Invasion of Enchanted Kingdom

From HollowWiki

Okay, a summation of what has occurred, so far (date: May 19, 2007). If you want to update a status or something, hmail Vuryal and tell him what has happened.

[edit] Status of the RP

Status of the Enchanted Kingdom: Trashed Status of the King/Queen of Enchanted Kingdom: Alive and still in power Status of the Gamorgian Ogres: Regrouping Status of the defenders of the Enchanted Kingdom: Weary, but still around Status of the drow allies of the Ogres: Regrouping

[edit] Initial Invasion

Initial Invaders: Gruz, Rheven, Vuryal, Tyre, Armitas

Initial Defenders: Moonlight, Gwenilyn, Delacroix, Serienity, Adosa, Valiana, Thea, Keter, Kharet, Ontor, Makenaka

The Gamorgian Ogre tribe begins to shout raucous chants as they slowly walk towards the gates to the pixie kingdom, the magic barrier now not affecting them. The hundred warriors, led by the tribal chieftain Gruz, hold various battle armaments and their armor reflects their past conquests and victories over other races, goblins and orcs to name a few. They begin to tred faster until they are firmly upon the gates, or trees one might say, as the bricks they walk upon begin to be crushed under their immense weight. Soon, they are upon the city's outer breaches, complete chaos beginning as they to destroy anything and everything in their path, hobbit or pixie based it matters not. Gruz leads the way, his warhammer pulverizing anyone foolish enough to attempt to stop this feast of war.

Moonlight, stood in the trees, calls her wind power and becomes as small as she can while pulling her powers to her. As the winds pick up around the army of beasts, Moonlight chants and controls the winds to encircle the army in small groups. As the wind twists and turns around these warriors of hate, the winds become tornados, spinning feverishly and causing the winds to make it hard to move. As these tornados begin to wrap around the ones that are doing harm, Moonlight chants louder and the winds become uncontrolable as they locate themselves around the army, for they have a mind of their own.

Gwenilyn hovers near the ground, watching the approach of these heathens intent on destruction. She shrugs her cape back from her shoulders, giving her better range of motion. Shield up, she begins to sing softly, calling forth her crystal aura of power. As the masive horde begins to close on the gates, she sends her power crashing forth, a massive wall of fire to hopefully bar their way, perhaps scorch an unlucky few. Then quick as thought she enchants the ground beneath the leader, opening a quagmire of mud, hoping to suck him down to it's depths.

Delacroix , having arrived from the North, finds himself facing the backs of a large number of Ogres. The soldier’s eyes grow wide, but as soon as he sees the destruction that the Ogres yield, his gaze becomes one of stone, and he steels himself for attack.

“I am Richter DeLaCroix, second commanding general of the Tier Breche Military, and I am ordering you to cease your attack upon the Enchanted Kingdom!” As soon as he says that, his heart sinks to the bottom of his stomach… He’s one soldier against a tribe of Ogres… His grip tightens on the bastard sword, and the straps on his shield are squeezed even more taut as he prepares for the onslaught that awaits him… Though, at the summoning of the tornadoes, he feels a slight relief wash over him, and he begins searching about for the spellcaster who’s called the funnels to the area.

Serienity stood gazing about the massive fight that was going on before her. Watching intently without much motivation to join into the mess just yet and instead would just continue to watch until joining proved worth to the cause. Fire coming from one way, tornadoes another direction, and a man's voice ringing through the air form yet not to far from her.

Tyre smirks as he watches the Ogres charge the apparently unaware pixie kingdom. A hand gesture tells the drow archers to position themselves in the trees, all taking careful aim as the get ready to rain hellfire upon this enchanted kingdom. Another nod to his captain, and the rest of the drow warriors under Ty's command unsheathe thier weapons and begin to march upon the Kingdom, killing any being that happens to be lucky enough to have gotten by the Ogre's first assault. Though his march is slowed by the sudden burst of flame that comes from the front of the Ogres charge. But soon drow and ogre alike stand within the kingdom, Tyre helping Gruz escape the muddy prison the lone warrior aiding the pixies had in store for him. And just as Tyre and his warriors pass the gate, the drow archers unleash hell upon the kingdom. Magical arrows burst into flames, burning buildings, and causing flames and smoke to rise threw out the town. In mere moments, it seems the chaos of war has begun.

Armitas stayed concealed in the bushes until the battle began. Once the Ogres started their forward march he slipped out and fell in behind them, using their massive bodies to hide from view of the defenders. Slowly and silently, he weaved his way through the tree trunk-sized legs of the Ogre warriors, advancing closer to the frontlines. Some of them fell before him, felled by the Enchanted Kingdom's stalwart protectors. Armitas thought it better them than he and moved on. Such was the mindest of a mercenary. Having made it within arrow range, he readied a bundle of arrows and loaded his modified crossbow. The bundle was held together by dried up twine and once fired the arrows undulations broke the reeds and the deadly projectiles split in mid-air and scattered outward, raining down on on the throng of pixies and hobbits and others that had come to fight at the gates. Unfortunately, a strong gust of wind arose and a few of the arrows were sent off course, striking the ogres as well. Armitas just shrugged this off as bad luck on their part and continued to advance.

Rheven watches as the chaos unfolds, standing quite far back from the front lines, just beyond the two trees which symbolize the gateway to the enchanted kingdom. Robes drape his entire body, mainly for the purpose of concealing his identity in the affair – all the while he watches as drow, ogre, and pixie do battle, yet most of all, he notices the magickal forces that are sure to wreak havoc on the invasion force. Knowing what he must do, the vampiric mage tilts his head low, seeming to fall into a trance of sorts as he calls upon a major spell of sorts. From the area around the mage’s body comes a strange, unearthly mist, snaking and spreading through the gates and the arena of combat as it seeks to envelope the entire battleground. Its effects are noticed as it comes into contact with the burning wall of flame – the flames merely dissipate, and the fierce winds that bring about the summoned vortexes also begin to lessen. It becomes clear that the mage is focusing on a ‘spell’ of magic negation, seeking to build a field of anti magic, stopping all but the most focused and powerful spells. He remains in his trancelike state, unable to move while this is in place, yet his previously unseen dragon, Siriath, comes to a destructive landing just before him, as if daring any to strike its owner…

Pressing onward, the ogres pick up the momentum, havoc their calling card as they decimate the nearest building. Gruz looks up momentarily to see the flames die down and the circular winds all but dissipate into mere bursts, hardly enough to divert such bulky creatures as ogres. He scoffs under his breath, amused at the antics of the pixies and those before the ogre horde. Slits provide a break in the metal helmet upon chieftain's head to peer at the non-pixie before him, a cruel smile coming to the beast as the warhammer tightens in his grasp. He speeds up, swinging the monstrous weapon into a mighty and glorious arc that seeks to open up a rather large gaping hole in the soldier's head, the goblin-skull ordained item a force to be reckoned with as well as the brute strength which swings the weapon of destruction. All the while, the ogres spread out, helped with the negation spell, innocent pixies and hobbits alike succumbing to the brute physical beasts as they are rendered helpless as their spells are ineffective.

Gwenilyn , once she sees the fire and wind die unnatural deaths, notes the figure of Rheven and his dragon. A rage builds inside the Fae, suchas she has never known before. A voice fromm inside her screams to be let out. And so, flying well above the horde and the negations spell, Gwen turns her back on her beloved home in flames and reliquishes control of her body to that which waits. The Fae's body begins to morph, elongating, filling out. A cloud of pixie dustfountains out and downward and in Gwen's place is a full-grown dragon, bright pink scales covering her body, leathery wings outstretched. With a scream of rage that can be heard over the rantings of the ogre horde, the dragon with whirling sapphire orbs folds her wings and dives straight downward, a murderous look in her eyes. Her target is the dragon before Rheven. Her intent ismurder, pure and simple. Talons outstretched and deadly sharp, her maw open and seeking the oponent's throat. Hopefully the surprise of her metamophosis will give her the time she needs to do what must be done.....rid her home of this dragon and its master. At the very least to upset his concentration so that the negation spell evaporates.

