Dreams and Romance, Battles and Bloodlust

[Falcon2001]

Matthew stood up slowly, his head aching horribly. Looking around, he felt a voice in his head, and saw waves of zombies arise.

Rising to his feet, he brought out a small bottle and took a large drought. The magical elixir reviving him, he grimaced. 'So they want to play hardball, eh?' he thought, rolling up his sleeves.

'Fine then, see this!'

Casting out his hands, he uttered a single word, which seemed to race across the battlefield in an invisible wave. Where it touched zombies, they disintegrated, but about 1/4 survived the Holy Word. Drained severely by the spell, he lay back against a tree and, after activating a magical shield, fell asleep.

 

(EDITED for reality, before he didn't get drained at all)

[Guest Foe Calibur]

The cavalry charged by Alexander's command as the whirling storm clouds rained thunder upon the Antaean troops below. Heel to flank the trained riders spurred their horses forward into the fray. A foot soldier's finesse is nothing to the might of a mounted warrior; the advantages of a horse are far too many. Riding between the enemy ranks Alexander's cavalry wreaked of bloody havoc and left carnage in its wake.

 

Many fell to the might of the Antaean cavalry as the storm overhead thickened and more thunder… and more devastating lightning. But the cavalry was nearly unhindered by this painful light show, its job was gruesome, but prevailing. Rekmorian heads rolled as tumbleweed across the battlefield, the cavalry was leaving it’s mark.

 

But now on the Rekmorian side their foot and cavalry soldiers were leaving a similar mark; the Rekmorian forces were making quick work of the weary and diminished Confederate arms. Each stroke of a Rekmor sword drew blood of their opposition, and each Confederate parry was met by another, more devastating strike, the tides of battle had changed.

[Falcon2001]

Cioden smiled slyly as he felt his energy being multiplied by the demonic lifeforce he was storing up. Blood stained his robes, matting them close to his body, and it dried on his face, caking off in flakes when he laughed. His enemies were dispersing in place of human opponents, but Cioden ran them down, digging claws into their backs and draining them dry. He had no use for human soul-stuff, for it was not powerful enough.

 

Finally he could not drain anymore, and his amulet glowed with a bright green sickly light, like that of a swamp illuminated by the strange things that live there. He laughed then, but it was not the laugh of the sane. The bloodlust, passed down through his father's line from Darkeye to Darkeye, was consuming him, and his only thought was for more souls. He pulled off the amulet then, and held it toward the sky.

 

"Souls for my master! Souls for the void! Aid me, oh great void! Send your magic forth like a scythe through these forces, and reap richly the rewards!" with that, he flung the amulet skyward.

 

There was a sudden blast of cold, and a rip appeared in the fabric of reality, swallowing up the silver pendant. For a few seconds, there was nothing, then suddenly Cioden starting rising up in the air, bent almost double and spasming like a fish out of water.

 

The void reformed around him, slipping over him like water, flowing into him and causing the spasms to become worse.Finally the void dissapeared, and Cioden fell to the ground, where he lay weakly.

 

A Gorag saw him and rushed towards him, seeing an easy meal.

 

Cioden lay there, his hand twitching slightly.

 

The daemon loped faster, closer and closer...

 

Cioden drew himself to his knees weakly.

 

Closer and closer, it's fangs sharp and ready for blood.

 

Cioden stopped, then opened his eyes. No longer were they pure silver, but rather silver with an oily taint that flowed over it, black and depthless.

 

The gorag roared and leapt at him, All of it's claws extended and mouth open.

 

Cioden smiled.

 

Right before the demon hit him, he rose and, in one fluid motion, stepped over one step and ripped out the demon's throat. Dark blood stained the ground where the Gorag lay, not yet assured of it's own mortality, but still flopping vainly around. Cioden placed one foot on it's rough back and pressed, snapping the spine in six places. The demon stopped moving.

 

Cioden looked around, and the void looked around too, from within him. 'We must kill that sorcerer' they said in unison, his voice no longer entirely his own. Raising a hand, he pointed at where the sorcerer and his female protector stood.

 

A black beam, like a ray of anti-light, leapt from his outstretched palm and sped toward the two mages.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arioch's forces were getting a little bogged down by the Gorags, until the creatures turned tail and left. Arioch looked around, sensing a trap, but saw it happening everywhere. Looking to his left, he saw Alexander's Cavalry carving a path through the now-human attackers.

 

Arioch admired Alexander. For a mortal, he was one of the most powerful beings he had come across. But he was still mortal. To his right, He saw Gyrfalcon's unit going into battle. Suddenly he saw a detachment of soldiers break off from the main army and head for Gyr's left flank.

 

Arioch reined in his steed and turned.

 

"Charge!"

 

They hurled, a silent shadowy army, straight at the approaching enemy force.

[Gyrfalcon]

Gyrfalcon swung into the saddle of a new horse, it's former rider one of the dead at their feet. Ahead, the Hand had split the Confederate forces, though their calvary charge had bogged down finally. They were now beginning to widen the gap, splitting the Confederate forces into two, more easily defeated pieces. Grasping a pike that had been dropped by a now-dead pikeman, Gyrfalcon hefted it critically. It was no lance, but holding it right there... yes, it would pass as a lance, as long as it needed to.

 

"Battalion! Mount up and prepare for battle! Archers and seige engines, continue to fire on targets of opportunity!" A mage looked over at Gyrfalcon, face sagging in weariness "We're out of effective spells, Captain. We'll be withdrawing now." Gyrfalcon nodded, grinding his teeth slightly as he ordered archer's who had ran out of bowstrings or had broken their bows to form around the mages. Quickly, the group set off away from the battle, back to the camp and safety.

 

Damn, there goes the mages... this is *not* getting any better Gyrfalcon though, frowning. "The Battalion will advance at a trot!" The entire mass started forward, maintaining their ranks as they formed into a wedge, lances, spears, halbards, pikes, anything long with a point were lowered and readied.

 

They won't know what hit them... Gyrfalcon thought grimly, for the knights of hand had turned and were focing the two sides of the split further away from each other.

 

300 yards.

 

"The battalion will advance at a canter!" Gyrfalcon called out, and they picked up speed. He noticed an enemy forc had finally realized that they were advancing, and move to flank them, seconds before falling prey to a band of shadows that rode demonic horses.

 

Cioden's forces? I wonde why he is not with them... whatever the reason, we'll be that much more effective...

 

200 yards.

 

Arrows whistled overhead to fall among Rekmor's forces, slaying fewer now of the heavily armored enemy. This time, however, the barrage did not go unanswered. Overhead, a thick beam of red energy lashed by, radiating a searing heat that could be felt 50' below it. Black masses that radiated an intense smell of decay lashed after the beam. Gyrfalcon turned in his saddle to see what happened, and wished he hadn't.

 

The beam slashed across the line of archers, and everything with twenty feet of where it struck ceased to exist, igniting instantly from the massive temperatures. It left in its wake a black, smoking scar in the hillside.

 

The black globs struck elsewhere among the ranked archers, and where the goo splashed, men died, aging, dying, and decaying so that only bare skeletons were left on the ground as the goo dissipitated, contorted in positions of intense agony. Gyrfalcon faced forward.

 

100 yards.

 

"Battalion..... CHARGE!" Gyrfalcon shouted and swept the pike down, seating it as firmly as he can as he urged his horse to a gallop. All around him, his men did the same. On his left rode Karl, his naganata seated firmly. On his right, that young pikeman grimly crouched down in his saddle, long spear ready.

 

This is going to hurt... Gyrfalcon thought to himself as he braced for the impact.

