All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

[Jirai]

The girl was young to be here, but here she was, nonetheless. The scarred child kept to herself for the most part, always looking about her with keen eyes, though. She'd loosened the fingerless gloves that covered her palms and the backs of her hands, ready to remove them at a moment's notice. And she waited.

[Kait]

Patience
The squire has prepared for other fights, been ready to die in the struggle against this very foe for the sake of even a single life before; this time everything seems different. She has seen firsthand what the Ashfiend can do, and only nods mutely as her knight offers these last warnings. They all know it is nearly time; a heavy sense of restlessness fills the air as weapons are checked and rechecked, armor adjusted once more.

"I will do what I can. I.." But he knows already, and she must at least try not to seem so sentimental when he would have her focus on the task at hand. "We all do what we must." Still, slender fingers do not relinquish their grasp on his hand, and will not until the moment such parting becomes necessity.

[Quincy]

In the rear ranks of this small army and its steady, forward momentum of grim comrades, there is a bright voice belting hyped verses from a small thing spiked with armour and weapons. It is a song meant to ready blades for blood; it is something to lift grim spirits and starve the heart for action -- though it's merely an undercurrent to the steady, collective noise of mobile metal and horse-hooves.

~Though hordes of devils fill the land
All threat-'ning to devour us,
We tremble not, unmoved we stand;
They cannot overpow'r us.
Let this world's tyrant rage;
In battle we'll engage!
His might is doomed to fail;
Fate's judgment mus' prevail!~

There is enough cheer in this one body to, at the very least, affect a few of those nearest to her; it's only due to the fact that she's leading along a white-fetlocked horse -- a fat quiver thrown across its saddle -- that she's not romping and dancing amongst them.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

The occasional corpse bore siltent witness to those who passed amongst the winding paths and looming crags that cast grim shadows upon the approaching column. It was a witness of time and murder, undoubtedly by the elements or the Ashfiend's hand, left carelessly for the crows - as he had once left one of the approaching number. Feckless adventureres, young men and women on dares - their fates were private, petrified things curdled beneath a winter sun.

Their silent witness was born along to one in particular, who watched and waited through their gaping eyes. Through dead sockets he beheld the grey passage of soldiers and warriors, knights and squires, mapmakers and governors, all who held common purpose to see him ended and his threat to the land stopped.

He turned upon the point of a sharp crag and moved with deliberate steps, silent upon the earth beneath, further into the cradling peaks of the mountains. A sharp breeze unfurled the length of a tattered black cloak in brooding declaration of war and testified to the countless battles he had waded through, often alone, to lay waste to armies and decimate enemies.

He briefly mused why they had not brought a marching band until Quincy's robust lyrics tickled the ears of a silent sentinel. They thought they were adventurers, he considered, a wry smirk briefly contorting hidden, twisted lips.

They thought they were heroes.

Soon, he considered, they would all die a hero's death.

[Kyorin]

The woods seemed quiet enough for the evening, as Kyo made his way through the winding trail leading back to the small campsite. Just how far would everything go? He questioned to himself, as he arrived at the site, the small fire still burning dimly. He moved towards the tree trunk that had been hollowed out over time, kneeling down in front of it. His glove-worn hands dig around for a moment to withdraw a satchel that had been kept hidden for some time.

He gazed at the satchel for a time before opening it and rummaging through the satchel. His hands grasping the sheath that rested a blade that he hadn’t used in a long time. His right hand pulling the hilt to stare at the markings upon the blade, recalling the days that he once used the sword in the name of his clan. However, it was a different time and place now but he wanted to bring it along for the sentimental purpose. He continued to rummage, taking a few small blades that might come in handy before shoving the satchel back into its hiding place.

He slowly rose with the new equipment, slipping the blades into a few places upon his sash and moving to place the sheathed blade next the other upon the sash. Soon after, he was already leaving the campsite to prepare. He made his way towards the directions the letter had stated, once again Kyo wore a thick black cloak that concealed his form. He was prepared now for whatever may come in his way. In quick strides, he headed off to join up with what he imagined would be many others.

[Jaffe]

Kyo has a slender height of counterpart racing up to catch him; this quick creature flanks him, wearing a white mask similar to his own and a long rope of braid. Green eyes gaze from holes, and a bare arm is engulfed by the flames of an elaborate tattoo. Her belt is dressed with a multitude of knives.

With a prideful tilt of her chin and a light drift of her trailing cloak, she follows him towards the battlegrounds. If he glances at her, she'll immediately, defensively say:

"When this is all over, someone has to make sure that you do not invite the zombies to your camp for a boar lunch."

[Cinnabar]

Further into the mountains, along winding paths and forested roads, the rooftops and walls of Myrkentown fallen far behind, for the most part obscured by the contours of the land; occasionally their route crosses the slope such that a glimpse of the town might be seen through the treetops, the pale light of afternoon glinting from the waters of Silver Lake.

