• This section is for roleplays only.
    ALL interest checks/recruiting threads must go in the Recruit Here section.

    Please remember to credit artists when using works not your own.

"Lost Continent: Flight From Muurdaan" (BeckonCall's FNB!)

@Prince Vaethorion


@Elendithas


Caelis watched the enemy war host accept the high elf parley. Bless the others who had arrived in time to help deal with this sudden attack on the settlement. However, this standoff was problematic as well. What dark miasma or aura that eminated from the enemy seemed to grow stronger. There was dark magic abound, and it was disturbing. Caelis looked over to the high elves to see if they had any indication as to what should be done. They were obviously much more versed and knowledgeable in the magics. For now, he would do his best in what he knew. Caelis loudly said "Well done, men. We've averted a major catastrophe. Hold your positions! Get the wounded back, behind our lines. Those of you who are injured and can walk, make your way to the medics. Any of you who don't have a weapon, there's plenty around that don't belong to anyone anymore. Be ready for the fight to start back up at any time. For now, we will maintain the line."


Caelis looked over to their allies. Tocxhol had effectively held the left flank. He was the fiercest berzerker that Caelis had ever seen. He could certainly hold his own against the meanest highlander war chieftain back in the old world. But, he had taken some injuries that could slowly sap his energy as time passed. Caelis said to the leader of the Aymaran "Join your men, Chieftain! We'll hold this flank." Caelis then proceeded to have the men move slightly to the left, but still within supporting range of the elven archers. Caelis then looked at Naxxos and said "You have my thanks, sir. But, where in the bloody world are the rest of your men?" It was rather perplexing that further men from the Exiles were nowhere to be seen. Surely, the influx of people towards the beach would notify the Exiles of the attack. Caelis also lamented the fact that he did not manage to establish a proper militia force among his own people. The Attolian military capabilities were rather limited especially when half of them were defending the Tyren camp. Still, the well equipped and trained soldiers of Attolia had held their own against a numerically superior force.


With things relatively settled, Caelis urged his horse to meet with the high elves. He approached their Captain and said "Hail Lord Elf, it is a pleasure to finally meet you, but I wish it were under more auspicious conditions. Now, it appears that they are willing to parley, but will we give them the time to continue with... whatever that foul magic they are conjuring? Or perhaps it would be more prudent to fall back towards the fortifications while we have the time? It will enable us to rally more men and give us a more favorable terrain to fight in tactically. As of now, I see your encampment as a natural second line to fall back to, and the Exile's slope fortifications as our third and last line of defense." Caelis then began to reach into his pocket. His fingers firmly wrapped themselves around a small, yet brightly shining stone. Perhaps this light would be needed to pierce through the darkness that stood before them at this moment? Either way, there were magical forces beyond Caelis' understanding, which frustrated him. However, at this moment, the fate of his people depended upon their actions. He had to make the right decisions. "Or... do we take this pause to unleash our own magical reserves?" hinting to the stones that they had received before they departed for the new world, Caelis continued "A pre-emptive strike may catch them off guard and potentially destroy them immediately. While I understand that they seek to parley, I do not see them as anything more than beasts. Their sudden attack on this settlement and their... tactics are not honorable, so I see no reason to extend them the same curtesy."


Summary:


Caelis orders the Attolian-Exile Force to take up the Left flank and to pick up any weapons if anyone is weaponless, bids Tocxhol join his forces on the right.


Anyone seriously wounded is to fall back behind the lines and make their way to seek medical attention


Caelis is prepared to use his star jewel


Caelis offers his thoughts to the High Elven Leader
 
Last edited by a moderator:
Amandil, Cleric of the highborn, could feel in his aura of piety that highborn behind him were in trouble... Wounds had been treated and bleeding slowed, but essence yet leaked... Above this, the Pall of darkness magic seemed to enrobe the masked witches and their regiment.


Vae'thorion and Shaalth Val'istar similarly could taste, if such were the best sense to describe, the aspects of the masked enchantments... The war Mage mused that if a witch could be captured alive much could be learned potentially not just of this strain of shadowmancy but perhaps of lore that would aid in the unraveling of the dark elf magics of their modern and historical enemies abroad...


...their power was raw and seemingly more wild than wrought, but it bore the same stench of dark-elf mages Shaalth had left in cinders a dozen times before... Scrying their magic felt much akin to examining the distant ancestor of a virus in dark elf magic... But such details must not seduce him, he thought. All magic whispered secrets, and fools who tarry to extract them on the battlefield seldom see their quick demise. The war Mage threw up an Aegis of defensive high magic ahead of his regiment, weaving an extra sigil within it so that arrows passing out of the shield would bear some of its force aloft...


Quetankha, the Aymaran's spellbreaker, looked at the magical terrain with none of the fascination of his contemporaries. Aymarans broke things, broke them until they stopped moving, then unceremoniously shat on them. Quetankha merely had the distinction of being tasked with breaking magic. He watched as the highborn Bard, "Lindar", opened what seemed to be a cease fire before the slaughter resumed. Why warmbloods insisted on such pageantry when everyone inevitably wound up dead both bored and disgusted him... Still, his lazy eyes scanned the winds of magic... It would not do to fail Tocxhol so early in this campaign...


Quetankha smiled and ground his rows of teeth, new bony spikes jutting through his gums as his thoughtful and violent ruminations expelled the older of his teeth as he worked wordlessly...


"Some kind of darkness shield, will capture magic we throw against it... Redirect it maybe... Redirect it where?"


Quetankha couldn't help but rumble a laugh... These scum were viscious... It will be pleasurable to eat them when the battle is over...


Quetankha could see the spell the mud-witches planned to unleash, were buying time even now to deliver... They were asserting dominance of legions of skeletons in the ruins to their rear... The spirits of the dead fought this, but they were weak... If the witches got this spell off, dozens of skeleton regiments would be coming up behind them... Quetankha laughed again because it looked, as he saw it, that this was something the mud-witches had done before...


He murmured to himself... "It's lazy to pull an old trick with a spell-breaker on the field... This will be something I may remind them when I am eating them at break of dawn..."


@Elendithas @Prince Vaethorion
 
@Leusis


Maybe some day soon they'd be able to go from dawn to dusk without something strange happening around here. Shul couldn't help but wonder if settled life was just like this. Strange folks coming by each day, some meaning well and others ill and all this time they'd just managed to leave a spot for the road just before all those sorts of things kicked off. A silly thought he knew but this newly formed home of theirs seemed to have the unwritten rule that when it rained it poured.


Hm... rain. Shul turned his hand over, looking on at the mark that had been left on him by the spirit of the statue. It was still a little warm on his skin. He had time to wash it away, to leave any link he had formed with the spirit behind. But it had been a great help to them so far, he thought. There was still some time, he could mull it over further. Maybe the others would have something to say, as third ring he had to bend to the wills of the more senior shaman of the caravan after all. Even if they hadn't been there to experience it themselves...


"So should we be helping them?" One of the tyren herdsman pondered as he chewed on a long blade of grass.


"Well the chief did say we was to try and get along..." Neither one moved to actually help though. Something about those wee-woods was just... too odd for their tastes.


"Oh just get to it!" Minax the merchant stomped past. "If this is to be happening we may as well be making the best of it. They aint even as bad as most hornless I'll bet, trust me I know it." Of course her opinion may have been coloured by her young new life mate being one of the crafting apprentices who was luckily saved in the quarry collapse. And maybe she could get some good connections to get some fancy elven goods. who could say?! All that mattered was she managed to henpeck some others to put their best hooves forward to help with the move.


Neither group had much in the way of good experiences with outsiders so these would prove to be some awkward first steps.


Free hands about the tyren camp help the elves sent to start the joining (and tree growing?) process.
 
@Beckoncall @Heyitsjiwon @Elendithas @Leusis


The Prince was now seething with contained rage. His eyes blazed fiercely and his blood covered sword seemed to glow angrily. The Prince would not tolerate his Highborn being killed by the scum of the earth Dark Elves. There is nothing more on this planet the Prince despised more than Dark Elves and their dark magic. The decision he was to make was easy, because there was not much of a choice. His Highborn would be saved and the Witches brewing their dark magic would be crushed. It was not either or, both tasks must be accomplished. This would require total. cooperation between the Colonist factions.


The combined powers of the Colonist, and the gems was needed. The power of the gems combined would be devastating on the enemy. The Amaryan Spellbreaker, The gems in the hands of the War Mage, all magic power available (excluding Cleric's) must be combined to route the Mud Elves. The gems potential combined with the Mage's magical talent's powers must be combined to break the witches spell. Furthermore, a conventional assault on the ranks of the Mud Elves leaders must be executed in order to capture a witch captured. The rest would perish.


The Prince turned to Caelis, "Well Met Lord Caelis, (the Prince said with a flourish and a salute), It is an honor to be sharing the same battlefield with you and your men. I agree that from this time forward, that we unite, and form an alliance. I see our two people have much in common. The Amaryan have also proven themselves to be a great asset to the Colony. The Three of us working together can achieve a lot. I agree that it is better to strike at the enemy, they are dishonorable, and I fear that falling back would be disastrous, as we will be facing a horde of undead enemy on top of the remaining Mud Elves."


The Prince continues aloud to those allies present, "The parley has given us time for our reinforcements to arrive, there is no true negotiating with Dark Elf filth! What I suggest is that We must crush these Witch whores and their evil summonsing. There is no retreating here. If we retreat we will be overcome by the risen dead. We need the might of the Amayran brutes to shock their ranks defending their leaders, with the rest of our forces holding bolstering the flanks as we focus our magic at the Witches. The Amayran Spell breaker's power is essential to help break the witches spell. I suggest we form a wedge formation with your halberds on one side of the wedge, the Highborn forces on the other, your Sundered kings, Tocxcol and myself will help blaze a trail and back up the Amaryan brutes leading the charge, we will break their ranks with our forces. My Highborn Archers will direct their fire at skirmishers and keep the enemy at bay. The exiles will guard the rear and kill the stragglers."


The Prince called to Tocxcol. "Great display of might, Amayran leader! What do you think of crushing this enemy together once and for all? Us three, can do damage to the enemy! Could you ask Quetankha to combine our might of our magic to break the witches spell? This is what I propose, I will ask the War Mage to help channel the power of our gems and direct them offensively at the Witches and their forces around them. If the witches break concentration to defend against our magic, Quetankha can break their spell. Once the witches attention is elsewhere, you unleash your brutes into them. I only request that I want one witch alive to interrogate, we must blindfold her, bind her mouth and hands. Our combined forces acting together will give support to the, cunnings, the brutes as the brutes descend on them, giving the brutes a wide berth to unleash their mayhem."


The Prince turned to the Cleric. "Save the Highborn wounded! "


Orders:


* The Prince proposes/responds affirmatively to a alliance with Caelis Attolians and presents union possibility to Amayrans (the Platz's factions)


* The prince proposes strategy of combining gems power in the hands of the War Mage to direct offensive magic at the Witches and their surrounding forces to break the witches concentration enough time for Quetanka to break their spell. Once spell is interrupted, the brutes are unleashed, the Sundered kings, the Prince, Tocxcol advance along with the rest of our forces (Halberds on left/Spearman on right, swordmasters behind them in a wedge formation to support the berserker brutes, the archers giving support to pick off threats, and the exiles taking up the rear killing stragglers. We break their main host formation and route the enemy.


* Requests that one witch spared and is taken captive (blindfolded, hands/legs bound, and gagged and knocked unconscious)


* The Cleric is asked to save the wounded Highborn


* Anfel's medical help is requested
 
@Prince Vaethorion


@Elendithas


Caelis listened to the High Elf leader. He agreed with some of what the Captain said, but there were a few concerns. Would it be wise to devote all this on a single charge? The plan seemed to offer little room for flexibility and spontaneity. However, Caelis agreed that if there was a time for a decisive moment, then it would be now. He spoke up "Instead of combining all three gems, perhaps it would be more prudent to save at least one for the charge as well? A blast of light to blind them right before impact of the charge would certainly make the charge more effective or perhaps even a small explosion in their front rank before right before impact. Are three gems really needed to deal with just 4 witches? Having one in reserve would be comforting." He then considered the formation itself. Despite the arrival of reinforcements, Caelis was concerned that the enemy still had a numerical advantage. This charge could end up with everyone surrounded if they failed to break the enemy and force them to rout... that is if they knew what fear was anymore in their diabolic frenzy.


He then continued to speak "I also think that it would be wise to have some small detachment of some of the brighter Ayamarans to lag behind slightly to flank once the main battle line is engaged. The terrain offers a great opportunity for an effective hammer and anvil strategy. The detachment can engage, wreck havoc, and then disengage and look for another opening in the enemy's formation and charge again. Also, the exiles should also be ready and not just as a rear guard. If they are attentive, then they can serve as a quick reaction force to help support a flank if they are about to be overwhelmed."


Summary:


Caelis makes a few suggestions and changes to the High Elf's plan
 
@Beckoncall @Elendithas @Heyitsjiwon


The Prince listened attentively to Lord Caelis' prudent advice. The Prince hated Dark elves and Dark magic that his desire to destroy them was causing the Prince to act hastily. Meanwhile, Lindar the Bard was advising the Prince to continue the parley to buy more time for the colonist forces to coalesce and hear out the enemy. This also was prudent advice, and the Prince had to steel his initial reaction to break the enemies leadership's column.


The Prince nodded, and used his inner strength to calm down his perturbed state. "Yes, Lord Caelis, Although, I believe my strategy is a sound one, it is a bold gamble. My concern is two fold, one, is that a defensive posture will allow the witches to rise the dead and we will be overrun on all sides by both the living and the dead, the other concern is that we can only win this battle if we break the witches spell and crush their main column."


At that moment Lindar the Bard made a gesture to the Prince, inquiring whether to continue the parley and seemingly encouraging the Prince to do so. The Prince nodded in the affirmative. "I will allow Lindar to continue the parley and stall the enemy long enough for us to decide on a strategy, and allow our troops enough time to get into position and break their spell"


The Prince continued, " I am open to suggestions in strategy. Yes, we can hold back one gem in reserve, but let us not underestimate the raw, dark power of these four vile witches and the threat they pose. I am responsive to your hammer and anvil suggestion, let us play to each of our strengths and I welcome to hear what the Amaryan commander has to add in how he would release his brutes, and cunnings. I am fairly confident the Amayran Spell breaker can break the spell they are brewing if we combine our strengths and use the gems. I still lean towards an aggressive maneuver and if you think that the exiles are up for striking at the enemy then so be it!"


The Prince gestured to the enemy host, "Lets see how this parley unfolds, let us hear what our enemy has to say. We know little to nothing of them, but I believe these are not enemies we can co-exist with, they must be routed."


Orders:


*Prince allows Lindar to continue parley, buy time and get intel


*Mage prepares the usage of gem to strike and focus other gems if allowed (or combines powers)


*Colonist forces continue to solidify and take positions


* Prince adds/employs Caelis' strategy to his own


* We wait to see what Amaryan faction's plan is?
 
@Elendithas :

  • Goq-quet to further study vault of crimson bat and potentially discover what lies inside, despite risk.


Goq-quet could hear stomping and yelling through grates far above, dust and debris occasionally shook nearby and plunked into pools and channels nearby. Not far from where he was excavating it seemed a large number of people had been slain by arrows, as a dissipated trickle came down in a channel upstream of him, giving the water an inviting and metallic scent to it as it passed beneath his feet. Overcoming his desire to drink of this serendipitous crimson rain he remained in study of the vault. Without a doubt it’s existence predated the previous arrival of colonists by at least centuries, and was likely old even when limited contact was still maintained with the lost continent. Goq-quet seemed to think, judging by disparate materials and construction methods, that this vault may have been found by the original inhabitants whilst first constructing the sewers, and eventually the needs above required the area surrounding it to be integrated into the larger waterworks. The entire lower section of engravings and frescoes had been hidden by a layer of stonework similar to the previously discovered plaque – which was an interesting find because the larger portion of engraving and enlightening detail was lower to the floor than that he had so far observed closer to where the vault met the ceiling.


The Aymaran wasted no time pulling away the false-facing brick that surrounded the vault – what might have required the work of many men digging laboriously simply crumbled in the claws and strikes of Goq-quet. Doubly successful was he in the translation of draconic that lay beneath… what was so often used as cryptic code for warmblood wizards was far more familiar and approachable to the Aymaran mind…


Myths, Religion and History seemed to blend together in the runes surrounding the lower part of the edifice. How much was literal translation of event and how much was epic exaggeration, religious posturing or some other form of propaganda was not certain. Of what he could translate (which even Go-quet was impressed at the volume of) the lowest tiers of runes and carvings were in ancient draconic style – even specimens of script that were of far earlier era than those he had ever encountered in his studies in the old world… The lowest rows from left to right seemed to tell a story, which flowed around the base of the vault with each ascending row seemingly of a later time. Because he could only read one side of the vault without intentionally demolishing the sewer-walls on opposite sides of it, he could only get fragments of what he imagined would be quite a record in continuity. He also dared to imagine that if Tocxhol wished, these carvings themselves could be broken off of the vault and likely fetch a very fine price from wizards and historians overseas…


The story spoke of the sprawling city above as it once was long ago – long before the mage kings and queens that were the last known rulers of this continent… indeed, this record seemed to date back to the age of Dragons – a brief era some speculated that the gods stepped away from the affairs of the mortal world and allowed Dragons, the most dominant and last of the creatures to survive (and yet survive) after the legendary age of beasts, to run the affairs of creation themselves for a time. Besides an epoch of colossal reptiles, fish, and amphibians, the Dragons created humanoids in their own image, much as the gods had done or would do in other ages. These people were called the dragonewts – and with little exception almost every trace of them has been expunged from the world – lost to the ravages of time firstly, but secondly to the ravages of those who warred to control or destroy those vestiges too great to vanish on their own… it is said by some oracles that the fabled Sea-Age, the first of ages thought to resemble the world as beings now know it – was ended (and the dragonewts with it) in a single battle for control of a Dragonewt War-Platform – capable of destroying or separating much territory that offended it and gave it’s era its name. Such was the power of the Dragonewt.