 

It did. However, the Rekmor forces were caught by total surprise and were blasted back, leaving many dead knights and footmen in their wake. Gyrfalcon's unit managed to fill the breach and anchor both ends, but with the Hand's magical seige weapons ready, how long could this last? Gyrfalcon asked himself this as he stabbed his katana through a Rekmor footsoldier's helmet.

[Bhurin]

(OOC: Sorry guys, I had some internet problems... Refer to OOC thread).

 

Horror clasps and terror grips,

When faced with power twixt darkening fold.

With halting breath pass ‘fore red lips.

When burning courage slowly slips,

The soul burns hot, and blood ice cold.

Failing willful spiritual hold.

Now slips loose the beasts of war.

Two now push, but one shall win.

The heavens shake from bloody roar,

The tides now swiftly washing in.

The steel bites, and scarlet seep,

Pronounce the end of mortal keep.

 

And wrought forth now, to nth degree.

A sea of crimson tragedy.

 

The armies clashed for what seemed to be hours, compressed into quick, fearful moments and images. The sight of blood was everywhere; both the deep crimson hue of man-blood, and the white seepage of Gorog. Everywhere, corpses littered the battlefield; former comrades slipping underfoot, mournfully never to rise again.

 

The war was wretched, and it was to grow worse…

 

Arioch, eyes burning with bloodlust and battle-rage, swung his axe with vicious accord, cleaving down the ranks of men and Gorogs with almost casual execution. Though his axe flew at mortal speed, its impact meant a savage blow; sending many men flying as their insides became exposed. The demon laughed as he encountered the ranks of Rekmor’s soldiers, whose blades were far more skilled than the Gorogs. “At last!” He cried, pausing a moment to allow several soldiers to collect before him, “I face opponents, and not a defenseless wall of flesh!” As Arioch struke, a few of the Rekmor soldiers dodged while others deflected. Those that deflected were suddenly without blade; and those who dodged were suddenly without limbs. Arioch grimaced, his eyes still burning from an unquenchable lust. “The souls of men taste but bleak to me,” Arioch thought, he himself deflecting the assaults of the Rekmor blades, “the hatred and fear of the Gorogs be much sweeter…”

 

Thunder struck in the sky, then descended onto the ground.

 

A large group of Antaean Calvary was suddenly blasted from above, lightening rupturing the sky and ground as though divine tribulation were upon them, sending many to the ground convulsing. The charred flesh of horse and rider twitched violently for some time, before coming to rest and dying.

 

Yar’cule, his eyes shedding scarlet tears, bore his teeth in difficulty as he summoned forth the bolt of lightening. Turning his stance ever so slightly, he bowed his head, his eyes never opening. Another crack of thunder echoed across the field, and lightening descended once more. A large collection of Confederate archers suddenly were torn from their position like rag dolls, the lightening setting them both ablaze and soaring through the air. Their bodies were ravaged by the immense power, many falling, never to rise again.

 

With still greater intensity, Yar’cule cringed, grinding his teeth, as the powers of tidal magic continued to flow through him. His body became physically weak, bearing the forces of elemental power with mortal form. He turned again, now toward the collections of spent Antaean mages leaving in the distance, arms rising once more…

 

However, as he was about to finish the semantics of his deadly spell, a beam shot past overhead the crowds of soldiers and struck him in the chest. The beam, a simple manifestation compared to what Yar’cule was wielding, still struck its mark true to form, and caused the Infernal Sorcerer to seizing momentarily before he fell to his knees.

 

“Master!” Zakuro cried, rushing to his side.

 

Yar’cule quickly recovered, but as he slowly rose to his feet, the intense rainfall began to subside into a light drizzle, though the clods remained swirling in the air menacingly. Zakuro knelt by his side, as the Infernal Sorcerer could barely stand, his face adorned with bloody tears.

 

“I am alright,” Yar’cule said, his voice weak and his eyes weary, “The interruption of my spell sent it forward into my own form. That beam struck at the most awkward of times. I… I am all but spent now, my apprentice.”

 

But even as Yar’cule spoke, he fell once again to his knees. Once there he dropped his staff and hugged his stomach as though in bearable pain, his voice never crying out. Finally he fell unconscious, his being wrought with powerful magic still attacking his body.

 

Zakuro cried out in an enraged voice, her eyes becoming hot with rage. She quickly walked to the edge of the hill and cast her arms into the air. Her scars suddenly burned once more, though her body was still exhausted from her previous attempts. As the burning pain scorched her living form once again, she cringed under its onslaught for but a moment, now accustomed to its searing protests. As she bore the pain, she cried forth incantations, her voice both fearsome and painfully beautiful.

 

Erron Aurron Meulle Yarran

 

As Coiden fought with devastating skill against the Rekmor soldiers, even their potent training was not enough to defend against the terrifying battle mage. He laughed wantonly, his voice zealous in the slaughter as he sent his opponents to fates worse than death; oblivion.

 

However, as he turned to engage a new batch of the fearless droves, he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks; a look of confused anger came over him. He could feel something wrong building around his form; a rift in the veins of magic. He looked with intense anger toward the hill where he knew the magic-bearers stood, and could barely make out the form of a woman with her arms raised in the air.

 

Instantly, coiden reacted, his arm cast out in front of him as another beam erupted from his hand. It sailed toward the beautiful sorceress, crackling with malicious purpose, quickly seeking out its target.

 

Zakuro, tears pouring from her eyes, and her voice quivering from the incredible pain, spoke forth the final incantations of her spell.

 

Suddenly, a fiery pillar of light erupted from the ground beneath Coiden, his eyes widening in enraged surprise. Before he could react, the pillar flashed with power, then erupted as a jetting flame. Coiden was suddenly overcome with incredible power, as he roared in pain, his body rising into the air. However, just as soon as the spell appeared, it disappeared, leaving Coiden to fall from the air. The light vanished, and Coiden’s form sizzled and smoked from intense heat.

 

As Coiden’s beam came to Zakuro, she raised her arm weakly in defense, but could not invoke protection. She was struck, and was sent to the ground. She whimpered in pain, as Shadows approached with supplies to aid the mages.

 

As Coiden rose weakly, a Rekmor soldier charged at him loudly. Coiden slowly raised his hand in defense, deflecting the blow. Before the soldier could react, Coiden thrust his other hand and took the soldier’s life. Coiden rose slowly, his head slumped but his body flexing with power once again. His vision was blurred, and his body pained from the incredible blast. He scowled coldly, his body still shivering from the pain, and turned to slay more men…

 

Thunder bellowed again, roaring high above...

[Lady Celes Crusader]

Zakuro collapse on the ground her energy is all spent and the pain was beyond the bearable, she looses conscience while the shadows are hurrying at her side. Nyarkul, the goblin servant rushed toward the shadows, bringing them pouches of herbs he usually use to cool down her scars.

 

"Remove her chain mail immediatly and put these on her cursed scars!", yell the worried creature.

 

Meanwile Zakuro's mind is sliding into a dream of its own.

 

A little half-elven girl, who's dressed up in dirty rags, was crying in a pitch black room. Zakuro can only see her back. See seems to be holding sometimes in her arms.

 

"Mamma!", she cries out, "Where are you Mamma? Why did you abandonned me Mamma?"

 

The little one sobs louder and Zakuro can see her face. It was, in fact, Zakuro herself, when she was a child. She was holding a makeshift doll wich have sown X's for eyes and mouth. The blurry pitch black room defines itself as the coal storage, where she slept when she was a slave.

 

"Tell me Mamma! Am I someone?", ask the little Zakuro, "Do I worth something? Am I nothing more than a slave?"

 

"MAAAAAAMMMMAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!

 

Zakuro wakes up startled and sits up as suddenly as her wake. Nyarkul rushes over her and calms her down while helping her to lay back down.

