All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

[channe]

And Agnieszka remains quiet, alone enough in the crowd, vengeance in her eyes, neither singing nor speaking.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

The clouds began to gather, twisting into a palpable mass overhead, a vortex full of rumbling, intent fury reflected in the Ashfiend's searing, livid gaze. A hush and a shadow, the shadow of promised doom, loomed large over the assembled company as it closed, with footfalls to tremble the earth and voices to carve vengeful furrows into their enemy's unbeating heart. Raw, sorcerous power bid his fingertips to tremble as they rested at his sides, taut and curved like a paralytic, their backs bent earthward as he bid the heavens to obey.

A single, errant whistling caught his attention from the building memory-magic as a soaring bolt flew towards him, gouging a furrow across his armored shoulder and adding another scar to the countless morass embedded thereupon. With songs and defiance they had answered, he considered. It was readily apparent that they would not surrender.

Eyes flickered with unholy fury, sealed away beneath a nest of coiled shadows, as the clouds overhead began to take shape. Their vaporous body darkened and rumbled with terrible thunder and ashen hues that scattered through their midst like surging blood. As he raised a mailed hand the clouds obeyed, falling into a great, burning fist and length of arm that tightened as each of his fingers nestled against a mailed palm.

"Only the peace of a restless grave!" his hollow voice grated and echoed towards the mass of armored men who surged forward.

He swept his trembling fist low, waist-ward as the wind grew into a grim silence suddenly filled with the heavens themselves groaning as ash rained softly upon them like rose petals. In their fluttering midst, driven by his hateful magic, the enormous fist roared and screamed its master's fury as it descended, burning and roiling, with swift doom towards the center of the Myrken column.

The same fist that had unmade the Chapterhouse and stolen countless lives now drove towards the heart of this Myrken resistance.

[Cinnabar]

The Governor's party form a clustered group, surrounded by dark-armoured Constables bearing those shield-shaped burdens sheathed in canvas covers, an island of mismatched forms amid the uniforms and armour of the New Myrken Army, the heavy armour of the Night Watch; Calomel in gleaming steel, towering Seth Bloodmoon with his enchanted blade, Squire Patience in the colours of the Shepherd Knights, Glenn Burnie with that stubborn disdain for wearing a helm, and all the others with them. Adventurers, warriors, sorcerors, native-born and adopted citizens and denizens of Myrken Wood stand united against the Ashfiend. Hopefully it will be enough.

This group follows not far behind Malaroth's front line, watchful and tense as clouds buckle overhead and the ghoul cries threats and imprecations of a tone heard many times before, now mingling with the rising wind. The Governor's gaze flicks upward to the clouds above, twisting and clumping together, and a hushed oath escapes his lips as that grim form gathers in the sky, a glance back along the column, as if to estimate its intended target. He looks to the sorceress Kyra, silver glinting in his gaze.

"Counter him as best you can."

His voice is raised in command a moment later, barked orders that are relayed by officers along the line.

"Clear space! Rear ranks, fall back! Front ranks, close forward!"

Advancing in open order, ample space between soldiers in the middle of the column in case the Fiend should appear amongst them, even in this narrowed pass the formation has some degree of flexibility, of room for maneuver, for evasion. Not quite as orderly as might be ideal, fear lending haste to the soldiers' movements as they strive to follow their instructions. But the aim is simple enough to coincide with the instinctive need to move away, to part ranks and clear a space, to be anywhere but beneath the descent of that spectral fist.

There's more shoving than their drill-sergeants might desire, more urgent shouting and cursing than is proper, but as that fist crashes down the goal seems to be in some part achieved - a thinning of the formation at the point of impact, all but a few unlucky stragglers avoiding the full force of that sorcerous blow, and for such unfortunates at least their end comes quickly. Those around the periphery are knocked from their feet, thrown against the cliff walls or the press of bodies before and behind, a collective stagger and shout going up as the ground jumps beneath their feet.

Yet even as they clamber back to their feet, commands are being shouted to resume formation, red-faced sergeants exhorting their subordinates to get up, to reform, to take up their weapons and stand tall like true sons of Myrken. Helms hastily straightened, polearms and swords clenched in white-knuckled fists, a clattering of arms and armour as the men of the Myrken Army rise again. A ragged shout becomes a chant, angry, defiant, bloodied but unbroken.

