All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

[Vanidor]

The gilded battle mask was rested lightly upon his head, the thing like a brilliant marker. Yet it provided many things beyond the protection it offered. Enhanced hearing. Improved sight in close quarters. To simply be able to -breath- with such an all enclosing helmet. The last, however, was a thing he preferred over all the others. The ability to direct his voice where it needed to be, so that he could be heard over the din of a battlefield. A moment to listen to the words spoken by first Calomel, then the Grand Master. Finally, Ariane's whisper was like a loud shout to his ears.

"Perhaps a company should be sent around the top of the cliff. If there is aught up there, they can neutralize the threat. If there is not, it can continue along the cliff line and strike this 'Fiend's forces from the side and rear. It could take pressure off the rest of us as we hold the line." His head tilted slightly, they spots where his gaze should have been peering from were a void of golden metal forged into the likeness of eyes. Another mystical element to the gold and scarlet clad warrior. It was designed to be unnerving. It would surely be an unneeded element this day.

[Glenn]

The mapmaker should have been focused on tactics. Hell, a few choice shouts could have likely drawn Teron out, and right towards his throat sword first. It would end the possibility of ambush though, and perhaps the possibility of continued breath. He had to be forgiven, however, because his attention was elsewhere. Rhaena Olwak was still here. It was a necessary evil, one that he had not been particularly happy with. She likely was not happy that either of them were here. And how could he, with only around half a year of combat training, argue the case that he should be there and she not, with her talents that were SO necessary?

It meant that her protection, along with Kyra's became a matter of true importance. It was enough that he likely would not enter the mental attack. To do so, given the link, would put her at risk anyway. No, she was here for them, and they, he, would be here for her. The men assigned to guard her were competant, maybe more so than Glenn, but he knew he would die to protect her if it came to that. He was not sure about them. In war, how could you be sure of any man but yourself? How could you even be sure of yourself?

[Malaroth]

Malaroth spared Burel a brief, appraising glance as he offered suitable tactical advice. A worrysome glance for the cliffs however, along with the knowledge that the Ashfiend was ready and waiting for them, drew his pale lips into a thoughtful scowl.

"It is a fine idea, but I wonder how quickly, or easily, we could scale the slopes. And should he become aware of us taking the high ground he may press his attack."

A raised hand to forestall any forthcoming words about how such a thing might actually be a good idea, drawing an opponent into conflict much more rashly.

"Normally I would be all for it. But, unless we are ready to meet a full offensive charge by Teron, even alone, then it would likely mean tremendous loss of life. I am not their commander," a quick glance to Cinnabar at this, "so their lives are not mine to spend as I see fit." This was where the chain of command proved its worth, Calomel, he considered, whether the governor realized it or not. Would he endure the knighthood's leader, or Burel, or anyone else to risk the lives of his men?

"It may very well be our only real option. I just want us all to be aware that it may still be tremendously risky. The Ashfiend isn't an enemy who can be merely trampled over, or even overwhelmed. Even with superior tactics we are contending with someone who has waged war and swung a sword for six thousand years. Someone who will not grow tired or lose the will to fight."

A bitter sigh as narrowed, cerulean eyes flickered out beyind their small meeting to the waiting cliffs. A winter breeze stirred the dark tabard draped over his hardened plate mail, and the cloak that shifted behind him.

"Still, the longer we fight him the worse our position becomes. We will grow tired, but he will not." A shrug then, and a hand to rest upon a sorcerously-forged blade at his side.

"The choice is yours, Governor."

[Cinnabar]

Listening carefully to the opinions and suggestions offered, grey gaze keen upon each of the speakers in turn, before he nods.

"The terrain limits the strength we can bring to bear against the Fiend directly. It also prevents him from flanking our forces, however, which works in our favour as it allows us to focus our efforts. Our objective here is not to defeat him in combat outright - stronger forces than ours have tried - but only to hold him at bay; to delay him long enough for the other measures we have in place to take effect." Not for nothing have the soldiers of the New Myrken Army been practising intensive drill in shield walls and spear hedges of late.