 

"Shhhhh. Mistress.", hushes the servant, "You were lucky that you arm wasn't severed and that beam didn't hit you in a more vital place. You need to rest now."

 

The Goblin places new patches of medecinal herbs on her burning scars. Zakuro checked her wounded arm. She remembers that she protected herself hastily of some kind of beam but that was it. The mage that casted it was in an hurry because it wasn't at potent at it should had been. She then worries about Yar'Cule.

 

"Nyark!!!!", she calls out, "How's Master? Is he..."

 

"Still unconscious,"started the servant,"and as I know, the shadows are uncertain about his stomach. They are providing the best care they can."

 

Zakuro closes her eyes and prays for Yar'cule's recovery.

Am I someone?

[Falcon2001]

Cioden staggered to his feet, the void the only thing keeping him up. Hellfire and acid coursed through his veins with every step, and for every wound he bled from, there was another wound blackened and charred by the flame. His clothes were burnt, and his left arm appeared to be broken in three places.

 

Turning, he gazed black eyes on the distant hilltop, but that damned lady mage and her master were gone.

The enemies were slowly closing in, and he was NOT in any position to retaliate. Growling ferally, he called upon the void to give him more power and called Arioch to him with his magic, then fell to the ground, even the void failing to keep him upright.

Arioch, to me; haste!

 

Arioch heard his friend's voice in his mind and wheeled about immediately, following the mental call. A enemy soldier got in the way, barring his path. Arioch swung his battle-ax almost negligently, and the man's head rolled to the ground.

 

"Break the attack, to me!" Reining in his steed, he swung his axe in a large circle, clearing him a space around to look. Seeing where Cioden lay unprotected.

 

"Charge for that ridge! Let nothing stay our pace!" The shadow knights set their swords back in their sheaths and drew their longbows.

 

A company of Hand soldiers attempted to intercept them, but silent as a owl's wing in the dead of night, twenty-five black shafts buried themselves in twenty-five hearts. Reloading faster than the eye could follow, they let loose again at approaching cavalry, killing anything they saw.

 

Soon Arioch could see Cioden's near-dead body twitching on the ground. Riding hard, he swept forward in a mad dash and leaned off his horse. Grabbing Cioden's tattered robes in a huge gauntleted fist, he threw him up behind him on the demonhorse and wheeled quickly.

 

"Head for the outskirts! Protect Cioden at all costs!"

 

The shadows formed a black ring around them, riding forward silently back through the forces toward the stand of trees that they had come from.

[Bhurin]

The day now waned across the rolling lands and temperate forests, the afternoon sun now far fallen from its once high throne as it began to slip into the reaches of early evening. Though the sky should still gleam with the light of sunset on any given day, now it still was filled with the darkened clouds of a waning storm, reaching hundreds of furlongs in all directions. The screams of battle were now not so vicious or strident, and slowly the cries of bloodlust began to be drowned by the yells of pain and the mournful murmurs of mercy and dying breath.

 

The stalemate that had held the field, at last, would need to wear thin and break.

 

The air became cold… Unnatural and troubling for the observant…

 

Marionus, Dread Lord of Rekmor, sat upon a bloodied horse, still cleaving through the throngs of men affront him like a reaper of crop. The inner defensive line proved to be more resilient than he had initially anticipated, and even now, though dozens of their brothers lay fallen before him, soldiers rushed to affront the still mounted Dread Lord.

 

Marionus hewed at them with zealous accord, seeming not to have tired in the long moments he had already spent battling. Slowly he grew closure to the iron heart of the Confederacy, his scythe singing death.

 

Suddenly, Marionus felt a surge within his being, like a cold chill through his blood, searing his mind and gripping his blackened heart. He paused momentarily, swinging once more at a charging soldier before rearing his horse and paying full attention to all his senses.

 

With a call in his mind, Marionus turned his horse as he scanned the battlefield, the beast whinnying with confusion at its masters forceful orders. As he turned about the field, Marionus saw many sights, most of which he could afford no attention. Something was amiss upon the field, and he needed to find it…

 

Soon, his eyes came to rest on the Arioch, and the fleeing riders of Shadow.

 

Without warning or consideration, the Dread Lord broke his forward advancement, turning his horse East and charging full bore toward the protectors of Cioden. Now, though many men stood between him and the escaping riders, Marionus moved with demonic speed, rushing upon their position.

 

As Arioch, Lord of Death Knights, followed his men in their task of removing Coiden from the field, a wave passes through him as well. He could sense with demonic prowess the nearing malice, and he turned to affront it. Immediately perceiving the Dread Lord, Arioch narrowed his burning eyes and said, “Protect Cioden at any cost!” Arioch then held his axe above himself in drawn attack, and kicked his horse to a gallop.

 

Coiden, still weak and wrought with murdering pain, looked up one last time to see Arioch tearing back toward the field. He made to say something, then fell into a painful, unconscious dream.

 

At any cost…

 

Fearsome as any apocalypse, the two riders bore toward one another, weapons drawn. Directed straight toward one another, they paid no heed to any other manner of life, below or before them. Men caught in front were trampled underfoot by the fearsome steeds of the demonic riders.

 

They drew closure, now little else was between them. An arrow flew and struck Marionus’ armor, shattering and falling without acknowledgement. A Gorog leapt at Arioch, and was decapitated with bone shattering force; the cut so swift that no blood seaped from the wound until the Gorog lay at rest upon the ground.

 

They were mere yards away then, Arioch roaring in rage and Marionus remaining deathly silent. Both drew their weapons and, as they were upon one another, struck.

 

Suddenly, both riders fell, as their disemboweled horses fell beneath them. Arioch had struck true, embedding his axe in the chest of Marionus’ horse and then dragging it free. Marionus had swept low, removing Arioch’s horse’s two right legs, Arioch’s axe dragging over the shaft of the scythe as they passed. The two horses cried in pain as the riders passed, falling to the ground in a bloody fit of death.

 

Marionus landed upon his feet and sprawled forward, rolling forward and ending on his back. He instantly threw his feet up and leapt from grounded to standing. His scythe had landed upon the ground, and now lay several feet from him. Raising his hand, the scythe leapt to it with violent speed, the Dread Lord becoming instantly rearmed.

 

Arioch, meanwhile, had landed hard upon his side, never actually having fallen off his horse. As he came down with the massive beast, he had threw one of his hands down to save himself, and had successfully rolled from the saddle as the writhing horse struck the earth. Arioch, took a moment to rise to his feet. Slowly walking over and claiming his axe from the ground.

 

There they stood, two massive titans amidst the battlefield, now facing one another with malicious harmony. Arioch spoke first.

 

“Marionus! Wretched lap dog of a mortal King! I knew your filth was upon these lands the moment your treasonous hide left scent upon the wind! It has been a many turn of years since last we met!”

 

Marionus spoke, his voice echoing like a struck anvil, “Arioch… At last your ignorance has brought you before me in battle, so that I may smite you and forever rid you from the same world as the Lord… Blasphemous follower of those who walk in light.”

 

“Fool! I serve no one but my own dark tiding! These mortal dogs serve my own interests! Look at how they perceive me as leader, though I threaten them with death just as surely as their enemies! You, however, serve men who perceive to rule the darkness! If only they knew! Darker forces rule the shadow, and even now rule over your wretched Lord like puppet-masters over playthings! Who do you truly serve, Marionus! A man who could never been birthed from hatred as you or I!”

 

Marionus bellowed, his voice ripping through the air as a cannon shot, “Fool! The Lord brings despair as only a festered malice could! Greater than the pigs of the halls of the Abyss or Hell! He shall descend upon all things and bring to them a cleansing oblivion! And I shall ride affront the hordes of a new darkness, his banner in my hands as surely as any blade! And you will beg of me to end your suffering!”

