Battle:The Battle of Kelay

From HollowWiki

Helich :: The black was following through with his word. Such as it was, he hadn't anticipated the sudden appearence of dragons above the village. Matter of fact, he'd taken to scouting the final spots himself - and with early spring rain pattering against the Tavern's worn roof, the saurian had no choice but to fly closer to the ground than he would have chosen. It was with arrogance that the male flew overhead, hundred-fifty feet up - and it was with fear that all of his senses detected the dragons. Unexpected, or rather, unanticipated, the male turned 'heel' per se and took off dead-west back toward camp as fast as his leathery wings would allow. A roar - bellowing - echoed through the area. Soon drums sounded - a mile, two miles off - and already the male was created illusions and setting them free while shooting orders out to the undead greenskins. The living ones - they were a different matter, much more difficult to control - and strategical advantige had been lost. It was frantic, already. Several bland wolves sprout up in front of the camp - three hundred or so. After a moment of focus they contort, begin breathing, their eyes gain a life-like glint. He created them and set them free - to begin a rushing gallop toward the village. The undead followed suit, close behind - thirty feet, weapons bared. They kept pace barely, seemed a bit...decayed at this point, but just as deadly. A mile and a half off now. The black soared toward them, another roar and the living followers of his were grunting, forming loose arcs, and trotting toward the village. Obviously, when the attack did come, the black planned for the illusions to serve as calvary, the undeads to serve as initial infantry, and the living greenskins - they were the overwhelming force. So much was riding on this exact moment, he curved his neck back in hopes that the group of dragons were not in pursuit just yet.

Lirithen :: Ever vigilant defenders of the innocent, the Fold obviously have a presence here, and a presence it is. A stalwart force, respectable in size, has been committed to the defence of the village, one would estimate at around seventy, eighty men arranged into battle lines, their eyes fixated on the oncoming horde. Shield men hold the first line, the clan's crest glaring out defiantly before the oncoming horde, while long, evil-looking pikes stem from over their heads, ready to skewer whatever greenskin may be willing to fall on their end. Behind are archers, arrows already knocked firmly into their bows, metal tips aimed skyward ready to rain the deadly projectiles upon the invaders. A task force, nothing more, to hold the line against the enemy while reinforcements massed deeper within the surrounding forest.

Myzie turns to the sea of bodies approaching the village, her wide mouth slipping into a grimace. She glances nervously about, the dirt road, scrutinizing each visage. This had to have been the attack that was threatened towards Kelay since the last few days. She turned back as the creatures neared, extending two thin appendages, long pink strips of clothing hanging from her thick sleeves. She wouldn't turn tail, nor would she lay down helpless and allow herself to die. She would wait until they were close enough to unleash her aquamagicarus.

Strex walks into the area, wondering what is going on.

Mahri 's Wingman is the first to notice the black and bugle a warning. The smaller blue was eager to engage. The lycan and her Sora though, had other plans. A swift gesture and almost half of the wing broke off to intercept, from the air, incoming forces while Mahri and the ice dragon chased Helich. Mahri had a score or three to settle, though the would-be destroyer isn't aware of this. Narrowing silver-gray eyes against the rush of wind that goggles didn't entirely protect against, she leans over over her winged mounts neck. ~Don't lose him, Sora. Before this day is through, I'll have his blood on my hands~ Sora roared both agreement and challenge while ten of her squad fanned out into a neat V-formation, the bloodthirsty pair in the lead. From just below their right, a burst of noxious gas spews towards Helich, the flying force having come within range. Green dragon and his inexperienced rider are way off the mark, instead the cloud dissipates into the air. Sora hisses at the younger dragon, some mental commuincae passing that neither rider heard but guessed at when the green breaks off and takes position at the rear, a much older and wiser red taking their place.

Athyaron remains calm and collected in his place as the head of The Fold's stalwart force. Sighing slightly, the elf quietly yet firmly directs the front line of shieldmen to hold their post until the greenskin so much as dare try to attack. Turning slightly to his right, he directs about twenty or so of the archers, all of various races to provide backup fire for the shieldmen should they need it. As for the rest of the archers however, the ranger devises a plan. Helich would be shot down from the skies today. "Remember men, if we end it here, we save hundred, no thousands of lives!" yells the elf as he directs them to aim their bows into the sky, the arrows of which soon begin to glow and crackle with the energy of the various different elements being charged into them. "Steady..." the ranger commands as Mahri and her ice dragon fly overhead. "Do not shoot the one on the dragon, take aim for the one that dragon be chasing!" he yells as the several archers patiently await their command. Not yet....not yet...."NOW!" yells the ranger as he feels the black is in close enough range to be shot down. The 'twang' of several different bows firing at once echoes throughout the area nicely as various arrows charged with fire,ice,and lightining darken a portion of the sky, each of them hurtling through the air towards Helich.

Rawnie doesn't seem to mind the onslaught of rain as it freckles her tawny fur before eventually saturating it and would have shaken herself free of it if it wasn't for the Fold's army, and the horde of living and dead. Hackles are raised in a threatening mo-hawk'd fashion, and thin legs widen in a sturdy stance as her lips peel back to reveal two rows of equally dangerous teeth whilst a growl rumbles from her chest. The wolf turned gypsy finds herself alone in her lupine'd cause; thankfully the army of the Fold is off to her right however, and her once-was alpha signaled by the scent she caught from high. As the horde of the greenskins march forward and onward, Rawnie (always one to be impatient) finally lurches forwards, signaled on by the trumpeting bugle. Paws pound against the now soggy earth, and with each loping stride, the wolf brings herself closer to the first living thing she comes across, this so happening to be an orc. With precise movements and a pre-calculated angle of her jaw, she deftly snags the greenskin's throat betwixt the set of her angry fangs and chomps down with feral greed. When it's finally down for the count, after bouts of struggling and gurgled screams, the gypsy leaps from the orc's grounded body and onto the next.