The vast city ruin to the west of the ‘Platz? It seemed that long before it grew under the rule of the mage kings it was first once a relatively intact city site that belonged to the Dragonewt in the end of their age, and long after by the Dracon – another fabled and extinct race that rose up like many others in the vacuum of power following the Sea-Age.. they were a degenerate race to the Dragonewt, but even for being so a Dracon in its time was mightier than most races singularly in history. It was at this point that Goq-quet speculated, or perhaps determined – that the script on this vault was written in ORIGINAL dragonewt text, and the next few lines above were likely chiseled in the own hand of the Dracon. The Ruin that lay above grew further under this new race, and when their time passed (the story winds around beyond the wall at this point – but Goq-quet figures this was just prior to the age of light (which is the commonly agreed to be a time of elven supremacy) or perhaps even at an even later time closer to the official start of the present age – the so-called “Age of Man” as the Muurdaan proclaimed it. Piecing together, The Aymaran got shadows and glimpses of where in the ruins far west might be the original sites of the Dragonewt and Dracon – though if they still existed in any form or lay deep below the earth he could not guess…


…Point was, the Mage kings of this city were particularly strong, (and likely particularly thoroughly destroyed) because of the power these original sites held. Whether it was more knowledge gleaned or relic found, was equally unclear – but it would seem that the Crimson Bat was one of the more modest creations of the self-proclaimed gods of the Dragon-Age… unwanted and stubborn remnants of previous creation, particularly from the Beast-Age needed to be swept clean, the Dragons felt… so they created, among the dragonewts and many others – the crimson bats… Tiny and not particularly impressive for the age they inhabited, such a creature might be the unholiest terrors if unleashed in the more stable and peaceful ages of creation that succeeded them. Indeed, Goq-quet learns that this is actually the case – Mage King City States often fought, this one in particular with another Mage city, far to the east it would seem – made home by a people referred to here as “The Pangeans” – details on them are vague, but carvings and ambiguous runes seem to suggest that they were centaurs or beast folk, or some kind of Faeries, or perhaps a union of all of these… it is also possible that they were Men like those that inherited this now ruin from the Dracon, but they were only REFERRED TO as beasts or fae.


In any case, War with “Pangea” (much later referred to as “Paa’anni”) raged on and off for ages, with the Pangeans ultimately poised to conquer the city above as it once stood. To stop this, the Mage Kings of this city-state unearthed the bones of one of the crimson bats interred in the Dracon/Dragonewt excavations and unleashed “The eater of beasts” as a secret weapon – the parasite of the beast age became the potential genocide of the so-called “Beast-people” – The Crimson bat was used against Pangea and as a result a treaty was forced and the city-states became allied over the centuries that followed… however the Bat still hungered, and demanded ever greater sacrifice for its divine hunger…


More runes, skipped far ahead. First criminals and slaves are fed to sate the bat in times of peace, then wars are made that diplomatic solutions could have been reached to demonstrate the power of the Crimson “Super-Weapon” … then religious cults forming to feed it, and eventually a war just for the sake of feeding it during a period of extensive peace. The Bat only grew larger, and hungrier…


…Big blocks of the story are again missing here, Goq-quet was tempted to pull down some of the surrounding walls himself for answers… but one thing is clear – in the end the bat was either killed, or buried alive in this vault… but there are numerous references to its “slumber” as if the rune for sleep is synonymous with death in this case.


After reading so much of the runes, Goq-quet perceives what he believes to be a combination lock/seal of some kind based in runes subtly chiseled at the space where the black doors met. He could determine maybe a fourth of the combination from the side of the vault he’d already read… and could extrapolate an additional HALF based on what he guessed was a pattern… Opening the vault? That would require further excavation and reading… or an uncertain amount of tmie devoted to guesswork as to the remaining quarter of the combination to open the vault… which he assumed now to at LEAST contain the remains of this fabled beast from a bygone age… and who knows what else was interred with it…
 
General Colony Report: (for everyone)


Attolian Crop Report: Plots of wheat and barley have been tilled and seeded late spring. This should leave enough time for plants to sufficiently mature for a modest harvest (considering the relatively small population of the colony) – however there are concerns that unfamiliar weather patterns or unknown expected rainfall could challenge this prediction. The plot work, which has been making modest progress by a majority of workers during the coolest times of day – has slowly but steadily made towards a progress worth mentioning. The Colony now has conspicuous farmland, and worry regarding Winter falls by extension of that (Attolians gain +1 Influence!) – In addition, the colony can form a farmer’s guild where farm labor is shared and maximized.


The “Mine of Vine” is the first Magical structure in the colony to date – however, in order to function – a tear of divinity must be committed to it. Once it is explored (and/or powered) it may provide additional faction or colony bonuses, as well as award Influence to involved parties. (Wood Elf and Tyren at the moment)


The need for a centralized governing body – or at least official recognition of association/alliance/cooperation between factions is overdue… Unrest begins to fulminate in all worker populations as the normal colony folk face uncertainty about their identity, and by extension of that fear for their survival. (All worker production down until central government – or defined separate authority, is established.) This can be formed much like a guild – in that it needs at least 3 members. (Attolians and High Elves are already putting their hats in)… factions with less than three members can assert “statehood” (ie, Attolians and High Elves can become a state immediately) but they may not have the same benefits and bonuses as they would otherwise. If two governments do form, certain bonuses also may not be shared. IMPORTANT: It was the agreement upon outfitting and setting forth, to the Muurdaan, that a single colony and government would be formed (they are not in the business of setting rabble free outside their purview to gain power where they cannot observe) – this doesn’t mean you have to do it, but it does mean there may be significant events or repercussions for “going rogue.” – that said, all players have full agency to make choices.


Attolians are beginning production of Opium from poppies gained from Tyren. Tyren and Attolians will gain wealth when this commodity is traded outside the community. Opium is also a LUXURY commodity – and it’s not the first one to be discovered either. Like normal guilds a Luxuries guild can be formed when 3+ factions bring a single luxury commodity to market, or if a SINGLE FACTION can bring 3+ by itself. Having a luxury guild is important if the colony is expected to take in lucrative trade. Significant influence is tied to this as well! It is also possible to come up with your own ideas for luxury goods separate from what is found in the world… for example, “Fine Silver Goods” from silver ore, or “Fine Furniture” from wood. Also note that certain luxuries will only appeal to certain populations, which may impact the value of that market/commodity (ie, Dohvamon is a luxury good, but only in the eyes of Tyren and similar races)


Final Note: Summer is about to begin where accounting of total wealth and influence should be updated in the Overview section faction summary. I will also be updating the map to show new developments, points of interest, and discoveries.
 
Last edited by a moderator:
@Leusis @Prince Vaethorion


The sounds of battle reached them, louder and more aggressive than before until falling quiet as quickly as they started. From the little attic window Anuc could make out other shapes rushing through the gloom. No malice or blood lust in their movement, just folk running for safety like they had done.


The elves were talking among themselves now in the common language. Anuc may not have been on the same level as their interpreter but her time spent in the markets and now working in this guild had given her some working knowledge of the language. While Weome's time spent with Shul had seen parts of his knowledge rub off on her.


As far as they could gather they were talking about what to do with them, as if the two tyren weren't even here. It might have prickled Anuc's pride but she couldn't deny the urge to run for the comfort of home and the familiar. Away from all the danger and corpses. Which was why she would have to kick herself later for her next act of headstrong recklessness.


"Should heal." She piped up, trying her best to hide the fear she was feeling. "Are healers, yes? People hurt now, out there, need our healing."


Weome was bemoaning her friend's damn need for adventure but that wouldn't stop her grabbing a thick plank and going with her through the wide attic door.


-Anuc the Tyren Healer asks the elves present at the guild for help in healing the injured from the battle.
 
@Prince Vaethorion @Elendithas @Leusis @Heyitsjiwon @SpiralErrant


-Anuc the Tyren Healer asks the elves present at the guild for help in healing the injured from the battle.


The injured high elf shook his head as he pulled his spear away from the floor-hatch. He speaks in a slightly broken common – this elf is relatively young and it seems the common tongue is not as universally valued by some highborn… “Ribs still broken. Slow Tyrens down.”


The other spearman first tries to communicate in a completely unrecognizable grunting gibberish – something that Weome would laugh at if not totally hovering at the cliffs of panic… it occurs to her that this elf thinks she speaks the languages of Far-east Minotaurs… DISTANT relatives to the Tyren. She responds in an eastern trade dialect which brings a sigh of relief to the highborn as he changes his tac to communicate…


“You want to heal, and I want to heal – I will get you behind the battle lines. I promise this. Protect the colony – our Captain says. Please… Pur… Phrag… PROPAGATE that the will of our lord is to aid you, even as you likely offer to aid us. I know there are no Tyren out in that battle. If a Tyren woman is braver than most races I’ve met, I myself with Pur… Phrag…”


“PROPAGATE” Anuc interrupted.


“…That the Tyren look to be a very good people. May my life not be lost in our endeavor – but should I die, may it be considered SPENT in the market of our peace.”


Anuc thought these highborn talked funny, but it was humorously romantic. She turned to Weome and said: “Can you tell this Shiny Gentleman to go out the window then? We got lives to save!”


Anfel didn’t even turn around, but pointed a finger and the injured elf and the bindings around his waist pulled tighter, sprouted tiny flowers, and began to ooze an amber sap… The wounded highborn stood up straight for the first time, and went out the window behind the medic spearman once they firmly planted the plank. Behind that… Anuc filled her arms with pots, bottles, two satchels of plants, and a bolt of absorbent fabric. She spritely teetered down the plank in a manner she KNEW she was incapable of, but then she remembered the enchantments given to her by Anfel. She was faster… more agile, and most notably she hadn’t already dropped half of what she was carrying.


“WAIT FOR ME, ANUC!” Weome shouted. She instinctively looked to her right… how far away Harun’Taran was from where they were… where was shul? Could he be thinking of her?


She shook her head, and likewise sprinted down the plank and after the party – upon catching up with Anuc she took some of her burden and they moved even faster.


Looking behind them, Anfel was still in the attic. Mages were always mysterious… if Anfel got involved, she would in her own way. Perhaps she needed to recover her power after the rock-solid defenses she just put up at the guild. She wished Anfel came with them though. She wished with all her heart that two young spearmen weren’t all that stood between them and possibly another horde of vicious madmen.


The sound of refugees fleeing grew louder until they could see the river of them leaving their district… and to the left of that, the HUGE enemy formation, facing west, to where the colony’s forces presumably must be. It was utter chaos, and Anuc quickly improved a sling for two colonists that had seemingly broken arms practically FALLING all the way to the depression.


The high elf medics could see some kind of parley was going on and saw lindar… the only highborn on this side of the refugees… seemingly talking to the witches. They penetrated the fleeing folk at about he same time the majority of them had already passed… it would be likely they’d get out of here before the fighting resumed…. At least they all silently hoped they would.


Breaking through the dust of the charges and fracas they saw the Attolian formation ahead of them, with the high elves glowing like a BEACON with their shields and helms a bit to the left. The spearmen spotted their Cleric moving behind the front rank, and gestured for Anuc and Weome to follow.


They found themselves behind a solid bulwark of set spearmen, and handful of them resting behind the formation laid out in the basin of their shields. The Cleric seems particularly absorbed with a head wound… his patient is talking, but Anuc sees immediately he’s got a brain-bleed. The Cleric sees the medics and Tyren Herbalists arrives and waves a holy symbol at them. The Tyren feel as if they are a node of a greater healing energy and set to work with the medics, who are likely smiling for the same reason.


“Here in Time, Tyrens… maybe nobody die today? Too much hope? How much is Tyren hope?” the young one said. They begin to stabilize three of the elven casualties than drag them, as if on litters by their shields – the two elves carrying one and each Tyren woman dragging another.


A swordmaster in the ranks behind the spearmen looks at this off precession with mild amusement… the closest thing such long-lived creatures had left next to awe, Weome wondered. As they crested a slope in the ruin she looked behind her and saw the glowing eyes of the witches as they seemed to hover above a lone high-elf envoy… Weome wondered how she could possibly embellish THIS story…


As they descended to the other side the bodies were already rolling in... seemed to be exiles, mostly... maybe one or two mud-elf skirmishers that were captured. They were being placed on plinth-stones in the ruins or on work-tarps that were left in this part of the ruin. Lacerations, punctures, blunt-force trauma... it was all here... they party got to work.


Arrival of skilled healers behind battle line may improve casualty rate calculated after battle.
 
Such small things. Such small weapons. Why were these elves so intent on fighting with sticks and stones, Tocxhol thought to himself as he smashed them to a pulp, some of them literally. Thus far they weren't really doing much in the way of damage, and by the time the assault was over his own men were starting to arrive, unorganized as ever, and raring to kill. Nothing new as far as he was concerned. However, when everyone seemingly stopped fighting altogether and seemed almost ready to start talking to one another, Toxchol took matters into his own hands. That was, of course after the prince and Caelis had their chances to speak. Just as the prince of the elves was saying that he was ready to hear any additions Tocxhol might have had, his held back rage and excitement for battle simply could not be contained any longer. Almost as though he were responding to this, Tocxhol swung the massive maul that was his hammer into the air and towards the mud-elves who were quite obviously stalling for something big, pointing it towards them before yelling, no, speaking to his people in his native tongue. It certainly sounded like yelling, and most would only think of the sound he were making as one, though it were likely the interpreters of each faction would be able to understand him easily.


"KILL!" He roared to his men as the first to respond started a slow run past the Attolians and High Elven lines, lacking any real organization save for a general line of about 20. The brutes, all of them charging ahead at the first sound of one of the few words they understand very clearly. The rest were hanging back a moment, using the brutes as they did any other battle, more as meat shields and initial chargers before the true warriors came in, though cunnings wouldn't exactly be considered true warriors given their intelligence. Tocxhol himself followed through with this tactic, allowing them to pass him up in a line of growling, roaring death charging the mud-elves until his fellow chosen, or at least one of them, were with him. "Quetankha, break anything they send at us." He said, as though Quetankha didn't already know to do that. "AND KILL THOSE WITCHES!" he said before he himself begun to move forward. Tocxhol couldn't actually say he didn't hear the desire to bring in one of the witches alive, but the heat of battle put just about everything the other leaders were saying in the back of his head.


Quetankha was in the back, looking through the lines of croc-men, not particularly at any of the participants in the very rapidly approaching clash, but more-so at the magic surrounding the mud-elven fighters. It was a dark magic, but it wasn't anything he couldn't deal with in certain ways. Soon enough he begun his best attempt at pulling on certain properties of the magic, until he noticed another power nearby. One in the midst of the High Elven lines. Without another thought, he begun to pull on it, likely making the man feel quite a lot weaker than he would have liked to in the midst of a coming battle. Such is the way of the Aymaran however. They don't genuinely like any other peoples and will take from them what they must if the situation calls for it. Dividing his attention for only a moment to draw from the source of power nearby, he started to use it and his own to alter the magic emanating from the witches, hopefully subtly enough that they wouldn't notice before casting.


-Tocxhol orders Aymarans to charge, breaking ceasefire after High elf prince and Caelis talk about their strategies.


-Quetankha drawing from High Elven warmage to attempt to meddle with witch spell. (Pulling 'Will', 'control', and 'movement'. Movement being the one the warmage's powers are used for)


(Again, sorry for the delay in posting guys, and actually for the relatively short post itself. Work had me on an odd schedule this week.)
 
Of Boats and Bureaucracy

​



Months. Months had passed and the rocking refused to cease. The gentle sway of the ocean had become the new standard aboard the modest vessel. It was omnipresent, constant, and deafening in its silence. It was there when you woke, there when you ate, and there when you slept. Below decks was like a world all its own, disconnected from mortal reality. Sway to the left, sway to the right. Thought to be a gentle rocking at first by many, it was now the swinging of the pendulum that counted the moments until one's sanity was spent. Many of the souls aboard were nearing their breaking points, fidgeting in the holds and looking for any means to break the monotony. Their chief had tried valiantly to keep them all active and content during the trip, but a leader could only do so much when his people crave engagement. Now the swaying was chipping away at his own patience, and he feared that landfall might come a month too late.


A knocking at his cabin door stirred Milkweed from his musings, forcing him to collect his wits and shout at the wooden portal. "Enter," he croaked, raising up in his seat as his eyes focused on the visitor. A familiar rat walked into his cabin, an older buck with a grey coat and a white diamond patch between his eyes. Milkweed smiled at his old friend and bid him sit at the chair across from his desk. Breeze obliged, settling into the plush chair with a sigh of gratitude. "How're you holding up Chief?" Breeze asked, cocking his head and smiling at his old pupil. Milkweed snorted then grinned at this, waving Breeze's comment off into the air. "Stow that nonsense, I'm only the chief when there's business to be done." Breeze chuckled and nodded in agreement. "True, but my question still stands. You're looking frayed and weathered brother, worse than that old belt of yours." Milkweed scoffed in mock indignation at this statement. "Mind your tongue, that belt saved my hide more times than it aught. It held my knives, secured my trousers, then loosed them when I was entertaining does." The two laughed at this, an old exchange between two rogues that had shared blood and drink together.


Milkweed sighed and stretched in his seat, easing the stiffness in his muscles from sitting for too long. Breeze looked out the aft window with an air of contemplation. "We're a ways from home aren't we?" Milkweed looked back out the window at the sun and sea and nodded in agreement. "Aye, farther than we've ever been." They truly were farther from anything they'd ever known, a fact that weighed heavy on everyone's minds. The fact they were here at all was a miracle in its own right, but only if one didn't know the facts. Nearly a year ago the Muurdaan had loosed tiny rumors of a new land they intended to colonize, and Milkweed's spies quickly caught wind of it. Applicants for colonists were being considered, and Milkweed decided his people could use this to their advantage. Since the rise of the Underlords his people had been forced to live in the sewers and wastes of Muurdaanian lands, ushered into a life of poverty and destitution. Their kind were made out to be nothing more than common pests, incapable of higher thought and reason. But Milkweed knew otherwise, as did many of his folk. The Muurdaan feared these rats, feared their great numbers and their intellect. Ratfolk could learn in a week what a man would take months to retain. The Underlords knew this, and sought to squash the potential of this race before it grew to fruition. But Milkweed would have none of it, and when the opportunity arose to give his people a better life he grabbed it like an arrow from the sky.


But Milkweed knew this voyage was a gambit all its own. He knew that he was specifically chosen to lead these rats into the new world, away from their lives and kin. He'd been making waves at home in the dark, rallying his people and building their self worth into something frighteningly active. Murmurs of revolt began to spread, and the Muurdaan took steps to stop this rebellion before it began. A worthy move in Milkweed's eyes, but in truth he knew it was baseless. He did long for a day when his people could live freely in the sun, only returning to ground when the day was done and rest had been earned. But to revolt against the Muurdaan was a task of titanic proportions, and would require far more planning and coordination than he could fit into his short life. No, that idea would stay a dream until the fates aligned for such a thing. Until then, Milkweed would make do with what was available. And this journey was the best shot his people had at making a better life for themselves.


So he took it, and now he sat in the cabin of a Muurdaanian trade ship, loaded with cargo and over one hundred scurrying souls. When word reached him that he'd been chosen for this task Milkweed immediately called for a meeting of clans that he could contact. Bone Heart, Grey Mist, Stone Fang and Short Tail had all arrived, and Milkweed asked that they contribute to this journey for the good of their race. There was no overt hatred between these clans, but ratfolk were loathe to part with their belongings on principle. Negotiations lasted throughout the night, and by the end of it a great deal of wealth had been traded in exchange for fresh blood. Milkweed needed a diverse group of young pups to keep future generations healthy, and he now had a total of 145 rats under his command. The pups had been easy to negotiate as they were often traded among clans for this very reason. The hard sell was the Aged, as they were all experts in their fields and represented the true wealth of their clans. But in the end he'd been given four skilled souls that had pledged their allegiance to him. Milkweed could only hope they would honor their word in the days to come.