 

Arioch roared, his own voice becoming layer with hatred and discord, “Ignorant wretch, I shall tear your cursed flesh apart, and feed upon your blackened soul!” With that, Arioch raised his axe into the air, and roared as a demon of scorn. “DIE!”

 

Arioch charged suddenly, and Marionus raised his scythe.

 

Arioch struck first, his axe bearing down upon Marionus with hasted speed. Marionus deflected the blow with an armored forearm, striking the axe on the flat before it could bite at him. Marionus then returned the attack with one of his own, swinging his scythe with one hand, almost plainly and without passion.

 

Arioch dodged, turning his back a moment and coming about again with another axe swing. Marionus deflected this shot with his scythe, halting the deadly edge of the axe with the pole of his weapon. Marionus swung now, and then again when Arioch dodged. The second shot, a sweeping uppercut, caught Arioch by his armor, and dragged up the interwoven steel with a scream of sparks. Arioch, unafflicted by the blow, brought the back of his hand across Marionus’ face. He struck, but the Dread Lord seemed to shrug off the attack.

 

Marionus backed away for a moment, then began to swing his scythe with deadly speed and grace. Arioch deflected right, than left; before leaping backward in a display of demonic dexterity, the stained scythe missing him just barely.

 

Arioch knelt for a moment, then charged at the Dread Lord, screaming with rage and fury. He was able to strike Marionus before the Dread Lord could sting with his scythe. The Death Knight gripped Marionus by the waist in a bear hug, dropping his axe momentarily to grip his hands together. In a frightening display of strength, Arioch roared with rage and began to squeeze Marionus, lifting him into the air Marionus’ black armor began to bend beneath Arioch’s incredible strength. Though Marionus was larger than Arioch, the Death Knight seemed to lift his massive form without difficulty.

 

Marionus hung for a moment, his face hidden from view by the demonic helmet but his body telling pain. Then Marionus, struck Arioch in the face with his spiked gauntlet. The blow was enough to rip Arioch’s face, but still the Death Knight continued to squeeze. Marionus struck again, and again, in faster increments. The blows could be felt from afar, as they struck with loud crashes. Marionus’ armor continued to buckle, but still both demons did not subside. The sound of bending metal was met by the sound of buckling bone.

 

Finally, Marionus gripped Arioch’s head with both hands, piercing his spiked-thumbs into Arioch’s eyes. The Death Knight screamed with pain, as Marionus’ hands began to burn with black power. Finally, Arioch released the Dread Lord, and staggered back, his hands covering his face.

 

Marionus landed upon the ground with a sickening thud, and he did not move immediately. Finally he rose, his movements now hindered by some unseen wound. The Dread Lord made to his feet, as Arioch began to remove his hands from his eyes.

 

Arioch was injured, but his sight remained. As the blur finally ebbed, he regained his sight just in time to see Marionus upon him. Arioch made to dodge, but he leapt to miss a blow. Marionus, instrad, leapt atop the Death Knight, his massive weight pinning Arioch to the ground. Marionus began to strike punching blows to Arioch’s face, again and again with blurred speed. Marionus’ attacks were violent, and soon drew demonic blood. Arioch’s head split open, and fiery blood began to pour down his face. Arioch roared, plunging his hand against Marionus’ abdomen. The Dread Lord waned for a moment, seeming to lose his strength, and Arioch capitalized on this opportunity.

 

The Death Knight immediately threw Marionus off of him, his other hand flying toward his discarded axe. He gripped it, and sent the axe flying at Marionus. The Dread Lord was struck suddenly, the axe lodging itself into his back. Yet, no blood spilled forward, and the Dread Lord only staggered for a moment before righting himself.

 

Arioch looked upon Marionus with enraged horror, as Marionus turned back to him, his form once again powerful and commanding. The Dread Lord reached back and dislodged the axe from his back, gripping it tightly and looking upon it.

 

“Impossible!” cried Arioch, “That blade is tempered with the blood of the Demon Svargor! All are slain under its assault!”

 

Marionus held the axe for sometime, seconds passing as hours, before he took it into both hands and looked to Arioch.

 

“He feeds me power, Arioch. Power you cannot imagine…

 

With that, Marionus gripped the axe, and forced his massive hands together. Instantly he shattered the steel head into hundreds of fragments, all of them exploding out from him like deadly shrapnel. Arioch shielded his face, the shrapnel bouncing harmlessly off his armor. When next he looked up, Marionus had retaken his scythe, and was now slowly advancing on him.

 

Arioch stood silent for a time, then narrowed his gaze and roared with incredible rage. Reaching behind himself, he pulled two dirks from behind his back; long, shard and black daggers, and cried, “Curse your treacherous flesh, Marionus! I shall drink your blood yet!”

 

Arioch charged then, the daggers like snake-teeth before him.

 

He leapt. Marionus swung his scythe.

 

Steel rang and blood jetted forth.

 

When the movement ceased, and time seemed once again to continue as it had, Arioch was directly in front of Marionus. Both his dirks had penetrated Marionus’ armor, and now were stabbed into his chest plate; one at the heart, the other through where the lung would be.

 

Arioch stood there for a short time, his eyes still burning with hatred, his hands still locked onto the dirks. Marionus, whose scythe now was stabbed into the ground, gingerly reached up and grabbed Arioch’s hands. After a moment, Marionus threw them off, tearing the blades from his armor. As he did so, Arioch fell.

 

He had been cut in two.

 

The Death Knight fell to the earth, his corpse beginning to burn with dark, pulsing flames, as Marionus took up his scythe and looked forward. Around him men, who had been fighting, now gawked in horror and disbelief.

 

The Dread Lord raised his scythe, and roared with terrifying accord. The men then either dropped in fear or continued to fight.

 

Marionus, turning from the seeping remains of Arioch looked toward where Cioden had vanished from the field, then toward where Alexander now stood.

 

With determined stride, Marionus began his way to his next target.

 

The Heart of the Army.

[Guest Foe Calibur]

Felling yet another Rekmorian soldier Alexander drew forth his massive shield as he surveyed his armies.

 

CRACK

 

Thunder drove its baneful forces through the rapidly beating hearts surrounding confederate soldiers, emitting a merciless wake of magical electricity in its fabrication; leaving naught but writhing corpses and quivering cadavers in its passing.

 

Upon the battlefield ran hot the rivers of blood, but cold the mercy of men, to drive yet another blade into the hearts of their opposition. Stinging with rage, each opposing the other, Rekmorian and Confederate soldiers clashed in a prismatic spray of futile anguish. Blood shed on either accord, yet not their own… the soldiers of the Antaean Confederacy were loosing ground.

 

CRACK

 

The ominous thunder clouds stuck at the Antaean cavalry, sending horse and man alike sailing through the horrid, acrid air to lay at a final rest in the blood of the fallen.

 

Alexander’s gaze clouded over with rage as he witnessed his soldier’s ambiguous demise; cut down were they stood. Deep in his steely eyes an unknown power drove its self into Alexander’s being.

 

“Argh!!” Alexander drove his shield into the blood soaked earth, taking up his mighty war hammer in both hands, turning his back to the shield wall Alexander’s grip tightened as the thought of his dying soldiers… his comrades, built in his mind…

 

The life we seek, be wrought with rage,

Upon such time as death be dealt,

Be time we gage, in time we force

Unto our blades, the blood there dwelt.

Spill forth with scarlet billows wealth,

Upon this damned bloody stage;

A stage ‘ere hence be called life’s course.

 

The portals to his soul burned with a foreign sentiment, the gaze of the reaper through which he saw, the hand of a titan through which he fought; Alexander pillaged the blasphemous lives of the whoresons who would murder his men.