Myzie winces as the bows are fired, turning into the direction of the formed men-at-arms. With a quick glance, she deems this small force not large enough to rely upon in the defense of Kelay. As such, she steps back a further bit, position herself a decent space from the Fold militia, thus leaving herself room to run if the situation turns dire, but also giving her ample oppurtunity to use her own magicarus when the initial defenders are over run.

Helich :: The black's eyes were wide. A growl in his throat. He'd caught up to them now - the horde - and was rather unsatisfied with their progression. Timing, luck, neither was on his side it seemed. The illusionory wolves serving as his calvary, all three hundred, seemed intent on one thing: To kill. The saurian had designed them so, to target all 'scents' -except- for orc or ogre, goblin. They met the shields of Fold militia with leaping, snarling attack - they aimed for the sweet spots, everyone breaking off into packs and seeking hamstring or jugglar where bleeding would be the worst. The undead's were not far behind - only two hundred remeained after Gualon, where once six hundred or more had existed. An odd mix of Ogre, Orc, and Goblin - and all mindlessly aiming to kill where Wolves failed. They were messy but organized - the undead goblins halted suddenly from behind the charging orc and ogre and fired arrows into the crowd, hitting undead ally and living foe alike. Now the undead's themselves - designed by Lasacartra - were quite an enemy to defeat. You could maim, cut off an arm or a leg, even a head, but they would continue fighting until they could no longer move. The arrow's sent Helich's way would pelt against his frame. Arrows were a hard thing to peirce dragon scales' and even more so when he had distance - a few peirced, but caused little to no damage at all. The dragons in pursuit - that was another matter entirely. A voice boomed through the area - yet the saurian's mouth moved not at all. "Attack! All forces push!" The living greenskins took heed, a demoralizing battle cry rang from every throat - all three or four hundred of them. Helich found himself disadvantaged, but not disillusioned. It would be idiotic to summon illusionory dragons to fight against actual ones. They would note in an instant their lack of existance, but it was worth a shot. The male soared past his very own men, continuing to flee - and gaining no ground...or air...away from Mahri and her White. Up ahead, above the clouds - a perfect way for a believeable group of blue's to appear - several roars sounded. It was hard enough to focus, with minute changes and orders constantly being conviened toward the undead's engaged in battle below, but seven or so Blue dragons appeared. Real or not? Helich went to every bound he could to trick the Eyrie - empathic, smell, sight, touch, even spirit...which took more energy than he would care to admit. But that energy was preserved, as much as he could - he set them loose, no longer fed mana into them but instead gave them free reign, free will, and with only one intent and purpose: Attack the Eyrie. They were mindless things really, a rampaging charge straight at the group trailing Helich - lightnining soon shot out of their mouth. If they were known for being false, it would be harmless. If the deception worked however - the magic breath attack would begin to reign chaos down upon the Eyrie. Helich joined them soon after. Death was a fact he was prepared to face, this early eve.

Myzie gasped as the first ranks clashed into one another, the clanking and tearing, screaming and snaring of blade and flesh meeting filling her ears. She watched the Fold milita carefully, pondering whether she should interfere now, or wait until the orcs were thinned out. She decided, and with a swift step, brought herself a foot forward. Lips part to release flowing arcane, as lithe digits twirl to meet the somatic requirements of her evocation. With a faint blue pulse, a large bubble the size of a horse began to spread from Myzie's gloved appendages, filling with an unknown substance, before another step forward and a harsh motion sent the mana bubble forward like a pitch, sailing through the air, glimmering translucent hues flowing from the sphere. When it struck the ground, partly between a group of wolves and orcs, it exploded in a hail of liquid, which crystallized on contact with oxygen, and formed razor shards of high-speed shrapnel, which did little trouble in tearing through everything around it.

Mahri 's eyes widened then narrowed when the blue's caught her attention. There was something not quite right about them. Even Sora sensed it and sent a warning to her rider, ~Not real. He's trying to trick us!~ Tightening her legs against a sinewy neck, the lycan nods, even though her mount can't see it. The gesture is a signal: Go forward. Persue. This the White does with glee, tucking in her wings to dive at the Black. Parting her jaws, a stream of icy breath bursts forth, aimed for the magnificent wings of their quary. Strands of raven hair pull free from the tight braid that trails down her back. Gloved hands grip tightly to the harness that locks her to the seat. The blues, browns, greens and a red that trailed after didn't get the warning in time, and though they peeled left and right, four got caught in the seemingly real electrical charge. Mahri didn't look back as screams of pain filled the air from both dragons and riders. Her attention is focused on Helich. Of a single mind and single mindedly the raced after him, hoping the spray of ice-breath will slow if not ground the Black altogether. The battle below is not their concern, not yet. However, the five that Mahri had sent ahead come up the rear, skimming roof tops while slit eyes scanned ahead. A bellow sounds when the goblins are noticed to fall back. Now the dragons let loose, spilling fire, acid and gas at the little archers, hopefully felling a goodly amount of the little bastards before more arrows were loosed.