"Myrken Prevails!"

[Tebrin]

(OOC Note: I apologize for how late I am jumping into this. I was completely unaware that Kyra had been summoned back in DECEMBER, and so now I must make a blanket post here...)

Sorcerous Kyra arrived promptly after receiving the letter, dressed as she was every day - a formal-looking blouse, a heavy woolen cloak, soft leather boots... skirts were replaced with more functional leggings this day, but other than that, she certainly didn't seem prepared for battle. But, then, Kyra's strength had never lain in swords nor armor, had it? She had arrived in somber spirits - polite and friendly as ever, but subdued, focused.

Other than her staff, she carried with her a sheaf of papers - she would not explain their purpose, went so far as to discourage others from asking. Slung over her shoulder was a small satchel - inside, a carved mahogany box, inscribed with a dizzying array of runes. This, she would indicate to Cinnabar in private, was the vessel in which she hoped to trap the Fiend. Within the box lay the shards of Teron's armor, similarly inscribed, tampered with, prepared.

She sought Ariane Carnath-Emory, and, taking her arm conspiratorially, leaned in to alert her to the small shift in plans. That is, the box she had crafted, her intentions to trap the Ashfiend, and that their own private scheming would be a last-resort effort, should it fail. She pressed a small, silver bangle into the woman's palm, carved with the same intricate runes that graced Kyra's clothing, her staff, the box, the blades she had enchanted... and urged her to wear it. It was a protective charm, she explained, meant to help insure that Ariane was able to protect the ivory-haired sorceress should the... summoning... become necessary.

And with that, and the woman's blessing in combat, she sought Niall. The girl was to focus on assisting against the Ashfiend's minions, only turning her magicks on the Ashfiend directly if Kyra, herself, fell. The older sorceress, for all her respect for the child's ability, did not think her capable of impeding Teron - and any protest would be sharply rebuked.

(continued)

[Tebrin]

She sought Glenn and Rhaena, urging them, with almost motherly concern, to take care in the battle today.

She sought Seth, indicated that she was happy to see him, wished him well - for she knew the man to be a warrior, and by his OWN boast, quite the capable one. And then she withdrew from the crowd - any who looked at her could see lips constantly moving, any who drew near might hear the occasional, pure note of song, and no further distractions were welcome. She rode with the army on a lightly-colored purebred, a horse that seemed to guide itself as much as anything, keeping to herself more than anything.

When addressed during the journey, she replied briefly, providing what information was necessary of her, offering reassurances to those around her - she seemed confident, focused, ready. They could not hear the pounding of her heart, could not feel the anxiety rise within her. The Ashfiend had bested her magicks before - but that had been months ago, she had been unprepared. Today would be different, she reassured herself.

None around her saw the faint flickerings of doubt that filled the sorceress' mind.

She listened, impassively, as the sides shouted at each other, as Teron's terrible voice filled the valley. Calmly, she slipped from her steed - could Teron see the ivory-haired woman dismount, and stoically begin to move in graceful, elegant rhythm? Could he feel the powerful tendrils of magic weave about her petite frame the way she could feel the terrible might of his own spellcasting?

Kyra required room to work - and would certainly appreciate if her companions separated themselves from her as form began to twirl, as brief wisps of blue light trailed from her fingertips, from her toes, weaving intricate patterns within the air. They were familiar, to those who had inspected Kyra's work prior - similar to those on her staff, on her linens, on her blindfold. It was a graceful, beautiful, somber sight to behold as the woman began to weave her magic, and the brief, tense silence was filled with the crystalline ring of the woman's song.

Singing - how odd it must have sounded amidst the shouts that quickly drowned it out. And yet, it was almost impossible NOT to hear the lovely tones that emitted from the spellcasting woman, in time with the graceful movement of her body, rising in volume and urgency as that deadly spell descended upon Myrken's ranks. The air above Myrken's faithful shimmered brightly, a brilliant point of blue light forming in the air. It hovers, momentarily, as if just awaiting the fist's approach - before, with the climactic intonation of Kyra's song, it streaked through the sky with dramatic flare, colliding directly with the Ashfiend's sorcery.