 

Swing after swing, blow after blow Alexander strove to sway the tides of battle, but alas he was but one man… and they were many. As he fought, his back to his ground driven shield, his pace quickened by the adrenalin flowing relentlessly through his veins, the soldiers surrounding him withdrew, horrified by the bloodlust Alexander released upon their now fallen comrades.

 

His opposition fleeting Alexander was forced to reassess the situation, his maddened slaughter diminished and the cloud of anguish retreating from his reason, his eyes scanned for Midicus.

 

Off in the near distance Alexander’s gaze rested on a shambling mass of bloodied Rekmorian soldiers scrambling over the corpses of their fallen to assault the mage Midicus. Midicus loosed spell after spell at the advancing soldiers, but they were minor, as there was little time to cast larger spells.

 

The veins of magic pouring their life into the enraged Antaean, Midicus released his powerful payload into the throng of his assailants. Midicus knew full well that he couldn’t activate his stone skin spell, he was mounted, an advantage he couldn’t loose, and to cast it would kill his horse; worst yet, his current protection was faltering.

 

Alexander withdrew his shield from its earthen sheath as he dashed for his mage friend.

 

“Aaargh!” Midicus took a blow to the shoulder, interrupting his semantics, “Damn you blasted warriors!!” Midicus continued to chant, his eyes glowing a pale blue as a field enveloped him.

 

“ AZURE DEATH”

 

The infuriated words rang throughout the battlefield, as it was spoken Midicus’s voice took on a forsaken demonic tone. Erupting suddenly from his outstretched hand, a horrific blue beam tore through the struggling Rekmorian soldiers, killing instantly on contact. Paved clear a path was sewn in blood and the reconciled corpses of those magic dead victims, writhing with undead pain as their souls were torn from their bloodied bodies.

 

The soldiers stopped for a moment, not sure wether to continue, but still they came, the Antaean foot soldiers were falling to the Dread lord and his forces, but these few ranks saw the power this mage possessed, they knew it must be extinguished.

 

“Away from him!!” Alexander screamed as his hammer met with resistance. The unlucky Rekmorian was alive just long enough to hear the sickening crack of his own spike before falling victim to its effects.

 

Alexander met eyes with the battle weary mage for but a moment, it was long enough.

 

Midicus did what he could to dismount while dodging the Rekmorian slashes. Pulling components from his cloak pockets Midicus spoke as he lowered himself. Upon contact with the ground Midicus’s figure erupted in a flurry of stone, his skin appeared as rock and his feet sank deep into the blood induced mud.

 

Alexander fought on while his friend cast, parrying and dodging, swinging and crushing. The opposition was fierce, but he knew that in the name of friendship he could not fail. As the Rekmorian soldiers broke under his blows the fury of the storm clouds overhead dwindled, a quick glance over his shoulder told Alexander that the damned mage Yar’cule had been either defeated or ran himself dry.

 

Off in the distance, some 50 yards away, the Demonic lords of shadow and dread clashed blades in a chaotic dance. Blades struck, but did not pierce, armor was crushed, but not without recourse. The battle was a furious display of murderous expertise.

 

No holds barred the two continued their show, much to the amazement of the surrounding soldiers, who by now had stopped to admire the display. Though the soldiers watched, it was not wholly for amusement, for most it was from fear, and by others for hatred.

 

Crunch!

 

Alexander’s hammer rested in the broken skull of the last Rekmorian soldier surrounding Midicus, his blows found true their marks, much to the dismay of the receivers.

 

For a moment the two friends viewed each other with unspoken certainty, looking at their feet to the corpses that gnawed at their heels the two grinned, almost sardonically. Drawing his hammer from its bloody decrepit sheath Alexander turned to witness the horrifying display the unhallowed beings unraveled.

 

Marionus pulled his scythe from the blood soaked earth and roared his victory; a more malevolent thing could not be heard. The he turned, to meet eyes with Alexander…

 

The screams of battle pursued as Marionus strode defiantly towards the benevolent Duke of Dainlock.

 

‘Cross seas of doubt, in mortal eyes,

Within our tempered souls doth lie, the key to kingdoms, farther still,

Than those we reach… than those we try…

 

‘Cross fields of hope, ‘twixt vales of pain,

Astride such odds, strive not in vain, our yearning love, our lives, our lust

These sentiments, our soul entrusts.

 

Fogs deception drifts ‘ere hence,

In times of scarlet woe’s repents, we strive to see the light of day,

Adrift cloudy skies we find our way.

 

Burning through, with hallowed guise,

In seas of guile lay our prize, the light we seek, the light we find,

Shall hence impel thine con demise.

 

Venture ‘ere, chance woe, try fate,

Innocence, not found, less bate, be lost forever now and more,

Note not failure, lest goal abate.

 

For I be to you as men to mead,

I stand forever, hear my plead, to spawn avail in face of vice,

And see to those who dare proceed.

 

Life’s but a game we’ve fought to win,

But pawns we stand in morning’s din, to strive for more, to reach the top,

But alas we bear no more than skin.

 

We will, some day, it shall be so,

Reach the grounds we barely know, to take stand atop the fields of gold,

Triumph at last, the world below

[Justin Silverblade]

[OOC - Sorry I haven't posted for quite some time ladies and gents, but RL caught me offgaurd, and then it took me forever to catch up. ]

 

So this is what death feels like...

 

...

 

Dark...

 

...

 

Cold... Colder then I had expected.

 

 

Betrayed... by my own kind. I pledged my life to the darkness, and the Lord of Nightmares himself. And I was betrayed. Shadows? Shadows had been bought by the enemy to slay those who would cover the world for them.

 

"Wake up..."

 

To the eye

I have let thee down.

 

To the hand

I have let thee down.

 

To the heart

I have let thee down.

 

And to the opposition

You have let me down.

 

"Hey. Get up."

 

...

 

Pain!

 

"Open your damned eyes Jadus!" Ghorn gave the body a kick. "What the hell do'ya think you're doing? 'Cause you're a 'warrior' of the Hand, you can just take a nap? I don't think so!" Another swift kick was given to the warrior whilst Ghorn fended off the pikemen.

 

Jadus opened his eyes.

 

The fighting form of Ghorn could be seen, his blade crimson, and his face covered with a wide grin. "Good, now grab your blade and help kill some scum, if you're not too 'high and mighty' to fight along side your rescuer."

 

Jadus groaned at the thought, but quickly picked up his feat from under him, and drew his blade. He was caked in mud, blood, and a constant cold rain met his face. A pikeman fell to his blade, and two to Ghorn's. His skill was still with him, though his vitality had suffered greatly. Many began to retreat to the greater forces of the inner lines when the Dread Lord began to re-enter the army.

 

"He just showed those false shadow's who's boss. Heh." Ghorn laughed. "Looks like he's more then just show."

 

I'll bet you wouldn't say that to his face.

 

Another two pikemen fell to the blades of the warrior.

 

Ghorn looked over to Jadus. "I told you entering so early was a dumb idea. If I hadn't got here in time to protect you, you'd have been mince-meat." The bloodlust grin faded for just a moment, to allow Ghorn to wallow in the new pleasure. "You can thank me later."

 

And they began to work there way through the lines, aided by the wake of their Dread Lord. Another two pikemen fell, and another...

[Lady Celes Crusader]

Zakuro had finally enough strengh to get up and when she did so, a display of charred bodies, severed members, pools of blood, battlecries and swordclash is unfolding right before her. She felt the fading presence of that shadowy battlemage she hurt and notice that the Confederate magical force is no longer present on the battlefield. She then heads over the tent where Yar'cule is under care and notice that her Master is still uncounscious.

