All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

[Glenn]

He felt that he had no choice. He had to buy Ariane time to strike. He had to protect Kyra from what would have been a killing blow. That he stabbed up and in was reflex, training. That he did not immediately let go was a lack of experience, as was the fact that he did not just stay down and slice at Teron's legs.

Now it seemed that perhaps he would NOT live to learn from this experience, for he had lingered, his hand upon that hilt for just a bit too long. It was free now, but it was just too late. If the blade was coming DOWN at him, he could do something. As it was, his left hand had reached for his still sheathed rapier, for the weapon that Deost had given him, the weapon he had jokingly named Discretion. A parry would be hopeless but it was all he could do. There was no time to get back, no time to do anything else. Off balance, he brought the sword down, held it as hard as he could, tried to redirect Arak's Ruin. In the face of Teron's rage, the rapier bent, the metal cracked, doing nothing to slow the mapmaker's quickly impending death, nothing to stop Teron's sword from rising towards him.

It was then that Ariane crashed towards the Fiend at full force. The collision would drive Teron closer to Glenn as much as it would push him to the side. It meant that the sword struck him before Teron intended it, that the distance between them was not correct. Oh, it tore through Glenn, but it tore through the meat opposite and behind his thigh, cutting off a decent sized chunk of skin and muscle. It only just barely missed cutting the bone in two. Regardless, a sizable portion of Glenn's leg was no longer there and he immediately collapsed to the ground with what would have been a deafening scream if they were not upon the field of battle.

[Tebrin]

Kyra had steeled herself for her demise, was prepared to bid this world farewell, prepared to feel the Fiend's wicked metal pierce her flesh with so much ease.

But it never came.

Instead, she felt the ripple of the Patryn girl's magic nudge the cold wood of her weapon into her hand, felt the patterns of runes engraved along its surface. Trembling fingers close tightly about it in white-knuckled grasp - her muscles were ever so sore, but the agony was fading, the paralysis relaxing.

Her petite frame jerked reflexively when the blade slammed into the ground at her side, its terrible blade pressed against the inward curve of her waist. Its razor-sharp tip caught the fabric of her blouse, and as if to dmeonstrate the razor-thin margin by which her life has been spared, shave the fabric from her skin, pin a scrap of it to the ground. It lay, skewered as Kyra nearly was, fluttering within the shifting air of the battlefield.

A conglomeration of fortunate occurances had conspired to spare her life - and she owed Niall, Ariane Carnath-Emory, and Glenn all, collectively, her life.

Her diaphragm struggles to expand, to fill her lungs with air, from beneath the crushing boot of the Ashfiend - but the return of voluntary control to her musculature allowed her to breathlessly speak the command word which caused her mahogany staff to flare brightly with white illumination, its dark profile becoming a lancet of seemingly white-hot light clasped between fair-skinned fingers.

And then Glenn shrieked, and she felt color drain from her. Fear gripped her beyond what she had felt for her own life. Thoughts to heal herself, restore her strength, were chased from her mind. Instead, it is with a pitched and desperate cry that she calls out her next rune, fingertips seeking and finding specific contours on the surface of her weapon - before she slams the staff upwards and towards the Ashfiend overhead with all of her might.

Should it connect, the spell was rudimentary but powerful, clumsy but ripe with brute force. It was a simple shockwave of energy delivered directly to the Ashfiend, attempting to fling him from atop her. It was nowhere near as powerful as the magicks she had wielded against his fist, against the fissure... but it didn't need to truly harm Teron. It simply needed to displace him, to remove the thing's boot from her chest and allow her to writhe her way free and go to Glenn's aid.

[Jirai]

The immediate threat had been averted. Not that there was no threat left, of course - the tattoos on the girl were glowing in warning, bright enough even to be noticed beneath her linen shirt. Kyra was still beneath the Fiend, but with the staff in her hand the sorceress might deal with that. Muttering a curse under her breath, the child darted forward, tatooed runes flaring even brighter in protest. Small hands grabbed for the mapmaker with very surprising strength - it seemed that she intended to haul the injured man away from this.

[Khalika]

"How far are you prepared to go?…."

"How far are you willing to go?…."