Myzie crouches down, hands held up to push down her great witch hat over long flowing white hair as the dragons pass overhead. She wasn't accustomed to such bedlam and wanton destruction, but she was aware that her life may be in danger, and she would fight to her last breath to preserve it. Still offering arcane support behind the ranks of Fold, Myzie raises her hands once more, attempting this time a long range attack against the back ranks of the living orcs still approaching. Although at this distance unable to differentiate between the living and undead fungoids, Myzie decided she would take an attack to the rear flanks of the force, offering moral damage, and putting forth bodies with which to block the retreat of the attackers, should they choose to do so. As purple lips part once more to emit a plethora of whispered lyrics, a soft pale mist begins to rise up from the Witch's fingetips, elegantly swaying across the battlefield like a blanket being pulled over a mother's son. The swaying, softly dripping liquids form a wreath over the back ranks of the invasion force, before descending like rain drops. However, as they make their falls into the orcs, each droplet of mist crystalizes like glass, forming a thick cloud of miniscule, lethal shards. As the orcs breath in this concoction, their lungs will be torn apart from the inside, and as they blink, their eyes will be slowly shredded away.

Lirithen :: The Great Gods of Archery were clearly very offended by the shoddy show put on by the Goblins, and their divine was both ironic and terrible. The first few plummets of feathered projectiles into greenskin chests, heads, necks, was discarded as more friendly fire... Until the trickle became a terrible flood. The air filled with the many whizzes and thumps of steel-tipped, feather-tailed wooden shafts, and one had to marvel at the accuracy displayed by the unseen assailants, for those that hit hit well and true, and those that didn't were too few to be noticed. But then one would find it hardly surprising when the nimble-bodied culprits sprung from the trees surrounding the village and donned vantage points across the rooftops of buildings on either side of the main street; elves. Some were dressed in simple ranger garb, forest greens and browns denoting their position and service under the shattered remains of the Sage elf enclave, but most bore proudly the bright chainmail shirts and bold tabbards of the Fold. Teeth bared, aim quick yet careful they picked out careful holes in the enemy advance, hands a blur with the constant dart from quiver to bow. Lirithen stood at their head, his arrows colliding with goblin flesh and wolf hide alike. "Focus your fire on their archers!" the warder barked, "we'll show these miscreants how to use a bow!"

Rawnie 's noises lift into the air and intermingle with the rest of the destruction about her; yips of pain, snarls of impending doom and death, and the occasional bark of success as she managed to fell yet another legion of the undead. After successfully ripping out the throat of her third goblin, tallying up her kill count to four, she sets her gaze on a brutish ogre. Much bigger than the previous greenskin's she stripped of life, she calculates quickly and moves to slam her svelte, wolfish figure against the creature's knees, hoping to take him down in one quick motion. This however, doesn't seem to be the case, and the wolf-woman manages only to secure a rough kick to her mid-section. The causes the lupine to tumble from the thing with a yelp of clear pain, but it doesn't deter her from rising to her paws once more and lurch forward. Her figure, this time, leaps for his chest and once against him, angles her fore-paws around the ogre's shoulders in a human-fashion while those back legs scramble to find ground to hold her there. Teeth gnash at the creatures face, catching whatever skin she could. In this onslaught of ivory fangs, with an angled maw, she catches the greenskin's girthy face, her jaw widening just enough to pinch it's contours between her teeth. Rawnie manages only to squeeze down with normally bone crushing strength, and be awarded with ample amounts of gore and one pissed off ogre. A few more rounds of attack and retreat, and finally she manages to clip him along his jugular vein, causing his thick blood to spray out and stain her tawny fur with his scent. This thankfully leaves her free from an attack by the conjured wolves.

Athyaron grins as the orders of his brother reach his ears. "Focus fire on their archers!" yells the ranger to his own squad who immediately change their target from the dragon above to the archers down below. "Squad A fire directly towards the center of the greenskins!" yells the ranger to his fire arrow wielding archers, who follow his orders exactly. The faint roar of flames soaring through the air is heard momentarily as ten flaming arrows launch into the center of the greenskins, hitting a few, but not all, unsure as to whether or not they were lethal blows. "Squad B, focus on their archers to your right!" yells the elf to the ice arrow wielding squad, who follow suit. "Now Squad C!" he yells to the ones backing the shieldman and pikeman, who were locked in heavy combat down below. Squad C was his own personal squad of lightning arrow wielders. "Continue to provide assistance to the pikemen and the shieldmen. The mass carnage taking place below the treeline he was positioned at caused his stomach to churn and his blood to fill with rage. How many more innocent lives need be shed this day? the ranger asks himself as he fires off his own lightning charged arrow towards an orc that was headed straight for Lirithen. The arrow whistles through the air softly before pegging the orc in the left shoulder. The orc's body would then immediately begin to twitch about violently as the electrical current courses through his body, the air nearby filling with the scent of charred and burnt skin even more so than already.

