All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

[Cinnabar]

While magics crackle and spark overhead, while sorcerous energies are tugged and woven and unleashed back and forth between Kyra and the Ashfiend, the men of Myrken march on. Not quite so orderly, not quite so regimented in their formation; the middle section of the column still strives to reform after scattering beneath the descent of that fist of flames and ash; those at the sides of the pass raise their shields overhead, hunkering against the rain of stones from the clifftops above, or pressing close to the rock face to make use of the scant overhang. Some fall beneath the heavier missiles, crushed or broken or maimed, their cries rising to mingle with the thunder of arcane forces and the keening of the wind, the clash of steel and shouted commands.

Private Willem Ecker, twenty-six years of age, is knocked sprawling by a stone from above while stooping to aid a fallen comrade. Willem signed up for the Army after his cousin's farm was attacked by the Fiend; his cousin, and his wife and four children, had been among those whose bodies were used in the attack upon the Chapterhouse. Spine shattered, now he must try to drag himself out of the way of further missiles, legs trailing uselessly behind him; even if he survives this battle he will never walk again.

Kyra's sorceries earn the column a few precious seconds of warning, a chance for the front lines to part as the earth splits in fire and smoke, another of the Fiend's tricks used to such good effect at the Chapterhouse. The rear ranks, though, have less warning, their view obstructed by the bodies of those in front, and it is more a matter of luck than anything for those who are able to lurch aside, to struggle out of the way of that line of fiery death.

Private Bertold Allenstag, nineteen years of age, is caught in the path of that blazing fissure in the earth. Private Allenstag is from the village of Oakhollow, and joined the Army to impress seventeen-year-old Elisabeth Meerman, the girl he is courting. He stumbles as the ground gives way beneath his feet, falling forward; he is blinded as sorcerous fire sears his face, the hand he throws out to break his fall is charred to the bone within seconds; he writhes, seared throat unable even to scream, instead only able to gasp in agony. A comrade drags him clear and struggles to smother the flames that lick across his tunic, trying not to gag at the stench of burning meat and hair; Bertold will be dead within minutes, suffocated, lungs seared from a breath of smoke and scalding air.

A fierce shove to one of the Constables beside him to move him clear of that gaping rent in the earth, and Calomel steps smartly in the other direction an instant later as flames gout towards the sky; glancing to each side and behind him to gauge their formation, to get a rough idea of how the battle progresses, and a deeper scowl at the carnage the Fiend's magics have wrought upon his men. Up ahead the sound of battle is fiercer, shouts of command, of exertion, of pain, a tumult of flesh and metal.

Sergeant Lukas Baumann, thirty-eight years of age, is caught by an almost casual swipe of the Ashfiend's sword, its desecrated blade cutting through hardened leather and quilted cloth into vulnerable flesh beneath. Baumann is a veteran of the Militia and the Order of Straka before they were disbanded, and has seen action against many of the monsters and madmen who plague Myrken Wood. He fights in defence of his home and his family, and has done for seventeen years now, in one role or another. Whichever badge he wears, he fights for Myrken, and for beloved Rosalin, and for their children. He staggers back, clumsily trying to hold in his entrails as he slumps against the side of the pass. The noise of battle fades into a dull roar, and his thoughts turn to his family for the last time; tears stain his cheeks as he realises he won't be there when Alicia, his eldest, marries her young man in the summer.

The Governor's group hasten onwards, surrounded by that cluster of Constables, determined and resolute and keeping not too far behind the front line under the command of Sir Malaroth. Closer, hopefully soon close enough, though there's a hissed curse as the Shepherd Knight orders a charge against the Fiend. So much for his proposed phalanx, for the bristling line of shields and polearms that might serve to keep the Fiend at bay; so much for the lives of the soldiers under Deucalios' command, ordered into close-quarters melee with the ghoul, there to be butchered by unholy steel.

"Forward! Forward! Stay together, damnit! Close the fucking line!"