Tyre continues on his path threw the enchanted kingdom, every warrior, be it pixie or hobbit or anything else that dare defy him is cut down. Yes, it seems the ranger is lost in bloodlust as he continues to ravage this town. But to his surprise a lone pixie warrior is steadily killing his, and Gruz's warriors like their nothing. The mans magic strong, and his skill with a blade noteworthy enough to catch Da'erthe attention. But just as he begins to walk towards the man, a magical ball of energy comes straight for the drow. But Rheven's magical mist has already surrounded the drow, and it dies and fizzles out before reaching him. This gives Tyre an Idea, as he yells out to.

" Drive them into the mist! Thier magic does not work in it!" Then,as the mist continues to weave it way threw the kingdom, Tyre makes his way to the last of the forces guarding the Castle of the King and Queen on the Enchanted Kingdom. With the mist negating all of thier magic, it seems the pixies are helpless. And as the drow rangers continue to rain down hellfire, with thier fire-arrows, it seems that the Ogres may win this soon enough.

Moonlight quickly puts on her gloves and takes the immortal slayer in her right hand, knowing that going out to take them on is not exactly the smartest thing she can do, yet she must. As she takes the to the shadows becoming one with them for they are her friends, she flies like the blinking of an eye at the knee level at these beast, as she swings the sword with her power she smiles for in that hand she also holds lightning so every time she strikes the lightning flows from her hand to the tip of the sword strikeing the ogres. As her glowing body grows but not becoming any bigger than a hobbit she shoots like an arrow through the maze of ogres hitting quite a few as she dodges most of the hellfire being shot at her. As her body takes the flames here and there she doesn't stop but instead checks Gwen's back before looping around and heading back to come at them again But looking for someone specail.. with an evil grin *

Armitas tries to keep his focus off of the carnage that ensues around him. The cacophany of dying screams and clashing weapons is as disheartening as is it deafening. An assassin prefers a clean, quick kill not a conflagration followed by mass mutilation and maiming. The dead were lucky. It was the dying that had it the worst. Hoobits and pixies left limbless, on fire or charred, their bodies convulsing as they remained conscious. Armitas figured he'd have nightmares for weeks afterward. Readying his poinson-tipped arrows, he let loose another flurry of arrows into the defending warriors. Some were killed, others merely nicked. They'd soon find the will to fight sapped from their bodies once the shadowfire went to work on them. Victory seemed at hand, but never underestimate the power a people could muster when defending their rightful home. Out of nowhere, a pixie grew to normal size and, wielding a frying pan, knocked Armitas to his knees with a hard blow to his skull. Dazed, he slipped a hidden dagger from his bracer and thrust it into the pixie's gut. The blade was dragged up to her sternum, twisted and then pulled out. Her warm guts spilled out onto the blood-stained path and were quickly devoured by Armitas's pet wolverine, Bub. Still dumbstruck by the blow, he wrapped his cloak around him and retreated into the shadows to clear his head.

Delacroix narrows his eyes at Gruz, taking his bigger weapon and fancier (if that’s what it could be called) armor as a sign that he’s the leader of the Ogres. Already does he brace himself against the bigger foe, his knuckles on both hands white as he grips both shield and sword… Twelve years in the military. Promotions for bravery and combative skill… It comes to this. A war for a people he has yet to even engage in casual conversation with… Richter is shaken from his reverie as the chieftain raises his warhammer. The forward arc of it has the human soldier raising his own large shield in defense, and the collision is awe-inspiring… Though the shield itself doesn’t buckle beneath the force of the blow (having been made from mithril), the soldier’s body does. He’s dropped to a knee, and the shield is forced close to his body as the vibrations from the attack ring through his head. Shaking himself free of this fleeting daze, he looks to Gruz from his lowered point of view, before thrusting his sword in a hurry for the Ogre’s groin - the spot where the necessity for movement does not allow for heavy armor… Even as he thrusts his sword at the chieftain, his eyes go wide as he spots the Drow closing in on the Grand Hall of the Pixies.

“No!!!” Withdrawing his sword from steel or flesh (whatever he manages to hit,) he tumbles past Gruz and rises into a full sprint through the battlefield. Knowing that the pixies won’t be able to defend themselves, he leaps over fallen bodies with the skill of a champion hurler - or simply the adrenaline of a desperate soldier… Swords are dodged, warhammers and bludgeoning weapons collide with his shield and breastplate, but he is not deterred. His arms and legs pump as he carries himself through the Enchanted Kingdom - his aim Tyre.

Adosa being not much a fighter waits for her moment, fury and anger growing in the pit of her stomach. Upon seeing her own kind being sliced through, her grip tightens on her axe, her only weapon in her somewhat pacifistic life, and her hands become white knuckled. She pulls out a second axe from her bag and grips one in each hand with the blade pointing downward. Finally she bolts forward, seeing an entry between two large ogres. She sprints through the crowd as fast as she could, attempting to make it to the front, slicing at every ankle or knee she could reach in her short height, hoping to cause a small ripple in the mass of ogres though knowing her strength wasn�t as great as her heart. Yet heart was all she need as she pressed forward into the mass, continuing her slicing and blind chopping until she was struck in the shoulder by a stray arrow, causing her to crumble and fall before a tall drow. She attempts to crawl away, hiding behind a large fallen ogre, trying to recuperate..

Rheven remains still as his anti-magic spell continues to spread through the area. Meanwhile, however, Siriath looses a roar to alert the mage of Gwenilyn, the incoming pixie-turned-dragon. The vampire’s attention falters slightly, causing the spell to progress slower, but still it spreads – still as he remains, Siriath does not, a flap of her wings sending her streaking forth to meet Gwenilyn head on. As the two dragons come within range of each other, the true combat begins; Gwen’s attempted swipe with her talons doesn’t meet Siri’s neck as desired, though it does claw across a scaled arm, drawing forth a spray of draconic blood. Obviously, Siriath isn’t pleased; a hiss of sorts erupting from her throat as the draconic slave backs away suddenly, drawing in a deep breath. With all the chaos erupting around him, Rheven’s eyes suddenly snap open, gazing out on the battlefield, where it appears ogre and drow have begun to dominate the battlefield, taking the fullest advantage of his anti-magic spell. Since the area beyond the gateway is mostly clear, Rheven raises his hand, tucking his forefinger and thumb back in a ‘snap’ – much of the mist dissipates from where it is no longer needed, as the invasion force drives further. Meanwhilst, Siriath finally ceases her drawing breath, and a loud exhale follows; a belch of flames suddenly surges from her throat, threatening to engulf Gwenilyn, along with Moonlight, as well as whatever foliage lies in the destructive swath.

Valiana rushes towards the battlefield, sword clanging softly at her side. Keen elven eyes glow bright with silver flame as they take notice of the destruction. Toned legs tighten as an aire of urgency is relayed. The soft hiss of metal is followed by an elven prayer. The words seem to echo throughout the field drowning out cries of pain and relaying courage...The woman turns her attention again to the battle at hand, scanning hastily for the leaders of the invading army. Agile movements take the battle-hardened woman safely out of reach of the ogre brute's crude clubs; An enchanted blade greeting them where they once thought the woman stood...not bothering to ensure their deaths. Finally the woman locks her gaze upon Tyre and Gruz , assumed to be the leaders of the invading force, choosing Tyre as her target- she cautiously sprints in his direction.