Twelve years ago, Khalika Quiller found herself upon the arm of a Duke. Sitting in the finery of his parlour, surrounded by his heads of state and other influentials. Before them was a woman, a famous soprano of the court, she was singing a ballad composed to tell the tale of the Dukes rise.. It was a sombre tale, captivating and striking in its native tongue. She sang like she breathed effortlessly, in perfectly smooth tones, a dance of word and notes. She sang as the Gypsy fought…


That song flowed through the woman’s mind as she ran full tilt towards the fray. Each step digging hard into the ground, as she barrelled towards the small gathering around Teron. The main melee she leaves to soldiers and the undead. With each step she forms a plan, with each note the song continues….

Without stopping she hit’s the confrontation.. Sword twisted to a backhand, it slashes towards the staff, hoping to snap the magik wielders weapon, had the spell reached its mark? She didn‘t stay to find out. For her other was moving to grab a piece of Glenn Burnie, any piece will do, And drag him off with her. She barely noticed the small one in all this, the mind so focused, the song to compelling, she is but the voice. Though it is likely she would feel the tugging of another and adjust to move with her, if only so they did not split poor Glenn Burnie in half…



"How much are you willing to sacrifice?…"

"How much are you willing to Give?"

[Cinnabar]

A scene of chaos, of butchery, of confusion and carnage. Stones and now bodies plummet from overhead into the mass of soldiers, and men fall beneath that rain; that blazing fissure still slices its way through the pass, forcing the men to struggle between confining walls of stone and flame. Strangled screams from the sorceress, but no time to stop, no time for anything but to press forward, to try to bring an end to this madness.

Only for the sounds of battle from ahead suddenly still, replaced by confused shouts and the groans and screams of the injured; peering over the heads of the men in front, the Fiend's towering form is gone, vanished, Calomel realises with a sinking feeling... which is confirmed as the clash of steel on steel returns much closer by. Too close, as the Fiend steps from the shadows in the midst of the column, prompting a flurry of steel and blood and arcane energies; turning to face the shadow-walking fiend, there's another curse for the Shepherd Knight's failure and shouted commands to follow.

"Fiend in the centre! Surround him! Use the water!" Soldiers don't need much encouragement to follow that order, stepping back and hastily turning to face the creature and those who struggle with him; making the most of what space there is, until the Fiend finds himself in a circle of inward-pointing halberd-tips, the men keeping distance enough to remain beyond arm's reach, to keep him from seizing upon the hafts of their polearms. Like wolves holding their quarry at bay they coordinate their efforts, those in front of him stepping back, those behind lunging forward to worry and jab at his armour with the spear-like points of their weapons, falling back when he turns to face them while those on the other side of the circle take their place. Not enough to kill, but enough to keep him distracted, off-balance, defensive. To close with him is death, they know this well enough, but to contain him is enough for now. From behind them, more soldiers seize earthenware globes from their belts, lifting their arms to fling them at the Fiend, seeking to strike armour or bone and shatter there; fragile vessels filled with water blessed by the priests at St Iona's; an uncertain hope, but one worth the effort, if only to distract the creature with this hail of missiles.

Khalika's arrival, though, does not go unnoticed; certainly not by the Governor, whose eyes are for the injured mapmaker, the fallen sorceress, and those others who struggle against the Fiend, separated from Calomel by several rows of troops and Constables. As she arrives and tugs at Burnie's wounded frame, though, there's a flash of anger, and disbelief; how she got through the mass of heavily-armed soldiers near-filling the pass is a mystery, but a fresh command is issued nonetheless.

"Sergeant Combes! The bitch in leather, it's Quiller! Take her down!" That name's well-known enough, certainly from the posters that had been placed around town after that first encounter at Snowstill. Traitor, collaborator, servant to the Fiend. The soldier in question, a thick-necked veteran of Straka and Janeiro, nods and turns to seek out the target named; aha, there. Gruff orders to the half-dozen men around him who rapidly move to group around the gypsy, and she becomes the target for a sudden burst of violence; one soldier puts his shoulder behind his shield to barge into her, others lashing out with swords, axes, and sturdy boots, seeking to beat her to the ground, or at the very least to force her away from Niall and wounded Glenn Burnie.