A little closer, stepping forward in time with the rest of the group, with Squire Mayfield, the elf Bloodmoon and the others destined for a different kind of battle. Twenty feet, the artificer had said, and they must be getting close to that now, the ghoul is right there.

"Make ready! Soon, now, soon!" If they can just get close enough, and pray that the arcane device actually works, maybe they can put an end to this before too many more lives are lost.

[Malaroth]

With his sword leading the charge, save for the four men who had managed to pass him as they drew close to the towering fiend who loomed as the livid specter of grim death itself, given form and wrath in armor and with sword, Malaroth closed quickly with their undying enemy. Despite the reckelss destruction being wreaked upon their forces by fell magic the Shepherd Knight had not forgotten. For as the front rank, loose and scattered closed the distance with hearts churning and thudding in fear and courage with alternating beats, those following had begun to form up ranks with his coarse shout.

As they slowed after a quick dash, he bellowed with the experience of a veteran field commander, jaw taut and lips parted around ferociously bared teeth.

"Phalanx, men! Second rank onward, shields locked and spears out!"

Turning back to the Ashfiend, he watched that first one taken down swiftly, clutching at his side as the second fell soon after, and then a third after a brutal slash across the soldier's throat - the last one added as an afterthought. Who could contend with the monster who regarded the world through burning eyes, whose very presence bled into the world around it, toxic and deadly, whose shadow stole breath form lungs and hope from hearts?

Men could, he snarled to himself. Men with courage. Men with courage enough to charge their enemy to buy everyone some time to form up, to prepare, and to give them the hope of total victory.

As the 'Fiend's blade tore through a soldier's armor, blossoming as a grim flower for his funeral, Malaroth brought his weapon to bare. A swift strike and his blade clashed against Arak's Ruin in a shower of golden hued sparks. The knight's arms trembled as he planted his feet, teeth gnashed together, cerulean eyes burning with his weapon's fierce, loyal flame.

"No more lives," he snarled while attempting to push the 'Fiend's weapon back. "You have taken enough." He glanced quickly over his shoulder, noting that the phalanx was almost set. He watched Teron parry an incoming halberd attack and respond with an angry kick to knock the assailant back in brief retreat.

Soldiers were almost ready, he told himself, moving his blade to deflect the Ashfiend's next attack. His arm trembled and blade resounded against the creature's unholy strength, untempered with mercy or cowardice. It was a silent reminder that there could be no quarter from this monster, no second thought that might still Arak's Ruin from a murderous blow. As they parried and struggled he called to mind that simple little spell to prevent him from the accursed shadow-stepping.

[Glenn]

Glenn knew that sigil of Teron's. He knew it as well as anyone in all of Myrken perhaps. Three times, at least, he had felt its sting, had felt that agony. He had seen others try to stand between it and him, all to no avail. The spell would snake around them, letting nothing stop it from reaching its target.

There was nothing Glenn could do as he watched it head towards Kyra. There was nothing he could do as she screamed. There was nothing he could do as she fell. Helplessness is the single worst feeling in the entire world. No spell of Teron's can hurt the mapmaker as much.

His eyes shifted back to the battle, to the people moving forward. Niall had begun her spell nearby. He paid her no heed. It wasn't too late. He could still rush forth. The device would recognize him. He could be there by their side, fight with them. DO something.

There was Kyra though. He had made Ariane a promise she had not asked for, made it so, perhaps, she would not put herself through something truly inhuman, not again. A promise to Ariane meant more to him than just about anything in the world, more to him than rushing forward now and joining those that he cared about so very much.

No, instead he leaned down beside Kyra, beside this woman who fought for them even though she had no real stake in Myrken at all, who did it just because she felt she must. He knew what that spell felt like, but perhaps not at that scale. Touching her or moving her might just spike the pain even more, so he would do neither. Instead he would say softly. "Kyra, whatever comes next, I won't leave your side." If the worst comes to past, however, then for her sake, one best hope that the sword she had made for him was very effective indeed.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

As the blades of fallen paladin and Shepherd Knight clashed, the Ashfiend's fiery gaze bored into his enemy's even as he trampled underfoot the most recent victim of his merciless sword. The man's strength was notable but inevitably mortal, he noted with a sneer, shoving back Malaroth's blade and driving his own towards the man's mockingly-beating heart, trembling and thundering within an armored chest, caught up in courage, fear...

and, he knew, regret.

