior in front of her.

    ((Edited, sorry! Dx))
    Edited by Laraiya, Apr 1 2016, 03:58 PM.
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    Sabellius
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    Fléctere si néqueo súperos, Acheronta movebo.

    Sabe


    He loped along at her side, a piece of the night. No mount for him, only his own two feet, those bearing riders snorting and shying away from his presence. For a time he'd felt the hairs prickling on the back of his neck, the eyes drilling into his back, the feeling drumming against the back of his head until he thought he could stand it no longer, would have to dart into an alley and hide. But it was just as it had been in the daylight. It was not that he was watched, but just one more faceless entity in the crowd.

    As one could stand around the edges of a crowd and watch it sift past, or move through it as one swam in the ocean, one was always still singular. It was strange to be a smaller part of a bigger whole.

    Strange, but not bad.

    Unless he got stabbed in the spine of course. No amount of knowing would prevent it if they were fast enough. The Cambion huffed a slow laugh beneath his breath, hands twitching loosely at his sides, aching for the grip of his talwars.

    Not yet.

    Red eyes throbbed and beat at the darkness as he swept his gaze over the steadily moving assembled host. They bristled with weaponry, leather harness and tack creaking gently, muffled jingles of stirrups and belts as they crept ever closer. For a moment he was glad that they seemed to be the more threatening of the two sides. A lot could be said if you could demoralize an enemy before you even fought. He hoped that Skith came to no harm, though there was little he could do if she did, his fledgling predator.

    And Meadaigh...of course he'd protect her...there was little choice in that now. Too late to turn back. Far too late.

    Sabe cast his mind out across the city, searching with grim reluctance, as one might lance a painful blister. He didn't want to, but it had to be done, he had to know if she was out there, after the warning he'd dropped in her lap. She had to know that if Meadaigh commanded him, he could not disobey. She had to understand that. Had to understand, even as his fingers closed pitilessly on her throat...

    The sound of the tainted dryad's voice dragged him from his hideous reverie, snapped him back into himself.

    Her laugh reached inside him and gripped, twisted until he felt sick and uncomfortable with it, the sensation rising til he thought he'd puke all the vitriol he'd saved to this point. Terrible hunger, barely kept at bay, left him fidgeting and restless.

    Don't let her be there.

    He felt the weight of his sins crawling on his back.

    And there...there were the Sotoans, their defence formed neat and ready, shields braced while they waited for the inevitable charge. The word must have gotten through then, despite the fae's attempts to silence the early risers, despite the forerunners like that damnable vampire taking out the sentry-posts. He couldn't help but feel a little pride at that, a fleeting euphoria, though whether for the chaos sown or the chance it had given them, he couldn't say.
    A shame that he had to stay by the Goddess' side then, and could not move with the gibbering, howling mass as they seethed and boiled into the square. A disadvantage to them, to be caught in such choke points, but they had the numbers-

    The Cambion reeled as though punched squarely in the guts, one hand settling on the twitching flank of Meadaigh's stag, breath hissing through his teeth. The whisper and shriek of arrows peppered their ranks, another deflecting from his aura on the left, set another tender bruise flowering on his shoulder. He could suffer....he could. It was all he was good for. He'd suffer for her.

    [Abilities used: Magnetism/Polar flux - causing metal tipped arrows to be repelled from himself and Meadaigh.]


    Galena


    She didn't want to be here. She was a rabbit caught in a trap, forced to watch as the steel jaws swung inexorably together, splicing her life cleanly in two. How could one make a decision to fight for either side, when you were part of both?

    Madrid was her home...its people, her extended family. She'd patched them up, treated their illnesses and soothed their fears, and now, just like that, she was gutting them with her betrayal. But equally, she too was fae, and drawn to Meadaigh as relentlessly as a piece of iron to a lodenstone.

    A conflicted as the dryad was about the situation, she felt it fade each time her fever-bright eyes swung to gaze at the Avatar astride her pitch stag. The poison in her system had helped to sway her to their cause, and with each breath she felt the hesitation that had been growing with each stride fall away. It was the right thing to do. It was for Meadaigh, for the forest. She would follow her unerringly. The people would see, she could be fair, her hand was gentle to those that accepted her. And why should they not? She was heartbreakingly beautiful, even wreathed about with thorns such as she was. How could anyone not see her purity?

    A tiny smile curved her bow lips, fingers strumming the strings of her lyre idly.

    Not yet.

    Pale as a china doll, she rode delicately behind the Goddess, yet wore no armor to speak of, only an ashen green stola trimmed with gold. Thorns as long as her hand ruptured the smooth skin of one shoulder, twisted the perfect arm to gnarled bark and cruel talons. Thin dark veins, like root-threads webbed from her eyes and vanished into her hair, traced a jagged line of blackthorn from her temples, down her spine, blooming even now.
    Yet for all the poison in her, the cracking of aching distorted joints, fixed somewhere in transformation, she still turned adoring eyes on their leader, milky schlera now gone dark as ironwood, causing the moss green of her irises to jump all the brighter.

    Soon she would sing for her, a song to inspire their kin to victory and chase away their fears. Soon.

    A man stepped out, his voice lifting in a cry of alarm before it was cut gurgling short. Once, she would have flinched in horror at the casual brutality of the act, but now there was only a curiously cold detachment. One life, for many. They had to take them into the fold. Had to bring them to Meadaigh.

    Perhaps it should have worried her, but as they rode into the square, she raised her eyes to the blind ones of the statues, and found nothing there. No fear, no sadness, not even a worry for what would happen. The city didn't care. It wasn't alive. Not like the forest. But they were waiting, ready and prepared as they hadn't expected to find them. A quiver of trepidation shot through her, then she breathed deep, and began to play.
    Her fingers plucked at the strings of her instrument, first coldly, without passion. After a moment she warmed to the music, as if some disconnected part of her awakened, the part that still loved this city, these people, rebelling against the strangling hold on her heart. They'd know, by all the gods they'd know, but she had to give them hope. All of them.

    Galena's voice soared, tangling with the music above their heads, made the doe's ears flick back at her, stirring skittishly beneath her thighs. She'd give them hope for something better. All of them.

    [Ability used: Lament for the Forlorn - Boosts healing and invigorates nearby targets, granting them resistance to mind affecting skills and fear.]

    The song.


    Alex


    Everything was going wrong.

    That was the first problem.

    The second problem was that he'd run out of rum about thirty minutes ago, by his estimate. The third problem, which was a good chunk of the second problem's fault, was that it didn't seem to matter how much he was pouring into himself. He got drunk, but it wasn't allaying the deep hunger that came on painfully strong when the sun dropped out of view.

    And what the hell was the deal with vampirism anyway? The moon was just reflected light from the sun, so why didn't they crisp up like an Ashokan barbecue at nighttime too? Well at least he'd taken the precautions that only a wise man should. The wide-brimmed hat he'd taken to wearing overshadowed his face nicely, even with the goggles hanging loose around his neck now, and the scarf no longer covering his nose and mouth, it gave good cover.

    The fourth problem was that it was too quiet. If he'd blown up the Guildhall, it would have been heard from Morrim, that was how bloody quiet it was. Not that he was going to go all Guy Fawkes on it, but it had been a passing thought when it came to getting them to lower the prices of bed and board at local inns. It was a devastating shock to the system to find your tab was so high and you'd not even been there five minutes. It was enough to drive a man to drink.

    But with the first problem, where the hell was everyone? Couldn't a man find a bite to eat around here? He'd literally been back from the south less than twenty-four hours, stuck inside the walls of that damned fortress, his goods all gone to waste, and the fees paid for his explosives now in the pocket of that greedy innkeep...and no, it wasn't the alcohol, he didn't have a drinking problem. He drank, he fell down, he didn't consider it a problem.

    Grumbling, the engineer skulked from the alley joining two streets, and froze, his face swiveling from side to side. One the one hand, there was a horrifying array of elfin faces, bark-skinned and slant eyed, all spidery fingered and gleeful, twisting features. An army, a veritable horde. On the other hand, there was a horrifying array of grim determination and fear filled humans, standing their ground. A veritable army, not quite a horde.

    And then there was him, standing right there trying to assess it all in about as many heartbeats he didn't have as it took someone to scream blue murder.

    He came to the conclusion that he was fucked. Royally so, if he was so bold to say as much.

    "Why can't everyone just...play...nice?!" Alex snarled as he fumbled at his waist for the flintlock, ripping it from the holster and backtracking as fast as he dared, his fingers curling around the hilt of his swordbreaker with frantic desperation. The vampire staggered backward, sweeping the short blade out and across the chest of something undeniably hairy and goat-like, dropping it like a sack of bad potatoes. He fired, once, twice, the impact shattering through the wooden rib cage of something more tree than man, sent it spinning into something else next to it, then they were on him, in his face, squashed tight. The press of the charge shoved him back against the shields, steel rims digging into his shoulderblades as they gave and steadied, half a dozen feral sharp faces jutting at him, breathing hard, stabbing and poking.

    And just like that, the shields shifted, let him fall drunkenly back underfoot as they adjusted to compensate while he scrabbled around madly to get himself upright again, hat sliding askew from his head and hanging behind his shoulders from its tether.
    "What the everloving fu-"
    Someone elbowed him in the ribs and he stumbled back a rank, shoved aside as easily as a child as they advanced, grinding back into the encroaching fae horde.
    "I just want to go home! What is wrong with everyone?!"
    Nobody seemed to care for his caterwauling, just one more noise in the already unbearable cacophony. So he did what any normal man might do, when faced with a bad situation about to become worse. He began to slide backwards through the ranks, feigning injury when questioned. He had to get out...why was everyone fighting again? He just wanted to go home, by all the gods that didn't really exist....the world was going mad...
    (OFFLINE) PROFILE QUOTE GO TO TOP
     
    Kestrel Sumner
    And then she was gone, her hips swinging as the knives jostled her thighs, passing by guards with her head held high, a haughty smile upon her lips.

    She had spent so much time in Morrim’s wilderness that word of Soto’s plight had taken months to reach her. News didn’t filter down through the ranks. Emperor Leofric knew, maybe, and if not him then his advisors or the greater magnates or even the knights and soldiers of the empire. But the peasants and the serfs had no reason to know, and even if they did, why would they care? They had weathered their own fair share of famine and drought—let somebody else deal with it for once.

    So by the time news from Soto reached her, the situation had escalated to a point where intervention was needed, otherwise the country would be forced to knuckle under.

    And where, exactly, are the Councillors? What’re they doing? The guilds?

    Had she not told Altair some time ago that she had no sense of purpose anymore—her sellsword days were all but over, her time as a goddess little more than a distant memory?

    But I can’t sit by… Not when I know [/i]I can help.[/i]

    “I have to go help Soto,” she said to Altair one night. She hugged him tight, each finger pressing into his back. “I’m sorry. Something’s happening in the forest. Can you feel it? I…” The words caught in her throat, as if saying them would seal an end that should’ve come but never had. “I love you.” The first time he had heard those words and possibly the last.

    The next morning, she waited until he had left—despite his protests she had pressed him to go about his life like normal, to pretend she would be there when he came home—before she made her final preparations. As she packed her bag, she found the small array of gifts she’d collected over the years, one of them a bangle from Jaida, her old friend. The power in the small, silver bracelet that looked like a sprig from a tree with its small, new leaves had faded. Once it had granted her invisibility, but now it was merely decorative.

    Shadow also planned to leave Anuket at Altair’s quaint home. The horse disapproved—though she seemed to disapprove of everything. But it couldn’t be helped. If Shadow chose to ride, they wouldn’t make it to the border for several weeks and it would be weeks after that before they reached Madrid. And that also required that they travel through the heart of the Erth’netora. Shadow had gleaned as much information from as many reliable sources as she could before she’d made the decision to go to Soto. Something was happening in the forest. Even being in Altair’s cabin, which was secluded but located in the Erth’netora along the Soto-Morrim border somewhere, she felt the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end and a hot-cold feeling radiate through her chest. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like in Soto proper, especially given that Jaida’s power had once resonated in the area where the struggle was most apparent. At one time she’d been close to the earth goddess, before the fall. Shadow’s presence in the natural world had once been rejoiced but, much like her ability to heal, she had been severed from the power that once fuelled that connection.

    “I must go,” she said softly. She held Anuket’s face in her hands, pressed her forehead against her horse’s nose. Maybe they weren’t the best of friends, but they’d both still feel the time apart.

    Shadow pulled her hands away and stepped back. Her shapeshifting power overtook her body, morphed and shaped it, reassembled cartilage and bones, veins and flesh. Hair became feathers and within a matter of seconds she had taken the form of a grey kestrel.

    ***

    A long line of people snaked its way down the street in the slums of Madrid. The posh and wealthy mixed with the desperate and poor, and squabbles broke out often. Shadow had cleared a space inside a cramped building where she’d set up pails, wooden and metal, of various sizes.

    When she had landed in Madrid and offered to help The Waterbearers, the guild that handled the city’s water supply, they were beyond grateful. Tucked inside one of the guild’s several buildings in the city, guards hired from Auberon’s Destiny watched over the entrance and admitted people one by one. The guildmistress of The Waterbearers, Cecilia Alcron, would’ve preferred to hire less-expensive door guards, but as soon as word had spread that someone had arrived to decontaminate the water supply, every single guild building had been flooded (no pun intended) by desperate people. Whatever drink they had, be it water, mead, or milk, they brought and waited in line, often for hours, to be sure it was good enough to drink. And although Shadow would’ve preferred to examine the water source itself, she couldn’t find the time. Her day began at the crack of dawn and ended at dusk when the guards from Auberon’s Destiny turned in for the evening. Shadow found herself collapsing into her makeshift bed every night.

    It had been a long time since she’d been involved with so many people.

    ***

    Shadow woke with a start.

    Vines snaked up her legs from the ankle. She shot up and grabbed one of her daggers as she kicked as hard as she could. Like a boa, they constricted harder; Shadow sucked in a breath. She held her free hand, hovered it over the vines, struck out and grabbed one as hard as she could. She sawed through it with her knife as it curled around her wrist. She hacked at the vines around her shins and ankles, wrenched a foot away as soon as she’d freed it. She scrambled backwards and jumped to her feet, skirted around the creeping vines and snatched up her other daggers and meagre possessions.

    Shadow reached out with her rudimentary earth magic. She winced as the power that galvanized them lashed out, made it impossible for her to entertain control. I should never have stopped using my fire magic... She jumped over the vines and grabbed the door handle to find that she couldn’t turn it. She clenched it as she slammed her shoulder into the door—but it wouldn’t budge. She grit her teeth together as she stepped back, glanced at the ground. The vines advanced towards her.

    She breathed deeply and focused her attention on finding sources of water. She uncorked her flask and drew all the water out of it, pulled as much water from within the air in the room as she could without suffocating herself. It created a sizeable blob, which she shaped into a sledgehammer and froze. The vines twined around her ankles. She smashed the door handle with the sledgehammer. BANG! BANG! BANG! Over and over.

    The vines curled around the back of her knees. Shadow swayed and held out her arms for balance.

    CRACK!

    The door handle hit the ground. Splintered wood followed. The sledgehammer liquefied, reformed into a long, serrated blade, froze again. Shadow directed the blade at the floor. It sawed through the vines; she kicked the severed vine from her one leg. The ice blade sawed through the second. She lunged for the door, yanked it open.

    A wall of vines.

    She ground her teeth together, unsheathed two of her knives; the ice blade hovered at her ear. She hacked at the plant matter with all the strength she had until her chest heaved and all she could do was gasp for air. But finally—finally!—she broke through. Shadow tumbled through the mess of dead and dying vines into the adjoining room. She scrabbled back to her feet. Someone—the guards from Auberon’s Destiny?—had already cleared a path through the building entrance, and several barrels of purified mead and water had been removed.

    What is going on…?

    ***

    Shadow drew the snow to her as she ran into the streets. She altered it to its liquid form, called more and more to her. Fighting erupted all throughout the city. She unsheathed two daggers and the large blob of water trailing behind her split into many smaller ones. She engaged with soldiers of the enemy, creatures of the forest. She moved swiftly, hacking and slashing. The orbs of water transformed into icy daggers that shot at the enemy, retracted and melted into water again as she passed. She hid where she had to, attacked when she needed to. The deeper into the city she moved, the thicker the army. She passed the wounded on both sides.

    A centaur charged her from behind. Shadow turned as the heavy clop, clop, clop of hooves rang out. The female creature roared as she swung her sword. Blobs of water flew in front of Shadow’s face, became rectangular, froze. Steel hissed against ice. The centaur rounded, slashed again. The ice melted, shifted. Shadow staggered backwards, parried another blow with both of her daggers. Blow after blow deflected by either her daggers or an icy shield pushed her down the street. The centaur backed off, tossed her hair, steadied herself, charged again. Shadow took that one second of respite, focused her energy. As water orbs shivered in preparation for the next assault, another blob reformed, froze into an icicle. As the centaur charged, Shadow shot the icicle like it was a dart—pierced the centaur’s flank. The creature howled. Shadow lunged forward, ducked away from a blind swing. She plunged her dagger into the centaur’s gut, wrenched it out. The flesh around the gushing wound turned black and cold, necrotizing.

    Her opponent gasped, dropped her weapon. In the centaur’s wide-eyed gaze Shadow could see that she was never made for fighting.

    Shadow turned and ran. She glanced over her shoulder once, to see the forlorn creature pressing her hands into the wound, her entire body shaking. But Shadow didn’t stop, and she never looked back again as she pressed deeper into the heart of Madrid. This was the price of doing battle—she had long ago accepted that.