The explosion of blue light was quickly engulfed by the darkness of Teron's spell, and a moment of tense silence as the pale-haired sorceress' counter-spell attempts to unmake Teron's attack, to dissolve that fist dramatically in mid-air, to spare the soldiers upon the ground its wrath. Even Kyra's solemn dance slows, chin tilted towards the collision of energies, as the two sorceries each attempt to overpower the other. Her song softens, though lips move frantically, working to support the spell - powerful elegance thrown against unyielding brutality.

She simply prayed she would prove strong enough.

[Carnath-Emory]

There were two thresholds which she had awaited, from the commencement of this battle; from the moment at which they had spurred their mounts into motion to begin their journey towards it.

A crossbow's sudden, disastrous shot is not one of them.
Neither is the sight of what lurches like a juggernaut from the very skies, the Ashfiend's wrathful malice made all-too-tangible.

It is this song, and the first lilting, crystalline notes of it have the swordswoman's gauntlets firm upon the reigns. A tug upon those turns the beast's heavy head, twists her mount into something that might have been mistaken for a retreat, did one not quickly discern the small details of its destination.

A lightly-coloured purebred, remarkably self-possessed even in the midst of what could quickly become murderous chaos. A horse of slender lines, and more particularly the robed woman who'd left it in her wake, even now slowing in the dance that had struck colour into the darkening skies.

The Ashfiend's forces would be mad not to target her directly, would surely endeavour to end her song by ending its singer -- and the swordswoman had, after all, made a particular promise...

[Teron_Ashfiend]

Dozens of hungry eyes reflected the bitter light in the Ashfiend's own, bound and chained to his power and his raging fury, they peered below into the narrow pass with a twitching, cold eagerness that sparked a mockery of true life to stir in stilled breasts. Cumbersome stones awaited their gnarled, clawed hands to pitch down into the enemy's ranks. Their Master's will had spread amongst them, blanketing them as he strove to keep their hateful impulses in-line until the proper moment, even as he struggled against a prepared sorceress of no mean skill.

Until a pair of them arose, standing upon the very air itself. As Teron's lowered hand struggled and trembled to unleash his ageless fury, he beheld the other sorceress-turned-dragon at the Chapter House through the gaze of his minions. A scowl began to slither across tense, tattered lips as he began to understand that they would strive to take the cliffs. It was something he had anticipated to a certain degree. With a thought his servants stirred into action.

Since the sorcery yet protected a large number of the soldiers below from attack, those across the chasm from Valaeli and her ward became their next targets. With a sick, greedy hunger they took up their stones and began to hurl them upon the slender, pale-skinned pair. Meanwhile, those closest to her, upon the cliff beside which they had arisen, turned upon heels that often protruded from worn boots and charged, a handful leaping into the air with bared teeth and flashing, twisted fingertips poorly fashioned into talons.

With some of his servants unleashed, Teron's thoguhts turned back to the spreading screen of protective blue light that blanketed his enemies. The sorcerous strain struggled against his fist with a tremendous groaning as if the world itself should be split asunder beneath his fury, trembling viciously, while the haunting melody reached him above the dawning din of battle and death. The soft tones and pitched harmony arose in gorgeous cadence, chorusing life and protection, peace and more, even as their bleeding light intermingled into a terrible bruised color of energies. It was beautiful.

And he hated it.

He flexed his own hand and the magicked one complied, straining through the blue-light field to crush the barest handful of men who worked to obey Cinnabar and scramble away from the point of impact. With fury rising in him anew, replenishing whatever he has already spent, and Kyra's repelling magics bowed but held, he raised his other hand, palm facing the Myrken column, and snarled beneath long-stilled breath.

"It will avail you nothing."

Keeping the hand of burning ashes and cloud-formed wraith pinned against Kyra's protective barrier, his other hand swept forward. A sudden gout of hot air split from the ground, with flames erupting in their wake headed in a burning line across the ground towards, and aiming to go through, the entire length of their formation down its rebellious center - intending to divide them in half lengthwise and burning them to death. A slender line to be sure, but long and deadly.

The sorcerous battle would not last for much longer before melee was joined. He would bilk it for all it was worth. One way or another, he avowed himself, they would all die - or worse.