Rhocielle howled at his arrival, both to announce his presence, as well as to give order for his arriving task force to engage the army of greenskins with careful aim; there were far too many friendlies engaged in close combat and stray bolt or arrow was just as deadly to either. A company of crossbowmen, split into several squads approached both eastern and western flanks of the main body. Though quite numerous, they were hardly suited to face the monstrocities of the Black alone. They would, however, thin out numbers as best they could and demoralize those creatures that were infact alive. As one group released volley and prepared another, their twin would take precise aim for another set of heads and necks. Gaggles of pages and squires, too inexperienced for such harden battle are seen behind the Fold reinforcements, quickly tending to emptying pouches of bolts with a fresh one. Those more intrepid and bold, or simply too foolhardy to understand the severity of situation, quickly raced ahead a few yards ahead of the line of crossbow men to litter the ground with grizzly caltrops. Each tetra-tipped scrap of metal would easily tear into the soles of any charging ogre, orc, or even impale any foolish goblin body whole that dared attempt to bring melee combat against the Lycan's contingent troops. As for the black furred male himself, he was to be found with the western formation of missile troops, releasing magically conjured arrows in triplets towards any open shot that was presented. Grey eyes behind a black visor lifted up and narrowed at the sight of dragons fighting in the skies. Snarls echoed within the confines of metallic helm. Helich was up there. He and the others with him winced visibly at the resonating roars that came from seemingly allied dragons found at the rear of the greenskin army. The multitude of colored breaths of destruction gave eerie awe to the encroaching evening, as did the instances of what seemed to be crystalline explosions in the midst of battle. The black wolfen Warder barked suddenly, a berating signal to have his crossbowmen resume firing once more. The rear guard of Helich's forces were not his concern, yet, only the wings. The battle was not yet over, and every second not spent firing was another second they allowed the enemy to live.

Myzie cast a broad grin to the archers now berating the orcish forces. The Frog Witch stands there, in the center of the dirt road, away from the carnage and chaos, chest heaving from the effort and exhaustion of her magicarus spent. Confident that the forces now arriving in Kelay would be enough to stop the onslaught of fungoids, the witch saught to find momentary respite, preserving her energy should it be called for.

Helich was quickly satisfied, and quickly disappointed. It seemed his little trick had worked. Only to fail a few moments later - the strings of mana the black had attached to the blues soon dissipated - and just as soon they dissipated, disappeared, and were no more. He had his eyes on the White though - and it's rider - and when the ice shot forth, the black responded with his own breath - acid, which met against the ice in a power struggle of sorts. The black continued the charge alone now, his breath fighting against the White's - leathery wings peeling against wind, wildly fighting to cut air. The White had advantage - it was coming from above, which left Helich with less thrust in his charge. It would only be moments before they met - The black would curve upward as he sought to place the claws of each leg into the soft underbelly of the White. The only strategic advantage he had - yet regardless, this was but a haphazard lazy assault - for he still held the image of fleeing true in his heart, and was soon after the quick attack attempting to climb straight into the air, further away from the chaos below. Myzie - was quite a foe against these odds. They living greenskins did in fact breath in the ice shards - mayhap thirty, who soon fell to the ground convulsing dreadfully until their brothers noticed. A few turned tail, began backtracking toward the witch. Ten or so - one ogre, eight orcs, and a single goblin who was intent on shooting a shoddy arrow at her. The ogre equipped with a rather brutish club sought her skull, the orcs growled and began to surround her - each yearning for her blood. Arrows began to pelt down upon his undeads - dragons were attacking - and the living were just now reaching the war line. Only to be mowed down by arrow after arrow, defenseless. It would only be minutes - the onslaught was overwhelming. Nine hundred had begun this attack, well just over, and now they had easily been mowed down to less than three in a matter of minutes. Situational awareness was minimal - the few living greenskins that had escaped the rain of arrows, and were attempting to do away with those firing were soon mowed down themselves. A blue orb of shrapnel exploded into the undead, the wolves - killing thirty each. Wolves died by the masses, undeads were torn to shreds. Soon arrows pilfered - electrically charged, and flaming - into the non-living. The lit arrows were of no harm. It was raining. Ahem. But the electrically charged ones soon disabled the neurological on-goings of the necromantic entourage. Fast forward. A few more minutes of this carnage - the living were running, retreating, mayhap thirty surviving. The undead were turn to shreds, or rather, convulsing heaps on the ground. And the wolves? They were either dead, or quickly dying. The black, unlike Gualon, had been outmanuevered. It was begining to quiet down now - even as Rhocielle killled the retreating greenskins - only the screams of the still living, ally and foe, filled the scene as rain pattered against the ground in droves. .

Rawnie Rawnie finds herself the target of one of those electrically charged arrows fired from the Fold, and with piercing yelp, the wolf flops down, her figure convulsing with uncontrollable spasms. With enough electric current flowing through her body, her lupine figure morphs back into that of a human, nude, bloodied, bleeding and bare. That arrow protruding the fleshy area of her side is yanked out with no precise fashion, and with unsteady, shaky steps, the gypsy retreats with no set destination in mind.

Sulos pressed himself against the side of the tavern, back to the wood to watch a fleet of dragons pass overheard. A swift peek around the corner reveals more of the coming onslaught. Two ends clash, blood splatter darkening his already black clothing as a nearby orc falls to his death. The life taken, the attacker moves forward into the undead horde, a pack of wolfs woven among them, clearly searching for blood of their own. Quite a fight, it seems... and what else was the assassin to do but join? A quick inhale and he's out in the fray, bloodied cloak discarded to prevent unnecessary attention as he thrashes his garotte across the faces of a two nearby orcs, it's poison beginning to slow them already. Nimble fingers dip to his boots, dagger flying upwards to draw across their throats in turn. A flared spin, and he finds himself beside Rawnie as she pulls the arrow from her side. Surprise strikes his face, as he hurries after her.