    “Medic!” a soldier shouted. He waved furiously. Shadow paused. A woman hurried down the hill, barely dodged an arrow that whistled past her head. Together they ran in the direction Shadow had come. She watched them a moment longer before she turned and pressed toward the square. The woman looked terrified, like the battlefield was the last place she wanted to be.

    As she drew closer, her pulse quickened and her stomach churned. She ducked into an alleyway and stopped, breathing heavily. Familiar power pulsed around her—it tainted the air, made it feel heavy and damp. When the nausea passed, she continued her trek, continued to dispatch enemy soldiers and fight her way through, continued to collect minor wounds, nothing that a protective barrier of water couldn’t help. Word passed through some of the ranks that a powerful woman moved through the city, a woman who drew the snow to her and attacked with it like it was a second, third, fourth, or tenth arm. Spattered in blood and caked in dirt and sweat, her engagements became fewer. More effort seemed to be diverted to taking on the Madridean forces than the outliers who owed allegiance to no one and were a force of reckoning and destruction.

    Her stomach dropped and her head throbbed as she approached the square. Something is wrong…

    When she caught sight of the woman on the stag, Shadow’s heart stopped for a split second. She didn’t recognize the woman, but the power… It felt all too familiar, like she’d once known it.
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    Johnny
    Member Avatar


    The merman often was faced with a bad case of in the wrong place at the wrong time. However this was not his first instance, and thanks to a force that he had absolutely no control over, it would not be his last. In part it was his fault, he'd been caught elbow-deep in someone's belongings. "You can't blame me!" he had exclaimed, "They have their shiny things, right here for me to see! Look," he had pulled out the precious necklace to show a very angry man with big, giant eyebrows the piece of jewelry. Johnny had no idea of the price of the thing, and he wouldn't have cared one bit. It was shiny and he'd wanted it, and once he'd been told something along the lines of finder's, keeper's. The owner of the bag -- mind you, and not the necklace, as Johnny had found it and had intended to keep it -- went to grab at the merman, who had slipped away and found a place to hide.

    He would have laughed to himself at his own intelligence, had the man not seemed like the type of man that could squeeze the life out of him. Who would think to look in a barrel of pickles?! Johnny hadn't a clue what he'd taken, and he couldn't have foreseen the determination of a man who had lost something important to him, so his vinegar soak took a lot longer than he had originally anticipated. Vinegar did not feel good on his gills and after a few hours, it didn't feel very good in his nose either. The man prowled the area for a while, so Johnny was stuck.

    He passed the time blowing bubbles in the barrel, breaking the crunchy, vinegar-y cucumbers in half, pretending they were fish or boats and gently urging them forward. The fish man was easily entertained so enjoyed himself for a long time, and perhaps even dozed off a few times. Eventually everything seemed quiet enough for him to make his escape, which is about when he realized he could not open the barrel he'd so smartly hid in. The merman frowned, punching at the barrel top, which would not budge. He then curled up, pressing his feet to the side of the barrel. He kicked once, twice, three times, crk! Success! One foot free! One more foot, some arms, and one head to go! Johnny struggled for a lot longer than anyone should be proud to admit, but eventually with enough kicking and thrashing he broke free.

    Everything was much, much more green than he'd remembered it being. The merman grabbed his necklace, put it around his neck and walked around, a little confused and still feeling nauseous from his pickle bath. When he caught sight of a bunch of armed creatures running at more armed creatures, he finally caught on that something more was happening and it'd be in his best interest to get the hell out of there. He had almost found a route to break free from the chaos, but then he saw her.

    "Hey!" he suddenly shouted, but he was hidden in the mass of angry, fighting bodies. Frustration bubbled under his scales as he scanned the area, finally finding something tall to get on top of. It was a pile of rubbish, but it'd do. The merman climbed it, suddenly he could see the chaos a bit better. "Hey!" he pointed at the dryad, whose name he couldn't remember. But he knew her, not so much as whatever she was doing now as the girl who had wanted to learn how to use a bow an arrow. "I know you!" he pointed at her, "And you!" he then pointed at the dark man standing beside her.

    That had probably been the wrong time for reunions, because then there was a sharp pain in his shoulder. He was thrown off of his makeshift perch, his back hitting the snow. Suddenly couldn't see much of anything. Johnny scrambled back within the ranks of Madrid, feeling as if he was on the wrong side of this fight. Not that he should have really been in the fight to begin with, but now he had an odd feeling that he should have been in the fight this whole time.
    Edited by Johnny, Apr 1 2016, 02:14 PM.
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    Viktor
    Member Avatar


    Viktor Zauber

    It had been his idea to offer the mansion to the council. After what he had seen so very recently at Wyrm's end, stream of refugee's with no knowledge of where to go, vulnerable, with only the vague hope that they were heading away from danger he could not sit back. So he had gone to his Grandfather, and he had laid out his plan. He had asked Eva, his girlfriend and by far the much smarter individual, to help him work out the logistics.

    Grandfather listened, asked some questions, and then agreed and gave Viktor full reign to take whatever steps he felt he needed to. He had gone to the council and offered them the mansion first of all, banking on the fact they would not refuse and that by doing it as such he could get them to organise the flow of people to the mansion themselves. This left the grounds themselves to him. He brought in everyone who was still at home, and used the combined magical prowess to bring as many building as possible into assistance. They were simple wooden things, and would not last more than a few months and even then would really only be enough for a small proportion of people, but if that could help the sick, the weak and the young then it was enough for him. He wished they could do more, but making sure all the magical defences were in full operational order came first. He had been told they were originally designed in case the family went to war with Soto again, and out of tradition they had been improved and kept active until now, long after anyone could imagine such a conflict.

    All the magic work made him realise how much he missed Auntie Mo. Morwenna Blackstaff, as she was known to most, was the most powerful mage in the family by some way, and had led an army to the resue when Viktor had recently been besieged down south. He had come back almost immediately, but she stayed to assist with the clean up. With her the few soldiers the family had, many of their mages a large number of mercenaries and volunteers picked up on the way. He felt they would miss them in their defence, but he missed her more. They had always been close, and somehow he knew she would be so much better than all of this than he. However, she was not here, and even with the message he had sent was some way away. Grandfather was too frail to be able assist in any real way. That left the burden of the Zauber family on him. He had ran from it, but after what he had seen, the Giants of Zauberg, Lothair's Morrimiam rebellion, Wyrm's End and all manner of other things he could not walk away. He may have not been happy to be a Zauber, the name carried weight and expectations beyond measure. But it came with great privilege, and he was going to throw all of that behind Soto, behind its people and behind his ideals.

    But the time to prepare was over all too fast. When people started assembling to battle he knew he needed to be there to. He disliked battle, but he would bleed for the republic if he had to.

    ---

    Ceiwyn Zauber


    "We are coming with you, Vik" Eva informed the stubborn man "We are just as much a part of this family as you" all three of them had already dressed for battle. Vik had worn a tunic of the Zauber green with the stars on his chest and a darker coloured cape behind him. He had a number of wands at his side and wore a simple circlet of bronze. Eva was dressed in a similar style, although the tunic hugged her figure in a few places that surely were not ideal for battle and she carried a staff in place of any wands.

    Ceiwyn was nowhere near the magic user either of them were and had opted for mostly chainmail. At her hip hung the thick scabbard of her Zauber pattern rapier, with its changeable blades to allow her to better combat foes resistant to simple steel. She knew she would not convince Vik to avoid the battle, and as such it became a matter of protecting him and Eva, who would not leave him she was sure, as best as she could. She knew Vik well, too well even. Ever since he had shown a scared, lost little girl that she was not alone, that she would always have somewhere she was wanted she had devoted herself to making sure his gentle heart survived.

    "You would be safer here" Vik argued "I don't want to go, but I-"

    "I will go" Cei butted in "I am strong. Stronger than either of you. If you want the family to be seen there, let them see me. You both can stay here" she paused, and blushed a little "I would not see you harmed. I love you too much" she was only so free when they were alone like this. She looked at her feet in embarrassment, and only turned redder as she felt Viktor's arm wrap around her, pressing her head into his shoulder.

    "I want to protect you too, you know?" he asked her, his voice light, melodic even. She began to place her arms around him as she felt Eva join in the hug. They were still for a short while until Vik sighed "What did I do to deserve you two?"

    "We are family" Eva replied "We all look out for each other" they parted, and Ceiwyn continued to not catch either of their eyes, although she could guess the look Eva was giving right now "All of us, together"

    Vik laughed "I have never heard of anyone using puppy eyes to go to battle before. I can't stop you, can I?" he asked, to which Eva shook her head before leaning in to touch her lips to his.

    "I will protect you both" Cei muttered. She was not going to lose anyone again. Vik had given her a family again so long ago. Her and Eva were her family now, and she was not letting anything take her family from her again.


    ----


    Viktor Zauber


    Vik stood on a rooftop overlooking the square. He had made sure to find somewhere central, which given his name was not tough. Eva held his hand, whilst Ceiwyn waited nearby. Whilst not as strong as many of the champions present, she was still nonetheless very skilled with her sword and was fulfilling the role for this small section, the idea being she could cover a lot of things and leave their greatest champions free to hold themselves back for the largest threats. Naturally Vik had already magically made her armour lighter and tougher, and had been doing so for as many other Sotoan's as he could, giving preference to the front lines and any other champions. In some cases he had needed to ask for a message to be relayed so he could overcome their magical resistances to do so.

    Eva squeezed his hand a little, and the two looked at each other. Wordlessly they exchanged their thoughts, and she leaned against him a little. "You end up in a lot of fights, don't you?" she asked, a little playfully.

    "Won them all so far. Guess I must be lucky" he replied, although he did not feel it. A lot of people had died, enemies and allies, and he cursed that he had no way to save any of them. He had thought a world without fighting was possible, that by avoiding battle and embracing pacifism he could stop violence. But this world was full of all kinds of monsters and magics. He still wished to be a pacifist, but he could not be passive. That involved him making a choice. The idea of affecting who lived and who died sickened him, but it was a choice he made with inactivity as much as activity. If he was forced to make a choice, then he would at least try and pick the least bad. He held no ill will to Fae, and wish he could know their problems, and how to help heal those wounds.

    It began.

    Hands parted, breaths quickened. Eyes focused.

    He heard Eva mutter she she extended magic's over the battlefield to subtly aid the Sotoan's, whilst he looked to the ranks ahead of him. He prepared to create an invisible wall, and then just before the lines crashed together he brought it into existance about a metre from the Sotoan lines, so that Fae would crash into it, robbing them of momentum, breaking up the lines (the wall was only so long) and forcing them to crush together for a few moments. He hoped that by grouping up more some of the mages would be able to take advantage.



    Abilities used:

    Basic Transmutation, can have many effects, here made armour half as heavy, and tougher

    Unsichtbarwand, a 15 foot long invisible wall. As tough as a brick wall.
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    Calliope
    Member Avatar
    Goddess of Erth'netora

    As Méadaigh's army marched upon the mountain, she glanced over to her right to see the other squadrons charging out of the streets as they emerged at the center before the Guildhalls. She could just make out Ginko, the goblin king, at the front of his squadron, furiously swinging a giant club over his head, and the goblins beat on the drums of war. Beat! Beat! Drums! Blow! Bugles! Blow! She quickened her pace and positioned herself directly in front of her squadron, with her Lieutenant, Sabellius, her standard bearer, and bard at her side.

    The armies collided. The scene was breathtaking. A defensive force had been formed by the Madrideans seemingly overnight, and they were engaging Méadaigh's forces. Before the halls of the Guilds, she took in her dark uniformed squadron colliding with the ragtag uniformed men of Madrid. Bodies littered the ground, a mixture of black, red, and gold. Blood stained the snow beneath the bodies of the dead and splattered on the boots of the living.

    Such war of colors! What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty?

    There was the whizzing of passing arrows and the thuds of bodies dropping behind her. They seemed better prepared than Méadaigh had anticipated. The fairies sitting on the shoulders of her soldiers shot forward to catch or break the arrows that fell into their ranks. The elves shrugged off most of the arrows to push forward and begin shooting back, the precision and power behind each arrow tearing limbs off the humans on the roofs.

    Not only did Aniketos' force have the high ground, but they also had to face the high wind and their facing into it, their archers were almost completely useless. Méadaigh had the wind in their favor. Any projectiles that they had was strengthened and the force behind it greater than before. She spoke to Sabellius without turning to him.

    "Now, Leifteanant, what wait thou for? My hope is in thee."

    Méadaigh sat almost idly by as she watched a satyr try to stab into the right shoulder of a human soldier. He stepped sideways with the intent of cutting off her arm. He punched the side of the human's head and sent him to the ground, jumping atop him as quickly as he could to try and gouge out his throat.

    As it turned out, satyrs were quite tough. At first, Méadaigh had expected for the satyrs to weigh them down, but they had proven themselves a resilient fighting force capable of supporting the nymphs in combat and keeping up with minimal complaint. The Oreads, with their stone-like flesh and imposing black armor, used deadly swords that looked more like long, sharp jewels. They would prove to be the most effective in conquering the very mountain they lived under.

    She looked ahead and calculatingly observed the fierce and yet disciplined fighting style of the enemy warriors as they clashed with parts of her battalion once more. Méadaigh was discovering very quickly that the Madrideans were armed and well trained. That was only to be expected. Anyone who was anyone was well informed on the Madridean's militaristic accomplishments... Had not her army been so protected by the elves's and faerie's protective wards.... Yet even such a renowned history could not prepare them for what was to come.

    "Fear thou not. Be not dismayed. For I am thy Goddess: I will strengthen thee!"

    Her squadron let out a war cry, and the drow led the next charge. Méadaigh looked around the massive rabble and chaos, searching for a certain someone, and her eyes fell upon several familiar figures. The first was the face of their dazzling Commander; a strong aquiline nose and high cheekbones set off blonde curly hair that shaped his androgynous face rather nicely. His amber eyes were wide and filled with madness. It appeared that the man was vulnerable.

    The next face she saw almost took her off guard. Everything about that man's face called out to her. It looked kind, honorable, and strong all at once, yet capricious. His steel-gray eyes were a tad bit smashed and frenzied. It was the face of someone that had once struck Thaleia numb. Yet, his was not the only one. Méadaigh turned to Galena with an amused smile.

    "Tell me, sweet Galena, and tell me truly too; Hast thy friends ever beheld thee as the beauty thou art now?"

    There was one more face that surprised her; Shadow was of average height for a woman, but she did not have average looks. She had rich shoulder length chocolate-brown hair. High cheekbones framed a strong feminine jaw. Her eyes were green and focused, taking in everything around her. In the way she took Méadaigh in. This was the face of a woman she had not seen in many years, but there was more to it than that. Something else from long ago that she could not seem to remember.

    The more faces she was able to recognize from Thaleia's memories, the longer the smile on her lips became, and the gaze she had on them widened with excitement. Her smile fell when she caught a glance of the blue creature claiming to know her. Méadaigh silently gestured for something, or someone to kill it. With fire, preferably.

    Méadaigh looked over her bow and quiver of her sharpest, enchanted arrows. She picked up one of the arrows and notched it. Held up next to her face, her left hand on the grip of the bow, her other hand pinching the end of the arrow, she took aim at the Commander's head. With a twang, the arrow left the bow, sliding across the side and beyond into the opposing army. It sped across his wards, nicked Aniketos' charming face, and landed on one of his men who fell dead at his feet. Méadaigh smiled, giving him a challenging glance, and set the bow aside.

    "My lady!" Yelled Maeve over the rabble, gripping her shoulder with tiny fingers. "The bard almost finishes her song. We must break their defenses, now!"

    "Wouldst ye inform thy fairies to focus their magic upon strengthening protective wards. It shouldest keepeth the magic that hath been wasted on healing wounds. Doth it seem good to thee?"

    Maeve pointed furiously at an invisible ball keeping a small part of the battalion at bay, then flew away to pass on the message. Whilst the rest moved to the left and right of the small wall, the center struggled against it. The nymph called for the formation to halt and move around the wall in an orderly fashion. Finally, she ordered the druidic triumvirate to lead an attack against the healers and their tents.

    "Aye," Méadaigh closed her eyes and smiled, then leaned her head back to stare up at the sky. She whispered a song to it in an old language:

    "Chun liom, iníonacha na gaoithe agus sneachta.
    Má tá tú ag éisteacht go cúramach leis an méid a rá liom,
    agus gach ní a rá liom,
    beidh mé a bheith ina namhaid le do naimhde,
    agus beidh cur i gcoinne iad siúd a cur i gcoinne tú."


    In a matter of seconds, a bitter snow-filled wind gusted through the enemy ranks. A thick blanket of white assaulted them, visibility becoming almost an absolute zero. They would feel biting chill of their near frozen armor against their bare skin. The frigid cold would not contribute to their cause. Her daughters in the sky had happily responded to Méadaigh's song.

    In her hand was a spear that had a tip which appeared to be black metal. It was comprised of a short sword attached to a seven foot long spear shaft. It was the very same sword Galena had taken and brought back from Madrid when her agent had failed on completing a secret mission the dread nymph had sent her on. That had been a disappointing moment, yet she was glad for it, for Galena now belonged to her because of it.

    Méadaigh turned her attention to the battalion and rose the spear up into the air.

