All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

[Glenn]

Malaroth was a viable candidate for Councilor of Defense. He should know quite well about Jirai and just why she was not persued heavily. It had something to do with Matron Faeryl's ARMY just waiting for an excuse for her to turn her head away from internal affairs. It had to do with the fact that they weren't ready yet, that Agnie's own militia wasn't ready yet, that they did not want to wait sleeping dragons until they were ready to slay them.

Glenn Burnie knew that well. He had seen just what occupied Faeryl these days and had been duly impressed by it. It was enough to keep his nose out of her business and out of Jirai's and that was saying quite a bit.

Now, however, it was the business of stopping the Ashfiend once and for all that he was concerned with. There were two swords with him now. His usual, if he was going to be part of the group to battle the ashfiend and would thus need quickness, and then the sword that Kyra had given him, the one enchanted to battle the undead. That is what he would use against forces Teron might mass.

The truth of the matter is that he was not sure where he would be fighting. He blade arm would not be much use directly against the Fiend. Did he have any real place in that fight against him? His words, however, might be a deadly blow to the monster in the heat of everything, if he were to stay in the back line. On the other hand, he could help defend everyone, most especially Rhaena. That was appealing as well.

He was synced to the device. It would be a last second decision either way, his and Cinnabar's both.

[Malaroth]

It was possible that he should know several things. Yet it was also not terribly likely given, from his perspective, the almost second-hand nature by which his ability to help was consistantly ignored, and communication with a ready, willing and distinctly able body of men and women who had put their lives on the line. How many remembered that he had, before the knighthood, gave his last pennies to help repair the teahouse after it had been vandalized by squatters and hobos?

There were other things that he was aware of, however. Promises sealed with a hand that clasps Patience's own, even as doubt gnaws upon him, wondering why again, why she were asked and not him, why a squire and not a knight.

"It is a charge I gladly accept," he offered in return, cerulean eyes glancing sidelong for the slender squire beside him whom he favored with a smile of a simple, naked sincerity. "And one that I look forward to."

There were many whys likely to go unanswered. Indeed, this was Myrken after all. Perhaps after this concerted effort against a common foe there would be fewer questions posed as to the nature of things and far more answers, or even resolutions, to them all.

"For brothers and sisters!" he called out into the crowd. "For mothers and fathers! For daughters and sons and fellow countrymen!"

[Seth_Bloodmoon]

Seth was a quiet figure amongst the many, his expression unreadable. Brilliant blue eyes, however, flickered with the hunger to confront the Fiend as Cinnabar spoke. He had entered a calm state, the calm before the storm. His left hand remained resting over Twilight Heart's pommel, fingers eager to to draw the blade even if it would only be in the mind. The ancient blade wanted to be freed of its sheath, it hungered for what its master hungered for.

He was ready, there was nothing else he needed to do to prepare himself. He was attuned to Eslpeth's artifact. It was but a matter of getting to the Fiend and activating the magical device. He had confidence in those that would defend his and the bodies of those who would enter the field of mental combat. With luck they would end the death knight.

[Sherazade]

Valaeli was so quiet, so still, and so tiny she was easily overlooked amongst the gathered crowd, even with the ebony shadow at her back. Ruby depts passed over Malaroth and the squire... lingered for a moment... she was commmiting them to memory... commiting every face that mattered in some small way... *I will not forget* that thought was strong within her mind and stayed with her, even as her gaze moved onto Seth. He was ready for battle, to through everything away in his effort to destory the fiend, she knew it, could taste it, and because of that she worried, was afraid that soon memories would be all she had of him. A tremor rippled through her and she felt Davaryn's hands squeeze her shoulders gently. *It will be alright mistress, they will all be alright* It was the longest speech thread he had ever sent her, without there being an argument.... and she desperately wanbted to believe him. *It has to be alright* she sent back.... *It has to be* Thre had been an ending to things between her and Ixius, an understanding reached, ands he did not want that fragile thing shattered by what was to come... Perhaps it wa time she made a brief visit home, went to see the woman who had been more of a mother to her than her own by blood.. oh yes it was time to see Synthia.. Hopefully th woman would answer her call nad bring Valaeli to where she was... return her when tey were done, for she did not have the time for a long journey.