With time, and further distance, even that vista is hidden from their eyes; instead the Silver Mountains rise ahead of them and to either side, forested mountainsides rising into craggy and snow-capped peaks. The riders still range ahead, the soldiers of the New Myrken Army still march in escort, before and after that central cluster, that core of Constables, the Governor and allies, companions, friends and rivals and comrades, united in their purpose and grim of demeanour.

Deeper into the mountains, and closer to their date with destiny. One way or the other.

[Quincy]

A few of the men around the brightly-singing warrior have joined her in the growling music of some, bloody warsong, some marching chant to pass the time during their trek. They bash their weapons together and talk about how they're going to eat gruel out of the Ashfiend's dead skull when it's all over. A lot of people like to lose themselves in thought and silence right before a battle, but Quincy would much rather have these prior moments full of the distractions of a barbaric celebration!

After all, if they are to fight a mass of undead -- it is very likely that some of them will see the distorted faces of people that they know, people gone missing, perhaps even loved ones; if they are going to have any emotion at all, let them fill their hearts with bloody loathing for their powerful, necromancing enemy.

While the greater mass of the ranks might remain grim, this little band of ribald warriors continues their chorus of battle as they passed into the shadow of the mountains.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

The battlefields of Daran'Kor shimmered into view before ancient eyes, pulsing with hateful memory, as he recalled the tiny land's well-defended mountain bastion that had resisted his siege for two months before falling. Arak himself, his mighty arms stretched overhead as he roared his defiance amongst his broken city and battered army, passed his mind's eye momentarily as he again strode for war.

He also strode alone, at least for the moment. Timing was everything, and the occasional corpse that the small army had passed offered glimpses of this new threat, armed to the teeth and formed in the name of justice, as well as the pace at which they now approached the white-capped peaks. His silent tread bore him forward, slender chains tapping out an irregular, timid tune, echoing and hollow, to herald his approach like the ominous tune of a worn music box. Arak's Ruin, with black-pronged hilt and skull-topped handle, rested opposite the broken chains while stalwart Deliverance crossed the breadth of an armored back, beneath the tattered length of an ancient black cloak. Rimmed in gold, the aged garment crowned his features with a dark hood that sealed away a horrid mask of grim death beneath a nest of shadows from which flared his crimson, searing gaze.

Boldly, like a spider in a well-lit room, he rounded the last sweeping turn of the pass to face them. Surely to be in view in only a few moments he waited calmly, silently, with mailed hands at his sides at the end of a lengthy, coarse path. Doubtless their outriders would find him first, and there he would wait, leaving the horsemen and scouts to carry word back to their leaders. He bore the likeness of a timeless statue, corroded by wind and rain, the semblance of courage long past and heroics forgotten; still and soundless and dead save for that ever-flickering, weighty gaze.

A bending of his will stirred the small number of his servants left to him who picked their way towards the cliffs that loomed on either side of the Ashfiend and the Myrken army, some fifteen feet overhead, and the many rocks that waited greedy, spiteful hands. For his part, Teron's hidden lips parted in a terrible, powerful rumble full of curdled hate and echoing power untainted by mercy - after allowing himself a brief, cold chuckle at a force still too small to contain him.

"Your purchase merciful death with your surrender," he offered in that grating, ponderous voice. The syllables came in chilled command, the words of one used to being obeyed and quite willing to drive his point home - through each of their hearts with a sword if need be.

"And enduring servitude if you do not."

[Jirai]

Close. So close. Abruptly, a few moments before the Fiend would be in view, the girl's hand tightened around Glenn's. Her other swept out to garner Cinnabar's attention with a swift touch.

"There." She said calmly. "Just ahead."

[Sherazade]

While Valaeli had not been marching with the army, she had nevertheless been keeping an eye on its progres. she was a busy lady of late afterall. still the moment Rhaena had spoken she was stepping through a portal and appearing at the army's rear. "no need to frighten them after all" she murmured to the bony shadow at her back, for against her better judgement she had brought Davaryn with her. After a moment or two, she would begin working her way forward.

[Cinnabar]

It's one of the mounted Constables who first catches sight of the lone figure, blackened plate and ragged cloak, standing at the far side of the pass. Lingering only enough to be sure of their eyes, to take stock of the lay of the land, before he wheels his horse about and hastens back to meet the approaching force.

Before he returns, there's that alert from Rhaena Olwak, which has the Governor nodding, turning to pass word to the officers nearby, and the small army is ordered to a halt. A brief pause to confirm tactics, to rearrange formation, to make what preparations and prayers the moment allows.