Silvered eyes glare from behind the Governor's visor as he looks back to the Fiend, gauging distances, watching the the dance of that corrupted blade, the age-honed movements of armour-clad limbs. Seeking out other faces in the crowd, then; Patience Mayfield, Seth Bloodmoon, Agnieszka Kaczmarek, seeing them nearby in the crowd, calling names to bring them closer. Those who will face the Ashfiend in a battle of wills, minds united against his own. Except... Ariane Emory, in close and perilous combat with the ghoul himself, a sight which has Calomel cursing under his breath. Too close, too dangerous to unleash the artificer's device, should it fail to stop him; to draw the swordswoman into that dream-combat, leaving her absolutely vulnerable to blades and rocks and freezing fury.

"Constables, to me! Ariane! It's time, fall back! Fall back, damn you!" The officers bearing their shield-shaped burdens move closer, forming a ring around the Governor's group; several of them injured, armour bearing marks of fire and falling stones, but determined and resolute nonetheless, their task to guard the mental combatants at all costs. Let the soldiers try to hold the Fiend off for now, as had been the plan; no other option but to trust in their training, in their determination; to trust in Valaeli and Burel's efforts on the clifftops overhead, to trust that the girl-sorceress Niall can get Glenn clear of the fight, that Kyra can defend herself against the Fiend, that somehow this desperate plan will work.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

Glenn's death is again forestalled due to his companions, he notes, as a sudden blow from behind, a sudden weight, and Kyra's arcane energy serve to knock him forward, against the mapmaker and to the side. His blade, screaming death, strikes too low to silence the impertinent fool forever while a coarse smile tugs upon hidden lips. That Kyra was anything close to defenseless was the worst lie Burnie had ever spouted. Her command of distinct arcane talent rendered her one of his primary targets, even as the circle of spearmen began to close in amidst a sudden shower of broken earthenware and blessed water that drenched his cloak but did nothing to dampen the frenzied flames burning in that livid gaze.

With a muted snarl, he switched Arak's Ruin from one hand to the other, setting his freed and armored hand to the weapon left run into his flesh through the gap beneath his shoulder. Tearing it free he spun upon a booted heel, hefting the weapon overhead, and hurled it, end-over-end through the air, aimed for the blind sorceress to perhaps silence the greater threat. His searing gaze notes, as the weapon seeks to mutilate and destroy, that Niall and the gypsy, appearing from nowhere, both move to remove Glenn from the field as the former's magic work begin to seal the burning rent his fury has carved into the earth itself.

Arak's Ruin finds its scabbard again, leaving both swords sheathed. That blade, forged to slay a living demigod, leers out upon the approaching circle of pike-armed wolves with that diminutive silver skull as his own eyes, flickering in silent consideration, note Ariane's responsibility in preventing him from ending the mapmaker once and for all. He looks upon her in silence, refusing to approach, her shadow bleeding over the memory of a silver urn no longer in his presence, but testified to by the trio of gentle chains lain against his armored thigh. It is, perhaps, a small mercy for the swordswoman's mind, should she note it at all, that his attention lingers upon her with tamed hostility - a tolerance for the breath and pulse she so freely indulges in.

A tolerance shattered as nearly a dozen spear points scrape and tear at his armor, knocking him to one side as, from that opposite direction, another half-score drive against and occasionally through his armor. Stumbling steps attempt to keep him upright beneath the suddenly directed assault from all angles as if the men suddenly moved in one mind, beneath some narrator's specific and direct attention to see him rooted and stopped. Armor creaks and groans, buckling with shrill cries beneath another hail of stinging strikes, one such skewering the cowl of his low black hood and whatever features lay beneath, jerking his head aside and turning his burning gaze upon the waiting, circling, hungry enemy. Hungry with fear and courage, vengeance and love of home - all wrapped up in a sense of the noble and a desperate need to survive.

That visage-penetrating spear withdrew, tearing the hood back from the pallid flesh drawn taut over angled features. Bloodless, lifeless, his visage bore the grim stamp of gray, torn lips and shadows nesting protectively, swirling like thin, tamed storms about the epicenter of that hellish furnace of unholy gaze. As the blows rained down upon him from behind and he was knocked forward, like some drunk for their amusement, he sped in a sudden burst of speed towards the enemy he had been knocked toward. In one soldier's face he saw the grim satisfaction, the sense of justice.