"Sir Malaroth, you will be in command of the forward defensive line. You and your Knights have been studying sorceries that may be of use against the Fiend, yes? As soon as the ghoul is near enough, take what measures you have to ensure that he cannot step through the shadows, then hold the line. The men have the Lady Kyra's blades and blessed water has been distributed among them, so use that to drive the Fiend back if necessary." If it works. Otherwise it'll have to be brute determination and a price in blood. His gaze turns to Burel next, the Lord of Thessilane inscrutable behind that fine-wrought mask. Recent disagreement has cooled things between Governor and Duke, and there is the sense that Tassnehof's presence is not entirely appreciated; still, the circumstances are dire enough that it would be foolish to turn any assistance away. A nod, then.

"Our outriders are returned; some of them may have seen a route up to the high ground on the way here, so consult with them. I do not believe that our bowmen will be sufficient to deal with any foes overhead; the Fiend's servants pay little heed to wounds from bolts and arrows. A more thorough dismemberment is usually needed to stop them." A glance back to the pass, to the flanking cliffs, and a deepening of his frown; head lifting a touch, eyes narrowing before he looks back to the Duke. "We have only a dozen outriders; good scouts, able horsemen and well-trained in combat, but we can't afford to split them between both sides. Your Grace, if you will take the scouts, double back to the south of the pass and confront any of the ghoul's minions you encounter." A nod to the left-hand clifftop. "Assault from one side is still better than assault from both. If there are no foes to be found there after all, it means we will have the advantage of the higher ground."

Attention shifts then to the swordswoman. It seems the Governor recalls Haberdasher's Row well enough, even if some of the specifics remain hazy; that horse of hers... well. Broad, leathery wings and a fire that turns arrows to cinders on the wind. "I believe Miss Emory has the means to cleanse the north side of any resistance, should it prove absolutely vital. However, her presence is also necessary to other aspects of our fight here. How quickly could this errand be done, Ariane?" Chin jerked towards the right-hand wall of the pass. The beast Hrimfax would be more than sufficient, one might hope.

A plan takes form.

[Malaroth]

It was all he needed to hear. Narrowed, cerulean eyes flickered over those gathered for the impromptu meeting, pale lips set into a grim line, while a hand touched the curved handle of his sorcerous blade. Getting close enough to the Ashfiend without being slain was his first concern, though it was one he had faced before in his ongoing conflict with the undead knight. Secondmost, the lives of Calomel's men hung upon his conscious like innocents executed for crimes they did not commit.

They came willingly, he told himself, and they knew the risk. It would not be the first time, he mentally repeated, that men had died under your command.

Pale hands and slender digits roam over his armor, checking for loose-fitting plates and undone straps. Content after the curosiry going-over, he steeled himself with a breath as Cinnabar conferred with the remaining tacticians. The helmet lashed to his belt forgotten, length of silvered-golden hair tumbling down a broad, armored back, he contented himself that drawing the Fiend's attention would work well to perform his simple sorcery to limit the creature's movement across the battlefield.

"We will hold for as long as we are able," he offered in response. It was as sound a plan as any, but there was little doubt in his mind that the Ashfiend would eventually break through.

The only question was when. That when now depended upon him, and the men under his command.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

Having verified that all was as it seemed, that the land did not lie and the world did not play him false for having seen the looming Ashfiend in the narrow pass, the horseman had abruptly turned and rode towards the army that awaited him.

Shadows trembled as his crimson eyes flickered like pyre flames in a powerful wind. Cold lips pressed in thought as there came no answer, no forthcoming riders, no formal declarations of war or peace save for the distant, echoing cry of one man's defiance echoed by his countrymen.

He had heard such things before.

He turned his hooded features skyward, mailed hands parting with trepidatious power. A low, grating growl escaped him, searing his will into the world, commanding the very of nature of things to change, to be dominated, to submit to a hateful, ancient heart.

The wind picked up, shivering, shuddering overhead and whistling mournfully through the passes. The clouds began to bend.