[Carnath-Emory]

She has no questions. Had arrived to this congregation during the early moments of Calomel's speech, tall in the saddle of dark Hrimfax. Had lingered near the outskirts of this gathering, for this beast has presence, and the Governor's address was nothing that she would interrupt. Not with a word. Not with a presence.

At its close, there are gloved hands that tug lightly at the warbeast's reins, nudging him towards where he needs to be, the place that is theirs. He is a fine counterpart, all bulk strength to complement the supple dexterity of her self; unrelievedly dark to contrast the vulnerable whites which are her colour this night.

It is for her to wait then, she with her crossbow and her schiavona, and the dark hair braided back sleek from her brow.

Very soon, it seems, they begin.

[Vanidor]

Another rode into view slowly, quite aware as Ariane was at the nature of presence and how people acted or reacted. As such his approach was silent, only the soft clop of hooves against the packed earth. The gentle rattle of harness and armour. Scarlet was the hue of his armour, the scale supple and finely made upon a bed of butter-soft leather. A helmet made to fully enclose the face, upon which was wrought the traditional battle mask of a horse-born warrior of Thesil. The mask was made of gold, the face serene. A single tear-drop dripped from the right eye, the thing worked with mother of pearl. It hung from the horn of his saddle.

No cloak to ward the cold, nothing beyond the padded gambeson underneath the finely made armour, beyond the strapped on plate that would protect the thighs and legs of a horse riding soldier. It was this crimson-stained man who would ride up slowly, bringing a haughty-minded horse nigh to the swordswoman and her otherworldly steed. A single eye, this one of emeraldine-shaded green to peer at her from the corner of the socket. The barest smile of lips that caused a still dark goatee to twist with some strange form of amusement.

Hopefully they were not too close to any of the others just yet, so that their appearance would be nigh simultaneous. If her mount would allow it. If his own would. In either case, his eyes darted towards the woman in her brilliant clothing of white.

"As once you protected my side, and my nation, let me do the same for you, Ariane." A rare glance into the man who nearly always made it a point to append 'Lady' to her name. To make her more than she sought, for in his eyes she was more than she admitted. "My blood for yours and the land. For the child that is, and for the one to come." Both eyes upon her for a moment. A gaze of mismatched blue and green. Another of his rare smiles, the ones that truly belonged to the man, Burel.

[Cinnabar]

No questions. Good. A nod at Sir Malaroth's cry, and then it's last-minute preparations before they move. A few more moments for the priest to grant benedictions, for weaponry to be distributed among the troops and those accompanying, some of the Constables mounting horses and edging towards the gates, ready to act as scouts and outriders. The soldiers form up under the direction of their sergeants, marching formation. Those involved in the magical assault are asked to gather together, and a protective ring of troops forms up around them, including the Constables bearing their canvas-wrapped burdens.

Rhaena's words prompt some motion among the more senior officers, the information filtering out among the assembled forces. Maps and charts consulted, suitable avenues of approach considered, until a path is decided upon. Orders are passed to the outriders, who file out through the gates in pairs ahead of the main advance.

Finally, at the brusque orders of their officers, the soldiers begin to move in column formation; halberdiers and axemen, a mass of men bristling with weaponry, armour rattling and jingling as their boots tramp in time. Myrken's champions march out through the Constabulary gates, to confront a peril that faces not only their own land, but all others, if the Ashfiend's threats are to be believed.

[Carnath-Emory]

This is an echo of other times, long-ago times.

They'd ridden this way on their approach to the avenues of Orvere, and the scent of her burning roofs winds through her thoughts even now: doomed Orvere; Zwill, where even brick had seemed to burn. They'd ridden this way on their approach to Audmathus' buried lair, and through the streets of Myrkentown even before then, so that this whole and living history is bright in her blood as the Duke's mount draws into step aside her own. Is very much in her mind, in the moments that her gaze moves between crimson steel and a single, green eye.