    "Scuadrún," she spoke, her voice reverberating off the mountain. She pointed the sword toward the enemy's battalion. "Ruathar amach!" Her voice was strong, beautiful. The voice of a Goddess. The voice of victory. "Briseadh dá gcosaint, ná Taispeáin dóibh aon trócaire!"

    The response was a war cry unlike any other, a cry that would break the will of most any enemy. They charged into the opposing army without any hesitation. Some fired magical spells as they charged. Méadaigh rode in behind them just as the wind and snow began to die down, her standard bearer, bard, and champion beside her. Ginko, the goblin king, was the boldest, running in with his line of squadron straight towards their Commander and his men.

    "Shalt thou not sleep tonight, but shalt thou all be changed, forevermore."

    important objective information - click here!!!




    Edited by Calliope, Apr 9 2016, 12:25 PM.
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    Waxworks
    Member Avatar
    I told the witchdoctor I was in love with you...

    He hated this, hated all of it, every second, every step, and without speaking they knew. They knew but they forced him to march on. They did not know how, but they knew he had tried to escape this call, tried to free himself from the obligation, tried to use every loophole he could to help those they called enemies. Not even death had freed him in the end. At least, temporary death had not. Instead it had cost him his wagon, his beast of burden, his coat, and even his walking stick. In the end, he was still here, walking these familiar streets, on which he had been raised. He now marched down them, leaning on the former marker for his own pathetic grave, feeling as if he were still buried under so much dirt.

    His death had not accomplished nothing. It had served some of its purposes. Now when he marched against the city of Madrid, the deals he had made with so many who once lived here, might still be here, were invalidated by his death. Without those deals in place he could freely act against them, without fearing the consequences of a broken oath. Such things could be lethal to his kind. Now that mortal danger was no longer an obstacle. With every step he wondered if it had been wise to ensure he would be able to live with his actions instead of letting them punish him immediately.

    The premier voodoo practitioner of Soto had done his best to warn and protect as many as he could. Used every loophole, every trick. It was a small comfort when they passed the building that had once been Bellamy's Academy for Girls. The mansion that had been built in symbiotic harmony with a towering tree was now consumed by that same tree, but it had tasted no blood of the people who called it home. He'd traded the greatest favor he had with the former owner, cashed it in to make the man give up his position on the council, take his girls and flee the country. He had not been able to tell him why, only made him promise to leave for a year and a day, though no doubt months after their exodus the fainting man had understood the reason. It was something.

    When they had reached the poor districts of the city's outskirts, the witchdoctor was reminded of the futility of any effort he made. To the denizens answering this mad call, this place was nothing but he, who had called it home, saw the barely recognizeable shape of the old wishing tree, where orphaned children had once placed their hopes in him, and later died from disease because of it. That tree had become their grave marker and even that was warped and destroyed by this Méadaigh and her wretched crusade of madness!

    Janjak forced down the lump of rage and sorrow that rose in his throat as he passed that ignored and shrouded place. Instead turning towards the source of all this marching. He could see her, riding on her stag, but unlike the other fae, was not filled with the siren's call that lured them to her. He was mianoran fae, and only half at that. This world was only half his world, despite being all he had ever known, and where others heard a music and saw beauty, he only felt wrongness and heard wretched hissing static. It made uncomfortable chills run up and down his spine, and caused his jaw to clamp down every time. The others who marched here came willingly or could otherwise claim bewitchment. Not Janjak, no, he marched among them, because at the end of it all, he chose his own life over the life of any he might take tonight. He would be incurring a debt, adding to a pool he had not yet paid off, and acting in a manner he'd long since tried to renounce. Tonight his right hand leaned on the walking stick, because his left would be needed. The hand of wicked magick, the hand that brought death.

    The witchdoctor had left his hat behind, but his wings were still recognizable, and more so his face painted like a skull. Despite his small stature, the denizens of Méadaigh's horde gave him a berth as if they too, on some unconscious level, knew of the wrongness that persisted within him, that he would meter out to so many unfortunates on this night.

    Soon, in the distance ahead, he heard the first cries of death and surprise, the alarm was sounded and the fight had truly begun. It was on this cold night as the air tried to chill at his bones and remind him what death had been like, that he remembered all the things he could be faced with soon.

    Loa please, I know you know what I must do. You know I know not all of you approve. He prayed silently to himself. The spirits were about balance, this war was not, it was about tipping over the scales entirely and letting madness run free. He was supposed to be an instrument of that balance, one who showed others the path in his own way. Not tonight. Tonight he would disappoint the Loa. Tonight he would let down the spirits that had not been caught up in Méadaigh's madness. The old ones that lived in the rocks and stones of this city.

    Please, not the Zaubers. Don't place me before the Zaubers. I've known them since they were small. the first specific prayer crossed his mind. Old friends, good people, likely still here defending this place, he knew when they saw him, his heart would break first. He knew if he fought them, he could never forgive himself. They only had one life to live, and had spent some of it showing him kindness, and family. Janjak couldn't help but notice that despite all the madness with every fae in all the land arriving at Méadaigh's call, his own mother had been absent.

    The pace of those around him increased, but Janjak refused to move faster unless commanded. As he advanced he came across a body, freshly slain, of some poor guard, an arrow to the heart. As he drew closer he realized the life had not quite left them yet, and silently prayed for their passing.

    A pixie noticed his hesitation. This particular, red sprite had been assigned the task of making sure Janjak participated in this battle. Her heated feet and hands alighted upon his neck and with tiny fingers she gave his ear a sharp tug.

    ”Do your magic voodoo man. Finish him, and make him fight with us! It is Méadaigh's will that you use your powers to aid our fight! It is the will of the fae, and you must obey.”

    Janjak mutered a curse upon the pixie under his breath and leaned over the man whose desperate eyes grew wider at the sight of his skull painted face filling his vision.

    “Relax boyah, ya in pain, it'll all be ovah soon.” he said as he knelt down and set his grave marker aside to free both his hands.

    The man tried to gasp something, likely a cry for mercy, but it was impossible to tell.

    ”Enough pity! He is the enemy, kill him!” the pixie snapped in Janjak's ear.

    The injured man gurgled in fright and his body moved as if he were trying to get up but had too little strength. Janjak hung his head for a moment, and when he looked up to face the main again, his eyes were rolled up into his head so only white could be seen. His face drew close to the unfortunate guard's until he was close enough to inhale one of his feeble dying breaths. With a long inhale from Janjak's painted lips the man's whole body shuddered and then fell still. The witchdoctor held his own breath for what felt like an eternity.

    Within his chest it felt like a blazing heat had been swallowed; but with every passing second it grew colder and colder until instead of a heat in his chest there was a ball of eerie cold, like a lump of ice. When he exhaled, condensation formed a cloud in front of his face as the cold slipped out of him. The man's spirit did not return to his body, it had died inside the witch-doctor, and now it passed bewildered into the realm of spirits. Janjak prayed that the man at the crossroads would find him soon and give him favorable directions.

    His work was not yet done; but his concentration broke as a thought crossed his mind. What if Bast could see me now? See you are as wicked as the one who owned her once. He swore again and tried to force away the thought to little avail. Surely the wayward elemental had enough sense not to stay in this place. After all what was here for her? The children had died with the plague, who else did she know?

    Janjak closed his eyes and opened them to the world of spirits where he called out to them. ”Spirits of rage, send me a warrior, a mad beast that has no place in a balanced world. By my left hand I ask this, by my left hand, work will be done. Send me a mad spirit, let free your deepest rage.” He could feel it, before the words were finished. A wild thing, that made the hairs on the back of his neck back on the mortal plane stand on end. The witchdoctor did not want to turn and see it, but reluctantly he did. The broken twisted creature that snarled and frothed from toothy maw was exactly what he asked for. When he had turned the spirit launched itself at him with intent to destroy; but before it could send its ripping and tearing limbs into him, the creature was inhaled.

    A violent jerking sensation in his chest snapped Janjak's eyes open in the mortal world. Capturing the thing had brought him to the material plane and now his whole body shook as if some thing was caged in his chest and beating against his ribs in an attempt to escape. It was all he could do to steady himself before the fresh corpse of the deceased guard. His breath was not a gradual exhale but a violent cough as the spirit left his lungs and surged into the body, which began to convulse as if in a siezure.

    The wild twitching subsided but frantic shallow breathing continued. Janjak grabbed his grave marker and staggered away and to his feet while the thing before him rose with the bizzare jerking movements of something trying to control an unfamiliar body. Then the thing found its lungs and opened them into a wild frenzied scream.

    Once more chills ran down Janjak's spine as the unearthly screaming of a tortured body continued, and the mad thing clawed at his own face. The screaming devolved into laughter as it staggered forward and picked up its fallen sword. The animated body of the guard cut himself along the neck, and screamed in pain, which again subsided in laughter as it stared with wide eyes at the one who dared to call such an abomination onto this world.

    “Go.” Was all Janjak said, and the thing bounded off into the fray screaming and laughing madly seeking anything to tear at with its sword and fingernails.

    Janjak felt the cold seep in to his bones, and for a moment he was reminded of death, and shivered. In the next moment he remembered something else. A pale face and yellow eyes, bright red hair, and the marching of the dead. Phaedrus, Bast may be here because of Phaedrus.

    Wouldn't the fop have fled the country already. While restoring the damage done by a necromancer was his duty, wouldn't war be something he was more likely to avoid? Then again, he was a possessive creature, and this place was his home. What words would the dandy sting him with when he laid eyes on the witchdoctor? What would he do when he saw that thing Janjak had just let loose on humans who would have no idea what it was or what it was capable of?

    Janjak's guts were tied in even more knots at the prospect. Then, a ray of hope, or rather an idea sparked by madness. He could avoid all the unnecessary death by his hands if he could find that damend necromancer. If there was one person in this whole city that Janjak could kill and know they would not remain that way, it was Phaedrus. It was a long shot; but the only shot he had.

    Reaching in to his pocket, the dark skinned man produced a single candle and held it in his left hand. Holding it towards the pixie, she lit it at his behest, muttering something about how he was finally getting involved.

    The simple flame grew slowly at first, and then much quicker. It changed from orange and yellow to an eerie blue and violet as it grew larger still. Janjak heard the battle cry of Méadaigh order them all to charge, and finally his feet broke into something more than a stroll, as he continued to steady himself with his grave-marker turned walking stick in his free hand.

    The flame on the candle grew until it left the candle entirely and was now the shape of a 10' giant walking a few paces ahead of the witchdoctor towards the closed ranks of the city's defenders. His candle flame would not kill them alone, the fires were not so hot; but perhaps, just maybe, if there was any fortune to be had by him, the right person would take notice, and his hands could be clean of further blood.

    Suddenly, despite the street looking clear, Janjak stopped abruptly and gasped out in pain and surprise as much as he gasped from the wind being forced out of his lungs. The candle fell from his hands and when it did the fire giant disappeared. He felt like he would fall forwards onto the ground, but the same thing that had struck him seemed to be preventing his fall. It was as if some invisible wall were propping him up.

    Of course it was, damn Zaubers. Couldn't help getting in their own way, even when they had no idea that's what they were doing.


    -----

    Abilities Used:
    Candlewick Dance- to make the fire giant that then went out.
    Ferry of Spirits- To remove the guard's dying soul and put a rage spirit into his abandoned body. Feel free to kill the screaming animated corpse at your leisure. It will fight until it can't or until its heart is destroyed. Not too hard to do because the heart was already injured by an arrow that has not been removed. (Note, HEART not head. if its head is gone it will keep fighting)
    Edited by Waxworks, Apr 17 2016, 11:59 PM.
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    Rhia
    Member Avatar
    Sotoan Councillor

    Her worst fears had finally manifested, war had come to Madrid. She may have anticipated possible aggression from Morrim but more likely Ashoka, but she never considered the possibility that an army could have risen from within her native homeland. How could this have gone overlooked for so long? Nature rebelled against civilization and violence poured into Madrid’s streets, spilling blood without discrimination for their mysterious cause. A call to action, heavy debate (and screaming) had brought forth a united Soto effort to quell this threat and thankfully they responded in time.

    Her countrymen were going to die fighting against an enemy whose motivations Rhia did not understand. Their hostilities had escalated with urgency, so much that there had not even been enough time to even consider a peace talk. Men and woman would die defending their homes from a threat, a worthy enough cause but it was senseless. This councilor would not hide away like a mewling child and held every intention of seeing this conflict through, even if it meant her life extinguishing as many others would this day.

    She donned a well-crafted, form fitting armor of leather, her dueling swords and a handful of daggers sheathed upon her side and her alchemist pouch complete with various oils and vials were strapped upon her person in clear sight for her own convenience. She remained upon the back lines, avoiding a direct confrontation with the enemy if she could help it. Here she could at least aid in her own way, bolstering morale and giving their forces more direction. For what it was worth she was more a leader than a soldier. Thankfully there were those here with military and leadership experience, but the councilor’s insight would prove beneficial.

    The backlines held the absence of violence, but as the conflict escalated so did her worries. The sound of distant fighting was never absent and at any given moment the streets and buildings they resided in could easily join the ensuing calamity. A force of humans, from what it looked like druidic in origin, brought themselves upon their location, a painstaking effort on their part. They had come from the side roads, the alleyways. Their aggression took the form of sieging with magic from distance before switching to more martial means; they were bold and did not flee from the prospect of a fight. In fact, they welcomed it. A battle was expected but what these Druids’ targeted was what brought Rhia to pale. An incantation soared above battle and clipped into a two story building, one that had been houses and used to store the wounded. It took mere seconds for it to become kindling for an inferno. Whether deliberate or not, their actions went far beyond what was necessary for war. It brought Rhia to silently mourn the situation further but stirred her into a new found conviction, how dare they go so far out of their way to kill men and woman of healing?

    Did this go further than driving away what was a questionable encroaches upon the forest or did they truly wish to extinguish them all? This evil act would be harshly punished. With sabre drawn rallied those around her.

    “Our enemy would target those of us with the most innocent of intentions. They threaten more than our way of life! To arms!”


    Both forces advanced upon one another, Rhia joined into close quartered fray and soon their sounds of a life or death struggle would fill the air of Madrid. She was one to lead by example, despite the risk of being directly in combat. Amidst the turmoil, Rhia found herself face to face with their apparent commanders whether by chance or misfortune. It had been the screaming that had caught her attention, even with people dying all around her she would not let a cry for help go unheeded. Nervously, Rhia grasped her sabre and starred down her adversary. Perhaps they had actively sought her out? Rhia would not have put it past their enemy to be well informed.

    "How did it come to this? I don't understand." There would be little time for exchanges. Her tone held sorrow but conviction.

    The commander raised her head slightly and the two women at her side drew their weapons; a great sword, and a staff. Not an ounce of satisfaction could be found in her features, yet they remained as hardened as a shield. It was in these difficult moments that duty and devotion to their cause was all that mattered. After a second of staring at the woman with the sabre, the Archdruid drew the sword at her side, as well, hooded shawl flapping in the cold wind.

    “It is well that war is so terrible, otherwise we should grow too fond of it. Prepare to be neutralized, Councilor Terenes.”

    The druid with the forest green robes lifted her staff, and thorny weeds grew at the Commander’s ankles at an attempt of restraint. The one who wore pale green robes with bronze armor screamed as she slashed the great sword horizontally at Rhia. Such weapons and armor seemed uncharacteristic of druids, perhaps their goddess had different decrees or her teachings deviated far against what they had known.

    It was only due to Rhia's trained reflexes and eye that she avoided the entanglement. A sigh escaped the councilor’s lips as the extra maneuverability allowed her the freedom to properly dodge the great sword. She was not unfamiliar to those who wielded what she deemed, unwieldy weapons and found them to be troubling to combat. Half an inch of her pony tail was severed as the blade soared past her; the agile duelist still managed to roll beneath the blade and then retaliated with a precise strike towards the spaces between the bronze armor.

    The Warrior’s eyes bulged and she shifted her weight and tilted her torso slightly so the sabre would strike the armor and not her flesh. The blade skated across the platting. She realized that Rhia held an advantage in speed if only due to the weight of her weapon. Even so, being a balanced fighter only meant that Rhia did not have a specific strength in any area.

    The warrior continued to slash the sword with tremendous force, power, and precision behind each attack, yet Rhia continued to find the weaknesses in the armor. Rhia’s efforts to wound the warrior went in vain, two or three strikes fell true and spilled blood upon the field but a steady stream of magical incantation staved off pain and meaningful injury.

    The Archdruid in the meanwhile took her exit, moving into a room over. She would do as her peers did and attempt to purge the building with fire. One of the healers attempted to stop her, and the Archdruid grimaced as she drove her sword through the young man and dropped him in a pile of his own blood, uttering a prayer under her breath as she did so. The wounded and other medical staff on hand watched the scene with distress.

    Rhia’s focus was elsewhere, all she could do was avoid being butchered by the great sword until she found an effective counter to her show of force and the combination of healing magic. She’s struck a clean hit or two but it meant nothing in the face of this mending. Her nose wrinkled with frustration. There was a certain irony in her next planned action; after all she utilized the ingredients from their own forest for it.

    Rhia produced a thick silver powder from her alchemist pouch as she evaded, the blade grew ever closer to her with each swing. Even with her life upon the line, Rhia was mindful of what she reached for and quick even under duress. With an underhanded maneuver, she then lobbed it into her aggressor's face. Rhia doubted they anticipated fighting dirty and further doubted if they would be ready for her quick follow up. Rather than a body blow, she would skewer her opponent's throat for a clean kill.