A halberd's axe-blade bore into his back, causing him to stumble forward and allowing Malaroth to slip his latest magical sword along the parting, ancient shoulder armor. As hidden, tattered lips pressed into a grim sneer, he swatted the knight's blade aside with the back of his sword hand, and spun around on his booted feet amidst the fluttering length of his dancing, tattered black cloak that dervished about his hulking and potently graceful frame. A swift fist battered the soldier's abdomen and knocked breath from lungs as his armored hand then shot up, seizing the man's neck and crushing life from limb with a single, powerful wrench with which he then hurled the soldier back amongst his phalanx-forming companions.

Turning back to Malaroth he beheld the knight lunging at him not with sword but with an open, pale hand set to a soft but constant glowing. Teron caught the offending extremity by the wrist, his thumb leaving the snaking frost upon his opponent's pale flesh. The creeping cold that laired about him, and bled out as a perpetual miasma, of ever-whispered death, began to wreak a painful tautness to Malaroth's features.

"I cannot take enough," he snarled in a guttural, echoing voice of ponderous stones grinding together. "Never enough to match what Vraal stole from me."

An easy wrenching gesture and he hurled Malaroth aside before taking up his the ruined length of his cloak, drowning himself within his own shadow and vanishing within the space of a heartbeat along with the chill and the lingering burn of that hellish gaze.

A gaze that flashes into malevolent being beside Kyra as he emerges from the tamed darkness of her own shadow - a terrible shadow of his own soon descending upon the sorceress in their midst, beside Niall and the mapmaker. The bitter chill exploded into being with him, hungry and violent, dimming the sun that struck him in insulting memory and painted him as gray and hollow. Arak's Ruin rose overhead, a bitter promise of hateful endings whose point began to drive for her heart as his booted foot sought to pin her in place. A triumphantly grating voice left him, framed in those hidden and wrecked lips beneath the loose folds of a gray scarf coiled about the lower half of a visage locked away beneath an enshadowing black hood framed in faded gold.

"She will live again," he vowed as Arak's Ruin plunged for her and a preemptive hand reached for Deliverance strapped across his back.

[Tebrin]

The pain was incredible. It was as if every muscle in her body had been attached to a winch which drew tighter, tighter, and inexorably TIGHTER. She could scarcely breath - and every bit of air she managed to take in immediately left her in a pitiful squeak. Nothing, but nothing could have prepared her for a suffering this intense, and she thought certain she must be about to die... And it would have been merciful.

The gentle blue shimmer of the shield lingered, but the sorceress' strength waned. Unable to form a coherent syllable, much less sing a rune, she was at the mercy of paroxysmal agony, fingers clutching helplessly at the ground. When she hears a familiar voice, it is some small comfort to the pale-haired woman, who, at least, would not die alone. She reaches clumsily for him, attempting to clutch at his hand - but the tetanus of her muscles is too tight, too consuming, to create any such coordinated movement.

And even as she was certain her bones would break with the strength of her spasms, as she was positive she must soon black out, the pain began to subside, her suffering began to fade. Slowly, her taut form began to relax - allowing for quick, gasping, ragged breaths that sustained her consciousness, but these, too, were released in pitched screams. She felt herself regaining some minor control of her muscles, felt trembling fingers begin to curl and respond willingly.

Her torment was great, still, but it would seem she had survived the worst of it. The effects of the spell were fading - and once she could move freely, again, she would be able to heal herself, to rejoin the fight. She took some comfort in this, in the banishing of the helplessness which had come with her fall, in the presence of a friend, towards whom she reached weakly...