A rhythmic drumming on his desk brought Milkweed back to reality as he turned to see what the noise was. Breeze had begun to drum his claws on the wooden desk, his eyes focused on a point far beyond the burnished surface. Milkweed raised a brow and asked, "Something on your mind?" Breeze looked up and spoke seriously to his chief. "That slimy politician, can't believe he tried to pull what he did." Milkweed's face grew dark as he hummed in agreement. Before they'd even ordered their supplies a decree had been passed down from their 'benevolent' leaders denying them access to any of their shamans for the voyage. The outrage of Milkweed's council barely managed to match his own, and steps were immediately taken to circumvent this useless litigation. Spies were sent out, and it was discovered that this decree was part of some sick experiment to see if the ratfolk would develop into a secular society, or seek to worship the Muudaanian pantheon in the absence of their own religion. Milkweed thought hard on how to handle this, but in the end he felt that fire would best be fought with more fire. So he spent the gathered wealth gifted to him by the Underlords to fund his voyage, and used it to make certain parties within the Muurdaanian government aware of this lone Underlord's policy. It appeared he had not sought the council of his piers before pushing this decree through, and quickly came under political fire for the next few months because of it.


Breeze spoke up once again after he'd finished ruminating on the subject. "You think he'll be a problem later?" Milkweed nodded solemnly. "Aye, no doubt. Just a matter of 'when' at this point." Milkweed spat to the side before cursing under his breath, "Faithless roach." The spittle flew from Milkweed's mouth in a slow arc and hit the wooden deck, then after a moment a faint sizzling noise could be heard from where it had landed. Neither of the rats paid it any mind and continued their conversation. Breeze was the first to speak, "We'll deal with it when it comes." Milkweed nodded and smiled wanly, "Aye, we always do."


Thinking on the subject had put a grave expression on Milkweed's face, but the more he thought about it the more his features began to soften. After a while a grin appeared on his face and he began to chuckle to himself. Breeze looked up at Milkweed in confusion, and Milkweed caught himself so he could explain. "I was thinking about Port Cestus, about how busy that roach must have been for everything to work so well." Breeze outright laughed at that as he remembered that day at port and the mischief that had occurred.


Milkweed had thought long and hard about what his people should bring with them to this new world, and in the end he decided that crops should make up the bulk of their stores. They wouldn't arrive until summer at the earliest, which left them a scant five or six months to sow crops for the winter. He'd suggested a store of carrots, garlic, and their unique crop of black corn be brought with them as these would likely survive the early frosts. But Milkweed didn't want to be left completely defenseless, and so he hatched a plan to smuggle in some contraband that would help his people greatly. Along with a conscription of digging tools, Milkweed arranged for a supply of black powder to be loaded onto his ship the day they were meant to set sail. He'd devised a plan to bring in the goods without being detected, and what a gloriously simple plan it was. Milkweed sent out his dirty paws in the wee hours of the morning to stage themselves around the port. When the day began and goods were starting to move his rats went to work. It was very subtle at first, but over time the damage would begin to build up. A barrel of fish oil was spilled which caused a few sailors to fall off the pier. A brawl broke out after a sailor returned home to hear his wife was three months pregnant when he'd been gone for six. A barrel of pitch caught fire and nearly roasted a pallet of mackerel being sent to market. A stack of lobster pots was toppled over, sending a box of shipping manifests tumbling into the drink. A veritable storm of minor nuisances raged across the wharf all at once, and not a single one of Milkweed's rats were given the blame. The crowning achievement had been when three of his paws had managed to loose a huge trading junk from its moorings and sent it adrift into the bay. It got halfway to the mouth before anyone on board realized what had happened, and the crew barely managed to avoid colliding with a naval vessel that was entering port. By the time the port authority had reached Milkweed's ship they were so distracted with all the chaos that they paid no mind to his cargo and nearly tore the documents with their hasty signatures. And so the black powder had made it on board, but most important of all was the fact that the shaman representative of the Bone Heart clan had not been accosted or withheld from Milkweed's company. He rather felt like a bandit after that little caper, and silently reveled in the joy of watching a plan unfurl without incident. It was so seldom a thing that he felt he should enjoy the feeling while it lasted.


The laughter between the two died down and a comfortable silence began to fill the space. They each ruminated on the days leading up to where they were now, and each began to think about what lay ahead in this new world. In the chaos they sowed to leave port they had little time to be briefed about who had already been sent off before them. A few snippets about convicts and elves were thrown around, but the only thing Milkweed knew for sure was that a company of High Elves had set sail most recently. He didn't fancy having to suffer those elitist fops as neighbors, but Milkweed was always one to reserve judgement until he had first-hand knowledge of something. They'd find out soon enough what the state of the colony was when they made landfall. Milkweed exhaled and looked wistfully to the ceiling as he wished for that day to come soon.


Another wave caused the boat to rock and creak, forcing Milkweed's hands to his temples as he unconsciously began to brux his fangs together. "Good Mother I hope we make it soon." Breeze couldn't help but laugh at his chief's dismay. "I'm sure it'll be soon enough. Hell, I'll wager we sight land within the week." Milkweed uncovered his face and looked wryly at his spymaster, "You really willing to wager on that?" Breeze was about to answer when a cry rung out from above decks, high above the sails from the crow's nest it sounded like. "LAND HO! LAAAAND HOOO!" The two bucks looked at each other in disbelief before a wide grin split Breeze's cheeks. "I think I would!"


They both rushed outside to the ship's bow, leading the way through a quickly gathering crowd of rats as they looked to the horizon. A tiny dot could be seen in the distance, and in that moment all weariness and fatigue was cleansed from Milkweed's mind. He threw up a cheer which was quickly chorused by those aboard, sending the rats into a state of pure joy and utter relief. With a fire in his eyes Milkweed ordered the helmsrat to say on course, then ordered that the stores be checked and mooring lines to be set. Immediately the rats got to work, gathering their things and going about their tasks with an energy that can only be found by those coming home from abroad. Milkweed turned back to look at the horizon and smiled to himself. All their work was about to bear fruit, but he knew the real work was only just beginning. He took a place by the helmsrat so he could better direct his paws as they made their final push towards land.


One journey ends, another would soon begin.



A Sight for Sore Eyes

​



The break in the barrier was quickly coming into sight, and Milkweed stood at the bridge with several of his Aged standing around him. His smokewalker Breeze, his granddaughter Needle, and the miner Coalback all stood beside him as they gazed ahead. Milkweed wasn't terribly practiced with magic, but even he could feel the energy of this place radiating off the shimmering veil that surrounded the mainland. As smoothly as they could hope the ship had passed through the veil and was steadily making its way towards land. A crowd had gathered on deck to witness this momentous occasion, but Milkweed had ensured that those assigned as sailing crew had plenty of room to work. He silently thanked Neesa that the Grey Mist clan had sent some rats with sailing experience along for the journey, their expertise really helped to get the others up to speed on how a ship should operate.


As they drew nearer to land certain landmarks became apparent to Milkweed. First was a pair of islands just off the coast, one bright and colorful while the other seemed to have a foreboding air about it. Between these two islands was a beach of sorts, nestled between two high cliffs and already loaded with ships of various make and size. Clearly this was the main landing zone for the earlier colonists, and Milkweed saw no reason not to follow suit. He ordered the helmsrat to make for the beach and find a good berth for their vessel.


But as they drew nearer to shore something seemed off on the wind. Milkweed couldn't quite place it, but he swore he heard a clamor of some kind. With the cliffs visibly obscuring much of the mainland Milkweed could only guess what was happening from his position on the bridge. Immediately Milkweed looked to Breeze and said, "Get everyone but the sailing crew and the dirty paws below decks. Something isn't right." Breeze nodded silently, then set about his task of getting the crowd below decks to safety. Milkweed shouted to the sailing crew, "Secure all sails! We loiter in the bay until I say otherwise." The crew seemed confused at first but immediately jumped to set about their tasks. Rats climbed into the rigging with ease and began to secure the sails to their beams. Milkweed pointed to a single rat that was transiting across deck. "You! Run up the Muurdaanian colors." The rat 'aye aye'd' and went to the flag box that held the colors in question. He began his trek up the rigging with the flag clutched to his chest, and when he had ascended halfway Milkweed looked to his granddaughter. "Needle, get up to the nest. I'll come with you but I need your eyes." Needle nodded solemnly to her chief and slung her crossbow over her back. It was a massive thing, about half as long as she was and a far cry from the standard crossbows of her kin. She and Milkweed quickly ascended the rigging, scurrying around a few crewrats before reaching the very top of the mainmast and settling inside the crow's nest. Milkweed hung on the rigging beside the nest to give Needle more room to set up. She took out her crossbow and fiddled with the glass scope to adjust for distance. Her ears perked up and immediately she began to survey her surroundings, looking for anything that might be out of the ordinary.


Milkweed kept his gaze on the mainland as he spoke aloud to Needle, "What do you see?"



Orders

​



-Milkweed orders the majority of his people below decks except for the sailing crew and his dirty paws.


-Milkweed orders the ship to secure sails and stay adrift in the bay away from the mainland or either of the islands.


-Milkweed orders that the Muurdaanian colors be flown from the flagstaff to telegraph some kind of affiliation to anyone who is watching from the shore.


-Milkweed and Needle head up to the crow's nest to start surveying the area for anything out of the ordinary. Milkweed is using his normal senses while Needle is utilizing the scope on her crossbow for better visibility.


@Beckoncall
 
Last edited by a moderator:
@Beckoncall @KamiKahzy


Heru Lammen Tura (Lord master of languages) was in command of the High Elven troops remaining on the Ship in port. His orders were to be on guard and and combat ready. The war signals had been sent from the Platz, and his Lord Prince not long after had vanished into the ways with his elite guard to join the fight. The Linguist, like all Eastern High Elves was military trained since birth, but he preferred reading, translating exotic languages and talking to fighting. The High Elven Spear-elves militia and Archers were on high alert. One of the Spear-elves, a tall, sinewy, pretty High Elf wearing a long grey cloak over his armor held a looking glass. He called out to the Noble. "Heru, En Kirya yassen Nyanus-gwaith aerandir!" (Lord, Look a Ship with Rat-people wandering in from the sea!). Heru Lammen Tura never cursed, but he muttered a profane curse under his breath. The Linguist ordered his Archers, "Anwa uruite pilin!" ("Ready the fire arrows!)". The Archers readied very destructive fire arrows that were for the very purpose of burning enemy ships to cinders. the Spear-elves took up ready positions and Elved the Ships defenses. The Linguist heavily considered setting the Rat Ship ablaze, and was ready to give the order until the Muurdan flag was flown. "Ta naa Neuma?" ("Is this a trap?") The Linguist asked aloud. Seeing how the Muurdan already had sent Bull people and Croc-people, Rat-kin did not seem so strange, however, the temptation to burn the Rat-folk ship was tempting. This was not the Prince's way, and this was not the way of the Eastern High Elves who acted in self defense, not aggression. Perhaps this is self defense, the Linguist mused, Rat-Folk on this colony would be destructive, the Rat-Kin were known vermin, thieves, spies, assassins, who spread disease to humans and stole everything. The Spear-Elf who was most senior asked, "Crohn?" ("To shoot?"). The Linguist ordered to hold. "Tessa!" (hold!)


The Linguist then produced a bull horn to amplify his voice and in an authoritative voice in the common tongue. He called out.


"AHOY, WHO GOES THERE? STATE YOUR BUSINESS? FRIEND OR FOE?"


The Noble linguist turned to one of his Spear-Elves. "Go alert the acting Exile leader of the approaching Rat ship, alert the colonist in the Platz and tell them to spread the word to hide their valuables!".


The Spear-Elf in turned deftly leaped to the dock and sprinted to inform the acting Exile commander of the approaching rat ship...


The Linguist resolves that without other orders, if the Rat ship were new, non-hostile colonist, he would greet them, welcome them to the colony and have the High Elves not fire.


Orders:


* Have Archers ready fire arrows and hold fire


* Have Linguist call out in common tongue for Rat Ship to identify itself and greet them if friendly


* Send runner to warn Exile commander of Rat Ship, to have someone inform Colonist and to have colonist hide their valuables


* If non-hostile and confirmed colonist, the Linguist will greet the Rat-people in common tongue.
 
@KamiKahzy @Prince Vaethorion :


The ratling ship Idles in the bay for a moment -- Needle notes that the apparent aggression of High Elf Defenders stalls when they fly the Muurdaan colors... that just might have been a VERY good idea... besides that, the elves had sent a runner to some cozy-looking shipwreck some folk must have made home of on the beach. This did not seem to be as encouraging...


"Ratfolk, a while ship of them -- are idling in the bay, Acting lords of the exiles..." The runner addressed Haakon, the countryman, and Baez, the Barbarian-come-priest of Dracos... who presently lead, or at least sustained the faction in the absence of their leader.


Haakon jumped to his feet and swung his battleaxe over his shoulder in the same motion. "Another were-rat plague... this time the entire crew must have succumbed before finishing the voyage... I do not know who these were-rats are, but they intend to destroy the colony... many of our fighters police up in the platz, but we must come to arms -- all ready exiles will man the sand-crate barricades... I encourage all high elves to take place with us there as well... it won't be safe on the beach if they land... Dammit.... if we had any real supply of chum we could stir the sharks up... what say you Baez?"


The Barbarian narrowed his eyes to mere slits. The runner could tell this man, spiritual leader he may be -- was miserable in his capacity as commander of the exiles. He rolled his teeth over his bottom lip as if trying to shake a bit of truth from between his teeth, and push it out of his mouth into present company.


"In the white wastes there are many things that look the same but are not. Tif hreats disguised as safety, Safety disguised as threats. If they are were-rats, they will attack on sight. If they do not -- we should neither aggress neither. Runner from the depression says they now fear potential fight on two fronts... if we provoke a fight on a third, there may not be a colony tomorrow. Find out what they want... I move whoever I can behind the barricades. Highborn, tell the rats they may land on the fine docks we have, or if comfort demanks, on the east side of the beach in the lee of the night's wind. Tell them that serious trouble brews above -- and that if they insist on complicating situation, we must defend ourselves."


He sighed to Haakon: "Pushing them back into the sea and burning their ship should not be difficult. I have seen rats leave a sinking ship -- and they do not fare well when the waters are shark-infested. Block their passage, be polite, but firm. If they are pleasant... tell them shark or rat cooking on the beach is theirs for hospitality... I would say those cappies roasting on the beach are not going to improve relations much. I don't know what you folk mean when you say 'keep it civil'.... but try to do that... I'm going to the barricade." And Baez left. "If they are were-rats, most of us are immune. I will make sure what little silver-paste remains with us is behind our defenses..."


Meanwhile, Needle surveyed the beach and the surrounding sea... Dusk had made the shallows PREGNANT with sharks. Lots of them. Few folk seemed to be out on the beach... but it seemed like many had left in a hurry -- sharks and shark-oil cooked on the beach, as well as several spits of roasting plump rodents... but no type they themselves were familiar with raising as livestock.


It looked rather pressing that somebody of the ratkin speak to the more official looking high elf... they were pretty directly threatening to set the ratkin boat on fire... at least until they put up the Eternal Empire's colors. Needle whispered to milkweed that she was confident she could kill the high elf official at this range, even in the dark -- if He would give the word... but Milkweed did not, at least not yet.


The excitement of passing through the barrier had subsided and in it's place the ratfolk felt that familiar feeling -- at first sight it would appear they were unwanted. For some reason, Needle could not help but smile at this. "Father, men alerted have fallen behind a defense... wooden rubbish, it would seem."


She also scanned the rest of the area around them, they had been examining the islands on the approach. She scanned with her scope while milkweed used a hastily discarded spyglass in the crow's nest...


Far to the west was the rocky dome island, and it was as foreboding a place as one might ever see -- brittle plants more resembling coral than bones, odd noises. Their night vision served them well, and it told them both one thing primarily -- that island was a trap. It was a trap for whatever was on it, and if they went there it would likely become a trap for them as well.


Off to the east, a tropical island's geyser seemed to go off repeatedly, almost plaintively. Needle could not be sure at first... but it looked like there was some kind of structure on the center of the island. Something akin to a signal fire lit up, then almost comically rapidly a squadron of rainclouds over the island seemed to rain it into oblivion. Shortly after that, Needle was treated to the absurdity of whomever was in that structure attempting to make SMOKE SIGNALS, in the near all-consuming dark. Panic and resourcefulness shared a home in the ratkin psyche... so this behavior made a certain comforting sense to Needle. she tugged on Milkweeds belt to shift his attention from the array of potentially hostile people below, and over to the Tropical Isle...


"Grandpa, Whomever is on that little island -- they are in dire need of rescue... perhaps we should visit them that might need us and come back to these gruff folk by light of day?"


....Deep in the hold, Nateema the shaman had begun her own rites and ways of seeing around them... even deeper in her trance than she was in a veritable garden of offcast debris sorted 'in-edible' (where it was stored neatly and often offered a rare modicum of privacy.) Without waking, she shooed no fewer than six juveniles who had come into her space with their own... more ardent... intents. When she awoke perhaps she would have something to say to milkweed as well...
 
@Beckoncall @Prince Vaethorion






Familiar Things
​



...It was funny. Even after everything that had happened, after all the trials and tribulations that had brought them here, it was still nice to know that some things never changed.


Milkweed sighed heavily when he saw how the folk on the docks and beach reacted to their presence, giving them as warm a welcome as they'd ever been given. Perhaps warmer than most considering they deemed his ship worthy of fire arrows. He looked over to his granddaughter and laughed mirthlessly. "Same old song, eh?" She laughed in kind, "Same song, different choir." Milkweed patted her shoulder twice before looking back at the gathered archers on the High Elven ship. He was about to suggest she keep her sights on the commander when he noticed something queer about the vessel. The sails were big and garish like he would have expected, but their positioning ran from bow to aft instead of across the beam like normal. The sail in front looked particularly big, and particularly secure right now high above the gathered archers. Milkweed had an inkling his granddaughter would have better luck with a bit of distraction rather than a straight kill in this case. He pointed towards the lines that held the fore sails in place and spoke calmly to Needle, "Keep an eye on those archers, and don't shoot unless they do. But if they do, drop those sails on their heads would you?" Needle's eyes lit up at this, both at the idea of it and the challenge it presented. She'd need to really focus to hit that line, but a direct shot from her crossbow should split it in just the right way that gravity would take care of the rest. She kept her eyes locked on target but said in a subdued tone, "Will do Grandfather."


After that Milkweed began his descent down from the crow's nest, and in the time it took him to reach the deck he had time to think on his options. He was certainly going to hail the elves, that much was clear. He didn't fancy sailing a tinderbox into port trying to make a hasty escape with his kin. But then where would he go? Clearly these people were on edge and he didn't fancy trying to negotiate his entry into the colony in the dark when tensions were high. And there was the matter of the signal fire Needle has spotted. As soon as she pointed it out Milkweed saw it too, only to see the thing sputter out by a freak rain cloud. That didn't bode well in Milkweed's mind either, but the signs of desperation were there, something that ratfolk knew all too well. And if the elves were not doing anything about this signal then either they didn't know about it or didn't care, and neither of those answers were acceptable to Milkweed. There was a good chance that whatever made that signal would succumb to whatever fate plagued it, and Milkweed's ship might be the only thing that could offer them asylum. As well, if they were seen to help these trapped souls from an unknown fate it might earn them some good will and make negotiations with the rest of the colony that much smoother.