Gruz growls as he is impaled for a moment, but nothing more than a scratch the monstrosity that is the war chieftain. Blood fury now garners up inside the beast as he hears the triumphant sound of battle cries and victories from his brethren, mixed in with the honorable death shrieks of those who fought valiantly. Numbers drop from the ogre warrior tribe, but still holding near seventy strong, more than enough to finish the deed tasked before them. Gruz smirks beneath his blemished helmet, tarnished with the blood of innocent pixies and hobbits, sacrificial lambs for the slaughter before the physically adroit brute, their magic futile in this cloud of negation. He spots the nearest pixie, rendering it to nothing more than a mark upon the path as the warhammer descends upon it in a hastily fashioned blow, destructive nonetheless. The remainder of his tribal band continues to spread out within the cloud, the monsters having their way with the severely undersized physical beings here, proving to be of little resistance in the end. Gruz walks over to the gate, taking up his hammer of chaos, and drives it through the wood, splinters flailing about the area. “Gruz claim pixies.” He says this, now moving to the back of the pack to watch the carnage continue, all in favor of the ogres and their allies in this encounter.

Gwenilyn retains a bit of control of the beast she has become, but only a bit. The glowing pink dragon, magnificent in the sunlight, alters her course as seh sees Siriath draw breath, instinctively knowing what is to come. She executes a banking turn to the right, just as the gout of flame erupts. One wingtip is severely burned, in spite of Gwen's crystal aura. The shock of the burn causes the dragon to withdraw, leaving Gwen once more in Fae form. Flitting as best she can with an injured wing, she does a 360 backflips, landing on Rheven's shoulder her dagger drawn and hopefully at his throat.

Tyre cuts down the last of the pixie elite-guardsmen whom tried their best to stop him from reaching their king. But it seems their sacrifice was not in vain, as this bout the charging Knight Delacroix enough time to reach him. A slight smirk is given off, and as several drow warriors make their way towards this man, Tyre stops them.

"He's mine." He says, never once removing his gaze from the half-elf. Both of Da'erthe's enchanted black sabres are brought forth with one swift motion. An expert swordsmen, The ranger finds better coverage from behind a sword, rather a heavy shield.

" Bring me the head of the King, and leave the queen to the ogres." Another sinister smirk is given off as he says.

"I think they will need someway to "relieve" themselves after this." And as these words as said, Da'erthe gives his opponent a salute.

" Shall I begin?" He says. And before his opponent has an opportunity to reply, he is off. Moving surprisingly quick in full battle attire, he faints this way and that,trying to throw the knight off balance. Several false blows are given off, their purpose to open up the knights defences. And as takes aim for his opponents torso, slashing horizontally with his left sabre, and vertically with his right, he utters a few words in the native tongue of the drow, and a thick cloud of darkness falls about the two, leaving sight near impossible now. This dark cloud also poses a problem for the warrior Valiana, who watches as the two fighters, Tyre and Delacroix, are swallowed by this darkness casted by the drow. Does she dare attack? For she could end up attacking the brave knight Delacroix, as the two are sure to be moving all about this darkness. And suring all of this, the nine drow warriors make thier way into the castle of the King and Queen of the Enchanted Kingdom, sinister smiles upon thier faces as well. What awful fate awaits the king of this peaceful land?

Delacroix slows to a stop just inside the Grand Hall of the Pixie Kingdom, his weapons raised and ready as Tyre steps away from his Drowic army.

“This is madness! (madness, this is Hollow!) Stop now, before you and all of your men are slain!” His voice has a twinge of desperation in it; perhaps the knowledge that the small band of resistance is severely outnumbered is reaching him. All hope for parlay is lost as Tyre charges him, and thus the battle begins, the left blade clashes against the soldier’s own, while the right meets the mithril shield that protected him from Gruz’s warhammer. With the two weapons having met their respective defenses, Richter pushes both outward with the momentum of his guard, and in turn lifts his right leg for a straight kick aimed at the Drow’s stomach. The cloud of darkness that rises does little for his vision but turn it to a colorless view of the battle in black and white. He finds himself suddenly thankful for his Elven heritage - darkvision being one of the benefits.

Adosa pulls the arrow out of her shoulder with one heck of grimace and shifts with the crowd, slowly moving forward between the large ogres and remaining unseen. She ducks behind an old cart and wraps her shoulder with a piece of cloth torn from the remaining of a leather tunic she held in her bag. Once her wound is taken care of she turns around to scan over the havoc and this time decides to leave her axe behind. She gasps in horror as her lovely home is destroyed and speckled with evil or the most malignant kind, like ants over a freshly dropped piece of food. She pushes up her sleeves and stands, preparing to use a little magic of her own. She spreads her arms wide and begins to mumble a few spells beneath her breath. Her eyes and hair exchange color and with a blink, her eyes turn a coal black while her hair changes to a light grey. With a sweep of her right hand ogres and drows alike become entangled with each other, falling bumping into their own comrades. With another sweep of her left hand, fire sparks in the nearest bunch of barrels and with a snap of her fingers from that same hand they explode, sending shards of wood like a swarm of bees, in control by her, in the direction of her enemies. They hit just a handful of drow and ogre and Adosa watches as they fall, a grave-like grin forming on her face. She raises both her hands while stepping forward, floating with her small wings over the cart before her, and walks straight toward the group heading toward her queen. She brings her small hands together I a loud clap, sending just a small wave of sharp sparks that stab like daggers into the first row of individuals before her. She attempts to bring her hands together once more when a large stone hails from her left at great speed from the hand of a large limping ogre, one she presumably had cut before. This attack leaves her fallen and unconscious on the side of the battle field for the remainder of the fight.

Armitas didn't bother going straight through the gates, instead he scaled the wall about twenty yards east of the gates in order to enter the town incognito. Once inside he crouched down and scuttled towards the nearest house and slipped in through a window. The hobbit family cowering inside were left untouched, save for the man of the house who had his chest slashed by Armitas's plague-infested blade. If he were lucky he would survive the wound and recover in a few weeks. Better that than die in battle besides his family. Armitas made his way through the town that way, climbing out one window then into the window of the adjacent house. He cut down every male he came across, leaving the women and children alive. If he were to continue unchallenged he would soon be at the walls of the castle and using his grappling hook to ascend it. With the pixie guards all dead or confronting the Ogre/Drow army at the front door, the backdoor was left unguarded and the perfect entrance for a stealthy assassin.

Moonlight, feeling the fire at her feet, screams out but not in pain but to her mother as the pixie swings her body around to see to Gwen and what she is up to and if she will be ok and smiles to see that another is here as well. as the flames come in around the pixie she folds in her wings for they are only for looks and not needed to fly. as the flames burn across her body she smiles and takes it low coming around swinging her sword again at her foes taking out their legs yet as she weaves in and out of the group she sheaths the sword and flies quickly to her mother where she takes the specail bow and quiver and heads up in the air giving her time to take her arrow and place it in the cross bow and to get pass the dark cloud that she sees as a battle for two. as she chants the arrow glows and lightning snakes out of her fingers and enchants the arrow. as she begins her fall to her target she smiles for this bow doesn't miss as she leaves out way above the fire and the heads of the oges she aims the arrow at the gruz. as she takes aim to take him and his oges out she aimes right between where his top armor piece and the bottom one meets. as she lets the arrow go It slits and becomes two then four as it comes closer to him the arrowns keep muiltpuling yet still perfectly aimmed at his weak spot. Moonlight quickly looks around before aimming again at the mob of oges.

Rheven smirks beneath his hood as the battle passes through the gate and into the heart of the land of Enchantment, though his contentment soon fades as he hears the flitting of Gwenilyn’s wings. Before she can make her thrust – which would be fatal, or nearly so if it landed as intended – the vampire leaps forward. He is too slow, though, and the dagger still strikes, cutting along his left shoulder and giving way to fresh rivulets of precious blood. Because of the blow, he doesn’t land as planned, and instead ends up in a heap, tumbling across the ground clumsily. With a grunt, the vampiric mage slowly makes his way to his knees, then to his feet, ignoring the wound upon his shoulder. The magic-negation spell fades entirely now, though it means little, as the battle is all but over in this area. Staring forth at Gwenilyn, he sneers, a voice coming forth; it doesn’t entirely sound like Rheven’s own, but the source is indeed his own tongue and not that of some possession.