That voice echoes along the mountain valley, that offer of clemency and threat of enslavement, prompting a ripple of unease through the ranks; soldiers murmur prayers and stronger oaths, while sergeants speak brusquely to the men under their command. A few even laugh, bitter humour in the face of death. Remember Harold's Smithy?, some mutter to their comrades; murdered townsfolk and farmers, risen to sow panic amongst the citizens of Myrkentown. Ha, I was at the Chapterhouse say others, recalling what form the Ashfiend's "merciful death" takes - biting cold and searing flames, men hacked apart by the ghoul's damned blade. There is fear, yes, trepidation, knowledge that they may die today. But there is resolve, fierce determination, Myrkenfolk driven beyond terror, beyond cowering, beyond yielding to a dead man's demands, best summed up by one infantryman's shout of "Surrender, my arse!" that prompts a ripple of laughter and ragged cheers from his fellows. Defiant.

Meanwhile a small conference is called - the Governor, the officers of the New Myrken Army, the senior Constables, the Grand Master of the Shepherd Knights, and those others with military experience gathered into a last-minute council of war. Calomel can't keep a wolfish grin from his features, voice quiet as he speaks.

"A narrow enfilade, to keep us from bringing full weight of numbers to bear - obvious enough. He stands alone, so no doubt his servants are concealed nearby, and a strong defence to the front and rear will serve us best; don't group too closely together behind the line, we need room to react should he step into our midst - you've all been briefed, and some of you have seen it for yourselves. I'll not have us taken by surprise." A nod to those gathered around, and a glance aside, looking further along the path.

"Cliffs overhang the path. It's a prime site for an ambush, so watch for attacks from above, especially towards the middle of the column. Once the signal is given, myself and the others in the central group will be out of action for a time; until we know the result of that part of the plan, it's to be a holding action - maintain formation, hold the line, keep his servants at bay." Grey eyes sweep around the rest of the group, meeting each gaze in turn.

"Anything else?"

--~--

To the rear of the column, then, Valaeli and her companion are met with suspicious stares and a bristling of halberd-points, soldiers closing ranks to bar their way; taking no chances here, hardly about to let mysterious and sudden-appearing strangers waltz into the midst of their number. Not here. Not today. Too much at stake.

From the second rank a sergeant speaks, gruff and demanding.

"Who goes there? Make yourself known, stranger."

[Malaroth]

A council in a narrow pass, threatening to narrow a bit more, with people he barely knew and against an enemy who might yet win. It was not an unfamiliar experience to the Grand Master, who reminded himself of the spell that might yet work to hinder the creature's accursed shadow-stepping. Then again it might not. Teron had proven himself quite adept with a small number of spells. Regretfully, afterimages of the creature's foul memories leaked into his sight, bleeding the past over the present.

"He will doubtless have servants prepared to attack us from above. If we have archers, they may want to train their sites for the cliffs."

A few fingers to rub at his stubbled chin while pale brow furrows in thought. "In a narrow pass like this, even faced with a threat from above, perhaps some sort of phalanx might serve us well to keep the Ashfiend at bay?"

The idea suggested with full realization that the creature would inevitably batter his way through it. Perhaps, it might help to buy them enough time.

Perhaps.

[Sherazade]

The bristling halberd points were well not unexpected, though Valaeli placed a swift restraining hand on hre companion. "Be still Ryn they are cautious and this is a good thing." Tiny pale hand left the dark man then, smoothed the flods of her skirt, fingretips brushing the oddly carved horn at her hip. Finally ruby depths lifted to the sargent. "Valaeli Volaris, I was at Snowstill, and my Companion Davaryn, though he was not there" A grim smile curved ruby lips now, for there was no warmth in the expression. "have i come too late to assist against the ashfiend?".

Monochrome skirts flowed around her on the breeze, snowwhite braids lifting on its eddies.. she was a striking and perhaps vaguely familiar sight, as might be the bone white long bow strapped to her back.

[Carnath-Emory]

This long ride, during which she and Burel had drawn gradually into Quincy's group, a place found on its outskirts where horseflesh wasn't intolerably near to Hrimfax's dark flanks. There they'd ridden, adrift in the dull thunder of hooves and the more visceral clamour of fierce song; a sound which the swordswoman had quickly found to her liking.

There is familiarity here. In every foot of ground that they cover, in every shift of the saddle beneath her, the remembrance of older times, long-ago marches; in the noise and grim future of it, most of all.

It was a speculative gaze that she'd turned towards the steep ravine which was their destination, but she'd had few words at all to add to the collaboration of governor, knights, officers. A weapon, not a strategist, her nature is to be directed, and so she'd awaited precisely that -- excepting near the end of it all, when in a murmur for the Governor's ears:

"We can clear such a path very swiftly, if they're fools enough to assault us directly there. You'll want your men back from us, if the time comes."

Simply this, with the unspoken hope that the need never occurs -- and the knowledge of precisely what such wishes are worth.

Very little. Very little at all.