It only took him seconds to climb down the rigging but in that time Milkweed's brain had weighed all his options and found his course. He strode to the wooden railing along the deck and hollered at the elves in the loudest voice he could manage, praying their long ears would hear him clearly. "Stay your arrows, we come in peace!" he shouted in perfect common, without a hint of an accent or any stutter in his speech. Milkweed had no idea if they could see him pointing at the tropical island or not. He hoped their elven eyes would see him but his grey tunic and brown trousers were doing nothing to help. Still he tried, shouting once again into the night, "There's a distress signal on the island. We sail for it now, please don't shoot us!"


By now Breeze had come back to the weather deck and stood alongside Milkweed awaiting instructions. Milkweed turned around and began to shout at the assembled crew his new orders. "Make for the island! Unfurl sails and set a course." He cupped his hands over his nose and shouted up at the crow's nest, "NEEDLE!" Her tiny head poked over the side to look at Milkweed as he shouted again, "Find us a landing zone near the signal!" Her silhouette bobbed in acknowledgement before slipping back inside the nest. Rats began to scurry about the ship with purpose, unfurling the sails and turning the rudder so the ship began to face the tropical island. Milkweed threw his finger and thumb between his teeth and whistled, a low peal that quickly grew high before being cut short. Immediately Breeze and all of his dirty paws snapped to, assembling around him for orders. "Post up around the bow and watch the shore. Wait for my signal, we don't know what we're saving yet." All 24 of his paws nodded in unison then fanned out around the bow of the ship, Breeze being the only one that stood by. Milkweed looked back towards the bridge and spied Coalback standing guard, holding a sharpened shovel like it was a toy in his large paws. The large buck looked ready for a fight, alert as always for danger as a miner would. Milkweed shouted at him to get his attention, "Coalback! Get below and find Nateema, we'll need her I think." Coalback was a little taken aback at first, but he nodded gruffly before making his way below. Milkweed had no idea what the old shaman was doing right now, but he felt they'd need her expertise soon.



Orders

​



-Milkweed hails the elves in perfect common, hoping that his words will stand down their archers.


-Milkweed orders Needle to train her crossbow on the rigging holding the sails above the elves in place, and that she should only shoot it if the archers fire first.


-The vessel is ordered to make for the tropical island towards the signal that was sent up. Needle is ordered to scout a position for them to make landfall near to the signal fire.


-Milkweed orders his dirty paws to post up on the bow and stay alert. They are not to fire upon anything without his signal.


-Milkweed orders Coalback to go below decks and retrieve Nateema from whatever she's doing.
 
Last edited by a moderator:
Caelis watched, stunned, as the Aymarans seemed to disregard any sense or logic. The leader let out a feral roar that could make any grown man shake in fear, and then Caelis watched as the brutes, the least intelligent of the beasts, begin charging right at the enemy. Caelis couldn't help but mutter "These alligators are going to get us all killed." to no one in particular. Rather, he was stunned and couldn't help but speak his mind at the moment. Caelis quickly gathered his wits. He urged his horse back to his men, but as he rode away he said "Looks like we're moving things ahead of schedule." to the High Elf Lord. Once he got back to his men, the rest of the Ayamarans appeared to be following the brutes. At least there was some logic in their madness. They looked like they were using their less intelligent peers as their vanguard to soak up most of the damage from the charge, protecting their more intelligent and valuable individuals. Regardless, Caelis knew that this charge needed to be supported or else their defense of the platz would crumble.


Caelis barked "Halberds! Advance on my mark! When we're within 20 meters, I want a full charge to support the left flank of those bloody alligators! The last thing we want is to get flanked! Don't get in the way of one of them! I doubt they know the difference between man, elf, and food!" He then looked at the de facto leader of the Exiles among the guard and said "We'll take the lead in this one. Just follow closely behind my men as a support and make sure that we all don't get flanked." Caelis then roared "Forward, march! Double time!" Caelis watched as his men began to move forward as well. However, he and his Sundered King companion lagged behind slightly. The reason was two-fold. One was that he wanted to be in a position to continue commanding his men as needed until he needed to fight as well. The second was that the two of them could act as a quick reaction force to support the men or even exploit any openings if they appeared. Granted, they were only two men as the other Sundered King at the platz was still missing, but Caelis bore the gem. If needed, he would be willing to unleash the astral powers embedded within. He glanced at the witches who had concerned him this entire time. If it appeared that they were about to cast a spell, then Caelis hoped that he could use the gem to release a purifying, radiant light with the intensity of the sun. Ideally, that would stop the witches spell even if it meant ending their lives within the blink of an eye.


Summary:


The Attolian-Exile Garrison Force begin to advance as well to support the Aymaran's left flank


The Attolian Halberdiers are leading the charge with the Exiles right behind (I assume that I have command of them)


Caelis and his Sundered King companion are lagging behind slightly as a reserve/quick reaction force


Caelis is holding on to the gem as a back up in case anything goes haywire


Where in the world is the 3rd Sundered King?
 
@Beckoncall @KamiKahzy


A High Elven Archer with striking silver hair and violet eyes held a bow with a fire arrow aloft. He concentrated his superior vision to the distance and said "Amad, Nyanus-gwaith cuar no' kirya, naur, aya?" (Lord, Rat person archer/crossbow on ship, fire?) "I can put fire arrow into their eye.".


At that moment the well accented common tongue was heard from the Rat-people laden vessel. The Noble Linguist, gestured to his archers to stand down. The Noble ordered "N'ndengina ta! (don't kill it!). On his command, in unison, the archers, lowered their fire arrows and extinguished them. They remained in battle readiness, as they were still in battle mode. The Noble Linguist heard the calls for peace and the mention of the signal fires, and smoke coming from the Island they passed when they arrived. Sinister magic was at play on that island. The Linguist being a compassionate Elf realized that there were colonist stranded on that Island that needed rescue. There had been no time since arrival to investigate. A decision had to be made and the Noble linguist felt the High Elven honor was at stake. Would Rat-people heed their calls for help and High born ignore those in need? That to the Linguist seemed wrong. While it was true that High Elven superiority caused High Born to be insular, and that they seemed to be haughty to inferior creatures, it was less known that many High Elves had a strong moral credo to help the weak and those in need.


High Elven command structure encouraged independent thought and actions. An acting Noble commander on the scene was given much autonomy to make their own decisions. This is because of the high level of trust High Elves had earned among themselves over centuries of service together and the unlimited faith they had in their Noble commanders. At that moment the Noble Linguist made a decision.


The Linguist yelled out of the Bull Horn in formal and polite Common Tongue, "Good, Rat-kin, Welcome to the new world and the colony. I am acting commander, Heru Lammen Tura, Lord Master of languages. We are aware of the stranded colonist, but have been unable to investigate. The colony is under attack above as we speak (the Noble gestures to the hill). This is why we are All on high alert. We will join you to Island to attempt rescue, but I warn you there is dark magic at work there, it is dangerous and we must exercise caution!"


After this, the Noble Linguist orders the crew to set sail to foreboding island to attempt rescue of the stranded colonist with the knowledge that there might be dark magic and danger afoot. Immediately, the crew begins to throw off mooring lines and put off the dock and set sail. The Linguist was unsure if the Prince would approve, but as he was in command, and could not allow Rat-kin to out honor the High Born, he believed or hoped the Prince would understand.


The Noble linguist ordered his Elves "panya talala!" (set sail) and accompanied the Rat-folk vessel to the Island to investigate and attempt rescue.


He ordered his High Elves to remain on high alert and to expect danger. Before sailing, the Linguist sent a message via flag semophore to the platz to be given to the Prince. "amin heru, lye auta a' elea anta gwaith hoopa" (Lord, We went to go help needy in harbor")


The beautiful crafted vessel set off silently to sea to aid the Rat-folk attempt a rescue. The Noble Linguist and the crew felt they were in a dream. The lore of the Rat-folk were well known, but few had seen them since, they were kept far away from the High Elven kingdom. The uncertainty of their kin in battle at the Platz lay heavy on their hearts, and they were consoled by the idea that reinforcements might be found on the Island to bolster colony defenses. Off they sailed into the shark invested waters, all High Born could sense the dark magic afoot and this put them on edge. They gripped their weapons firmly and readied themselves for anything...


Orders:


* Noble Linguist orders Archers to stand down


* Noble Linguist greets and welcomes Rat Kin to colony


* High born on ship set sail to assist Rat-folk to attempt rescue on High Alert with readied weapons


* Linguist signals Platz that they are going to Island to attempt rescue
 
@Beckoncall @Heyitsjiwon @Elendithas


The Prince surveyed the scene of battle at the platz. There was blood and Mud Elves' corpses everywhere. The scene of Amayran eating the Mud Elves turned his stomach. The aesthetics of battle were never pretty, but this battle thus far was extremely ugly and was about to get much uglier. The Dark Elven witches needed to be stopped or all of these dead corpses would rise from the dead and attack. The force they faced outnumbered them numerically and the column in front of them were not the same rag tag fodder they just bloodily dispatched.


Caelis seemed to be a seasoned commander in battle and there was some comfort to the Prince at having him on the same battlefield. More so, the Amaryans fierce brutality and abilities in combat was something to behold. The Prince felt disgust, an odd sense of remorseful pity for the living enemy that was about to be torn asunder and eaten whole, alive. This remorse however did not last long, as the Prince witnessed his wounded High Born being carried away on their own shields. The remorse faded and in it's place came a burning anger for vengeance. The Prince would exact his revenge for every drop of High Born blood shed. One drop of High Born blood to the Prince was worth a thousand dead of their enemies. The Mud Elves brought this on to themselves and now they will suffer a horrible fate.


The Prince did not have much time for his building anger or elaborate strategies. What was needed was action. The Prince held the Gem aloft and directed it's powers at the Witches in an attempt to stun them. While the Prince stunned them, the High Born War mage was to assist the Amaryan spell breaker with breaking the spell.


However, before the Arch Mage could muster his full power, a magical woosh was felt, and the Amaryan drained magic from the War Mage in a abrupt manner. The color rushed from the War Mage's face. "Lova termara en' templa!" ("Mana drain!) The War Mage uttered as he felt immediately drained and his magical power redirectd This initially angered the Prince, as this was against the magical codes of the High Elves, and the prince considered striking the Amaryan spell breaker dead, but the Prince quickly rebounded when he realized that these Crocodile people did not follow any code the Prince was familiar with and the maneuver was not meant to be a hostile act. The objective remained, and the objective was to break the witches concentration long enough for them to break their spell and crush the enemy host.


At that moment the brutes were unleashed and ran past the Attolian and High Elven formation. All of the Prince's plans that were devised with the Attolian commanders were now moot. It seemed roughly the Prince's original plan was being played out. A rash strategy to smash the enemies defenses, break the spell, and crush the enemies morale. This all happened very fast.


The Prince began to issue commands in High Elven. "Ela sen!!!" (Flank them!)


"Asca, Soora Attolian!" ("Hurry, Follow the Attolians!") The Prince utilized well trained signs to direct his troops.


"Tira ten' rashwe!" ("Look out be careful!") The Prince gestured to the frenzied Amaryans and enemies ahead.


"Cuar!" (Archers!) The Prince directed the volley to be unleashed at the enemies the Amaryans were to face.


Archers reply in unison "Cuamin linduva yassen megrille!" (Our Bows will sing with your sword!)


The Prince rallied his troops, and exalted "I'quelin Mori'Quessier naa ba Mori'Quessir!" ("The best Drow, is a dead Drow!")


The High Born Spear-elves chanted in unison, "I'narr en gothrim glinuva nuin I'anor! ("The bones of our foes will gleam under the sun!")


The Bard Lindar let out a rousing blast of his Unicorn horn! EEEEEEEWWWWYAAAAAAAAAA! This blast made all of the High Elven and their allies feel brave and ready for battles! It lifted the spirits of the combatants and was meant to frighten the enemy.


"Lye nuquernuva sen e dagor" (We will defeat them in battle!) the Prince cried!


All of the High Elven forces assembled returned his battle cry! "Lye nuquernuva sen e dagor!!!"


The Elves marched in classic shield and spear formation. The Swordmasters, held their two handed swords aloft and bolstered the advancing Spear-Elves who took up the right flank of the Amaryan and the right flank of the Attolians.


The Prince stayed close to Caelis and his Arch Mage, the Prince channeling the gem to stun the Witches. The rest of the nobles were to act independently and to remain to the best of their ability out of harm's way. The Cleric was to help the injured and prevent negative effects from dark magic if need be. The Shadow master's orders were to act independently.


The High Elven Testudo formation advanced along side the Attolians. The High Born Archers provided cover for the advancing colonist. After unleashing the power of the gem the Prince, would act as Caelis acted, as a quick reaction force.


The time for glory was near!


Orders:


*High Elven spear-Elves and Swordmasters were to advance in Testudo formation on right flank


*Prince is to attempt stun witches with gem's power


*Arch Mage (was to break spell but ended up getting jacked by Amaryan spell breaker), Cleric would help negate dark magic and/or heal


* Archers/Shadow master are to give support to advancing colonist and pick off approaching enemies behind the wall of advancing shields


* Nobles are to stay out of harms way and offer support and will be assumed to be under GM's control
 
Last edited by a moderator:
@Prince Vaethorion @Heyitsjiwon @Leusis @Elendithas @SpiralErrant @KamiKahzy (EVERYONE!!!!)


"The first battle of Mud-elf Aggression Part II" and "How patient are our neighbors and hosts, to have waited so long."


Lindar rocked from one foot to the other as the four witches hovered before and even at times above him… He imagined if he started a parley, that Vaethorion at least, and even as likely several other leaders or their heralds would step in to discuss terms – to perhaps take a STEP towards cutting short this bloodshed. It was not to be… and if he had any question why for the Prince, it would have to wait until he somehow survived dethatching himself from four insane witches the second things got ugly again… and he knew… he knew in his most silver of his soul that at any moment they would.


The Witches seemed to revel above him in their incantation, but one of them, it seemed the youngest, though perhaps their frames seemed to ever shift in age… descended to meet with him. Her face was wholly obscured by the bloodstained skull of a elven woman, worked artfully into a larger mask suggesting numerous radiating horns and mouths. With one Violet and one Jett colored eye, she glared half suggestively and have antagonistically to Lindar as she landed before him. They both could see that Lindar’s forces had more parley for each other than for the witches, and the witch, seeing the precarious position the Highborn bard held alone mere yards from the massive battlegroup, took off her mask to show a delightfully wild and ravishing elven woman – The runes inlaid on each of her teeth were slightly offputting, but it seemed she quickly noticed this and drew her mad grin tighter as if to put Lindar at ease… much like one might stroke a chicken before bringing the axe down upon it. There was an odd spiral noise to her voice, as if it came from her mouth and far away at the same time…


“Your allies buy time with you, do they? They are shrewd and wise in their diplomacy indeed – for you I can only smell the most rich of souls and passions, and to relish your flesh, in as many ways before you died – will truly be an enjoyment for myself and my sisters. The softest parts of you I will use in sex-majicks a hundred years hence, and it is on those lovely and unholy days that your spirit will briefly stop screaming within my belly and my head… I understand you, Lindar… You buy time for your forces to make whatever preparations are necessary for their slaughter, and you buy us time for us to reach the crescendo of our enchantment to undo your pitiful ‘invasion’ once and for all. I expected the farlands would send their slaves to entertain us eventually… but I must say I dared not hope that some of them would be so handsome…”


Behind them, Caelis exchanged his words with Vaethorion, Refugees fled to dear life to the depression, and it Seemed the Healer’s guild had already arrived to render assistance. Lindar and the witch fenced almost playfully with one another in the ruse of this “cease-fire” – until the nearly 50 or so gigantic Aymarans arrived and began to fill the center-line opposite the mud-elf army. Lindar had to smile, he had bought time that brought a glut of additional force onto the field, and had allowed for his leadership to take place in command. His smile turned to ash in his mouth when he saw that the Witch seemed twice as happy at their arrival than he was relieved.


She put her mask back on, as if you signal that their time of talking would soon pass.


“Oooooooh Lindar… perhaps things will not play out as I imagined, exactly. But this Plaza is an Altar, Highborn – and both yours and mine will be Sooooo generous with our sacrifices this night. I would suggest we drink to the Horned one, but in the end, he shall drink all.”


Tocxhol had seen enough. A small cog in his brain always seemed to shatter into shrapnel whenever he saw the ridiculous warmbloods pull this lunacy – they always wanted to talk before they killed each other... Before the cog’s shrapnel ripped metaphorically through his relatively simple brain he formed a single thought as he saw his troops arrive on the field:


“The victor doesn’t have to explain anything to anyone – the slain has nothing to explain.”


…And with that thought, sanity as men might know it left him and he raised his maul high into the sky above his head, like a scepter of triumph in the arenas of old… from the maul ran a river of mud-elf blood that awashed his arm and ran down his chest, and his tounge lazily painted a stripe out of it as he tasted the fruits of his already accomplished slaughter. From the Maul, clumps of brain matter and all matter of offal rained to the ground around him, falling far enough to make audible plopping sounds about his feet, as the protective films under his eyes slid up and he gave the only command he cared to give, the only command a brute might understand…


“KIIIIIILLLLL!!!!!!” and he waved his maul forward coming into contact with the ground throwing rocks and loose debris straight up into the air where it landed… as if the weapon was his first foot in his charge his legs skipped forward after it, and when he past the maul in the dirt his arms clenched around it and bore the would-be tree at waist level behind him, as one might expect a warrior of the east…


Sir Bors arrived not a moment too soon, and making his common folly and nod to his timeliness quickly took in what it seemed Caelis had planned for them. Flank left of these lizards, right echelon refused, a charge before contact. Weight of rabble leant behind them… prepare for an agile maneuver at decisive moment. Looking past Caelis, he could see his fellow horseman nod at him knowingly – Sir Bors understood. The beer in his belly sloshed beneath his pumping breast, he mused silently that a mite buzz would make him more agile in his saddle…


…The Aymarans fanned out at the front but had no appreciable cohesion whatsoever. What little form there was seemed to be provided by hissing and biting kinsmen, pulling no strikes at all as they knocked those getting out of line towards the enemy shield wall…


On the right flank the highborn anticipated the rhythm of all of this chaos… The swordsmen looked almost bored in their hefting of their giant weapons, moving in perfect dispersion behind and within the ranks of spearmen. The archers began to focus fire on the area of the unit where the refugees passed closest to – they would take casualties immediately, and were promised double if they moved into that area denied. The Drill-Master stood among them and spoke softly, where only the strained elven ears could hear it in the din and roaring. “Celebrate not the kill you claimed, but look for pride in the next, until the end of your lives – and may that day not be today. Hold your breaths as you aim, sons of the Lightland, for in this moment I cannot train you – it is your eye that shall train your arrow, and your arrow that shall train for an eye.” A volley loosed in unison. The archers took two steps forward and picked up the arrows that had been set in the ground spaced-out before them – to pick these up would save two gestures from pulling an arrow from one’s quiver… These arrows would be fired out of volley, but gave a confusing patter to their rash of missiles. Shields would fail this night trying to block this trickery – even before the clash of melee made such thoughts of self preservation or prediction a forgone conclusion.