No, he told himself as he closed and the weapons came at him. There was no justice in six thousand years of hell.

The blades bit again, tearing into his armor once more, rending the lifeless flesh beneath. Planting his feet, however, he gave only a short distance while both mailed hands attempted to grasp the retreating end of one spear.

"Now I will show you the power of my hate."

He attempted to wrench the weapon forward as he had sought to do with Burnie, aiming to pull the soldier forward and, if he closed, release the spear to grab the man by the shoulders and side. He imagined feeling the man's courage and strength melt beneath the hungry folds of the potent chill that hovered about him as he had countless times before. Wasting no time, as those behind him would undoubtedly prepare to lunge, he noted their timing and spun around to meet them with a surprise for several spearpoints that were meant to find a home in flesh - but not the Ashfiend's.

Instead, if the intended quarter of blades had penetrated the soldier, Teron would lean forward while releasing his captive with sword in hand once more to tear life from throats, to spill blood under his black-booted feet. Given a successful implementation, grasping one man sentenced to die in such gruesome fashion and hurling the soon-to-be-corpse into the line of oncoming spears would serve to bear their spearpoints to the ground if the victim succumbed to both Teron's assault and his own allies' reaction.

It would be all he needed.

If this all worked he would advance to tear one of the spears free and close the distance swiftly, boots inevitably marring the ground in silence despite his heavy armor, save for the shrill jangling of the broken chains at his side that would likely toll out as church bells. Lowering his armored shoulder he envisioned careening into the sudden hole in bristling spears, the chill drawing flushed faces pale, Arak's Ruin ensuring that paleness grew, lingered, and overcome while the captive spear pushed deeper into ranks still ready with the same weapon. He would then seek to find the soldier who had struck at his countenance, and entertained raising the spear and driving it back in kind, tearing through flesh and shattering bone leaving scarlet ruin in its wake as the man crumbled and fell.

More to plan within his quickly calculating mind: The spear forgotten, his free hand would bring the blade sheathed across his back into the fray. Deliverance, older even than he, forged to slay the worst denizens of the pit, corrupted and buried in a lingering black hue from the innocent blood spilled across the thousands of years - a blade that knew little of armor to stop it, or mercy to relent.

A lesson many soldiers would learn as the mighty, aged weapon could drive swiftly with sorcerous power and the Ashfiend's strength through an armored chest to still the heart beneath. A lesson accompanied by the last ten undead servants overhead, who feeling their master's will, would behold his plight in eyes now tied to his own, and focus their aim upon the foes behind him.

It would all mean some ten men dead in a matter of seconds. Another five or so from his encounter with the Shepherd Knight at the front ranks, and several more dying or slain from the fell magic unleashed upon his enemies at the onset of their struggle.

The enemy's ranks, he noted with grim satisfaction as he drove hard into their lines with swift, sure strokes and a confident steps that neither slowed nor tired - Arak's Ruin and Deliverance wreaking havoc and ruin amongst the soldiers arrayed against him - were beginning to thin regardless if his plan for the next few seconds would work out as he envisioned.

Now to see if it would indeed come to pass.

Setting his feet he began to put it all into action as rehearsed in the span of a heartbeat.

[Khalika]

Traitor
one who betrays another's trust or is false to an obligation or duty 2: One who commits treason

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

Her finger were dug in hard to the fabric of Glenn Burnie’s shirt, helping the small Niall drag him away from Teron and his furry. They barely made it 10ft. When she stopped. Looking about the chaos, she noted the Governor she could tell he was shouting, But from this distance couldn’t quite make out the command. Till the hunting party began to move towards her….Lovely.

Looking down to Glenn Burnie she eyes his wound, a sigh. She wouldn’t have time to get him fully clear. Working faster then she would have liked, she pulled a scarf from her boot and began to wrap it quickly and tightly around the mans leg….as she did she spoke..

[I]“Glenn Burnie, this was hand stitched by my young sister two years ago. A gift at Yule time, I have had it on my person everyday till now, try not to lose it….â€

[Tebrin]

Irony. An outcome of events contrary to what was, or might have been, expected.

That the blade she had crafted and enchanted for Glenn's utility against the undead should find its way through her flesh, driven there by the very hand it had been built to still?