    "Bitseach!" The warrior cried out in pain as the powder entered her eyes, but the healer reacted quickly. She shot forth with a fierce effort to strike down Rhia's sword arm away using the staff with high hopes to subdue the councilor’s arm with one well-placed blow. The sabre began its motion forward as the bronze armored warrior before Rhia stumbled in her blindness. Rhia's awareness proved invaluable again and the retaliation did not go unanticipated, her foe's compatriot launched forward and used her staff not as an instrument to channel magic but rather as an improvised club.
    Rhia feigned her killing blow and with a twist of her own arm and supple twirl of her person danced around the swing. Her sabre kissed her opponent's wrist and guided the assault away from her. The blow would sail into the floor, splitting the boards on impact. Then the retort in the form of a sharp motion with her off hand, her sword breaker became intimate with the healer’s throat

    "What Goddess sends her lambs so willingly to the slaughter?" Rhia scoffed and ripped the blade through and out with no heed for the mess she’d make.

    'The time for sympathy has passed, you'll die for a wanting cause. A pity.'

    When the warrior regained her sight she gasped at the bloody sight before her. Her fallen sister lay upon her side, clutching at her throat and choked upon her blood before she grew limp. From a fierce combat the Archdruid spied the troubling sight, the room she resided in now half a blaze. Rhia could see the smoke and knew the situation was all that more dire.

    “It is senseless to fight back. The Mother knows how you all fall short of her glory, yet Her mercy is great." The archdruid boasted before she broke through a line of Sotoan soldiers that had since joined the skirmish and charged the quarreling trio from Rhia’s exposed backside, spinning around in a circle at an attempt to catch the unsuspecting Councillor with her glowing, smiting blade. But the brunette had greater instincts than she had anticipated and leaped out of the reach of the sharp and magical weapon. The Archdruid stood upright, hands glowing green, then pointed her blade at her fallen comrade.

    “Feel the essence of life and return to the fray, sister.”

    The Archdruid’s armored had been pierced once or twice, scuffled from the numbers that fell upon her in defense to the now collapsed tent.

    The healer shot up with eyes wide and a sharp inhale as the reviving magic coursed through her body. She brought a hand to her throat which had taken the killing blow, and the warrior took her by the arm to help her back up on her feet. The Archdruid turned around to observe Rhia with a dire gaze. Their opponent had good skill. The woman was a threat greater than what they had originally anticipated. The Archdruid could not allow the Councillor to take down their healer, for she would not be able to perform that spell again. At least, not for a long while…

    "You seem to have forgotten with whom you fight, Councillor. Perhaps it is time to show you our true strength. Sisters, to arms! For the glory of the Mother!”

    "Something stronger than cutting down those past the point of fighting?"
    Rhia couldn't help but goad them further in the face of unnerving odds. She took a moment to wipe the blood from her swordbreaker. Before her people she would die with her pride intact, spewing venom and swinging as vengefully as she could before she allowed them to see her break.

    There was fear at the magical prowess she faced but she comforted herself in knowing that if they were more competent the battlefield would be leveled by now.

    ‘Remove the head next time.’ She remembered to use her spellscar poison for both casters, whatever benevolent divine left in this world knew she would need it as well as any other help she could have against these three. For all her effort, she could not evade forever and all it would take to put her down was one well placed blow.

    Edited by Rhia, May 3 2016, 11:25 PM.
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    Aniketos
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    Unter friedlichen Umständen fällt der kriegerische Mensch über sich selber her.

    (Here is a drawing of what's going on, which Calli approved. If you have questions about this post, PM them to me or, better yet, post them in the plot thread! There is a concise summary of the post under the "tl;dr" spoiler at the bottom.)

    The soldiers ahead of Aniketos braced themselves in their ranks, each individual pressing their shield to the back of the one in front of them. Their spears, which had been raised to the sky, sank as one to bristle outwards like the spines of a porcupine. Aniketos sent a shudder of magic through his body and conjured Laice, the transparent shield, and he pressed her to the back of the man in front of him. He locked his legs in place. The enemy's war cry flew over the ranks. Aniketos' jaw clenched, his dilated eyes grew wide. The soldiers of Madrid surely shivered in their shoes at so fearsome a cry, but their will did not break. Aniketos felt the specter of their thoughts filling their air, a vast impression of all their emotions that said, "This is our home, we must not fall, we must not fail, we must stand strong.”

    Aniketos’ shadow shapes flew like blackbirds over the battlefield. Through their senses he saw the enemy army dividing itself and heading different ways to assail the five different battalions that blocked up the streets out of the Temple Square. He saw the one destined for them lurch into a charge. The Madrideans braced, raised up a shout of defiance, giving voice to the burning feeling in their breasts: "It must not be, you must not take this place. It is ours." He saw them coming, closing the distance – then, unexpectedly, the middle portion of the army stopped, waylaid by some invisible force. Satyrs and oreads smashed into this invisible wall, piling up one after the other as they were carried forth by the momentum of the army behind them. Those on the either side of the wall charged straight through, but the rest would have to fall behind, forced to pour through these two bottlenecks. Those who could still came though, lined up to charge into the rightward columns where Aniketos stood and –

    – impact. A wave of force rippled through the Madrideans’ ranks. Aniketos staggered back a little as the man in front of him was shoved back by the one in front of him. Aniketos' shield kept him standing strong under a force that otherwise would have pushed him off his feet, and he was in turn kept standing by the shield behind him. Together, they stood firm.

    In his own body, Aniketos could not see what was going on up ahead. He only heard the gurgling screams of the wounded and dying, the clashing of arms and the battle cries of those trying to milk out their bravery. With his shadow shapes, however, he could see the satyrs who had been impaled on the Madrideans’ spears, carried forth by the force of the army behind them. But there were still enemies who slipped between the bloodied spears: satyrs that pummeled their enemies to the ground, armoured oreads who found chinks in shield and plate with their jewel-like swords. Through one set of senses Aniketos saw the Madrideans die, but standing there in the midst of the phalanx, he knew that when the man in front of him moved up, it meant that the person who had been in the front rank had died and the whole column shifted up, for there must be someone to replace them. Then, not long after, the column moved up again, as if pulled by clockwork – another had fallen.

    He turned his attention to the fight all around, searching through the eyes of his shadow shapes. He watched for a moment the affair up on the roofs. A strong wind blew from the forest, sending some arrows astray. The Madridean archers, however, were spread out on rooftops all around the square, meaning that for some of them the wind was irrelevant, and all who were in Auberon’s Destiny were trained to compensate for the wind, and so still hit some of their targets – when the arrows were not caught by faeries. The mages were more efficient: their bolts of coloured magics were not subject to the whims of the wind, and they sent spells rattling around the mass of the enemy army. But arrows and spells flew back at them, catching archers and slingers and tile-throwers, sending them tumbling to the ground.

    He turned his attention to the general progress of the army which, by now, had streamed all the way into the square. Aniketos, with a gesture of his mind, called down one of the messengers that danced in the air around him. This one was a spinning hoop of light, which shot abruptly down in front of Aniketos’ face. “Tell General Matlios to advance and block off the main road,” he told it. Without any acknowledgement that it had heard the message, the hoop shot away at an impossible speed, spraying sparks and disappeared over the roofs.

    Then the column moved forward again: another had fallen.

    As Aniketos stepped up, craning his neck for a clearer view of what was up ahead, something tore through the ranks. It slipped between the spears, tore down some poor soldier and charged on, apparently impervious to wounds from swords. It was headed straight down his column.

    It came close, and in the eerie, flickering light of the flying messengers, Aniketos saw that it had once been a Madridean guard but had been inhabited by something else. It bounded forward, felling soldiers left and right. One woman with an ensorcelled sword managed to ram the thing up to the hilt on her sword, but it swung off her head with a wide stroke of its sword and went on with the sword jiggling in its belly, ravening and screaming. It headed straight his way, coming up through the ranks on his left.

    Aniketos readied himself, felt Xanthus by his left side do the same. They caught each others' eyes. Then Xanthus snapped his arm forward and cast a spell: a fiery bolt that sizzled through the air and caught the thing in the chest. It reeled back, then started forward again, but slowly now, as it were fighting its way through molasses. The soldiers on either side of it had the chance to land blow after blow on it, but Madridean armor was made too well: someone crumpled its neck guard, but could not remove its head. Then the spell abruptly wore off, and it tore its way up the ranks again. The thing locked eyes on Xanthus, came galloping forth so unnaturally, as if it was some animal that inhabited this human flesh. When it bore down on them, Aniketos, with a swift twist of magic, summoned forth shadowy cords that bound its limbs. As it struggled, Aniketos swung Eiletheia, meaning to cut off its head – for surely that was the only way it could die – but its limbs flailed, and he instead caught an upraised arm, slicing it clean off.

    A spray of blood painted Aniketos' armour; apparently, the body still had blood in it. Before Xanthus could find an opening to attack the thing, it had pulled out of the cords and gone, leaving its arm, still clutching the sword, behind. The broken cords dissipated and the severed arm fell to the cobblestones.

    Aniketos heard the thing charging through the army, its laughing howl mixing with the cries of those stuck fighting it. It had torn holes in their ranks, and the columns confusedly struggled to adjust. Luckily, the satyrs and oreads had by now been decimated, and there was little fighting in the front ranks. Aniketos found his place, and then heard something whizzing through the air.

    He just saw the arrow before it struck him. For an absurd moment, he thought it was a bird flying at him, sent by the encroaching woods. Then his cheek seared, and bled, sliced by the “bird’s” sharp beak. He spun around, trying to see where it had gone. The man behind him had fallen, and Aniketos believed he saw the bird perched on the corpse, its pointed beak anointed with the man's blood. With horror Aniketos realized it was the woodpecker of Solibar. The woodpecker pecked, pecked at the dead man, plucked out his eye and, with it dangling from his beak, flew away. Aniketos turned about again, clutching his bleeding cheek and caught sight of the pale woman down the hill, sitting astride her stag. You, he thought, You sent the bird. Despite the forest of spears, despite the flocks of arrows and shining spells, despite the undergrowth of so many swarming underlings, despite the great distance, their eyes met.

    Visions boiled up in Aniketos’ eyes, visions of Soto's fate: the wilderness, so long kept at bay by human hand, must swarm up over abandoned buildings; the Immortal Gardens of Madrid must grow strange and untended; the grass in the streets must grow over the bones of fallen Sotoans – they must all be lost and forgotten. Without humankind, life goes on. The doves must die under the sharp blows of the woodpecker's beak, unavenged, and so Kaahn must win, and the pale woman on her stag must win, and injustice must win because the world out there, the inhuman world, simply did not care, it was not sentient, it did not know, or feel, or have any code, it just was, and that being was inimical to human life –

    "No! No!" Aniketos struggled to keep his mind straight – oh, it whirled so, a swirling spinning tangled mass – struggled to slow the beating of his strangled heart. He breathed slow, kept the rise of bile his stomach, gritted his teeth. Gods, he felt that he might lose himself, and he felt that he already had maybe – but what was reality, what world was he in, was there a forest coming or was there none, what had his life been before? He did not know, did not did not did not know, did not–

    Xanthus looked at him with concern, asked him if he was well, shouldn't he send a messenger to get a healer? Aniketos had to struggle to remember who he was, and even so only had some loose concepts hurriedly thrown together, a bunch of pieces that could not be fit into any sensical form, and a thick fall of snow blew in on a harsh wind, snow fell between their faces, fell from where? Aniketos stared around at the magical messengers flickering brightly through the snow, the rest of his army, the enemy obfuscated by this snowfall. A cry rose on the air, then came the clamor of a charge. His shadow shapes showed him the next battalion rearing into action, the pale woman riding forth in the center. He cried, ”They come, brace yourselves!" The army did so without his command. Aniketos felt his absurdity, felt his heart beating a rapid tattoo against his flimsy ribs, felt the bodily looseness of nausea and panic. He must collect himself. The effort of doing so was like clawing together a ball of mud: sloppy, slipshod. Somehow he managed it, he remembered his training in Solibar.

    Shield to back. Brace.

    Impact.

    Sway with the wave.

    His shadow shapes showed him the battalion of goblins colliding with the Madrideans blocking up the street adjacent to his. Their intention was clear: to break through and take the side street, Wayman’s Alley, that connected with the main road, and thus take their battalion from behind. That, or they would make their way up to the healing tents and destroy them. Aniketos called down another messenger, this one an iridescent black bat that fluttered around his head, and told it, “Tell Senthus to take the backup forces to guard Wayman’s Alley in anticipation of an attack on our rear.” The bat squeaked and flew off.

    Time to go forth.

    "To me, champions!” he called, “We go forth, we go forth!" The Madrideans, trained to respond to the call, opened a gap and allowed passage for Aniketos at the head of the champions. As he went, Aniketos summoned up that electric rush of magic, sent it like a net through the air. With a thousand little tweaks of his mind, he manipulated the world around him, directing his spell at the enemy. Nonetheless, keeping his own kind safe, he called out in a loud voice, "Stand back!" and the soldiers repeated the call: "Stand back! Stand back!" When they had fallen back, Aniketos pulled. Weapons and shields wrenched themselves out of enemy hands and danced in the air, cobblestones leapt out of the street light as dancers, armour pulled at its straps and sometimes even broke free, all joining together into a deadly whirlwind of flying objects that shimmered and clashed through the air.

    Aniketos, advancing, spreading the net of his spell across more and more of the enemy, was too focused, too caught up in the power of his creation to be afraid any more. Aniketos, with eyes like twin moons, saw the front ranks collapse. Many fell, smote by a sword through the head or a cobblestone to the face or a shield shooting at knee-height through the crowd. Others ran, and some made it out of the range of Aniketos' spell while some died trying. Those that died were not even allowed to rest in death: the power of the spell tugged at their limbs, even lifted up smaller corpses and forced them to join the dance, while all the blood was swept up and became a gruesome rain. Aniketos even smiled at his own power, hardly able to hear their screams over such a tremendous cacophony and the constant spinning in his own head.

    He advanced, came out in front of the ranks. The champions streamed out behind him and arrayed themselves before the Madridean phalanx. Each, like Aniketos, was well-armed and armoured with many a spell and superhuman ability, and each was ready to retreat to preserve themselves or to fall back at Aniketos' command. As they readied themselves, the spell mowed down the last weeds of the enemy's front ranks. He let the spell end before it ran its full course, knowing it would be better to save some of it for later. Just like that, all the weapons and armour and stones dropped onto the mound of corpses below. Aniketos already grasped another thread of magic, preparing to throw another web onto the enemy. “Ready!” he called to his champions. They stood to attention.

    What had now become the army swarmed with confusion and disarray roughly twenty feet before Aniketos. Those who had escaped the whirlwind had disrupted the order of the ranks, and everyone was trying to find their place, some of them in a great terror. The champions advanced on these ranks. Aniketos would place his spell farther back: it was essential that they not be breathing the same air as their enemies. He readied himself and flung the spell out with a catapult-like action of his mind, landing it fifteen feet or so behind the front ranks.

    It looked like a wall of smoke. Black and pearlescent silver swirled together and was sucked into greedy lungs. This poison was a mixture of blindness and fear, designed to throw the middle of the army into a confused, blind terror. As they tried to escape, not knowing which direction to go in, they would disrupt the rest, perhaps even infect them with their fear.

    At Aniketos' call, the champions all broke into a run and plunged into the enemy lines.

    tl;dr



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    Kestrel Sumner
    And then she was gone, her hips swinging as the knives jostled her thighs, passing by guards with her head held high, a haughty smile upon her lips.

    Shadow made eye contact with the woman leading the siege. She swallowed the lump in her throat, forced her eyes to take in the scene, though she couldn’t focus on any one particular detail. Plumes of thick black smoke billowed into the air. Shouting erupted from somewhere behind the Madridean forces. “The infirmary is on fire!” someone screamed. I know what I need to do… She glanced at the Madridean army, paused for a second to make sure the army could handle itself, for her own peace of mind. Satisfied, she inhaled deeply, darted out from her place in the shadow of an alley mouth, the sounds of allied forces marching up behind her, and made her way along the eastern outskirts of the square. In circumventing the square, she put as much distance as she could between herself and the siege leader. As the strange woman vanished from sight, Shadow’s shallow breaths deepened and the dizzy, panicked feeling subsided.

    The wind intensified and a complete whiteout enveloped the square and surrounding area. Shadow gathered much of the snow to her, dissolving it into a massive liquid ball that followed her. Most of the enemy forces had either dispatched or disengaged from the defenders and now swarmed into the square to take on the Councillor-led force. A massive beast towering over all creatures on the battlefield surged ahead to lead the charge.

    But what good is it if the infirmary burns to the ground? I need to get to the other side of Aniketos’ forces.

    The whiteout wouldn’t suffice. Drawing on more snow and her water ball, she dissolved both into mist. For a breath there was no visibility for either party. Shadow felt with her magic, pinpointed roughly where she wanted to land—disappeared. She reappeared at the back of Aniketos’ main battalion.

    She drew the mist to her, reformed it into her sphere. It was taller and wider than her now, a watery force at her back. Shadow charged down the street; she dodged soldiers. Some glanced back and gaped. The smoke thickened as she neared the infirmary. Medics had set up additional tents to the right of the building proper, and some of them were also on fire. The inferno drowned out the screaming. Medics fought to evacuate the building; others fought the fire, throwing buckets of snow at it. Shadow couldn’t bring down a deluge on the infirmary—there were too many injured, too many unsuspecting, and she would flatten the tents and likely Aniketos’ army. But she would also flatten the intruder’s army, too. I can’t risk it. If Madrid loses anything, it won’t have a fighting chance.