Except, perhaps, one of them. One of them, he considered, he would spare. A matter of urns and ashes was not overlooked easily.

[Tebrin]

The strain was evident upon the woman's youthful-looking features, seemed, practically, to age her there before the eyes of those who looked on. Where she might have seemed in her mid-twenties before, previously un-noticed lines of worry etched into her pretty features as she struggles against the terrible might of the undead Ashfiend.

The intricate fabric of runic energy that spread its embrace across the armies of Myrken trembled beneath the impact of Teron's attack, flaring at the impact in a hauntingly beautiful display of lights and powers, and forestalling the fist's momentum, halting its extension of its master's will.

Her body continued to twist and swirl, fingertips tracing delicate, immeasurably intricate patterns within the air, feet mirroring them in an impressive display of dexterity, all to the cadence with which her voice pierced the din of battle. As horrible fingers penetrate her shield, strain against the protective cloth of blue light which bends and yields and resists, soft tendrils of energy creep forward from the shield, seeking to bind, to ensnare the manifestation of the Ashfiend's wrath, to hold it tight and impotent there, within its grasp.

The field rippled and crackled in protest, and for a moment, minute fractures in the rune structure were visible to the keenest of eyes - before an urgent lilt and a twirl of left hand reinforced the area of weakness, held the barrier fast, pressed the hand back from the point where it had struggled through, seekings it victims. Like the yield of a rubber band, the shield pressed back, its elasticity only allowing it to bend so far before it insisted upon pressing Teron away from the wounded, from the considerably-lessened casualties the spell had caused.

And when that stalemate was reached, Kyra felt a brief sense of relief - she had forestalled the Ashfiend, held his attack at bay. What she did not anticipate was the simple effortlessness with which he split the very earth, seeking to part the entirety of Myrken's forces.

Her voice shifted an octave, her dance altered slightly, intricately maneuvering across the battlefield by her mare, which stands stoic guard next to Ariane Carnath-Emory. The sides of the shield dimmed, faded - present, still, but weakened, vulnerable, that the field might be reinforced in the direct path of this newest threat. A column of blue energy burned brightly, spanning the distance between the Ashfiend's fist, where runes sought to ensnare, and the split ground, where she hoped to halt the fissure's progress.

When this second spell slams into Kyra's protective field, the fissure grinds to a halt, the pale-haired sorceress' magic holds, flaring brilliantly against the ground. For a moment, everything is still, and the woman might seem victorious.

But soon, one could see the faint, imperceptible nudge of the protective field backwards, yielding against the incessant forward progress of the fissure. A half-inch became an inch, two inches, a foot, as the field bent and yielded beneath the unholy fury of Teron's attack.

All that Kyra could do was delay the inevitable - slow the spell for a few precious seconds, that soldiers might evade its inevitably-destructive path. It was clear the shield would not hold both spells at bay for long.

Small fragments began to appear in the shield where it held the chasm at bay, a rune flaking off and vanishing into thin air here, a break in the brilliant sheen of light there. A faint bit of sweat glistened upon the singer's brow as she struggled to hold, to maintain. She only hoped Cinnabar would move his men in the few moments she had bought, because before long...

Beautiful intonations were interrupted by the sorceress' cry as this second attack punctured the shield, leaving a hole in the brilliant azure wall, its progress resuming without further impediment. The sides of the shield remained dim, weakened, rippling with the wake of the disturbance. And as the shield unravelled from that point of impact, a staggered Kyra quickly raised her voice once more, seeking to hem the ragged edges of her spell and halt its disintegration. The only point of the shield that remained at full strength was the apex of that brilliant column, where it held Teron's crushing fist at bay, seeking to entangle and immobilize. The rest had been weakened, damaged but present - save for that one glaring hole in her defenses, where the earth itself yielded to Teron's will.

[Glenn]

"Quicker." Glenn was forced from being on the front line. There wasn't much he could do back here, but there was no other place for him to be. He had promised to protect Kyra. If he was not to combat Teron with voice and sword, it was where he would be of most use.

"They have to move quicker." Unholy magic rained down upon him, yet he kept his resolve. He had seen this sort of thing. "They have to get to him. They have to keep him busy, keep him from moving his arms,from making his sigils, from casting his spells!"