He is very much the Crimson Duke in his approach; is every inch the man, a moment after. The transition from one mind to another is quick as blinking, wholly unaccountable before he speaks mention of this child. This second child.

Her smile is small and fierce and immediate.

Hrimfax, as closely-trained as any warhorse ought to be, is accustomed to falling into step near others; the two beasts have settled into step as Burel speaks, guided by his hands. By her gloved own, light and deft upon the reins twined through their fingers. This is how they will approach: in the same manner that they always have, two figures coming to join the others in their march through the Constabulary gates, but in the moments before their movement:

"Once more we ride to ruin, my friend," she breathes, to man and to Duke.

"But not, I think, to ours."

[Malaroth]

One hand for his weapon and for war, the other for the squire at his side for this conflict and, hopefully, for much more time yet to come. Or at least for the remnant of what time is left to them.

He had marched off to battle countless times since the age of twelve, often clad in armor far too heavy for him and clinging desperately, in the early years, to a sword he barely knew how to wield. Responsibility gnaws upon him, finding purchase upon his shoulders, at all the doubts that arise from having little to no faith, or much of trust, in those around him save Patience Mayfield.

Alienated and in their midst, he trudged towards the gates as well.

An unpleasant memory gave his shadow cause to ripple a moment before he forced it from his mind.

[Malaroth]

The rattle-rustle of maile and bristling weapons sends quiet aftershocks into the ground. Myrken Wood rumbles with a growing resentment, a stirred and indignant anger at those who would prey upon her citizens. Armed with sword and spear and axe, girded with steel and courage, and accompanied by many of the finest warriors within her borders, they marched forward in disciplined press of men and metal.

It is a largely quiet journey, with officers taking care to check and recheck their course towards the mountainous slopes just west of the Silver Lake, a favored haunt of the Ashfiend perilously close to beloved Myrkentown. Crags and paths demand attention, demand a readying of horses to maneuver them and the brief reorganization of manpower to cover a snaking pillar of disciplined, barbed justice.

Making sure to keep the squire by his side, his hand clasped in hers, he took the time to occasionally remind her of a few swordplay basics that might save her skin from the Ashfiend. The creature had swung a sword for six thousand years, six ages of men, and had shattered kingdoms, empires, angels and devils. Yet there were always basics, fundamentals of right use that translated from any one style to the other.

Apart from which while Teron possessed a rich knowledge of swordplay, it was quite possibly the creature's endless strength and endurance that would prove to be the more dangerous foe.

"He does not move like a knight should," he murmured quietly. "The armor slows and restricts, but it is also old, and to him doubtless a second skin. Do not forget that he is also quite mobile, moving from shadow to shadow as he pleases, and that he will not grow weary, or be plagued by ideas like mercy."

A squeeze for her hand as the mountain slopes exhaled bitterly upon the approaching company who meant to make war amidst the peaks and valleys.

"Whatever you are going to do in his head, do it fast."

A lingering glance then for a corpse, broken and lifeless, left for crows and sun and rain at the base of a sharpening incline. Some poor soul who had perished by elements or Ashfiend. Doubtless other soldiers would take note even as he did, wary that it might spring to life any moment and attack. His own heart twitched and convulsed as a steadying hand fell to the handle of Elspeth's gifted blade - the weapon's grasp shaped into the likeness of a shepherd staff's crook.

[SinVraal]

Winter wind bore aloft a remnant of greatness. Above the winding pillar of soldiers a creature watched, soared, and thought. It remembered the murmurs of discontent at the Ashfiend's murderous spree, the call to arms, the madness of Foggy Bottom and the destruction wrought in Myrkentown. One creature's will had bent Teron into a weapon of murder and hate, of endless possibilities for ruin - of the world and the creature itself.

Now soldiers marched forward to bring the ravager to ruin, to undo what Vraal had done so very long ago.

Through speckled scarlet eyes, a single winged serpent wheeled far overhead, gliding upon the mountain currents, and watched.