    A woman fought off two druids nearby. She seemed able to hold them off—for now. Shadow turned her attention to the inferno.

    She called on her affinity for water. The ball behind her reformed itself into a dragon and rose into the sky. It launched itself toward the worst of the blaze, opened its maw and spewed water forth, its body depleting until it dissolved into fat droplets that rained over the flames. She had to fight against the liquid’s natural tendency to freeze in colder temperatures, but she did so with ease. The fire hissed and plumes of lighter smoke and mist rose into the air. Shadow gathered the mist into a new ball, smaller now, drew snow from buckets and from the earth to the sound of cries of surprise and outrage. The liquefied water reformed into its draconic shape, charged the fire again, dissolved. Over and over, while the other woman fended off the druids, Shadow focused on dousing the fire.

    “Grab dirt, earth—whatever you can find!” she called. Some of the medics grabbed abandoned buckets and ran to the guildhall.

    The blaze bowed to their efforts. Shadow breathed heavily, called her sphere back to her as it was about to transform for the umpteenth time. A medic, holding a bucket packed with fresh dirt, chest heaving, stopped in front of her. “You can take it from here,” Shadow said. There are other issues to deal with… like the pyromaniac who did this.

    The woman had managed to kill one of the druids. Another, however, called on her magic, and the fallen druid sat straight up, resurrected.

    That’s a problem.

    Shadow unsheathed two daggers. The sphere split off into six smaller balls.

    “We need to deal with her, now,” Shadow called to her now-comrade—a Councillor.

    A third druid joined the fray, focused on the Councillor.

    Shadow charged. The archdruid whipped around, snarled. The archdruid’s blade met Shadow’s with a clang. Shadow deflected and ducked away. The archdruid lashed out again. One of the water spheres became a square, froze; the archdruid’s blade glanced off. The sphere dissolved into a ball. She snarled, slashed again. Another sphere shot to Shadow’s side, became a square, froze. Shadow pulled back and grinned. The water spheres spun at her back like a halo tipped on its side, protecting her whole body.

    Shadow met her again in a clash of blades, backed off, lunged in for a strike. The archdruid cried out as Shadow’s knife caught her side. The wound turned an ugly red-black colour—frostbite. Shadow skipped back. Her chest heaved. She took half her water balls. They reformed into icicles, shot at the archdruid. The archdruid barely dodged. Shadow directed the water at her sword arm. A blob of it attached, froze. The archdruid’s arm dropped. Her sword clattered against the cobblestones. She scrabbled at the ice. Shadow lunged at her. They crashed to the ground, sword forgotten.

    The archdruid caught Shadow in the side of the head with the ice block. Shadow gasped. Her vision exploded into tiny stars. A hand found her throat, squeezed. Shadow drove her knife into that hand. The archdruid yowled. Shadow slashed at her through her distorted vision. A knife skittered across the cobblestones. Shadow kneed her opponent. The archdruid gasped, slumped. Shadow managed to flip the archdruid onto her back, straddle her with one leg. She kept her knee against the other’s abdomen. The remaining water blobs reformed into icicles, every single one pointed at the archdruid’s head and throat. One of the druid’s facing Rhia paused, mumbled an incantation. Shadow kept her eyes on the archdruid’s.

    “I’ll kill her. Keep muttering that spell and she’ll be dead before you finish it.”

    The archdruid struggled. Shadow pressed her knee hard into her chest, wedging it up against her sternum.

    One of the other druids kicked her staff across the cobblestones at the archdruid. Their leader managed to grab it, muttered an incantation. A thick vine swung from the side of a building and caught Shadow square in the chest. She hit the ground, rolled. Her other knife spun away. Some of the ice shards liquefied, shot to her. She created an icy scimitar with serrated edges as the vine hurtled towards her crouched body. It recoiled as the ice blade bit into it. Shadow released the scimitar and moved out of the way. The remaining icicles shot at the archdruid. The archdruid dodged them, the last one striking the cobblestones and shattering a mere inch from her heel.

    Shadow called more snow to her. She liquefied it and hurled it at the vine as it made another pass at her. The sphere froze and collided with the vine. The momentum of the sphere slammed the vine into the side of the infirmary. The sphere liquefied again, captured the vine in its middle, froze again, binding it to the wall. It flailed, smashing the side of the building over and over.

    Shadow unsheathed two more daggers. The archdruid had retrieved her sword. Shadow drew more snow-turned-liquid to her. The air seemed to waver like a mirage in the desert for a mere second. More water surrounded her, twelve spheres in total—six of which were little more than illusions.

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    tl;dr
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    Viktor
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    Viktor Zauber

    This was not his first battle, sure, but he had never had such a commanding view as he did now. His knees felt weak as he saw lines approach each other. He almost buckled when the lines collided. He tried not to focus on the death, on either side.

    How much easier it was to justify why he needed to be here mentally, and how much harder it was in reality. He felt a grip on his hand squeeze tightly. He did not realise that he had closed his eyes, and turned to Eva by his side. He could not help but think how beautiful she looked now, her brow with that small furrow she got when she was worried, her hair windswept in a way she would probably be unhappy with, but he thought was kind of hot. That small tilt of her lip, those blue eyes... "I'm okay" he told her, softly, so she could probably not hear him over the noise. She nodded and turned to continue her spellcasting, leaving her hand gripping his.

    "We have no choice" the brunette told him calmly, her face not faltering as she glanced around the battlefield "The only way we live is to fight. The world is harsh like that"

    The world was harsh.

    He remembered Zauberg, where giants had devoured a good chunk of the islands population, including Great Uncle Martin. He remembered Morrim, where a corrupt man rode down simple, honest people in the name of greed and vanity. He remembered Wyrm's End, where mindless beasts had attacked purely to kill people. Each time he had felt... Incompetent. He always tried to save every life he could, but this kept happening. Why? He wanted everyone to live! Slowly he exhaled.

    The world was indeed harsh.

    As he had already told himself, he took a side no matter what he did, including if he let fear of anyone being hurt paralyse him. The only way to make the world he wanted, free of violence, as to make it. To do that, he needed to survive here.

    He looked to Eva. Maybe it as selfish, but he thought of it in terms of the entire enemy force wanting to kill her. That made it easier to respond.

    He knew this was right. As a thought exercise he knew that before he started. Now action had begun he could not be swayed. He released Eva's hand and met his together.

    "I am fine" he told her, more confidentially. "I am Viktor Zauber the third, and I will live up to my name"

    As he spoke a giant figure of flame erupted over the battlefield. He saw many around his take a step back. He faced it down for a few moments, and then it vanished as soon as it had arrived. He looked around to see if anyone had cast anything nearby, to stunned reactions. Before anyone could comment there was more. He saw one fae creature begin to surge forwards, whilst a call for the champions to assemble went out.

    He was a Zauber. Time he started acting like one.

    "Cei! Go with the champions!" he called down, looking and seeing the expected pout "If they fail I am dead anyway, regardless of where they are. Protect all of us" me included, he tried to tell her with his eyes, knowing that would have more of a reaction from her than anything else "You are a champion! Act like it!" he saw Cei notably stiffen, before she ran off. He looked to Eva "Eva, run across to the main guild mages and coordinate with them. I want a firestorm on the rear ranks. Force them either to charge us wildly or to flee. I will give you a path" he stopped and unsummoned his wall from within the enemy ranks, it mostly having had its effect, and recreated it sideways on in mid-air, creating a narrow path for Eva. He pointed her to it, and she ran, gently placing her first foot on the invisible path. She turned back to him.

    "I love you" they said, almost as one.

    And then he as alone, at least as far as people he knew well. That left the... Goblin? To him.

    He crouched down and placed his hand to the side of the building he was on, the stone warping until moments later a perfect copy of him emerged, brickwork pattern across it. The stone being looked to him briefly, and then forwards. It ran.

    "Make way!" Viktor called as the stone being approached the rear ranks, speeding up as it gained momentum. Sure, the golem copied his hand to hand skills, which were not great, but it was made of solid rock. As it ran he also made it lighter and tougher, and amended its colours to make it look more like him. If you were not up close you may be fooled to thinking it was a person.

    Gathering more speed as it grew lighter the stone being howled as it approached the King Ginko, a low roar. As it got closer Viktor created another invisible wall behind the creature, separating it from its allies, at least for a moment. As the golem got even closer he aimed his want at it, and fired. An orb of pure magic fired at Ginko. It would do little more than a punch, but all Viktor wanted was it off balance. Moments after the orb connected the golem, still howling leapt to try and spear tackle the so called King into the wall, as it flew through the air its weight suddenly increasing well above what it should have been.



    Ceiwyn Zauber

    Ceiwyn felt pure panic as she ran, glancing back to see Eva leaving Vik as well. She could not hear, but saw them mouth those three words to each other. She wished she had said the same. The thought of not seeing him again. It made her feel lesser. He had been her rock, her adopted parents may have saved her life, but she only existed as a human because of the kindness he had shown a useless, orphan girl like herself. He did not know, but she had decided to pledge her being to him long ago now. It hurt leaving him.

    She told herself it was needed. To save so many lives. She did not care about them though; if the whole world save her, Vik and Eva perished she would be happy and unworried. She wanted to little from life but those she saw as close to her. Give her... Five people left in the whole world, and she would be happy. Everyone else was a distraction. Even amongst those five Vik shined brightest. She was nobody without him, and whilst he would continue without her the opposite did not apply.

    So she needed to fight and kill? That did not bother her. Every attacker here wanted to hurt Vik, and as such she saw no issue ending their lives.

    She quickly met up with Aniketos, her rapier in one hand, and a stream of water flowing from the other in a spiral that looked like a makeshift shield. She paused as chaos was unleashed upon the enemy lines and then? Then she charged.

    Her blade took one disoriented fae through the throat, whilst her spiral shield extended and lashed at another. The water did little more than knock them of balance, but she dived in and made a swift, clean, kill. Then the champions kept advancing. Ceiwyn wanted to look back to Viktor the whole time. But she soldiered on, ears pricking at a deep roar that seemed to echo from the stones. A glance to the side saw a figure that looked so much like him charge at enemy lines, and her heart leapt to her throat.





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    Sophia
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    High Inquisitor of Ashoka

    In a small building, some distance away from the fighting, there was a sudden glow of blue. From the ring worn by a tall, short haired woman the light seemed to fill the room and quickly took form. It almost looked like a flower opening, right up until a figure fell through it.

    Sophia Orjtarn emerged and quickly cast her eyes around, sword raised. A moment later, when it was clear she had not been summoned by her homonculus because it was in imminent danger, she turned to it. "I take it something is wrong?" she asked, simply.

    The artificial human quickly filled her in on the situation, watching as Sophia seemed to maintain a air of calm, only clenching her fist slightly when she was told of the nature of the attack. She was many thing, uncaring, selfish, and in many ways she saw herself as less than human. Her hands had so much blood on them, and in so many other ways she was... Lacking. What kind of monster was she? She had been crafted into an unfeeling machine, a weapon even moreso than the blade she held, and she had broken free to, well, to what? To keep on doing what she had done by herself? To be the bloodhound of an insane tyrant? Was that all she was?

    No, she may be a piss poor excuse for a human, her heart may have been killed years ago, but the idea of inhuman monsters like her overrunning the city? Even this city, which she hated so much, and yet loved like a lost home? No. Not on her watch.

    With a few short words Sophia left the small hovel.

    That same blue glow opened behind her as she took to the sky, soaring quickly high above the city. The battle was obvious from this height, and she sped towards it, as she did so knives fell from the portal and attached themselves to her hip, steel shin pads and ankle guards attached themselves to her, along with a short sword on the back of her waist. Her red shirt billowed loose around her, contrasting to the tough leather trousers. She did not look the typical warrior, but, then again, she was not one.

    She stopped her flight above the battlefield, her sword gripped in her hand. Just the steel one, for now, when something that would make her break a sweat showed up? Then she would call her black blade.

    "Oh, I seem to be late to the party" she murmured to herself, and flicked her hand at a house behind fae lines. It rose into the sky before flying to her, blocking any sight from any fae archers. "Now, are any of these guests going to prove interesting?" she touched her hands to the approaching building and it instantly collapsed under telekinetic pressure, turning into a flying storm of rubble. A moment later all of it flew at fae lines, crashing amongst them with a series of dull thuds. She saw bodies broken and shattered. Maybe she should feel something, is that what a person should do? Remorse? Pride, maybe? Should she be proud she could do this? It seemed almost perverse. To end lives from up high, immune from reprisal.

    With a sudden burst she followed the raining rubble down, her pace falling just short so she landed amongst the Sotoan champions, of note next to Aniketos, the councillor and a friend, sort of. Maybe. "You insult me" she told him, simply, her expression blank "Next time, call" she looked at him briefly, and was tempted to say something, but no. Not now. Now she riled up the enemy, to force them to throw their biggest and best at her, in the hope it would be a challenge.

    "Tell me, fae creatures, do you want to kill humans?" she called out as she began to charge forwards "If so, try and kill this one!"

    She reached the first, some goat looking thing, and her approach was far too quick for it, getting her right inside his guard. Her hand touched his throat, which began to melt where she did so. Her sword flicked out leaving a long gash through both eyes of another before she danced aside from a blow, her movement almost to fast from human eyes to track. From her waist a dagger danced out and flew at another. It was blocked by a shield at the last moment, but changed course and flew around the guard, embedding itself in the creatures neck, before leaving and returning to Sophia where it orbited her like some sort of grisly, blood soaked halo.

    This was it. She was the one, she had been built in a nightmare for this. Pulling herself out of filth so she could bathe in gore. She could feel every muscle in her strain, her eyes hyper focused, heart beat increasing. This was it! This was what she lived for! If humanity needed some terrible, inhuman monster to defend it from other inhuman monsters? She was the one.

    She was in constant motion. Or rather, as she saw it everyone here was just so very, very slow. Some rock creatures fist went harmlessly past her to the side as she shoulder checked a smaller creature, her momentum sending it to the floor where tiny spiders crawled over its neck and bit.

    Her sword lashed out, sliding off the stone skin of whatever this thing was, forcing her to jump back. It made another lunge and she jumped aside, taking her around it whilst her knife darted out again. At lighting speed she dove, her sword moving at impossible speed, and in a mere fraction of a second three marks were scored in the creatures torso. It seemed non plussed, and again Sophia was forced to dodge and weave. It threw another punch.

    She caught it in her empty hand. As her knife flew around her, forcing anyone else to keep a distance she began to squeeze. After a few moments her grin grew into a smile. "Thanks, I actually enjoyed that" she shared before the stone fist shattered in her. A swift palm to its stunned face melted her palmprint into it, before telekinetic force tossed it into a crowd.

    Was this all there was? Was she so monstrous that this untold horde could only challenge her through pure attrition? Between dodges and strike she looked back, seeing that she had gained some distance on the Sotoan force. She was the greatest monster here. She felt a little flat at that.

    So best to end it. Her enhanced senses glanced around, and in a charge that, literally, tossed foes out of her way and across the battlefield she approached the fae commanders.

    Her sword took one in the throat as she drew close, moving fast, so fast, her blade whirled around and-

    She froze.

    "Galena?"



    Abilities used-

    Many- All of the passives on her profile under Mistress of Blades, Physical capabilities, sensory, Dance of Death/ Dodging, Flight. From under her spells see the Telekinesis, The Gate and The Hand that Slays sections, as well as her Insect related skills.
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    Galena
    Member Avatar
    Thy sins, paid in blood...

    ~ Galena ~

    The song ended, though her fingers kept playing the strings of her lyre, sounding out her betrayal with every vibration, every note. Would that they could hear it over the sounds of battle, the screaming, clashing steel, the sound of blades and blunts smashing into flesh. The fear clawed up in her, blocked her throat as she felt the tight winding sensation of the panic gripping her ribs and squeezing, squeezing til she thought they would crack from it.

    The nauseating sensation swept over her once more as she felt her eyes turn adoringly to their leader, bucked and resisted against the pull, felt it grow worse, hot little hooks in her guts.

    Thou willst obey.

    Damn her poison, her spores. And damn them that would turn a blade against her! Galena ceased her music, stuffing her knuckles against her teeth to prevent herself retching. Silly that something like that would be so embarrassing when there was already so much blood and offal being shed at the front lines. The confusion bred of the spores ran rife through her, one moment cold with dread, balking at the scene before her, the next flushing hot with passion for the beauty and grace of their stalwart leader.

    And then they were moving, the charge surging forward and it was all she could do to hold on and squeeze her eyes shut, breath hissing in her throat.

    Traitor, traitor, TRAITOR!

    She should be fighting for her people. But which were hers? Méadaigh would lead them as children by the hand, take them to their victory and reclaim that which was theirs!

    Verily, she must be protected, or all is lost. Mine countenance doth matter no longer...

    Shakily her hands stowed her lyre and strung her bow, unwilling to lift the arrow to the string. Everything screamed at her that it was wrong, all of this, but one glance at the corrupt dryad brushed it all away, her smile incomparable. There was a storm coming, sweeping through the ranks toward them. Pray then, that it tore her to pieces and ended the misery. It was less than she deserved for being here.

    Galena closed her eyes, smoothly nocking the arrow and breathing deep.

    For Méadaigh.

    "Galena?"