A rapier fighter knew well that the only good defense was a good offense. Nothing else would do. It was true here as well. "Don't march! Charge! Make them charge as fast as they can!" He shouted, though in the midst of this chaos, whether anyone would hear him not was a real question. Whether anyone would actually listen, whether it would matter was even more of one. Oh, they'd be charging into death, but at least they would not be waiting for it. Teron's spellcasting had to stop or else it would be the end of them all.

[Malaroth]

Thunder and murder rent the air, caught by Kyra's dancing, beautiful sorcery that lit up the sky overhead with a protective balm for both body and soul. The heady scent of ozone burned his nostrils as the Ashfiend's fist, that he had watched level the knighthood and Chapterhouse in one burning swoop, hung overhead, rolling in burning storm clouds and gently raining ashes for Myrken's funeral.

For all of the sorceress' potency, the next magic sends the front line scattering to either side of the canyon - as a crack of doom, narrow and slender, begins and finally penetrates the defensive counterspells. As dirt and pebbles are hurled into the air with Teron driving a hard line down the center of the forces, there is a worse torment to come from the latest magic: a blistering wall of heat and flame towering into the air, roaring for Myrken blood.

There was a reason why he had a bit of a soft spot for the mapmaker, had toyed with asking him to join as a knight - for all that he ran his mouth the man was a man of action. Tempered with discipline he'd become a fine and strong man. Nevertheless, though he could not hear the mapmaker's shouting over the raining earth and roaring flames, the line slender yet claiming its own share of lives that rolled in torment upon the earth, he absolutely agreed.

"Onward, front ranks!" he hollered, his voice breaking, straining to be heard as he raised his gleaming weapon once more. There would be time to form ranks once they reached Teron but now the magic had to be stopped. It was a shortening distance between them, but a deadly one all the same. His eager footfalls carried him beyond the front ranks, burning sword held overhead, a beacon and a goading for all their loved ones, for all held dear in their hearts.

The ground shook beneath his dashing, booted feet - a tied yellow ribbon fluttering out from a stout, dark belt as his grim tabard danced about armored legs. The first few ranks fell into a chaotic display behind him, born along by his searing blade as the Grand Master leveled it in grim challenge for the hulking specter who loomed ever closer. The Myrken soldiers took up his cry, hefting halberds overhead and preparing for the charging ranks to dash together.

"First line, charge! Everyone else, form up and head in! The magic must stop!" He heard the soldiers barking their assent behind him. At least those after the initial clash would be in a better stead to control the Ashfiend's movements even if the initial assault saw them all dead. With one hand for the dancing yellow ribbon, another for his glowing blade, and a whispered prayer on lips that had willfully forgotten how to pray, he lowered one shoulder and prepared to bring his weapon down upon their unliving enemy.

[Tebrin]

There was a success and a failure, here, in this magical battle of titanic proportions. There was a victory and a defeat. For, even as that firey column penetrated the Myrken lines, wreaked its havoc after only a momentary disruption by the magician's powers, those azure sigla engulfed Teron's fist, twining about fingers and binding them helplessly together. Those symbols of power wove their web about the magical incarnation of Teron's wrath, holding it fast and constricting, imprisoning the conjuration within a brightly shining seal.

The blindfolded woman had scarcely missed a step throughout the ordeal, and even as Myrken's ranks advanced, her dance carried her along at their side. If she noticed Glenn's approach, she did not make it known - but, surely, she must have heard him barking orders above the fray. She would have been pleased to know the tactic he had chosen - for, just as certainly as she had turned away one catastrophic spell, she would certainly not hold out forever on the defensive against the Ashfiend's millenia-old fury.

Fair-skinned digits stretch, appearing to reach towards the bound hand of dust and ash and smoke, before wrist twists, fingers clasping as if grabbing hold of the threads of energy which bind it fast, reining them in like one might an unruly mare. Her pure soprano reached its crescendo, and one could see that massive hand wobble, struggle momentarily against Kyra's pull. Light flared from the magistrix's fingertips, illumination rising from the ground itself to wreath her feminine form in a halo of luminescence. Intensity of the display increased until the woman was scarcely visible, save as a faint sillhouette against a backdrop of runic energy. And as the final sigil was drawn, the final rune left her lips, her voice reached the climax of its climb, she twirled at the hips, flinging her arms out before her, fingers spread wide. The light which had surrounded and engulfed her lanced through the air and snared the Ashfiend's conjuration, before whipping it as if it were a pebble in a sling into the sky.