And that was when she felt HIS shadow looming overhead. There were no shields to protect her from the chill which set into her bones, to ward against the undead fiend's wrath. She cried out as heavily-booted foot crushed her underneath, pinned her substantially smaller form into the ground, held her still-writhing form pinned to the ground. She sought, with one hand, the staff which had been kicked some distance away in her suffering, the other tries, in vain, to push the Ashfiend's boot from her body. But she was weak - far too weak and uncoordinated to be successful in either task. She was left simply to gasp, to utter what she felt certain must be her last words, even as she twisted and tried desperately to reach her weapon.

"Only if..." She hissed through clenched teeth and still-subsiding pain. "You consider *that* 'life.'"

[Carnath-Emory]

This is the moment that she had waited for.

There is this matter of agony-inducing light, shot darting through the midst of this chaotic knit of bodies, and this is nothing that she can answer. She'd told the magicker that long ago, this had been simply understood between them. There is this matter of unnatural flame, of clouds that have substance and fearful form. There is the matter of flung things from the cliffs overhead, and this is a concern that she might have addressed, that she had surely intended to --

Except that 'soon', says the Governor, and she is mindful of that. Is careful with it, Hrimfax being nothing that she controls, except that he is mindful of Sleipner's long-ago wants. 'Soon' sets restrictions upon her, so that with a curse bitten back from her lips, she'd wheeled the warhorse's great head back about, had drawn them into some protective dance before the agonised mage; back and forth they'd moved, back and restlessly forth, there being so little that could be done.

So little, that is, until the Ashfiend emerges from Kyra's shadow: the moment that both had anticipated, arrived significantly earlier than they'd anticipated.

Their fortune is that Teron favours an overhand style: the broad swings and tall, downwards drives that best power and accomodate a weapon of that size. Their fortune is that he has an interest in speech, although so very little of it. Were he a fencer, the mage would surely lie dead by now, but he is nor, and he has afforded this fencer time enough to wheel the heavy warhorse around with a sharp, sharp yank at the reins. Time enough to swing an arm down towards the Ashfiend's lifted shoulders as if it were holding a sword --

And swift as blinking, it is. Nothing that can penetrate the 'Fiend's armour, of course, but surely with momentum enough to jarr, surely with identity enough to engage.

[channe]

Agnieszka has taken up her position with Calomel and the others destined for the fight.

She does not know Kyra all that well, but she does know Glenn; and she watches this happen, and it tears something from her -- and Ecker, the kid, she'd known him, too, they'd played on market days together a few times, he'd been one of the older kids that they'd all looked up to. And there are two thoughts running through her head --

Good, he's distracted. Right now, Cinnabar! Right now!
... I have to go!

And like Ariane, she's breaking away from the small group, the saber she'd learned to use as a Sister in her hand -- she remembers the farm, remembers that the three of them used distraction to their advantage, and maybe, maybe! -- it could happen again.

[Jirai]

This changed things.

This changed things immensely.

Kyra could not die. It was really as simple as that. Her distaste, her hatred for the woman aside, Niall needed Kyra alive. And so as the Fiend appeared so close by, the girl's reaction was immediate, almost instinctive. She shouted the runes, traced the red and blue sigils in the air, one spared to nudge Kyra's staff into the woman's hands, the rest in a small, focused shield between the Fiend's blade and the blind woman's body.

[Glenn]

Many things are happening all at once. Kyra was reaching for him, was reaching for her staff. If nothing else had happened, he would have given it to her, closed her hand upon it and helped her to heal herself, even if she had to use his hand to draw her sigils.

Here was Teron though, on TOP of her, bearing down with Arak's Ruin, bearing down with the woman's death. If all else was the same, he would rise up from his position kneeled beside Kyra, would throw his entire body into Teron to stop that blow. He had promised. He would go as far as it took and it would take everything he had to even move Teron.

All else was not the same. Ariane was whipping that unholy horse about, was swinging the sword as she did. Glenn was on his feet now, the longsword that Kyra enchanted in hand. He had to buy Ariane another few seconds, had to buy Kyra a few seconds of life.