“Foolish woman...you took the bait. Look around you now..while you’ve rushed here, your companions have suffered, and the battle is all but lost, for you and yours...” Lifting a single robed hand, he extends a palm forward, indicating the fluttering pixie. A simple chant leaves his lips, and a burst of raw magic erupts from his hands; azure hued, though tendrils of white lace in every so often. This rather basic power streaks forth, leaving a trail of biting frost in its wake. Once it reaches the pixie, it wraps around her, forming a prison of ice that intends to freeze as well as confine her. Meanwhile, the ogres continue lumbering forth, tearing through what’s left of the once mighty wooden gate, crushing any that are stupid enough to stand before them. The arrows that Moonlight shot miss Gruz, as he appears to have faded into the fold in battle, though they do take down a pair of ogres, leaving them wailing in agony as they join the fallen here. In their place though, two more come, storming toward Moonlight with a fury brought on by the sight of their fallen comrades. One swings a massive arm outward, intending to swat her from the air as one would a fly, while another simply charges, intending to plow through her entirely.

Moonlight seeing the ogres coming at her she laughs for she was above their heads their for they miss her altogether. as she readies the bow again she flies towords the scum that has come to cause pain and death to this land. as she takes aim at Rheven she chants and lowers her bow and smiles for this spell will hurt. as she calls the rain could to float just over the head of Rheven and the army of the ogres. Moonlight screams out a cry that shakes the earth causeing a protecting cover over the ones that stand for the good of this land . as the earth wraps around to protect the other she lets the arrow go right into the could causing it to rain arrows down on the ogres as a few specail ones aim right to the chest of Rheven.

Gwenilyn feels momentary despair as she hears Rheven's words. For sure enough, the healer turned warrior had made a grievous mistake. Her homeland in flames, the screams of the dying and injured everywhere, while who knows what is happening to her King and Queen. Still and all she will -not- be trapped this way. Focusing deep within herself, she listens to draconic wisdom. With a smile-turned-sneer she begins to breathe out. Her breath turns to fire, melting the prison the foolish mage thought contained her. Gwen takes just a moment to send a tendril of power through her to warm up, then pauses as she hears Moonlight's cry. The Fae feels the strength of the spell Moonlight casts and her heart sings for joy. She links her power with Moonlight's and sends faster than thought an entangling spell to ensnare Rheven with vines of poison. Break them, the poison leeches into the bloodstream casuing an agonizing death. His best option is to remain still and cease his assault or a nasty accident might happen.

Rheven screams in rage as the vines surround him, leaving the thorns inches away from his vampiric flesh. They are little threat though, and he knows it – the mage begins another chant, this one much louder than his others. A crimson aura envelopes his body, seeming to leak from the wound in his shoulder; just as the arrows that Moonlight shoots come close, the aura manifests into flames. Fire surrounds the mage’s body entirely, though they don’t seem to bother him at all. The vines are turned into ash and the arrows as well before they can even come close to marking his body. Like other powerful spells, the vampire cannot move while under their influence, so with a snap of his fingers, he disperses the burning fires. Though he has taken little physical damage, calling upon magic has left him a bit winded. With a scowl, he raises his hands to his lips and whistles – this is indeed a call, and Siriath responds promptly, sweeping before her master. Being that Rheven is a trained dragonryder, he leaps upon the beast, letting the dragon guide him to the doors of the throne room, where he dismounts and takes the battle inside. What’s left of the ogres – about fifty-five or so – follow after, taking the battle there.

Tyre stands alone as he watches all this unfold.A million thoughts running threw his head as he tries to makeout this situation. The ogres are so close to victory,and hewas ordered to see this threw.But it seems fate has thrown him a curveball, as Khamahl, his sworn-brother,and his family whom Tyre has come to respect, has taken up the fight for the pixie kingdom. What to do, what to do. He thinks to himself. For now he just stands there, unsure of his next move.---- Jesserios snarls as his attack has missed it's targets, but acting with quick reflexes, he dodges the spell cast by the paladin. Landing near Tyre he says.

"Master, those are your friends, My friends." he pauses. "What should we do?"

Rheven is not to be seen yet – first, a band of ogres fan out into the throne room, having run through whatever opposition was left. In reality, the battle outside was over – this room was the last bastion of hope for whoever sought to defend the pixie kingdom. In their wake comes Rheven, Siriath alongside. A sneer forms on his features, and he points out over those gathered. “What’s left on the monarchy may yet escape...but it is hopeless for the rest of you. Will you yield..or fight this pointless battle to the last breath?”

Thea in her massive transformation emits forth another thunderous roar, the intended arrows no match for the large dust-laden scales now encompassing her form. With massive wing-spanse lifting her above the crowd sending forth winds directed towards any attempting to take the Kingdom, Thea summons forth a huge vat of lamp fluid below any remaining ogres as the ground trans-mutates into liquid. With a mighty roar followed by fiery breath she sets it ablaze in hopes of trapping any who had escaped Gwenilyn's fiery attack.

Makenaka looks around then calls upon the heavens to restore balance to the sky as the clouds have been parted by the up roar of screams and distorted grunts. "maybe now the scars of this land will be healed?"

Ontor looks around the large, seeing that all or most of the Ogres have already been dealt with, pulls out his bow and a few arrows from his quiver. He places the arrows ont he tight string of the bow and pulls the string back slowly. As he pulls back, the bow and arrows begin to glow. He aims the bow into the air and lets the arrows fly. As they fall closer to Rheven, each arrow spits out another arrow to each side, making nine arrows falling toward Rheven.

Kharet marches through the chaos with fifteen of his brethren, already dismounted some distance from the foray. Five of those under his command had been left to ensure no rustlers make off with the platoon's mounts, another five trailing behind to ensure none of the apparently dead enemies were simply feigning it in some elaborate trap. Dressed in rather rudimentary armour, ranging from steel splintmail to fullplate and equipped with axe or halberd and large shields, they are, to a man, a relatively lowly fighting force when evaluated from a visual standpoint. But each is capable enough to hold his own, though they specialise in unit warfare. They spread to cover the main entrance in a metallic arc, Kharet himself heading the short, both in height and length, column of soldiers, none of them yet devoting to any assault as he evaluates the situation.

Makenaka notices a ogre trying to sneak out the back side of the throne room, then Makenaka calls for the wrath of the gods to be called down upon him for trying to hurt his dear family.

Keter eyes the leader of the scorched hoards, making his way to block Rheven from reaching the King and Queen. Keter takes his place between the aggressor and the royals. Readying the E'et Nilah blade in his hands he takes a defensive stance before their leader. "Abandon your persuit now, your hoards are no match for those defending their homeland"

Makenaka stands next to Keter and says we shall do this as a family

Rheven grunts as the few ogres that managed their way inside are swept up or otherwise dealt with - not about to be dealt the same fate, Rheven leaps atop Siriath, having her guide him to equal level with Thea and Keter, both of them seeming to have the same transformation Gwen does. Only now does he notice the incoming arrows, though they are of little consequence; lifting a hand out, he speaks a simple incantation, giving way to a burst of fire that swallows most of the incoming arrows whole. A stray one whooshes by his head, and another lands against Siriath's belly, though it merely bounces off of her rough scales. From his perch atop the dragon, he speaks to those remaining.

"Enjoy this throne room, I suggest - for it is all that remains of the pixie land that is unoccupied or otherwise ravaged. More ogres and drow await outside these doors, and it is futile for you lot to take them on alone. In essence...you have won the battle for the throne room. But you have lost the war for the kingdom..." As the last word falls from his lips, the vampiric mage drops to the back of the dragon again, gesturing out of the unfinished castle. Siriath responds promptly, a strong flap of her wings guiding him toward a rather large hole in the throne room wall. This allows him to escape, flying away from the now concluded battle.