And just like that, the fist was gone, hurtling towards the ether and fading until only the blue glow of the runes which had captured it could be seen from the battlefield. Kyra's dance slowed, her voice faded, chin lifting towards the sunlight. Her breath came in measured but heavy inspirations through flared nostrils. She had won that battle - if only because Teron had given up upon that vector of attack. The manifestation of ancient hatred that had destroyed the chapter house so simply, had wreaked so much destruction, had been thwarted and turned away with minimal damage by a slender, blind sorceress with chestnut-tipped hair, whose very frame was dwarfed by Teron himself. It was an immense amount of ability to be stored within such a small vessel - and the expenditure showed in signs of fatigue upon her features, a fatigue the undead harbinger of Myrken's doom undoubtedly did not feel.

She was grateful for Glenn's and Malaroth's orders, for she would need Teron's distraction if she were to prevail. It was a common tactic - expose the enemy by ending their wizard, and a tactic Teron was likely to consider, as well. She was still, fingers flexing, brief sparks of blue and red flitting between her digits as she readied her next spell.

"I can hold, but you -must- attack. I cannot protect an army for an eternity against him." She offered this assessment in cultured, precise intonations for Glenn and Ariane, who she knew to be present, and for Cinnabar, if he still lingered near. And then, with a shift of her features first for the swordswoman and then the cartographer. "...Glenn, if you would prefer the front lines," for she KNEW how Glenn cherished maintaining some CONTROL over his circumstances, "you may fulfill your promise by ensuring Myrken's finest reach the Ashfiend." A tense smile for her friend, and a faint nod. If he wished to be at her side to protect her, she certainly welcomed him. If, instead, he wanted to charge with Sir Malaroth?

Well. That choice was his. It was Ariane who would be able to intervene if the thing emerged from the shadows and attacked, in such event. Either way, she bowed briefly to him, before turning her attention back to the battlefield.

With the fist's departure, the shield's energy re-distributed itself, dimmed runes flaring brightly to life. A hole remained, where that fissure had sprung, where firey death sprouted from the earth itself and rained down upon Myrken from beneath the shield's protective aura. There was no time to fully repair the shield - something had to be done. She had to either seal the earth itself, or strike Teron directly to end his magic. The urge to attempt to do all of it at once was strong, and but for the advice of one individual, she might have stretched herself too thin.

Have faith.

Trust that others can accomplish what you cannot. Don't do it all yourself.

She had to trust that Myrken's soldiers, led by Cinnabar Calomel, led by Malaroth Deucalios, co-led, today, by Glenn Burnie, would reach the Ashfiend, would relieve her. She and the soldiers both could accomplish that task.

Only she could hope to seal the earth, and cease the deaths of hundreds who succumbed beneath the inferno.

With a deep breath, her brief seconds of respite ended, her voice rose in pitched song once more, swirling, dancing grace carrying her gradually about the small area she had procured for herself to do her work - a circular area where the soldiers, wielding blades crafted by the same woman, left her clear space upon which to frolic. Glenn had once posited the immense concentration it must take to wield magic effectively - see, here, how Kyra shut out the sounds of battle, of death, of destruction? As she blocked these distractions, she reached to grab hold of the threads of fate which held the earth asunder, its boundaries igniting with blue energy. Intricate sigla danced from her fingertips, streaked through the sky and began to deposit themselves across the gash in the earth, forming luminescent sutures across the laceration. As these formed, they pulled, struggling to pull the ground itself back together - and this, then, would be the Ashfiend and her new battleground.

Her shield held, but was not maintained, her focus entirely upon this new task. It was a vulnerability - never enough power to defend against everything at once. She only hoped that the soldiers would prevent the Ashfiend from shattering the barrier in its entirety, as punishment for her insolence.