    Her eyes flew open, green iris, black schlera, contracted as suddenly as her heart leaped into her throat. What was she doing here? No, she couldn't-
    "Don't...don't look at me!"
    Gods but she was hideous, corrupt, twisted and wrong, so very wrong. She wasn't supposed to see, wasn't supposed to be here! Why was she here? Now she knew, she knew-

    Shoot her.

    But if she shot Sophia she'd destroy everything, the gentle relationship they'd only just begun to nurture, friendship or otherwise. If she didn't they'd tear her apart. Her hands shook. What if she shot Méadaigh? The very thought sent red hot pain lancing through her, doubled up over herself, hands gone slack with weakness. The arrow loosed, missed Sophia by a mile and took one of their own through the hip.
    Then she was falling, her mount rearing up in fright and pawing at the air. She thought only to fold herself around her lyre, protect it from the harsh impact with her twisted form, then the air was whooshing from her lungs, leaving her dazed and gasping for breath.

    Just kill me now, for I am so useless to her.

    -

    + Sabe +


    The problem with an army, was that they were cumbersome to organize, to move. Once an order was issued, it might take a half hour to get to where it was going, if it go there at all, and then it may as well be void for all the relevance to the changing situation it had.

    Not so in their case.

    As instructed, the psion directed the Lady's missive to her commanders with the cavalry, feeling the way they flinched as his voice moved sibilously through their minds, infecting them with his own rage. Only by the calming influence her tiny companion had did he yet sustain his own emotions. They were there though, boiling over just out of sight. All the terror and anger and desperation bleeding from the body of minds surrounding them was too much, even with that, driving him under.

    "Now, Leifteanant, what wait thou for? My hope is in thee."

    He inclined his head slightly, eyes flicking to watch her from his peripheral, then peeled away from their tight-knit group and began shoving his way relentlessly through the press. Too bad he couldn't stay close, it would be a crying shame if she were to end up disemboweled by her own champion. The Cambion snorted with laughter, then went to work on those around him. He moved like an arrow of hate, cutting through their own ranks and bearing his own mental will down on them, driving them into a frenzy of maddened fury, sweeping away doubt and replacing it with rage.

    "Move you slovenly shytes!" He bellowed at the nearest soldier, some wild-touched satyr with madness in his eyes, planted his hand on the back of a drow shoved him mercilessly into the fray. "Ulu ultrinnan!"*

    Fear, cold and crushing as a tomb washed over him, choked him. A hundred shapes on the edge of his vision, black blades and sharp smiles. Screeching and faltering as they milled in the front ranks, disorganized and tattered from the assault of the whirlwind, and the smog.

    Now.

    "You cowardly bastards!" One hand ripped Gul from the scabbard across his back, lashed out and caught a demoralizing blow with the flat across a fae's hips. "This is your city! Her city! Forward!"
    The blade quivered in his grip, sang in time to the thrumming emotions dragging him under, speech eluding him as his gaze clouded with unreasonable hatred. He drew Beben, hummed low in his throat at her cold beauty, yet unblemished by the blood she knew was coming. It was always blood, wasn't it?

    Sabe shoved through the front rank til he stood before them, felt them shuffling away as dark smoke boiled through the cracks of the paving around them, curling sinuously about his ankles in an oily caress. Half a dozen malevolent shapes formed and collapsed, writhed and leered, intended to cause terror in these few champions rising to the fore. His tail lashed once, twice, even as the ranks behind him struggled not to break under the assault of this cloud of terror billowing over them. On his own by the looks...well...that was alright. He'd always rather liked uneven odds.

    Debris littered the ground before the lines of the armies, some of it useable. Shrapnel, broken blades and hinges, dented scraps of armor and shields, coins, anything he could attract began to skitter towards their side, metallic scraping and rattling adding to the cacophony. The Cambion bared his teeth in a mirthless grin, and lifted one hand, flicking it casually as one would swat at a fly. Harmless trash became a wall of projectiles, a wind of knives and sharp edges flying at the enemy and their exposed champions. Behind it came the devil, scything low and wreathed in terror.
    "CoMe To me, fODdEr. slAke MY tHiRSt!"

    -

    - Alex -


    Tallying things up was a mistake. First of all it looked like he'd been stabbed. He couldn't really feel it which was more worrying to be honest. It was just cold, a deep cold like someone had slowly inserted an icicle into the side of his ribs, then held a handful of snow over it. Ah wait, no, there it was, the searing pain, returning like a lost lover, so familiar. Someone dragged him up onto his feet, breathing hard, shoved him aside, stumbled and was righted by steadying hands. Lucky he hadn't been trampled underfoot really.

    "Gods, man you've been stabbed!"
    "Oh, really? I hadn't noticed."
    "Get to the physicians, they'll-"
    Whatever he'd been about to say was cut off as the ranks opened and something came hurtling towards them. Alex might have said it was a good thing, really, because he didn't much feel like answering a dozen questions about why he no longer had a working discernible heartbeat, or why he caught fire if he went outside unclothed between the hours of say, six in the morning and eight at night.

    It looked like a man but it didn't move like one. Or at least, how a man was meant to move when he was wearing full plate and had a sword in his belly. The thing flailed its limbs maniacally as it charged on, mouth gaping in a horrifying inhuman wail, flopping and flapping itself in a way that suggested it didn't much care for the laws of physics.

    The engineer frantically grabbed the soldier beside him, using the weight of his armor to swing him aside as the thing cannoned into him, bowling them both over. He saw swords rise and fall as they hacked at it, clanging off the backplate and greaves. There were more concerning matters though, such as the teeth gnashing half an inch from his nose, or the fact he'd just shoved his longer fingers into its eye, curling and digging in the socket as he fought to push the damned thing's head away from his face. The fact it didn't feel pain should have been obvious, but he still resorted to punching it repeatedly in the face while the dead white fingers closed on his throat, making black spots flash and dance before his eyes. So he still needed air, what a novelty. Maybe if he stopped breathing he'd also stop combusting. It was something to think about later.

    Someone was bound to see the irony of two apparently dead things fighting one another, though he'd still argue as much that he was a person, not a mindless dribbling construct hellbent on the destruction of all life. Well maybe just destruction.

    Hands grappled with it, lifted it off him, one of the arms severed, falling away from his throat. He got to his feet, rubbing gingerly at his neck and sucking air, even as it battered down one of the men wrestling with it, crushing the front of his helm in with its fist.

    Well cutting it to pieces obviously wasn't working, and if there was one person good at turning a whole thing into several parts, he could probably raise his hand to that. Alex wasted no time removing Clarice from her holster, a bit worse for wear now she'd been scraped and dragged halfway across Madrid.
    "I'm so sorry darling, I promise I'll give you some new brass and a good polish when this is all over."
    He rubbed at her scratched stock, then loaded the small coin-like object into her cage with a satisfying click.
    "Get out of my way."
    He meant business, and it was apparent by the fact the men knew it too, because they did just that.
    "Hey, piss-for-brains! Er...you're terribly incontinent and your mother is a lady of negotiable affection of the cheapest kind that only a blind crippled beggar could afford."
    "That doesn't make sense."
    "Oh shut up." He elbowed the soldier back away from him, grimacing. Whether it was the insult or just the fact it had finished with the man it had been attempting to rearrange the face of, possibly on the back of his skull, it straightened up and pivoted toward them. Alex pulled the trigger, Clarice whistled, and the shot embedded itself into the thing's midriff.
    "Great plan genius."
    "Well, I tri-"
    The engineer ducked, shielding himself as the once-man hurled itself toward them and promptly exploded as the bolt detonated, raining bits of recently-dead-soldier and twisted metal fragments onto the street. He picked a scrap of flesh off the brim of his hat and exhaled in enormous relief. It hadn't quite made it to the healer's tents either, which was a plus. The soldier behind him looked about to have a nervous breakdown, which was hardly surprising. He tended to forget that other people didn't necessarily expect things to just dismantle themselves with great force in public. Alex slapped the man's shoulder in what he hoped was a friendly macho display of..something...
    "Everything went better than expected! Except for that one guy."


    TL;DR


    Abilities
    Edited by Galena, Aug 7 2016, 06:11 AM.
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    Calliope
    Member Avatar
    Goddess of Erth'netora

    Meadaigh's soldiers seemed to outnumber Aniketos' army in the beginning, but they were slowly being decimated at an ever increasing rate… thanks to their Champions.

    Her entire middle flank elicited uncontrollable screams of pain and fear as Aniketos' power crept into their psyche, striking terror into their hearts. They began attacking anything they saw without warning or mercy, losing their sense of reason and devolving into something no more intelligent than wild animals. Some of the soldiers thrashed and rolled on the ground like they were on fire.

    Méadaigh watched an oread knock another one senseless with a swift punch to the head. The other stumbled on her feet, clearly dazed by being struck with such force and ferocity by an ally, and therefore left herself open to yet another punch. This hit knocked the other off their feet and onto her back, where the oread promptly pounced on her and began to pummel her with merciless punches.

    The three Commanders standing by were looking at each other with surprise. They turned their attention to Méadaigh, awaiting orders. Mimi, the Gnome witch, frowned. Her own battalion, which numbered less than a few hundred, were running short on magic power. To make matters worse, the magitek cannons had been either destroyed or commandeered by the enemy. Even the fairy Queen did not think she would be able to dispel it all by herself….

    "Damn! Did they know about our attack all along?"

    "We're all going to die!"

    "A couple of battalions against an entire army! Even with our Commander…"

    "Do we have reinforcements?!"

    The soldier's woeful thoughts did not fall on deaf ears.

    "Hark, soldiers! Let not your heart be faint. Do not fear or panic or be in dread, for your Goddess is she who goes with you to fight for you against your enemies, to give you the victory!"

    Queen Maeve landed on Meadaigh's shoulder once more.

    "The soldiers are starting to panic, my Lady. The 3rd battalion can set a defensive line around the army. I suggest we have the 4th battalion retreat--"

    "Nay."

    The fairy's eyes turned towards the Goddess. She hadn't spoken much, save for relying orders to charge the enemy's front lines. For her to suddenly exhibit a response meant that she had determined the next move. Many had been discussed at the war table, but only she knew the true course of actions that would transpire. The magnitude of her presence pressured the three Commanders into watching her, as well.

    "There aren't enough. We cannot continue to hold the wards, let alone resurrect our fallen. It's taking its toll on my fairies!"

    "The knave shan't hold for much longer."

    "We are up for slaughter!"

    "Know thy duty, little Queen. Relay this order to thy fairies and have them spread word. They wilt continue to defend."

    "A-as you command, my Goddess," The fairy Queen bowed her head before flying high above the army, controlling her glow on and off in combinations of long and short intervals.

    The chaos from before settled down shortly thereafter as the three Commanders began planning for the next step.

    "Rest assured. Tis their troops whom are up for the slaughter."

    ****

    The three druids had stopped fighting. Their job was complete; half of the tents had burned, the rest, demolished. Their job was not to kill the injured, nor was it to engage the enemy. The woman with the sword hadn't seemed too dangerous, but now they faced another powerful enemy, perhaps even too powerful for them to take on by themselves.

    "Galloglaigh, you must retreat to safety," Aednat the Warrior spoke low so only her sisters could hear. "We'll stay and fight to hold them back and buy you enough time to escape. We won't let them past us," as soon as the words left the warrior's mouth, a stray arrow pierced through her armor and into her chest.

    Approaching them at a steady pace was a full column of enemy infantry armed with pikes, crossbows, and swords. They must have been from Aniketos' backup forces.

    The warrior fell to the ground, spitting up blood.

    "Aednat!" cried Galloglaigh, who rushed to her aid. The healer, whose name was Niamh, joined them. "Let me pull this thing out of you," said Niamh, gingerly trying to grasp the arrow with her shaking hands. She began to pour healing magic into the wound. Seeing the situation for what it was, the Archdruid summoned a wall of thorns between them and the two champions; the roots sprouted from deep beneath the ground, and ran horizontally, all the way across.

    Aednat grabbed her hand and stared straight into the healer's eyes. "Niamh, save your magic power… get the Archdruid out of here!" Her words were muffled as blood poured into her throat. A moment later, the light escaped her eyes as she passed away.

    Niamh's heart felt as though it would burst from her chest. Her vengeance and vigor became to be burdened by her own guilt. At first, blood of both her friend and enemy had been slashed over her body, but more of it seemed it was now only becoming the blood of the enemy that decorated her self. Soon enough, the city had been turned into a bloody mural that decorated the walls and streets. She knew the Madrideans were ready to die, but this did little to pillow the massacre around her.

    "I see you, sister… thank you," whispered Galloglaigh, "Your spirit rest with the Mother."

    The Archdruid knew that the cavalry wouldn't arrive in time, and even if they did, they were instructed to surround the armies, which meant surrounding them, as well. When the arrows and spells started flying, it would have been almost impossible to distinguish between friend and foe.

    The two druids stood, back to back, holding their weapons before them as if opposing death to the very end. The enemy soldiers pointed their own weapons against the two after the brown haired woman summed pillars of water.

    The Archdruid closed her eyes.

    There was no need to continue fighting as if death would be inevitable. Though before they would make their retreat, it was appropriate of the circle to leave their foes with a parting gift. Sharpened teeth bore into their own hands, spilling falling drops of blood onto the earth beneath them. Tiny pools would spill as the caster lulled an eerie chant. Druidic spells oft bent the world to their will, calling upon the aid of plants and creatures to fight for a common cause, but there existed ancient rituals that would seek even greater forms of life.

    Summonings were oft-forbidden within the teachings of sibling sects, as the cost of bringing any primeval sentience to the surface was too great a price to pay; war, however, was but another ancient beast. To conquer it, her forces would need another.

    Hot white light emanated from the ichor pouring from their palms as their chanting came to an end, causing the liquid to suddenly sink deep into the earth. Its scent, the physical essence of life itself, would draw it near. The ground rumbled and thick vines broke through it, reaching their way high into the sky. Knitting and kneading, the collective tendrils converged into a single entity. From its cephalic body, a dozen writhing eyes, separated by thick wooden spikes, while mighty roots would drag its body from the earth like tree-sized tentacles.

    The monstrous creature towered thrice the height of man, its bark husk crackling as it entered into life. Its eyes stared unblinking, fixing onto the soldiers who opposed the creature's presence.

    A horrible hole tore in its surface, revealing to the masses a mighty maw. Within, a sea of needles, taking on the appearance of countless gnashing teeth.

    Galloglaigh took Niamh's hand and ran, ran away.

    The primordial beast would devour them all.

    It would.

    ****

    He could hear it, even from this distance. Drumming steel. Splintering wood. Choking cries. Bellows of fury. Playing softly in the dawn, ears keen to the melody could always find it within the stillness. From the heart of Madrid, a thick plume of smoke rose. It was lacking in size, a mere seed of the carnage to come, but served Her purpose: to be a wound unto the world.

    Onlookers would mark the start of Her rule as the day Madrid fell. To the kentauroi, it began with a familiar song, one that haunted the meek but was a lullaby to the barbaric.

    The song of war.

    Hylonome stood in place of his chieftain in heading his herd, an honor that few stallions were fated to know before the end. No, not by chance was the colt to command his comrades; he was born for this honor, molded by trial and tribulation in preparation for this fateful day. The centaur had come to terms with destiny. He would make Amphion recognize his greatness by bathing their clan in the blood of their enemies.

    Every colt and mare equipped a freshly tied lance at one side and a sword at the other, their bodies clad in their clan's traditional armor. Those that would see their banner splayed across their steel-plated breasts would come to know who had been wronged, carving the terrible memory of the scorned kentauroi into the future of this land. Soto no longer took heed of their presence, failing to see the warrior tribe as anything but a nuisance to the order of humanity.

    If they would not be seen, the kentauroi would instead make themselves heard.

    As of now, dryads and fae and other diminutive creatures sprawled through the streets. The Nightmare dryad Herself led her masses down the main road, crashing her way towards the heart like a mighty wave. Though powerful as a Goddess, her method was straightforward, something easily countered by the spider web of paths the enemy could take to reach her. Were Her mighty wave split, the Meadaigh's momentum would be tarnished, and all could fail. But She knew this well.

    It was Her command for the kentauroi to remain uninvolved in the skirmishes at the start, instead maintaining the ranks in wait of a command. Though Hylonome did not know what such forest creatures understood of warfare, his chieftain had placed his people within Meadaigh's realm of command. Amphion's trust was one not easily earned, especially outside of his own people; if his allegiance was earned by Her, then it would be as well by the rest of his herd. Even if it would mean gritting their teeth on the sidelines, eager to dance alongside Her on the battlefield.

    A voice suddenly rang out within the kentauroi's mind. No, it was not a voice a cold would know. Some strange magic crept into his skull, inspiring even a brute such as himself to shiver at the intrusion. Decrepit tricks, they were, incompatible to the effectiveness and glory of his steel.

    "EH?" Hylonome grunted aloud as if speaking to this man directly. "OH, it's you."

    The Kentauroi began to ready themselves, hitting the weapons once in their hands and drawing out their quivers and longbows. From each slender pouch, an arrow was drawn, its length and girth more measurable of a shortened spear than a slender shaft. Even such bulky projectiles could be made to fly like any other arrow.

    Hylonome's focus returned to his cavalry, nodding in approval as they geared themselves with respect to their orders.
    "Fifty for each road, arrows on each of 'ya," he barked, roughly shoving his sword into its sheath. "Leave the main road for Her forces." The commander strung his mighty bow, fitting a spear like arrow to its sight.

    "Remind them why men need walls."