The world began to mourn.

[Quincy]

Now that words are being exchanged by friend and enemy, the songs in the rear of the ranks grow quiet and then silent.

The spry creature amongst them fits a hawk-fashioned helm to her head and draws near to her sister's flank, as she'd joined them earlier; lidded, black eyes stare out at the mountain-sides and then, widening, up at the bending clouds of the vast skies.

Cold wind carries her cloak around her in a bitter, warmthless hug.

"Bloody hell," she mutters, staying close with the others until they proceed.

[Vanidor]

The Duke shifted his gaze towards the Governor, head tilted slightly before a nod of assent was given. "If I have to leap off of the cliff itself to surprise the creature and whatever forces it may or may not have, then I will do so." His voice echoed dully as this was said, but there was a smile etched into the face behind the inscrutable mask. It had taken Tempestro Starr more than one bout of screaming to keep the Duke, then a much younger man, out of the thick of things and back upon the hill he was supposed to remain upon. He had never lost his love of the thrill of combat.

"We will hold the left, and break them if we can." He paused next to glance towards Ariane. His head tilted again, and despite the sudden change of wind and the twisting of clouds, his voice would clearly echo. "To Ruin, my friend. And a night that sees it red with this 'Fiend's unmaking." There was a salute made next, his gauntleted fist thumping against the finely wrought crimson scales that warded his torso. His boots would twist upon the soil, and he would march towards his horse. It was due time to hook up with these outriders and push the left flank as hard as thirteen men could do so.

[Carnath-Emory]

That horse ... which is clearly a formidable thing, even during such dormant moments as these. That horse, as broadly-built as a creature must be, that is intended to carry armoured men into a field of battle; it is a construct of heavy muscle and glossy dark hide, of exaggerated muzzle and a mane of wild, curling black.

It is certain that her gloved hands are tight and careful upon the reins, that they have been so throughout this and with necessity.

There'd been an appraising gaze turned up towards ravine walls, as the Governor spoke his words, and now it is fixed upon the man himself. He knows what he asks; Burel, who lingers near, surely knows what is asked. Deucalios likely does not, and so these words are pitched for his ears, as well as theirs.

"I do, if the need is great. And if the time comes for that, you will each of you want your men well clear of me, clear of what comes." A glance is turned between this trio, an examining thing. "I will mean to be careful of them, but you understand that we've done this but once before. I can guarantee you nothing but that the enemy will burn."

There is nothing pleasant in that smile, thin-edged as it is. Nothing pleasant at all.

"Some time is required for him to begin," she is advising Calomel then. "Once he's taken to the air, we move at great speed, but time must be taken to quiet him from it, after. Do you see? He enjoys his freedoms, he does not like to be ... confined again, after. Still..." That smile. That smile is grim and kindless and very quiet with its pride. "We ascend that cliff-face far more swiftly than a man climbing ever could."

But it's towards Burel that she turns her features then, Burel who is far more man than Duke, in this hour. He wears his gilded mask, and she answers it with her own: with a lifted chin across which quicksilver has begun abruptly to course, so that very soon her flesh is flooded with the stuff. It tightens even now, takes on shape: the flat, cruel planes of a helm; of shoulder-plates, below; of gauntlets, a bracer...

And there are no words for the man at all, but there is an echo of his salute instead, and a quirk of sudden grin to the corner of her mouth, before the helm obscures it utterly.

[Cinnabar]

Quiet for the swordswoman's explanation, with another glance for that black beast she rides; a nod, then, finding things acceptable. Not ideal, of course, but... something to work with.

"Good enough. If the need is great enough, be ready." Brief orders for the officers of Myrken's army, and that warning is passed on, disseminated among the sergeants and soldiers. "And if Miss Kyra can do what she can to counteract the ghoul's sorceries, that too would be most welcome." A grim smile for the enchantress, who has helped so much already, ensorcelled weapons and other preparations; a solemn nod follows for Deucalios, for Burel, approval given for them to be about their business. Ariane is with the central group, encircled by a ring of Constables bearing those canvas-wrapped shapes. The artificer's device upon which this whole exercise depends.

