Battle:The Retreat of the Ogres and Alliance
Part of the Battle For Enchantment Arc
Retreat of the Ogre and Alliance
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."