[Teron_Ashfiend]

Kyra had proven her ability, he considered, as her sorcery nevertheless consumed and dispelled his own wrathful intent. Between them light and darkness warred on in a private conflict, magicians put to the test, each one a living insult to the other - breathing and still, necromantic and pure. The forward lines broke and began to charge, attempting to distance themselves from the erupting line of fire that tore through the center of their ranks. Soon they would be upon him, but before that, he calculated, he would have time for two more things.

His hollow, rumbling voice arose, as a black rose blooming upon the battlefield whose petals threatened to swallow all hope for the assembled army. With Kyra's dismissal of his initial attack, and her struggling to respond with dance, song and concentration for that burning, erupting line of fire and dirt, he began to trace an old and familiar symbol into the air. His fingertip burned a symbol into the air itself, a dark and pulsing thing of fell energy and devious will, as he called upon a power as old as the world itself: pain.

The symbol spun about itself, crackling with necromanctic power that arced forward in staggered, jittering bands of black power towards the dancing counterspeller. The spell's arms jolted over the heads of soldiers and their leaders, hungry for a distracted Kyra, to strike and fill her with intense, paralyzing pain as her own flesh worked against her, muscles drawing impossibly tight, body twisting and screaming for her as it wracked her with Teron's murderous will. Should the spell find its target.

With the word of pain unleashed, he waved a mailed, open hand before him and with his final incantation a fierce wall of flame erupted beyond the column, towering and snapping hungrily into a sky filled with dispersing ashen clouds and the memory of that looming, burning fist. Sunlight streaked brokenly through the thick, rolling clouds who mimicked a heavenly conflict brewing just as the onslaught prepared itself below.

Pain for the wizard, retreat denied, and stones now bidden to be hurled upon the closing Myrken forces by his minions above - their attention divided between Valaeli and her shorter, slender counterpart along with the Myrken forces below - Teron turned to meet the oncoming charge. The full, insidious weight of his unearthly gaze settled upon those closing the distance, led by the Shepherd Knight with the glowing sword. A slow, arrogant gesture saw Arak's Ruin unleashed and an easy stride drew him closer.

The first halberd descended in a brutal swift arc that he caught in his free, gauntleted hand by the shaft and wrenched the soldier closer, into the thrusting length of his ancient sword. Tearing the weapon free and shoving the defeated opponent tot he ground in arrogant dismissal, he waded easily into the fray amidst the thunder of clashing weapons and urgent, pounding feet.

[Tebrin]

So intent upon the difficulty involved in attempting to seal that fissure was she, that she did not immediately take full stock of Teron's impending third attack. In fact, it wasn't until his sigil had been drawn that she recognized the amassing of necromantic energy, that she could analyze in a split second the intent of that incantation, could recognize the threat which streaked through the sky for her.

And by then, it was too late to deflect the spell. That gap in her shield would be her undoing.

She knew, even as the attack was unleashed, that she would lose her current spell, knew she would fail to seal the terrain beneath the army's feet. In a blur of motion, clockwise motion became counterclockwise, voice shifted an impressive array of pitches in that split second, and she turned to face Teron directly, from his perch far beyond her reach.

It was the equivalent of spinning and firing a crossbow - she sang out a single syllable, fingers traced a rune that she had crafted specifically for the Ashfiend's perusal. Meetings with Teron, exposure to his magicks, had allowed for the construction of a spell designed specifically to strike at the wielder of such immensely powerful magicks. It would not - could not - kill, by itself. If it could hurt him, stagger him for but a moment, it might just manage to shatter his own concentration and similarly end his sorceries.

It was a brief flash of blue light that signalled the sigil's completion, and it raced through the air, hurtling itself towards its undead target - the spells undoubtedly passed each other like two wagoneers upon the road, nodding civilly and continuing towards their inevitable and violent destinations.

The spell was a clumsy but powerful attack, easily absorbed but difficult to ignore, and the only counterspell Kyra could summon in such a brief time. It would not save her; it might just save those who fought around her.

A moment before the impact of the ebon rune, there was no fear upon the sorceress' features. She steeled herself, lips set into a thin line, readying her body for the impact of the spell. Her frame jolted, muscles going rigid as the blurred streak of darkness struck her, absorbed into her frame - runes all along her clothing, at the hems of her blouse, her trousers, her blindfold, her cloak, the rings she wore upon her fingers, flared to life, shimmering in protest to the magical assault.