And waited.

[Cinnabar]

Outriders range ahead of the column as it marches, returning at regular intervals to bring reports, descriptions of the terrain ahead, to warn of spots that could provide cover for an ambush of their forces, or impede their march towards the Ashfiend's lair.

Meanwhile the Governor consults regularly with the trader Rhaena Olwak, part of the command group that includes officers and those who will use the artificer's device against the Fiend; terse questions to confirm the ghoul's location, state of mind, whether he might have moved or noticed their approach. They march steadily but not without caution, no doubt remembering the trap laid for Myrken's defenders when they marched upon Snowstill. A thing that is now expected, such that the advance scouts are instructed to watch for signs of turned earth, clues that might provide some vital warning for the men who march after them.

Calomel himself travels on foot, resolute strides keeping pace with the rest of this expedition; clad in plates and rings of burnished steel, sturdy and heavy and yet carried easily enough upon his limbs and shoulders. Fencing blade forsaken today, instead favouring something heavier, a two-handed sword carried across his back; he has learned from past encounters with the Fiend, taking note of the challenge posed by the ghoul's armour, for which his preferred sword is ill-suited.

Taciturn throughout the journey, speaking only when necessary to issue instructions or call for reports, otherwise marching on with an air of determination, a grim set to brow and lips that is mirrored in the features of those Constables and soldiers who have faced the Ashfiend's works themselves, and find themselves no longer willing to yield to such atrocity. No more. Enough.

Let this be an end to it.

[Glenn]

It reminded him of the march towards Snowstill, of darting between one group and the next. And was he not connected to almost everyone here? Even if he had not been there. The mood was different today, however. More somber. There has been so much loss since then. On that day they were looking for victory. Today, they search for survival, to find some sort of end to this horror for the sake of their souls and their sanity.

Today, Glenn stays close to Rhaena Olwak, close to her in every way possible. No, he still wears no helmet, though there is one SOMEWHERE for him if the need arises. He's never fought with one. This is not the time to get used to such a lack of visibility. There are two swords with him. His rapier is at his side and the longsword given to him by Kyra is slung over his back. If it comes to battling a zombie horde, his lack of skill with the unfamiliar weapon will be more than made up by the enchantment it holds. That grated, but he understood the necessity.

Fittingly enough, he intended to protect the blind sorceress with it. He had promised Ariane that much, though it was a promise forced upon her, one that she had not truly wanted. It was better than the alternative. And of course, he would protect Rhaena as well. Her power was considerable, but what good might it be against a creature without a true living brain, or... in the worst case, against the Ashfiend and his mental assault of a thousand years of pain.

That was the plan. Glenn had been attuned to the device. It was not his intend to be part of it. It would be a last second decision of his, of Cinnabar's, whether he would be so involved. His hand grasped Rhaena's tightly and for once he voiced his question instead of just letting it be heard to her mind. "We're almost on top of him, aren't we?"

[Jirai]

She had been largely quiet, simply answering questions as Cinnabar asked them or occasionally correcting their direction somewhat. In truth, it was an unpleasant thing, this tracking. The nearer they came, the more the Fiend's too-strong emotions weighted on the veiled girl's mind. It was a careful balancing act, to keep that link yet not be overwhelmed by it, nor to let much seep through her link to Glenn Burnie. And so her voice was oddly distant as she answered the mapmaker's question, though her hand was tightly closed around his.

"He's very close."

[Seth_Bloodmoon]

Seth was silent, for the most part, as they all marched to face the Ashfiend. There was little for him to say at this point in time. His left hand still lay resting over Twilight Heart's pommel in a casual manner even though fingers wanted to curl about its handle and draw it.

The tall elf's brilliant blue eyes would occaisionally shift to each individual that he knew. His expression remained virtually unreadable, nothing new for Seth. Nothing showed through his calm exterior. Not even the anticipation and hunger to face Teron again. No, something did show through, but it may go unnoticed. The slightest of grim smiles curled the corners of his mouth.