“...IIIIIIIIILLLLL!!!” the ululating war-croak of Tocxhol continued, and the brutes had practically started bouncing over rubble and rock, some even falling and scaling over one another to get into grips with the enemy. Caelis’ Harbardiers looked behind themselves numerous times as they double-stepped closer and closer to the solid block of enemies… but a mixture of Caelis’ drawn features and the whooping of the Exiles gave them heart. Caelis was many things, but he was NEVER reckless – His soldiers feared death, but they knew it would not come to waste. Loosing their last calm breaths before breathing deep for the anticipated charge, each soldier measured the distance from the tip of their weapon to the closest foe.


…. The mud elf regiment hollered as one: “HORNED ONE DEVOUR US ALL! NOTHING HELD AT HIS MAW GO UNBITTEN! ALL HELD BEFORE THE MOUTH IS BITTEN! ALL! ALL! ALL!”


The ground was literally shaking now, as the mud-elf force itself started to charge it’s way down a mainstreet of the ‘Platz. Weome looked down at her shaking hands and from the tremor of the earth they looked PERFECTLY STILL. Anuc hit her with some sort of compress as she caught Weome looking off to the north again…


“BLUE EYES!” (This was a jibe Anuc used on Weome to tease her when she knew the Tyren girl-come-woman would not stop pining for that Jester-Shaman of hers – no Tyren had blue eyes, but was instead a mocking of tears and sorrow.) “Yes m’garl – the boys are indeed making the earth shake with their violence, and indeed we may lose our lives, Sistar-ah-mine. Let the impossible on your mind be the saving of these hornless, for every moment more will find hurt for each other. No sense looking at the pain in your own heart Blue, there be pain all around us. Orm and Spirit protect us, love – how I *wish* this was one of your wild tales…” The herbalists applied their craft as the highborn cleric walked isles of mounting injured… as he passed them two of their patients since lost consciousness awoke, and attempted to rise…


Lindar looked behind him – what could easily be more than 20 tons of hissing Aymarans were running up on him – and they were making NO distinction between him and the witch that stood before him. He saw the other three witches aflight sweep back behind their ranks, and locked eyes once more on the witch as she seemed to wink a rueful goodbye to him….


…He grabbed her ankle as she flew skyward, and turned her leaving him to his fate into a means of escape – Far below him he saw the first clash of colonial forces with the mud-elves, and the sailing of strange metallic pots from the center of their formation out all 90 degrees ahead of them, to crash and break on and about his allies as they closed their distance.


Lindar’s Blade, since drawn, was yanked from his grip at his sudden ascent – pulling his knee up before him despite the upward wrenching motion, he grabbed for his boot-knife only to feel it’s scabbard burst into flames at the merest gesture of the witch… She loosened her belt, a metal-linked strand of what appeared to be svelte finger-bones each ending in a complete skeletal hand held together with golden wire… Her lower dress slipped down her legs and over him, his view now restricted to his own flailing in this bloody sliken frock, and if he strained the merest view of the witches lithe legs through the hole in the fabric above him, and a clear view of naught more than the womanly spectacle between her thighs some feet above him. The belt slid down her legs as much and the hands seemed to scale down them, and upon reaching her ankle where Linder held on for dear life they snapped down tight with one hand. When Lindar went to grab it, the other hand coiled like a snake and bound it too to the witches’ ankle. His mind raced, skirting despair sought to think of some action that would be of some consequence as he began to hear his captor rejoin the chorus of Eldritch chanting.


Tocxhol BOUNDED over two ranks of Attolian formation as his slow speed was eventually overcome by his inertia – he swung his maul overhead while curling all of his bulk into a kind of cannon-ball wheel that he put behind his arms. He was sure he shook the earth in the near-CRATER he placed in the left corner of the mud-elf formation as he could see all adjacent to his point of impact fly over the heads of their nearest standing – Even one of his own troops was sent sailing backwards tripping a handful of brutes that just pawed over him and kept advancing.


Caelis held his astral gem aloft the moment before impact and unleashed a blinding flash of light that from behind his own forces would not blind them but threw much of the forces receiving the charge into disarray. He would have liked it better if his forces were fully in position to take advantage, just as he would have liked if his magical assault had had an impact on the witches spell… but his tactic would prove it’s worth in moments…


The SUDDEN STRIKE of the first line of brutes was devastating – the mindless beasts locked their eyes shut and burst forth by sense of smell in the moment before impact, the with most of the front rank absolutely eviscerated despite the strong presentation of the enemy shields. Immediately following the Cunnings slipped through the chaos and demonstrated the foolishness of wearing one’s shield as ones mask. No fewer than 10 fancy shield-masks were comically SPUN by the cunning’s brute strength, sounding popping noises of Mud-elf necks and a subsequent raining upon the attolians at what they first through were… dice?


…No… It’s Vertebrae. The pikemen charged forward trying to put out of their mind the idea that literal bloody vertebrae and spinal cord was raining upon and behind them. Fear could have overtook them… but it didn’t. If these were bones of dead, it was not their own… Even if an Abattoir awaited them just feet ahead, it was the foes, not theirs.


The brutes began to crane their necks and even gape hungrily at the fallen ahead of them – and their enemies, to their credit, submitted no fear to the horror the Aymarans presented. Though the front ranks were already wrecked, those behind stepped right into the vacuum and started stabbing the aymarans like warriors possessed, which it would be hard to prove they were not. REAL wounds appeared on the front-most Brutes, and even a couple were brought low in the retaliation. The Scarred responded to this immediately, Barking in a manner that both awoke and put fear of their master’s into the brutes, gave concussive pain to the enemy, and spurred the brutes back into the reality that a fight was still going on.


(Brute Casualties Sustained)


On the rightmost flank, The highborn could see that the archers had created small pockets behind the frontmost foes in their outfacing enemy. Without word, order, or sought of consensus, the Swordmasters hit the troops that stood before these pockets, with the spearmen clashing against the more solid parts of the line as arrows continued to rain down, some inches ahead of the militia to skewer the head of a matched foe, necessitating only the turn of a heel to face the next one on the part of the spearmen. More injuries though. The smell of elven blood on mithril as the grieviously wounded used their last strength to set their shields braces to stand tall as they fell behind them. The front-most archers ran forward loosing arrows wildly as they closed the gap, and raced to secure those shields of them that had fallen. Others who so advanced but did not find a shield quickly stole up their fallen comrades and ran with them back to their position, where they might find treatment.


(Spearman Casualties Sustained)


The Swordmasters leaped and slashed their way into the pockets made for them – and there was no mistaking their purpose. For in a hole of such size a two handed weapon could be swung in a complete circle, and their blades spun like silver roses swept by wind, and the heads of their foes leaped from them like the wind-borne seeds of the Sycamore. With this single gesture in unison complete, the highborn elite pulled their swords in line with the hem of their cloaks, which was specially treated to wipe the steaming blood from their blades and each swordsman stood clean as if still for presentation – every drop of violence and blood cast away from their gesture of rage and grace.


(Aymaran and Highborn Assault causes massive damage)


The Attolians were about to close… the difficult terrain sought to confound them, the horror ahead sought to turn their hearts cold, and they lacked both the intertia of the Croc-men and the agility of the Highborn. This was still all to plan – The Attolians meant to hold the left flank, and with the shattering of the right flank it was now the most critical point on the front. Upon finally coming close enough they began to strike over the heads of the brutes and into the interior of the unit and softening the corner that otherwise stood firm against the brutish advance… that seemed to even now be throwing things at them…


*rattle* *Shatter!* *Tink-craack!* The bronze bound clay-pots finally began to fall upon the ranks of the colonial assault.


Upon contact with the attolian soldiers, Aymarans, and Highborn, the crackling pots splashed and spilled a reddish-brown sand… that immediately began to sizzle on contact with metal…


“RUST BOMBS!” A Halberdier screamed – the tip of his polearm too now falling like ruddy soil in crumbling clumps from it’s wooden haft… breastplates and greaves, too quickly became pitted, and some chain hauberks even fell wholly free from the Attolian’s backs. Upon hearing the warning, the cavalry quickly broke left to avoid the arc of falling pots… but the Attolian line had stalled. They had wooden spears now, and each of the Attolian soldiers felt the unwieldiness and sudden lightness of their crumbling armor. Still – they held. The Exiles moved forward among them, and the halbard poles repeatedly tripped or held down foes at maximum range as cunnings moved mercilessly behind the brutes opportunistically killing any targets of opportunity.


Meanwhile, on the right flank – the highborn had heard the Attolians warning of rust – and ignored it. The pots fell upon, around, and among them – but Mithril is the preferred metal of the highborn because it is above corruption. Some sandy chaff clouds the vision of the frontline and gets in the eyes of a few of the spearmen – but nothing but bits of steel filigree are lost in the attack.


Upon the Aymarans the ploy is of even less effect. Brutes begin to jump, snatching bombs out of the air and swallowing them whole, or breaking them in their jaws and blithely sweeping the chemical dust out of their mouths while continuing to fight. Here and there a rare metal weapon among the brutes disintegrates, but truth be told many brutes dropped their weapons on first contact with the enemy… preferring to snap on any wayward part of an enemy and roll their bulk to one side, pulling the better or lesser part of their victim with it.


(Attolian gear is badly damaged by rust bomb attack. Damage to other forces gear is minimal)


The Swordmasters saw a cascade of blood from the ranks behind them wash past them and toward the heart of the enemy regiment before them. Facing them now were bone-clad and better armed foes from the center force… and the Highborn elite knew that finally perhaps some wisp of death had come to stalk them…


Caelis, sweeping his riders to a higher point to the west of the battlefield he had seen on his arrival before, quickly calculated the trajectory the battle was taking. The enemy front and right flank had taken massive casualties, and with the corner on his side of the battlefield still holding, it lead to a vacuum on the opposite side of the battlefield that the center-forces were naturally being pulled in to fill. The ranks of the enemy regiment were already starting to bulge on the right side, and any moment now Vaethorion’s swordmasters would find themselves at match, surrounded, or even worse. Just as he saw the bulge in the regiment’s east, he saw it naturally buckle neatly in the west. His riders slammed down their visors – Caelis could think of no more welcome invitation for a heavy cavalryman than this…


Intentionally riding with his sundered kings parallel to his line of warriors, he shouted to them encouragement to hold the line before he too flicked his visor down, bringing the darkness, the strange relative quiet, and the almost sanctuarial tunnel-vision a rider has when barreling gloriously, upon a mountain of steel and muscle, into the un-expecting flank of the enemy…


…Caelis could not have been more right. The weight of his heavy cavalry SMASHED the west side of the enemy regiment and began to rout before it the already moving bulk of forces running unawares ahead of them to surround the elven elites. If Caelis and his kings were a boulder crashing into the formation, the men trampled, pushed, and barreling ahead of them were an avalanche. A full rank of troops to the right of his charge fell in a swift arc directly on their faces, exposing nothing short of their full backs to the advancing brutes who now had their Warchief Tocxhol amid them. Their next assault was marked more by scooping fallen and screaming warriors off the floor and throwing them backward to be snapped up by waiting jaws behind them than anything that might nearly resemble a fight. The counter assault the would have faced the swordmasters was instead a panicked wave of falling, rolling, and diving victims, and the highborn ushered their spearmen to shore up behind them as they made sport of how many of the supposed “core-fighters” could be killed with each swing…


…Two riders emerged from the blood and smoke to reel around at the line the Swordmasters began to form as the foes around them quickly joined the ranks of the dead. Two Riders and a Heavily Barded Horse, unmounted…


CAELIS HAS BEEN UNSEATED IN THE CHARGE. His mastercrafted plate-mail had ingenius (and doubly expensive) padding integrated into it that assured he survived the fall, aided further by the crunching noise of two mud-elves he had thrown onto their faces right before he was yanked from his saddle… it was a lucky swing, in tandem with doubly unlikely damage to his saddle-harness during the point of first impact.


Caelis realized he was laying on his back. The Greenish-Glowing form of a witch briefly passed through his tiny arc of vision, seemingly dangling a wriggling bag of some kind beneath her naked posterior. Had he hit his head? No – He had not – He must get up – the fate of an unseated rider on his back is a blade through the visor. No, there would not be any blood coup’ de’ graces on the part of some bloody cannibal savage… not from the Noble blood of Attolia… but the armor was so heavy… the ground… so slick with blood… he imagined himself a turtle overturned on his back.. he flailed his arms and legs for the ground, and found them. He threw his weight into a desperate sit-up, pulling his arms to his chest as if he were rowing a boat… this was a maneuver heavy riders practiced often and hoped they’d never need perform… and it worked. His bulk flew forward and he found his way onto his knees. Then unbinding his sword from its scabbard he stood and promptly forsook all hope of finding wherever his lance, shield, and even horse had wound up in the crash. To his left, savages were recovering from the wake of his charge which he could see was quite successful. To his right – Mindless Aymaran brutes were crushing and swallowing everything in their path… there was no recognition in the eyes of the brutes… they were going to eat him… if he let it happen. In the same motion he drew his sword he brought the pommel and full force of his elbow into the face of the first arriving brute, and it fell to the ground like a ton of bricks. He made eye contact with some cunnings behind them, and they began to herd the brutes away from him. Backpedaling furiously, he removed his helm in desperation to see where his men might be…. His line… to stay amid the Aymaran was insanity, he parried and reposted furiously at the mud-elves that saw him as the prize he represented, desperate to kill him their blows were clumsy... but he would soon be overwhelmed. He could feel the grazing strikes of brutes behind him as the Cunnings herded them from his path, and while the brutes he passed were ever eager to turn their hunger on his pursuers, the most spirited, and even skilled among them remained in his wake to kill him…


He thought to draw the Astral gem again – but he would blind his forces behind him… he could not risk that… more swinging, and a sudden pressure on his right side… then, he slammed backward against some towering bulk, as if witness to a sudden eclipse, his field of vision was BLACKENED by the giant mighty-thewed arms of a gigantic Aymarran – one of the so-called “Scarred”… It’s arms swung a Serrated Copper Axe down into the stream of his pursuers, and the ranks of the brutes closed the gap between him and his assailants.


He had backed full-on into the massive pillar of one of the Aymaran Leaders… this “Scarred” – it was the Apotheosis of Primal Terror. Lord Caelis proclaimed who he was, as it looked like the Giant Aymaran heard everything he shouted as if over a string connecting two tin cans. It tilted it’s broad and ashy head, bedecked by a hundred cuts – to render what Caelis figured was his only functioning “ear” – (Auditory pore?) Caelis saw his forces and that they were somehow on his left now. He suddenly stopped screaming at the giant Aymaran… his breath was setting -- and rising in it’s place a pain that could only be damage to one of his lungs… An Aymaran had bitten him during his retreat! The whole left side of his breastplate was caved in an arc about his chest!


His strength would not ebb. He was defiant. With a spray of bloody foam and saliva from his mouth he stared the Scarred one directly the in eye – and within it he saw that the Lizard-beast seemed to recognize another predator, albeit a wounded one.


“TAKE ME TO MY REGIMENT!” Caelis bellowed, with the last full breath he had, involuntary wheezing was all that would follow.


…The Scarred looked at Caelis quizzically before looking at the warmbloods waving their sticks and tools off to their far left, and letting out a great yawn as he stepped forward…


…The Aymaran Merely Flung Caelis into the air clear over his plate-scaled shoulder, in the fairly general direction of his regiment…


Caelis did not hear himself land, nor really feel it either. He had become a missile hefted upon the (still holding) near-left corner of the mud-elf formation. His fall was again broken by padding and the bodies of foes, but his lack of helm near killed him as he saw himself rolling once, then twice, towards a blade that lay propped in the mud before him. Before rolling upon it, he knocked the blade away with his mailed fist, the sharp pain of striking the blade bringing him somewhat to his senses. It was nothing short of a miracle his head was not crushed in this his second great fall of the battle.


He was on his back again… but this time his harbardiers… or shall we say wooden pikemen, were pulling him to safety with what weapons they had remained – most notably a rusty hook that perfectly meshed with one of the loops on his armor that could at times be used to quickly hoist an armored rider into his saddle. The weight on his chest was incredible. Gesturing frantically, his men attempted to pull him from his armor – as his breathing became more and more labored. There was blood from the Aymaran he laid out in his mouth somehow. He’d had crocodile at feast before… what a strange thought to have as one was blacking out, Caelis thought…


But lose consciousness he did not… Two harbardiers pushed the throng aside, and holding tiny handfuls of rust-sand, they burned away the steel affixings that held the pressure on Caelis’ chest. His breastplate popped open like an unslit chestnut tossed into a white-hot oven.


“Jez a ‘lil, Jav! Don’t damage the lord’s shell or this time YOU’RE the one who’s the fool.”


“Don’t talks to ME like you knows what your doing or what’s going on, Tomaz – we both know the worlds gone friggin’ mad and this ain’t no time for constructive criticism yah twig-waving NANCY.” Jav gestured proudly to his halbard that was still in good form. Caelis was pulled up. He saw from here his riders on the other side of the battlefield, bore full through the enemy formation – and it seemed his charge had cut the entire regiment almost full middle from deep corner to close. His lungs began to fill again. Rasping, Tomaz read his lips to his formation.


“THE LORD SAYS HOLD THE LINE! IF CAELIS AIN’T AFRAID TO BE A CANNONBALL IN THIS FIGHT THEN NONE OF YOU WRETCHES EVEN *THINK* OF TAKING A STEP BACK!”


The exiles and Attolians continued their slow advance and continued to harry and poke at what was now a disrupted corner of their enemy regiment.


Tocxhol’s Scarred had reached the front by now, and with him basically swept what remained of that corner into oblivion. Witches wheeled and spun overhead, but none could shoot nor pluck them from the sky. Not three feet from Tocxhol one of the witches, swinging some kind of weighted bag like a mace below her, struck one of the scarred in the head and knocked it flat out unconscious… Strange tactic… as it was obvious to him her ankle must have shattered into toothpicks. She, and her wriggling cargo seemed to veer off course…


Lindar regained consciousness twenty feet from the blood cloth that held him. His would be captor, foot almost a complete pulb, continued the chant with her sisters in the rock-strewn grass a distance from him. The boney-shackles seemed to “run” creepily back to their owner and wrapped around her ankle like a tourniquet, the skeletal hands that once bound him now seemingly the only thing holding her foot together.