[edit] Retreat of the Ogre and Alliance

Invaders: Tyre, Ogre Army, Drow Army Defenders: Kharet, Caedan, Thea, Keter, Kasyr, Virros

Kharet struggles ahead with his brother-in-arms, the sight of the five comrades they left to exterminate the wounded ogres torn to shreds. Blood falls like rain as the invading forces press hard against the dwarven warriors upon the drawbridge, the natural bottleneck provided by the landscape wholly to the defenders' advantage. Shield and spear are interlocked, an impenetrable phalanx of metal and muscle. Those behind serve only to further bolster the front lines, their shields placed over the heads of the front to rest upon the edges of their own, that the height advantage that the ogres possess cannot be employed to its fullest. Two of the small band remain at the rear, furiously reloading crossbows after their quarrels, in every percievable sense of the term, are loosed upon the savage attackers. The ogres are clumsy, barbarous and frantic with their assaults; no sense of order without the presence of their leaders, and the drow are yet to arrive upon the scene. Dozens of ogres are felled after the sluice of layered shields snaps open with incredible speed, a jagged range of halberds and spears dashing out to tear at their abdomens. The entire formation takes a single step forward, the rear line crouching to dash, sever and tear away the oesophagi of their wounded foes, the front wall of steel shuddering a moment as a vicious ogre makes to rise as they pass over, three spearheads piercing his frame instantaneously. Thus they continue to gradually edge forwards, not allowing their position to exceed the boundaries of the drawbridge, with wood now stained and sodden with blood.

Caedan is drawn to the pixie kingdom by the incessant chattering of a distressed fae. In order to get the creature to leave her be, the teen had reluctantly agreed to accompany her back to her home which apparently was under some sort of attack. Caedan arrives upon a scene of carnage and destruction, death practically palpable in the atmosphere. The faerie is left to her own mourning and such as she flits over to rest at the side of a fallen comrade, while the troubled teen traverses through the dismembered corpses with little notice. Her sword, the infamous Fallen Dream, is released from it sheath as shouts drown out the ethreal stillness, and she finds her way soon blocked by an ogre encampment, of sorts. It appears one commander has remained behind to go over plans for occupation with his subordinants. Shadows swirl around the brand, and the normally bellicose Fallen Dream remains nearly silent, as if aware that silence is integral to any success she may wish to incur. Stalking forward with cat-like movements, the nimble psychic swiftly descends into the tent, swirling and spinning to avoid a sudden clamor as the oafish ogres swarm for their weapons. She makes short work of this small party, swiftly decapitating one guard, while slicing cleanly through the legs of another, her own minimal strength accentuated by the ominous power of Fallen Dream. Moving forward now, she front-flips onto the table and avoids a clumsy attack, while bring her own sword in a descending arc towards the officer's shoulder, soon cleaving his arm from his shoulder, and rendering the muscle there useless. He flails, she flogs. When she is done with her wrathful discovery, the teen simply exits and moves onward, towards the large castle looming in the near-distance, and the sound of shouting, intermingled with the screams of the dying.

Virros approaches, with a group of 70 or so warriors, marching with swiftness. Heavy footsteps thunder upon the earth as the Centurions draw near to the fray. Upon seing Kharet and his party, the dwarves halt in their stride, signalled by their leader, as he surveys the current situation.

The phalanx continues onwards, slowing to a crawl as the indistinguishable merging of wood and grass, both crimson now through the shattering of mortal ora bora, draws ever closer. The tactic previously employed by the unit has remained solid throughout as the corpses of dead ogres now begin to form the lips of a lifeless valley to either side of the advancing soldiers. However, suddenly, three of the dwarves along the side of the formation fall to the ground dead. A volley of arrows from drowic archers had managed to permeate their metallic membrane, those now exposed hurriedly altering their positioning that they might employ their own barriers to prevent the same fate. Another wave of ogres rushes madly at the dwarves, several killed by the second volley from the archers what with their bloodlust overwriting any sense of self-preservation. The berserkers, though with a considerable supply of brute strength, fall as readily as those had before them, the lances and halberds shredding their bowels as they lumber into the killing field. However, a particularly large and aggressive beast continues his charge with the same furious momentum he had gathered en route, skewering himself along the haft of two mithril spears. He tears at the dwarves, the line breaking upon the right corner where he struck, two of them torn to ribbons by his clawed fingers before a hatchet whirls through the air to sever his head. The crossbowmen at the rear drop their weapons and dash forward, the support line filling the gap where their comrades fell and the ranged fighters filling their space in turn. Their number now ten.

Virros lifts up a single palm, indicating those seasoned troops behind to hold. At last he begins to visualize the scenario that has taken place. Kharet and his detachment have been fighting northwards, trying to leave the kingdom, and a large force of both ogre and drow stand in the way. These foes now separate the Centurions from their comrades, and in addition, he sees young Caedan battling solitarily, seemingly out of place, but nonetheless alive and hacking foe after foe. In a moment, Virros determines how he must go about the situation. The divided part of the army will not do as much good on its own, so he must rejoin them. The link the band together with his mobile force of brutes, he must cause enough of a distraction that Kharet's warriors will have short work to make of enemies that are not paying attention. As for Caedan, well, he would deal with that afterwards. With a quick motion, he draws Daybreak and points it toward the center of the enemy, and charges, bellowing loudly and full of fury as the dwarven feet stamp on the ground.

Thea still in her transformed appearance hovers in a silvery-scaled shadow ascending on the battle with fierce swiftness. With mouth agape showing razor-sharp teeth the massive jawls aim for several ogres in her wake, exacting talons reaching out for another few standing within reach, ready to shred their putrid flesh or have it meet the same fiery fate as that of their fellow soldiers with a dragon's breath.

Caedan is close to delving into the fray, having successfully -- though unknowingly -- murdered the current commanding officer, as his superior had long since departed to send reports to the proper authorities in his hometown.However, it is the veritable stampede behind her that draws her to a halt, bloodied, scratched, and suffering a nasty gash across her brow, to turn and observe the approaching force of dwarven warriors. Virros would be familiar, should she find him among his brethern -- who suspiciously resemble each other. Her hand is stayed for the moment, fingers loosely curled around the hilt of Fallen Dream, which continues to bleed shadows, and drip ogrian (because this word makes sense) blood.

Caedan amends that she gets out of the way of the charging dwarven army, though she'll likely be caught up in the drive forward, and join them.

Virros nears the foes as they begin to realize that they have been partially surrounded. With Virros's much more threatening force, due to numbers and freshness, they begin to turn to face their new adversaries. The dwarves are upon them quickly, easily countering and striking down the slow ogres that seem to make up the majority of the front line. To keep the remaining ogres off balance, the paladin pulls the army back in a planned feint, causing the enemy to lose most of their balance and momentum. Seizing this opportunity, Virros leads them forward again, crashing into the vulnerable foes, and cutting down a great deal of them, losing only a handful of men themselves.

Caedan isn't swept along with the invasion. Instead, as the dwarven militia charges past her, she merely observes in silence. She remains where stands, bleeding minutely from small lacerations, save the nasty gash near her temple. Jostled about momentarily, she is soon left in relative peace, only the refrains of the dying and the shouts of the combatants serving to break the solitude. As quietly as she had arrived, the disturbed psychic slips away, just slightly north, where she'll soon find a reclusive corner to regain a waning strength, comfortably situated between two still-warm cadavers.

Kharet leads his men over the blood stained grass, much of which had been torn away to dirt by continual barrage of passing soles, the eleven surviving troops merging with the General's main force as Kharet himself sidles his way to Virros' side. "Thank Kanos you made it, Sir, I was afraid our corpses would end up in some sordid ogre love ritual." Grinning broadly through a masque of blood, a savage gash across his forehead where his helm had been shattered, he surveys the field. "Looks like they didn't have the time to dig in, but I doubt that's all we can be expectin'. They got some nerve."

Virros looks about the area, searching hard for survivors. Spying none, he turns to the remainder of his own troops, who are breathing heavily. He declares to them, "We need to set up camp for a bit. I hope you guys don't mind a castle." A gruff shout of appreciation echoes out and they relax themselves, removing helmets and shields and dropping them with clangs upon the ground.

Virros said to Kharet, "Surprise will always be a grand advantage. They also seemed leaderless and directionless. They stood no chance. What exactly is the situation...why are we fighting ogres."