 

She walks around the shadows and kneels nearby Yar'cule's head. She gazes over his calm form and she was tempted to smile but refrains to do so.

 

He looks so gentle when he's asleep. Not knowing him, I could hardly believe that he is the Infernal Sorcerer.

 

She strokes her Master's head and kisses him on his forehead.

 

"Hum.... Zakuro? Is that you?" mumbles the older Sorcerer

 

Before the Lady with the Burning Scars confirms his thought he laughs gently.

 

"Off course its you, my dear Apprentice.", he continues, "The Confederate thinks that we were all monsters but if they knew better..."

 

He shrugs at the thought. He knows that Zakuro can be as gentle toward him as she can be ruthless and cruel toward her enemies.

 

Zakuro: "Their blood shall be my perfume"

 

She was a slave when she was brought to him and now she's about to be one of the most powerful sorceress Rekmor ever had. Yar'cule gazes over the half-elven's mage features and his gaze stops over the scar on her left cheeck. One of the two scars that are schorching her delicate form each time she uses magic, that gave her the nickname she bears now, that give her constant pain.

 

" My dear child", continues Yar'cule, "You have no idea about the time I've spent to research a way to lift that dreaded curse that is torturing you everyday. If it wasn't for these scars, you would have been a mage as potent than I am."

 

" I am, Master.", replies softly Zakuro, "I'm training my body to endure pain that no torture device can reproduce. I'm casting stronger and stronger spells each passing days. You shouldn't worry about these anymore. In fact, I'm supposed to get rid of this curse myself. But I've noticed another weakness of mine."

 

"If you are referring about the illusions", cuts Yar'cule, "Its not a weakness but lack of experience. You never had been on a battlefield before and you had never been exposed to such tricks."

 

Yar'cule coughs and his stomach seems to be still as ill as it was earlier. When the pain is over, the Sorcerer reaches an head over his apprentice's face and explores her features with his thumb.

 

"Zakuro", he continues, "I'm not sure if my body can witstand the damage I've inflicted upon myself. I'm probably dying right before your eyes"

 

Zakuro's yellow eyes filled themselves with tears. Yar'cule gently wipes these. While thinking about his apprentice.

 

You should had been nicknamed The Rose of Reknor. Your estranged beauty always caught my eyes.

 

"I am useless for now", continues the sorcerer, "I might survive this as well. But you have to go on with that goblin slave of yours. I'm sure he'll help you greatly in his way."

 

Zakuro gets up and smiles at her Master. She leans over him and caresses his head for a last time.

 

"Take care, O Great Yar'cule", she finally replied, "I knew you had overcome worst than that. The battle will be over soon, I can sense it."

 

She leaves the tent and goes for her discarded chain mail that she quickly put back on. She sees an ogre toying with the remains of a confederate soldier, probably brought over by some soldiers in order to qualm their spirit. She walks over the beast and asks to it to show its "toy". The beast cooperate when Zakuro told him that she doesn't want to steal it. She reach and hand over a bleeding wound and she dips two of her fingers in it. She then applied two spots of blood right behind her ears. She then smells the tips of her fingers.

 

"Hum", she smirks with satisfaction, "The blood of the ennemies smells so good."

 

She then heads for the edge of the hill and watches the conclusion of the battlefield.

[Bhurin]

An Imp, small and demonic, laughed hysterically with a high pitched voice as he rode on the front of a massive machine of war. “Oooh, lots of fun I am having! Can smell burnt flesh EVERYwhere! Veeeerrryyyy appetizing!”

 

Another Imp, from the top of the war machine, looked down and scowled, “Abe! Very stupid your brain is! Sit in front of Ironfist’s mouth is veeeerrryyyy brainless!”

 

Abe the Imp, his opal eyes becoming sorrowful and his voice meek, only said, “Yous is right… Abe not want to be barbequed! Already had bath this month!” With that, the small devilish Imp jumped up from his spot on top of the magical siege-craft.

 

The Imps, small but practically invincible, were the minions who controlled the two massive siege-crafts named Ironfist and Dreadmetal. The machines, though sentient with the minds of spawned demons, required an incredible staff to direct and fire them. Though the Imps were small, and even somewhat lacking in intelligence and foresight, their knack for mechanical things was impressive, and they wielded their weapons of war with wanton fanaticism. Hundreds of Imps rode atop the forty-foot plus mobile siege-craft, both visions of demonic power. The siege-craft were so massive, they left trenches in the earth as they rode, and needed to be drawn by giant beasts of shadow.

 

“Halt position!” Cried an Imp with a green skull cap on his head, decorated with a single gold star at the front. “This be good place to roast many people!”

 

“No! Roll Ironfist over THERE!” cried another Imp, his voice a slightly deeper pitch than a piglet’s squeal as he pointed across the way, “Can shoot even MORE!”

 

“No!” said another Imp, climbing to the top of the craft, “Let’s turn Ironfist around and shoot own forces! Will GREATLY confuse enemy!”

 

“You stupid ‘twip!” cried a squirrelly voice, “That will not work!”

 

“Yeah!” cried another voice, “Ironfist cannot be turned round fast enough! Will take many hours! Too long!”

 

“Quiet!” yelled the Imp with the green skull cap, “Felbin is leader, and Felbin says fire here! Felbin is smartest and most attractive, and has the chief helmet! Now, lower Iron feet and prepare to fire!”

 

The Imps set to work, some leaping to large cranks and cranking, others to ropes and pulling. Underneath the massive frame of Ironfist, large anchors fell to the ground (some with Imps attached) fastening the massive siege-craft to the ground. Other large iron planks fell from the sides, stabilizing it. The weapon made fearsome noises as it was handled into position, while further down the hill, Dreadmetal unfolded with uncanny silence. There the Imps were darker, and more accustomed to Dreadmetal’s Necromatic atmosphere.

 

Once Ironfist was anchored, the Imps all gathered up top again. Once they were all there, Felbin adjusted his green skull cap then leapt into a seat mounted on the very top of the machine. The seat was rigged with large handles and a spy-scope with crosshairs built onto it. The Imp laughed with glee, as he said, “Felbin get ready to fire! Everyone else must adjust aim!”

 

The Imps all moaned, many of them kicking Ironfist’s steel frame and scoffing.

 

“Felbin ALWAYS fires Ironfist!”

“Why can’ts we pull firebar?!”

“Blobby never gets to fire… (Sob!)”

“Felbin never shoots straight anyway! Last time he hits General! Blames us!”

 

Felbin quickly shouted, “My heads’s greatest! No talk of leader like that! You all can’t shoot because Felbin has the hat! Now get to crank and shut squeaking holes!”

 

The Imps all protested, until another Imp leapt aboard the machine and yelled, “Dreadmetal already turning mouth! Prepares to fire!”

 

The Imps all became silent and suddenly determined. Their mouths all frowning in defiance, they looked to Felbin and nodded. Felbin saluted them all with a gangly hand across his forehead, then sat back in his seat. It was a matter of pride for the Imps of Ironfist to beat the Imps of Dreadmetal, of whom they detested with deep running resentment. They now united in their cause to show up their fellow Imps, determined to be the superior siege-craft.

 

Felbin gripped the levers in front of him and looked through the cross hairs of Ironfists’ scope. He moved it about, observing the combatants on the battlefield before him. Finally, his scope rested on a mounted rider, who was fighting valiantly against the forces of Rekmor, outnumbered but refusing to fall.

 

Across the battlefield, Gyrfalcon suddenly felt like he was being watched…

 

“Ohhh! Very pretty target!” Felbin cooed, his tongue salivating outside his mouth, “All metal like! Turn Ironfist now! I have found silly horseman!”