Sereg’wethrin, and the Highborn’s own Tamer quickly revealed themselves, seeing this target of opportunity. The High Elf Spymaster ended the chanting of the grounded witch with a dart into her neck, his eye as well as entire form for a split second committed fully to the strike. Without missing a stride he started pulling Lindar to safety, and without word from either the tamer bound, gagged, shackled, and tied their Mud-witch quarry before pulling the veritable Maenad, by her good ankle, back into the brush and eventually behind elvish lines.


Vae’thorion Sensed the completion of the casting was immanent… he could see the dispel-power of his mage rising in an orb above their heads just as he witnessed one of the channeling witches had fallen into their hands. Vae’thorion swung his arm bearing the gem out at the Witches and their formation – Astral shards flew from the sky above the battlefield and raked the enemy before him, forcing the witches to stop their channeling just for an instant so as merely to be rocked by the gem’s star-shards lest they be ripped apart like the less fortunate beneath them…


AND THAT was the moment Quetanka waited for – these global, ritual, or field-wide spells seldom ran full incanting without SOME disruption in the flow. The integrity of the witches spell was strong until the channeling fell to three witches instead of four. The entire time he watched, could SMELL that the highborn mage sought to support him with high magic, to aid with the dispel. But Quetanka was not one for table-manners, nor manners of respect or concepts of sharing when it came to magical power on the battlefield. He snatched the Warmage’s spellpower like a greedy hog – and were it not that the Mage Shaalth Val’istar would have expected such a thing he might have been jolted from his boots, burned by feedback, or thrown into a parallel plane… Quetanka did that to one such “Helper” once… he still found it amusing. He focused on the runes of Will, Control, and Movement, and UNLEASHED his spellbreaking upon the enemy ritual, in what he could only assume was moments before it’s casting…


The Rune of control literally SHATTERED into lightless sparks. The feedback came, and Quetanka laughed as it literally shook a tooth from his jaw and his nostrils began to bleed. Leaving the “Direction” rune alone Quetanka guessed, and rightly, that the worse of the force would pass over him.


All three of his protective lids slammed shut over each eye as he attacked the rune of will, which bent, but he could not break. No feedback came to strike him this time – which was odd… The will of the undead would NOT belong to him, nor would it belong to the Witches… he’d heard of a spellbreaker accidentally transferring control of a squad of water elementals to nothing stranger than a MUNDANE bullfrog in a similar fashion… This was definitely going to be interesting. Quetanka loved his job at moments like this. Shame though the colony had no necromancers though, would have been a cinch for them to hijack the whole spell. Gums bleeding, he released his final strike upon the enemy spell...


The Movement Rune, Perhaps in his capriciousness at how he stole the channelled energy from the Highborn mage, remained intact. There was sufficient energy to destroy that link in the spell, but between the spell already unravelled and broken in one place, the inelegance of the snatched high-magic dispel energy merely burned off on its target in the Ether, and it stood firm. Quetanka didn’t bother to open his eyes. He knew what was coming…


The ensuing feedback blasted a hole in the ground beneath him and sent him sailing skyward. His massive bulk came to rest about three feet outside the triage area behind the battlefield, and a high elf turned and looked at him as if he’d always been there, but wondered how he’d been moved. Quetanka lost consciousness… once again he spit in the face of magic, and he’d live to spit in its face again. His body spasmed periodically as runaway mana jolted through his unconscious body… but Quetanka himself simply snored away as if in nothing less than a pleasant dream. A mana burn boiled up on his underbelly and in a small ring his flesh began to smoke. Quetanka turned on his side and curled his tail around him. Something smelled delicious he thought… When he got up he’d really have to see what somebody was roasting…


The enemy formation was falling back, and with surprising discipline renforming in a manner to receive a subsequent attack by the brutes and highborn – but it was quickly apparent they were withdrawing from the field. The three remaining witches cackled at the colonial forces – “OUR SPELL IS COMPLETE – Pursue or not, you shall be crushed between the hammer that is the Horned one and the Anvil that is the legacy of all who’d think to make cities in the graves of the mage kings!”


Splaying their limbs in exaltation, a veritable SHOCKWAVE of dark magic flew over the battlefield and in the direction of the ruins. One of the witches slowed her gestures and twisted her hands confusedly… they looked to each other for a moment… they knew their spell was successful, but somehow did not go as planned.


As the half-slain battle-group continued to withdraw, the three remaining witches seemed to conjure the outline of the fourth witch in a circle between them… their gesticulations became more and more frenzied, as flashes of their sister would appear for fractions of a second, then vanish again.


Behind the lines of the elvish formation, Sereg’Wethrin continued to help Lindar, now walking-wounded back behind the line of archers. In time with the witches jolts of energy, the crystalline dart in their prisoner’s neck seemed to pulse with bright light and send waves of searing pain along the length of their quarry as her rescue fizzled time and again...


The tamer addressed the master spy as he lit a long-reed pipe and continued to pull the half-naked witch along the ground…


“That why we leave the darts in, Spy-master?” he smugly seethed, seeing the rescue-teleport spell fail time and time again to take the witch from them.


Sereg-Wethrin pulled his hood over his head as if he had no patience for the cries of their prisoner. “Yes, Tamer… that is why we ALWAYS leave my darts in.”


Unless the Colonists wished to press the fight, the battle with the mud elves was over and they were giving up the field. If they did not press the attack, there was more that could be done for the fallen, who were still unknown in number – but if they decided to pursue, they might rout or even eliminate the enemy force. It seemed the Brutes would give no thought but for pursuit, but the cunnings looked pressingly at the Scarred in supplicant suggestion that some Aymaran may already be dead – and if the pursuit is pressed, several brutes who are unaware they are mortally wounded would succumb before treatment. The cunning cared little for the lives of the brutes – but it was not in the nature of cunning to waste resources… especially those that fall to screen their own violence. Elsewhere on the field many brutes had already stopped their fighting and begun to swallow a number of corpses each before dragging additional mud-elf fallen into holes or shadowy corners of the ruin… the ‘Platz began to chirp with the scattered crunching of bones and the gleaming eyes of feeding brutes wherever one looked. If there was to be a continued offensive, the Cunnings would have to motivate it quickly. It was already almost too much to whip and stab them away from eating the dead or the wounded of friendly forces… Tocxhol slowly came to situational awareness himself when he nearly collapsed from exhaustion a full 50 yards beyond where the battlefield took place, mopping up stragglers, rearguard, and wounded alike. The exiles fanned about swiftly killing fallen who resisted, and binding or sapping those that fell but did not.


Tocxhol looked around but could not find his maul. He might have thrown it at some point. He couldn’t remember. His belly was DISTENDED from the accumulated bites of flesh he had taken in the battle. That part of him that was wise whispered to him, that if he advanced much more without support – the Witches would no doubt put spellfire upon him.


As if to answer that thought, Tocxhol observed a wicked coruscating bolt of energy fly from the hands of the Shaalth’Valistar, the High Elf mage, and the bolt, travelling from far behind him struck one of the witches burned and black dead in the air. The withdrawal continued, but no faster than it had before for one of it’s supposed leaders so sharply plucked from them.


-The trio of Orm, Bruul and Rahg head out to Market Platz to fetch healers and business.


The distance to the ‘Platz was no topic for humor, Orm panted even in his head. His deepened endurance kept carrying him forward, the lactic acid in his muscles threatening to cook him like a great beef-steak as the heat of his exertion carried him forward. They only had business to conduct in the ‘Platz, but the Herbalists were likely due back a while by now. If that wasn’t reason to hurry, the distant lights of what could only be hurling torches and crackling spell-energy threw the trio into full on run. Rahg made a great attempt of it, but he could not keep up. Bruul threw upon him some empowerment, and Rahg nodded as he clutched his chest… he would catch up, he implied. He fell upon a great rock in boulder field and bid the shaman and great-chief keep running. Bruul did not look tired, Orm saw that the dust trail behind him was twice as wide as even his, despite their approximate bulk and speed favoring the Chieftain.


Bruul worded between bellowing breaths, their chests rising and falling like giant pistons, their great hearts radiating effort through their sinews like miniature suns. “I… Dispense… The Force… Behind Me…. Chieftain. I’m cheating.”


Orm and Bruul laughed at the Shaman’s jest, which visibly hurt them both. They seemed to be off course… the market was in the center of the ‘platz, putting the healer’s guild too far to their left for them to have taken the best path to the rest of the colony – maybe the quickest route, maybe the path of least resistance, but they weren’t where they wanted to be. They could hear strange noises off to the west, but for the moment no sounds of battle as they expected. The wind was high – it sounded like a muddled mix of a great hospital and a thousand bones crunching in some kind of rock tumbler.


Orm could see Bruul sensed something that gave him tremendous pause, and they both watched in great alarm as they saw the great wave of dark energy fly east to west above the length of the ‘Platz and into the ruin beyond.


“Whatever plans we had, Orm – As shaman and your counsel I bid we go first to the location of that spellfire… Whatever has happened to the east of us, we might have missed it – but I sense ill tidings on this side of the ‘Platz to have only begun…”


Orm was finally losing his race with Bruul… if he intended to be able to swing a weapon when he reached his destination, he slowed to an amble. Bruul empowered him too, and they moved on. They passed between the great marble house and the great fountain… a light burned in one of the high windows in that towering structure – windows that has every time previously observed been sealed by blocks of sandstone flush with their frames. A cowled figure from within a well-lit room inside seemed to be watching whatever was unfolding or unfolded on the east side of the ‘Platz. Before either of them could address the form or even react, the heap of cloaks seemed to drop it’s spyglass, and with a single gesture the sandstone block rose from inside the room and locked back in place, sealing it as absolutely as it ever had been. The light within the structure no longer visible, Bruul nonetheless could sense it was there…


…As they walked further to find the very west end of the ‘Platz (somewhere around which the Attolians kept a watch tower and the Elves had set up a pavilion) they passed through the courtyard of the Great Fountain. It seemed to radiate great power now… The font at it’s top sprayed a jet of crimson blood from various pipings in all directions into the basin below…


“Good Evening, Settlers – it is a fine evening we’re having, is it not?” The powerful voice coming from the bloody fountain seemed cheerful, and non-threatening… or at least as un-threatening as a giant blood-spewing monument could promise to be. Orm had a mind to stop right here, but the look in Bruuls eyes said that SOMEHOW the worst to see was yet ahead of them. They saw the watchtower not far away, and with the last of the haste graced to them at the foot of it came to an incredible sight….


WHAT HAD TO BE AT LEAST A *THOUSAND* SKELETONS OR MORE WERE FILLING THE STREETS IN THE RUINS WEST OF THE ‘PLATZ.


Directed west by the spellforce they witnessed, they were neither controlled nor were they under the will of any mage that Bruul could detect. This was powerful necromancy that got turned on it head.


Bruul groaned out in disbelief, his eyes as wide as saucers at the slowly advancing HORDE of undead ambling towards the ‘Platz.


“Great Chief… Some wizard tonight has Seriously shit the bed trying to get a spell off.”


Ahead of them to the south other “flows” of skeletons began to stumble down the slope into the ‘Platz, almost directly in front of the Elven Pavillion… looking behind them, a similar parade of the dead had cut off their path behind them, walking east… always east…


At the Attolian Tower, the guardsmen were ringing some silver bell like CRAZY… and to everyone’s great surprise, it had slowed and even stopped the march of the dead some twenty yards from the base of the watchtower.


Bruul’s fists both shook with chambered punches, just waiting to be loosed. Orm Stood in front of Bruul, in front of the Tower, in Front of one of the most massive legions of skeletons or men or anything else he had ever seen assembled in one place. He put his shaman and the colony behind him… He could feel the Animal rage pulse within him… jumping up and down on the floor of his spirit.


….Orm’s boundless rage, that bore a son in him that was the leader he was, or at least the leader he aspired to be… he wondered if his life would end this night in an opposite fashion as he remembered it beginning – The gentle hand of Uumush laid upon his yearling brow that for the first time pushed aside the red-fury… He wondered if, surrendering to the beast as he might have to, if these were his last rational thoughts, last bits of true consciousness until he raged against this unending throng until he finally died of a thousand wounds, and shortly after that, his great friend Bruul behind him…


…But that’s not what happened at all. When Orm stepped into the light of the watchtower, the skulls, or where he imagined the eyes of the skeletons might be, all fell upon him. To the south and north… the smaller incursions too stopped, and slowly turned in his direction. The Attolian watchmen in the tower above continued to ring the spirit-bell in panicked desperation… until one of the more armor-clad and intact skeletons pushed to the front of the mass and held a hand up to the bell-ringer and to Orm – who stood, ready to end his life in a brazen charge…


The skeleton, dust shaking from every orifice in it’s head as it did so – addressed… actually spoke to Orm and to a lesser extent the Attolians. The voice sounded twofold, like a pleasant conversant but behind it a silent screaming of the same words…


“Oooooh….” (looking at the Tyren) … “This seems to be a great misunderstanding!”


Neither the Attolians nor the Tyren could think of an answer.


The Skeleton wheeled around to the rest of the calcified sea of undead, in tattered clothes, battered armor, and all manner of broken and rusty weapons…


“These are not Forces from Arcosephale! Can you not clearly see that these are Diplomats from Pangea, Come to see how we’re faring in the war?!”


Those that lived still watched… in utter disbelief as the skeletons began to stand down.


“Pa’aani! Where are your famous manners! And your journey must have been so long and hard for you to be wearing rags as you do! Surely the Flags of Pangea fly high in the east, this war is far from over – and while we may not have always sought succor in the might of each other’s nations… surely you can see that our combined strength, and an army of Titans no less, shall surely win through!”


The skeleton’s neuter voice seemed to take a slightly more womanly soprano, the following hushed screaming likewise becoming more feminine… It turned to the skeletons in their number behind her and started shooing them back into the ruin…


“These are Emissaries from Pangea! They are not here to fight us! Surely the embassy in the Plaza is not wholly destroyed in the recent fighting?! Let our visitors settle in! Those anxious to treat with our allies can extend them the courtesy of a few nights privacy!!” She turns back to Orm, and failing to notice her tattered cloak and shoulder-plate fall to the floor in the gesture, introduces herself…


“I am General Patricia Sheal LONGDEAD.” (The last part only being in part of the silenced scream) “and the good folk behind me you must know are the soldiers and folk of Berytos LONG DESTROYED, The Finest City-State of the Great Mage Kings and Queens, ALL DEAD… ALL DEAD… perhaps rivaled only by your exhalted homelands in the East! BURIED DEEP… BURIED DEEP FOR MILES. LONG DEAD. WE ARE ALL LONG DEAD.”


The skeletons… or at least most of them, begin to fall back, but for the most part, not very far, back into the ruin. Here and there, small groups mill about…


“It looks like they have a market down there! I don’t know about you but my cupboard is EMPTY… SO EMPTY… Can’t we buy a bit of food there, General?”


The small groups of dejected skeletons seem to sulk as General Patricia continues to wave them off.


"If the siege has lifted why can't we enjoy some of their food? TO REMEMBER....."


General Patricia ignores the complaints of those followers and turns back her attention to Orm and the colonists. If there were any flesh on her head at all, one might imagine that Patricia was smiling... Orm shivered as he looked on hundreds of such smiles. teeth with no lips to cover them...


“I truly apologize for the state of the Plaza, it’s sustained a fair amount of damage in the last Arcosephalic offensive… but you should find all you need down there, we’ve since abandoned that area since as you can tell it lays outside the main wall THAT WAS SCATTERED TO ASH IN AN INSTANT!” If you MUST come inside the city, I believe that’s something that will require a great bit of discussion with both our superiors – we may be allies in this war, but since the breaching of Tartarus, you know Everybody has become so fond of secret weaponry. You shouldn’t face much trouble though… that clockwork legion you gifted us still stands as strong as ever – Some Zebani may have slipped through in the last attack – but What is such a crude construct warrior to the master craft of the Pa'aani?”


The “General” seems to back off, withdrawing politely while continuing to usher more stubborn skeletons milling on the outskirts of the ‘Platz.


“Address me if you need anything, proud Pa’aani HOW ARE YOU STILL HERE? WHAT HAPPENED TO US?!” and with the ending of that sentence, her skeleton and all that adorned it clatters in a heap in the center of the street not 200 yards from the watchtower. Many other skeletons clatter to the floor where they stand, still others walk far and deep into the ruins…


It is only then the sounds of the exhausted but fleeing refugees pouring into the depression behind them come to the attention of the completely gobsmacked Orm and Bruul. Far to the north, Ragh comes stumbling after… completely ignorant of all that’s transpired and apparently considerably calmed due to obvious great failures in perception…


“We veered a bit too far to the west… no reason to look all shocked about it!”


….


“Did you notice the hornless got the fountain back on? I didn’t get to admire it seein’ as I passed it on the side with my bad eye, but I could hear it FIERCE! Things are really sprucing up around here, eh Great Chief?”


…..


Notes:


Casualties by Colonial forces still uncalculated. May be mitigated by action.


Decision to Press attack or allow withdrawal of Mud-elf force required. (defaults to allowing withdrawal)


There may be spoils amid the dead.


Holy crap the ruin is literally boiling with skeletons held back only by the mildest thinnest veneer of convenient misunderstanding. Apparently the people of this ancient city had a very different relationship and perception of minotaurs than anywhere else in the Old World…
 
Last edited by a moderator:
@Leusis @SpiralErrant


“The Green above the Grey”


For days Tyren envoys, curious visitors, good-will gift-givers and workers of all sorts meandered veritably without pause between the camps of Harun’taran and Foothill forests. Shortly after this, a large contingent, approximately one wood elf for every four, travelled in union in the opposite direction to lay the foundation for a unified, and truly allied faction union.


The arrival of the Tyren was eyed with some suspicion by most of the more mature elves, but trust in their leader kept any ill-will or manner in check. Belanor was young for his station – but he gained that mantle in part for his vision, and that what was often seen as rash to so many of his kin had with increasing frequency was later seen by many as decisive action. To their race, like the tree, a year is as a day – but some among the wood elves must be the wind in the boughs – That which moves the bows so that the seeds of tomorrow are laid the day they are needed. This was the mantle of the Autumn lord… and the Mantle of Autumn was one of change – Belanor was well within right and custom to propose such radical ideas. Leaves must chance, that which is old must fall so it can be born anew. This is what the elder Sylvan told themselves.


The Springborn, on the other hand were nothing but excited to meet the Tyren – most of them had seen few if any of the other settlers at all since relocation to the foothill wood, and envisioned further receding into obscurity and safety being the expected trend in store. The arrival of warm, strange, and friendly Tyren was most enjoyable to the Springborn – who unlike the older elves found novelty in Tyren craft and a new-eye’s appreciation for their arts. (many of the summerborn would politely receive a Tyren gift as one might a bent raw-lead set of dinner ware – profoundly inelegant, and almost certainly not even safe to use. The springborn LOVED the great size of the Tyren, that the smallest and mildest among them were HUGE by the stature of elves… that for their relative ages, they had so much in common with Tyren in vision and maturity they did not share with their elders.


Endless conjecture and questioning from the springborn bombarded the Tyren, as well as wild speculation amongst each other as to the ways, proclivities, and very nature of the Tyren.