"How brave, Teron. Striking down at a paralyzed BLIND woman. And we thought that Penroll was still inside of you somewhere. The memory of Elysia would retch upon the sight of your cowardice and pettiness!" The words would mean his death but he had complete faith in Ariane. He was buying her whatever time she needed. And as he shouted, his longsword moved.

Glenn had been trained for this, for this exact situation, this exact positioning of the Fiend. The massive sword was extended. It left an opening at the armpit and that's where the blessed sword struck at with all of Glenn's might. Unaware of whatever Niall was doing, all he knew was that he would not let Kyra die so easily, no matter the cost.

[Sherazade]

In the act of raising them to the cliff, she had felt his attention fall upon her, and her taller gaurdian Ryn... she had become aware of the dead above them.... Pale brow arched a simple gesture of a pale hand having the rocks bouncing off a shield against things of the earth... It would not however stop the dead.... "Kept them of me Ryn" It was she knew an order he would obey without question. She had something to be doing a force to be gathering for just the right moment, a moment dreams had shown her would present itself quite soon.

Taking up his mistress's blade ryn moved on air, faster and with more surety than seemed human. White fire licked along the gleaming silver , burst from it in arching sweeps that tore towards the leaping corpses, seeking to burn the ashfiends imprint from their souls and send them to rest.... Oh how he wished in that moment he had his grandmothers bells, but they had been stolen from him. They will not touch her... he will not harm her... those words were etched across his mind over and over, an endlessly litany that kept him in motion, gave courage and strength.

Finally the pair despite the heavy assualt reached the clifftop, and as she touched down upon the earth, the half dragon magess felt the life below her on the battlefield... felt Kyra's pain and glenns silent determination... she felt it all.... and now had come the time to pay the ashfiend back for his first assualt upon her in the dagger. Pale fingers whipped through the air drewe rapid marks that she sealed with the sam sigil he had so recently drawn... and then she flung this pain inducing spell at him. bent all her will towards infusing those marks with the ability to adhered it to his dead flesh... to give him nerves with which to feel... they needed to keep him distracted and she was going to do her damndest to help them. do just that.

Of course she was now vunerable... had only this seemingly untried youth to dfend her, but she trusted Davaryn with her life and upon the chests of all those who worethem, the pins she had made would iinfuse them with strength and courage, for while her's lasted, did not waver niether could theirs even as they slid into death.

[Kait]

This splitting of the earth, the forceful breath of fire that rises with intent to divide their forces and render the unwary ones piles of charred ash catches the squire off balance, calling for a steading grasp upon the arm of the one who happens to be nearest once this danger has been narrowly avoided. A glance up, and higher still will allow her to nod in thanks to her unwitting hero, the only elf she knows and one she would count a friend. There is nothing for the young woman to fight, not amongst the press of bodies and waves of sorcery that turn her stomach and cut down those who would protect her and these other select few.

Where one sorceress fails, another, younger voice takes up the call of foreign words of power; it does nothing to reassure the squire, nor to deaden the misery of waiting. It must be soon, she thinks, and when Agnieszka breaks from them, she is sorely tempted toward the opposite direction. She remains with Cinnabar only because she must, because their hopes ride on this plan of his, but every second of it feels to the squire as a betrayal that is most difficult to swallow.

[Khalika]

Even in its infancy, battle has a scent. It curls upon the air, the mix of animal, and man…The aroma of sweat and the fear of the unknown. Then it begins and blood mixes. They swirl, entwine themselves within the soldiers pores. Within his mind as he face the enemy… this battle was no different in its beginning…

Magic starts this affair, The effects hang in the air like burnt flesh. The master of one, flays his furry upon the army before him. They will understand before the day is through …They will see what six thousand years of loss and utter despair can do… Has done to the core of one mans soul.. He is no mere villain, no true barer of evil… Hate yes… But not evil… They are two separate entities… They are the reason she stand there now, she has looked into the heart of darkness, in a demons blasphemous soul. What she saw then she does not see within him.