    The cavalry was off, charging toward the city in a mighty stampede. Before the boundary was reached, the mass divided itself in half, encircling the city to approach its center from either side. These two groups entered Madrid, splitting off again into four distinct groups, as per the telepath's command. From within the heart, they heard the sounds of conflict, guiding the kentauroi to where they needed to be. Each found a road blocked off by a battalion of soldiers, their focus fixed onto the approaching hoard within the city square.

    Galloping hooves would surely be noticed, at least those who could hear past the screams, but such preparation would do little to warn them of what was coming. Unlike men, whose bodies tired from such charges, needing to regroup, the kentauroi were able to take position immediately following their stampede. Arrows were notched, bowstrings were drawn with a sickening moan. The horsemen aimed their weapons to the sky.

    A flock of arrows flew over Madrid before a deadly rain came down upon the unsuspecting soldiers, adoring their enemies with a deadly row of spears. Those not impaled by the carnage found their shields and comrades as the only defense from the volley, with every projectile pinning its victims to the ground. Cries of confusion rose from the survivors of their ranks, as men fell left and right within the raging storm of iron.

    The hot boil of battle lust built within them. It was what made them mighty from birth, and it was what gave them strength sought after even by a Goddess.

    ***********

    Méadaigh herself watched as blonde dryad's arrow met another.

    "Galena!" Meadaigh's voice cracked through the violence like a whip, harsher than anything anyone had ever heard out of her before. Slowly, she came out of the lines of carnage on her black stag toward the fallen blonde dryad.

    The Nightmare dryad towered over her like a tigress sizing up its prey. A hand extended to the blonde dryad's form. She trailed a sharp fingernail from the base of her neck to the soft muscles of her stomach, taking the time to briefly circle around the navel. A vicious grin cut across her beautiful face. "Thy betrayal is not as nearly as naughty as what I'm going to do to thee," Méadaigh purred, her lips curled in jest. After a moment, she laughed. She could feel it, as too could Galena. The rage that was boiling deep inside. Méadaigh leaned over her face, pale hair falling over them like a curtain, lightly tickling Galena's cheeks.

    "Make her mine," she softly commanded. Wild-eyed Galena glanced toward Sophia but a light slap on her face let her know that her attention was to be given only to the Goddess. Galena's eyes met Meadaigh's only to see that they had become as pale as the snow. Her chest heaved, knowing that it could only mean one thing. Her crystal blue eyes became clouded over, as well, and her body began to move, like a puppet being held up by Her strings. She was trapped in her ring.

    "Come," Galena's voice was low and deep with promise. Without giving Sophia a chance to respond, their mouths met. The kiss was gentle at first, their lips two pairs of languid longing, but soon the gentleness faded and their mouths clashed in hot desire. The kiss was deepened and they both groaned at the brief flash of arousal. Their tongues met in hungry strokes, and Galena pulled Sophia closer to her even though there was no physical space between them left, and al she wanted was to be closer, closer to her than ever before.

    Every inch of Sophia's skin felt like it was on fire. Every touch of Galena's hands, every movement of her lips, was a tiny flame igniting. Without even realizing, her mind began to fade into a hazy fog of bliss. There was only one feeling left; Sophia felt like she was made of pure flame burning for the Goddess. It washed over her like a wave until it consumed her entirely. The kiss had broken and Galena had stepped away from her. The job was done. Sophia blinked once, eyes deadening and narrowing as her senses became numbed.

    "Go," Méadaigh chimed with a blissful smiled, gesturing towards Aniketos.

    They stood at arms before a goddess, and yet it was nature Herself who combated them. Roots deep beneath the mantle, the soil that housed the bed of life, and the plants that reached for the warmth of light pulsed with rivets of primordial power. The time was drawing near. Those who defied the natural course of the realm inquired Her, she who is with neither mercy nor hatred, to sweep across the land like a storm.

    When mankind defies the Goddess of nature, he defies the world itself, and the ultimate inevitability.

    There would be no hope for those who threw themselves before Her fury. There would be no divine move to make these brave individuals into unexpected legends. There would be nowhere for the unfortunate survivors to flee.

    With the world itself as their enemy, this futile resistance will only find themselves exactly where She wants them to be:

    Beneath her.

    His people were terrified, their deaths now realized within reality. The Psion had become a monster to these people, rampaging through the enemy line as an omnipotent evil, forever ravenous, and now there would be another. Others stared in disbelief, some cried, and others shivered. It was too late to run now.

    Death was coming for them.
    Edited by Calliope, Aug 11 2016, 10:13 AM.
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    Aniketos
    Member Avatar
    Unter friedlichen Umständen fällt der kriegerische Mensch über sich selber her.

    As a lion bursts into a sheepfold and falls upon the sheep, tearing left and right with teeth and claws, bloodying his golden fur and shaking his mane, so Aniketos fell on the confused fae army in all its disarray. Eiletheia flashed through the air, amethyst blade cleaving flesh as his body pulsed with an intoxicating flood of magic. This was so easy – the fae struggled to escape this pit of confusion and so they fought each other, fear bright in their eyes. Only a few had the strength of mind and body to turn against the Madridean champions, but they were clawed at by their comrades, and they fell to Aniketos’ power just as easily as the rest. Aniketos lost himself to the dance, the rhythm of which was the striking of his blade, the melody of which was the cries and clatter of war. He laughed and jeered at them; for a time he was convinced that Madrid was theirs to keep. Who could fault him for this delusion? So it seemed to even Méadaigh’s commanders and to the swarming, terrified ranks that fell one by one to Madridean steel.

    Yet Aniketos, who fought through a different reality, was prone to wavering. The first upset came in the form of a dark-skinned teifling who shoved his way through the crowd and, with a gesture of his hand, raised up the debris that had previously been manipulated by Aniketos’ spell and sent it tearing through their ranks. A battered shield came flying straight at Aniketos and glanced off his wards to shoot into the man behind him. Aniketos heard him fall with a clatter of armour.

    The thick veins in his neck pumped terror into his head; his skull felt full and hot. Panting and sweating, he cursed his sloppiness and instinctively he drew back from the fighting, stumbling over the man who had been felled by the shield. He was still alive, just winded and rolling on the ground in all his cumbersome armour, helpless as a babe. Aniketos became preoccupied with the task of helping him up. This man had survived, but Aniketos saw that others had not: there were unmoving masses on the ground, black stains on the snow.

    In his panic, Aniketos' mind shot deep into the past, all the way back to the soothing words of his mother, who he was sure he would never see again: “There’s no use worrying over a mistake you’ve made, my darling Ani. No, just think of what you’ll do next.”

    So he did what he should have done in the first place and raised up all the detritus that had just been weaponised against them and catapulted it up into the sky. Hinges and shields and bits of weapons went spinning away to come raining down on the back ranks of the enemy army. There, he thought, they wouldn’t likely be used again. Now it was time to get back into the fray, he simply had to get himself together – now was the time, now was the time. With an almost physical effort he attempted to collect his self, the pieces of which were scattered all over his body, all throughout the expanse of his life, all over the battlefield.

    Now was – but something vast flew through the air, trailing dust and bricks, and Aniketos flinched as if expecting it to fall on his head, though it was clearly on a trajectory for the enemy. It reached the end of its parabola and began to fall. Screams rose from below and the fae scattered. Many were too late to escape. The building fell with a crash that shook the earth, shook his feet, his entire body. This spectacle of this destruction surprised and shocked Aniketos, but even as his heart pumped cold, he felt elated. After all, it was the enemy that suffered.

    But now was the time. He must focus.

    There was a space around the teifling – the champions kept their distance, the better to hit him with spells. The air was alight with them, spraying like fireworks to and from the teifling, to and from the army, the people on the roofs – I must focus. What can I do, what can I do? The teifling’s scythe swung low and Aniketos acted on gut instinct, a frenzied instinct that said I just want this to stop! Just make it stop! Cords of shadow twined around the teifling’s stomach and then hooked him towards Xanthus, who, with his famous reflexes, swung his sword at the teifling's neck.

    Aniketos did not see what happened next, for a voice spoke right by his ear. ”You insult me.” Aniketos spun around, sword and all, and barely stopped himself from slicing off Sophia’s head – assuming that was even possible. For a moment he looked upon her with wild eyes, and then a soft glow of confidence rose in his scattered soul. He felt his self coming back together. He didn’t say anything in time: she just told him, ”Next time, call,” and then shouldered her way ahead.

    With Sophia on their side, what could defeat them?

    Aniketos plunged back in with vigor, once again finding his rhythm in that song. There were plenty of people crowding around the teifling, including the Guildmaster of the Mythic Occult – they’d be able to keep him at bay. So, Aniketos occupied himself with the rest army, which had begun to recover from his spells. They began to form up, and, though shaken, they at least faced the enemy. Good, thought Aniketos, Time for some real fighting.

    He came to face-to-face with an oread. They exchanged a flurry of blows, though Aniketos knew he had little hope of penetrating her stony flesh. There was, however, a place where the stone had been chipped away during the fighting: a bleeding, pinkish hole in her breast. It was her singular weakness.

    For a while he merely kept her at bay, once or twice spattering the enemies around him with blades of thickened shadow. There were other champions with him, but sometimes he still found himself fighting two or even three at once, reflecting blows off Laice’s glossy surface. A few even got so far as to hit him – or rather, his ward, which reflected the blows off him.

    But there came a moment when it was just her and him, blades clattering off each other, shields groaning against one another. Aniketos took the chance to thrust her back, first with his body and then with his mind, and, when she stumbled, he lunged forward with inhuman speed, Eiletheia plunging straight into her heart. The oread fell to the ground like a bag of stones, gasping. Still she struggled to get up – this often happened, even when the blade went right into the heart. Sometimes they even got up to fight again. Aniketos thrust the blade straight down in her, for the mercy of it, twisting the blade into her heart. She succumbed to convulsions and swiftly passed.

    A satyr came up to fill her place. Aniketos began to fight, but alarms began to sound in his head. The images that had been passing as an undercurrent through his mind now flooded over: the shadow shapes were showing him things. Aniketos called to the champion next to him and indicated his retreat before stepping back, away from the fray. He looked around, the vision in his eyes battling with the one in his brain, searching the street for somewhere safe to stand and deal with the business of being a commander. He noticed a doorway in which the door was ajar and he slipped inside, already calling some messengers to his aide with a wave of his hand.

    This used to be someone’s house, but now it was empty.[/url] The kitchen table was still there, the chairs upended, a few pots scattered across the floor. He could hear the battle going on outside the windows, though it was muffled. For a moment the whole situation became oddly quaint, as if it was all just a tavern brawl that had erupted outside his house – for he was so out of sorts that for a moment it did feel like his home, and he could not remember who he was or where he had grown up.

    The shadow shapes knocked on the doors of his brain. Leaning up against the wall, his chest heaving, he let them in, and kept half an eye on the world around his body.

    They showed him the kentauroi just now charging down the side streets, hooves rumbling like thunder on the cobbles. Their faces were brutish to him and hyper-vivid, contorted in battle cries. Four groups of kentauroi for four battalions; he saw this all in an overlapping montage, in which four battalions became one, all facing the same fear. Each battalion had been commanded to split forces. Now only part of the phalanx faced the Temple Square, and was therefore flimsy, lacking support. The rest of the phalanx faced the oncoming kentauroi, bracing for impact behind their spears and shields.

    Aniketos watched it all with horror: four battalions peppered by arrows and javelins, the oncoming wall of horseflesh. What could he do?

    It was too late; he could do nothing.

    For another shadow shape showed him how General Matlios’ forces had become distracted and were fighting some awful beast of thorns and a hundred blinking eyes. This thing took a man by his neck and threw him into the air – Aniketos heard his dying scream.

    This, while the kentauroi met the spears. The phalanxes rippled as one at the impact, shimmering like the scales of fish. Some kentauroi met their ends this way, like insects on pins, but still to the last. Others fell to the spells and arrows of those on the roofs, but many remained unharmed and they cut Aniketos' soldiers, his countrymen, down.

    What have I done?

    He heard their cries. Their blood spilled on their city's streets.

    We should have abandoned the city.

    The columns of soldiers marched up to meet their enemies–

    I should have seen it. This cannot be won.

    –to meet, one by one, their deaths.

    I have made it worse.

    Crucified by emotion, he sank against the wall, succumbing finally to the panic that had threatened him this entire time.

    They are dying because of me, because I decided we should make a stand. But to what end? The forest grows back, faster than men do.

    Aniketos watched them fall.

    Another alarm rang in his head. The shadow shape that watched the Temple Square from above showed him Sophia slowly turning away from the white woman on her stag, a new look in her eye. The Mistress of the Blades, the stuff of legends, had turned against them in all her power.

    Aniketos was a child again. He had tried to care for a baby bird that he had found in the street, but had forgotten to feed it, and he ran to his mother with the tiny corpse, crying for it to be fixed. She held him, her only son, and told him: “There’s no use worrying over a mistake you’ve made, my darling Ani.”

    What must I do next?

    The messengers were here. There were nine, all told, of various shapes, from a cloud of shifting colours to a butterfly that peeped for his attention to a tiny red imp sitting on a tiny levitating throne.

    At last, Aniketos came to himself. He realised that what he had thought was dream was, in fact, a dreadful reality. He was in Madrid with an army that was doomed to fail. For, as soon as the battalions on the side streets fell – and they would fall – the entirety fae army would be free to come around and take his battalion from behind.

    Thinking through the rapid racing of his heart, the sick feeling in his stomach, he told the cloud: “Tell General Matlios to retreat from the Guildhall circle if he can and come to the aide of the forces on Pevear Street. He may leave some behind to deal with the creature, but the hospital guards can at least hold it off, I think. Tell him we are preparing for retreat.” The cloud swirled away, out the door.

    Aniketos now addressed himself to the imp: “Tell Rancilios–“ (this was the Auberon’s Destiny official in charge of the battalion that blocked the retreat of Méadaigh's army down the main road) “–to abandon his position and split up his troops. They must come to the aide of the forces on Poet’s Lane, Systrus Avenue and Zither Street. We aim to evacuate.” Before the imp had even gone, Aniketos was already telling another messenger go to Pevear Street and announce his plans for retreat. This message was repeated to three others, one for each side street – he would tell those in his battalion himself.

    Finally, he spoke to the butterfly: “Tell Councillor Ramsley that the members of the Revenger’s Blade are to take on the kentauroi to the best of their abilities and to prepare for retreat.”

    This done, Aniketos straightened himself. Eiletheia had fallen to the ground, so he picked her up. Laice had fallen out of existence, so he called her back. Now it is time. He slipped out the door.

    An explosion of silver swords radiated from Sophia and tore through the champions. Some were protected, some were not; some blades made it all the way to the front lines of the waiting battalion. Aniketos knew that the champions had to face the damages and stay where they were: Sophia would tear through the front ranks of his battalion like they were paper. And if they tried to retreat with Sophia following them – no, that would be disaster. She had to be incapacitated.

    Aniketos slipped out the door, magic already fizzing up in his body. He set his eyes on Sophia, raised his hand, and sent blue arrows shooting through the air at her. If they hit her, they would paralyze her. Just to be safe, he sent a volley of silver ones to burst at her feet, raising a cloud of fear about her. “Retreat! Retreat!” he called in a loud voice to the waiting battalion, “Prepare for retreat! But if you wish to prove yourself against Sophia, Mistress of the Blades, step forward! Step forward! We need all the help we can get! Champions, we fight until she is under control!” The people on the roofs would no doubt realise what was happening as soon as the army started turning around, so they would retreat as well.

    Aniketos pressed through the crowd of champions, some of whom were wounded, some of whom were shaking from exhaustion but still firing off spells. He touched these weary ones and gestured to them that they must go defend the retreat rather than kill themselves trying to fight Sophia.

    The area around Sophia was a dense web of shouts and spells. There wasn't much use in him getting up there with the rest of them – what good would it be to kill himself in a sword duel with Sophia? He must wait, and save himself, and in the meantime take care of the rest of the army as best as he could.

    Just as he did before, he threw his electric web over the front lines of the enemy army and, with a great heave, he lifted up a hundred different objects and sent them spinning in a deadly dance through the air. Carefully, he let some of this encroach on Sophia’s space, thinking that perhaps he might even take her out with a flying polearm. Just before the spell ran out, he threw all the debris away again, so it could not be used against them.

    His legs felt like jelly, but he must still stand, for there was more to do. With another mental thrust, he peppered the enemy with volleys of magical arrows. He was pleased to note that their numbers had been reduced by almost half. What was left seethed with chaos and confusion. Aniketos even smiled: whatever little it meant, at least it would be known all through out history that Madrid did not fall without putting up a fight. After all, they had almost won but, apparently, fate was against them.

    "tl;dr"


    "Abilities Used"
    Edited by Aniketos, Aug 24 2016, 02:39 PM.
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    Viktor
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    Sophia Orjtarn

    Everything seemed to stop. It was blissful, really, for someone who felt like the whole world around her moved constantly this moment of nothing was so fresh, so new. What was happening? This made no sense. What was Galena doing her, and who was that and why?

    Sophia merely stood stunned as Galena kissed her. She had… Very rarely been kissed. Was this- Who the-

    She could feel a fire burning through her, fire and need. She kissed back. It was clumsy, amateurish even, but for some reason now felt the right time. She could feel every inch of her, every nerve firing with something, call it lust, call it need, call it- No. No, it was not that all. All too late Sophia realised what was happening to her, as her body refused to obey her commands. Her iron walls of self-discipline were down and she could feel outside influence overwhelming her. She stood alone against the tidal wave of Meadaigh’s will, trying in vain to rebuild her wall as it washed everything that was her away.