As the clouds twist overhead and the wind begins to keen through the mountain pass, a half-dozen soldiers headed by a sergeant escort Valaeli and Davaryn to the command group; the Governor listens as the sergeant describes their offer, and regards the pair with a brief but appraising gaze, taking in monochrome clothes and skin and pale longbow. Eventually he offers a nod, a hand lifted to indicate the clifftop to the left of the path.

"Duke Burel and a troop of outriders will be storming the south cliff to prevent the main force coming under attack from above, so you can join their efforts there. Or if you prefer, you can take the opposite side yourselves; we've no soldiers to spare so it'll just be the pair of you, and we don't know how many of the Fiend's servants are lying in wait, but it's likely you'll face stern resistance." Content to let them choose for themselves; not so comfortable with having them in the middle of the main force, though, unknown factors as they are, so this is the best option from his point of view.

"That's how you can help, if you feel you're up to the task. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have matters to attend to. Perhaps we'll be able to make more thorough introductions afterwards." Fingertips to the edge of his helm in salute, and then he's turning to make sure all is ready.

Instructions issued. Preparations made. Very well, then. His visor is snapped down firmly, and he lifts his voice to carry above the howling wind.

"March on!"

Barked commands from the officers, and the expeditionary force stamps into motion to follow the path into the narrow pass, while mountain pines bend and creak in sorcerous winds.

"No retreat! No surrender! Myrken prevails!"

[Jirai]

The child had been silent, her scarred face as sullen as it ever was. Now, though, she watched with interest, lingering near Kyra as Cinnabar spoke, toying with her gloves.

"Oh, this will be fun! " The odd girl almost smiled.

[Malaroth]

After a last, lingering glance and firm hand-squeeze for his squire Patience, with which he commited her face to memory and whispered, "There is much more of life yet to live, more than can fit in a shallow grave. I know this now, and I think you do too. I will keep my promise to learn this with you, when I see you after the battle." His hand for her shoulder, and a gaze for her own, a shared and silent embrace promised with a greater weight than mere comradarie. For now it would have to do.

The Shepherd Knight made his way to the front of the column. Winds that had begun to whisper dreadful curses and awakened fell deeds stirred through the length of blond hair, streaked in prematurely aged silver, and sent it loosely about armored shoulders and a grim, pale visage. A hard gaze for that narrowing pass, the cliffs that towered as foreboding sentinels, and for the graying sky that reminded of the 'Fiend they were about to meet head on.

Amidst a people not his own, atop cliffs far from mountainous Zachea, he turned a hardened cerulean gaze across the gathered men of the front line. They had been trained, he knew, and were ready for combat, but they were yet constables, though perhaps the closest thing they had to professional soldiers at the moment. They were yet men, he reminded himself, and men would fight for lord and land, for promises taken, for family and loved ones.

Remembering the shores of Sidgar, and the horror he had seen, and then released there, he steeled his breath and pushed himself to the front of the assembling line. Clad in metal armor, over which draped the dark tabard of the Shepherd Knights: a crooked shepherd's staff twined about with ivy, he stole one hand for the blade at his side and tore it free.

With a thought and a command, taught to him by the weapon's maker, the blade's metallic length began to shimmer and shed some measure of light at their forefront, a guiding beacon raised overhead, as he turned and began to march towards their undying enemy as the ranks fell in step behind him.

"With every step, Myrken supports you," he barked in a voice that became familiar immediately, a voice saved for the shivering peasants in besieged Sidgar. "With every step, Myrken prays for you! The earth beneath your feet is rich with the memories of those who have gone before." His voice carried more than it perhaps should have, born along by whistling winds and the echoing walls of the surrounding cliffs that grew tighter as if embracing, or preparing to strangle, them.

The increasingly steady, heavy footfalls behind him added a robust rhythm to his straining words underlaid with the bitter memory of circling dragons and rapacious orcs tearing through Sidgar's broken defenses.