Ironic.

She might have appreciated it: might, still, at some point in the future, if she were given the opportunity to reflect upon this moment.

Glenn had often privately wondered if Kyra were possessed of a preternatural sense of sight. She moved well for a blind woman, though not perfectly, certainly had been aware of Teron's presence, his spells... Remarkably aware of the location of individuals around her.

Perhaps the greatest evidence against truly supernatural vision to fully remedy her blindness came in the fact that this sword struck her through the abdomen, sliced effortlessly through the fabric of her blouse, split her flesh and pinned her, gruesomely, to the ground.

Where she had been arising, sitting, pulling herself hurriedly to her feet, she found herself thrown back with her own creation piercing her body and sticking her to the terrain like a butterfly in a collection, her lips parting around a startled gasp. She hadn't the breath to scream, had not fully recovered yet from the effects of the Ashfiend's spell. Instead, she simply struggled to fill her lungs with air, each exhalation forced through clenched teeth in a pained whimper.

Her chest heaved with the effort, one knee bending to press booted left foot against the ground. Fingertips curled about the sword, setting her staff aside, as if to reassure herself that, yes... she had just been run through. Crimson blood seeped from the edges of the wound, stained her clothing and fingers with the dark, sticky fluid, drained her body of its heat and vitality.

Glenn had wanted to know about focus. About discipline. Imagine the concentration it took to cast a spell when your entire body still throbbed from the effects of that sigil. How difficult must it have been to whisper the runes that would save her life when every ragged, gasping breath was a desperate struggle? How much training was required to ignore the blade's intrusion upon her body, to take trembling digits and trace two intricate runes upon the blade of the sword?

There was no song. There was no dance. Only the faintly-whimpered names of those two runes and their tracing, and the first flared brightly with light and vanished.

She groaned in pain as the blade began to lift from the ground, sliding with a sickening sound through her body before its dripping, bloodied blade had been removed entirely, and the sword hung there, suspended in the air.

There was a second flash of light, and this one spun the blade around to face the Ashfiend and sent it streaking through the air for a hole in the thing's armor, still glistening with the woman's blood and flecks of viscera.

The wound was gruesome, undoubtedly agonizing, undoubtedly soon to be fatal. With another shuddering inhalation, she takes increasingly-weak fingers and begins to trace a final rune against her flesh, lips struggling to form the syllables which would close the gap in her body and allow her continued life. She only hoped she would be allotted that much -time-.

[Jirai]

Khalika was an unknown. Still, the child did not mind the help with the mapmaker - save for one thing. That one thing was, of course, Kyra. Her only hope of getting home. The only thing at all familiar in this strange world.

A woman she hated.

Still, at the moment that did not matter. The child-sorceress abandoned the injured mapmaker, darting instead for the blind sorceress. She could heal the older woman - but not here, not now. That would be deadly for the both of them. What she could do is buy Kyra the time she needed to finish that one rune.

The scarred child stood above the fallen Kyra, her own blade in hand, the tattoos on her skin flaring an almost blinding mix of blue and red. Her chant began the construction of a spell - one to remove herself and Kyra from such close proximity to the Fiend.

[Sherazade]

There was so much going on around her... and none of it seeped into Valaeli's awareness, she was too focused upon the ashfiend... upon pouring power into that spell .. the one she wanted to distracted him with... Spear points striking him were noted only because they would aid her. Unmoving apart from the wind rising from her gifts, her magic. If Ryn faltered for a second at her back she would be wholly vunerable... but as it was the dark youth was a demon when it came to the defense of his mistress.

(forgive shortness it was a struggle to find this much)

[Vanidor]

The Duke applied pressure with his thighs, a shouted command causing his horse to rear upwards and bring steel-shod hooves downwards upon what once might have been a farmer. A face that was slack-jawed and malevolent all at the same time was smashed beneath the downwards force of the creature, the boulder it had been about to heft dropped and landing with a hearty thud upon the tormented earth. Burel swept his blade to the right, warding off a flailing limb by severing it in the process. In the next instant one of the scouts crashed into the pitiful creature and sent it hurtling over the edge of the cliff, the point of his spear buried into the things chest.