    It took less than a moment, and what was Sophia was left as the smallest kernel at the centre of her mind. She could feel herself turning, she raged against herself to no avail as the parts of her that were enthralled to this would be goddess used all the mental fortitude Sophia possessed to force her down until that core of who she was ended up buried so deep. Still there, still aware but powerless. She tried to scream, to fight, to stab and there was nothing. Just her, the knowledge she had failed and whatever fears came to her.

    Her body pulled away from the kiss and blinked a few times before running one hand back through her hair. Throwing her head back she took a deep intake of breath as a faint green light formed behind her eyes. She drew her hands back in front of her, and was briefly distracted by a small flower between her fingers. It seemed like such a fragile thing. She tucked it behind her ear and turned to face the Sotoan army.

    Slowly the air behind her opened as she rose into the air until she was a few metres from the ground, a great gap in the world glowing blue behind her. From it swords lowly began to protrude in their tens, hundreds. Sophia glanced around and locked eyes on the champions. Then all of the myriad weapons launched straight towards them, instantly replacing themselves and launching again and again in a constant stream of steel. This last a few moments before it came to an abrupt stop. Her enhanced senses picked out a couple of relieved faces. One gripped one of her swords and seemed to almost be happy about it. He was less so when a number of her swords suddenly burst, sending shards of shrapnel all about them.

    For a few moments she surveyed her work, a look that seemed disappointed crossing her face. Until suddenly she dived, landing narrowly behind a satyr. Aniketos’ first arrows went narrowly above her. She saw the second set approaching her. A small part of her rebelled, and she grabbed the creature in front of her by the back of its neck and held it up in front of her, feeling the arrows impact it. She rapidly tossed the body aside and rapidly backed away herself. Hands clutched to the side of her head she grit her teeth for a few moments and her whole body convulsed as she resisted whatever urge had overtaken her whilst the cloud of fear wormed its way into the air from the corpse she had tossed aside some distance away.

    The woman eventually stood up straight, calm and resolute.

    She reached out and her sword flew back into her hand. If she recalled dropping it, her face did not betray it. She surged forwards, her speed impossible. She met the first person in her path and brought her sword right through their abdomen, stopping just after and connecting her fist into the face of another.

    Spells and weapons flew past her, all of them dodged with unnatural ease. She seemed to flicker from place to place, never moving far but always just a step away from being hit. Her free hand caught a halberd that flew past her head and, after using it to bat away an incoming soldier, she threw it like a javelin into a mage retreating on the rooftops.

    The enemy were lined up in front of her. A smile played across her lips.



    Ceiwyn Zauber

    Everything seemed to be taking so long. Just as she thought her enemy lay defeated another took its place. Her sword still rang out, and the little magic she had still swirled around her off hand, striking out now more for defence that outright as a weapon. But the exhaustion was nothing, not if it kept these things away from Viktor and Eva. Nobody else mattered. She did not mind when she saw someone next to her take a sabre through the eye, she merely ducked low and avoided the ones that followed, and made sure to kick the cursed things away when she saw they began exploding.

    Did she want to prove herself, as the Councillor had said? Was that what being a champion meant? She had not become one to prove herself. She had done so because Vik had looked so impressed when he heard it had been asked of her. She had done it because Eva went on about duty. Grandfather had told her to do what she felt comfortable with, and she felt comfortable living for them. She had told Vik when they were small, her life existed for him. As grandfather her saved her in body, he had saved her in soul. Every fibre of her was for him, and her only regret was that she had not more of her to give.

    She saw Orjtarn approach, a serene look on her face. She barely even seemed to move, she just was now where any blow landed. Ceiwyn looked and saw the guildmaster by her side. Not her guildmaster, for she was not part of Mystic Occult, but she knew him from his involvement with certain family members. He looked to her and said… Something. She nodded and together they charged, lightning wrapped around his form and he seemed to grow larger, somehow. Evidently you did not become guildmaster for nothing. Her sword felt a little redundant next to a being of pure lightning, but she followed nonetheless. She was a champion of Soto, surely she could do something?

    She could not.

    As soon as Orjtarn saw them she stepped aside, letting the lightning creature narrowly miss her. Cei swore she could almost see it connect with her, save for the barest millimetre. Cei lunged, with all the power and speed she could muster.

    She did not even see Orjtarn move. Suddenly she was just standing there, one hand on her neck, nowhere near her blade. That same empty look on her face. Then she began to squeeze. Cei tried to kick, to stab, but forces she could not see held her limbs locked painfully in place. She could feel the pressure all around her. She grunted as she felt one arm pop out of her should, another wrist snapped audibly as telekinetic forces forced it inwards. It felt like it was taking hours, although it could barely have been a second.

    Suddenly she was thrown aside, impacting hard into a wall somewhere. Everything looked fuzzy. If she thought it would not matter, she would have stayed down, but with Vik watching she tried to stand and instantly collapsed on her crippled legs. When had that even happened? She looked back to Orjtarn. She had stabbed another person through the neck and with a gesture had force the guildmaster to the ground, he reverted to normal as she stole his momentum from her. She saw the man jump away, but Orjtarn was too fast. In the time it took him to back away she was behind him. Cei saw as that demon woman stabbed him. It was so fast, Ceiwyn could not even keep up with her arm, and suddenly there were three perfect stab wounds through the man, the last tearing out half his belly. Did she even move? Cei gritted her teeth and tried to force herself forwards again. That thing could not reach Viktor and Eva.



    Viktor Zauber

    Everything was difficult to follow.

    He had felt a surge of home as building collapsed on the enemy ranks, and now that hope turned to dread. He saw creatures charging the streets, he saw the central ranks suddenly have to turn to the defence under a rain of blades. Was this his fault? Had his doubt earlier doomed them?

    He felt his grip on his wand loosen for a second before he caught himself. No, it was not his fault, and even if it was that came later. The order was relayed to retreat.

    “Go!” he shouted to some of the others assembled “Go back a roof and then cover the rest of us. We will leapfrog back!” it was so hard to be heard. He looked over the battlefield, and continued to make the minor changes he could. He saw his golem rage in the midst of the enemy ranks, although he was not sure how even a creature of pure stone could last. People began falling back though, and he created more invisible walls to help them until it was his turn.

    That is when he saw the attack on the champions. He could see his guildmaster erupt into lightning, and he was sure that was Cei next to him. What was she doing?

    His eyes forced to watch as whatever woman it was they faced effortlessly dodged her strike and then held her up in the air for a moment, before throwing her aside.

    “CEI!” he screamed.

    No no no no! Not Ceiwyn! He did not want anyone to die, but not her, not her and not Eva. Him, fine, he was ready to do that. But he was not going to have them die in his place!

    He jumped to the next roof, and began running towards the champions, jumping each roof, or taking a prepared walkway, as he went. He looked at the blindingly fast moving woman as he ran. Nobody seemed to be able to touch her so far… Doing anything to her would be suicide, surely?

    He waved his wand and slowly the weight of her weapon, her clothes, began to subtly change. Maybe it would throw her off, it was all he could hope.

    TLDR


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    Alexandros
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    One-Liner Wonder

    Alex

    "By Vespasian, it worked...I mean, of course it worked! I knew it would."
    "You just...he...it..."
    "I know, don't fall to your knees in adulation, there simply isn't time."
    The engineer flicked a scrap of flesh clinging to his elbow into the darkness, wondering when he'd become so numb to the sight of a human's internal organs plastering the cobbles. War did funny things to people. When had he become so critical, analytical, and immune to horror?

    A hand clapped him on the back.
    "We made a good team! You as the..the destroyer, and me as...as..."
    "The bait." He supplied.
    "Er...yes. I suppose. We should have a motto or, or some kind of badge when this is all over. Make a new guild, or company. Though, you're not from around here...but that's details. We should have some sign, something to keep us together."
    "Ye-es." He busied himself with checking the damage to his firearm, and sighed. "Well, we already have it."
    "We do?"
    "Yes. It's called skin. All the important bits go on the inside of it. And now if you don't mind...I'm going to do the smart thing and save mine."
    The soldier floundered, ran after him, waving at his retreating back.
    "You can't leave! There's a war on!"
    Alex slowed, peered over his shoulder and did a mock double take.
    "Why so there is! Do you know I thought it was just a common bar brawl."

    The banter was cut short as the sight of a...thing...loomed up over the nearest buildings. Alex watched it for a moment, all gnashing teeth and flailing tentacle-vines, bulging eyeballs pointing in half a dozen different directions. He pursed his lips together, his face otherwise carefully blank. Somewhere behind them a horn began sounding, the soldier beside him tensing.
    "How do want to die, Willikins?"
    "It's...it's Deikonus sir."
    "Feeling brave right now?"
    "They're sounding the retreat."

    And the...whatever it is, is blocking one of our exit routes. Splendid. Right by the medics too. I guess they're having a particularly bad day.

    He supposed he could create a distraction but how long it would last for, who knew? If he shot it, owing to the size of it, he probably wouldn't do very much more than severely piss it off. He could use his new friend...it would be difficult for it to not notice him, owing to the fact he would be incandescent. Mostly because he was on fire.

    He made a mental note to add callous to his repertoire.
    "Go and tell the rest of the men then, the message will spread faster if you go from both sides."
    "But-"
    "Go, Willikins!"
    Deikonus looked as though he was about to argue, a stubborn set to his jaw making itself apparent, then he turned and hurtled back to the fray, bellowing the message.

    Alex stood for a moment longer, frowning after him, watching the ripples spread as the order passed through the ranks. The air flashed and crackled, sizzled with raw magic, though less spells were being flung now, less arrows peppering the ranks of the enemy. The clash of steel and roar of voices was still deafening even at this distance. He tipped his head the other way, gaze rolling reluctantly to the end of the street, and the eldritch plant horror.

    Someone ought to do something about it, really.

    Too bad he was just one man.

    He turned his back.




    ...He'd always rather liked Madrid though.




    The creature barely reacted as the shots hammered into the side of one of those vine-arms. He'd considered, very briefly shooting the pair of figures before it, but he couldn't tell what side they were on from this distance. The monstrous thing however, was a damn sight more clear-cut.
    He counted the seconds under his breath, then as it raised the arm to swipe at something, the charges detonated one after the other, blowing it to flinders and exposing the fleshy underneath. The ground vibrated under his feet as it shuffled to face his direction, sap leaking from the wounds. Even if all he could do was blast the bark off it and expose the softer bits, hopefully it would be enough for someone else to help.

    Or provide a worthy snackette while the rest of them got away.

    "Hey baby..."
    The vampire tugged his scarf down, pushed the brim of his hat up with one finger, and smiled, eyes gleaming like burnished steel.
    "You're all mouth...so suck on this!"
    He shot it in the face, then threw himself between two buildings, breathlessly scrambling for cover as a mess of debris smashed through the corner of the house above him, raining brick and mortar down. A breath later there was a terrible wail as one of the eyes burst, bark splinters and ichor oozing from the wound. He'd been aiming for the mouth, but hitting a vulnerable spot at all was a plus in his opinion. Now all he had to do...was keep its attention.

    By the furious noises, that wasn't going to be a problem.

    "Oh, goodness grandma, what big teeth you have!"
    He pulled himself into a crouch, leaned around the wall and nearly lost his face as a chunk of masonry tore past in a blinding rush, ripped a hole in the wall on the other side of the alley, set the roof to sagging.



    ~ ] ] ] ] ] ] ] ~



    Galena


    The tiny nymph stepped back, kiss broken. She couldn't quite seem to get her breath, blood afire with passion, her hands aching to clasp the taller woman's face in her hands and begin anew. Shame and desire burned in her cheeks as she fought against the grip on her mind, hands idly fluttering to smooth her rumpled stola. How perfectly ordinary, for such a violent situation.

    Within she roiled, felt vile, defiled and debased. This wasn't her...she'd never have just grabbed hold of Sophia like that! ...At least, not without a hefty dose of liquid courage. She didn't seem to be in control of her own actions anymore, just along for the ride, however sweet, and terrible it may be.

    Slowly she wiped her lips across the back of her hand, her eyes following the woman as she turned and began to wreak havoc on the enemy. Her city.

    Look what you have done. Do you not feel powerful? You have turned Soare's greatest boon against them.


    But she'd stepped back from all that, didn't want to be some harlot dancing around naked in the forest, tempting men and women alike to drown themselves beneath her tree. Hadn't she? She wanted to be better than that, do more than that.

    But perhaps one could not ever really move away from their nature, no matter how they hide it.

    Maybe that was all she was meant to be.

    Méadaigh's harlot.

    New thorns inched their way through tender flesh, chasing the edge of her arm from wrist to elbow, the corruption in her spreading as the goddess' delight near crushed her beneath its force, bathed her in joy and sickening pleasure at having done something so awful, like a dog wagging its tail at the abundance of praise. She felt sick to her stomach, and so very proud of herself that tears sprang to her eyes.

    She was not useless, she was not...not entirely useless...

    Galena picked up her bow, forgotten in the storm inside her, and stared at it blankly a moment. It would please the goddess greatly to see those who opposed her fall, yes. Yes it would.
    She nocked an arrow, loosed, nock, loose, nock, loose...gradually her expression changing from blank stone, to the snarl of hatred so seen on the faces of those around her. All of them would fall before Méadaigh, and make a fine carpet of dead for her to step daintily upon.



    ~ [ [ [ [ [ [ [ ~



    Sabe


    The world blurred and lurched, swimming in and out of focus. He thought for a second there an entire house had sailed past into the ranks of the army behind, but that was sheer madness. He must be dreaming, sleeping, somnolent, dreaming. Couldn't get out, out out OUT-

    Blades were coming, flickering, snapping silver tongues of hate, kill them, bend them, break them. He twisted aside as one slender sword slashed down at him, hacked the arm holding it off cleanly at the elbow, punctuated with screaming. Another jabbed, scraped off his black breastplate, left a bitter bright scratch across his chest. His elbow cracked savagely into a mouth, pushed the forward momentum and hit it again, again, blood and teeth and shattered lips. Something connected heavily with his hip, jolting him around and carving a reckless arc with Gul, singing, and wailing as she clashed off a helmet, denting it inwards, thickset body clattering on stone like so much garbage.

    His arms ached, muscles burning with exertion, fueled him on, more, more. There had to be more blood, more bodies, in his way, his face, headbutted it hard, again, again, stoving it in with his dog-faced helm, spitting blood, ears ringing.
    Debris was screaming overhead, expected it to drop on him but it didn't, tore through the back ranks, all pushing and hacking forward, one great killing machine, living, breathing, sweating death.

    "Yes!"

    Someone was shrieking, a high fear-filled screech that irritated, a file on the nerves. Footing was treacherous, realized he was standing on someone, his foot hard on a satyr's gut, red and wet squeezing from a wide slash. The Cambion sneered, stamped down hard, staggered as something constricted his midriff, tugging.

    Not a summon! No! No not NOW! NO!

    Not a summon, but thick cords of shadow dragging him away, sucking him out of the press where they were breaking up into twos and threes, a bigger, broken melee. He relaxed, let it drag him forward right at the unfortunate, dragging him away from the crush. A sword clanged off his gorget, pain flaring tight and angry through his neck, his shoulder. That'd leave a mark.
    Sabe roared, Beben scything down towards the man's head, struck bright happy sparks as it met his sword, his hungry hungry steel trying so hard to cut off his head and give him that sweet release.
    But it didn't. Beben caught it, the shock numbing his hand, fingers tingling funny and weak, could barely feel them as they gripped the blade, shivering just like her name, the steel whining as he applied more and more pressure, pushing back against Xanthus.

    + First you. +

    He saw the man's eyes widen perceptibly, pupils dilating with fear, drank him in.

    + Then your family. +

    Saw the brow furrow, the anger and tragic determination biting back, fighting the fear of this alien voice creeping through his head, threw him back with a whooping cackle, circled, tail lashing.
    "What's the matter, boy? Lost your nerve? C'mon!"

    Sabe danced back as the Sotoan ran at him, stepped easily around his blade and caught him a harsh blow across the shoulder, ripped off a pauldron and sent it clanking into the street, forgotten. The air pressed out of him as the shield slammed into his chest, armor too tight, not enough space, forcing him back, back, sword banging and groaning off his helm, making his head ring with noise. He planted his feet, stopped skittering back and turned his shoulder to the shield, too close to stab, shoved him up and off his own feet, thumped down onto his back.

    Mad scramble to get up again, shield up as his ladies, his beautiful, sharp girls tore down and played a merry tune on the damned thing, near wrecking the emblem on the face.

    + I'll start with the red headed ones. Maybe if you live long enough, you can help, eh boy? +

    He stomped down hard, pinning the shield against Xanthus, pinioning his arms, his chest, grunted as he leaned forward, breath rasping inside his helm, oddly metallic.
    "But I don't think you'll live that long."
    Mercilessly he began raking the man's mind for each of his precious memories, salvaging every scrap with little care for any damage he caused, nor the way he thrashed and shifted beneath him, trying to throw his balance. For a moment there was no battlefield, no carnage or leering faces, bubbling over with violence. They were the same being, with two bodies, breathing the same rhythm.

    + Let me feel you die. +

    He lifted his sword...


    +++++++

    tl;dr
    Edited by Alexandros, Sep 4 2016, 11:37 AM.
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