Kasyr arrived on the scene not long after, an excessively broad grin painted upon the hybrids mien as he sauntered over towards that familiarity he had sensed within these macabre picture painted by myriad corpses. Awareness of crew had been made whence he had passed by Caedan, though given no danger had been about and the tumult of emotions he could detect more towards the south he carried onwards, invariably coming to a pause a bit behind Virros, whereupon he made his presence known if not detected already vis a vis a rather unsubtle clearing of his throat, and a boisterous bit of speech following. "Well, I suppose I don't get to be a rescue, but I think reinforcements are better at times, Oui Monsieur Virros?" Towards Kharet, a momentary pause and observation is granted, recognising him vaguely from the other evening at the hanging corpse, by which point a three fingered salute of sorts was granted. "And bonjour to you. I still can't remember if I asked your name or not- Because I definitely don't remember it." That was it really, the tiefling lapsing into a silence only pontuacted by the rufflings of him adjusting his fur trimmed trenchcoat and that oddity of a scarf which hung about his neck- a minor bit of vanity in the face of peril as it were.

Kharet said to Virros, "Not sure on any details, Sir, I was working on a previous assignment when some refugees crossed our paths and informed me that the area was under heavy assault from ogre and drow forces. The leader departed atop a dragon immediately after we arrived, as the city had already been cleared up to the castle. However, another wave filled the streets behind us, so we were forced to fight our way out."

Kharet nods his recognition to the tiefling, "Aye, I remember you, the fellow from the Corpse, right? Foul business, that, foul indeed. Name's Kharet."

Virros said to Kharet, "Why were you here?"

Kasyr makes a rather mock humble bow, eyes never ceasing to dance about the area. Towards Kharet is the first address made, tone containing a mirthful courtesy "Kasyr Azakhaer, Is this fellow, Monsieur Kharet. And, oui, that was a rather ill thing that, though Steadmen did live." And then rising from his oddity of a bow was virros responded to, the answer a veritable display of Hubris "I'm sorry, I'm not mayor of a city yet. and plus- do I really need troops?" A rather trivial motion follows, his left hand gestured out towards the paladin in an almost querying fashion. His right hand in this instance was not idle however, slipping between the folds of his coat to rest amiably upon the pommel of his sword.

Virros laughs at Kasyr's antics, doubling over in augmented laughter, due to the previous stress he just released.

Kharet has his attention torn away by a distant rumble. One unmistakable to a battle-hardened soldier as himself, even the coarse calling of carrion birds with the gall to perch and await the meaty pickings of combat fleeing. The wind roars to a deafening scream for a moment, a band of pixie sorcerers appearing from nowhere amidst the platoons of weary dwarves, their apparent superior approaching Virros. "We were away on foreign relations, whatever has caused this must be held to account. However...." A vague hand signal is given to the newly arrived group of winged beings, a chirruped chant emitted by each in turn as a dull blue haze rises from the earth below. Wounds are left bloody and raw, but the fatigue felt by each dwarf caught in the vast smog is erased, the cloud rising to dissipate above the level of the ravaged homesteads along the road. The leader continues as if this were a common daily occurrence, "... we have more pressing matters to attend." He gestures to the north, as the rumble of an approaching army has intensified, the dwarves immediately addressing the oncoming threat as they reclaim discarded gear.

Virros groans to himself...in his hurry, he neglected to consolidate his position and eliminate any enemies that had access to his backside. Thankfully they did not arrive during the earlier battle, where they would really have posed a threat.

Kasyr changes posture immediately upon the realisation of what was coming to pass, stance now that of a tenseness and wariness. "Oh...Oh merde, this is going to be interesting." Oddly enough, though his expression did grow less blatant, there was still vestiges of a smirk upon his face, for the hybrid truly did relish the chance for a fight.

Virros announces in a booming voice. "Alright, men. We need to improve our defensive position. Let's pull back slightly so we're behind the chokepoint of the gate, forcing the enemy through the narrow way." With a couple shouts, the soldiers hurriedly retrieve the rest of their gear and move as ordered. Setting up just behind the gates, they raise their shield early, anticipating an archer volley or some other form of treachery.

Kharet moves with the bulk of the force, those under his command now merged with the files of helms and spearheads that tickle the last wisplike tendrils of the rejuvenating smog, the pixie sorcerers staying at the rear to avoid direct barrage. Kharet takes his place along the front lines of the assembled dwarven warrior elite, eagerly awaiting the onslaught.

Keter enters followed by the entire L'Quarth D'Avariel army, rallying behind Keter against those who would oppress.

Virros steels himself behind the gates as the appearance of another drow army unnerves him slightly.

Thea 's lips twist to a wry grin upon seeing Keter and his army, appreciative they are on her side in this battle.

Keter looks at Virros reassuringly "Fear not, I am a former resident of these lands, and my former wife and mother of my children was Pixie, I shall not stand by idle while these lands fall"

Out of the darkness of the enchanted forest comes the sound of a single horn being blown. the sound is crips, clear and loud enough to be heard by all of the being currently in the area. Moments pass with an eerie silence,and the birds seems to fly away out of terror. And just as the last bird flies across the trees and out of sight, another chilling sound comes from the darkness of the forest. It starts off low, the begins to pick up in pace and volume.It is the sound of a thousand warriors marching, all banging thier weapons upon thier shields in a unique unison of battle like harmony. This sounds sends chill down the spines of even the most braveof heart, as surely one did not expect this. The sounds soon grows so loud, as the legion of Drow, Golblin, Orc and Ogre warriors make thier way threw forest, and back once more to the entrance to the enchanted Kingdom. Three sinlge figures stand out, well ahead of the army of destrustion. A massive Ogre warrior, placed in charge by the chieftain Gruz in his stead. This mighty warrior weilding a greatsword with ease in one had, and a tower shield, covered with skulls in the other. Beside him stand a dark figure, wearing a full set of what appears to be a twisted form of the Guardians fullplate armor. It is now blackend,and charred, and the helm upon which he wears resembles the face of a dragon. He stands six foot three, and carries with him a wicked blade. But both of these men stand behind a lone Drow. Tyre Da'erthe stands now, a smirk upon his lips as with a raise of one hand, all the noise stops. He calls out to the dwarves,who has apparently just begun to relax, and says clearly. "We have come for this kingdom, get out of our way, or die."

Kasyr aloofly tousles his hair with that gloved hand of his left before rather hurriedly following the motions of those already ahead. Still, lacking the same type of armour and shields as they do, he comes to a rest just behind the front line, crouched slightly as he awaits that initial collision of bodies, whereupon order would be thrown into dissent. Whatever was to happen then, he'd react to it, rather bereft of any form of planning besides the common place, 'take as many down as possible before you go down'.

Keter looks to Tyre, "Did you not retreat already coward, you will never defeat the citizens of this land"

Tyre smirks from afar, a slight chuckle given off to Keter. " No, I had to think some things over. That, and it seems we were in need of more troops." A roar of laughter comes from the thousand warriors behind him. Jesserios and Knarl chuckling beside him.

Kasyr said to Virros, "Hell, the banter begins- I wish they'd just get on with tossing themselves on their swords- oui."

Kharet mutters various profound profanities under his breath, but speaks naught aloud, being but a minor link in the mortal chain tethered to Virros' hand.

Virros advances forward to meet Tyre, the apparent leader of the opposing forces. Shuffling across the threshold, boots scuffing the ground as he gazes upon the drow. With little deliberation, he forces out of his mouth, "If it were that easy to leave, we would. I have not come to defend the land, only the army that was attacked on this soil. This is not our land; we have no stake and no desire, as far as I know. I suppose if you will let us on our way, we shall do the same." He tilts his head forward into a very slight bow, keeping his viridian eyes lingering on Tyre for the duration.