She is watching now, nestled somewhat into the cliffs, behind Teron’s line. No one was expecting her. She was not some strategy of his, some backup plan. He thinks not in such avenues, and if aid was to be called from his lips it would be to Valinor or Thandrol’s ear. But not even they his most fierce servants stand with him this day, only the fodder of undead. Whose existence mean as much as dirt beneath his boots. Perhaps that is why he uses such things for battle, for there is no life to lose. It is somewhat unfeindished of him, she thinks..

Across the way she could see the gathering of banners, and could name the generals true. She needed no sight to know who commanded those forces. The Governor first and for most, the Shepard Knight as well, and perhaps the Duke has joined the fray. Yes she believes she see his banner from afar. Honour it seems has put aside past confrontations. Of course there were others. Ariane, most assuredly, she does what is right. The mapmaker, if only because he is a fool, and a mass of others names and faces she cannot see and does not know enough to even speculate. Magic plays apart, that much it seems they have learned from past mistakes. But some things they cannot seem to figure, some things continue to slip through their knowledge grasp. Like how he thrives in battle, how the taking of life on a massive scale only proves to himself that he is a monster, and he needs such proof. For it he were to think in any other fashion, he would surly crumble….

She is moving now quicker with each step, slipping from the lower angles of the rock she is upon the field of battle. Her hair pulled back and high, her garb the full formed dark leather as she was dressed at Snowstill. One distinct change though, the free arm is covered from shoulder to wrist with a heavy thick hardened leather, strap hold it onto the top of her arm. The M’tai are at her side though, This was not a day for close encounters, today she carries a sword, It is not the first time, though the feel is still stiff, as it is not her true weapon…

She comes…..Who shall see her first

[Teron_Ashfiend]

Overhead, nearly fifty of the undead turned and shrieked as one with the Duke's thunderous approach. A dozen men on horseback mustering a rolling charge into their ranks. With a sickening, muted explosion empowered flesh began to fall silent beneath hoof, mace and sword. Yet their master's fell fury drove them onward, setting hellish stars into their lidless eyes and strength to heels and hands that they leapt into the air, claws for horse's necks and rider's eyes and hearts, even as their comrades began to fall into disarray beneath organized, potent resistance.

Opposite the Duke's charging cavalry hovered Valaeili and her prodigy who shot scourging flame at them, whose limbs burn, ready to be purged and calling for such in silent desperation squashed beneath the Ashfiend's hatred that shone in their unnerving eyes. Burning, even as some succumbed, they drove onward, some twenty-five strong, from the cliff top. Those who had jumped fell amongst the Myrken Army, crushing soldiers to death or dashing themselves to burning pieces that rained down charred flesh amidst the growing chaos churning around the black nexus of their master. Those who remained closed the distance, seeking to tear the boy asunder, half for him and the other half for her distracted mistress. Atop that same cliff another twenty lingered, peppering the soldiers below with rocks and hissing their baleful contempt for those who yet lived, those who might soon join them.

Everything slowed. For a mind and a memory steeped in bloodshed and destruction, the measure of combat has become easy and practiced, even the rampant chaos that is general melee, even this battle with opponents of no little potency or skill. For as his words are muttered, are promised, and one arm rises as the other descends with Arak's Ruin aimed to destroy the sorceress, there is the off-balancing deflection from Ariane who is quicksilver in motion, there is a glittering sorcerous shield, and there is the memory f pain beginning to lance across dead flesh as if were mortal, as if his own magic had been turned against him.

His furious strength flares along with the ember-eyes nestled beneath an enshadowing hood. While the great length of his tattered black cloak soars behind him amidst the twisting and thrusting, his blade strikes sorcerous sparks into the air as it struggles against Niall's protection and Arak's Ruin finds purchase in the ground alongside the woman's abdomen but not through it though the blade's flat presses against her garb and its tip hurls a handful of dirt clods into the air with his explosive strength.