Mahri || Sora screamed her frustration at the Black and twisted to her right to avoid an obsidian claw. She wasn't fast enough and it seemed Mahri could feel the claw that ripped through a scaled shoulder. Crimson blood ran down the white dragon's sides, dripping of ivory claws to fall to the ground. It is, however, a long fall. Hopefully no vampires were down there. Clinging to her harness, Mahri tucked herself as close as she could to Sora's neck. The remaining six dragons of her squad flew a low formation over the scattering army, picking off those that arrows and magic missed. The living make a quick, if not so tasty meal for the dragons. Some wandered through the dead and dying, either snapping them up to eat or finishing off the moaning with a quick snap of jaws to remove a head. None would be left alive. Rising in the air, her wings pushing against the wind, the Wingleader and her rider kept on Helich's tail. Ice blue eyes track his every movement. Mimicing him and neve, not once letting him forget she was there with spurts of arctic blasts to tickle his tail.

Myzie 's tiny optics are greeted by a blur of green as a nimble troop of fungoids break past the Fold ranks, appoaching her at a rapid pace. Several orcs, a goblin, and a creature Myzie herself was not familiar with, all rushing the Frog Witch with the sort of brutal mentality that led them here in the first place. The tall girl stood quickly, just in time to meet the demands of preserving her life. Ornate silver scythe is thrust forward, amplifying the thick barrier of mana that seeps into existence before the girl. As the first troupe neared, the mana barrier burst, sending forth a wicked stream of raw force that tossed the three orcs onto their backs, their muscles shaken and slightly deconstructed from the blow; these were not going to stand back up. However, there were seven more foes to deal with, and six of these descended too rapidly. A stray hand full of claws streaks across the girl's shoulder as she turns to put some distance, drawing forth a smattering of warm vitae. She turns, hand outstretched, her mouth opened in utterance of arcane. In an instant, a jutting crystal bursts from the palm, impaling the orcs head and scattering his brains and fluid all over the four other orcs approaching. As this one falls, Myzie lowers herself and charges the huminoids, holding her scythe horizontally. As she careens into the four brutes, the scythe hits them hard in the gut, spittle passes lips, as the frog witch glances up, catching a glancing blow across her pale face. She staggers as the orcs appoach to surround, one of them dropped by a stray arrow, another lashing forward with a strike. Myzie turns to face this one, her outstretched palm emitting a pale glow as it slams into the creatre's throat, magicarus force making short work of his wind pipe and dropping him to his knees, where we chokes and froths. Four left, one ogre, two orcs, and one goblin.

Helich was fleeing, a defeated man - with ice begining to freeze the tip of his tail with every passing attack. He could sense - or rather, not sense - the undeads, and at this point - just popping above the cloud cover now, thousands of feet in the air - had no idea what had, or what was going on below. So he instead focused on, well, staying alive. But he was soon approaching the point where the air was getting rather thing - he didn't like cold. Not at all. So he spun - mid flight, rolled with wings tucked against his form and as those wings re-extended pushed against air to descend on Sora and Mahri. This was timed, best it could, in between one of those frosted attacks - but timing was not on his side - a shard peirced his shoulder and, as luck would have it, dislocated his left forearm completley. A roar of pain - a faltering of flight path - and blood dripping in soon-to-be-frozen-droplets-reconverted-into-liquid-omg-ecosystem-in-action was the majority of his reaction. It was unexpected, even now, but that roar contorted into a spewing of acid - a spray, not a pulse, that sought to sprinkle the White - and Mahri's form with droplets of acidic goo before he would attempt, key note, attempt, to break away and flee before he got in range of Sora's maw or claw. Not to mention, hopefully, before the white could fire any kind of breath attack. Timing was not in - luck however? You never know.

Lirithen severed his last brain stem from the spinal column with a well placed arrow into the back of a fleeing Orc's neck before taking a step backwards to view the battle at hand. Dragons, he noted with some surprise, were doing a jolly good of cleaning up after the assault, and with so little threat remaining from the ground-bound forces... Undistracted now, pointed ears finally discern the ongoing roars and yelps of the sky-high brawl, dragon on dragon in an epic clash above the earth-walking armies. Silver brows narrowed in distaste, he certainly wasn't going to miss this opportunity. Energy, magic as it were, was quickly gathered and bundled as two arrows, the last from his quiver, were knocked carefully, and carefully the mana was split into two separate weaves. The first travelled downward, making use of channels already established by nerve endings to quickly reach the male's enchanted boots, causing crimson runes to flare into life along the sole. A bend of the knees, then the spring-heel enchantment rocketed the elf skyward. Silver curls whipped across his face as momentum forced them away, teeth gritted in the effort to hold his bow and arrows still, when the second stream of energy began to encircle the bracer clamped tightly around the ranger's wrist, releasing the Sacred Winds from their captivity. But a moment to steady his aim, and the projectiles fly free from the confines of the wood elf's grasp, and on the backs of the Sacred Winds, thunder forward with an aim and momentum as true as can be. Their path; the eyes of Helich, each on line to puncture the gaze of the illusionist and render him blind.