Keter laughs as he looks out the window toward the masses, noticing the thousands of pixies reappearing from invisibility above the prone army and beginning to rain down a barage of magical spells upon the poorly defended non-magic folk, Keter directs his gaze toward Tyre "It seems you have led your army directly into an ambush fool"

Thea takes place among those of her own race and alongside those who stand to help. With a knowing glance given to her fellow fae, they begin to chant in perfect unison with voices resonating loudly against the surroundings. The earth beneath trembles, rising and falling beneath the gathering of winged mages and druids alike as if breathing life from within. Outstretched wing and hands move together in a collaboration that only these creatures know, a summoning spell learned just for this purpose. With numbers growing like foilage on trees, a massive Treant appears from within their sacred circle. Pixie's multiplying amongst the branches begin casting against the foe while Thea and the others continue their chant, ready to use the resources in their homeland to protect it.

Tyre lets a hidden smirk cross his face as the pixies spring into action. The legion of warrios at his command stand still, waiting for the order as the magic falls upon them. No one moves, and it seems Tyre has led his army into a slaughter. There is a tremendous explosion, and it seems that the pixies attack has hit! A cloud of dust rises were the masses of ogre, Goblin, Orcand Drow warriors once stood. But as the dust settles, a sinister laughter can be heard." Fool? It seems you underestimate my expectations of you D'Artes!" Andwitht hat said, the ~real~ army springs into action. For it seems that the legion that was in front of the entrance was nothing more than aillusion, conjured up by Tyre andJesserios's magic. The ~real~ army, was positioned in the woods to the east and west, using the noise the illusions made as cover. With the pixies in the sky, they become easy targets for the drow archers, who unleash a storm of arrows that blots out the faint lightthat was left of the sun. The Ogres then spring from all sides of the small army assesmbled here, all armed to the teeth, and all ready to kill anything that gets in thier way.

Virros stands and gapes at the action, and pulls back behind the wall, waiting for a victor to emerge...if Tyre's force is victorious, he would attempt to leave the land a second time.

Kharet is caught beneath the volley, as the bulk of the army was positioned in close proximity to the pixies. They all employ the tactic drilled into their minds, as previously displayed by Kharet's platoon earlier in the conflict, raising their shields to protect themselves from the jagged tips of the deadly rain. A few of the slower-witted soldiers are killed, but for the whole the army remains unscathed, forming into a defencive phalanx as the ogres rush onwards. They make no motion to attack, however, as the general hides.

The arboreal guardian takes very little time in removing it's 'feet' from the ground, enormous trunks which served as legs lifted up from where they rooted to the ground and prompted placed upon the ground with a firm stomp, sending a cascade of dirt and stone into the air. Collosal, Elemental, and a fair few shades enraged would be about the best way to describe this particular 'force of nature' as it crashs forth to meet that amalgamated force which happens to be threatening the homeland of its summoners. Betwixt the two forces that revealed themselves, the treant chose to cut a swathe through those ogres which were closet, the drow doing little more then peppering its barky hide with arrows which simply stuck in to no real detriment. Its movements were launched with a fey abandon, a wild savagery as the massive limbs were used to bludgeon every creature that came within range, smashed down upon those fleshy hides of what strayed into its path- or what it strayed into the path of. It even goes so far as to occasionally lift up one of the ogres, whether living or dead then fling it violently towards the sources of the arrows- one of those myriad advantages of size and strength combined.

Kasyr , whilst bereft of the size and other 'overbearingly' blatant boons the other entity under this particulars typist had, was not the type to stay out of a fight, especially not when that opportunity which lied directly ahead was made available. Thus, after that moments pause to bravely cower beneath a sword out of the path of the deluge of arrows, he hops upon the shoulders of one the dwarves, quite nimbly bounding oft and over towards the thick of things. Mind you, this particular action nearly slams him head first into an ogre which had been bearing down upon those defenders upon the bridge, but the swift shriek of metal and a cacophony of serpents is the answer, black blurs of a blades edge flickering through the air a solution to an incoming foe, reducing it to maimed caricature of the living creature it once was, a husk the tiefling lands upon and rides all the way down in its abrupt backwards fall, by which point he carries forth with his forward charge. Reckless, Brutal, and seeming to have a good time somehow, the Azakhaer heir rushed through the fray, the only attention he placed upon any other entity present being the kiss of the obsidian sword as he made his way towards the general, seeking to cleave the serpents head from its body.

Virros peers at Kasyr, the tiefling involving himself in more trouble than necessary. With much interal battle, he decides not to help out. He knows the action would surely destroy his chances of leaving peacefully, and knowing Kasyr, he stands a better chance of survival than a horde of bumbling ogres.

Keter watches the hoards of Drow fighting now without thier commandere against thousands of pixies. A number of arrows meet their mark, dropping a hundred or so pixies from the air, but the vast majority miss their mark, peppering the ground with a forest of shafts. The pixies focus their attention on the Drow attackers, chanting as one voice they bring the forest to life around the dark elves, the trees swatting and smashing Drow at will, only a few of the most deft able to escape the large hulking blows coming from the forest

Virros whispered to Kharet, "Would you be able to take the reins and lead these troops around the castle? I'm going to deal with these, and I don't want the army to be a part of this."

Thea and the circle of pixie mages begin to make a series of strange motions with their hand, chanting incantations as they fly in a circle slowly closing in and downward to form a vortex. As the sky changes, a large hollow crystaline structure falls from the sky, surrounding the two remaining lieutenants before a bright flash fills the air. The two leaders frozen as if statues inside the translucent structure, magically sealed from action.

As Tyre is swallowed in a colossal plume of debris torn up by the summoned moss-coated titan, the remaining two generals charge the opposing figures forefront in the defence of the city, wholly ignoring the carnage behind them. Ogres are literally squashed to a pulp beneath the knotted trunks of the treant, the berserkers amongst their ranks hurling themselves at it's appendages with reckless abandon. The drow concentrate their fire upon what is assumed to be the head of the construct by their commanders, several divisions of archers dousing rags with oil which they affix to the points of their arrows and setting them alight. There is a ground-shaking tremor as a terrible roar of anguish emits from the maw of the forest protector, a cave of lichen and tongue of vines basking in the ember glow given off by the treant's own torso. As patches of dried foliage upon it's torso catch alight, it thunders through the ragged lines of ogres, a gouge dug into the earth beneath the weight of it's uncompromising soles. The bodies of fallen dead slump into the fetid valley, a river of intestines and blood bobbing in the viscous soup, the treant beginning to cleave through the neat lines of drow archers, the skirmishers of the underdark brutally decimated beneath it's deadly boughs. Two dozen or so ogre berserkers that had been kept upon the fringes of the onslaught by mounds of their dead brethren now charge with screaming fury at the defenders, a volley of flaming arrows miraculously making it from the wreath of death around the treant to tear through the sky approaching the castle.

Kharet shouts aloud to the soldiers after given command by the general, leading the men around to the rear of the castle to try and avoid confrontation, the battle raging behind them as the dwarven forces gradually filter out of the area.

Virros rotates to view the retreating army leaving the battlefield. His burden lifted, he now focuses his attentions upon Kasyr, slicing through the ogres as easily as swords through flesh. Smelling the ogre blood spattered about the field, the Centurion screams and charges at full speed, headlong into the throng of enemy. Dust kicks up in tight clouds as his feet me the earth, and raises his still brandished weapon. With another battle cry, he drives it downward upon the first enemy he meets, the one preparing to strike an unseen blow to the blindspot of his ami.