 

Obediently the Imps complied, as they began to turn dozens of cranks and levers. Slowly, as many gears and parts moved within its massive husk, Ironfist began to pan and tilt, every part of its frame moving except for the scope Felbin held. The machine turned until it was directed where the scope was aimed, a boggling feat for any manner of mechanics.

 

“READY!” Felbin yelled, a demonic smile on his face as he gripped the levers that would fire the incredible siege-craft. He licked his purple lips with anticipation.

 

Within the bowls of Ironfist, Abe the Imp sat solemnly on a box as he heard the other Imps worked furiously elsewhere. Of all the hundreds of tasks needed to be done in order to fire Ironfist, he had the most boring of all. He was the “Pin-watcher”, the most boring and otherwise unrewarding job in the company (Imps prided themselves on work ethics and productivity). Abe scowled slightly, as he heard the words of his orders run through his mind again and again. He heard them repeated everyday: “Watch the Pin! Do not touch the Pin! Do not talk to pin! Do not leave post! Bathe more often!”

 

The words caused a frenzy of emotion to swell up in Abe. Every day of his life he had been ordered around. Finally, his day of reckoning came…

 

“Stupid faces!” he cried, leaping from his seat, “I’ll show them to boss Abe around! Abe not listen today! Abe going to break rules! Vive le Abe!” With that, Abe grabbed a hold of the pin. “Abe show stupid pin! How important can be anyway?”

 

Abe began to pull. The pin, at first, resisted Abe. But, quickly, it began to give…

 

Directly above him, Felbin gripped the handles to fire Ironfist. Felbin laughed hysterically, and cried, “DIE, PUKEFACED PEOPLE!”

 

With a subtle “ting”, the pin came free.

 

Suddenly, Ironfist let out a horrifying cry, as dozens of iron and wooden bars split under massive weight. A main support structure deep within Ironfist had come undone, causing the whole front end of the siege-craft to fall and point down. Just as it fell, Ironfist’s mouth shone with deadly light, and let loose its deadly power.

 

A beam of incredible, fiery energy, spat forth from the belly of Ironfist’s form, spewing out the front end. The beam, now horribly misdirected, soared but a few feet before finding a target.

 

Dreadmetal.

 

The Imps aboard Dreadmetal began to scream in a mix of hysterical pain and laughter. They leapt from Dreadmetal’s bone framework as their bodies burned and the land around the Necromatic siege-craft combusted into a hellish fire. The Imps abandoned the craft, as Dreadmetal let loose a bloody moan of pain, as terrible and mournful as a beast of the sea.

 

Aboard Ironfist, Felbin looked upon his work with sudden anxiety. His eyes were the size of dinner plates, and after long moments of silence, managed a small squeaky, “Eep!”

 

Within the folds of Ironfist, Abe also squeaked a short answer to the mishap. “Ooops…” Abe said, looking at the pin as he sat amongst wreakage and steaming pipes, his face covered in char, “Maybe Pin was important…”

 

On the battlefield, all that was known was that Ironfist fired upon Dreadmetal, none seeing or hearing what had occurred. Few afforded a laugh, while others took no note of it.

 

It was unimportant, really, as the battle was about to draw its conclusion…

[Falcon2001]

Cioden saw the deathblow that took Arioch, and a thousand things ran through his head.

 

He did not mourn his passing, for he knew that down in the depths of hell his spirit still lived, albeit weakened and susceptible to attacks from other demons, but he did live. He did mourn the loss of Arioch's body, for it was one of his favorites and Arioch had admired it greatly, but it was still replacable. What he did regret most of all was the loss of a capable general.

 

Thinking, however, proved difficult, and he was jostled back into a painful sleep full of dreams of silver amulets with a picture inside...

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Matthew's shield dissolved as he floated awake. He awoke completely refreshed and ready to fight, but when he looked toward the battlefield, he saw that the battle was soon to be ended. The mighty siege engines were either destroyed or incapacitated, and the forces were tired from the fight. Both sides were retreating to their camps, and even Alexander and Marionus' figures were hesitating, as if wondering whether another charge would be useful.

 

Right then his concentration was broken by a sound of horses moving fast toward him. Turning around and trying to bring a spell to motion, he saw their cargo, and it died on his lips.

 

Cioden lay across the saddle of one of the demonic steeds like a sack of grain, but Matthew had never seen a sack of grain with three broken limbs and that many cuts and open wounds. What wasn't bleeding was only that way because of the fire searing the wounds shut. He stared in astonishment for a few seconds, then ran up and examined him.

 

"Damn it, I need to bring this man to the main camp!"

 

Suprisingly enough, the shadow-knight that was riding the horse Cioden was on swung down from the saddle and walked over to one of his fallen comrade's horses. Wasting no time, Matthew got himself situated in the saddle and then bucked the strange horse into a gallop, straight toward the main camp. The shadows formed a protective cicle 'round the two, and they all rode hard for the camp, and a healer.

[Justin Silverblade]

Swing, slice, stab, dodge. Swing, stab, slice, dodge. Stab, dodge...

 

The soldiers made the fight interesting, but the motions were too well known to Ghorn and Jadus to catch them off guard. They made their way up throught the Confederate army easily, using the Dread Lord's path as an easy trail to follow.

 

Dodge, swing, slice, stab. Swing, dodge, stab, *BOOM*

 

Jadus finished his target and turned to where the sound came from. One of the two siege weapons had been destroyed. As a result, several of the Reckmor troops had begun to hesitate, and several others, began to flee. The Confederates awed at the destructive power, and also began to hesitate. While battle still raged on, it was not as sturn and sturdy as it started.

 

"Ghorn!" Jadus yelled. "Your forces hesitate at the sight of firepower. We must continue, to ensure their loyalties to this battleground. We fight, and die, until Marionus tells us otherwise." The warrior from the North took a moment to examine the battlefield. The Dread Lord had already picked his target, Jadus confirmed a few other generals in the ranks just within the last lines. Jadus pointed his sword towards one of them. "Slay him. I will find my target on the other side."

 

Ghorn was about to put his two cents in, when Jadus headed off into the thick of battle once again, seeking his own target. Someone worth his skill, and worth his blood and sweat.

 

He spotted his target some length away, still to the end, shouting orders to his remaining troops.

You... will... be... MINE!

[Wyvern]

Slaying several ghoulish creatures simultaneously with a spare spear he had found on a dead pikeman, Lance pauses for a moment to catch his breath and wipe the filthy excrement from his garmets. Needless to say, he was not in the best of moods... the discovery of the shadow forces aiding the Confederates had still not left his mind, or his soul for that matter. The thought of dark creatures plotting behind the backs of the noble warriors of the Confederacy had caused a massive blow to his spirits, and what's more the forces of Rekmor seemed to currently have the advantage on the battle field. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Lance stares towards the sky. Was there any hope left for the forces of good in this god forsaken war...?

 

As if to answer his question, Lance is suddenly startled by the sound of a massive explosion from the enemy front. Turning towards the source of sound, his jaw drops open as he gazes at what could perhaps represent a great turning point for the Confederates in the battle... one of the enemies principle cannons had been utterly destroyed!

 

An enormous triumphant grin spreads across Lance's face as he stares upon the scene in disbelief. He rushes through crowds of startled soldiers in order to get a closer look and make sure he's not hallucinating. Needless to say, he is overjoyed to find that what he just imagined had happened had actually occured. A principle cannon had been destroyed... by another enemy cannon!!!

 

Viewing this chaotic and highly unpredictable event, Lance immediatly abandones his fears of betrayal and defeat and is suddenly inspired by a new hope. With one of the enemy cannons down, there was an open path to the enemy central lines... the place where the big shots behind the forces of evil lurked. It was time for Lance to prove himself... to show that he was worthy to be a Confederate soldier.