Another command saw the crimson-clad warrior turning, golden head flashing during the discharge of mystical energies below. The scout besides him drew a heavy bladed falchion and turned with Burel, though he lowered it at the scene that was before them. The other scouts had followed the headlong charge, reaping a terrible bill from the undead fiends that had dared to hurtle stone at their companions below. Spears had been buried into chests, had taken off heads and rent great tears into pallid and putrefying flesh. Swords had followed up, finishing off a number more. The creatures weren't easy to drop, for they did not feel pain, nor did they care for the wounds they received. But the rain of stones had lessened, and the center of the angry dead had been shattered.

"Finish them, my brothers! Finish them!" His sword raised up in the air above him, the others wheeled about and set to finishing the deed. It was here that Burel saw the damage his own small company had taken. A horse that was wandering off, another with a form slumped over the neck and dark blood seeping down the flanks. He saw another horse laying down upon the ground, its rider struggling to her feet and yanking a sword from the saddle scabbard and turning to deal with the creature that had felled her mount and almost herself as well. The Duke swept his sword downwards, pointing, and the scout besides him spurred his mount on to assist his comrade. A slight shift of his own warhorse and Burel gazed down over the edge, peering downwards in an attempt to asses the battle below. His lips pulled into a frown beneath that gilded mask.

Eyes saw the Fiend far from where he should have been, there at the front of the Myrkenite phalanx, and instead deep within the lines. He saw a number of bodies scattered about, but able to make out none of them. It was a great distance from the top of this cliff. He was tempted to make good his boast about leaping off of this ledge down into the melee below. If only the distance was not so great. He had faith in his battle gear to survive the fall, just not in the meat beneath. Broken legs would help nothing, so instead he wheeled his horse about and cried out once again. "Trample what you have left and follow me! We ride to their aid! Come! Come!" His voice would echo outwards towards those with him as Burel reared his horse up once more, the beast crying out in displeasure. Then, not caring if they followed or not, he would continue on the path set.

That being to come down the opposite side of the cliff and come 'round from the rear.

[Carnath-Emory]

It does not surprise the swordswoman by any measure that Glenn has fallen, that Kyra has fallen, that she herself remains in every sense undamaged. It does not by any means surprise her that the Ashfiend refuses to engage. The name for this is Superstition.

It does startle her to discover an empty space at his hip where an urn should rest, but her understanding of this is immediate, and her gaze does not linger there. Does not linger upon him at all, except that there is a tremble in her gauntleted hands and it invades her mouth with sudden haste, and "Coward," she breathes into his deathless ears --

It should be now that the constables' melee consumes her. It should be now that she flings herself headlong into that satisfying butchery, now that she should carve her way to the Governor's side; even over the chaos of shouts and ringing steel she'd heard her name, knows the meaning of this hour. This is her obligation. This is the only reasonable response to this disaster. There is a heartbeat's measure during which she considers it.

And by the second, she's turned about upon her heel, has become a quicksilvered dart towards the fallen sorceress, distant Glenn. She with her weapon unsullied by blood, and her cruel-edged armour well-bathed in it, it is near their sides that she'll crouch, eyes hard upon blazing Niall, and willing life into them both with her every breath.

[Kait]

The squire heeds Cinnabar's call, if only because of her great disadvantage in this situation. Standing just over five feet in height, the young woman simply cannot see most of what is happening beyond the heads and shoulders of those who surround her. Even rocking up onto the tips of boot toes does no good here, and she is forced to seek aid.

"Sir Bloodmoon, what is going on? Can you see?" There is desperation in her voice as it calls to the elf over the clash of weapons and the cries of others fighting. Surely he must have a better vantage point, must be able to see something to either confirm or deny those fears that grip the very core of the squire with hands of ice.

[Cinnabar]

Harsh sounds of battle echo from the narrow walls of the pass, the clash of metal and cries of the fallen, the inhuman hisses and shrieks of the Fiend's servants on the clifftops overhead. Held at bay for a time, surrounded by spear-sharp halberds wielded with bitter determination, it seems as if the ghoul might be matched, might be contained, and more than a few faces split into fierce grins, snarls of delight to see the creature so beset, to see him stumble under the coordinated jabs of their weapons.