Athyaron releases a loud sigh from his lips as Mahri's dragon finishes off the wounded..unfortunately, as he took second notice, some of those wounded had been his own men, but nonetheless, this battle must be finished. Noticing the remaining enemy forces heading for Myzie, the elf uses the last of his magic to retrieve the final four arrows from his quiver, and lightning charge them. He lacked his brothers ability with the arrows, so instead of launching them simultaenously, he fired them one at a time, trusting in the fates to hit the final forces going towards Myzie. A small, yet weary grin of success splays across the elf's face as the first arrow hits the ogre, immediately sending its body into convulsions due to the wet weather increasing the lightnings danger. The last two orcs had both been pierced in the leg and were now twitching,yet crawling in a rather humorous display to try and reach the witch, while the goblin had been pierced right in the side of the head. It would be then the elf would take note of his own injuries,revealing several cuts in his arms and legs, along with what appeared to be scratches from one of the overhead dragon squads. Wearily the elf falls to the ground, trying to gather enough strength to begin the healing process.

Rhoswen had been coming from her home to the tavern, when the sound of battle filled her gently pointed ears. Her pallid hues widened, and she debated fleeing, but the sounds that reached her ears included those of her kinsmen, and, as adrenaline surged into her system, she hurried forward, hoping this spark of bravery would last. Her short sapphire gown shifted across her thighs with her quick gate, and she soon skidded to a stop just outside the tavern, seeing an army of orcs, ogres, and other such creatures, battling her comrades, along with some unfamiliar faces. One thing was very familiar however, too much so. That earth shattering roar that made her heart skip a beat. Helich! She gulped down a lump that formed in her throat at his presence, and her pale blue eyes searched the sky for the creature, seeing him fleeing the scene. It seemed she had lucked out and wandered into the very end of the fray. Still, she braced herself, not knowing what awaited. Rhocielle lowered his bow and barked, the onslaught of quarrels dying down to only precision shot from one squad on each side. The others stood guard to merely provide cover in the rare case of an ogre that decided to die fighting rather than retreat. Makeshift barrier of metallic spikes were collected anew, fit for another day they might be required. Slowly the contingent of crossbowmen would encroach upon either flank, slowly converging on the remaining forces that Lirithen and Athyaron commanded. Grey eyes took more scrutinizing assessment of the situation, slowly walking over masses of the dead while keeping intent watch of those that remained with life, both friend and foe. Within the black helmet, canine ear twitched at the peculiar sight of what seemed a woman bearing a scythe. A pair of crossbowmen raise weapons to fire and deal with those that approached Myzie, only to be held back a paw from the commanding officer. She was more than holding her own. It was a grizzly art form she wielded, of arcane death.

Myzie utters a gasp, crimson flowing gently over her purple lips. She leans down to spit loose teeth, and it is then that the next two orcs make their move against the witch. One approaches in a rush, blade whirling down to clip the side of Myzie's makeup-adorned visage when she glances up. This sends on her back, where the second stands over the girl and rams its sword down upon her thin frame. She rolls desperately to one side, her left arm catching the bulk of the blade as it tears through her elbow, slicing tendon and parting meat from bone. Nearly falling off, the arm dangles limply against the downed witch, who screams in hysterics, tears and spittle running down her face from the blinding pain. As the first orc raises his sword to finish the girl, a lone arrow whistles through the soft rain, sliding with a twang through the fungoid's throat, an arrow from Helich's own goblin, no less. He reaches up, clutching as his neck as crimson spurts to coat the witch. The second orc turns, spitting upon the ground before rushing off to rejoin the fray elsewhre. Myzie is left, trembling and bleeding on the dirt road, at the mercy of the still approaching hulk of an ogre. Her only hope now is someone downs the large beast before it kills her.

Myzie curls herself up into a fetal position, sobbing silently as she clutches her barely attatched limb. Though she held fast due to her mana amplifying scythe, the close quarter combat was not her strong suite. She'd be fine, as the artery in her arm was still in tact, she owes a great deal to Athyaron, who dropped her final two attackers.

Myzie mumbles to herself in between the sobbing, her tear drenched eyes trembling as her pupils contract and retract rapidly. She reaches out with her good appendage, bloodied digits clawing into the dirt before wrapping themselves about her scythe; her eternal companion; her mana amplifying tool of death. She pushes the butt of the runic weapon into the soft mud, pulling her dirtied, bloodied frame up in a half stand, half clutch of the weapon. Her witch hat, tattered, but still set upon long white hair, is adjusted silently by the wind. Multi-hued makeup runs thickly down a face stained with mucus and blood, contorted with rage and agony, as the girl begins to stand up straighter and straighter, before finally reaching an honorable, erect pose. If she was going to die today, she would do it on her feet.

Rhoswen made a dash to the side of the frog-witch, who seemed gravely injured, if her dangling limb was anything to go by. "Come." She moved to help her to her feet, her aim to support the witch by her uninjured arm and get her to Athyaron's side. There she and the other could heal the woman's injuries.

Mahri and Sora are covered in water, though it hadn't been apparent earlier. Droplets froze and melted as altitude changed. It just so happens that they were in their liquid state when a stream of acid comes towards them. Acid into water as we all know, doesn't entirely suspend the burning qualities, but rather lessens the affect so that dragon and rider are singed instead of dabilitated. Rolling out from under the black, they come up a ways behind. Sora works exhausted muscles to gain the sky against the other, intent on following him. This is how the whistle of arrows makes their arrival, coming damned close to piercing a pale wing. Away from the carnage they fly in hot pursuit. This had to, and would, end tonight.