 

Dogding several blows and snarling enemy soldiers, Lance rushes through the open and unguarded pathway heading towards the enemy's head controlers, letting nothing get in his way...

 

Lance is suddenly stopped, however, as a Rekmorian warrior jumps in front of him and lashes out with his sword. Lance manages to parry just in time, and takes two steps back from the impact. His eyes narrow... this was no ordinary soldier. His attire looked somewhat more official, and the skill he weilded seemed to outclass that of any of the soldiers Lance had faced previously.

 

Taking initiative and weilding his spear, the weapons of Lance and Jadus clash once again... This time, however, Jadus manages to land an elbow blow directly to Lance's stomach as an addition to his attack. Lance paces back and barely has time to deflect another of Jadus' blows... and a second, and a third... Jadus lashes out like a man possesed, and his seventh consecutive strike breaks Lance's spear straight in two. A bewildered Lance drops his broken weapon and takes a step back from the bloodthirsty Rekmorian general.

 

"I'm disappointed warrior..." hisses Jadus maliciously "I thought I'd find a competitive match in you, but apparently was mistaken... your life ends he-"

 

But before Jadus has finished, Lance rushes at him weaponless and kicks him straight in the balls. Jadus pauses in pain for a moment, and Lance headbutts him directly in the face. The Rekmorian general loses a grasp on his sword and is knocked to the ground.

 

Lance quickly goes for Jadus' blade...

[Justin Silverblade]

Jadus fell with a bewildered look, and a hushed "urgh".

 

His eyes immeadiately went to his opponent, and saw that Lance was going for his fallen sword. Before getting up, Jadus extended his arm and fired his hand crossbow. The bolt found it's way to Lance's weapon-shoulder throwing back the warrior's grip on the new-found sword but not his concentration with Jadus. Jadus quickly rose, keeping his concentration on his new found opponent, rather than his sword..

 

This? From a Confederate spearman?

 

Jadus brought his hand to his face, and felt blood. His mind went to thoughts.

 

Impressive. You have earned my blood. Now let us see if you are worth my sweat.

 

Catching Lance's eyes dart towards the sword on the ground, the outside sounds of war had once again begun to disappear to Jadus. There was only two warriors on the battlefield he was concerned about now. Himself, and this... this... spearman. Jadus reajusted his feet, and found something rolling under his foot.

 

A spear! What a wonderful irony. I would wonder if he could wield my weapon as well as I could his.

 

Jadus ducked his body with lightning speed. His hands gripped the spear, caked in mud, and hurried towards his opponent.

 

Lance was no slower. As soon as Jadus diverted his attention to the ground, Lance went for the sword. His off hand gripped it as swiftly as possible.

 

The two would come together in an attack furiously. Jadus took as much offence as possible. Stabbing and turning to attack with a quick gauntleted backhand, but Lance was quick with his defence, and parried the various stabbing techniques, and only being nicked by the occasional physical punches and knee blows. Eventually Jadus landed a blow, striking to the same arm as the bolt penetrated. Lance staggered back, and saw naught but a left fist coming towards him. A blow that would no doubt lead to a consecutive death blow. In an effort to defend himself Lance swung the sword at his side. Jadus did not act to defend it; his keen eyes noted that it wasn't a strong enough blow to penetrate his armor.

 

But... it didn't have to.

 

By whatever powers that be; Gods of Fate, Ladies of Luck, or Masters of Skill and Timing, Lance's attack to Jadus found the cut in his armor that the shadow had caused previously. Even further still, it found the open wound there, and furthered the damage. "Argh!" Jadus' fist turned and came down on Lance's arm. Quickly and in easy motion, Jadus gripped the arm and twisted, nearly breaking it to cause the disarming of the sword.

 

Jadus backed up, causing a momentary pause in the battle. Lance had time to check his arm, the other blows landed on him, and the efficiency of his abillites.

 

Jadus examined the damage done. The sword still cut within him, and Jadus removed it slowly, and replaced it with his left arm, feeling for the damage that was concealed by his armor. He found it, and offered the information of damage done to his opponent with only an angry look. His eyes began show fire behind them. He was displeased with the run of 'luck' this spearman was having.

 

Wretch! My blood has been earned, as has my sweat... Jadus continued his thoughts out loud:

 

"I would know the name of the warrior who begs my skill, before I run him through."

[Wyvern]

Lance frowns and points the sword he had picked up towards Jadus, trying desperatly not to flinch from the pain in his arm...

 

"Jeremy Bartholomu Forensus Freerider." he responds to Jadus, wiping some grimy mud from his garmets with his free hand. "Disciple of the great heroic knight Tiberius Ruthford, now deceased in battle, God rest his soul..."

 

Lance pauses for a moment, then moves into an attack position with the sword. His face solidifies into a deadly countenance of seriousness. One which signified his intent to triumph in this battle... even if it meant sacrificing his life to do so.

 

"You are obviously no casual Rekmorian..." growls Lance, clutching the hilt of the blade tightly as he speaks "... I am devoted to the Confederacy, and thus there can be no stalemate in this fatefull encounter." Lance spits to the ground. "One of us will fall."

 

"Indeed!" growls Jadus, lifting the spear he now holds to a combat stance. "Let us duel!"

 

Lance and Jadus charge at one another, and at that instance a shot goes off from the second undamaged Rekmorian cannon... An enormous explosion bursts from the very ground Lance and Jadus stand on, and the two are blown backwards in opposite directions. Lance crashes into a pile of dead Gogor bodies and his head collides with a piece of chain mail... He slowly slips into unconsciousness...

[Guest Balladore]

"Make Haste!" Yelled Balladore to another group of elves. He had made his decision... it was no longer feasible to remain neutral. He had to act and favor one side or the other... and bring the clan of his deceased wife with him. He rode a pure-white horse which he had called out of the woods, and called up elves wherever he could find them. "Aid us! The Hand of Rectitude and the Antaen Confederacy clash near here, destroying our peaceful grounds!"

 

His clansmen by law took up elven steel and mail, arming themselves to the teeth. There was a small clearing in the woods that was not visible to the battlefield, and all the elves Balladore had gained gathered there.

 

He had formed a small faction of Elven Archers and a few magicians... small, but accurate. He knew the time to act drew near... and feared it for all of the carnage that he knew he would be forced to face. He had been in battles before, but never of this caliber...

 

"Focus!" he thought to himself. He had to focus on what there was to be done. He rode to the front of the quickly assembled force, some mounted and others on foot, and proclaimed for all to hear:

 

"My Clansmen! I ride before you today in order to seek a favor! Our lands are being desecrated as we speak! The Hand of Rectitude Marches on the forces of the Antaen Confederacy! We must aid one side or the other, and so we shall aid the side that stands for the greatest good; WE RIDE UNDER THE BANNER OF ALEXANDER!"

 

At this last remark, the elves erupted into a cheer that was heard even over the rage of the battle... which struck curiosity into all on the field. Balladore prepared himself mentally... He was just a simple druid, how could he be forced into this?

 

He dismounted quickly and kneeled to pray to the Lady Nature, that she may guide his blade and smile upon his and the Confederate forces, and that the Hand might be smited today...

 

Finishing his prayers, he stood and clutched his staff as he chanted a spell. Finally, the last drizzles of rain that had been produced earlier faded... the clouds burned off, and the sun shone through once more... a sunray dazzled the field in its brightness.

 

"MAKE READY!" shouted Balladore as he re-mounted his white stallion, and the elves drew their blades or nocked arrows to their bows... the moment had come. Balladore clutched his staff close and leaned forward in the saddle... "CHARGE!!!"