"Today is the day that we stand together, natives and foreigners, for the promise of a brighter day. Now is the hour when we shall be tested and battered, and the enemy will see us broken. But we will not break! With spear and shield, and with sword, yes we will win. But also with courage, and honor, for we fight for a brighter dawn!"

The sword gleamed brilliantly, like tamed lightning pulsing with divine wrath for the creature who awaited them beyond the approaching canyon's curve.

"Your families go with you! The light goes with you! Today there will be peace for Myrken!"

He was glad when the marching constables cheered and roared, raising weapons overhead, clashing them together to add thunder to their voice. For his part, he narrowed his eyes and steeled himself for their adversary.

They would need their courage to hold.

[Sherazade]

It would be in silence that the odd looking pair followed the sargent, some recognising her from the snowstill stand, but these were few. Ruby depths lifted to take in Cinnabar as the sargent brought them to the command group. Every word he spoke was taken in, digested, returning his salute with a light touch of fingers to her forehead, she smiled and tuned leading Davaryn away. There was no fear in her, for the appointed position, for you see for Valaeli the idea, of an almost solitary stand, had appeal at the moment... besides she could also offer the protection of raining arrows into those attacking the main force. "we are up to our task governor," Her murmur was soft did not carry, and was not meant to be heard "I pray you and everyone else are up to theirs" She wanted an end to the ashfiend, and for reasons other than the things he had done to Myrken, though those certainly counted among them.

It would not take the pair long to reach the clifftop, and why should it when they could walk seemingly on air. and they would stand, outlined against the sky. A tall dark shadow and a banner of light.

[Glenn]

Elliot Brown

The boy squire had no place here. He was clad in armor that was just a little too big, a short sword that he was not fully trained in at his side. A dagger, enchanted by Niall, was strapped to him as well. There was little chance he would use such a weapon in this type of combat. It was mainly there for luck.

In his hand sat a notched crossbow, given to him perhaps as a misguided attempt to keep him off of the front line, to keep him from charging forward, to prevent one so young from being the first to die. It would seem to have failed, because there he was, standing not far from Sir Malaroth, from the men he looked up from.

And he was roused by Cinnabar's words, by Sir Malaroth's words... to an extent. A normal boy's heart would be lifted in hearing them. This young man? He had memory. He remembered the dead bodies at Snowstill. He remembered the attack on the Chapter House, the death of so many of his friends and heroes. He remembered burning their bodies in the midst of the fighting so that the noble dead would not rise as a scourge upon the land, so that the fallen knights would not spell the end of both the Order and Myrken itself.

He marched onwards with the remains of the order, that crossbow wobbling up and down, aimed loosely at the Ashfiend himself. Elliot remember Piper Dreamirse, remembered how she moved, her voice, her beauty and how he failed her, how the Ashfiend robbed the world of her presence.

And lost in memory, his stomach clenched due to the battle to come, the boy's finger moved just a bit, just enough. As his finger slipped, the blessed bolt came loose, launched through the air directly towards the walking death before them.

The crossbow fell out of his hand in shock and surprise as he was left frozen, unable to do anything but watch that bolt fly forward towards He who might destroy them all, He who had destroyed so much.

[Kait]

Patience

There is some quiet before every great and terrible event in a single person's life. The squire finds hers in the form of hushed words, this further talk of promises and intentions for the future. "I know. I would not have it otherwise," whispered in kind as thin lips find cause enough to smile in spite of what may come. Just when this goodbye might seem complete, there is hurried movement from the young woman; slender digits reach to press a measure of pale yellow ribbon into one of the knight's hands with no explanation for this save that selfsame smile that fades only with his passing to the front of the column.

With her knight and master removed to rally men to this first line of defense, the squire's gaze finds new focus in the form of Cinnabar. It is he who must direct those who remain, who will initiate this magicked battle of minds when the time comes. Before she might have spare seconds to worry or wonder, there is that fateful bolt released into the air, a mistaken beginning to their desperate battle.