The Springborn asked:


“Tyren! Are you wild spirits, or simply immortals like us?”


“Tyren! One among us supposed you were created by Anfel by awakening the noblest animals of the plains… that’s not true, is it?”


“Shhhhhh! They’re FAE! Don’t ask them anything or they’ll trick you!”


“Were all of you BLIND during the voyage or just below moaning in your bedrolls?! They come from the Old world! The Summerborn helped them sail here! Trixt – YOU YOURSELF rolled sea-weed rations for them during the sea-crossing. They’re not magic at all! They’re not even immortal!”


“Not Immortal? That’s so sad!!! Why are they giving US gifts?!”


“Do they go to the lightlands that much faster then? That’s no fair – why must woodelves wait so long or even die before leaving the world?”


“THEY DON’T GO TO THE LIGHTLANDS in the end, Ulalesse! Their bodies and spirits join with nature and continue the cycle of life, like our bodies do if we are taken before our final days. It’s quite beautiful actually, if you think of it, they are always of this earth… how ROMANTIC! Tyren are so exciting!”


“Are Tyren an entwined race now?” (Shhhhhh!) “Like the Dryads, and Ents?” (Shhhhhhh!) “They’re a lot louder and more obvious that tree-kin…” (SHUT UP, Ohmbryn! They don’t know what Ents ARE, and it’s up to the ELDERS to share such things with them!” … “So they DO know about Drya-“ (Ohmbryn is pulled away by his ear by one of the Summerborn…)


Springborn affinity for Tyren livestock brought in gift or show for the wood-elves is likewise fascinating for the Springborn…


“They ARE entwined with other races of the planes, See! They are symbiotic, and depend on one another!” … “Friend Tyren, are these MAGICAL sheep? Can they talk, or are they just for riding and such?” – “Do they ever wear YOUR WOOL?”


The springborn trade many gifts and keepsakes (most selfmade, relatively new, or amateur efforts – but the Tyren find value, novelty, and even some utility in some of aspects of it. For example, “Wire-root-twine” – threads of plant-fiber that tear and join easily QUICKLY become popular tethers for coins (if you punch a hole in them), tools, keys, and a variety of small objects big Tyren hands often use large pockets to keep at hand and “organized”…


For Tyren, Wood Elf Cuisine was a TRIUMPH. Tyren loved their own meals and ways, but there was simply no denying the gravity of a millennia old culture that both did and did not eat on the move. Wood elf culinary technique alone was BOUND to be a RAGE in Tyren culture – though it might manifest or gain “Fusion” in it’s own way.


(Wood Elf and Tyren Morale raises to Strong)


Wood elves see samples of the Sapphire like gem-pods the Tyren found in the swamp, and begin to speculate a variety of applications for them (ampules, fragmentation arrows, organic decoratives with VERY interesting applications with tree singing…) they also speculate that the protective thorn-plants in the swamp might have useful defensive properties, if samples could be removed….


In the Tyren camp, the wood elf delegation had their own experience in Harun’Taran proper… while they were comfortable in the camp proper, they much preferred the shade and trees closer to the riverside – though sadly it was stressed bitterly that it was not safe to tarry there for concern of inciting Gnoll hostility. This gave an entirely different color to the wood elves settling in, which was cautious and reserved.


For the springborn, their experience was relatively similar, but took on a quiet respect for observation of Tyren custom and the sharing of commonalities and the joy found in differences.


The Glade Guard, who had already been here… didn’t talk much. They took positions on the ridge over the river, where they had shot so many gnolls not so very long ago.


The Tree kin performed rites that involved marching a ring around Harun’Taran, sowing sacred plants and symbolic runes, and then the planting of no small number of trees along that ring that would form the initial frame for a circular glade. After the initial rites, it seemed apparent that the Monument of Fertility began to lend power to the Tree Kin. When the Kin studied the spirits of the saplings they planted, they found all had taken, and there was little need for rearrangement or additional succor for transplants that did not “take” to new earth. Only a quarter of the tree-kin was not enough for the largest of undertakings, but even the winterborn were surprised with what the Tree-singers could accomplish If they continued to allow the spirit of the monument to aid them.


Of the Winterborn sent, The council chose Illythera, Leader of the Forest Kin, and the most mysterious of the Winterborn – the seldom seen or spoke of that most Woof elves simply referred to as “The Last One” – Only Belanor the Winter Council knew precisely who they were, but their presence and authority were unquestionable.


“The Last One” did not spend much time, perhaps any – speaking with any Tyren – he ACTIVELY avoided Shul, who it could be seen visibly disturbed him. He walked the ring the Forest Kin developed, and he greeted each of the Glade Guard in turn, but silently. The only Tyren he sought words with was Uumush – who he swept towards like a moth to flame. Uumush bid him inside the Tent of the Shamans – (Unheard of even for Tyren, and notable even for Orm himself to enter) and they apparently conferred there for a long time. While “The last One” did not seem significantly changed of mood, one who was observant might guess he had gotten critical answers that he, or the wood-elves might need… Ummush bid him farewell at the exit of his wagon, but did not come out for the rest of the day…


Illythera, though mostly preoccupied with the sowing of the Tree-circle, made time as best as she could to meet with the grower Tyren, and others who wished to show greeting, meet as peers, or show respect. It was noted that skilled workers of the Tyren Growers were FASCINATED with “Tree-singing” – and to varying degrees were just amazed to watch, or highly desirous to watch in hopes of learning. Illytheria was polite, but while she was more open than most on the Winterborn council, she knew Belanor and Anfel especially were protective of the secrets of their ways. Wrusar, Master-Growcraft of the Tyren, made a point to make audience with Illythera and make proposal… Wrusar was one of the most Mystic of the Tyren outside of the Circle of shamans, and one of the oldest of the wagon-heads… He proudly, but respectfully requested that Illytheria devote time to him and the growers, to see what the Tyren and their wild and nature spirits might have to offer, and gain, from tree singing. Proposed ideas were: Improving tree-shaping with the gentle application of Tyren power, and to Illythera the wilder of the ideas: “The Purity of Bull Iron, and its possible integration to tree-sung architecture” – Wrusar stressed that bull iron “is untainted by bargain with fire” and therefore might not have the same negative impact on Wood Elf construction as “Dwarf and Human” metals – and that the potential was too promising to overlook.


All in all, the first phases of a merger as it might have been planned had been sown – but some pressing issues remained. To name a few:


-Some of the Wood Elves felt very comfortable in their new homes, and invested in the efforts and tree-singing made to create them… such concerns might need to be ameliorated or some wood elves would be saddened, if not exactly angered.


-What was to be done with the Foothill glades when the relocation was complete? Would they be allowed to revert to the wild? Would they be maintained? Would they remain as forts or outposts of some kind? Should they be protected from logging, which could not be denied a possibility if not carefully watched with the southlanders around…


-Lastly, Illythera stresses to Belanor that if a new glade is to be relocated surrounding Harun’Taran, it will take ALL of the Forest Kin tree-singing… not just a quarter of them. They are off to a good start, made better if they choose to draw power (and give regard) to the Nature Spirit of the Monument… but more than anything else, the project was short-staffed…
 
Breath. Caelis had to tell himself. Each breath he took sent jolts of lightening throughout his body. Breathing was a toilsome endeavour. Perhaps it was the adrenaline, but blows that would knock most men unconscious failed to make him stand down. No, he would see to it that he would continue to lead his men. They depended on him as he was the main reason that many of them came to these treacherous lands. He wheezed his commands in between each heaving breath "Get the men..." *cough* "to regroup. Salvage whatever they can. Get the bloody alligators to stop eating everything." He then took a few seconds to recover before he continued "Get the Doctor! And anyone else who knows how to treat injuries. Triage center, 50 meters behind our line... Specialized care for the severely wounded first if they can be saved. First aid for everyone else until the severely wounded are tended to. Quick. Take my horse."


Caelis then looked over to the Exlies. They seemed to be keeping busy as they finished dealing with those left behind and started to rally prisoners. This was fine. The battle was over. They had fended off the Mud Elf attack. They had achieved victory for now. But there was much work to be done. He was not sure if the other factions would continue pursue, but his men were in no shape to continue fighting especially against an enemy that had regrouped and was organized again. This battle showed Caelis how many weaknesses that the Attolians had. Whatever that rust powder was... it was devastating. Plus, 10 soldiers was not enough. The decision to split his forces was a mistake. He would plan to recall Lothar and his detachment back to the platz. For now, he sat in a clearing, doing his best to try and stop the bleeding until he could receive treatment. Victory, for some reason, tasted very bitter that day as he continued to take labored breathes.


---


At the Depression, Doctor Fleming took it upon himself to help those who had suffered injuries while evacuating. The worst cases were only a broken bone or two. However, he was worried as occasionally he could sense something strange going on to the east. He looked over to Lady Cassandra who became as pale as a ghost as she mentioned something about a disturbing magical presence that swept over the land. Still, Doctor Fleming had a job, and that was to treat others. He had began to gather others who had medical experience or knowledge so that they can be ready to treat the injured as soon as they were called for. He even had the Chemist with him with the first batch of opium ready. He had them as a backup in case there were those who needed intrusive treatment. Only those who really needed an opiate would receive a dose as it could prevent their bodies from going into shock.


Lady Cassandra, on the other hand felt, a strong magical presence in the platz. She knew that she had to investigate the source.


Summary:


Caelis orders for Doctor Fleming to come to the field and set up a triage center behind the Colonial line.


Exiles are left to continue their capturing of prisoners


The soldiers are ordered to salvage whatever they can from the field and save as many of the mud elf corpses as possible


The Doctor and the Chemist are on standby with the opium. Use is up to the Doctor's discretion.


Lady Cassandra goes to the Platz to investigate the magical phenomena occurring
 
@KamiKahzy @Prince Vaethorion:


“Of welcome guests, and meetings most unpleasant”


The Ratfolk ship, such as it was – continued to tip and teeter on the outskirts of the shallows. Facing the Highborn, Hostilities followed by pleasantries were hastily dispensed with. Milkweed expressed his desire not to tarry when there might be folk in need of aid, though he silently hoped his people would be more warmly received as rescuers than they had first been greeted by the Highborn as neighbors. Still, it was as Milkweed said – this is nothing new. If things would be different in this new land, he and his people would have to make a way for it.


The Ratfolk greeted the High Elves in perfect common, but the Highborn Linguist SURPRISED Milkweed by addressing him in return in his own language – though highly formal, and without the animation and body-language or scent-cues typical of Ratfolk communication, it sounded to milkweed as flat, without amity nor enmity, as if spoken by an automaton. Milkweed had heard tell that the High Elves were a stiff lot, in many ways making even the Muurdaan Bureaucrats warm by comparison… but of these strange fur-less and fair-skinned people he knew little more than that. There were no Ratfolk living under, around or otherwise in the lands of the High Elves – their territories were remote, and many said hidden by strange magics. While ratfolk had spread almost ubiquitously throughout the eternal empire and even in what was left of independent territories beyond… Milkweed had heard no tale of Rat Kith or Kin in the lands of the Highborn. Perhaps he would hold his judgement – as the seeming leader of this group of elves at least cared enough to learn some facsimile of how a Ratling spoke… but he remained suspicious. If Highborn share no space with the clans, why would they go to the trouble of learning their language?


The Linguist greeted the ratfolk to the colony as best he could and in as formal a mode as he could be understood while maintaining a highborn dignity. He had long known Ratfolk gestures and pheromones made up a vital part of their communicative subtlety, but the Highborn had no SMELLS to share with these newcomers. The linguist was civil, demonstrated that their initial reaction was in defense of the colony, and that their defense as colonists now fell under their purview – if this “Chief” was going to investigate a supposed distress call, they would assist – cautiously and with their best defense – but they would make the Ratfolk mission their own, at least for now. They had wondered about goings on at Paradise Isle since Vaal’istar sensed dark portents there – but there had been no time. The linguist signaled with flag and flare to the observers at the pavilion cliffs high above, and began the work of moving their own vessel behind that of the ratfolk, but at and angle that would permit their fire-support if it was needed… The Linguist, nine archers, and five spearmen cast their lot in with Milkweed’s venture, and stated clearly this intent… what the linguist did not share was that his in-depth knowledge of the Ratling tongue was born in the interest of policies to maintain in perpetuity that no Ratfolk gain purchase in the lands of the Highborn as they had in the “rest” of the Eternal Empire.


The Linguist himself liked to believe he was fair in greeting all non-elves with an equal amount of hidden disdain… but there was no mistaking that Ratfolk infested every inch of ground they gained a shade of foot-hold on. He was quick to disabuse his subordinates of any real association between these beastfolk and the Wererat-plague… and ordered those present to propagate and stress this truth to the rest of the Highborn force. But there was no denying that Vae’thorion would need to be told that even if allies, this “Faction” represented a threat… that the actual spread of ratfolk as he examined it was factorially more virulent than a were-plague… a Ratfolk population, in ideal conditions could grow six-fold in a single year. He put this out of his mind… just as he put from his mind the thought that perhaps setting the Ratfolk Ship ablaze right offshore might just be the safest call to make… the safest, yes – but not his to make. They would follow.


Milkweed ordered his dirty paws to bring their ship starboard, and it slowly glided east – away from the beach – remarking with interest the combination of pristine port and graveyard of ships run aground…


The Dirty Paws were restless… had they come so far to a new land for milkweed to pull them away from it before even having a chance to land?


…A rescue… rescue of whom, and if these “Birds” behind them weren’t racing off to attend to it, why was Milkweed making it their problem!?


Those that thought they might be out of earshot of the aged, (and too the learned more senior to them) were more vocal with their discord…


Fakesmirk, so named by how his comparative courage in the face of peril, broke the silence first:


“If any o’ wee die before even landing on the mainland, that’d be thrice a tragedy. All my born days I’ve wanted to live without a roof over my head and except the occasionally starry night – this boat has given us no more freedom than a sewer – leaks the same, water all around’s the same, after a couple of weeks it almost smells the same. If I die, I wan’ all my kin to think of me as one of the Birds* – I couldn’t handle the grief of poor fate strikin’ anyone THIS night. Momma Neesa hold us close, sibs.”


*(The term bird was of course, ratfolk slang for beings that lived above ground – in many ways very similar to thieves Cant, Many ratfolk used metaphors or bits of code that often differed between clans, or even between families. In the dark where anyone could be listening – code might be as important as language, or more so – much of the Cant was common though… Ratfolk was Kin, and all the folk that lived above the ground – (in the sky, as it were) were called Birds. They had names for other folk and creatures too… but Birds was a big one.)


Steelvixen replied, her voice sounding a bit off for straining to see what was on the approaching shore as she looked down the sight of her heavy crossbow…


“Listen to this one talk! We’re not in the new land a day – and suddenly we’re all birds, now?! We are gonna SURVIVE wherever Chief Milkweed says we is, and if that means digging a hole so deep the rock be hot n’ red, we all gonna be REAL cozy with that. Folk is Folk, and Birds is Birds… an’ like you say, try not to die or get me killed an’ maybe either of us will learn to make the distinction!”


Boulderrabbit, so named for his uncommonly large ears and rotund frame that belied his being one of the most muscular of the ‘paws (and some would say quietest)… Spit far over the railing, watching his foam merge with that of an out-breaking wave. He hefted two Heavy crossbows over his shoulders and narrowed his eyes.


“I’m thinkin’ we’ll live where the early-birds tell us to, sibs. Least until milkweed’s dreams of getting along are somehow still kicking. He’s no fool – that Milkweed… which makes me wonder how stupid I am to think any vision of living alongside these strange-ones is crazy. I think it’s time we all shut up now… island getting close… but I tell you I have no hope of white flags and free honey with no folk on shore… and never I more happy to be a gugeon** if it ain’t so.”


**(Gugeon: Little fish, fool, something easily silenced.)


Both Ratkin and Elf noticed easily the relatively busy waters of the mainland were in stark contrast to this Island as they approached. It seemed to rise out of nowhere, so shallows, nor real grade to speak of up to the beach. Where the splashing of a shark or two was unmissable by the colony shore, the sea here looked, even felt, empty by comparison. No sandbars, no reefs – the isle floated like a rock-sweet in a black-and-azure tea… Ill tidings.


Then there was the mist… Elf and Ratling both, despite each their own racial advantages, could see little without getting much closer to the island. The previously well-pronounced signal flame was nowhere to be seen… Milkweed ordered the ship to sail around the coast until some detail of safe harbor presented… the High elf ship slipping silently in it’s wake, it’s broadsides bringing to bear all it’s arms… such as they were…


Coalback brought Nateema on deck, or rather stepped slowly behind her as she made her way up on her own with the help of a cane. Her nostrils flared as she took in the smell of the sea, the night air, and the individual well-being of each of her charges on deck… she walked the line of them along the bow, laying a firm hand of the fearful, and laying a soft hand on the tense… her mere presence seemed to bring a sence of tranquility and readiness to Milkweed’s cohort… she slipped her cane into her mottled robes as she neared Milkweed, sidling over to the Chief as if the cane were some kind of prop. Milkweed’s nearest ear turned instinctively to her… and even needle pulled her muzzle from her scope for a moment to take notice of her before going back to scanning the fog…


Nateema spoke: “Milkweed, so kind of you to invite a lady out on such a many-splendored evening – though I reckon it’s been long enough since either of us showed anyone a good time..” She japed at her new Chieftain… before beginning again:


“Your Ham-fist did rouse me from a most wild and exciting dream – a prophetic dream I’m thinking! – When our ears and nostrils are not so full of fight or flight you should ask me to share it with you – it was a dream of many tails** -- Of a great beast that bore a flag of freedom!“


**(Many tails: to have lots of children. Because the clan raised young collectively, for each Ratling to “have many tails” meant that there were plenty of pups underfoot or trailing. This was among shamans one of the most positive portents to have in a vision...)


She sniffed the air again… as if finding herself… “Decay, Chieftain. Decay, Death – Despair. Poor contrast to my dream… (she chuckles) should have stayed in bed…” Coalback, who remained behind her, crumpled his face as Nateema sneakily poked him in the ribs with her cane from within her robes. “But yer paws have got me, so I’m here at your will – this is a bad place we go to, fast-friend… But I’ve got a way with the dead sometimes, specially when they’re not directed…”


The ships broke through the fog to see what seemed to be the hulks of two ships. A merchantman – similar to the ratfolk but more modern, and stylish, lay shattered on the beach, seemingly scuttled hurriedly in a rush to salvage materials. Still moored behind it, as if tugged – was an old but seemingly serviceable sloop – unlike the other ship this one was not aground, but instead left bobbing against the tow-lines of the former lead craft. In the distance they could hear some sort of geyser, and they scanned again for what could be seen this close to shore…


Besides the dilapidated wreck, there seemed to be a short trail of rubbish, and assorted bits and trinkets in a trail leading from the wreck itself to some point inland – as if folk had fled with their belongings, but either dropped what they could not carry or it fell with them, who have since gone absent. Interesting boxes, a scroll case, all manner of bits were slowly wasting on the beach… but it was clear they had not been there long.