Kasyr grins in a manner more wicked than one would find comforting from a champion of Kanos, the tiefling revelling in the wanton decimation of the opposing forces, much of which he causes with his violent antics and wayward blade- neglectful of those few wounds he had accumalated during his haphazard weavings, arrows having punctured through the weighted trenchcoat he wore and buried themselves in his back. A familiar battlecry does catch his particular attention when he espys the dwarven Paladin returned, having laid waste to a foe whom had slipped within the chaotic fray of his senses, but he has little time for thanks, returning to his frenzied movements. Still, when he does reach his goal, he finds himself rather agape, those two generals he had rather purposefully sought to engage seemingly made into a pair of statues. Fortuitously enough, this very same instance which made his intended targets rigid due to arcane influence also granted him a slight reprieve from the constant shower of arrows, if only by means of ducking behind them as arrows struck off the sealed Lieutenants. Barely gaining time to gather his breath, a frenzied call for blood catchs his attention, the source seeming to be headed his way- and upon a diverting of attention in that very same direction, theres a confirmation of this fact, a rather large ogre thudding a path in his direction. Malignant in a fashion that rivaled the very intent of his target, the Ouroboros blade is lifted above his head then swiped down, a nigh imperceptible blade of wind summoned nigh instantaneously and guided towards the ogre, cleaving it quite neatly down the midst into a shower of blood and entrails. Its by this point the smile grows to its utmost, now a rather deranged grin as he viciously plucks out those arrows from his back and tosses them aside, a precursor to his renewed entry into the thick of things, focus to be to fight alongside Virros, gleeful shouts and taunts barely drowning out the angry serpentile hiss his sword produces with every swipe.

Keter commands the L'Quarth D'Avariel to follow him as he rushes onward toward the remaining drow warriors, leading the way Keter unsheaths the E'et Nilah Blade and rushes the highest ranking officer among the drow, his men fanning out and engaging in one on one combat against the assailants. Keter dodges quickly from side to side, bobing and weaving to avoid the barage of blows, finally parrying a thrust as the officer over extends himself, Keter throws a quick pommel thrust toward his nose, breaking it immediatly and filling the officer's face with a river of sanguine fluid. Keter quickly, spins around with a mighty woosh, the blade ending at arms length, lodged deeply through his opponents clavicle and deep into his chest

With the two premiers of the force incapacitated, the chain of command is gradually thinned within the invading army ranks. First a drow colonel is scoured from the face of the world by a projectile ogre; a major and two captains both killed as an entire line of archers misfires into the rear of an infantry platoon when blindsided by a tumbling boulder heaved along the ground by the treant. With the entire command of the army now under a sergeant, wholly inadequate for the responsibility, things really do turn utterly sour for the dark forces. Several archer brigades are slaughtered by their own for attempting to rout from the battle, a sudden bout of confused and chaotic infighting between ogre and drow a result as the burly race's shamen are hit by a stray javelin hurled by a young drow. Partial order is restored to the whittled army as they are painfully reminded of a common enemy; ergo the great elemental in their midst. The flames upon his tough and rugged skin still smoulder, plumes of purple smoke left in it's wake like a brutish priest waving his incense, but it's prime fury relates to the fact a close encounter with several trees left them alight. The blame can only fall on the perpetrators in such a scenario, and so the colossal guardian tears not one, but two of his less animated cousins from the earth. Thus equipped, he begins to recklessly sweep over the ground with his two clubs, whole regiments of soldiers simply dashed away as if hit by some terrible incendiary bomb. Meanwhile, now that the tree is in the midst of the army (a thousand in a pretty small area was no small feat) more rows of survivors that he had passed filter out and charge towards the smaller enemies near the castle. For retribution was required, and they would find no welcoming bosom upon any inch of the gnarled titan.

Virros watches the gargantuan's actions in amazement, as he treads backward a couple paces. Edging himself to the outskirts of the battle, he searches through his faceplate for stragglers that are too far from the treant for the moment. He spots one directly behind him, and rotates just in time to catch an ogre's club to the head. The blow bounces off the glorious golden war helm, and knocks him to the ground. The helm stays intact due to its sturdiness, but the dwarf has trouble getting back to his feet.

Thea reaches deep into her ever-full pouch of pixie dust, grabbing a handful she throws it over herself, announcing with an ominously loud voice, a single word of power. Suddenly her form begins to alter, her wings growing large and leathery, as her body expands larger and larger until she now appears as a full sized dragon. Letting out a screech heard from miles around she takes flight toward any remaining warriors, swooping over them as she spews forth an inferno of napalm-like fire. The dragon smiles to herself as she aims her flight downward toward two retreating foes, grasping each of them with one of her massive clawed talons, she crushes them as if rats in the hands of an ogre, dropping their punctured bloody corpses to the ground with a loud thud. She circles back around, with feverish flight, causing a strong wind to fan the flames of the engulfed enemies on the ground. Thea watches in amusement as the majority of the remaining army attempt to flee for their lives from this hopeless battle

Kasyr pulls himself off of the particular drow who had for some inexplicable reason strayed into the main battle zone, a mess of vitae spilled out in all directions due to the extreme measures in which the tiefling is having such a pleasent time exhibiting, not half a moment later proceeding to demonstrate one in the form of his favoured bastard sword plunged directly into the back of a distracted ogre, severing the spine and causing it to drop down upon its knees, a hasty withdrawl of the dripping blade ensuing before its punched through the back of the entitys neck, not so much to decapitate it, as much as paralyse it below the beck, and cause its longs to slowly fill up with blood. Hence, having ravaged what relies in his immediate area, he takes a moment to inventory himself: -yet again- his trenchcoat is mauled and he happens to be covered with innumerable cuts, and even a gash upon his side- however a hybrids nature seemed to be covering them, the wounds already beginning their slow crawl towards closing. Regeneration was such a boon towards one who constantly got into trouble. Faculties taking the fullness of the situation again, there is but one last little skirmish that doesn't seem to have been subjegated by the utter disarray, a lone ogre which sought to end his comrade, and so he reacted. The weighted trenchcoat was thrown aside, tossed aloft to the winds of battle as the Imp hybrid suddenly used every bit of swiftness he possessed, moving with such celerity that the terrain kicked up in his frenzied rush seemed to hang in the air. Amber gaze having turned into but a pair of amber slits, that hand of his left comes to rest upon his sheathe, hastily drawing it forth to hurl it at the ogre, the resounding thunk of the ebon shaded matter colliding off the creatures skull succesfully garnering its attention, the creature having just enough time to turn around as the guardian rabidly hurls himself into the beast, plunging the bastard sword up into its chest, driving it through multiple organs with the force of his rushing body behind it. The spray of scarlet is glorious, shed into the air by the decisive blow~ and its only moments after does the tiefling proceed to realise what the ogres dying steps backwards amount to. "...oh, Merde." And over he goes, carried by the creatures awkward stumble into the moat, only spared plummeting headfirst by a rather awkward grasping of the edge, which serves to dislodge his weapon.

Virros shakes his head, the rattling of the helmet bringing him back to his senses. He collects himself seated, but soon stands and rejoins Kasyr's side. "Nothing like a war to bring people together, eh? When else can two people save each other's lives in a matter of minutes?" He grins, relieved.

Keter said to Kasyr, "Well you may want to read my post if you haven't seen it yet"

Kasyr scrabbles up from the moat, muttering, cursing and generally having an altogether fit. Still, he does collect himself after he ever so cordially comes to a sitting position, fixing his gaze over upon the dwarf "I'm glad you came back- I was gonna be dissapointed if tu did not."

Thea transforms back to her usual lovely state, a mere five foot four inch frame. Looking at the mess left from the battle she just shakes her head in dismay and utters quietly, "To think this used to be my sister's home."

As Thea decimates the forces upon the fringes, and the forces of Keter and attacks of the Kasyr-Virros independent defence along with the remaining pixies wash away traces of sentience from the forces that were spared the wroth of the forest guardian. The very same being that continues to maul what remainder of the army is within his reach, vast numbers (as they hadn't -really- killed a whole thousand, that'd be WTF?! territory) having thrown down pride, terror of superiors and arms to disperse into the Sage forest. Perhaps they would make the return to their original source unscathed, perhaps not; it was a matter for the fates now. As the last breath of life is exhumed from a drow soldier in fountain of crimson spittle, his chest cavity crushed beneath a club the treant had now discarded, all that is left to be observed is horrific carnage. The treant remains within the ocean of death, stomping continually over a small patch of earth as the bones of those that fell there are kneaded and ground into the earth.

Virros said to Kasyr, "I didn't think there was anyway for the army to escape until Kharet informed me that we might be able to go around the castle."