For a few brief moments, Kyra was rigid, back arched, fingers splayed, breath caught in her throat amidst a shower of azure light as the magical protections afforded her by those runic structures struggled to unravel the Ashfiend's attack. The runes eventually flickered, died, one by one, until the light which protected her faded entirely.

And Kyra was seized by paroxysms of agony, the breath torn from her throat in a blood-curdling, pitched scream. Collapsing to the ground, muscles seized in tetanic contraction, she writhed helplessly as torturous pain swept through her body. She had never before known such hell, scarcely realized her mind could process such intense anguish. The woman who, just moments prior, had stared down and met Teron's fury head on, who had wielded such immense power, squirmed in place upon the ground, shrieking until the air had left her lungs, until the sound trailed off into a breathless whimper, a scarcely-audible squeak, and then nothing at all. Hardly able to breathe, her face contorted into a paralytic mask of suffering, she clawed at the ground, trembling fingers trying, in vain, to trace a rune that would relieve her racked form, but to no avail.

The sorceress' song had ended.

Without her attention, and perhaps to the Ashfiend's surprise, the shield remained. It was a completed structure, its own magical entity, and did not require Kyra's continued song and dance. What he WOULD notice, however, was the way it flickered and dimmed without her continuous renewal - attacks upon the shield were absorbed, but damaged it. It was no longer the impervious barrier it had been before. It repelled and protected, but it was now an obstacle to be demolished with brute force, no longer the imposing structure it had been. Without Kyra, it, too, would soon fall.

[Vanidor]

It had taken time, time that was needed elsewhere and in short supply. But finding a path to take upwards along the edge of the cliff line that allowed both horse and rider was tricky, even with scouts of such skill. It was a task that had to be done, especially as the small company could hear the sounds of battle echoing up the ravine. Could hear the roar of combat, and feel the discharge of energy as magic flared against magic. The ornaments that adorned the Duke pulsed as they moved along the ridge, telling him of the terrible magic that was being unleashed. He wished for Coran, or any member of the Aegis here. Despite what those below, and perhaps those behind him as well, felt about that company of dark-robed men, they could certainly help turn the tide. But wishing did not win victories. It only formed hope that was better squashed until the proper time.

But now, here they were cresting the rocky hill and seeing for the first time this brilliant shield and the battering fist. Feeling the updraft of magic as it sparkled and roared. And here, he saw monstrosities hefting heavy boulders and preparing to hurl yet another set of stone. Burel reached down and dragged his elongated sabre from the scabbard at the hip. The light played against the metal, Burel whispering a word to the weapon that caused the herons pressed into steel to flicker with their subtle power.

"For Myrken! For your families, your hopes and your dreams! For the Living!" His voice modulated to reach the twelve behind him despite the confusion. He hoped it reached those below as well, beneath the wards that protected them from the ancient magics of the Ashfiend. "Into them, my companions! Bring an end to this unholy union! Charge! Charge!!"

Across the rocky terrain, the Duke's horse hurtled, the man holding his sword high, preparing to rain his own sort of devastation upon the creatures that sought to batter with rock and boulder. Behind him came the scouts, lance and spear brought to bare. It was time to add their own chorus of battle to those of their countrymen down below.

[Jirai]

Now this was an interesting thing. The girl had stood in silence, watching, waiting.

She had watched the sorcerous battle intently, her scarred face exhibiting only the faintest of frowns.

And finally, she acted.

If Kyra was an unlikely vessel for such magics, this girl was even unlikelier. No more than fourteen and a small fourteen at that, the child with brown hair that faded to ivory stepped forwards, near where Kyra lay. Gloves had been discarded, the sigla that tattooed her fists now glowing a bright blue and red. She crossed those fists, feet firmly spread. No singing and dancing from this child - the words she uttered were incredibly harsh in contrast to the blind sorceress' spells.

The shield would hold for a time, at least. So she turned her attention, her focus to the task that Kyra had been prevented from completing - sealing the earth. She traced her sigils in the air, her voice a harsh counterpoint.