Coming over the slope, and indeed wandering all along the shore – were skeletons, and the slumbering bodies of the recently dead. Nateema seemed to gesture to each one that looked as if it might begin to take notice of them, and each in turn seemed to turn away. After a period of time she blew along the level of the terrain ahead, and the shambling dead seemed to wander slowly out of sight again.


“Somebody’s given them instructions… but they ain’t quite being directed. Avoid the attention of whoever is pulling the strings, and I should be able to keep the “dustmen” off our hides…”


Beyond that, few but Needle could see much of anything – even the elves with their spyglass. The clouds seem to hang over the island, andthat the night was somehow darker here.


Needle whispered what she saw through her crude scope-lens as she picked points of interest out of the black…


“Melon-patches. Who else wishes they had a cold melon?” feeling the tension behind her, she continued…


“Big house off the side. Looks beat up. Hole on the roof? Shiny litter up there… probably glass. No way to be sure…”


“Some kind of hovel-tower closer to the middle. Can’t see much. Raining over there… and something odd about it. If there’s anybody still alive in that heap o’ wreck, they’re in a bad way – It’s looking like they scrapped their ship to build some thread-stick-and-cobble hidey-hole. “Dustmen” around it… more than we saw here… walkie kind.”


(Dustmen: Undead, or regular dead in significant numbers.)


Moving in a tighter group, both ratfolk and elves saw a small group – perhaps a dozen more zombies… but there were not the corpses of any landed folk. They were the grotesque walking corpses of fishmen… some with spear, arrow, and blade still stuck in them from when they were slain. Nateema Blew over her hand towards them again, and their eyes seemed to roll upwards towards the leering moon in the sky, for a second the clouds parted… and they headed inland away from the ships.


…All was quiet but for perhaps the want of conference between the two ships who at least had living crew upon them. The elves and Ratkin had either seen enough, or had not yet begun to see what might lay in store….


Fakesmirk took one hand off his crossbow to run his paw over his head, and the fur where it coursed stood stiff. “…Momma Neesa – I’ll go wherever your will sends me, but in the end, let me die at home… wherever you see fit that be….”


Notes: Highborn and ratkin have gotten best intel they can get without sailing to investigate the other side of the island. It is in their hands what to do with this information, if they do anything with it at all...
 
Last edited by a moderator:
@Heyitsjiwon @Elendithas @Prince Vaethorion @SpiralErrant


….More dead, more captives. More dead, more captives. Doctor Flemming ran to site where colony wounded began to pile up. This place wasn’t clean, wasn’t safe, and with the healers guild some 8 blocks away, it seemed a travesty to him that an actual hospital lie so close and yet so far – it looked like the Mud-elves were withdrawing, but it was far from certain by the posture of their own forces if colonial forces would let them leave… If the battle wasn’t over, he would do best with what he had – He had press-ganged a number of attolians to bring water for the wounded (which silenced the cries and moans of several injured)… began classifying the worst off cases – which was harder to do than you’d imagine for a conventional surgeon when it seemed several of the most grievously wounded had been subject to certain clerical ministration… to judge the wrong cases the worst would cost lives. He did his best, and for now it seemed his best was sufficient. Anuc, who had heard of Dr. Flemming and had much wanted to meet him – quickly ran to his side and began to give her best assessment of who got here first and who had received what degree of attention already. Behind them, insect nets and small tents started to go up – for what he hoped would be an environment clean enough for field surgery.


Anuc paused for a moment, before asking a question of the doctor… she watched his hands. She hoped she would learn a thing or two if she was attentive… she was an herbalist – but days being what they were knowing how to stitch the odd cut was woefully insufficient for her dalliances in medicine outside of her trade…


“Doctor – excusing for any offense from a people who have little place for formality, but can you tell me why you do not join us at the Healer’s guild? We heard tale of your cure of the Disease of the exiles… not me, I’m sure – but some wonder if you slight us? The folk I mean, not the healers.” She looked downcast… that didn’t come out right at all…


“Excuse me, what?” replied the doctor. “So glad you are here. So much work to do, we are saving lots of time with you being here… and time is blood. Caelis has been keeping me busy, but I hope we may work in closer proximity if my schedule allows…” Anuc breathed a sigh of relief.


Flemming gestured to some of his forced-volunteers, most of which looked downright horrified to be back in the ‘Platz after burning their lungs just to be away from it scant minutes earlier. He designated the moving of all prisoners to one area of triage, and for them to be carefully monitored. For now, that job was accomplished by a handful of Exiles strong enough to remain on their feet, but with injuries that kept them off the front. Any movement on the part of the prisoners was responded to with a vicious beating – and second offenses were given what was crudely referred to in Old world prisons as “The whistler’s handle” – basically the violent removal of one’s top “eye teeth” – so called because subsequently such victims could be safely picked up by their heads from then on… the fate of the stubbornly resistant, for so rough a lot.


Dr. Flemming was forced to make the welfare of prisoners a bottom priority, but designated a few that might be of higher status than simple grunt to be bound instead of brutalized. The violence displeased him greatly – but he was not about to pick fights with convicts who may have just lost brothers and friends on the field. It seemed every time something went wrong, the Exiles suffered the most… He would tell Caelis something must be done about this. There was a vacuum in their leadership – and the sudden departure of their leader, with a tear of divinity no less, did not sit well with him.


He went back to the aisles of their own wounded. He had counted 23 prisoners on arrival, but only 20 on his way out… Last to receive aid and at the mercy of lets face it – sadist captors would take a toll. If the battle didn’t end soon there would be far fewer captives alive if they had any value to the colony at all…


Dr. Flemming looked straight up at the newest arrival to the field hospital – one of this Tocxhol character’s “Scarred” – it couldn’t talk. It looked barely safe to approach even – but it apparently had serious blunt-force trauma to its backbone – Flemming speculated something had thrown it across the battlefield to for it to be internally wounded thusly… the thing spoke no common – but was barely intelligent to understand that it would need to be immobilized… “Surgery”… he muttered, dimly… and Anuc hastily made a note on a filthy scrap of paper with a growing list of names…


(Situation for wounded on battlefield improves, but remains nebulous until hostilities can be sure to have halted… # of captives occilates as more are dragged in, succumb to wounds, or are beaten to death by exiles.)


(Opium further helps the critically wounded)


Meanwhile, Caelis’ warrior group – though with the state of their equipment it seemed hard to call them that, had new orders – collect fallen arms, armor, and anything else of value. Of particular interest was the fact that with so much of the ruin debris disturbed in the fighting (particularly the SWATHES of stone swept aside in the paths of Aymaran advances – had uncovered some interesting finds totally unassociated with the battle… odd brooches, a belt of unknown material, rings and the odd ancient coin.


No attempt was made to catalogue. A runed skull, a feather cloak, an axe that seemed to drip acid… it fell in a pile. A case of rust-bombs was found abandoned where the Bulwark Regiment initially stood, and it too was taken to the pile. Still more was to come, but hissing brutes and a looming enemy required caution and care…


While it took considerable bravery, it was also learned that a glutted brute was easier to part with its third meal then initially expected. Many had already begun to look tired… digesting a full crop of meat, and if harassed with pike-poles could be encouraged to slip away from their third and fourth meals.


By dividing their labor effectively they actually used the Aymaran brutes to their advantage – while there was no way they could move so much dead weight so quickly, they simply focused on the most gluttonous brutes – driving them away from piles of sometimes four or five additional warriors to whatever was barely held down by them already. When the Cunning caught wind that menacing the brutes was not the focus but instead securing loot – they helped the Attolians pile the spoils, though Caelis’ men and the exiles were often left to drag the actual bodies into an adjoining pile near the trappings of the fallen.


Once it became clear to the brutes they would not be left alone with every corpse they could crawl away with, other cunnings began to form them up – slower, more listless, they were nonetheless ready for further punishment. Tocxhol was still the farthest out on the battlefield… The scarred and Cunnings began to propel the blood-drunken brutes into a disorganized ball behind him… one of which was absent-mindedly scratching at a spear that had punctured clear under his other arm. Another, one of the first to make contact with the enemy, stood around perforated by stab wounds and half burnt by witch-fire… clearly dead as a post, but walking about as if such facts were too slow to have dawned on it yet.


Caelis’ men continued to work… and after the triage center was constructed additional refugees came to help with the task of piling the bodies. It is projected after all sources of shrinkage, approximately 96 heads will be recovered, more if the twenty or so prisoners are executed.


Tocxol was rapidly approached by Centecoatl, The largest of his lurkers and one of the Scarred – he lowered his head slightly and growled a proposal:


“Enemy withdraw, but they withdraw over RIVER. Whatever you plan, Warchief – Send lurkers ahead to river – ruin crossing. Great losses. Maybe fish the drowned from bottom of waterfall with ship. This is a thought.”


While this Transpired, Caelis’ Oracle sought clarification for her orders – is she to investigate the battlefield? The Vault building? The new activity at the fountain? The strange energies emanating from the ruins related to the swarm of skeletons?


(Caelis must clarify his order to his Oracle)
 
Recap: The battle from the Prince's view. Mud Aggression part II.


The Prince thought his High Born looked good, in their cloaks and Mithril armor, their spears, shields, bows and swords at the ready. They made him proud. "If they survive this, I will keep drilling all of them until they are all elites. This battle is good for them. They need to be continuously tested or they will become soft.", the Prince said to himself. A heavy burden of leadership lay on the Prince's shoulders. Their lives were his responsibility, and if he ever went home, he would need to look into the eyes of every single one of these brave Highborn's parents and explain how and why their child died. More, so, that their death was glorious, with valor and not in vain.


Prince Vaethorion felt uneasy seeing how close Lindar had gone to to parley with the enemies. When the Prince called for the parley (at Lindar's suggestion), he imagined Lindar staying near the Colonist's front lines and yelling from a distance away. However, Lindar was total zen and spoke to everyone like he had known them for centuries (which was often the case) and had no fear. The Prince also knew that Lindar did not like war, or to see living things be wantonly killed and was an Elf of peace. Lindar preferred to gab, play his music and smoke his pipe and here he was within striking distance of the enemy. Despite his pacifist nature, during war Lindar and those of his order always rose to the occasion.


The Prince also did not realize at the time that when he told his people that a witch needed to be captured, that Lindar would take it upon himself to execute that order if need be. The Prince always found Lindar's order to be a strange lot. The "Leitha Fea" (Free spirits) were a mystical order of bard-warriors and artist. They were known to imbibe psychedelic plants, go on mysterious quests, travel around the world and tell stories about their experiences. They were a valued part of the High Elf community, but often not understood. They spoke to animals, to themselves, to strangers, to spirits real and imaginary. They were "out there". They could play music, perform magic tricks, juggle, sing, write poetry, rally the troops, raise morale and if need be fight.


The Prince was fixated on the younger witch that parleyed with Lindar. She was oddly seductive and hideous at the same time. She reminded the Prince of an ex-lover of his, that he preferred to sooner forget. That was a hot time, the Prince thought, but wow, she was crazy. Odd, how one could think of an ex at a time like this when brains and entrails littered the field, and one's friend was in peril. If he saw her, he would say, "I thought of you the other day, yes, I saw some witches and you came to mind", the Prince mused. The Prince had that kind of sense of humor, and loved the ladies. This must be some kind of enchantment spell the Prince thought as he saw Caelis' mouth moving and the words, the sensible words he spoke. The Prince agreed, but in his heart did not see this battle going as how was being planned in discussion.


The fleeing rabble. Why do wars always seem to have fleeing rabble when humans are concerned he thought. Just once, a battle besides some humans without teeming masses of fear distracting the troops. Is that too much to ask, he thought. The Prince looked good today he thought. Cutting up those Mud Elf scum was good for his physique. He felt out of form, it had been months since he had wielded his sword in anger.


The Prince's eyes widened at the approach of the 50 or so Amaryans. That's not something one sees every day the Prince thought. The Prince was brave, a well known , seasoned warrior and yet, seeing these Amayran bearing down on the enemy with Lindar in the middle caused him some angst. Man, they are hungry. "Belegerea" ("Mighty ones"), and Lindar is in the middle of it all. The Prince's sharp hearing heard the battle cry of the Amaryan leader and it sent a chill up his spine. These beasts are insane he thought. Then some giant, tipsy human on a horse rode up, as to make the scene even more absurd. The Prince longed for his Lion to ride. It was too much to bring his mount, but he missed him sorely.


High Elven archers wizzzed in the air, a comforting sound. The sound of metal, the sweet and familiar sounds of battle began. The Prince entered a dream like state. This was his preferred battle state. A state where the surreal dominated. The hollers of the Enemy steeled the Prince's resolve for battle.


"Lindar, Get out of there!", the Prince mouthed over the din. It was doubtful with the great clamor, that anyone heard the Prince. The Witch took flight and Lindar grabbed on to her ankle. "kwara no' LINDAR!, ("HOLD ON!"). "Utinu en lokirim!!!" ("Daughter of snakes!") the Prince cursed the witch who seemingly captured Lindar.


Caelis' flash of light, the Brutes smashing into the enemy, death, blood, carnage, chaos and terror were what the Prince observed. Bits of the enemy flew. The decimated ranks of the enemy held and the Brutes took damage that would have killed an "immortal" Elf.


CHRUNCH, REEPK, rrreindhke, "Ahhhhhhhhwwwwww,", the sounds from the battle were uncharacteristically horrendous. A Mud Elves leg was just ripped off and his companion was just beaten to death with it. TWWWIP, TWWWIP, TWWWIP, aww the melodic sounds of High Born arrows flying in the air. That was music to the Prince's ears. One Mud Elf was just shot in the eye, the tip of the arrow went through his scull and into the nose of mud Elf behind him, who shrieking in pain collapsed as his comrade fell before him. Arrows and Mud Elves were flying and falling. The Spearman took the brunt of the charge, their spears piercing the Mud Elves, whose faces were twisted in agonized death throes. The blood, always the blood, so much blood. The blood spilled and created slippery pools. The Elite Sword Masters, whose martial abilities were well renowned did what they did best. Slay. It pained the Prince to see his people become injured. He wanted to be in the midst of them, to take each charge, but the Prince had to break the spell. The Prince was proud how his Drill Master had honed their skills, but the Militia still had a long way to go to become Elite. The Prince resolved to increase their training time once their basic needs were met. The Sword Masters swords gleamed beautifully, their deadly arcs were pure poetry to the warrior Prince.


The Attolians behaved admirably though the Prince, especially in face of the the cowardly rust pots thrown at them. Even without their proper weapons the Attolians acted like a solid fighting unit. The Prince resolved to ally his High Born with Caelis' Attolians. It was the only faction that has proven itself worthy, honorable and dependable thus far. Lesser soldiers would have broken ranks without their proper arms and armor.


The Highborn Mithril proved it's worth as always.


More destruction, a crushed skull of an enemy here, a ripped armed there, some mud elf in vain attempting to run away with their entrails dragging behind them with Brutes clawing at them. The Prince would look away if he could.


At that moment the better equipped and trained Mud Elves were upon the Elite High Born. The Prince's emotions were steadied, and it took immense discipline again not to leap into the fray, but the Prince kept his on the witches, Lindar was still holding on for dear life. The spell was reaching it's crescendo, and if not stopped, all hell would break loose.


At that moment, the Human cavalry, led by Caelis charged valiantly toward the enemy host. Human Calvary acted very differently from Elven cavalry. The Elves also utilized horse cavalry and all kinds of mounts, (the Prince himself has a stable of fine steeds at home), but it was the adroitness, speed, agility of Elven cavalry that pressed the advantage. The humans with their heavy destriers used power. The Prince was grateful, thankful of the timing of Caelis and his cavalry. If not for their arrival, the High Born would have been likely overcome. The effect of the cavalry charge was impressive to behold. Many Mud Elves were trampled, other fell to lance and sword.


Watching the Sword Masters nimble moves, their elegance, their martial excellence was entertaining to the Prince. Many Mud Elves were cut in half, the upper parts of their bodies still living as their bottom halves continued moving. The look of horror on their faces as they saw their torsos divided was not pleasant to the Prince. After all, the Prince was not a sadist. Served them right though, the Prince thought.


The sight of Caelis' horse riderless was initially alarming to the Prince. The loss of the Atttolian commander would be a blow to their fledgling alliance. The Prince noticed that Caelis was alive and not far from the Witch who had captured Lindar. The Prince was occupied with channeling his magical energies into the gem and the events of the battle were occurring in a blur. The Prince did not have time to do anything, but focus. No one was getting near those Amaryan in any case.


Suddenly, an armored body sailed in the air and landed like a sack of bricks..., the scarred charged, the witch hit the scarred with Lindar, and they both crashed to the ground. Whew! Lindar was alive!


His Nobles, acting quickly, drugged and seized the witch as ordered and that was the moment the Prince was waiting for.


The power of the gem which was still mostly unfamiliar pulsated. The Prince whose magic acumen was inherent, had some training, but pretty novice was utilized to focus the gems power. The break in the spell, the spell breaker, the War Mage striking the Witch out of the air all was still playing in the Prince's mind as he observed Dr. Flemming and the wounded being tended to...(more to come)
 
Two gob smacked heads turned to look at that Rahg's scarred up, blissful, face of ignorance in unison and besides the creaking of bones and the flowing of blood... The Platz was quiet. Far off watchers, talking skeletons and all while the fires of what looked like an attack raged on the horizon. Orm was getting to be very glad that he hadn't decided to put down roots here among all this stone and grey. "Thank you... thank you we will..." One of them awkwardly offered up to the skeleton that was now... a pile on the floor... and it's friends.


By the sky.


"Are you shitting me right now, Rahg?!" Bruul gestured incredulously. "You didn't even bother to turn your head to maybe see the... to live as you must for a day." The elder tyren sighed heavily through all the frustration and strain of their trip here.


Either Rahg was too tired to notice anything in the gloom anymore or that ice had taken half his hearing along with his sight. There were plenty of examples still left standing to pint out to him. "Ooooh! Oh that aint normal!" An understatement if ever there was one.


But so long as they thought the tyren were these... ambassadors from wherever then they had a fighting chance of getting out of here alive. For now it seemed all they could do was wave and nod at people like they belonged there. Bruul managed to call up to the bell swinging guard up in their tower and ask what was going on. Something had popped out the ground and started attacking everyone if he understood right. Which meant that the dead getting up and walking around was something else entirely? They didn't even bother asking if it was normal for the fountain to be bleeding.


There was another sound rising above their own little world of confusion though. That of exhausted and panicked refugees running for the depression. Whatever was going on here all three of the bulls agreed they needed to find the tyren that worked around town. Their own people were out there amid all this chaos and each one had his own duty to see them safe along with familial bonds in Rahg's case.


"We gotta make sure they're safe." The white furred minotaur growled as he trudged along beside his elders, itching to get back to running despite the pain that still threatened to consume him all over again.


"We will." Orm assuaged him, offering up another friendly wave to the closest cluster of corpses. "Just stick together and keep your eyes and ears out."
 
You must log in or register to reply here.

Users who are viewing this thread

Total: 2 (members: 0, guests: 2)
Back
Top