Myzie turns her trembling frame towards Rhoswen, the entire side of her short black dress drenched in blood, the rest in water and mud. Silently, she went with the unknown woman. She had, for the first time in her life, taken the right to live from others; not out of malice, but out of personal defense. She was not comfortable with what she had just done, and the image of her crystals flowing through that orc's face, blowing out his brains, was going to stick for a long, long time. She was however, satisfied that she had done her part in defending the quiet village of Kelay.

Rhoswen supported Myzie, though the womman was unknown to her, aside from the fact that she had given her a frog earlier. Still, the fact was that this woman needed help, and she and her clanmate would provide it. She began moving toward Athyaron, not too quickly, but as quickly as she could with a wounded witch in tow. She looked about at the wounded, knowing her skills would be needed.

Myzie, her entire body in a thick tremble, hugged her mud-drenched scythe against her thin frame, nearly tripping over the numerous corpses, and still twitching, screaming or crawling men and orcs who were at the final moments of their lives.

Athyaron struggles to get to his feet as he attempts to stand, stumbling in the effort to do so at first before he forcibly steadies himself, inching his way over to the injured Frog Witch. Crimson blood trails along behind him from his battle wounds, his own dark blue robes torn and tattered in several places. "L..l..lets fix that torn appendage...." he says to Rhoswen as he focuses what energy he has, chanting in Elvish as he does so. White light soon envelops his hands before flickering out, due to the blood loss and exhaustion, before faintly returning. It wasn't going to be enough to heal her on his own entirely, but the least he could do would be fix that appendage. Carefully the ranger places his hand upon the torn appendage and begins to channel his energy into the body of the other, into the severed muscle and tissue, focusing it to resew itself together. After several moments, the witches severed appendage, along with a few of the wounds from the blade that struck her last are healed, not perfectly without scarring, as there are a few scars left from the rangers attempt. The elf's vision then goes blurry before he falls to the ground, weak from blood loss and exhaustion.

Mahri || What dragons are left of the Eyrie, eleven of them, take flight and return to the Eyrie. Their job is done and it's apparent that Mahri and Sora seem to have a score to settle with Helich.

Myzie clenches her teeth, a high-pitched cry bursting forth as the viaemagicarus produces a horrid, burning sensition in the limb. Sinew twsts and contorts, marrow extends before being covered by bone, before being covered by tissue, before being covered by muscle and finally, with flesh. The girl leans against Rhoswen, eyes tightly closed as she bites down to keep from screaming, the agonizing healing process finally ending with success. Barely able to stand, the witch gasps for breath. Never before in her life had she bared witness to these sort of things, and now she had seen every horror a battlefield could offer (bah, except for the slaughter of civilians), and it was taking its toll on her. Her body, weak from the exhaustion of using so much magicarus, was in desperate need of a break, and so, she sank to her knees, breathing heavily.

Myzie clenches her teeth, a high-pitched cry bursting forth as the viaemagicarus produces a horrid, burning sensition in the limb. Sinew twsts and contorts, marrow extends before being covered by bone, before being covered by tissue, before being covered by muscle and finally, with flesh. The girl leans against Rhoswen, eyes tightly closed as she bites down to keep from screaming, the agonizing healing process finally ending with success. Barely able to stand, the witch gasps for breath. Never before in her life had she bared witness to these sort of things, and now she had seen every horror a battlefield could offer (bah, except for the slaughter of civilians), and it was taking its toll on her. Her body, weak from the exhaustion of using so much magicarus, was in desperate need of a break, and so, she sank to her knees, breathing heavily.

Helich :: Lirithen. That bastard. He blinded Helich. Easily blinded Helich - the male was much too tired, much too exasperated, to even notice the flying elf. So. He's blind. And in pain. Buuuut ~ He's an empath, which means, even blind he has a sort of sonar. Which he could only circulate every five seconds. His exausted form - his eyes were bleeding. Hell, they had arrows sticking out of them, truth be told - still fought against the high winds of this altitude, trying to escape. Yet escape was futile. He turned, glided in a wide curve, and tried to get an angle on the white. Which was nearly impossible - he could do his best to predict where she would be but, a five second delay left much to occur.

Rhoswen lent her magic to healing the witch as well. Her hands glowed a faint blue as she placed them upon the woman's arm, trying to save her friend from using all his energy. But alas, her efforts were in vain, for the elf was slowly bleeding to death, and this coupled with his efforts to heal the witch had sapped him of his strength. When she was satisfied that Myzie would be alright, she turned her attention to Athyaron, "Hold on..." She whispered, though she doubted he could hear her. Her glowing digits were places against the worst of his wounds, coated in blood from both the witch and the ranger now. She focused all her will into the healing process, not having a moment to spare.

Helich takes a steady path before the blast comes from between her jaws. Starting from the tail, she sweeps her huge head, trying to cover the black in a block of ice meant to send him spiralling to the ground so far below. Upon hitting at high velocity, the body should shatter. That is, if the dragon fails to avoid the attack.

Athyaron lies upon the ground unconscious, and luckily so as it saved him from the same agonizing pain that Myzie had felt. Thanks to Rhoswen's help, the worst of his wounds begin to mend themselves quicker than they had in his attempt at healing Myzie, perhaps due to the other having more experience?