Little time to enjoy this sense of triumph, however; it changes to shock and horror in mere heartbeats as the armoured figure erupts into dreadful motion. Taunts and shouts of anger turn swiftly into screams, and even those are short-lived, instead becoming gurgling moans, whimpers, choked sobs of pain and disbelief as he carves through them like a man reaping wheat, and like stalks of wheat they fall.

Near a dozen soldiers scythed down in mere moments of bloody work, more falling beneath the hail of stones from overhead; burned and broken bodies underfoot, the stench of charred leather and flesh and hair mingling with the metallic tang of fresh-spilt blood, acrid fear-sweat from those who find their comrades cut down before them to leave them face-to-face with the ghoul himself, weapons raised desperately to fend him off, seeking not so much to wound their foe as to preserve their own lives, if such a thing is possible.

Perhaps a score of men lie dead in that space, trampled and tripped over by their fellows - perhaps as many as two dozen; certainly nearing a third of the force that had marched out through Myrkentown's gate earlier in the day. That's counting only the ones who have been slain outright, with as many more lying wounded; limbs broken and crushed by hurled stones; flesh ravaged and clawed by those of the Fiend's servants who had leapt from overhead; burned and agonised by the sorcerous flames that had sliced the column in two. Barely half of the forces assembled against the creature stand fit to fight, and even they suffer a growing reluctance to do so; they retreat hastily at his advance, pressing back against their comrades behind, blades and shields held almost more like talismans then weapons, fear seeding itself in their hearts, robbing limbs of strength and minds of clarity.

Barely half of them remain standing, and yet the Ashfiend strides onwards, armour marked with fresh gouges and dents which seem to hamper him not at all, which slow him not one whit as he deals out implacable death with every blow. Where once the men sang or cursed or shouted their defiance, now there are only fearful prayers, whispered disbelief, murmured despair at the ghoul's advance. Half of them are fallen, and yet the creature is barely harmed.

What man could possibly stand before such a thing?

Notes of panic in the voices raised now, hoarse fear and dread in the oaths and entreaties to the One God that rise into the smoke-hazed air, and from his position Calomel can see that this assault risks swiftly become a full-on rout. Grey eyes flick from place to place among the milling combatants, until it becomes clear that they can delay no longer, that they must act now.

"Constables! Take him!" The response from the ring of officers surrounding the Governor's group is immediate; all have had their instructions, their training, each knows what to do, and so they act as a unit, as closely-synchronised as the conditions of battle permit. Those canvas-covered shields are held before them, directed towards the Ashfiend, held and braced as if anticipating some powerful blow. A full dozen officers, each bearing a near-identical burden, each briefed on how to use it; a full dozen officers, and yet only one of them bears the true device, the others wielding carefully-constructed facsimiles, a shell-game intended on keeping the Fiend from easily striking down the device's bearer.

Each utters a string of nonsense-syllables, the word of command required to activate the Artificer's device, the strategy upon which they gamble not only their own lives, but those of all Myrken.

A prickling of arcane power from somewhere within that cluster of figures, a faint touch of magic brushing across the minds of those nearby before the device finds its intended targets - those attuned to its strange energies, those previously made known to it, and whom it seeks out anew to channel and direct the strength of their united wills against that of the Ashfiend himself.

Silvered gaze seeks out the ghoul along the length of the pass, features set in a mask of resolve, of defiance, of determination. Then, without a blow being struck, without a word at all, the Governor crumples and falls.

[Glenn]

Elliot Brown

The squire had been fully prepared to die today. That is what the defenders of Myrken did. That's what the people of Myrken did. They charged forward to defend their homes and families no matter the cost. To do anything else would have meant this place's destruction long ago. The girl was dead. Many of his friends, squires and knights alike, were dead. Many families he knew in the countryside had been murdered by the Fiend. His family remained. His people remained.

So he was ready to charge forward, to give his life if it would help things. He had fired the first arrow, mistake or no, and he had been part of the charge that followed. Now, however, things had gone awry. The Fiend had stepped through the shadows. Somewhere , past men wounded, dying, dead or fighting, Niall was still doing her best. Somewhere the Fiend was killing. The front line of the battle was no longer the front line!

Malaroth had turned and his knights, or at least this one squire, irregardless of his fellows, went with him. There was only the fear that it would be too late to make even so small a difference as this boy could make.