Strength that is turned upon his latest foe as Burnie proclaims and attacks, daring the ages-old monster with a magic sword whose incessant burning adds to whatever magic begins to trickle along the length of his immortal frame. Wasting no words save for a snarl as he sprang into action, as the weapon enspelled to strike at the undead shot bolts of searing fire along his limb, he gnashed hidden teeth together and drove himself further along Glenn's blade. A hateful snarl reveals his contempt for their punishment upon his body, eclipsed by the anguish set to ever-burn in his tattered core.

For in a shadow's descent his raised, an armored hand forgets Deliverance and instead descends to grab that offending weapon that scraped and groaned against his mailed grasp and pin Glenn in place.

In a heartbeat Arak's Ruin ascends in a swift, vertical slash as he tears it free from the earth, its tip aiming to split the man wide from stomach to eyes. His booted heel drove harder into Kyra with the effort, and his trained, burning eyes note Agnieszka's approach as he sentences the mapmaker to death.

And drives to execute him.

[Carnath-Emory]

A deathless Ashfiend has found practised ease in the midst of this conflict, has found familiar order amidst its chaos. In this, Teron is not alone, for while his experience dwarfs this swordswoman's by an unspeakable order of magnitude, still this fact remains:

That within the social world she is easily shaken; that upon the battlefield she knows her place, finds it easily, lends herself to it with relish.

So that all around them the world has erupted into a clamour of ringing steel and armour that dimly glides, and she hears all of this; she hears none of this. A sharkskin grip is comfortable pressure against her palm, the subtle weight of her armour a gentle cloak for her limbs, and she could want for nothing else -- except for success.

That is measured by the clash of her weapon's edge against the Ashfiend's armour, can be reckoned by the degree that Arak's Ruin is thrust from its intent. By the time that larger weapon's struck earth instead of flesh, she's drawing the schiavona sharply back, knowing very well what becomes of this battle if the Ashfiend chooses to grapple. The elbow is lifting, her body is dropping down from Hrimfax's saddle; grey eyes are narrow within their helm, and --

And Glenn has done a beautiful thing.
Glenn has seized the opportunity of that overhand swing and capitalised upon it.
Glenn has just murdered his opponent.

Except that there's no killing the Ashfiend with mortal weapons, and this is exactly the sort of attack she'd told him to avoid, the sort of intention she'd warned him away from, and having struck true, he's failed to pull back away.

At the moment that the Ashfiend realises this as well, everything else falls inevitably into place.

Teron seizes that weapon and makes a trap of it, gripping Glenn to stillness in the most immediate fashion possible. Teron lifts that other weapon in the bright overhead swing that will best serve his purpose. And even as Arak's Ruin glitters at the top of its arc, Ariane Emory is flinging her armoured self at this armoured thing. At side she'd stood, and at his side she rushes now, for the schiavona cannot block that blow, but perhaps the whole of her can send it aside.

[Malaroth]

In that moment the Ashfiend grasps him by his lunging wrist and hand, squeezing and wrenching him aside as his magic sought its target and, alas, required one to touch the target. The Shepherd Knight stumbles a few paces and twists sharply, blade raised to deflect a thunderously strong, death-dealing blow for it is not the Ashfiend's way to do other than batter and break his opponents. Surely the Shepherd Knight counted amongst those.

But the creature is gone.

Not only gone, he realizes as warning cries erupt from the midst of their column and stones hail down upon the ranks threatened with disorder between a shadow-stepping Ashfiend and rocks being hurled down from overhead. The creature has taken the fight elsewhere, towards their midst, using his maneuverability to his advantage.

Getting this one simple spell off would prove quite difficult.

The neighboring shadows drew his attention, beckoned and called and pleaded with cries of mercy even, plying him for reason to use his dark stride in the midst of untrusting allies. Yet his allies were skilled and, setting his teeth, barked ferociously.

"Phalanx, about! Double time! Towards the center, towards the 'Fiend!"

He wheeled about, leaving the dead and dying behind him, grasp tightening firmly upon his weapon, Shadow's Bane, as he hurried towards their merciless enemy and closer to the woman he would see spared from all of this. Perhaps he still might, but such a wish was a gruesome thing.

It might be granted with his dying first.