You sits there, crosslegged, breathing heavily. She looks up, slowly at Rhoswen, her pale face stained with blood and mud, and discarded makeup smuttered in the rain. She took a moment to calm herself, struggling to speak between gasps. " that it...over y-yet?

Mahri watches the blind dragon, realizing that the arrows that had narrowly missed Sora are now lodged in Helich's eyes. Taking advantage is not against her sense of morals. Tracking him with her eyes, and Sora mirroring his er{{PC|ratic seeming pattern, the two close in. He may hear the roar of wind passing under the leather of wings weakening with scorch marks and fatigue. Parting her jaws, Sora waits until Helich takes a steady path before the blast comes from between her jaws. Starting from the tail, she sweeps her huge head, trying to cover the black in a block of ice meant to send him spiralling to the ground so far below. Upon hitting at high velocity, the body should shatter. That is, if the dragon fails to avoid the attack.

Kumorohyou moves swiftly through the carnage, the feline shaman arriving with medical supplies from the Fold Barracks. Dropping some next to Rhoswen, the panther look around, seeking anyone else who needed aid.

Helich :: Man it sucks to be Rhoswen sometimes. I mean really, even in death, it seemed Helich wished to torture her. Or rather, really close to death. Unfortunately for him - he was in fact frozen solid. A large block of black ice. And unfortunately for Rhoswen, this block of black ice was falling straight toward her - with enough force to squash her flat. And, it was night time by now, so the ice wasn't really noticeable. And furthermore, the block of ice as it descended didn't really make much noise. So she would have little to no warning that a two hundred foot long, eighty foot tall block of frozen death was descending on her. Man. That just sucks so hard. Oh, and upon impact - he shatters. Like, Terminator 2, cept, he doesn't form back into anything. He's dead.

Rhoswen fought to keep from looking up at the battling dragons. She had to maintain focus on her friend. Her hands lingered over the worst of his wounds, mending them much more quickly than she had thought she could. Perhaps she was getting better at this, or perhaps it was simply because she sensed the dire need. Hearing the witch's question she gave a nod. The worst of the battle was over, now it was the cleanup...the cries of the wounded, the scent of blood, that would haunt them. Even her relatively weak nose picked up the stench of death from everywhere along the battle field.

Myzie stood silently, the agonizing burning in her limb waning. When she glanced over towards the sea of dead bodies that littered the surroundings of Kelay, her peripheral vision caught a glimpse of something up in the sky. Something dark, and something falling fast. Exhausted, out of breath, and lacking the majority of her magicarus reserves, the girl has no time to shout a warning. Rather, her nimble elven instincts force her to drag herself in as fast an exhausted run as she can manage, narrowingly escaping death for the second time this day. Nuh-huh silly Helich, crushing elves and healers is for kids!

Rhoswen could feel the chill as the ice came toward her. Grabbing hold of her clanmate, she shouted a warning at the witch, "Move!" She pulled Athyaron to the side, but the result is that her leg remained under the block of ice as it impacted, the limb basically exploding like an overcooked sausage and causing her to cry out in the most excrutiating pain of her life.

Kumorohyou 's Spirit pressure seems to fill much of the area, and as the giant iceberg that is Helich comes bearing down upon the vicinity in which he was standing, the shaman acts quickly to help shield himself and any who would be nearby. Muttering to himself, "Kiiro no juu roku: danku.", the feline focuses his Spirit energy into a dome of pale-blue light, the rigid lines running along it making it look like a circuit board. While this shielding may prove effective against the falling chunk of ice, it would most likely knock Kumori unconscious after a few moments, due to the kinetic energy transfer.

Myzie turns back in the middle of her weak sprint at the shriek emitted from Rhoswen. Tiny optics bring forth the image of the woman, missing a leg, and the shattered remains of the dead Helich into view. She stands motionless, too numb from the killing and death she dealt to be affected by the violence for now.

Athyaron just lies there unconscious and is prolly gonna owe Rhoswen a few when he regains consciousness.

Helich is all, dead now and junk. owow.

Lirithen 's celebration was short livid. First came a daunting realisation, and then, the pain! Oh Gods, the pain! A cry like he'd never gave before ripped itself from the elf's fair lips, both hands darting forward to clutch his right leg above the knee, but they quickly fell to the task of keeping his back from the ground. For you see, in his haste to actually be of some to use aerial combat, the leaping elf had neglected to worry about the fall. An agonized cry of, "My legs! Gods, my legs!" was the result, fists pounding furiously into the floor in attempt to starve off the pain of his dislocated knees. "Mother fff..." teeth bit down hard on the ranger's bottom lip to prevent him from spitting the curse perched on his tongue, fair visage screwing up against the pain, the raw, horrible, inconceivable agony.

Mahri lets Sora descend slowly, taking her time to reach the ground where ivory claws dig into the ground. Lowering her sinewy body to the ground, the ice dragon lets a satisfied rumble sound through her ribs and up a long throat. "You did well, Sora," the lycan praises, patting the serpentine neck before sliding off. Mahri only wobbles a little while her legs remembered their intended purpose. A leather cap is removed and the goggles settled atop raven hair, now mostly free of the restricting braid. She has, of course, landed after Helich's landed and chunks of dragon-cicles are scattered. The gathered, living, dead and healing, are eyed dispassionately. "Sorry, 'bout t'at. Hope no one was hurt." Not a single word rang with sincerity. She just wanted to be sure the black was well and truly destroyed. He was.